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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab6cf33 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #55147 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55147) diff --git a/old/55147-0.txt b/old/55147-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 9fbe1ae..0000000 --- a/old/55147-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,18465 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tales of All Countries, by Anthony Trollope - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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/license - - -Title: Tales of All Countries - -Author: Anthony Trollope - -Release Date: July 18, 2017 [EBook #55147] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at Google Books) - - - - - - - - - - - - - TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES. - - BY - ANTHONY TROLLOPE, - AUTHOR OF - “THE WEST INDIES AND THE SPANISH MAIN,” “DOCTOR THORNE,” - “ORLEY FARM,” ETC. - - LONDON: - CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY. - 1867. - - [_The right of Translation is reserved._] - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - -LA MÈRE BAUCHE 1 - -THE O’CONORS OF CASTLE CONOR 30 - -JOHN BULL ON THE GUADALQUIVIR 43 - -MISS SARAH JACK, OF SPANISH TOWN, JAMAICA 70 - -THE COURTSHIP OF SUSAN BELL 93 - -RELICS OF GENERAL CHASSÉ 121 - -AN UNPROTECTED FEMALE AT THE PYRAMIDS 140 - -THE CHÂTEAU OF PRINCE POLIGNAC 107 - -AARON TROW 188 - -MRS. GENERAL TALBOYS 214 - -THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER OF OXNEY COLNE 235 - -GEORGE WALKER AT SUEZ 261 - -THE MISTLETOE BOUGH 278 - -RETURNING HOME 300 - -A RIDE ACROSS PALESTINE 320 - -THE HOUSE OF HEINE BROTHERS, IN MUNICH 354 - -THE MAN WHO KEPT HIS MONEY IN A BOX 377 - - - _Republished from various Periodicals._ - - - - -TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES. - - - - -LA MÈRE BAUCHE. - - -The Pyreneean valley in which the baths of Vernet are situated is not -much known to English, or indeed to any travellers. Tourists in search -of good hotels and picturesque beauty combined, do not generally extend -their journeys to the Eastern Pyrenees. They rarely get beyond Luchon; -and in this they are right, as they thus end their peregrinations at the -most lovely spot among these mountains, and are as a rule so deceived, -imposed on, and bewildered by guides, innkeepers, and horse-owners, at -this otherwise delightful place, as to become undesirous of further -travel. Nor do invalids from distant parts frequent Vernet. People of -fashion go to the Eaux Bonnes and to Luchon, and people who are really -ill to Baréges and Cauterets. It is at these places that one meets -crowds of Parisians, and the daughters and wives of rich merchants from -Bordeaux, with an admixture, now by no means inconsiderable, of -Englishmen and Englishwomen. But the Eastern Pyrenees are still -unfrequented. And probably they will remain so; for though there are -among them lovely valleys--and of all such the valley of Vernet is -perhaps the most lovely--they cannot compete with the mountain scenery -of other tourists-loved regions in Europe. At the Port de Venasquez and -the Brèche de Roland in the Western Pyrenees, or rather, to speak more -truly, at spots in the close vicinity of these famous mountain entrances -from France into Spain, one can make comparisons with Switzerland, -Northern Italy, the Tyrol, and Ireland, which will not be injurious to -the scenes then under view. But among the eastern mountains this can -rarely be done. The hills do not stand thickly together so as to group -themselves; the passes from one valley to another, though not wanting in -altitude, are not close pressed together with overhanging rocks, and are -deficient in grandeur as well as loveliness. And then, as a natural -consequence of all this, the hotels--are not quite as good as they -should be. - -But there is one mountain among them which can claim to rank with the -Píc du Midi or the Maledetta. No one can pooh-pooh the stern old -Canigou, standing high and solitary, solemn and grand, between the two -roads which run from Perpignan into Spain, the one by Prades and the -other by Le Boulon. Under the Canigou, towards the west, lie the hot -baths of Vernet, in a close secluded valley, which, as I have said -before, is, as far as I know, the sweetest spot in these Eastern -Pyrenees. - -The frequenters of these baths were a few years back gathered almost -entirely from towns not very far distant, from Perpignan, Narbonne, -Carcassonne, and Bézières, and the baths were not therefore famous, -expensive, or luxurious; but those who believed in them believed with -great faith; and it was certainly the fact that men and women who went -thither worn with toil, sick with excesses, and nervous through -over-care, came back fresh and strong, fit once more to attack the world -with all its woes. Their character in latter days does not seem to have -changed, though their circle of admirers may perhaps be somewhat -extended. - -In those days, by far the most noted and illustrious person in the -village of Vernet was La Mère Bauche. That there had once been a Père -Bauche was known to the world, for there was a Fils Bauche who lived -with his mother; but no one seemed to remember more of him than that he -had once existed. At Vernet he had never been known. La Mère Bauche was -a native of the village, but her married life had been passed away from -it, and she had returned in her early widowhood to become proprietress -and manager, or, as one may say, the heart and soul of the Hôtel Bauche -at Vernet. - -This hotel was a large and somewhat rough establishment, intended for -the accommodation of invalids who came to Vernet for their health. It -was built immediately over one of the thermal springs, so that the water -flowed from the bowels of the earth directly into the baths. There was -accommodation for seventy people, and during the summer and autumn -months the place was always full. Not a few also were to be found there -during the winter and spring, for the charges of Madame Bauche were low, -and the accommodation reasonably good. - -And in this respect, as indeed in all others, Madame Bauche had the -reputation of being an honest woman. She had a certain price, from which -no earthly consideration would induce her to depart; and there were -certain returns for this price in the shape of déjeuners and dinners, -baths and beds, which she never failed to give in accordance with the -dictates of a strict conscience. These were traits in the character of -an hotel-keeper which cannot be praised too highly, and which had met -their due reward in the custom of the public. But nevertheless there -were those who thought that there was occasionally ground for complaint -in the conduct even of Madame Bauche. - -In the first place she was deficient in that pleasant smiling softness -which should belong to any keeper of a house of public entertainment. In -her general mode of life she was stern and silent with her guests, -autocratic, authoritative, and sometimes contradictory in her house, and -altogether irrational and unconciliatory when any change even for a day -was proposed to her, or when any shadow of a complaint reached her ears. - -Indeed of complaint, as made against the establishment, she was -altogether intolerant. To such she had but one answer. He or she who -complained might leave the place at a moment’s notice if it so pleased -them. There were always others ready to take their places. The power of -making this answer came to her from the lowness of her prices; and it -was a power which was very dear to her. - -The baths were taken at different hours according to medical advice, but -the usual time was from five to seven in the morning. The déjeuner or -early meal was at nine o’clock, the dinner was at four. After that, no -eating or drinking was allowed in the Hôtel Bauche. There was a café in -the village, at which ladies and gentlemen could get a cup of coffee or -a glass of eau sucré; but no such accommodation was to be had in the -establishment. Not by any possible bribery or persuasion could any meal -be procured at any other than the authorised hours. A visitor who should -enter the salle à manger more than ten minutes after the last bell would -be looked at very sourly by Madame Bauche, who on all occasions sat at -the top of her own table. Should any one appear as much as half an hour -late, he would receive only his share of what had not been handed round. -But after the last dish had been so handed, it was utterly useless for -any one to enter the room at all. - -Her appearance at the period of our tale was perhaps not altogether in -her favour. She was about sixty years of age and was very stout and -short in the neck. She wore her own gray hair, which at dinner was -always tidy enough; but during the whole day previous to that hour she -might be seen with it escaping from under her cap in extreme disorder. -Her eyebrows were large and bushy, but those alone would not have given -to her face that look of indomitable sternness which it possessed. Her -eyebrows were serious in their effect, but not so serious as the pair of -green spectacles which she always wore under them. It was thought by -those who had analysed the subject that the great secret of Madame -Bauche’s power lay in her green spectacles. - -Her custom was to move about and through the whole establishment every -day from breakfast till the period came for her to dress for dinner. She -would visit every chamber and every bath, walk once or twice round the -salle à manger, and very repeatedly round the kitchen; she would go into -every hole and corner, and peer into everything through her green -spectacles: and in these walks it was not always thought pleasant to -meet her. Her custom was to move very slowly, with her hands generally -clasped behind her back: she rarely spoke to the guests unless she was -spoken to, and on such occasions she would not often diverge into -general conversation. If any one had aught to say connected with the -business of the establishment, she would listen, and then she would make -her answers,--often not pleasant in the hearing. - -And thus she walked her path through the world, a stern, hard, solemn -old woman, not without gusts of passionate explosion; but honest withal, -and not without some inward benevolence and true tenderness of heart. -Children she had had many, some seven or eight. One or two had died, -others had been married; she had sons settled far away from home, and at -the time of which we are now speaking but one was left in any way -subject to maternal authority. - -Adolphe Bauche was the only one of her children of whom much was -remembered by the present denizens and hangers-on of the hotel. He was -the youngest of the number, and having been born only very shortly -before the return of Madame Bauche to Vernet, had been altogether reared -there. It was thought by the world of those parts, and rightly thought, -that he was his mother’s darling--more so than had been any of his -brothers and sisters,--the very apple of her eye and gem of her life. At -this time he was about twenty-five years of age, and for the last two -years had been absent from Vernet--for reasons which will shortly be -made to appear. He had been sent to Paris to see something of the world, -and learn to talk French instead of the patois of his valley; and having -left Paris had come down south into Languedoc, and remained there -picking up some agricultural lore which it was thought might prove -useful in the valley farms of Vernet. He was now expected home again -very speedily, much to his mother’s delight. - -That she was kind and gracious to her favourite child does not perhaps -give much proof of her benevolence; but she had also been kind and -gracious to the orphan child of a neighbour; nay, to the orphan child of -a rival innkeeper. At Vernet there had been more than one water -establishment, but the proprietor of the second had died some few years -after Madame Bauche had settled herself at the place. His house had not -thrived, and his only child, a little girl, was left altogether without -provision. - -This little girl, Marie Clavert, La Mère Bauche had taken into her own -house immediately after the father’s death, although she had most -cordially hated that father. Marie was then an infant, and Madame Bauche -had accepted the charge without much thought, perhaps, as to what might -be the child’s ultimate destiny. But since then she had thoroughly done -the duty of a mother by the little girl, who had become the pet of the -whole establishment, the favourite plaything of Adolphe Bauche,--and at -last of course his early sweetheart. - -And then and therefore there had come troubles at Vernet. Of course all -the world of the valley had seen what was taking place and what was -likely to take place, long before Madame Bauche knew anything about it. -But at last it broke upon her senses that her son, Adolphe Bauche, the -heir to all her virtues and all her riches, the first young man in that -or any neighbouring valley, was absolutely contemplating the idea of -marrying that poor little orphan, Marie Clavert! - -That any one should ever fall in love with Marie Clavert had never -occurred to Madame Bauche. She had always regarded the child as a child, -as the object of her charity, and as a little thing to be looked on as -poor Marie by all the world. She, looking through her green spectacles, -had never seen that Marie Clavert was a beautiful creature, full of -ripening charms, such as young men love to look on. Marie was of -infinite daily use to Madame Bauche in a hundred little things about the -house, and the old lady thoroughly recognised and appreciated her -ability. But for this very reason she had never taught herself to regard -Marie otherwise than as a useful drudge. She was very fond of her -protégée--so much so that she would listen to her in affairs about the -house when she would listen to no one else;--but Marie’s prettiness and -grace and sweetness as a girl had all been thrown away upon Maman -Bauche, as Marie used to call her. - -But unluckily it had not been thrown away upon Adolphe. He had -appreciated, as it was natural that he should do, all that had been so -utterly indifferent to his mother; and consequently had fallen in love. -Consequently also he had told his love; and consequently also Marie had -returned his love. - -Adolphe had been hitherto contradicted but in few things, and thought -that all difficulty would be prevented by his informing his mother that -he wished to marry Marie Clavert. But Marie, with a woman’s instinct, -had known better. She had trembled and almost crouched with fear when -she confessed her love; and had absolutely hid herself from sight when -Adolphe went forth, prepared to ask his mother’s consent to his -marriage. - -The indignation and passionate wrath of Madame Bauche were past and gone -two years before the date of this story, and I need not therefore much -enlarge upon that subject. She was at first abusive and bitter, which -was bad for Marie; and afterwards bitter and silent, which was worse. It -was of course determined that poor Marie should be sent away to some -asylum for orphans or penniless paupers--in short anywhere out of the -way. What mattered her outlook into the world, her happiness, or indeed -her very existence? The outlook and happiness of Adolphe Bauche,--was -not that to be considered as everything at Vernet? - -But this terrible sharp aspect of affairs did not last very long. In the -first place La Mère Bauche had under those green spectacles a heart that -in truth was tender and affectionate, and after the first two days of -anger she admitted that something must be done for Marie Clavert; and -after the fourth day she acknowledged that the world of the hotel, her -world, would not go as well without Marie Clavert as it would with her. -And in the next place Madame Bauche had a friend whose advice in grave -matters she would sometimes take. This friend had told her that it would -be much better to send away Adolphe, since it was so necessary that -there should be a sending away of some one; that he would be much -benefited by passing some months of his life away from his native -valley; and that an absence of a year or two would teach him to forget -Marie, even if it did not teach Marie to forget him. - -And we must say a word or two about this friend. At Vernet he was -usually called M. le Capitaine, though in fact he had never reached that -rank. He had been in the army, and having been wounded in the leg while -still a sous-lieutenant, had been pensioned, and had thus been -interdicted from treading any further the thorny path that leads to -glory. For the last fifteen years he had resided under the roof of -Madame Bauche, at first as a casual visitor, going and coming, but now -for many years as constant there as she was herself. - -He was so constantly called Le Capitaine that his real name was seldom -heard. It may however as well be known to us that this was Theodore -Campan. He was a tall, well-looking man; always dressed in black -garments, of a coarse description certainly, but scrupulously clean and -well brushed; of perhaps fifty years of age, and conspicuous for the -rigid uprightness of his back--and for a black wooden leg. - -This wooden leg was perhaps the most remarkable trait in his character. -It was always jet black, being painted, or polished, or japanned, as -occasion might require, by the hands of the capitaine himself. It was -longer than ordinary wooden legs, as indeed the capitaine was longer -than ordinary men; but nevertheless it never seemed in any way to impede -the rigid punctilious propriety of his movements. It was never in his -way as wooden legs usually are in the way of their wearers. And then to -render it more illustrious it had round its middle, round the calf of -the leg we may so say, a band of bright brass which shone like burnished -gold. - -It had been the capitaine’s custom, now for some years past, to retire -every evening at about seven o’clock into the sanctum sanctorum of -Madame Bauche’s habitation, the dark little private sitting-room in -which she made out her bills and calculated her profits, and there -regale himself in her presence--and indeed at her expense, for the items -never appeared in the bill--with coffee and cognac. I have said that -there was never eating or drinking at the establishment after the -regular dinner-hours; but in so saying I spoke of the world at large. -Nothing further was allowed in the way of trade; but in the way of -friendship so much was now-a-days always allowed to the capitaine. - -It was at these moments that Madame Bauche discussed her private -affairs, and asked for and received advice. For even Madame Bauche was -mortal; nor could her green spectacles without other aid carry her -through all the troubles of life. It was now five years since the world -of Vernet discovered that La Mère Bauche was going to marry the -capitaine; and for eighteen months the world of Vernet had been full of -this matter: but any amount of patience is at last exhausted, and as no -further steps in that direction were ever taken beyond the daily cup of -coffee, that subject died away--very much unheeded by La Mère Bauche. - -But she, though she thought of no matrimony for herself, thought much of -matrimony for other people; and over most of those cups of evening -coffee and cognac a matrimonial project was discussed in these latter -days. It has been seen that the capitaine pleaded in Marie’s favour when -the fury of Madame Bauche’s indignation broke forth; and that ultimately -Marie was kept at home, and Adolphe sent away by his advice. - -“But Adolphe cannot always stay away,” Madame Bauche had pleaded in her -difficulty. The truth of this the capitaine had admitted; but Marie, he -said, might be married to some one else before two years were over. And -so the matter had commenced. - -But to whom should she be married? To this question the capitaine had -answered in perfect innocence of heart, that La Mère Bauche would be -much better able to make such a choice than himself. He did not know how -Marie might stand with regard to money. If madame would give some little -“dot,” the affair, the capitaine thought, would be more easily arranged. - -All these things took months to say, during which period Marie went on -with her work in melancholy listlessness. One comfort she had. Adolphe, -before he went, had promised to her, holding in his hand as he did so a -little cross which she had given him, that no earthly consideration -should sever them;--that sooner or later he would certainly be her -husband. Marie felt that her limbs could not work nor her tongue speak -were it not for this one drop of water in her cup. - -And then, deeply meditating, La Mère Bauche hit upon a plan, and herself -communicated it to the capitaine over a second cup of coffee into which -she poured a full teaspoonful more than the usual allowance of cognac. -Why should not he, the capitaine himself, be the man to marry Marie -Clavert? - -It was a very startling proposal, the idea of matrimony for himself -never having as yet entered into the capitaine’s head at any period of -his life; but La Mère Bauche did contrive to make it not altogether -unacceptable. As to that matter of dowry she was prepared to be more -than generous. She did love Marie well, and could find it in her heart -to give her anything--anything except her son, her own Adolphe. What she -proposed was this. Adolphe, himself, would never keep the baths. If the -capitaine would take Marie for his wife, Marie, Madame Bauche declared, -should be the mistress after her death; subject of course to certain -settlements as to Adolphe’s pecuniary interests. - -The plan was discussed a thousand times, and at last so for brought to -bear that Marie was made acquainted with it--having been called in to -sit in presence with La Mère Bauche and her future proposed husband. The -poor girl manifested no disgust to the stiff ungainly lover whom they -assigned to her,--who through his whole frame was in appearance almost -as wooden as his own leg. On the whole, indeed, Marie liked the -capitaine, and felt that he was her friend; and in her country such -marriages were not uncommon. The capitaine was perhaps a little beyond -the age at which a man might usually be thought justified in demanding -the services of a young girl as his nurse and wife, but then Marie of -herself had so little to give--except her youth, and beauty, and -goodness. - -But yet she could not absolutely consent; for was she not absolutely -pledged to her own Adolphe? And therefore, when the great pecuniary -advantages were, one by one, displayed before her, and when La Mère -Bauche, as a last argument, informed her that as wife of the capitaine -she would be regarded as second mistress in the establishment and not as -a servant, she could only burst out into tears, and say that she did not -know. - -“I will be very kind to you,” said the capitaine; “as kind as a man can -be.” - -Marie took his hard withered hand and kissed it; and then looked up into -his face with beseeching eyes which were not without avail upon his -heart. - -“We will not press her now,” said the capitaine. “There is time enough.” - -But let his heart be touched ever so much, one thing was certain. It -could not be permitted that she should marry Adolphe. To that view of -the matter he had given in his unrestricted adhesion; nor could he by -any means withdraw it without losing altogether his position in the -establishment of Madame Bauche. Nor indeed did his conscience tell him -that such a marriage should be permitted. That would be too much. If -every pretty girl were allowed to marry the first young man that might -fall in love with her, what would the world come to? - -And it soon appeared that there was not time enough--that the time was -growing very scant. In three months Adolphe would be back. And if -everything was not arranged by that time, matters might still go astray. - -And then Madame Bauche asked her final question: “You do not think, do -you, that you can ever marry Adolphe?” And as she asked it the -accustomed terror of her green spectacles magnified itself tenfold. -Marie could only answer by another burst of tears. - -The affair was at last settled among them. Marie said that she would -consent to marry the capitaine when she should hear from Adolphe’s own -mouth that he, Adolphe, loved her no longer. She declared with many -tears that her vows and pledges prevented her from promising more than -this. It was not her fault, at any rate not now, that she loved her -lover. It was not her fault--not now at least--that she was bound by -these pledges. When she heard from his own mouth that he had discarded -her, then she would marry the capitaine--or indeed sacrifice herself in -any other way that La Mère Bauche might desire. What would anything -signify then? - -Madame Bauche’s spectacles remained unmoved; but not her heart. Marie, -she told the capitaine, should be equal to herself in the establishment, -when once she was entitled to be called Madame Campan, and she should be -to her quite as a daughter. She should have her cup of coffee every -evening, and dine at the big table, and wear a silk gown at church, and -the servants should all call her Madame; a great career should be open -to her, if she would only give up her foolish girlish childish love for -Adolphe. And all these great promises were repeated to Marie by the -capitaine. - -But nevertheless there was but one thing in the world which in Marie’s -eyes was of any value; and that one thing was the heart of Adolphe -Bauche. Without that she would be nothing; with that,--with that -assured, she could wait patiently till doomsday. - -Letters were written to Adolphe during all these eventful doings; and a -letter came from him saying that he greatly valued Marie’s love, but -that as it had been clearly proved to him that their marriage would be -neither for her advantage, nor for his, he was willing to give it up. He -consented to her marriage with the capitaine, and expressed his -gratitude to his mother for the pecuniary advantages which she had held -out to him. Oh, Adolphe, Adolphe! But, alas, alas! is not such the way -of most men’s hearts--and of the hearts of some women? - -This letter was read to Marie, but it had no more effect upon her than -would have had some dry legal document. In those days and in those -places men and women did not depend much upon letters; nor when they -were written, was there expressed in them much of heart or of feeling. -Marie would understand, as she was well aware, the glance of Adolphe’s -eye and the tone of Adolphe’s voice; she would perceive at once from -them what her lover really meant, what he wished, what in the innermost -corner of his heart he really desired that she should do. But from that -stiff constrained written document she could understand nothing. - -It was agreed therefore that Adolphe should return, and that she would -accept her fate from his mouth. The capitaine, who knew more of human -nature than poor Marie, felt tolerably sure of his bride. Adolphe, who -had seen something of the world, would not care very much for the girl -of his own valley. Money and pleasure, and some little position in the -world, would soon wean him from his love; and then Marie would accept -her destiny--as other girls in the same position had done since the -French world began. - -And now it was the evening before Adolphe’s expected arrival. La Mère -Bauche was discussing the matter with the capitaine over the usual cup -of coffee. Madame Bauche had of late become rather nervous on the -matter, thinking that they had been somewhat rash in acceding so much to -Marie. It seemed to her that it was absolutely now left to the two young -lovers to say whether or no they would have each other or not. Now -nothing on earth could be further from Madame Bauche’s intention than -this. Her decree and resolve was to heap down blessings on all persons -concerned--provided always that she could have her own way; but, -provided she did not have her own way, to heap down,--anything but -blessings. She had her code of morality in this matter. She would do -good if possible to everybody around her. But she would not on any score -be induced to consent that Adolphe should marry Marie Clavert. Should -that be in the wind she would rid the house of Marie, of the capitaine, -and even of Adolphe himself. - -She had become therefore somewhat querulous, and self-opinionated in her -discussions with her friend. - -“I don’t know,” she said on the evening in question; “I don’t know. It -may be all right; but if Adolphe turns against me, what are we to do -then?” - -“Mère Bauche,” said the capitaine, sipping his coffee and puffing out -the smoke of his cigar, “Adolphe will not turn against us.” It had been -somewhat remarked by many that the capitaine was more at home in the -house, and somewhat freer in his manner of talking with Madame Bauche, -since this matrimonial alliance had been on the tapis than he had ever -been before. La Mère herself observed it, and did not quite like it; but -how could she prevent it now? When the capitaine was once married she -would make him know his place, in spite of all her promises to Marie. - -“But if he says he likes the girl?” continued Madame Bauche. - -“My friend, you may be sure that he will say nothing of the kind. He has -not been away two years without seeing girls as pretty as Marie. And -then you have his letter.” - -“That is nothing, capitaine; he would eat his letter as quick as you -would eat an omelet aux fines herbes.” Now the capitaine was especially -quick over an omelet aux fines herbes. - -“And, Mère Bauche, you also have the purse; he will know that he cannot -eat that, except with your good will.” - -“Ah!” exclaimed Madame Bauche, “poor lad! He has not a sous in the world -unless I give it to him.” But it did not seem that this reflection was -in itself displeasing to her. - -“Adolphe will now be a man of the world,” continued the capitaine. “He -will know that it does not do to throw away everything for a pair of red -lips. That is the folly of a boy, and Adolphe will be no longer a boy. -Believe me, Mère Bauche, things will be right enough.” - -“And then we shall have Marie sick and ill and half dying on our hands,” -said Madame Bauche. - -This was not flattering to the capitaine, and so he felt it. “Perhaps -so, perhaps not,” he said. “But at any rate she will get over it. It is -a malady which rarely kills young women--especially when another -alliance awaits them.” - -“Bah!” said Madame Bauche; and in saying that word she avenged herself -for the too great liberty which the capitaine had lately taken. He -shrugged his shoulders, took a pinch of snuff, and uninvited helped -himself to a teaspoonful of cognac. Then the conference ended, and on -the next morning before breakfast Adolphe Bauche arrived. - -On that morning poor Marie hardly knew how to bear herself. A month or -two back, and even up to the last day or two, she had felt a sort of -confidence that Adolphe would be true to her; but the nearer came that -fatal day the less strong was the confidence of the poor girl. She knew -that those two long-headed, aged counsellors were plotting against her -happiness, and she felt that she could hardly dare hope for success -with such terrible foes opposed to her. On the evening before the day -Madame Bauche had met her in the passages, and kissed her as she wished -her good night. Marie knew little about sacrifices, but she felt that it -was a sacrificial kiss. - -In those days a sort of diligence with the mails for Olette passed -through Prades early in the morning, and a conveyance was sent from -Vernet to bring Adolphe to the baths. Never was prince or princess -expected with more anxiety. Madame Bauche was up and dressed long before -the hour, and was heard to say five several times that she was sure he -would not come. The capitaine was out and on the high road, moving about -with his wooden leg, as perpendicular as a lamp-post and almost as -black. Marie also was up, but nobody had seen her. She was up and had -been out about the place before any of them were stirring; but now that -the world was on the move she lay hidden like a hare in its form. - -And then the old char-à-banc clattered up to the door, and Adolphe -jumped out of it into his mother’s arms. He was fatter and fairer than -she had last seen him, had a larger beard, was more fashionably clothed, -and certainly looked more like a man. Marie also saw him out of her -little window, and she thought that he looked like a god. Was it -probable, she said to herself, that one so godlike would still care for -her? - -The mother was delighted with her son, who rattled away quite at his -ease. He shook hands very cordially with the capitaine--of whose -intended alliance with his own sweetheart he had been informed, and then -as he entered the house with his hand under his mother’s arm, he asked -one question about her. “And where is Marie?” said he. “Marie! oh -upstairs; you shall see her after breakfast,” said La Mère Bauche. And -so they entered the house, and went in to breakfast among the guests. -Everybody had heard something of the story, and they were all on the -alert to see the young man whose love or want of love was considered to -be of so much importance. - -“You will see that it will be all right,” said the capitaine, carrying -his head very high. - -“I think so, I think so,” said La Mére Bauche, who, now that the -capitaine was right, no longer desired to contradict him. - -“I know that it will be all right,” said the capitaine. “I told you that -Adolphe would return a man; and he is a man. Look at him; he does not -care this for Marie Clavert;” and the capitaine, with much eloquence in -his motion, pitched over a neighbouring wall a small stone which he held -in his hand. - -And then they all went to breakfast with many signs of outward joy. And -not without some inward joy; for Madame Bauche thought she saw that her -son was cured of his love. In the mean time Marie sat up stairs still -afraid to show herself. - -“He has come,” said a young girl, a servant in the house, running up to -the door of Marie’s room. - -“Yes,” said Marie; “I could see that he has come.” - -“And, oh, how beautiful he is!” said the girl, putting her hands -together and looking up to the ceiling. Marie in her heart of hearts -wished that he was not half so beautiful, as then her chance of having -him might be greater. - -“And the company are all talking to him as though he were the préfet,” -said the girl. - -“Never mind who is talking to him,” said Marie; “go away, and leave -me--you are wanted for your work.” Why before this was he not talking to -her? Why not, if he were really true to her? Alas, it began to fall upon -her mind that he would be false! And what then? What should she do then? -She sat still gloomily, thinking of that other spouse that had been -promised to her. - -As speedily after breakfast as was possible Adolphe was invited to a -conference in his mother’s private room. She had much debated in her own -mind whether the capitaine should be invited to this conference or no. -For many reasons she would have wished to exclude him. She did not like -to teach her son that she was unable to manage her own affairs, and she -would have been well pleased to make the capitaine understand that his -assistance was not absolutely necessary to her. But then she had an -inward fear that her green spectacles would not now be as efficacious on -Adolphe, as they had once been, in old days, before he had seen the -world and become a man. It might be necessary that her son, being a man, -should be opposed by a man. So the capitaine was invited to the -conference. - -What took place there need not be described at length. The three were -closeted for two hours, at the end of which time they came forth -together. The countenance of Madame Bauche was serene and comfortable; -her hopes of ultimate success ran higher than ever. The face of the -capitaine was masked, as are always the faces of great diplomatists; he -walked placid and upright, raising his wooden leg with an ease and skill -that was absolutely marvellous. But poor Adolphe’s brow was clouded. -Yes, poor Adolphe! for he was poor in spirit. He had pledged himself to -give up Marie, and to accept the liberal allowance which his mother -tendered him; but it remained for him now to communicate these tidings -to Marie herself. - -“Could not you tell her?” he had said to his mother, with very little of -that manliness in his face on which his mother now so prided herself. -But La Mère Bauche explained to him that it was a part of the general -agreement that Marie was to hear his decision from his own mouth. - -“But you need not regard it,” said the capitaine, with the most -indifferent air in the world. “The girl expects it. Only she has some -childish idea that she is bound till you yourself release her. I don’t -think she will be troublesome.” Adolphe at that moment did feel that he -should have liked to kick the capitaine out of his mother’s house. - -And where should the meeting take place? In the hall of the bath-house, -suggested Madame Bauche; because, as she observed, they could walk round -and round, and nobody ever went there at that time of day. But to this -Adolphe objected; it would be so cold and dismal and melancholy. - -The capitaine thought that Mère Bauche’s little parlour was the place; -but La Mère herself did not like this. They might be overheard, as she -well knew; and she guessed that the meeting would not conclude without -some sobs that would certainly be bitter and might perhaps be loud. - -“Send her up to the grotto, and I will follow her,” said Adolphe. On -this therefore they agreed. Now the grotto was a natural excavation in a -high rock, which stood precipitously upright over the establishment of -the baths. A steep zigzag path with almost never-ending steps had been -made along the face of the rock from a little flower garden attached to -the house which lay immediately under the mountain. Close along the -front of the hotel ran a little brawling river, leaving barely room for -a road between it and the door; over this there was a wooden bridge -leading to the garden, and some two or three hundred yards from the -bridge began the steps by which the ascent was made to the grotto. - -When the season was full and the weather perfectly warm the place was -much frequented. There was a green table in it, and four or five deal -chairs; a green garden seat also was there, which however had been -removed into the innermost back corner of the excavation, as its hinder -legs were somewhat at fault. A wall about two feet high ran along the -face of it, guarding its occupants from the precipice. In fact it was -no grotto, but a little chasm in the rock, such as we often see up above -our heads in rocky valleys, and which by means of these steep steps had -been turned into a source of exercise and amusement for the visitors at -the hotel. - -Standing at the wall one could look down into the garden, and down also -upon the shining slate roof of Madame Bauche’s house; and to the left -might be seen the sombre, silent, snow-capped top of stern old Canigou, -king of mountains among those Eastern Pyrenees. - -And so Madame Bauche undertook to send Marie up to the grotto, and -Adolphe undertook to follow her thither. It was now spring; and though -the winds had fallen and the snow was no longer lying on the lower -peaks, still the air was fresh and cold, and there was no danger that -any of the few guests at the establishment would visit the place. - -“Make her put on her cloak, Mère Bauche,” said the capitaine, who did -not wish that his bride should have a cold in her head on their -wedding-day. La Mère Bauche pished and pshawed, as though she were not -minded to pay any attention to recommendations on such subjects from the -capitaine. But nevertheless when Marie was seen slowly to creep across -the little bridge about fifteen minutes after this time, she had a -handkerchief on her head, and was closely wrapped in a dark brown cloak. - -Poor Marie herself little heeded the cold fresh air, but she was glad to -avail herself of any means by which she might hide her face. When Madame -Bauche sought her out in her own little room, and with a smiling face -and kind kiss bade her go to the grotto, she knew, or fancied that she -knew that it was all over. - -“He will tell you all the truth,--how it all is,” said La Mère. “We will -do all we can, you know, to make you happy, Marie. But you must remember -what Monsieur le Curé told us the other day. In this vale of tears we -cannot have everything; as we shall have some day, when our poor wicked -souls have been purged of all their wickedness. Now go, dear, and take -your cloak.” - -“Yes, maman.” - -“And Adolphe will come to you. And try and behave well, like a sensible -girl.” - -“Yes, maman,”--and so she went, bearing on her brow another sacrificial -kiss--and bearing in her heart such an unutterable load of woe! - -Adolphe had gone out of the house before her; but standing in the -stable yard, well within the gate so that she should not see him, he -watched her slowly crossing the bridge and mounting the first flight of -the steps. He had often seen her tripping up those stairs, and had, -almost as often, followed her with his quicker feet. And she, when she -would hear him, would run; and then he would catch her breathless at the -top, and steal kisses from her when all power of refusing them had been -robbed from her by her efforts at escape. There was no such running now, -no such following, no thought of such kisses. - -As for him, he would fain have skulked off and shirked the interview had -he dared. But he did not dare; so he waited there, out of heart, for -some ten minutes, speaking a word now and then to the bath-man, who was -standing by, just to show that he was at his ease. But the bath-man knew -that he was not at his ease. Such would-be lies as those rarely achieve -deception;--are rarely believed. And then, at the end of the ten -minutes, with steps as slow as Marie’s had been, he also ascended to the -grotto. - -Marie had watched him from the top, but so that she herself should not -be seen. He however had not once lifted up his head to look for her; but -with eyes turned to the ground had plodded his way up to the cave. When -he entered she was standing in the middle, with her eyes downcast and -her hands clasped before her. She had retired some way from the wall, so -that no eyes might possibly see her but those of her false lover. There -she stood when he entered, striving to stand motionless, but trembling -like a leaf in every limb. - -It was only when he reached the top step that he made up his mind how he -would behave. Perhaps after all, the capitaine was right; perhaps she -would not mind it. - -“Marie,” said he, with a voice that attempted to be cheerful; “this is -an odd place to meet in after such a long absence,” and he held out his -hand to her. But only his hand! He offered her no salute. He did not -even kiss her cheek as a brother would have done! Of the rules of the -outside world it must be remembered that poor Marie knew but little. He -had been a brother to her before he had become her lover. - -But Marie took his hand saying, “Yes, it has been very long.” - -“And now that I have come back,” he went on to say, “it seems that we -are all in a confusion together. I never knew such a piece of work. -However, it is all for the best, I suppose.” - -“Perhaps so,” said Marie, still trembling violently, and still looking -down upon the ground. And then there was silence between, them for a -minute or so. - -“I tell you what it is, Marie,” said Adolphe at last, dropping her hand -and making a great effort to get through the work before him. “I am -afraid we two have been very foolish. Don’t you think we have now? It -seems quite clear that we can never get ourselves married. Don’t you see -it in that light?” - -Marie’s head turned round and round with her, but she was not of the -fainting order. She took three steps backwards and leant against the -wall of the cave. She also was trying to think how she might best fight -her battle. Was there no chance for her? Could no eloquence, no love -prevail? On her own beauty she counted but little; but might not prayers -do something, and a reference to those old vows which had been so -frequent, so eager, so solemnly pledged between them? - -“Never get ourselves married!” she said, repeating his words. “Never, -Adolphe? Can we never be married?” - -“Upon my word, my dear girl, I fear not. You see my mother is so dead -against it.” - -“But we could wait; could we not?” - -“Ah, but that’s just it, Marie. We cannot wait. We must decide -now,--to-day. You see I can do nothing without money from her--and as -for you, you see she won’t even let you stay in the house unless you -marry old Campan at once. He’s a very good sort of fellow though, old as -he is. And if you do marry him, why you see you’ll stay here, and have -it all your own way in everything. As for me, I shall come and see you -all from time to time, and shall be able to push my way as I ought to -do.” - -“Then, Adolphe, you wish me to marry the capitaine?” - -“Upon my honour I think it is the best thing you can do; I do indeed.” - -“Oh, Adolphe!” - -“What can I do for you, you know? Suppose I was to go down to my mother -and tell her that I had decided to keep you myself, what would come of -it? Look at it in that light, Marie.” - -“She could not turn you out--you her own son!” - -“But she would turn you out; and deuced quick, too, I can assure you of -that; I can, upon my honour.” - -“I should not care that,” and she made a motion with her hand to show -how indifferent she would be to such treatment as regarded herself. “Not -that--; if I still had the promise of your love.” - -“But what would you do?” - -“I would work. There are other houses beside that one,” and she pointed -to the slate roof of the Bauche establishment. - -“And for me--I should not have a penny in the world,” said the young -man. - -She came up to him and took his right hand between both of hers and -pressed it warmly, oh, so warmly. “You would have my love,” said she; -“my deepest, warmest, best heart’s love. I should want nothing more, -nothing on earth, if I could still have yours.” And she leaned against -his shoulder and looked with all her eyes into his face. - -“But, Marie, that’s nonsense, you know.” - -“No, Adolphe, it is not nonsense. Do not let them teach you so. What -does love mean, if it does not mean that? Oh, Adolphe, you do love me, -you do love me, you do love me?” - -“Yes;--I love you,” he said slowly;--as though he would not have said -it, if he could have helped it. And then his arm crept slowly round her -waist, as though in that also he could not help himself. - -“And do not I love you?” said the passionate girl. “Oh, I do, so dearly; -with all my heart, with all my soul. Adolphe, I so love you, that I -cannot give you up. Have I not sworn to be yours; sworn, sworn a -thousand times? How can I marry that man! Oh Adolphe, how can you wish -that I should marry him?” And she clung to him, and looked at him, and -besought him with her eyes. - -“I shouldn’t wish it;--only--” and then he paused. It was hard to tell -her that he was willing to sacrifice her to the old man because he -wanted money from his mother. - -“Only what! But, Adolphe, do not wish it at all! Have you not sworn that -I should be your wife? Look here, look at this;” and she brought out -from her bosom a little charm that he had given her in return for that -cross. “Did you not kiss that when you swore before the figure of the -Virgin that I should be your wife? And do you not remember that I feared -to swear too, because your mother was so angry; and then you made me? -After that, Adolphe! Oh, Adolphe! Tell me that I may have some hope. I -will wait; oh, I will wait so patiently.” - -He turned himself away from her and walked backwards and forwards -uneasily through the grotto. He did love her;--love her as such men do -love sweet, pretty girls. The warmth of her hand, the affection of her -touch, the pure bright passion of her tear-laden eye had re-awakened -what power of love there was within him. But what was he to do? Even if -he were willing to give up the immediate golden hopes which his mother -held out to him, how was he to begin, and then how carry out this work -of self-devotion? Marie would be turned away, and he would be left a -victim in the hands of his mother, and of that stiff, wooden-legged -militaire;--a penniless victim, left to mope about the place without a -grain of influence or a morsel of pleasure. - -“But what can we do?” he exclaimed again, as he once more met Marie’s -searching eye. - -“We can be true and honest, and we can wait,” she said, coming close up -to him and taking hold of his arm. “I do not fear it; and she is not my -mother, Adolphe. You need not fear your own mother.” - -“Fear! no, of course I don’t fear. But I don’t see how the very devil we -can manage it.” - -“Will you let me tell her that I will not marry the capitaine; that I -will not give up your promises; and then I am ready to leave the house?” - -“It would do no good.” - -“It would do every good, Adolphe, if I had your promised word once more; -if I could hear from your own voice one more tone of love. Do you not -remember this place? It was here that you forced me to say that I loved -you. It is here also that you will tell me that I have been deceived.” - -“It is not I that would deceive you,” he said. “I wonder that you should -be so hard upon me. God knows that I have trouble enough.” - -“Well, if I am a trouble to you, be it so. Be it as you wish,” and she -leaned back against the wall of the rock, and crossing her arms upon her -breast looked away from him and fixed her eyes upon the sharp granite -peaks of Canigou. - -He again betook himself to walk backwards and forwards through the cave. -He had quite enough of love for her to make him wish to marry her; quite -enough now, at this moment, to make the idea of her marriage with the -capitaine very distasteful to him; enough probably to make him become a -decently good husband to her, should fate enable him to marry her; but -not enough to enable him to support all the punishment which would be -the sure effects of his mother’s displeasure. Besides, he had promised -his mother that he would give up Marie;--had entirely given in his -adhesion to that plan of the marriage with the capitaine. He had owned -that the path of life as marked out for him by his mother was the one -which it behoved him, as a man, to follow. It was this view of his -duties as a man which had been specially urged on him with all the -capitaine’s eloquence. And old Campan had entirely succeeded. It is so -easy to get the assent of such young men, so weak in mind and so weak -in pocket, when the arguments are backed by a promise of two thousand -francs a year. - -“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” at last he said. “I’ll get my mother by -herself, and will ask her to let the matter remain as it is for the -present.” - -“Not if it be a trouble, M. Adolphe;” and the proud girl still held her -hands upon her bosom, and still looked towards the mountain. - -“You know what I mean, Marie. You can understand how she and the -capitaine are worrying me.” - -“But tell me, Adolphe, do you love me?” - -“You know I love you, only--” - -“And you will not give me up?” - -“I will ask my mother. I will try and make her yield.” - -Marie could not feel that she received much confidence from her lover’s -promise; but still, even that, weak and unsteady as it was, even that -was better than absolute fixed rejection. So she thanked him, promised -him with tears in her eyes that she would always, always be faithful to -him, and then bade him go down to the house. She would follow, she said, -as soon as his passing had ceased to be observed. - -Then she looked at him as though she expected some sign of renewed love. -But no such sign was vouchsafed to her. Now that she thirsted for the -touch of his lip upon her cheek, it was denied to her. He did as she -bade him; he went down, slowly loitering, by himself; and in about half -an hour she followed him, and unobserved crept to her chamber. - -Again we will pass over what took place between the mother and the son; -but late in that evening, after the guests had gone to bed, Marie -received a message, desiring her to wait on Madame Bauche in a small -salon which looked out from one end of the house. It was intended as a -private sitting-room should any special stranger arrive who required -such accommodation, and therefore was but seldom used. Here she found La -Mère Bauche sitting in an arm-chair behind a small table on which stood -two candles; and on a sofa against the wall sat Adolphe. The capitaine -was not in the room. - -“Shut the door, Marie, and come in and sit down,” said Madame Bauche. It -was easy to understand from the tone of her voice that she was angry and -stern, in an unbending mood, and resolved to carry out to the very -letter all the threats conveyed by those terrible spectacles. - -Marie did as she was bid. She closed the door and sat down on the chair -that was nearest to her. - -“Marie,” said La Mère Bauche--and the voice sounded fierce in the poor -girl’s ears, and an angry fire glimmered through the green -glasses--“what is all this about that I hear? Do you dare to say that -you hold my son bound to marry you?” And then the august mother paused -for an answer. - -But Marie had no answer to give. She looked suppliantly towards her -lover, as though beseeching him to carry on the fight for her. But if -she could not do battle for herself, certainly he could not do it for -her. What little amount of fighting he had had in him, had been -thoroughly vanquished before her arrival. - -“I will have an answer, and that immediately,” said Madame Bauche. “I am -not going to be betrayed into ignominy and disgrace by the object of my -own charity. Who picked you out of the gutter, miss, and brought you up -and fed you, when you would otherwise have gone to the foundling? And -this is your gratitude for it all? You are not satisfied with being fed -and clothed and cherished by me, but you must rob me of my son! Know -this then, Adolphe shall never marry a child of charity such as you -are.” - -Marie sat still, stunned by the harshness of these words. La Mère Bauche -had often scolded her; indeed, she was given to much scolding; but she -had scolded her as a mother may scold a child. And when this story of -Marie’s love first reached her ears, she had been very angry; but her -anger had never brought her to such a pass as this. Indeed, Marie had -not hitherto been taught to look at the matter in this light. No one had -heretofore twitted her with eating the bread of charity. It had not -occurred to her that on this account she was unfit to be Adolphe’s wife. -There, in that valley, they were all so nearly equal, that no idea of -her own inferiority had ever pressed itself upon her mind. But now--! - -When the voice ceased she again looked at him; but it was no longer a -beseeching look. Did he also altogether scorn her? That was now the -inquiry which her eyes were called upon to make. No; she could not say -that he did. It seemed to her that his energies were chiefly occupied in -pulling to pieces the tassel on the sofa cushion. - -“And now, miss, let me know at once whether this nonsense is to be over -or not,” continued La Mère Bauche; “and I will tell you at once, I am -not going to maintain you here, in my house, to plot against our welfare -and happiness. As Marie Clavert you shall not stay here. Capitaine -Campan is willing to marry you; and as his wife I will keep my word to -you, though you little deserve it. If you refuse to marry him, you must -go. As to my son, he is there; and he will tell you now, in my presence, -that he altogether declines the honour you propose for him.” - -And then she ceased, waiting for an answer, drumming the table with a -wafer stamp which happened to be ready to her hand; but Marie said -nothing. Adolphe had been appealed to; but Adolphe had not yet spoken. - -“Well, miss?” said La Mère Bauche. - -Then Marie rose from her seat, and walking round she touched Adolphe -lightly on the shoulder. “Adolphe,” she said, “it is for you to speak -now. I will do as you bid me.” - -He gave a long sigh, looked first at Marie and then at his mother, shook -himself slightly, and then spoke: “Upon my word, Marie, I think mother -is right. It would never do for us to marry; it would not indeed.” - -“Then it is decided,” said Marie, returning to her chair. - -“And you will marry the capitaine?” said La Mère Bauche. - -Marie merely bowed her head in token of acquiescence. - -“Then we are friends again. Come here, Marie, and kiss me. You must know -that it is my duty to take care of my own son. But I don’t want to be -angry with you if I can help it; I don’t indeed. When once you are -Madame Campan, you shall be my own child; and you shall have any room in -the house you like to choose--there!” And she once more imprinted a kiss -on Marie’s cold forehead. - -How they all got out of the room, and off to their own chambers, I can -hardly tell. But in five minutes from the time of this last kiss they -were divided. La Mère Bauche had patted Marie, and smiled on her, and -called her her dear good little Madame Campan, her young little Mistress -of the Hôtel Bauche; and had then got herself into her own room, -satisfied with her own victory. - -Nor must my readers be too severe on Madame Bauche. She had already done -much for Marie Clavert; and when she found herself once more by her own -bedside, she prayed to be forgiven for the cruelty which she felt that -she had shown to the orphan. But in making this prayer, with her -favourite crucifix in her hand and the little image of the Virgin before -her, she pleaded her duty to her son. Was it not right, she asked the -Virgin, that she should save her son from a bad marriage? And then she -promised ever so much of recompense, both to the Virgin and to Marie; a -new trousseau for each, with candles to the Virgin, with a gold watch -and chain for Marie, as soon as she should be Marie Campan. She had been -cruel; she acknowledged it. But at such a crisis was it not defensible? -And then the recompense should be so full! - -But there was one other meeting that night, very short indeed, but not -the less significant. Not long after they had all separated, just so -long as to allow of the house being quiet, Adolphe, still sitting in his -room, meditating on what the day had done for him, heard a low tap at -his door. “Come in,” he said, as men always do say; and Marie opening -the door, stood just within the verge of his chamber. She had on her -countenance neither the soft look of entreating love which she had worn -up there in the grotto, nor did she appear crushed and subdued as she -had done before his mother. She carried her head somewhat more erect -than usual, and looked boldly out at him from under her soft eyelashes. -There might still be love there, but it was love proudly resolving to -quell itself. Adolphe, as he looked at her, felt that he was afraid of -her. - -“It is all over then between us, M. Adolphe?” she said. - -“Well, yes. Don’t you think it had better be so, eh, Marie?” - -“And this is the meaning of oaths and vows, sworn to each other so -sacredly?” - -“But, Marie, you heard what my mother said.” - -“Oh, sir! I have not come to ask you again to love me. Oh no! I am not -thinking of that. But this, this would be a lie if I kept it now; it -would choke me if I wore it as that man’s wife. Take it back;” and she -tendered to him the little charm, which she had always worn round her -neck since he had given it to her. He took it abstractedly, without -thinking what he did, and placed it on his dressing-table. - -“And you,” she continued, “can you still keep that cross? Oh, no! you -must give me back that. It would remind you too often of vows that were -untrue.” - -“Marie,” he said, “do not be so harsh to me.” - -“Harsh!” said she, “no; there has been enough of harshness. I would not -be harsh to you, Adolphe. But give me the cross; it would prove a curse -to you if you kept it.” - -He then opened a little box which stood upon the table, and taking out -the cross gave it to her. - -“And now good-bye,” she said. “We shall have but little more to say to -each other. I know this now, that I was wrong ever to have loved you. I -should have been to you as one of the other poor girls in the house. -But, oh! how was I to help it?” To this he made no answer, and she, -closing the door softly, went back to her chamber. And thus ended the -first day of Adolphe Bauche’s return to his own house. - -On the next morning the capitaine and Marie were formally betrothed. -This was done with some little ceremony, in the presence of all the -guests who were staying at the establishment, and with all manner of -gracious acknowledgments of Marie’s virtues. It seemed as though La Mère -Bauche could not be courteous enough to her. There was no more talk of -her being a child of charity; no more allusion now to the gutter. La -Mère Bauche with her own hand brought her cake with a glass of wine -after her betrothal was over, and patted her on the cheek, and called -her her dear little Marie Campan. And then the capitaine was made up of -infinite politeness, and the guests all wished her joy, and the servants -of the house began to perceive that she was a person entitled to -respect. How different was all this from that harsh attack that was made -on her the preceding evening! Only Adolphe,--he alone kept aloof. Though -he was present there he said nothing. He, and he only, offered no -congratulations. - -In the midst of all these gala doings Marie herself said little or -nothing. La Mère Bauche perceived this, but she forgave it. Angrily as -she had expressed herself at the idea of Marie’s daring to love her son, -she had still acknowledged within her own heart that such love had been -natural. She could feel no pity for Marie as long as Adolphe was in -danger; but now she knew how to pity her. So Marie was still petted and -still encouraged, though she went through the day’s work sullenly and in -silence. - -As to the capitaine it was all one to him. He was a man of the world. He -did not expect that he should really be preferred, con amore, to a young -fellow like Adolphe. But he did expect that Marie, like other girls, -would do as she was bid; and that in a few days she would regain her -temper and be reconciled to her life. - -And then the marriage was fixed for a very early day; for as La Mère -said, “What was the use of waiting? All their minds were made up now, -and therefore the sooner the two were married the better. Did not the -capitaine think so?” - -The capitaine said that he did think so. - -And then Marie was asked. It was all one to her, she said. Whatever -Maman Bauche liked, that she would do; only she would not name a day -herself. Indeed she would neither do nor say anything herself which -tended in any way to a furtherance of these matrimonials. But then she -acquiesced, quietly enough if not readily, in what other people did and -said; and so the marriage was fixed for the day week after Adolphe’s -return. - -The whole of that week passed much in the same way. The servants about -the place spoke among themselves of Marie’s perverseness, obstinacy, and -ingratitude, because she would not look pleased, or answer Madame -Bauche’s courtesies with gratitude; but La Mère herself showed no signs -of anger. Marie had yielded to her, and she required no more. And she -remembered also the harsh words she had used to gain her purpose; and -she reflected on all that Marie had lost. On these accounts she was -forbearing and exacted nothing--nothing but that one sacrifice which was -to be made in accordance to her wishes. - -And it was made. They were married in the great salon, the dining-room, -immediately after breakfast. Madame Bauche was dressed in a new puce -silk dress, and looked very magnificent on the occasion. She simpered -and smiled, and looked gay even in spite of her spectacles; and as the -ceremony was being performed, she held fast clutched in her hand the -gold watch and chain which were intended for Marie as soon as ever the -marriage should be completed. - -The capitaine was dressed exactly as usual, only that all his clothes -were new. Madame Bauche had endeavoured to persuade him to wear a blue -coat; but he answered that such a change would not, he was sure, be to -Marie’s taste. To tell the truth, Marie would hardly have known the -difference had he presented himself in scarlet vestments. - -Adolphe, however, was dressed very finely, but he did not make himself -prominent on the occasion. Marie watched him closely, though none saw -that she did so; and of his garments she could have given an account -with much accuracy--of his garments, ay! and of every look. “Is he a -man,” she said at last to herself, “that he can stand by and see all -this?” - -She too was dressed in silk. They had put on her what they pleased, and -she bore the burden of her wedding finery without complaint and without -pride. There was no blush on her face as she walked up to the table at -which the priest stood, nor hesitation in her low voice as she made the -necessary answers. She put her hand into that of the capitaine when -required to do so; and when the ring was put on her finger she -shuddered, but ever so slightly. No one observed it but La Mère Bauche. -“In one week she will be used to it, and then we shall all be happy,” -said La Mère to herself. “And I,--I will be so kind to her!” - -And so the marriage was completed, and the watch was at once given to -Marie. “Thank you, maman,” said she, as the trinket was fastened to her -girdle. Had it been a pincushion that had cost three sous, it would have -affected her as much. - -And then there was cake and wine and sweetmeats; and after a few minutes -Marie disappeared. For an hour or so the capitaine was taken up with the -congratulations of his friends, and with the efforts necessary to the -wearing of his new honours with an air of ease; but after that time he -began to be uneasy because his wife did not come to him. At two or three -in the afternoon he went to La Mère Bauche to complain. “This -lackadaisical nonsense is no good,” he said. “At any rate it is too late -now. Marie had better come down among us and show herself satisfied with -her husband.” - -But Madame Bauche took Marie’s part. “You must not be too hard on -Marie,” she said. “She has gone through a good deal this week past, and -is very young; whereas, capitaine, you are not very young.” - -The capitaine merely shrugged his shoulders. In the mean time Mère -Bauche went up to visit her protégée in her own room, and came down with -a report that she was suffering from a headache. She could not appear at -dinner, Madame Bauche said; but would make one at the little party which -was to be given in the evening. With this the capitaine was forced to be -content. - -The dinner therefore went on quietly without her, much as it did on -other ordinary days. And then there was a little time for vacancy, -during which the gentlemen drank their coffee and smoked their cigars at -the café, talking over the event that had taken place that morning, and -the ladies brushed their hair and added some ribbon or some brooch to -their usual apparel. Twice during this time did Madame Bauche go up to -Marie’s room with offers to assist her. “Not yet, maman; not quite yet,” -said Marie piteously through her tears, and then twice did the green -spectacles leave the room, covering eyes which also were not dry. Ah! -what had she done? What had she dared to take upon herself to do? She -could not undo it now. - -And then it became quite dark in the passages and out of doors, and the -guests assembled in the salon. La Mère came in and out three or four -times, uneasy in her gait and unpleasant in her aspect, and everybody -began to see that things were wrong. “She is ill, I am afraid,” said -one. “The excitement has been too much,” said a second; “and he is so -old,” whispered a third. And the capitaine stalked about erect on his -wooden leg, taking snuff, and striving to look indifferent; but he also -was uneasy in his mind. - -Presently La Mère came in again, with a quicker step than before, and -whispered something, first to Adolphe and then to the capitaine, -whereupon they both followed her out of the room. - -“Not in her chamber,” said Adolphe. - -“Then she must be in yours,” said the capitaine. - -“She is in neither,” said La Mère Bauche, with her sternest voice; “nor -is she in the house!” - -And now there was no longer an affectation of indifference on the part -of any of them. They were anything but indifferent. The capitaine was -eager in his demands that the matter should still be kept secret from -the guests. She had always been romantic, he said, and had now gone out -to walk by the river-side. They three and the old bath-man would go out -and look for her. - -“But it is pitch, dark,” said La Mère Bauche. - -“We will take lanterns,” said the capitaine. And so they sallied forth -with creeping steps over the gravel, so that they might not be heard by -those within, and proceeded to search for the young wife. - -“Marie! Marie!” said La Mère Bauche, in piteous accents; “do come to me; -pray do!” - -“Hush!” said the capitaine. “They’ll hear you if you call.” He could not -endure that the world should learn that a marriage with him had been so -distasteful to Marie Clavert. - -“Marie, dear Marie!” called Madame Bauche, louder than before, quite -regardless of the capitaine’s feelings; but no Marie answered. In her -innermost heart now did La Mère Bauche wish that this cruel marriage had -been left undone. - -Adolphe was foremost with his lamp, but he hardly dared to look in the -spot where he felt that it was most likely that she should have taken -refuge. How could he meet her again, alone, in that grotto? Yet he alone -of the four was young. It was clearly for him to ascend. “Marie,” he -shouted, “are you there?” as he slowly began the long ascent of the -steps. - -But he had hardly begun to mount when a whirring sound struck his ear, -and he felt that the air near him was moved; and then there was a crash -upon the lower platform of rock, and a moan, repeated twice, but so -faintly, and a rustle of silk, and a slight struggle somewhere as he -knew within twenty paces of him; and then all was again quiet and still -in the night air. - -“What was that?” asked the capitaine in a hoarse voice. He made his way -half across the little garden, and he also was within forty or fifty -yards of the flat rock. But Adolphe was unable to answer him. He had -fainted and the lamp had fallen from his hands and rolled to the bottom -of the steps. - -But the capitaine, though even his heart was all but quenched within -him, had still strength enough to make his way up to the rock; and -there, holding the lantern above his eyes, he saw all that was left for -him to see of his bride. - -As for La Mère Bauche, she never again sat at the head of that -table,--never again dictated to guests,--never again laid down laws for -the management of any one. A poor bedridden old woman, she lay there in -her house at Vernet for some seven tedious years, and then was gathered -to her fathers. - -As for the capitaine--but what matters? He was made of sterner stuff. -What matters either the fate of such a one as Adolphe Bauche? - - - - -THE O’CONORS OF CASTLE CONOR, COUNTY MAYO. - - -I shall never forget my first introduction to country life in Ireland, -my first day’s hunting there, or the manner in which I passed the -evening afterwards. Nor shall I ever cease to be grateful for the -hospitality which I received from the O’Conors of Castle Conor. My -acquaintance with the family was first made in the following manner. But -before I begin my story, let me inform my reader that my name is -Archibald Green. - -I had been for a fortnight in Dublin, and was about to proceed into -county Mayo on business which would occupy me there for some weeks. My -head-quarters would, I found, be at the town of Ballyglass; and I soon -learned that Ballyglass was not a place in which I should find hotel -accommodation of a luxurious kind, or much congenial society indigenous -to the place itself. - -“But you are a hunting man, you say,” said old Sir P---- C----; “and in -that case you will soon know Tom O’Conor. Tom won’t let you be dull. I’d -write you a letter to Tom, only he’ll certainly make you out without my -taking the trouble.” - -I did think at the time that the old baronet might have written the -letter for me, as he had been a friend of my father’s in former days; -but he did not, and I started for Ballyglass with no other introduction -to any one in the county than that contained in Sir P----’s promise -that I should soon know Mr. Thomas O’Conor. - -I had already provided myself with a horse, groom, saddle and bridle, -and these I sent down, en avant, that the Ballyglassians might know that -I was somebody. Perhaps, before I arrived, Tom O’Conor might learn that -a hunting man was coming into the neighbourhood, and I might find at the -inn a polite note intimating that a bed was at my service at Castle -Conor. I had heard so much of the free hospitality of the Irish gentry -as to imagine that such a thing might be possible. - -But I found nothing of the kind. Hunting gentlemen in those days were -very common in county Mayo, and one horse was no great evidence of a -man’s standing in the world. Men there, as I learnt afterwards, are -sought for themselves quite as much as they are elsewhere; and though my -groom’s top-boots were neat, and my horse a very tidy animal, my entry -into Ballyglass created no sensation whatever. - -In about four days after my arrival, when I was already infinitely -disgusted with the little pot-house in which I was forced to stay, and -had made up my mind that the people in county Mayo were a churlish set, -I sent my horse on to a meet of the fox-hounds, and followed after -myself on an open car. - -No one but an erratic fox-hunter such as I am,--a fox-hunter, I mean, -whose lot it has been to wander about from one pack of hounds to -another,--can understand the melancholy feeling which a man has when he -first intrudes himself, unknown by any one, among an entirely new set of -sportsmen. When a stranger falls thus as it were out of the moon into a -hunt, it is impossible that men should not stare at him and ask who he -is. And it is so disagreeable to be stared at, and to have such -questions asked! This feeling does not come upon a man in Leicestershire -or Gloucestershire, where the numbers are large, and a stranger or two -will always be overlooked, but in small hunting fields it is so painful -that a man has to pluck up much courage before he encounters it. - -We met on the morning in question at Bingham’s Grove. There were not -above twelve or fifteen men out, all of whom, or nearly all, were -cousins to each other. They seemed to be all Toms, and Pats, and Larrys, -and Micks. I was done up very knowingly in pink, and thought that I -looked quite the thing; but for two or three hours nobody noticed me. - -I had my eyes about me, however, and soon found out which of them was -Tom O’Conor. He was a fine-looking fellow, thin and tall, but not -largely made, with a piercing gray eye, and a beautiful voice for -speaking to a hound. He had two sons there also, short, slight fellows, -but exquisite horsemen. I already felt that I had a kind of acquaintance -with the father, but I hardly knew on what ground to put in my claim. - -We had no sport early in the morning. It was a cold bleak February day, -with occasional storms of sleet. We rode from cover to cover, but all in -vain. “I am sorry, sir, that we are to have such a bad day, as you are -a stranger here,” said one gentleman to me. This was Jack O’Conor, Tom’s -eldest son, my bosom friend for many a year after. Poor Jack! I fear -that the Encumbered Estates Court sent him altogether adrift upon the -world. - -“We may still have a run from Poulnaroe, if the gentleman chooses to -come on,” said a voice coming from behind with a sharp trot. It was Tom -O’Conor. - -“Wherever the hounds go, I’ll follow,” said I. - -“Then come on to Poulnaroe,” said Mr. O’Conor. I trotted on quickly by -his side, and before we reached the cover had managed to slip in -something about Sir P. C. - -“What the deuce!” said he. “What! a friend of Sir P----’s? Why the -deuce didn’t you tell me so? What are you doing down here? Where are you -staying?” &c. &c. &c. - -At Poulnaroe we found a fox, but before we did so Mr. O’Conor had asked -me over to Castle Conor. And this he did in such a way that there was no -possibility of refusing him--or, I should rather say, of disobeying him. -For his invitation came quite in the tone of a command. - -“You’ll come to us of course when the day is over--and let me see; we’re -near Ballyglass now, but the run will be right away in our direction. -Just send word for them to send your things to Castle Conor.” - -“But they’re all about, and unpacked,” said I. - -“Never mind. Write a note and say what you want now, and go and get the -rest to-morrow yourself. Here, Patsey!--Patsey! run into Ballyglass for -this gentleman at once. Now don’t be long, for the chances are we shall -find here.” And then, after giving some further hurried instructions he -left me to write a line in pencil to the innkeeper’s wife on the back of -a ditch. - -This I accordingly did. “Send my small portmanteau,” I said, “and all my -black dress clothes, and shirts, and socks, and all that, and above all -my dressing things which are on the little table, and the satin -neck-handkerchief, and whatever you do, mind you send my _pumps;_” and I -underscored the latter word; for Jack O’Conor, when his father left me, -went on pressing the invitation. “My sisters are going to get up a -dance,” said he; “and if you are fond of that kind of things perhaps we -can amuse you.” Now in those days I was very fond of dancing--and very -fond of young ladies too, and therefore glad enough to learn that Tom -O’Conor had daughters as well as sons. On this account I was very -particular in underscoring the word pumps. - -“And hurry, you young divil,” Jack O’Conor said to Patsey. - -“I have told him to take the portmanteau over on a car,” said I. - -“All right; then you’ll find it there on our arrival.” - -We had an excellent run, in which I may make bold to say that I did not -acquit myself badly. I stuck very close to the hounds, as did the whole -of the O’Conor brood; and when the fellow contrived to earth himself, as -he did, I received those compliments on my horse, which is the most -approved praise which one fox-hunter ever gives to another. - -“We’ll buy that fellow of you before we let you go,” said Peter, the -youngest son. - -“I advise you to look sharp after your money if you sell him to my -brother,” said Jack. - -And then we trotted slowly off to Castle Conor, which, however, was by -no means near to us. “We have ten miles to go;--good Irish miles,” said -the father. “I don’t know that I ever remember a fox from Poulnaroe -taking that line before.” - -“He wasn’t a Poulnaroe fox,” said Peter. - -“I don’t know that,” said Jack; and then they debated that question -hotly. - -Our horses were very tired, and it was late before we reached Mr. -O’Conor’s house. That getting home from hunting with a thoroughly weary -animal, who has no longer sympathy or example to carry him on, is very -tedious work. In the present instance I had company with me; but when a -man is alone, when his horse toes at every ten steps, when the night is -dark and the rain pouring, and there are yet eight miles of road to be -conquered,--at such times a man is almost apt to swear that he will give -up hunting. - -At last we were in the Castle Conor stable yard;--for we had approached -the house by some back way; and as we entered the house by a door -leading through a wilderness of back passages, Mr. O’Conor said out -loud, “Now, boys, remember I sit down to dinner in twenty minutes.” And -then turning expressly to me, he laid his hand kindly upon my shoulder -and said, “I hope you will make yourself quite at home at Castle -Conor,--and whatever you do, don’t keep us waiting for dinner. You can -dress in twenty minutes, I suppose?” - -“In ten!” said I, glibly. - -“That’s well. Jack and Peter will show you your room,” and so he turned -away and left us. - -My two young friends made their way into the great hall, and thence -into the drawing-room, and I followed them. We were all dressed in pink, -and had waded deep through bog and mud. I did not exactly know whither I -was being led in this guise, but I soon found myself in the presence of -two young ladies, and of a girl about thirteen years of age. - -“My sisters,” said Jack, introducing me very laconically; “Miss O’Conor, -Miss Kate O’Conor, Miss Tizzy O’Conor.” - -“My name is not Tizzy,” said the younger; “it’s Eliza. How do you do, -sir? I hope you had a fine hunt! Was papa well up, Jack?” - -Jack did not condescend to answer this question, but asked one of the -elder girls whether anything had come, and whether a room had been made -ready for me. - -“Oh yes!” said Miss O’Conor; “they came, I know, for I saw them brought -into the house; and I hope Mr. Green will find everything comfortable.” -As she said this I thought I saw a slight smile steal across her -remarkably pretty mouth. - -They were both exceedingly pretty girls. Fanny the elder wore long -glossy curls,--for I write, oh reader, of bygone days, as long ago as -that, when ladies wore curls if it pleased them so to do, and gentlemen -danced in pumps, with black handkerchiefs round their necks,--yes, long -black, or nearly black silken curls; and then she had such eyes;--I -never knew whether they were most wicked or most bright; and her face -was all dimples, and each dimple was laden with laughter and laden with -love. Kate was probably the prettier girl of the two, but on the whole -not so attractive. She was fairer than her sister, and wore her hair in -braids; and was also somewhat more demure in her manner. - -In spite of the special injunctions of Mr. O’Conor senior, it was -impossible not to loiter for five minutes over the drawing-room fire -talking to these houris--more especially as I seemed to know them -intimately by intuition before half of the five minutes was over. They -were so easy, so pretty, so graceful, so kind, they seemed to take it so -much as a matter of course that I should stand there talking in my red -coat and muddy boots. - -“Well; do go and dress yourselves,” at last said Fanny, pretending to -speak to her brothers but looking more especially at me. “You know how -mad papa will be. And remember, Mr. Green, we expect great things from -your dancing to-night. Your coming just at this time is such a Godsend.” -And again that soupçon of a smile passed over her face. - -I hurried up to my room, Peter and Jack coming with me to the door. “Is -everything right?” said Peter, looking among the towels and water-jugs. -“They’ve given you a decent fire for a wonder,” said Jack, stirring up -the red hot turf which blazed in the grate. “All right as a trivet,” -said I. “And look alive like a good fellow,” said Jack. We had scowled -at each other in the morning as very young men do when they are -strangers; and now, after a few hours, we were intimate friends. - -I immediately turned to my work, and was gratified to find that all my -things were laid out ready for dressing; my portmanteau had of course -come open, as my keys were in my pocket, and therefore some of the -excellent servants of the house had been able to save me all the trouble -of unpacking. There was my shirt hanging before the fire; my black -clothes were spread upon the bed, my socks and collar and handkerchief -beside them; my brushes were on the toilet table, and everything -prepared exactly as though my own man had been there. How nice! - -I immediately went to work at getting off my spurs and boots, and then -proceeded to loosen the buttons at my knees. In doing this I sat down in -the arm-chair which had been drawn up for me, opposite the fire. But -what was the object on which my eyes then fell;--the objects I should -rather say! - -Immediately in front of my chair was placed, just ready for my feet, an -enormous pair of shooting-boots--half-boots, made to lace up round the -ankles, with thick double leather soles, and each bearing half a stone -of iron in the shape of nails and heel-pieces. I had superintended the -making of these shoes in Burlington Arcade with the greatest diligence. -I was never a good shot; and, like some other sportsmen, intended to -make up for my deficiency in performance by the excellence of my -shooting apparel. “Those nails are not large enough,” I had said; “nor -nearly large enough.” But when the boots came home they struck even me -as being too heavy, too metalsome. “He, he, he,” laughed the boot boy as -he turned them up for me to look at. It may therefore be imagined of -what nature were the articles which were thus set out for the evening’s -dancing. - -And then the way in which they were placed! When I saw this the -conviction flew across my mind like a flash of lightning that the -preparation had been made under other eyes than those of the servant. -The heavy big boots were placed so prettily before the chair, and the -strings of each were made to dangle down at the sides, as though just -ready for tying! They seemed to say, the boots did, “Now, make haste. -We at any rate are ready--you cannot say that you were kept waiting for -us.” No mere servant’s hand had ever enabled a pair of boots to laugh at -one so completely. - -But what was I to do? I rushed at the small portmanteau, thinking that -my pumps also might be there. The woman surely could not have been such -a fool as to send me those tons of iron for my evening wear! But, alas, -alas! no pumps were there. There was nothing else in the way of covering -for my feet; not even a pair of slippers. - -And now what was I to do? The absolute magnitude of my misfortune only -loomed upon me by degrees. The twenty minutes allowed by that stern old -paterfamilias were already gone and I had done nothing towards dressing. -And indeed it was impossible that I should do anything that would be of -avail. I could not go down to dinner in my stocking feet, nor could I -put on my black dress trousers, over a pair of mud-painted top-boots. As -for those iron-soled horrors--; and then I gave one of them a kick with -the side of my bare foot which sent it half way under the bed. - -But what was I to do? I began washing myself and brushing my hair with -this horrid weight upon my mind. My first plan was to go to bed, and -send down word that I had been taken suddenly ill in the stomach; then -to rise early in the morning and get away unobserved. But by such a -course of action I should lose all chance of any further acquaintance -with those pretty girls! That they were already aware of the extent of -my predicament, and were now enjoying it--of that I was quite sure. - -What if I boldly put on the shooting-boots, and clattered down to dinner -in them? What if I took the bull by the horns, and made, myself, the -most of the joke? This might be very well for the dinner, but it would -be a bad joke for me when the hour for dancing came. And, alas! I felt -that I lacked the courage. It is not every man that can walk down to -dinner, in a strange house full of ladies, wearing such boots as those I -have described. - -Should I not attempt to borrow a pair? This, all the world will say, -should have been my first idea. But I have not yet mentioned that I am -myself a large-boned man, and that my feet are especially well -developed. I had never for a moment entertained a hope that I should -find any one in that house whose boot I could wear. But at last I rang -the bell. I would send for Jack, and if everything failed, I would -communicate my grief to him. - -I had to ring twice before anybody came. The servants, I well knew, were -putting the dinner on the table. At last a man entered the room, dressed -in rather shabby black, whom I afterwards learned to be the butler. - -“What is your name, my friend?” said I, determined to make an ally of -the man. - -“My name? Why Larry sure, yer honer. And the masther is out of his -sinses in a hurry, becase yer honer don’t come down.” - -“Is he though? Well now, Larry; tell me this; which of all the gentlemen -in the house has got the largest foot?” - -“Is it the largest foot, yer honer?” said Larry, altogether surprised by -my question. - -“Yes; the largest foot,” and then I proceeded to explain to him my -misfortune. He took up first my top-boot, and then the shooting-boot--in -looking at which he gazed with wonder at the nails;--and then he glanced -at my feet, measuring them with his eye; and after this he pronounced -his opinion. - -“Yer honer couldn’t wear a morsel of leather belonging to ere a one of -’em, young or ould. There niver was a foot like that yet among the -O’Conors.” - -“But are there no strangers staying here?” - -“There’s three or four on ’em come in to dinner; but they’ll be wanting -their own boots I’m thinking. And there’s young Misther Dillon; he’s -come to stay. But Lord love you--” and he again looked at the enormous -extent which lay between the heel and the toe of the shooting apparatus -which he still held in his hand. “I niver see such a foot as that in the -whole barony,” he said, “barring my own.” - -Now Larry was a large man, much larger altogether than myself, and as he -said this I looked down involuntarily at his feet; or rather at his -foot, for as he stood I could only see one. And then a sudden hope -filled my heart. On that foot there glittered a shoe--not indeed such as -were my own which were now resting ingloriously at Ballyglass while they -were so sorely needed at Castle Conor; but one which I could wear before -ladies, without shame--and in my present frame of mind with infinite -contentment. - -“Let me look at that one of your own,” said I to the man, as though it -were merely a subject for experimental inquiry. Larry, accustomed to -obedience, took off the shoe and handed it to me. My own foot was -immediately in it, and I found that it fitted me like a glove. - -“And now the other,” said I--not smiling, for a smile would have put him -on his guard; but somewhat sternly, so that that habit of obedience -should not desert him at this perilous moment. And then I stretched out -my hand. - -“But yer honer can’t keep ’em, you know,” said he. “I haven’t the ghost -of another shoe to my feet.” But I only looked more sternly than before, -and still held out my hand. Custom prevailed. Larry stooped down slowly, -looking at me the while, and pulling off the other slipper handed it to -me with much hesitation. Alas! as I put it to my foot I found that it -was old, and worn, and irredeemably down at heel;--that it was in fact -no counterpart at all to that other one which was to do duty as its -fellow. But nevertheless I put my foot into it, and felt that a descent -to the drawing-room was now possible. - -“But yer honer will give ’em back to a poor man?” said Larry almost -crying. “The masther’s mad this minute becase the dinner’s not up. Glory -to God, only listhen to that!” And as he spoke a tremendous peal rang -out from some bell down stairs that had evidently been shaken by an -angry hand. - -“Larry,” said I--and I endeavoured to assume a look of very grave -importance as I spoke--“I look to you to assist me in this matter.” - -“Och--wirra sthrue then, and will you let me go? just listhen to that,” -and another angry peal rang out, loud and repeated. - -“If you do as I ask you,” I continued, “you shall be well rewarded. Look -here; look at these boots,” and I held up the shooting-shoes new from -Burlington Arcade. “They cost thirty shillings--thirty shillings! and I -will give them to you for the loan of this pair of slippers.” - -“They’d be no use at all to me, yer honer; not the laist use in life.” - -“You could do with them very well for to-night, and then you could sell -them. And here are ten shillings besides,” and I held out half a -sovereign which the poor fellow took into his hand. - -I waited no further parley but immediately walked out of the room. With -one foot I was sufficiently pleased. As regarded that I felt that I had -overcome my difficulty. But the other was not so satisfactory. Whenever -I attempted to lift it from the ground the horrid slipper would fall -off, or only just hang by the toe. As for dancing, that would be out of -the question. - -“Och, murther, murther,” sang out Larry, as he heard me going down -stairs. “What will I do at all? Tare and ’ounds; there, he’s at it agin, -as mad as blazes.” This last exclamation had reference to another peal -which was evidently the work of the master’s hand. - -I confess I was not quite comfortable as I walked down stairs. In the -first place I was nearly half an hour late, and I knew from the vigour -of the peals that had sounded that my slowness had already been made the -subject of strong remarks. And then my left shoe went flop, flop, on -every alternate step of the stairs. By no exertion of my foot in the -drawing up of my toe could I induce it to remain permanently fixed upon -my foot. But over and above and worse than all this was the conviction -strong upon my mind that I should become a subject of merriment to the -girls as soon as I entered the room. They would understand the cause of -my distress, and probably at this moment were expecting to hear me -clatter through the stone hall with those odious metal boots. - -However, I hurried down and entered the drawing-room, determined to keep -my position near the door, so that I might have as little as possible to -do on entering and as little as possible in going out. But I had other -difficulties in store for me. I had not as yet been introduced to Mrs. -O’Conor; nor to Miss O’Conor, the squire’s unmarried sister. - -“Upon my word I thought you were never coming,” said Mr. O’Conor as soon -as he saw me. “It is just one hour since we entered the house. Jack, I -wish you would find out what has come to that fellow Larry,” and again -he rang the bell. He was too angry, or it might be too impatient to go -through the ceremony of introducing me to anybody. - -I saw that the two girls looked at me very sharply, but I stood at the -back of an arm-chair so that no one could see my feet. But that little -imp Tizzy walked round deliberately, looked at my heels, and then walked -back again. It was clear that she was in the secret. - -There were eight or ten people in the room, but I was too much fluttered -to notice well who they were. - -“Mamma,” said Miss O’Conor, “let me introduce Mr. Green to you.” - -It luckily happened that Mrs. O’Conor was on the same side of the fire -as myself, and I was able to take the hand which she offered me without -coming round into the middle of the circle. Mrs. O’Conor was a little -woman, apparently not of much importance in the world, but, if one -might judge from first appearance, very good-natured. - -“And my aunt Die, Mr. Green,” said Kate, pointing to a very -straight-backed, grim-looking lady, who occupied a corner of a sofa, on -the opposite side of the hearth. I knew that politeness required that I -should walk across the room and make acquaintance with her. But under -the existing circumstances how was I to obey the dictates of politeness? -I was determined therefore to stand my ground, and merely bowed across -the room at Miss O’Conor. In so doing I made an enemy who never deserted -me during the whole of my intercourse with the family. But for her, who -knows who might have been sitting opposite to me as I now write? - -“Upon my word, Mr. Green, the ladies will expect much from an Adonis who -takes so long over his toilet,” said Tom O’Conor in that cruel tone of -banter which he knew so well how to use. - -“You forget, father, that men in London can’t jump in and out of their -clothes as quick as we wild Irishmen,” said Jack. - -“Mr. Green knows that we expect a great deal from him this evening. I -hope you polk well, Mr. Green,” said Kate. - -I muttered something about never dancing, but I knew that that which I -said was inaudible. - -“I don’t think Mr. Green will dance,” said Tizzy; “at least not much.” -The impudence of that child was, I think, unparalleled by any that I -have ever witnessed. - -“But in the name of all that’s holy, why don’t we have dinner?” And Mr. -O’Conor thundered at the door. “Larry, Larry, Larry!” he screamed. - -“Yes, yer honer, it’ll be all right in two seconds,” answered Larry, -from some bottomless abyss. “Tare an’ ages; what’ll I do at all,” I -heard him continuing, as he made his way into the hall. Oh what a -clatter he made upon the pavement,--for it was all stone! And how the -drops of perspiration stood upon my brow as I listened to him! - -And then there was a pause, for the man had gone into the dining-room. I -could see now that Mr. O’Conor was becoming very angry, and Jack the -eldest son--oh, how often he and I have laughed over all this -since--left the drawing-room for the second time. Immediately afterwards -Larry’s footsteps were again heard, hurrying across the hall, and then -there was a great slither, and an exclamation, and the noise of a -fall--and I could plainly hear poor Larry’s head strike against the -stone floor. - -“Ochone, ochone!” he cried at the top of his voice--“I’m murthered with -’em now intirely; and d---- ’em for boots--St. Peter be good to me.” - -There was a general rush into the hall, and I was carried with the -stream. The poor fellow who had broken his head would be sure to tell -how I had robbed him of his shoes. The coachman was already helping him -up, and Peter good-naturedly lent a hand. - -“What on earth is the matter?” said Mr. O’Conor. - -“He must be tipsy,” whispered Miss O’Conor, the maiden sister. - -“I aint tipsy at all thin,” said Larry, getting up and rubbing the back -of his head, and sundry other parts of his body. “Tipsy indeed!” And -then he added when he was quite upright, “The dinner is sarved--at -last.” - -And he bore it all without telling! “I’ll give that fellow a guinea -to-morrow morning,” said I to myself--“if it’s the last that I have in -the world.” - -I shall never forget the countenance of the Miss O’Conors as Larry -scrambled up cursing the unfortunate boots--“What on earth has he got -on?” said Mr. O’Conor. - -“Sorrow take ’em for shoes,” ejaculated Larry. But his spirit was good -and he said not a word to betray me. - -We all then went in to dinner how we best could. It was useless for us -to go back into the drawing-room, that each might seek his own partner. -Mr. O’Conor “the masther,” not caring much for the girls who were around -him, and being already half beside himself with the confusion and delay, -led the way by himself. I as a stranger should have given my arm to Mrs. -O’Conor; but as it was I took her eldest daughter instead, and contrived -to shuffle along into the dining-room without exciting much attention, -and when there I found myself happily placed between Kate and Fanny. - -“I never knew anything so awkward,” said Fanny; “I declare I can’t -conceive what has come to our old servant Larry. He’s generally the most -precise person in the world, and now he is nearly an hour late--and then -he tumbles down in the hall.” - -“I am afraid I am responsible for the delay,” said I. - -“But not for the tumble I suppose,” said Kate from the other side. I -felt that I blushed up to the eyes, but I did not dare to enter into -explanations. - -“Tom,” said Tizzy, addressing her father across the table, “I hope you -had a good run to-day.” It did seem odd to me that a young lady should -call her father Tom, but such was the fact. - -“Well; pretty well,” said Mr. O’Conor. - -“And I hope you were up with the hounds.” - -“You may ask Mr. Green that. He at any rate was with them, and therefore -he can tell you.” - -“Oh, he wasn’t before you, I know. No Englishman could get before -you;--I am quite sure of that.” - -“Don’t you be impertinent, miss,” said Kate. “You can easily see, Mr. -Green, that papa spoils my sister Eliza.” - -“Do you hunt in top-boots, Mr. Green?” said Tizzy. - -To this I made no answer. She would have drawn me into a conversation -about my feet in half a minute, and the slightest allusion to the -subject threw me into a fit of perspiration. - -“Are you fond of hunting, Miss O’Conor?” asked I, blindly hurrying into -any other subject of conversation. - -Miss O’Conor owned that she was fond of hunting--just a little; only -papa would not allow it. When the hounds met anywhere within reach of -Castle Conor, she and Kate would ride out to look at them; and if papa -was not there that day,--an omission of rare occurrence,--they would -ride a few fields with the hounds. - -“But he lets Tizzy keep with them the whole day,” said she, whispering. - -“And has Tizzy a pony of her own?” - -“Oh yes, Tizzy has everything. She’s papa’s pet, you know.” - -“And whose pet are you?” I asked. - -“Oh--I am nobody’s pet, unless sometimes Jack makes a pet of me when -he’s in a good humour. Do you make pets of your sisters, Mr. Green?” - -“I have none. But if I had I should not make pets of them.” - -“Not of your own sisters?” - -“No. As for myself, I’d sooner make a pet of my friend’s sister; a great -deal.” - -“How very unnatural,” said Miss O’Conor, with the prettiest look of -surprise imaginable. - -“Not at all unnatural I think,” said I, looking tenderly and lovingly -into her face. Where does one find girls so pretty, so easy, so sweet, -so talkative as the Irish girls? And then with all their talking and all -their ease who ever hears of their misbehaving? They certainly love -flirting as they also love dancing. But they flirt without mischief and -without malice. - -I had now quite forgotten my misfortune, and was beginning to think how -well I should like to have Fanny O’Conor for my wife. In this frame of -mind I was bending over towards her as a servant took away a plate from -the other side, when a sepulchral note sounded in my ear. It was like -the memento mori of the old Roman;--as though some one pointed in the -midst of my bliss to the sword hung over my head by a thread. It was the -voice of Larry, whispering in his agony just above, my head-- - -“They’s disthroying my poor feet intirely, intirely; so they is! I can’t -bear it much longer, yer honer.” I had committed murder like Macbeth; -and now my Banquo had come to disturb me at my feast. - -“What is it he says to you?” asked Fanny. - -“Oh nothing,” I answered, once more in my misery. - -“There seems to be some point of confidence between you and our Larry,” -she remarked. - -“Oh no,” said I, quite confused; “not at all.” - -“You need not be ashamed of it. Half the gentlemen in the county have -their confidences with Larry;--and some of the ladies too, I can tell -you. He was born in this house, and never lived anywhere else; and I am -sure he has a larger circle of acquaintance than any one else in it.” - -I could not recover my self-possession for the next ten minutes. -Whenever Larry was on our side of the table I was afraid he was coming -to me with another agonised whisper. When he was opposite, I could not -but watch him as he hobbled in his misery. It was evident that the boots -were too tight for him, and had they been made throughout of iron they -could not have been less capable of yielding to the feet. I pitied him -from the bottom of my heart. And I pitied myself also, wishing that I -was well in bed upstairs with some feigned malady, so that Larry might -have had his own again. - -And then for a moment I missed him from the room. He had doubtless gone -to relieve his tortured feet in the servants’ hall, and as he did so was -cursing my cruelty. But what mattered it? Let him curse. If he would -only stay away and do that, I would appease his wrath when we were alone -together with pecuniary satisfaction. - -But there was no such rest in store for me. “Larry, Larry,” shouted Mr. -O’Conor, “where on earth has the fellow gone to?” They were all cousins -at the table except myself, and Mr. O’Conor was not therefore restrained -by any feeling of ceremony. “There is something wrong with that fellow -to-day; what is it, Jack?” - -“Upon my word, sir, I don’t know,” said Jack. - -“I think he must be tipsy,” whispered Miss O’Conor, the maiden sister, -who always sat at her brother’s left hand. But a whisper though it was, -it was audible all down the table. - -“No, ma’am; it aint dhrink at all,” said the coachman. “It is his feet -as does it.” - -“His feet!” shouted Tom O’Conor. - -“Yes; I know it’s his feet,” said that horrid Tizzy. “He’s got on great -thick nailed shoes. It was that that made him tumble down in the hall.” - -I glanced at each side of me, and could see that there was a certain -consciousness expressed in the face of each of my two neighbours;--on -Kate’s mouth there was decidedly a smile, or rather, perhaps, the -slightest possible inclination that way; whereas on Fanny’s part I -thought I saw something like a rising sorrow at my distress. So at least -I flattered myself. - -“Send him back into the room immediately,” said Tom, who looked at me as -though he had some consciousness that I had introduced all this -confusion into his household. What should I do? Would it not be best for -me to make a clean breast of it before them all? But alas! I lacked the -courage. - -The coachman went out, and we were left for five minutes without any -servant, and Mr. O’Conor the while became more and more savage. I -attempted to say a word to Fanny, but failed. Vox faucibus hæsit. - -“I don’t think he has got any others,” said Tizzy--“at least none others -left.” - -On the whole I am glad I did not marry into the family, as I could not -have endured that girl to stay in my house as a sister-in-law. - -“Where the d---- has that other fellow gone to?” said Tom. “Jack, do go -out and see what is the matter. If anybody is drunk send for me.” - -“Oh, there is nobody drunk,” said Tizzy. - -Jack went out, and the coachman returned; but what was done and said I -hardly remember. The whole room seemed to swim round and round, and as -far as I can recollect the company sat mute, neither eating nor -drinking. Presently Jack returned. - -“It’s all right,” said he. I always liked Jack. At the present moment he -just looked towards me and laughed slightly. - -“All right?” said Tom. “But is the fellow coming?” - -“We can do with Richard, I suppose,” said Jack. - -“No--I can’t do with Richard,” said the father. “And I will know what it -all means. Where is that fellow Larry?” - -Larry had been standing just outside the door, and now he entered gently -as a mouse. No sound came from his footfall, nor was there in his face -that look of pain which it had worn for the last fifteen minutes. But he -was not the less abashed, frightened, and unhappy. - -“What is all this about, Larry?” said his master, turning to him. “I -insist upon knowing.” - -“Och thin, Mr. Green, yer honer, I wouldn’t be afther telling agin yer -honer; indeed I wouldn’t thin, av’ the masther would only let me hould -my tongue.” And he looked across at me, deprecating my anger. - -“Mr. Green!” said Mr. O’Conor. - -“Yes, yer honer. It’s all along of his honor’s thick shoes;” and Larry, -stepping backwards towards the door, lifted them up from some corner, -and coming well forward, exposed them with the soles uppermost to the -whole table. - -“And that’s not all, yer honer; but they’ve squoze the very toes of me -into a jelly.” - -There was now a loud laugh, in which Jack and Peter and Fanny and Kate -and Tizzy all joined; as too did Mr. O’Conor--and I also myself after a -while. - -“Whose boots are they?” demanded Miss O’Conor senior, with her severest -tone and grimmest accent. - -“’Deed then and the divil may have them for me, Miss,” answered Larry. -“They war Mr. Green’s, but the likes of him won’t wear them agin afther -the likes of me--barring he wanted them very particular,” added he, -remembering his own pumps. - -I began muttering something, feeling that the time had come when I must -tell the tale. But Jack with great good nature, took up the story and -told it so well, that I hardly suffered in the telling. - -“And that’s it,” said Tom O’Conor, laughing till I thought he would have -fallen from his chair. “So you’ve got Larry’s shoes on--” - -“And very well he fills them,” said Jack. - -“And it’s his honer that’s welcome to ’em,” said Larry, grinning from -ear to ear now that he saw that “the masther” was once more in a good -humour. - -“I hope they’ll be nice shoes for dancing,” said Kate. - -“Only there’s one down at the heel I know,” said Tizzy. - -“The servant’s shoes!” This was an exclamation made by the maiden lady, -and intended apparently only for her brother’s ear. But it was clearly -audible by all the party. - -“Better that than no dinner,” said Peter. - -“But what are you to do about the dancing?” said Fanny, with an air of -dismay on her face which flattered me with an idea that she did care -whether I danced or no. - -In the mean time Larry, now as happy as an emperor, was tripping round -the room without any shoes to encumber him as he withdrew the plates -from the table. - -“And it’s his honer that’s welcome to ’em,” said he again, as he pulled -off the table-cloth with a flourish. “And why wouldn’t he, and he able -to folly the hounds betther nor any Englishman that iver war in these -parts before,--anyways so Mick says!” - -Now Mick was the huntsman, and this little tale of eulogy from Larry -went far towards easing my grief. I had ridden well to the hounds that -day, and I knew it. - -There was nothing more said about the shoes, and I was soon again at my -ease, although Miss O’Conor did say something about the impropriety of -Larry walking about in his stocking feet. The ladies however soon -withdrew,--to my sorrow, for I was getting on swimmingly with Fanny; and -then we gentlemen gathered round the fire and filled our glasses. - -In about ten minutes a very light tap was heard, the door was opened to -the extent of three inches, and a female voice which I readily -recognised called to Jack. - -Jack went out, and in a second or two put his head back into the room -and called to me--“Green,” he said, “just step here a moment, there’s a -good fellow.” I went out, and there I found Fanny standing with her -brother. - -“Here are the girls at their wits’ ends,” said he, “about your dancing. -So Fanny has put a boy upon one of the horses, and proposes that you -should send another line to Mrs. Meehan at Ballyglass. It’s only ten -miles, and he’ll be back in two hours.” - -I need hardly say that I acted in conformity with this advice. I went -into Mr. O’Conor’s book room, with Jack and his sister, and there -scribbled a note. It was delightful to feel how intimate I was with -them, and how anxious they were to make me happy. - -“And we won’t begin till they come,” said Fanny. - -“Oh, Miss O’Conor, pray don’t wait,” said I. - -“Oh, but we will,” she answered. “You have your wine to drink, and then -there’s the tea; and then we’ll have a song or two. I’ll spin it out; -see if I don’t.” And so we went to the front door where the boy was -already on his horse--her own nag as I afterwards found. - -“And Patsey,” said she, “ride for your life; and Patsey, whatever you -do, don’t come back without Mr. Green’s pumps--his dancing-shoes you -know.” - -And in about two hours the pumps did arrive; and I don’t think I ever -spent a pleasanter evening or got more satisfaction out of a pair of -shoes. They had not been two minutes on my feet before Larry was -carrying a tray of negus across the room in those which I had worn at -dinner. - -“The Dillon girls are going to stay here,” said Fanny as I wished her -good night at two o’clock. “And we’ll have dancing every evening as long -as you remain.” - -“But I shall leave to-morrow,” said I. - -“Indeed you won’t. Papa will take care of that.” - -And so he did. “You had better go over to Ballyglass yourself -to-morrow,” said he, “and collect your own things. There’s no knowing -else what you may have to borrow of Larry.” - -I stayed there three weeks, and in the middle of the third I thought -that everything would be arranged between me and Fanny. But the aunt -interfered; and in about a twelvemonth after my adventures she consented -to make a more fortunate man happy for his life. - - - - -JOHN BULL ON THE GUADALQUIVIR. - - -I am an Englishman, living, as all Englishman should do, in England, and -my wife would not, I think, be well pleased were any one to insinuate -that she were other than an Englishwoman; but in the circumstances of my -marriage I became connected with the south of Spain, and the narrative -which I am to tell requires that I should refer to some of those -details. - -The Pomfrets and Daguilars have long been in trade together in this -country, and one of the partners has usually resided at Seville for the -sake of the works which the firm there possesses. My father, James -Pomfret, lived there for ten years before his marriage; and since that -and up to the present period, old Mr. Daguilar has always been on the -spot. He was, I believe, born in Spain, but he came very early to -England; he married an English wife, and his sons had been educated -exclusively in England. His only daughter, Maria Daguilar, did not pass -so large a proportion of her early life in this country, but she came to -us for a visit at the age of seventeen, and when she returned I made up -my mind that I most assuredly would go after her. So I did, and she is -now sitting on the other side of the fireplace with a legion of small -linen habiliments in a huge basket by her side. - -I felt, at the first, that there was something lacking to make my cup of -love perfectly delightful. It was very sweet, but there was wanting that -flower of romance which is generally added to the heavenly draught by a -slight admixture of opposition. I feared that the path of my true love -would run too smooth. When Maria came to our house, my mother and elder -sister seemed to be quite willing that I should be continually alone -with her; and she had not been there ten days before my father, by -chance, remarked that there was nothing old Mr. Daguilar valued so -highly as a thorough feeling of intimate alliance between the two -families which had been so long connected in trade. I was never told -that Maria was to be my wife, but I felt that the same thing was done -without words; and when, after six weeks of somewhat elaborate -attendance upon her, I asked her to be Mrs. John Pomfret, I had no more -fear of a refusal, or even of hesitation on her part, than I now have -when I suggest to my partner some commercial transaction of undoubted -advantage. - -But Maria, even, at that age, had about her a quiet sustained decision -of character quite unlike anything I had seen in English girls. I used -to hear, and do still hear, how much more flippant is the education of -girls in France and Spain than in England; and I know that this is shown -to be the result of many causes--the Roman Catholic religion being, -perhaps, the chief offender; but, nevertheless, I rarely see in one of -our own young women the same power of a self-sustained demeanour as I -meet on the Continent. It goes no deeper than the demeanour, people say. -I can only answer that I have not found that shallowness in my own wife. - -Miss Daguilar replied to me that she was not prepared with an answer; -she had only known me six weeks, and wanted more time to think about it; -besides, there was one in her own country with whom she would wish to -consult. I knew she had no mother; and as for consulting old Mr. -Daguilar on such a subject, that idea, I knew, could not have troubled -her. Besides, as I afterwards learned, Mr. Daguilar had already proposed -the marriage to his partner exactly as he would have proposed a division -of assets. My mother declared that Maria was a foolish chit--in which, -by-the-bye, she showed her entire ignorance of Miss Daguilar’s -character; my eldest sister begged that no constraint might be put on -the young lady’s inclinations--which provoked me to assert that the -young lady’s inclinations were by no means opposed to my own; and my -father, in the coolest manner, suggested that the matter might stand -over for twelve months, and that I might then go to Seville, and see -about it! Stand over for twelve months! Would not Maria, long before -that time, have been snapped up and carried off by one of those -inordinately rich Spanish grandees who are still to be met with -occasionally in Andalucia? - -My father’s dictum, however, had gone forth; and Maria, in the calmest -voice, protested that she thought it very wise. I should be less of a -boy by that time, she said, smiling on me, but driving wedges between -every fibre of my body as she spoke. “Be it so,” I said, proudly. “At -any rate, I am not so much of a boy that I shall forget you.” “And, -John, you still have the trade to learn,” she added, with her -deliciously foreign intonation--speaking very slowly, but with perfect -pronunciation. The trade to learn! However, I said not a word, but -stalked out of the room, meaning to see her no more before she went. But -I could not resist attending on her in the hall as she started; and, -when she took leave of us, she put her face up to be kissed by me, as -she did by my father, and seemed to receive as much emotion from one -embrace as from the other. “He’ll go out by the packet of the 1st -April,” said my father, speaking of me as though I were a bale of goods. -“Ah! that will be so nice,” said Maria, settling her dress in the -carriage; “the oranges will be ripe for him then!” - -On the 17th April I did sail, and felt still very like a bale of goods. -I had received one letter from her, in which she merely stated that her -papa would have a room ready for me on my arrival; and, in answer to -that, I had sent an epistle somewhat longer, and, as I then thought, a -little more to the purpose. Her turn of mind was more practical than -mine, and I must confess my belief that she did not appreciate my -poetry. - -I landed at Cadiz, and was there joined by an old family friend, one of -the very best fellows that ever lived. He was to accompany me up as far -as Seville; and, as he had lived for a year or two at Xeres, was -supposed to be more Spanish almost than a Spaniard. His name was -Johnson, and he was in the wine trade; and whether for travelling or -whether for staying at home--whether for paying you a visit in your own -house, or whether for entertaining you in his--there never was (and I am -prepared to maintain there never will be) a stancher friend, a choicer -companion, or a safer guide than Thomas Johnson. Words cannot produce a -eulogium sufficient for his merits. But, as I have since learned, he was -not quite so Spanish as I had imagined. Three years among the bodegas of -Xeres had taught him, no doubt, to appreciate the exact twang of a good, -dry sherry; but not, as I now conceive, the exactest flavour of the true -Spanish character. I was very lucky, however, in meeting such a friend, -and now reckon him as one of the stanchest allies of the house of -Pomfret, Daguilar, and Pomfret. - -He met me at Cadiz, took me about the town, which appeared to me to be -of no very great interest;--though the young ladies were all very well. -But, in this respect, I was then a Stoic, till such time as I might be -able to throw myself at the feet of her whom I was ready to proclaim -the most lovely of all the Dulcineas of Andalucia. He carried me up by -boat and railway to Xeres; gave me a most terrific headache, by dragging -me out into the glare of the sun, after I had tasted some half a dozen -different wines, and went through all the ordinary hospitalities. On the -next day we returned to Puerto, and from thence getting across to St. -Lucar and Bonanza, found ourselves on the banks of the Guadalquivir, and -took our places in the boat for Seville. I need say but little to my -readers respecting that far-famed river. Thirty years ago we in England -generally believed that on its banks was to be found a pure elysium of -pastoral beauty; that picturesque shepherds and lovely maidens here fed -their flocks in fields of asphodel; that the limpid stream ran cool and -crystal over bright stones and beneath perennial shade; and that -everything on the Guadalquivir was as lovely and as poetical as its -name. Now, it is pretty widely known that no uglier river oozes down to -its bourn in the sea through unwholesome banks of low mud. It is brown -and dirty; ungifted by any scenic advantage; margined for miles upon -miles by huge, flat, expansive fields, in which cattle are reared,--the -bulls wanted for the bull-fights among other; and birds of prey sit -constant on the shore, watching for the carcases of such as die. Such -are the charms of the golden Guadalquivir. - -At first we were very dull on board that steamer. I never found myself -in a position in which there was less to do. There was a nasty smell -about the little boat which made me almost ill; every turn in the river -was so exactly like the last, that we might have been standing still; -there was no amusement except eating, and that, when once done, was not -of a kind to make an early repetition desirable. Even Johnson was -becoming dull, and I began to doubt whether I was so desirous as I once -had been to travel the length and breadth of all Spain. But about noon a -little incident occurred which did for a time remove some of our tedium. -The boat had stopped to take in passengers on the river; and, among -others, a man had come on board dressed in a fashion that, to my eyes, -was equally strange and picturesque. Indeed, his appearance was so -singular, that I could not but regard him with care, though I felt at -first averse to stare at a fellow-passenger on account of his clothes. -He was a man of about fifty, but as active apparently as though not more -than twenty-five; he was of low stature, but of admirable make; his hair -was just becoming grizzled, but was short and crisp and well cared for; -his face was prepossessing, having a look of good humour added to -courtesy, and there was a pleasant, soft smile round his mouth which -ingratiated one at the first sight. But it was his dress rather than his -person which attracted attention. He wore the ordinary Andalucian -cap--of which such hideous parodies are now making themselves common in -England--but was not contented with the usual ornament of the double -tuft. The cap was small, and jaunty; trimmed with silk velvet--as is -common here with men careful to adorn their persons; but this man’s cap -was finished off with a jewelled button and golden filigree work. He was -dressed in a short jacket with a stand-up collar; and that also was -covered with golden buttons and with golden button-holes. It was all -gilt down the front, and all lace down the back. The rows of buttons -were double; and those of the more backward row hung down in heavy -pendules. His waistcoat was of coloured silk--very pretty to look at; -and ornamented with a small sash, through which gold threads were -worked. All the buttons of his breeches also were of gold; and there -were gold tags to all the button-holes. His stockings were of the finest -silk, and clocked with gold from the knee to the ankle. - -Dress any Englishman in such a garb and he will at once give you the -idea of a hog in armour. In the first place he will lack the proper -spirit to carry it off, and in the next place the motion of his limbs -will disgrace the ornaments they bear. “And so best,” most Englishmen -will say. Very likely; and, therefore, let no Englishman try it. But my -Spaniard did not look at all like a hog in armour. He walked slowly down -the plank into the boat, whistling lowly but very clearly a few bars -from an opera tune. It was plain to see that he was master of himself, -of his ornaments, and of his limbs. He had no appearance of thinking -that men were looking at him, or of feeling that he was beauteous in his -attire;--nothing could be more natural than his foot-fall, or the quiet -glance of his cheery gray eye. He walked up to the captain, who held the -helm, and lightly raised his hand to his cap. The captain, taking one -hand from the wheel, did the same, and then the stranger, turning his -back to the stern of the vessel, and fronting down the river with his -face, continued to whistle slowly, clearly, and in excellent time. Grand -as were his clothes they were no burden on his mind. - -“What is he?” said I, going up to my friend Johnson, with a whisper. - -“Well, I’ve been looking at him,” said Johnson--which was true enough; -“he’s a----an uncommonly good-looking fellow, isn’t he?” - -“Particularly so,” said I; “and got up quite irrespective of expense. Is -he a--a--a gentleman, now, do you think?” - -“Well, those things are so different in Spain, that it’s almost -impossible to make an Englishman understand them. One learns to know all -this sort of people by being with them in the country, but one can’t -explain.” - -“No; exactly. Are they real gold?” - -“Yes, yes; I dare say they are. They sometimes have them silver gilt.” - -“It is quite a common thing, then, isn’t it?” asked I. - -“Well, not exactly; that---- Ah! yes; I see! of course. He is a torero.” - -“A what?” - -“A mayo. I will explain it all to you. You will see them about in all -places, and you will get used to them.” - -“But I haven’t seen one other as yet.” - -“No, and they are not all so gay as this, nor so new in their finery, -you know.” - -“And what is a torero?” - -“Well, a torero is a man engaged in bull-fighting.” - -“Oh! he is a matador, is he?” said I, looking at him with more than all -my eyes. - -“No, not exactly that;--not of necessity. He is probably a mayo. A -fellow that dresses himself smart for fairs, and will be seen hanging -about with the bull-fighters. What would be a sporting fellow in -England--only he won’t drink and curse like a low man on the turf there. -Come, shall we go and speak to him?” - -“I can’t talk to him,” said I, diffident of my Spanish. I had received -lessons in England from Maria Daguilar; but six weeks is little enough -for making love, let alone the learning of a foreign language. - -“Oh! I’ll do the talking. You’ll find the language easy enough before -long. It soon becomes the same as English to you, when you live among -them.” And then Johnson, walking up to the stranger, accosted him with -that good-natured familiarity with which a thoroughly nice fellow always -opens a conversation with his inferior. Of course I could not understand -the words which were exchanged; but it was clear enough that the “mayo” -took the address in good part, and was inclined to be communicative and -social. - -“They are all of pure gold,” said Johnson, turning to me after a minute, -making as he spoke a motion with his head to show the importance of the -information. - -“Are they indeed?” said I. “Where on earth did a fellow like that get -them?” Whereupon Johnson again returned to his conversation with the -man. After another minute he raised his hand, and began to finger the -button on the shoulder; and to aid him in doing so, the man of the -bull-ring turned a little on one side. - -“They are wonderfully well made,” said Johnson, talking to me, and still -fingering the button. “They are manufactured, he says, at Osuna, and he -tells me that they make them better there than anywhere else.” - -“I wonder what the whole set would cost?” said I. “An enormous deal of -money for a fellow like him, I should think!” - -“Over twelve ounces,” said Johnson, having asked the question; “and that -will be more than forty pounds.” - -“What an uncommon ass he must be!” said I. - -As Johnson by this time was very closely scrutinising the whole set of -ornaments I thought I might do so also, and going up close to our -friend, I too began to handle the buttons and tags on the other side. -Nothing could have been more good-humoured than he was--so much so that -I was emboldened to hold up his arm that I might see the cut of his -coat, to take off his cap and examine the make, to stuff my finger in -beneath his sash, and at last to kneel down while I persuaded him to -hold up his legs that I might look to the clocking. The fellow was -thoroughly good-natured, and why should I not indulge my curiosity? - -“You’ll upset him if you don’t take care,” said Johnson; for I had got -fast hold of him by one ankle, and was determined to finish the survey -completely. - -“Oh, no, I shan’t,” said I; “a bull-fighting chap can surely stand on -one leg. But what I wonder at is, how on earth he can afford it!” -Whereupon Johnson again began to interrogate him in Spanish. - -“He says he has got no children,” said Johnson, having received a reply, -“and that as he has nobody but himself to look after, he is able to -allow himself such little luxuries.” - -“Tell him that I say he would be better with a wife and couple of -babies,” said I--and Johnson interpreted. - -“He says that he’ll think of it some of these days, when he finds that -the supply of fools in the world is becoming short,” said Johnson. - -We had nearly done with him now; but after regaining my feet, I -addressed myself once more to the heavy pendules, which hung down almost -under his arm. I lifted one of these, meaning to feel its weight -between my fingers; but unfortunately I gave a lurch, probably through -the motion of the boat, and still holding by the button, tore it almost -off from our friend’s coat. - -“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said, in broad English. - -“It do not matter at all,” he said, bowing, and speaking with equal -plainness. And then, taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the pendule -off, leaving a bit of torn cloth on the side of his jacket. - -“Upon my word, I am quite unhappy,” said I; “but I always am so -awkward.” Whereupon he bowed low. - -“Couldn’t I make it right?” said I, bringing out my purse. - -He lifted his hand, and I saw that it was small and white; he lifted it -and gently put it upon my purse, smiling sweetly as he did so. “Thank -you, no, señor; thank you, no.” And then, bowing to us both, he walked -away down into the cabin. - -“Upon my word he is a deuced well-mannered fellow,” said I. - -“You shouldn’t have offered him money,” said Johnson; “a Spaniard does -not like it.” - -“Why, I thought you could do nothing without money in this country. -Doesn’t every one take bribes?” - -“Ah! yes; that is a different thing; but not the price of a button. By -Jove! he understood English, too. Did you see that?” - -“Yes; and I called him an ass! I hope he doesn’t mind it.” - -“Oh! no; he won’t think anything about it,” said Johnson. “That sort of -fellows don’t. I dare say we shall see him in the bull-ring next Sunday, -and then we’ll make all right with a glass of lemonade.” - -And so our adventure ended with the man of the gold ornaments. I was -sorry that I had spoken English before him so heedlessly, and resolved -that I would never be guilty of such gaucherie again. But, then, who -would think that a Spanish bull-fighter would talk a foreign language? I -was sorry, also, that I had torn his coat; it had looked so awkward; and -sorry again that I had offered the man money. Altogether I was a little -ashamed of myself; but I had too much to look forward to at Seville to -allow any heaviness to remain long at my heart; and before I had arrived -at the marvellous city I had forgotten both him and his buttons. - -Nothing could be nicer than the way in which I was welcomed at Mr. -Daguilar’s house, or more kind--I may almost say affectionate--than -Maria’s manner to me. But it was too affectionate; and I am not sure -that I should not have liked my reception better had she been more -diffident in her tone, and less inclined to greet me with open warmth. -As it was, she again gave me her cheek to kiss, in her father’s -presence, and called me dear John, and asked me specially after some -rabbits which I had kept at home merely for a younger sister; and then -it seemed as though she were in no way embarrassed by the peculiar -circumstances of our position. Twelve months since I had asked her to be -my wife, and now she was to give me an answer; and yet she was as -assured in her gait, and as serenely joyous in her tone, as though I -were a brother just returned from college. It could not be that she -meant to refuse me, or she would not smile on me and be so loving; but I -could almost have found it in my heart to wish that she would. “It is -quite possible,” said I to myself, “that I may not be found so ready for -this family bargain. A love that is to be had like a bale of goods is -not exactly the love to suit my taste.” But then, when I met her again -in the morning, I could no more have quarrelled with her than I could -have flown. - -I was inexpressibly charmed with the whole city, and especially with the -house in which Mr. Daguilar lived. It opened from the corner of a -narrow, unfrequented street--a corner like an elbow--and, as seen from -the exterior, there was nothing prepossessing to recommend it; but the -outer door led by a short hall or passage to an inner door or grille, -made of open ornamental iron-work, and through that we entered a court, -or patio, as they called it. Nothing could be more lovely or deliciously -cool than was this small court. The building on each side was covered by -trellis-work; and beautiful creepers, vines, and parasite flowers, now -in the full magnificence of the early summer, grew up and clustered -round the windows. Every inch of wall was covered, so that none of the -glaring whitewash wounded the eye, In the four corners of the patio were -four large orange-trees, covered with fruit. I would not say a word in -special praise of these, remembering that childish promise she had made -on my behalf. In the middle of the court there was a fountain, and round -about on the marble floor there were chairs, and here and there a small -table, as though the space were really a portion of the house. It was -here that we used to take our cup of coffee and smoke our cigarettes, I -and old Mr. Daguilar, while Maria sat by, not only approving, but -occasionally rolling for me the thin paper round the fragrant weed with -her taper fingers. Beyond the patio was an open passage or gallery, -filled also with flowers in pots; and then, beyond this, one entered the -drawing-room of the house. It was by no means a princely palace or -mansion, fit for the owner of untold wealth. The rooms were not over -large nor very numerous; but the most had been made of a small space, -and everything had been done to relieve the heat of an almost tropical -sun. - -“It is pretty, is it not?” she said, as she took me through it. - -“Very pretty,” I said. “I wish we could live in such houses.” - -“Oh, they would not do at all for dear old fat, cold, cozy England. You -are quite different, you know, in everything from us in the south; more -phlegmatic, but then so much steadier. The men and the houses are all -the same.” - -I can hardly tell why, but even this wounded me. It seemed to me as -though she were inclined to put into one and the same category things -English, dull, useful, and solid; and that she was disposed to show a -sufficient appreciation for such necessaries of life, though she herself -had another and inner sense--a sense keenly alive to the poetry of her -own southern clime; and that I, as being English, was to have no -participation in this latter charm. An English husband might do very -well, the interests of the firm might make such an arrangement -desirable, such a mariage de convenance--so I argued to myself--might be -quite compatible with--with heaven only knows what delights of -super-terrestial romance, from which I, as being an English thick-headed -lump of useful coarse mortality, was to be altogether debarred. She had -spoken to me of oranges, and having finished the survey of the house, -she offered me some sweet little cakes. It could not be that of such -things were the thoughts which lay undivulged beneath the clear waters -of those deep black eyes--undivulged to me, though no one else could -have so good a right to read those thoughts! It could not be that that -noble brow gave index of a mind intent on the trade of which she spoke -so often! Words of other sort than any that had been vouchsafed to me -must fall at times from the rich curves of that perfect mouth. - -So felt I then, pining for something to make me unhappy. Ah, me! I know -all about it now, and am content. But I wish that some learned pundit -would give us a good definition of romance, would describe in words that -feeling with which our hearts are so pestered when we are young, which -makes us sigh for we know not what, and forbids us to be contented with -what God sends us. We invest female beauty with impossible attributes, -and are angry because our women have not the spiritualised souls of -angels, anxious as we are that they should also be human in the flesh. A -man looks at her he would love as at a distant landscape in a -mountainous land. The peaks are glorious with more than the beauty of -earth and rock and vegetation. He dreams of some mysterious grandeur of -design which tempts him on under the hot sun, and over the sharp rock, -till he has reached the mountain goal which he had set before him. But -when there, he finds that the beauty is well-nigh gone, and as for that -delicious mystery on which his soul had fed, it has vanished for ever. - -I know all about it now, and am, as I said, content. Beneath those deep -black eyes there lay a well of love, good, honest, homely love, love of -father and husband and children that were to come--of that love which -loves to see the loved ones prospering in honesty. That noble brow--for -it is noble; I am unchanged in that opinion, and will go unchanged to my -grave--covers thoughts as to the welfare of many, and an intellect -fitted to the management of a household, of servants, namely, and -children, and perchance a husband. That mouth can speak words of wisdom, -of very useful wisdom--though of poetry it has latterly uttered little -that was original. Poetry and romance! They are splendid mountain views -seen in the distance. So let men be content to see them, and not attempt -to tread upon the fallacious heather of the mystic hills. - -In the first week of my sojourn in Seville I spoke no word of overt love -to Maria, thinking, as I confess, to induce her thereby to alter her -mode of conduct to myself. “She knows that I have come here to make love -to her--to repeat my offer; and she will at any rate be chagrined if I -am slow to do so.” But it had no effect. At home my mother was rather -particular about her table, and Maria’s greatest efforts seemed to be -used in giving me as nice dinners as we gave her. In those days I did -not care a straw about my dinner, and so I took an opportunity of -telling her. “Dear me,” said she, looking at me almost with grief, “do -you not? What a pity! And do you not like music either?” “Oh, yes, I -adore it,” I replied. I felt sure at the time that had I been born in -her own sunny clime, she would never have talked to me about eating. But -that was my mistake. - -I used to walk out with her about the city, seeing all that is there of -beauty and magnificence. And in what city is there more that is worth -the seeing? At first this was very delightful to me, for I felt that I -was blessed with a privilege that would not be granted to any other man. -But its value soon fell in my eyes, for others would accost her, and -walk on the other side, talking to her in Spanish, as though I hardly -existed, or were a servant there for her protection. And I was not -allowed to take her arm, and thus to appropriate her, as I should have -done in England. “No, John,” she said, with the sweetest, prettiest -smile, “we don’t do that here; only when people are married.” And she -made this allusion to married life out, openly, with no slightest tremor -on her tongue. - -“Oh, I beg pardon,” said I, drawing back my hand, and feeling angry with -myself for not being fully acquainted with all the customs of a foreign -country. - -“You need not beg pardon,” said she; “when we were in England we always -walked so. It is just a custom, you know.” And then I saw her drop her -large dark eyes to the ground, and bow gracefully in answer to some -salute. - -I looked round, and saw that we had been joined by a young cavalier,--a -Spanish nobleman, as I saw at once; a man with jet black hair, and a -straight nose, and a black moustache, and patent leather boots, very -slim and very tall, and--though I would not confess it then--uncommonly -handsome. I myself am inclined to be stout, my hair is light, my nose -broad, I have no hair on my upper lip, and my whiskers are rough and -uneven. “I could punch your head though, my fine fellow,” said I to -myself, when I saw that he placed himself at Maria’s side, “and think -very little of the achievement.” - -The wretch went on with us round the plaza for some quarter of an hour -talking Spanish with the greatest fluency, and she was every whit as -fluent. Of course I could not understand a word that they said. Of all -positions that a man can occupy, I think that that is about the most -uncomfortable; and I cannot say that, even up to this day, I have quite -forgiven her for that quarter of an hour. - -“I shall go in,” said I, unable to bear my feelings, and preparing to -leave her. “The heat is unendurable.” - -“Oh dear, John, why did you not speak before?” she answered. “You cannot -leave me here, you know, as I am in your charge; but I will go with you -almost directly.” And then she finished her conversation with the -Spaniard, speaking with an animation she had never displayed in her -conversations with me. - -It had been agreed between us for two or three days before this, that we -were to rise early on the following morning for the sake of ascending -the tower of the cathedral, and visiting the Giralda, as the iron -figure is called, which turns upon a pivot on the extreme summit. We had -often wandered together up and down the long dark gloomy aisle of the -stupendous building, and had, together, seen its treasury of art; but as -yet we had not performed the task which has to be achieved by all -visitors to Seville; and in order that we might have a clear view over -the surrounding country, and not be tormented by the heat of an advanced -sun, we had settled that we would ascend the Giralda before breakfast. - -And now, as I walked away from the plaza towards Mr. Daguilar’s house, -with Maria by my side, I made up my mind that I would settle my business -during this visit to the cathedral. Yes, and I would so manage the -settlement that there should be no doubt left as to my intentions and my -own ideas. I would not be guilty of shilly-shally conduct; I would tell -her frankly what I felt and what I thought, and would make her -understand that I did not desire her hand if I could not have her heart. -I did not value the kindness of her manner, seeing that that kindness -sprung from indifference rather than passion; and so I would declare to -her. And I would ask her, also, who was this young man with whom she was -intimate--for whom all her volubility and energy of tone seemed to be -employed? She had told me once that it behoved her to consult a friend -in Seville as to the expediency of her marriage with me. Was this the -friend whom she had wished to consult? If so, she need not trouble -herself. Under such circumstances I should decline the connection! And I -resolved that I would find out how this might be. A man who proposes to -take a woman to his bosom as his wife, has a right to ask for -information--ay, and to receive it too. It flashed upon my mind at this -moment that Donna Maria was well enough inclined to come to me as my -wife, but----. I could hardly define the “buts” to myself, for there -were three or four of them. Why did she always speak to me in a tone of -childish affection, as though I were a schoolboy home for the holidays? -I would have all this out with her on the tower on the following -morning, standing under the Giralda. - -On that morning we met together in the patio, soon after five o’clock, -and started for the cathedral. She looked beautiful, with her black -mantilla over her head, and with black gloves on, and her black morning -silk dress--beautiful, composed, and at her ease, as though she were -well satisfied to undertake this early morning walk from feelings of -good nature--sustained, probably, by some under-current of a deeper -sentiment. Well; I would know all about it before I returned to her -father’s house. - -There hardly stands, as I think, on the earth, a building more -remarkable than the cathedral of Seville, and hardly one more grand. Its -enormous size; its gloom and darkness; the richness of ornamentation in -the details, contrasted with the severe simplicity of the larger -outlines; the variety of its architecture; the glory of its paintings; -and the wondrous splendour of its metallic decoration, its -altar-friezes, screens, rails, gates, and the like, render it, to my -mind, the first in interest among churches. It has not the coloured -glass of Chartres, or the marble glory of Milan, or such a forest of -aisles as Antwerp, or so perfect a hue in stone as Westminster, nor in -mixed beauty of form and colour does it possess anything equal to the -choir of Cologne; but, for combined magnificence and awe-compelling -grandeur, I regard it as superior to all other ecclesiastical edifices. - -It is its deep gloom with which the stranger is so greatly struck on his -first entrance. In a region so hot as the south of Spain, a cool -interior is a main object with the architect, and this it has been -necessary to effect by the exclusion of light; consequently the church -is dark, mysterious, and almost cold. On the morning in question, as we -entered, it seemed to be filled with gloom, and the distant sound of a -slow footstep here and there beyond the transept inspired one almost -with awe. Maria, when she first met me, had begun to talk with her usual -smile, offering me coffee and a biscuit before I started. “I never eat -biscuit,” I said, with almost a severe tone, as I turned from her. That -dark, horrid man of the plaza--would she have offered him a cake had she -been going to walk with him in the gloom of the morning? After that -little had been spoken between us. She walked by my side with her -accustomed smile; but she had, as I flattered myself, begun to learn -that I was not to be won by a meaningless good nature. “We are lucky in -our morning for the view!” that was all she said, speaking with that -peculiarly clear, but slow pronunciation which she had assumed in -learning our language. - -We entered the cathedral, and, walking the whole length of the aisle, -left it again at the porter’s porch at the farther end. Here we passed -through a low door on to the stone flight of steps, and at once began to -ascend. “There are a party of your countrymen up before us,” said Maria; -“the porter says that they went through the lodge half an hour since.” -“I hope they will return before we are on the top,” said I, bethinking -myself of the task that was before me. And indeed my heart was hardly -at ease within me, for that which I had to say would require all the -spirit of which I was master. - -The ascent to the Giralda is very long and very fatiguing; and we had to -pause on the various landings and in the singular belfry in order that -Miss Daguilar might recruit her strength and breath. As we rested on one -of these occasions, in a gallery which runs round the tower below the -belfry, we heard a great noise of shouting, and a clattering of sticks -among the bells. “It is the party of your countrymen who went up before -us,” said she. “What a pity that Englishmen should always make so much -noise!” And then she spoke in Spanish to the custodian of the bells, who -is usually to be found in a little cabin up there within the tower. “He -says that they went up shouting like demons,” continued Maria; and it -seemed to me that she looked as though I ought to be ashamed of the name -of an Englishman. “They may not be so solemn in their demeanour as -Spaniards,” I answered; “but, for all that, there may be quite as much -in them.” - -We then again began to mount, and before we had ascended much farther we -passed my three countrymen. They were young men, with gray coats and -gray trousers, with slouched hats, and without gloves. They had fair -faces and fair hair, and swung big sticks in their hands, with crooked -handles. They laughed and talked loud, and, when we met them, seemed to -be racing with each other; but nevertheless they were gentlemen. No one -who knows by sight what an English gentleman is, could have doubted -that; but I did acknowledge to myself that they should have remembered -that the edifice they were treading was a church, and that the silence -they were invading was the cherished property of a courteous people. - -“They are all just the same as big boys,” said Maria. The colour -instantly flew into my face, and I felt that it was my duty to speak up -for my own countrymen. The word “boys” especially wounded my ears. It -was as a boy that she treated me; but, on looking at that befringed -young Spanish Don--who was not, apparently, my elder in age--she had -recognised a man. However, I said nothing further till I reached the -summit. One cannot speak with manly dignity while one is out of breath -on a staircase. - -“There, John,” she said, stretching her hands away over the fair plain -of the Guadalquivir, as soon as we stood against the parapet; “is not -that lovely?” - -I would not deign to notice this. “Maria,” I said, “I think, that you -are too hard upon my countrymen?” - -“Too hard! no; for I love them. They are so good and industrious; and -they come home to their wives, and take care of their children. But why -do they make themselves so--so--what the French call gauche?” - -“Good and industrious, and come home to their wives!” thought I. “I -believe you hardly understand us as yet,” I answered. “Our domestic -virtues are not always so very prominent; but, I believe, we know how to -conduct ourselves as gentlemen: at any rate, as well as Spaniards.” I -was very angry--not at the faults, but at the good qualities imputed to -us. - -“In affairs of business, yes,” said Maria, with a look of firm -confidence in her own opinion--that look of confidence which she has -never lost, and I pray that she may never lose it while I remain with -her--“but in the little intercourses of the world, no! A Spaniard never -forgets what is personally due either to himself or his neighbours. If -he is eating an onion, he eats it as an onion should be eaten.” - -“In such matters as that he is very grand, no doubt,” said I, angrily. - -“And why should you not eat an onion properly, John? Now, I heard a -story yesterday from Don ---- about two Englishmen, which annoyed me very -much.” I did not exactly catch the name of the Don in question, but I -felt through every nerve in my body that it was the man who had been -talking to her on the plaza. - -“And what have they done?” said I. “But it is the same everywhere. We -are always abused; but, nevertheless, no people are so welcome. At any -rate, we pay for the mischief we do.” I was angry with myself the moment -the words were out of my mouth, for, after all, there is no feeling more -mean than that pocket-confidence with which an Englishman sometimes -swaggers. - -“There was no mischief done in this case,” she answered. “It was simply -that two men have made themselves ridiculous for ever. The story is all -about Seville, and, of course, it annoys me that they should be -Englishmen.” - -“And what did they do?” - -“The Marquis D’Almavivas was coming up to Seville in the boat, and they -behaved to him in the most outrageous manner. He is here now, and is -going to give a series of fêtes. Of course he will not ask a single -Englishman.” - -“We shall manage to live, even though the Marquis D’Almavivas may frown -upon us,” said I, proudly. - -“He is the richest, and also the best of our noblemen,” continued Maria; -“and I never heard of anything so absurd as what they did to him. It -made me blush when Don ---- told me.” Don Tomàs, I thought she said. - -“If he be the best of your noblemen, how comes it that he is angry -because he has met two vulgar men? It is not to be supposed that every -Englishman is a gentleman.” - -“Angry! Oh, no! he was not angry; he enjoyed the joke too much for that. -He got completely the best of them, though they did not know it; poor -fools! How would your Lord John Russell behave if two Spaniards in an -English railway carriage were to pull him about and tear his clothes?” - -“He would give them in charge to a policeman, of course,” said I, -speaking of such a matter with the contempt it deserved. - -“If that were done here your ambassador would be demanding national -explanations. But Almavivas did much better;--he laughed at them without -letting them know it.” - -“But do you mean that they took hold of him violently, without any -provocation? They must have been drunk.” - -“Oh, no, they were sober enough. I did not see it, so I do not quite -know exactly how it was, but I understand that they committed themselves -most absurdly, absolutely took hold of his coat and tore it, and--; but -they did such ridiculous things that I cannot tell you.” And yet Don -Tomàs, if that was the man’s name, had been able to tell her, and she -had been able to listen to him. - -“What made them take hold of the marquis?” said I. - -“Curiosity, I suppose,” she answered. “He dresses somewhat fancifully, -and they could not understand that any one should wear garments -different from their own.” But even then the blow did not strike home -upon me. - -“Is it not pretty to look down upon the quiet town?” she said, coming -close up to me, so that the skirt of her dress pressed me, and her elbow -touched my arm. Now was the moment I should have asked her how her heart -stood towards me; but I was sore and uncomfortable, and my destiny was -before me. She was willing enough to let these English faults pass by -without further notice, but I would not allow the subject to drop. - -“I will find out who these men were,” said I, “and learn the truth of -it. When did it occur?” - -“Last Thursday, I think he said.” - -“Why, that was the day we came up in the boat, Johnson and myself. -There was no marquis there then, and we were the only Englishmen on -board.” - -“It was on Thursday, certainly, because it was well known in Seville -that he arrived on that day. You must have remarked him because he talks -English perfectly--though, by-the-bye, these men would go on chattering -before him about himself as though it were impossible that a Spaniard -should know their language. They are ignorant of Spanish, and they -cannot bring themselves to believe that any one should be better -educated than themselves.” - -Now the blow had fallen, and I straightway appreciated the necessity of -returning immediately to Clapham, where my family resided, and giving up -for ever all idea of Spanish connections. I had resolved to assert the -full strength of my manhood on that tower, and now words had been spoken -which left me weak as a child. I felt that I was shivering, and did not -dare to pronounce the truth which must be made known. As to speaking of -love, and signifying my pleasure that Don Tomàs should for the future be -kept at a distance, any such effort was quite beyond me. Had Don Tomàs -been there, he might have walked off with her from before my face -without a struggle on my part. “Now I remember about it,” she continued, -“I think he must have been in the boat on Thursday.” - -“And now that I remember,” I replied, turning away to hide my -embarrassment, “he was there. Your friend down below in the plaza seems -to have made out a grand story. No doubt he is not fond of the English, -There was such a man there, and I did take hold----” - -“Oh, John, was it you?” - -“Yes, Donna Maria, it was I; and if Lord John Russell were to dress -himself in the same way----” But I had no time to complete my -description of what might occur under so extravagantly impossible a -combination of circumstances, for as I was yet speaking, the little door -leading out on to the leads of the tower was opened, and my friend, the -mayo of the boat, still bearing all his gewgaws on his back, stepped up -on to the platform. My eye instantly perceived that the one pendule was -still missing from his jacket. He did not come alone, but three other -gentlemen followed him, who, however, had no peculiarities in their -dress. He saw me at once, and bowed and smiled; and then observing Donna -Maria, he lifted his cap from his head, and addressing himself to her in -Spanish, began to converse with her as though she were an old friend. - -“Señor,” said Maria, after the first words of greeting had been spoken -between them; “you must permit me to present to you my father’s most -particular friend, and my own,--Mr. Pomfret; John, this is the Marquis -D’Almavivas.” - -I cannot now describe the grace with which this introduction was -effected, or the beauty of her face as she uttered the word. There was a -boldness about her as though she had said, “I know it all--the whole -story. But, in spite of that you must take him on my representation, and -be gracious to him in spite of what he has done. You must be content to -do that; or in quarrelling with him you must quarrel with me also.” And -it was done at the spur of the moment--without delay. She, who not five -minutes since had been loudly condemning the unknown Englishman for his -rudeness, had already pardoned him, now that he was known to be her -friend; and had determined that he should be pardoned by others also or -that she would share his disgrace. I recognised the nobleness of this at -the moment; but, nevertheless, I was so sore that I would almost have -preferred that she should have disowned me. - -The marquis immediately lifted his cap with his left hand while he gave -me his right. “I have already had the pleasure of meeting this -gentleman,” he said; “we had some conversation in the boat together.” - -“Yes,” said I, pointing to his rent, “and you still bear the marks of -our encounter.” - -“Was it not delightful, Donna Maria,” he continued, turning to her; -“your friend’s friend took me for a torero?” - -“And it served you properly, señor,” said Donna Maria, laughing; “you -have no right to go about with all those rich ornaments upon you.” - -“Oh! quite properly; indeed, I make no complaint; and I must beg your -friend to understand, and his friend also, how grateful I am for their -solicitude as to my pecuniary welfare. They were inclined to be severe -on me for being so extravagant in such trifles. I was obliged to explain -that I had no wife at home kept without her proper allowance of dresses, -in order that I might be gay.” - -“They are foreigners, and you should forgive their error,” said she. - -“And in token that I do so,” said the marquis, “I shall beg your friend -to accept the little ornament which attracted his attention.” And so -saying, he pulled the identical button out of his pocket, and gracefully -proffered it to me. - -“I shall carry it about with me always,” said I, accepting it, “as a -memento of humiliation. When I look at it, I shall ever remember the -folly of an Englishman and the courtesy of a Spaniard;” and as I made -the speech I could not but reflect whether it might, under any -circumstances, be possible that Lord John Russell should be induced to -give a button off his coat to a Spaniard. - -There were other civil speeches made, and before we left the tower the -marquis had asked me to his parties, and exacted from me an unwilling -promise that I would attend them. “The señora,” he said, bowing again to -Maria, “would, he was sure, grace them. She had done so on the previous -year; and as I had accepted his little present I was bound to -acknowledge him as my friend.” All this was very pretty, and of course I -said that I would go, but I had not at that time the slightest intention -of doing so. Maria had behaved admirably; she had covered my confusion, -and shown herself not ashamed to own me, delinquent as I was; but, not -the less, had she expressed her opinion, in language terribly strong, of -the awkwardness of which I had been guilty, and had shown almost an -aversion to my English character. I should leave Seville as quickly as I -could, and should certainly not again put myself in the way of the -Marquis D’Almavivas. Indeed, I dreaded the moment that I should be first -alone with her, and should find myself forced to say something -indicative of my feelings--to hear something also indicative of her -feelings. I had come out this morning resolved to demand my rights and -to exercise them--and now my only wish was to run away. I hated the -marquis, and longed to be alone that I might cast his button from me. To -think that a man should be so ruined by such a trifle! - -We descended that prodigious flight without a word upon the subject, and -almost without a word at all. She had carried herself well in the -presence of Almavivas, and had been too proud to seem ashamed of her -companion; but now, as I could well see, her feelings of disgust and -contempt had returned. When I begged her not to hurry herself, she would -hardly answer me; and when she did speak, her voice was constrained and -unlike herself. And yet how beautiful she was! Well, my dream of Spanish -love must be over. But I was sure of this; that having known her, and -given her my heart, I could never afterwards share it with another. - -We came out at last on the dark, gloomy aisle of the cathedral, and -walked together without a word up along the side of the choir, till we -came to the transept. There was not a soul near us, and not a sound was -to be heard but the distant, low pattering of a mass, then in course of -celebration at some far-off chapel in the cathedral. When we got to the -transept Maria turned a little, as though she was going to the transept -door, and then stopped herself. She stood still; and when I stood also, -she made two steps towards me, and put her hand on my arm. “Oh, John!” -she said. - -“Well,” said I; “after all it does not signify. You can make a joke of -it when my back is turned.” - -“Dearest John!”--she had never spoken to me in that way before--“you -must not be angry with me. It is better that we should explain to each -other, is it not? - -“Oh, much better. I am very glad you heard of it at once. I do not look -at it quite in the same light that you do; but nevertheless----” - -“What do you mean? But I know you are angry with me. And yet you cannot -think that I intended those words for you. Of course I know now that -there was nothing rude in what passed.” - -“Oh, but there was.” - -“No, I am sure there was not. You could not be rude though you are so -free hearted. I see it all now, and so does the marquis. You will like -him so much when you come to know him. Tell me that you won’t be cross -with me for what I have said. Sometimes I think that I have displeased -you, and yet my whole wish has been to welcome you to Seville, and to -make you comfortable as an old friend. Promise me that you will not be -cross with me.” - -Cross with her! I certainly had no intention of being cross, but I had -begun to think that she would not care what my humour might be. “Maria,” -I said, taking hold of her hand. - -“No, John, do not do that. It is in the church, you know.” - -“Maria, will you answer me a question?” - -“Yes,” she said, very slowly, looking down upon the stone slabs beneath -our feet. - -“Do you love me?” - -“Love you!” - -“Yes, do you love me? You were to give me an answer here, in Seville, -and now I ask for it. I have almost taught myself to think that it is -needless to ask; and now this horrid mischance----” - -“What do you mean?” said she, speaking very quickly, “Why this -miserable blunder about the marquis’s button! After that I suppose----” - -“The marquis! Oh, John, is that to make a difference between you and -me?--a little joke like that?” - -“But does it not?” - -“Make a change between us!--such a thing as that! Oh, John!” - -“But tell me, Maria, what am I to hope? If you will say that you can -love me, I shall care nothing for the marquis. In that case I can bear -to be laughed at.” - -“Who will dare to laugh at you? Not the marquis, whom I am sure you will -like.” - -“Your friend in the plaza, who told you of all this.” - -“What, poor Tomàs!” - -“I do not know about his being poor. I mean the gentleman who was with -you last night.” - -“Yes, Tomàs. You do not know who he is?” - -“Not in the least.” - -“How droll! He is your own clerk--partly your own, now that you are one -of the firm. And, John, I mean to make you do something for him; he is -such a good fellow; and last year he married a young girl whom I -love--oh, almost like a sister.” - -Do something for him! Of course I would. I promised, then and there, -that I would raise his salary to any conceivable amount that a Spanish -clerk could desire; which promise I have since kept, if not absolutely -to the letter, at any rate, to an extent which has been considered -satisfactory by the gentleman’s wife. - -“But, Maria--dearest Maria----” - -“Remember, John, we are in the church; and poor papa will be waiting -breakfast.” - -I need hardly continue the story further. It will be known to all that -my love-suit throve in spite of my unfortunate raid on the button of the -Marquis D’Almavivas, at whose series of fêtes through that month I was, -I may boast, an honoured guest. I have since that had the pleasure of -entertaining him in my own poor house in England, and one of our boys -bears his Christian name. - -From that day in which I ascended the Giralda to this present day in -which I write, I have never once had occasion to complain of a -deficiency of romance either in Maria Daguilar or in Maria Pomfret. - - - - -MISS SARAH JACK, OF SPANISH TOWN, JAMAICA. - - -There is nothing so melancholy as a country in its decadence, unless it -be a people in their decadence. I am not aware that the latter -misfortune can be attributed to the Anglo-Saxon race in any part of the -world; but there is reason to fear that it has fallen on an English -colony in the island of Jamaica. - -Jamaica was one of those spots on which fortune shone with the full -warmth of all her noonday splendour. That sun has set;--whether for ever -or no none but a prophet can tell; but as far as a plain man may see, -there are at present but few signs of a coming morrow, or of another -summer. - -It is not just or proper that one should grieve over the misfortunes of -Jamaica with a stronger grief because her savannahs are so lovely, her -forests so rich, her mountains so green, and her rivers so rapid; but it -is so. It is piteous that a land so beautiful should be one which fate -has marked for misfortune. Had Guiana, with its flat, level, unlovely -soil, become poverty-stricken, one would hardly sorrow over it as one -does sorrow for Jamaica. - -As regards scenery she is the gem of the western tropics. It is -impossible to conceive spots on the earth’s surface more gracious to the -eye than those steep green valleys which stretch down to the south-west -from the Blue Mountain peak towards the sea; and but little behind these -in beauty are the rich wooded hills which in the western part of the -island divide the counties of Hanover and Westmoreland. The hero of the -tale which I am going to tell was a sugar-grower in the latter district, -and the heroine was a girl who lived under that Blue Mountain peak. - -The very name of a sugar-grower as connected with Jamaica savours of -fruitless struggle, failure, and desolation. And from his earliest -growth fruitless struggle, failure, and desolation had been the lot of -Maurice Cumming. At eighteen years of age he had been left by his -father sole possessor of the Mount Pleasant estate, than which in her -palmy days Jamaica had little to boast of that was more pleasant or more -palmy. But those days had passed by before Roger Cumming, the father of -our friend, had died. - -These misfortunes coming on the head of one another, at intervals of a -few years, had first stunned and then killed him. His slaves rose -against him, as they did against other proprietors around him, and -burned down his house and mills, his homestead and offices. Those who -know the amount of capital which a sugar-grower must invest in such -buildings will understand the extent of this misfortune. Then the slaves -were emancipated. It is not perhaps possible that we, now-a-days, should -regard this as a calamity; but it was quite impossible that a Jamaica -proprietor of those days should not have done so. Men will do much for -philanthropy, they will work hard, they will give the coat from their -back;--nay the very shirt from their body; but few men will endure to -look on with satisfaction while their commerce is destroyed. - -But even this Mr. Cumming did bear after a while, and kept his shoulder -to the wheel. He kept his shoulder to the wheel till that third -misfortune came upon him--till the protection duty on Jamaica sugar was -abolished. Then he turned his face to the wall and died. - -His son at this time was not of age, and the large but lessening -property which Mr. Cumming left behind him was for three years in the -hands of trustees. But nevertheless Maurice, young as he was, managed -the estate. It was he who grew the canes, and made the sugar;--or else -failed to make it. He was the “massa” to whom the free negroes looked as -the source from whence their wants should be supplied, notwithstanding -that, being free, they were ill inclined to work for him, let his want -of work be ever so sore. - -Mount Pleasant had been a very large property. In addition to his -sugar-canes Mr. Cumming had grown coffee; for his land ran up into the -hills of Trelawney to that altitude which in the tropics seems necessary -for the perfect growth of the coffee berry. But it soon became evident -that labour for the double produce could not be had, and the coffee -plantation was abandoned. Wild brush and the thick undergrowth of forest -reappeared on the hill-sides which had been rich with produce. And the -evil re-created and exaggerated itself. Negroes squatted on the -abandoned property; and being able to live with abundance from their -stolen gardens, were less willing than ever to work in the cane pieces. - -And thus things went from bad to worse. In the good old times Mr. -Cumming’s sugar produce had spread itself annually over some three -hundred acres; but by degrees this dwindled down to half that extent of -land. And then in those old golden days they had always taken a full -hogshead from the acre;--very often more. The estate had sometimes given -four hundred hogsheads in the year. But in the days of which we now -speak the crop had fallen below fifty. - -At this time Maurice Cumming was eight-and-twenty, and it is hardly too -much to say that misfortune had nearly crushed him. But nevertheless it -had not crushed him. He, and some few like him, had still hoped against -hope; had still persisted in looking forward to a future for the island -which once was so generous with its gifts. When his father died he might -still have had enough for the wants of life had he sold his property for -what it would fetch. There was money in England, and the remains of -large wealth. But he would not sacrifice Mount Pleasant or abandon -Jamaica; and now after ten years’ struggling he still kept Mount -Pleasant, and the mill was still going; but all other property had -parted from his hands. - -By nature Maurice Cumming would have been gay and lively, a man with a -happy spirit and easy temper; but struggling had made him silent if not -morose, and had saddened if not soured his temper. He had lived alone at -Mount Pleasant, or generally alone. Work or want of money, and the -constant difficulty of getting labour for his estate, had left him but -little time for a young man’s ordinary amusements. Of the charms of -ladies’ society he had known but little. Very many of the estates around -him had been absolutely abandoned, as was the case with his own coffee -plantation, and from others men had sent away their wives and daughters. -Nay, most of the proprietors had gone themselves, leaving an overseer to -extract what little might yet be extracted out of the property. It too -often happened that that little was not sufficient to meet the demands -of the overseer himself. - -The house at Mount Pleasant had been an irregular, low-roofed, -picturesque residence, built with only one floor, and surrounded on all -sides by large verandahs. In the old days it had always been kept in -perfect order, but now this was far from being the case. Few young -bachelors can keep a house in order, but no bachelor young or old can do -so under such a doom as that of Maurice Cumming. Every shilling that -Maurice Cumming could collect was spent in bribing negroes to work for -him. But bribe as he would the negroes would not work. “No, massa; me -pain here; me no workee to-day,” and Sambo would lay his fat hand on his -fat stomach. - -I have said that he lived generally alone. Occasionally his house on -Mount Pleasant was enlivened by visits of an aunt, a maiden sister of -his mother, whose usual residence was at Spanish Town. It is or should -be known to all men that Spanish Town was and is the seat of Jamaica -legislature. - -But Maurice was not over fond of his relative. In this he was both wrong -and foolish, for Miss Sarah Jack--such was her name--was in many -respects a good woman, and was certainly a rich woman. It is true that -she was not a handsome woman, nor a fashionable woman, nor perhaps -altogether an agreeable woman. She was tall, thin, ungainly, and yellow. -Her voice, which she used freely, was harsh. She was a politician and a -patriot. She regarded England as the greatest of countries, and Jamaica -as the greatest of colonies. But much as she loved England she was very -loud in denouncing what she called the perfidy of the mother to the -brightest of her children. And much as she loved Jamaica she was equally -severe in her taunts against those of her brother-islanders who would -not believe that the island might yet flourish as it had flourished in -her father’s days. - -“It is because you and men like you will not do your duty by your -country,” she had said some score of times to Maurice--not with much -justice considering the laboriousness of his life. - -But Maurice knew well what she meant. “What could I do there up at -Spanish Town,” he would answer, “among such a pack as there are there? -Here I may do something.” - -And then she would reply with the full swing of her eloquence, “It is -because you and such as you think only of yourself and not of Jamaica, -that Jamaica has come to such a pass as this. Why is there a pack there -as you call them in the honourable House of Assembly? Why are not the -best men in the island to be found there, as the best men in England are -to be found in the British House of Commons? A pack, indeed! My father -was proud of a seat in that house, and I remember the day, Maurice -Cumming, when your father also thought it no shame to represent his own -parish. If men like you, who have a stake in the country, will not go -there, of course the house is filled with men who have no stake. If they -are a pack, it is you who send them there;--you, and others like you.” - -All had its effect, though at the moment Maurice would shrug his -shoulders and turn away his head from the torrent of the lady’s -discourse. But Miss Jack, though she was not greatly liked, was greatly -respected. Maurice would not own that she convinced him; but at last he -did allow his name to be put up as candidate for his own parish, and in -due time he became a member of the honourable House of Assembly in -Jamaica. - -This honour entails on the holder of it the necessity of living at or -within reach of Spanish Town for some ten weeks towards the close of -every year. Now on the whole face of the uninhabited globe there is -perhaps no spot more dull to look at, more Lethean in its aspect, more -corpse-like or more cadaverous than Spanish Town. It is the -head-quarters of the government, the seat of the legislature, the -residence of the governor;--but nevertheless it is, as it were, a city -of the very dead. - -Here, as we have said before, lived Miss Jack in a large forlorn -ghost-like house in which her father and all her family had lived before -her. And as a matter of course Maurice Cumming when he came up to attend -to his duties as a member of the legislature took up his abode with her. - -Now at the time of which we are specially speaking he had completed the -first of these annual visits. He had already benefited his country by -sitting out one session of the colonial parliament, and had satisfied -himself that he did no other good than that of keeping away some person -more objectionable than himself. He was however prepared to repeat this -self-sacrifice in a spirit of patriotism for which he received a very -meagre meed of eulogy from Miss Jack, and an amount of self-applause -which was not much more extensive. - -“Down at Mount Pleasant I can do something,” he would say over and over -again, “but what good can any man do up here?” - -“You can do your duty,” Miss Jack would answer, “as others did before -you when the colony was made to prosper.” And then they would run off -into a long discussion about free labour and protective duties. But at -the present moment Maurice Cumming had another vexation on his mind over -and above that arising from his wasted hours at Spanish Town, and his -fruitless labours at Mount Pleasant. He was in love, and was not -altogether satisfied with the conduct of his lady-love. - -Miss Jack had other nephews besides Maurice Cumming, and nieces also, of -whom Marian Leslie was one. The family of the Leslies lived up near -Newcastle--in the mountains, that is, which stand over Kingston--at a -distance of some eighteen miles from Kingston, but in a climate as -different from that of the town as the climate of Naples is from that of -Berlin. In Kingston the heat is all but intolerable throughout the year, -by day and by night, in the house and out of it. In the mountains round -Newcastle, some four thousand feet above the sea, it is merely warm -during the day, and cool enough at night to make a blanket desirable. - -It is pleasant enough living up amongst those green mountains. There are -no roads there for wheeled carriages, nor are there carriages with or -without wheels. All journeys are made on horseback. Every visit paid -from house to house is performed in this manner. Ladies young and old -live before dinner in their riding-habits. The hospitality is free, -easy, and unembarrassed. The scenery is magnificent. The tropical -foliage is wild and luxuriant beyond measure. There may be enjoyed all -that a southern climate has to offer of enjoyment, without the penalties -which such enjoyments usually entail. - -Mrs. Leslie was a half-sister of Miss Jack, and Miss Jack had been a -half-sister also of Mrs. Cumming; but Mrs. Leslie and Mrs. Cumming had -in no way been related. And it had so happened that up to the period of -his legislative efforts Maurice Cumming had seen nothing of the Leslies. -Soon after his arrival at Spanish Town he had been taken by Miss Jack to -Shandy Hall, for so the residence of the Leslies was called, and having -remained there for three days, had fallen in love with Marian Leslie. -Now in the West Indies all young ladies flirt; it is the first habit of -their nature--and few young ladies in the West Indies were more given to -flirting, or understood the science better than Marian Leslie. - -Maurice Cumming fell violently in love, and during his first visit at -Shandy Hall found that Marian was perfection--for during this first -visit her propensities were exerted altogether in his own favour. That -little circumstance does make such a difference in a young man’s -judgment of a girl! He came back full of admiration, not altogether to -Miss Jack’s dissatisfaction; for Miss Jack was willing enough that both -her nephew and her niece should settle down into married life. - -But then Maurice met his fair one at a governor’s ball--at a ball where -red coats abounded, and aides-de-camp dancing in spurs, and -narrow-waisted lieutenants with sashes or epaulettes! The aides-de-camp -and narrow-waisted lieutenants waltzed better than he did; and as one -after the other whisked round the ball-room with Marian firmly clasped -in his arms, Maurice’s feelings were not of the sweetest. Nor was this -the worst of it. Had the whisking been divided equally among ten, he -might have forgiven it; but there was one specially narrow-waisted -lieutenant, who towards the end of the evening kept Marian nearly wholly -to himself. Now to a man in love, who has had but little experience of -either balls or young ladies, this is intolerable. - -He only met her twice after that before his return to Mount Pleasant, -and on the first occasion that odious soldier was not there. But a -specially devout young clergyman was present, an unmarried, evangelical, -handsome young curate fresh from England; and Marian’s piety had been so -excited that she had cared for no one else. It appeared moreover that -the curate’s gifts for conversion were confined, as regarded that -opportunity, to Marian’s advantage. “I will have nothing more to say to -her,” said Maurice to himself, scowling. But just as he went away Marian -had given him her hand, and called him Maurice--for she pretended that -they were cousins--and had looked into his eyes and declared that she -did hope that the assembly at Spanish Town would soon be sitting again. -Hitherto, she said, she had not cared one straw about it. Then poor -Maurice pressed the little fingers which lay within his own, and swore -that he would be at Shandy Hall on the day before his return to Mount -Pleasant. So he was; and there he found the narrow-waisted lieutenant, -not now bedecked with sash and epaulettes, but lolling at his ease on -Mrs. Leslie’s sofa in a white jacket, while Marian sat at his feet -telling his fortune with a book about flowers. - -“Oh, a musk rose, Mr. Ewing; you know what a musk rose means!” Then, she -got up and shook hands with Mr. Cumming; but her eyes still went away to -the white jacket and the sofa. Poor Maurice had often been nearly -broken-hearted in his efforts to manage his free black labourers; but -even that was easier than managing such as Marian Leslie. - -Marian Leslie was a Creole--as also were Miss Jack and Maurice -Cumming--a child of the tropics; but by no means such a child as -tropical children are generally thought to be by us in more northern -latitudes. She was black-haired and black-eyed, but her lips were as red -and her cheeks as rosy as though she had been born and bred in regions -where the snow lies in winter. She was a small, pretty, beautifully made -little creature, somewhat idle as regards the work of the world, but -active and strong enough when dancing or riding were required from her. -Her father was a banker, and was fairly prosperous in spite of the -poverty of his country. His house of business was at Kingston, and he -usually slept there twice a week; but he always resided at Shandy Hall, -and Mrs. Leslie and her children knew but very little of the miseries of -Kingston. For be it known to all men, that of all towns Kingston, -Jamaica, is the most miserable. - -I fear that I shall have set my readers very much against Marian -Leslie;--much more so than I would wish to do. As a rule they will not -know how thoroughly flirting is an institution in the West -Indies--practised by all young ladies, and laid aside by them when they -marry, exactly as their young-lady names and young-lady habits of -various kinds are laid aside. All I would say of Marian Leslie is this, -that she understood the working of the institution more thoroughly than -others did. And I must add also in her favour that she did not keep her -flirting for sly corners, nor did her admirers keep their distance till -mamma was out of the way. It mattered not to her who was present. Had -she been called on to make one at a synod of the clergy of the island, -she would have flirted with the bishop before all his priests. And there -have been bishops in the colony who would not have gainsayed her! - -But Maurice Cumming did not rightly calculate all this; nor indeed did -Miss Jack do so as thoroughly as she should have done, for Miss Jack -knew more about such matters than did poor Maurice. “If you like Marian, -why don’t you marry her?” Miss Jack had once said to him; and this -coming from Miss Jack, who was made of money, was a great deal. - -“She wouldn’t have me,” Maurice had answered. - -“That’s more than you know or I either,” was Miss Jack’s reply. “But if -you like to try, I’ll help you.” - -With reference to this, Maurice as he left Miss Jack’s residence on his -return to Mount Pleasant, had declared that Marian Leslie was not worth -an honest man’s love. - -“Psha!” Miss Jack replied; “Marian will do like other girls. When you -marry a wife I suppose you mean to be master?” - -“At any rate I shan’t marry her,” said Maurice. And so he went his way -back to Hanover with a sore heart. And no wonder, for that was the very -day on which Lieutenant Ewing had asked the question about the musk -rose. - -But there was a dogged constancy of feeling about Maurice which could -not allow him to disburden himself of his love. When he was again at -Mount Pleasant among his sugar-canes and hogsheads he could not help -thinking about Marian. It is true he always thought of her as flying -round that ball-room in Ewing’s arms, or looking up with rapt admiration -into that young parson’s face; and so he got but little pleasure from -his thoughts. But not the less was he in love with her;--not the less, -though he would swear to himself three times in the day that for no -earthly consideration would he marry Marian Leslie. - -The early months of the year from January to May are the busiest with a -Jamaica sugar-grower, and in this year they were very busy months with -Maurice Cumming. It seemed as though there were actually some truth in -Miss Jack’s prediction that prosperity would return to him if he -attended to his country; for the prices of sugar had risen higher than -they had ever been since the duty had been withdrawn, and there was more -promise of a crop at Mount Pleasant than he had seen since his reign -commenced. But then the question of labour? How he slaved in trying to -get work from those free negroes; and alas! how often he slaved in vain! -But it was not all in vain; for as things went on it became clear to him -that in this year he would, for the first time since he commenced, -obtain something like a return from his land. What if the turning-point -had come, and things were now about to run the other way. - -But then the happiness which might have accrued to him from this source -was dashed by his thoughts of Marian Leslie. Why had he thrown himself -in the way of that syren? Why had he left Mount Pleasant at all? He knew -that on his return to Spanish Town his first work would be to visit -Shandy Hall; and yet he felt that of all places in the island, Shandy -Hall was the last which he ought to visit. - -And then about the beginning of May, when he was hard at work turning -the last of his canes into sugar and rum, he received his annual visit -from Miss Jack. And whom should Miss Jack bring with her but Mr. Leslie. - -“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Miss Jack; “I have spoken to Mr. Leslie -about you and Marian.” - -“Then you had no business to do anything of the kind,” said Maurice, -blushing up to his ears. - -“Nonsense,” replied Miss Jack, “I understand what I am about. Of course -Mr. Leslie will want to know something about the estate.” - -“Then he may go back as wise as he came, for he’ll learn nothing from -me. Not that I have anything to hide.” - -“So I told him. Now there are a large family of them, you see; and of -course he can’t give Marian much.” - -“I don’t care a straw if he doesn’t give her a shilling. If she cared -for me, or I for her, I shouldn’t look after her for her money.” - -“But a little money is not a bad thing, Maurice,” said Miss Jack, who in -her time had had a good deal, and had managed to take care of it. - -“It is all one to me.” - -“But what I was going to say is this--hum--ha--. I don’t like to pledge -myself for fear I should raise hopes which mayn’t be fulfilled.” - -“Don’t pledge yourself to anything, aunt, in which Marian Leslie and I -are concerned.” - -“But what I was going to say is this; my money, what little I have, you -know, must go some day either to you or to the Leslies.” - -“You may give all to them if you please.” - -“Of course I may, and I dare say I shall,” said Miss Jack, who was -beginning to be irritated. “But at any rate you might have the civility -to listen to me when I am endeavouring to put you on your legs. I am -sure I think about nothing else, morning, noon, and night, and yet I -never get a decent word from you. Marian is too good for you; that’s the -truth.” - -But at length Miss Jack was allowed to open her budget, and to make her -proposition; which amounted to this--that she had already told Mr. -Leslie that she would settle the bulk of her property conjointly on -Maurice and Marian if they would make a match of it. Now as Mr. Leslie -had long been casting a hankering eye after Miss Jack’s money, with a -strong conviction however that Maurice Cumming was her favourite nephew -and probable heir, this proposition was not unpalatable. So he agreed to -go down to Mount Pleasant and look about him. - -“But you may live for the next thirty years, my dear Miss Jack,” Mr. -Leslie had said. - -“Yes, I may,” Miss Jack replied, looking very dry. - -“And I am sure I hope you will,” continued Mr. Leslie. And then the -subject was allowed to drop; for Mr. Leslie knew that it was not always -easy to talk to Miss Jack on such matters. - -Miss Jack was a person in whom I think we may say that the good -predominated over the bad. She was often morose, crabbed, and -self-opinionated; but then she knew her own imperfections, and forgave -those she loved for evincing their dislike of them. Maurice Cumming was -often inattentive to her, plainly showing that he was worried by her -importunities and ill at ease in her company. But she loved her nephew -with all her heart; and though she dearly liked to tyrannise over him, -never allowed herself to be really angry with him, though he so -frequently refused to bow to her dictation. And she loved Marian Leslie -also, though Marian was so sweet and lovely and she herself so harsh and -ill-favoured. She loved Marian, though Marian would often be -impertinent. She forgave the flirting, the light-heartedness, the love -of amusement. Marian, she said to herself, was young and pretty. She, -Miss Jack, had never known Marian’s temptation. And so she resolved in -her own mind that Marian should be made a good and happy woman;--but -always as the wife of Maurice Cumming. - -But Maurice turned a deaf ear to all these good tidings--or rather he -turned to them an ear that seemed to be deaf. He dearly, ardently loved -that little flirt; but seeing that she was a flirt, that she had flirted -so grossly when he was by, he would not confess his love to a human -being. He would not have it known that he was wasting his heart for a -worthless little chit, to whom every man was the same--except that those -were most eligible whose toes were the lightest and their outside -trappings the brightest. That he did love her he could not help, but he -would not disgrace himself by acknowledging it. - -He was very civil to Mr. Leslie, but he would not speak a word that -could be taken as a proposal for Marian. It had been part of Miss Jack’s -plan that the engagement should absolutely be made down there at Mount -Pleasant, without any reference to the young lady; but Maurice could not -be induced to break the ice. So he took Mr. Leslie through his mills and -over his cane-pieces, talked to him about the laziness of the “niggers,” -while the “niggers” themselves stood by tittering, and rode with him -away to the high grounds where the coffee plantation had been in the -good old days; but not a word was said between them about Marian. And -yet Marian was never out of his heart. - -And then came the day on which Mr. Leslie was to go back to Kingston. -“And you won’t have her then?” said Miss Jack to her nephew early that -morning. “You won’t be said by me?” - -“Not in this matter, aunt.” - -“Then you will live and die a poor man; you mean that, I suppose?” - -“It’s likely enough that I shall. There’s this comfort, at any rate, -I’m used to it.” And then Miss Jack was silent again for a while. - -“Very well, sir; that’s enough,” she said angrily. And then she began -again. “But, Maurice, you wouldn’t have to wait for my death, you know.” -And she put out her hand and touched his arm, entreating him as it were -to yield to her. “Oh, Maurice,” she said, “I do so want to make you -comfortable. Let us speak to Mr. Leslie.” - -But Maurice would not. He took her hand and thanked her, but said that -on this matter he must be his own master. “Very well, sir,” she -exclaimed, “I have done. In future you may manage for yourself. As for -me, I shall go back with Mr. Leslie to Kingston.” And so she did. Mr. -Leslie returned that day, taking her with him. When he took his leave, -his invitation to Maurice to come to Shandy Hall was not very pressing. -“Mrs. Leslie and the children will always be glad to see you,” said he. - -“Remember me very kindly to Mrs. Leslie and the children,” said Maurice. -And so they parted. - -“You have brought me down here on a regular fool’s errand,” said Mr. -Leslie, on their journey back to town. - -“It will all come right yet,” replied Miss Jack. “Take my word for it he -loves her.” - -“Fudge,” said Mr. Leslie. But he could not afford to quarrel with his -rich connection. - -In spite of all that he had said and thought to the contrary, Maurice -did look forward during the remainder of the summer to his return to -Spanish Town with something like impatience. It was very dull work, -being there alone at Mount Pleasant; and let him do what he would to -prevent it, his very dreams took him to Shandy Hall. But at last the -slow time made itself away, and he found himself once more in his aunt’s -house. - -A couple of days passed and no word was said about the Leslies. On the -morning of the third day he determined to go to Shandy Hall. Hitherto he -had never been there without staying for the night; but on this occasion -he made up his mind to return the same day. “It would not be civil of me -not to go there,” he said to his aunt. - -“Certainly not,” she replied, forbearing to press the matter further. -“But why make such a terrible hard day’s work of it?” - -“Oh, I shall go down in the cool, before breakfast; and then I need not -have the bother of taking a bag.” - -And in this way he started. Miss Jack said nothing further; but she -longed in her heart that she might be at Marian’s elbow unseen during -the visit. - -He found them all at breakfast, and the first to welcome him at the hall -door was Marian. “Oh, Mr. Cumming, we are so glad to see you;” and she -looked into his eyes with a way she had, that was enough to make a man’s -heart wild. But she did not call him Maurice now. - -Miss Jack had spoken to her sister, Mrs. Leslie, as well as to Mr. -Leslie, about this marriage scheme. “Just let them alone,” was Mrs. -Leslie’s advice. “You can’t alter Marian by lecturing her. If they -really love each other they’ll come together; and if they don’t, why -then they’d better not.” - -“And you really mean that you’re going back to Spanish Town to-day?” -said Mrs. Leslie to her visitor. - -“I’m afraid I must. Indeed I haven’t brought my things with me.” And -then he again caught Marian’s eye, and began to wish that his resolution -had not been so sternly made. - -“I suppose you are so fond of that House of Assembly,” said Marian, -“that you cannot tear yourself away for more than one day. You’ll not be -able, I suppose, to find time to come to our picnic next week?” - -Maurice said he feared that he should not have time to go to a picnic. - -“Oh, nonsense,” said Fanny--one of the younger girls--“you must come. We -can’t do without him, can we?” - -“Marian has got your name down the first on the list of the gentlemen,” -said another. - -“Yes; and Captain Ewing’s second,” said Bell, the youngest. - -“I’m afraid I must induce your sister to alter her list,” said Maurice, -in his sternest manner. “I cannot manage to go, and I’m sure she will -not miss me.” - -Marian looked at the little girl who had so unfortunately mentioned the -warrior’s name, and the little girl knew that she had sinned. - -“Oh, we cannot possibly do without you; can we, Marian?” said Fanny. -“It’s to be at Bingley’s Dell, and we’ve got a bed for you at Newcastle; -quite near, you know.” - -“And another for----” began Bell, but she stopped herself. - -“Go away to your lessons, Bell,” said Marian. “You know how angry mamma -will be at your staying here all the morning;” and poor Bell with a -sorrowful look left the room. - -“We are all certainly very anxious that you should come; very anxious -for a great many reasons,” said Marian, in a voice that was rather -solemn, and as though the matter were one of considerable import. “But -if you really cannot, why of course there is no more to be said.” - -“There will be plenty without me, I am sure.” - -“As regards numbers, I dare say there will; for we shall have pretty -nearly the whole of the two regiments;” and Marian as she alluded to the -officers spoke in a tone which might lead one to think that she would -much rather be without them; “but we counted on you as being one of -ourselves; and as you had been away so long, we thought--we thought--,” -and then she turned away her face, and did not finish her speech. Before -he could make up his mind as to his answer she had risen from her chair, -and walked out of the room. Maurice almost thought that he saw a tear in -her eye as she went. - -He did ride back to Spanish Town that afternoon, after an early dinner; -but before he went Marian spoke to him alone for one minute. - -“I hope you are not offended with me,” she said. - -“Offended! oh no; how could I be offended with you?” - -“Because you seem so stern. I am sure I would do anything I could to -oblige you, if I knew how. It would be so shocking not to be good -friends with a cousin like you.” - -“But there are so many different sorts of friends,” said Maurice. - -“Of course there are. There are a great many friends that one does not -care a bit for,--people that one meets at balls and places like that--” - -“And at picnics,” said Maurice. - -“Well, some of them there too; but we are not like that; are we?” - -What could Maurice do but say, “no,” and declare that their friendship -was of a warmer description? And how could he resist promising to go to -the picnic, though as he made the promise he knew that misery would be -in store for him? He did promise, and then she gave him her hand and -called him Maurice. - -“Oh! I am so glad,” she said. “It seemed so shocking that you should -refuse to join us. And mind and be early, Maurice; for I shall want to -explain it all. We are to meet, you know, at Clifton Gate at one -o’clock, but do you be a little before that, and we shall be there.” - -Maurice Cumming resolved within his own breast as he rode back to -Spanish Town, that if Marian behaved to him all that day at the picnic -as she had done this day at Shandy Hall, he would ask her to be his wife -before he left her. - -And Miss Jack also was to be at the picnic. - -“There is no need of going early,” said she, when her nephew made a fuss -about the starting. “People are never very punctual at such affairs as -that; and then they are always quite long enough.” But Maurice explained -that he was anxious to be early, and on this occasion he carried his -point. - -When they reached Clifton Gate the ladies were already there; not in -carriages, as people go to picnics in other and tamer countries; but -each on her own horse or her own pony. But they were not alone. Beside -Miss Leslie was a gentleman, whom Maurice knew as Lieutenant Graham, of -the flag-ship at Port Royal; and at a little distance which quite -enabled him to join in the conversation was Captain Ewing, the -lieutenant with the narrow waist of the previous year. - -“We shall have a delightful day, Miss Leslie,” said the lieutenant. - -“Oh, charming, isn’t it?” said Marian. - -“But now to choose a place for dinner, Captain Ewing;--what do you say?” - -“Will you commission me to select? You know I’m very well up in -geometry, and all that?” - -“But that won’t teach you what sort of a place does for a picnic -dinner;--will it, Mr. Cumming?” And then she shook hands with Maurice, -but did not take any further special notice of him. “We’ll all go -together, if you please. The commission is too important to be left to -one.” And then Marian rode off, and the lieutenant and the captain rode -with her. - -It was open for Maurice to join them if he chose, but he did not choose. -He had come there ever so much earlier than he need have done, dragging -his aunt with him, because Marian had told him that his services would -be specially required by her. And now as soon as she saw him she went -away with the two officers!--went away without vouchsafing him a word. -He made up his mind, there on the spot, that he would never think of her -again--never speak to her otherwise than he might speak to the most -indifferent of mortals. - -And yet he was a man that could struggle right manfully with the world’s -troubles; one who had struggled with them from his boyhood, and had -never been overcome. Now he was unable to conceal the bitterness of his -wrath because a little girl had ridden off to look for a green spot for -her tablecloth without asking his assistance! - -Picnics are, I think, in general, rather tedious for the elderly people -who accompany them. When the joints become a little stiff, dinners are -eaten most comfortably with the accompaniment of chairs and tables, and -a roof overhead is an agrément de plus. But, nevertheless, picnics -cannot exist without a certain allowance of elderly people. The Miss -Marians and Captains Ewing cannot go out to dine on the grass without -some one to look after them. So the elderly people go to picnics, in a -dull tame way, doing their duty, and wishing the day over. Now on the -morning in question, when Marian rode off with Captain Ewing and -Lieutenant Graham, Maurice Cumming remained among the elderly people. - -A certain Mr. Pomken, a great Jamaica agriculturist, one of the Council, -a man who had known the good old times, got him by the button and held -him fast, discoursing wisely of sugar and rum, of Gadsden pans and -recreant negroes, on all of which subjects Maurice Cumming was known to -have an opinion of his own. But as Mr. Pomken’s words sounded into one -ear, into the other fell notes, listened to from afar,--the shrill -laughing voice of Marian Leslie as she gave her happy order to her -satellites around her, and ever and anon the bass haw-haw of Captain -Ewing, who was made welcome as the chief of her attendants. That evening -in a whisper to a brother councillor Mr. Pomken communicated his opinion -that after all there was not so much in that young Cumming as some -people said. But Mr. Pomken had no idea that that young Cumming was in -love. - -And then the dinner came, spread over half an acre. Maurice was among -the last who seated himself; and when he did so it was in an awkward -comfortless corner, behind Mr. Pomken’s back, and far away from the -laughter and mirth of the day. But yet from his comfortless corner he -could see Marian as she sat in her pride of power, with her friend Julia -Davis near her, a flirt as bad as herself, and her satellites around -her, obedient to her nod, and happy in her smiles. - -“Now I won’t allow any more champagne,” said Marian, “or who will there -be steady enough to help me over the rocks to the grotto?” - -“Oh, you have promised me!” cried the captain. - -“Indeed, I have not; have I, Julia?” - -“Miss Davis has certainly promised me,” said the lieutenant. - -“I have made no promise, and don’t think I shall go at all,” said Julia, -who was sometimes inclined to imagine that Captain Ewing should be her -own property. - -All which and much more of the kind Maurice Cumming could not hear; but -he could see--and imagine, which was worse. How innocent and inane are, -after all, the flirtings of most young ladies, if all their words and -doings in that line could be brought to paper! I do not know whether -there be as a rule more vocal expression of the sentiment of love -between a man and woman than there is between two thrushes! They whistle -and call to each other, guided by instinct rather than by reason. - -“You are going home with the ladies to-night, I believe,” said Maurice -to Miss Jack, immediately after dinner. Miss Jack acknowledged that such -was her destination for the night. - -“Then my going back to Spanish Town at once won’t hurt any one--for, to -tell the truth, I have had enough of this work.” - -“Why, Maurice, you were in such a hurry to come.” - -“The more fool I; and so now I am in a hurry to go away. Don’t notice it -to anybody.” - -Miss Jack looked in his face and saw that he was really wretched; and -she knew the cause of his wretchedness. - -“Don’t go yet, Maurice,” she said; and then added with a tenderness that -was quite uncommon with her, “Go to her, Maurice, and speak to her -openly and freely, once for all; you will find that she will listen -then. Dear Maurice, do, for my sake.” - -He made no answer, but walked away, roaming sadly by himself among the -trees. “Listen!” he exclaimed to himself. “Yes, she will alter a dozen -times in as many hours. Who can care for a creature that can change as -she changes?” And yet he could not help caring for her. - -As he went on, climbing among rocks, he again came upon the sound of -voices, and heard especially that of Captain Ewing. “Now, Miss Leslie, -if you will take my hand you will soon be over all the difficulty.” And -then a party of seven or eight, scrambling over some stones, came nearly -on the level on which he stood, in full view of him; and leading the -others were Captain Ewing and Miss Leslie. - -He turned on his heel to go away, when he caught the sound of a step -following him, and a voice saying, “Oh, there is Mr. Cumming, and I want -to speak to him;” and in a minute a light hand was on his arm. - -“Why are you running away from us?” said Marian. - -“Because--oh, I don’t know. I am not running away. You have your party -made up, and I am not going to intrude on it.” - -“What nonsense! Do come now; we are going to this wonderful grotto. I -thought it so ill-natured of you, not joining us at dinner. Indeed you -know you had promised.” - -He did not answer her, but he looked at her--full in the face, with his -sad eyes laden with love. She half understood his countenance, but only -half understood it. - -“What is the matter, Maurice?” she said. “Are you angry with me? Will -you come and join us?” - -“No, Marian, I cannot do that. But if you can leave them and come with -me for half an hour, I will not keep you longer.” - -She stood hesitating a moment, while her companion remained on the spot -where she had left him. “Come, Miss Leslie,” called Captain Ewing. “You -will have it dark before we can get down.” - -“I will come with you,” whispered she to Maurice, “but wait a moment.” -And she tripped back, and in some five minutes returned after an eager -argument with her friends. “There,” she said, “I don’t care about the -grotto, one bit, and I will walk with you now;--only they will think it -so odd.” And so they started off together. - -Before the tropical darkness had fallen upon them Maurice had told the -tale of his love,--and had told it in a manner differing much from that -of Marian’s usual admirers. He spoke with passion and almost with -violence; he declared that his heart was so full of her image that he -could not rid himself of it for one minute; “nor would he wish to do -so,” he said, “if she would be his Marian, his own Marian, his very own. -But if not----” and then he explained to her, with all a lover’s warmth, -and with almost more than a lover’s liberty, what was his idea of her -being “his own, his very own,” and in doing so inveighed against her -usual light-heartedness in terms which at any rate were strong enough. - -But Marian bore it all well. Perhaps she knew that the lesson was -somewhat deserved; and perhaps she appreciated at its value the love of -such a man as Maurice Cumming, weighing in her judgment the difference -between him and the Ewings and the Grahams. - -And then she answered him well and prudently, with words which startled -him by their prudent seriousness as coming from her. She begged his -pardon heartily, she said, for any grief which she had caused him; but -yet how was she to be blamed, seeing that she had known nothing of his -feelings? Her father and mother had said something to her of this -proposed marriage; something, but very little; and she had answered by -saying that she did not think Maurice had any warmer regard for her than -of a cousin. After this answer neither father nor mother had pressed the -matter further. As to her own feelings she could then say nothing, for -she then knew nothing;--nothing but this, that she loved no one better -than him, or rather that she loved no one else. She would ask herself if -she could love him; but he must give her some little time for that. In -the meantime--and she smiled sweetly at him as she made the promise--she -would endeavour to do nothing that would offend him; and then she added -that on that evening she would dance with him any dances that he liked. -Maurice, with a self-denial that was not very wise, contented himself -with engaging her for the first quadrille. - -They were to dance that night in the mess-room of the officers at -Newcastle. This scheme had been added on as an adjunct to the picnic, -and it therefore became necessary that the ladies should retire to their -own or their friends’ houses at Newcastle to adjust their dresses. -Marian Leslie and Julia Davis were there accommodated with the loan of a -small room by the major’s wife, and as they were brushing their hair, -and putting on their dancing-shoes, something was said between them -about Maurice Cumming. - -“And so you are to be Mrs. C. of Mount Pleasant,” said Julia. “Well; I -didn’t think it would come to that at last.” - -“But it has not come to that, and if it did why should I not be Mrs. C., -as you call it?” - -“The knight of the rueful countenance, I call him.” - -“I tell you what then, he is an excellent young man, and the fact is you -don’t know him.” - -“I don’t like excellent young men with long faces. I suppose you won’t -be let to dance quick dances at all now.” - -“I shall dance whatever dances I like, as I have always done,” said -Marian, with some little asperity in her tone. - -“Not you; or if you do, you’ll lose your promotion. You’ll never live to -be my Lady Rue. And what will Graham say? You know you’ve given him half -a promise.” - -“That’s not true, Julia;--I never gave him the tenth part of a promise.” - -“Well, he says so;” and then the words between the young ladies became a -little more angry. But, nevertheless, in due time they came forth with -faces smiling as usual, with their hair properly brushed, and without -any signs of warfare. - -But Marian had to stand another attack before the business of the -evening commenced, and this was from no less doughty an antagonist than -her aunt, Miss Jack. Miss Jack soon found that Maurice had not kept his -threat of going home; and though she did not absolutely learn from him -that he had gone so far towards perfecting her dearest hopes as to make -a formal offer to Marian, nevertheless she did gather that things were -fast that way tending. If only this dancing were over! she said to -herself, dreading the unnumbered waltzes with Ewing, and the violent -polkas with Graham. So Miss Jack resolved to say one word to Marian--“A -wise word in good season,” said Miss Jack to herself, “how sweet a thing -it is.” - -“Marian,” said she. “Step here a moment, I want to say a word to you.” - -“Yes, aunt Sarah,” said Marian, following her aunt into a corner, not -quite in the best humour in the world; for she had a dread of some -further interference. - -“Are you going to dance with Maurice to-night?” - -“Yes, I believe so,--the first quadrille.” - -“Well, what I was going to say is this. I don’t want you to dance many -quick dances to-night, for a reason I have;--that is, not a great many.” - -“Why, aunt, what nonsense!” - -“Now my dearest, dearest girl, it is all for your own sake. Well, then, -it must out. He does not like it, you know.” - -“What he?” - -“Maurice.” - -“Well, aunt, I don’t know that I’m bound to dance or not to dance just -as Mr. Cumming may like. Papa does not mind my dancing. The people have -come here to dance, and you can hardly want to make me ridiculous by -sitting still.” And so that wise word did not appear to be very sweet. - -And then the amusement of the evening commenced, and Marian stood up for -a quadrille with her lover. She however was not in the very best humour. -She had, as she thought, said and done enough for one day in Maurice’s -favour. And she had no idea, as she declared to herself, of being -lectured by aunt Sarah. - -“Dearest Marian,” he said to her, as the quadrille came to a close, “it -is in your power to make me so happy,--so perfectly happy.” - -“But then people have such different ideas of happiness,” she replied. -“They can’t all see with the same eyes, you know.” And so they parted. - -But during the early part of the evening she was sufficiently discreet; -she did waltz with Lieutenant Graham, and polka with Captain Ewing, but -she did so in a tamer manner than was usual with her, and she made no -emulous attempts to dance down other couples. When she had done she -would sit down, and then she consented to stand up for two quadrilles -with two very tame gentlemen, to whom no lover could object. - -“And so, Marian, your wings are regularly clipped at last,” said Julia -Davis coming up to her. - -“No more clipped than your own,” said Marian. - -“If Sir Rue won’t let you waltz now, what will he require of you when -you’re married to him?” - -“I am just as well able to waltz with whom I like as you are, Julia; and -if you say so in that way, I shall think it’s envy.” - -“Ha--ha--ha; I may have envied you some of your beaux before now; I dare -say I have. But I certainly do not envy you Sir Rue.” And then she went -off to her partner. - -All this was too much for Marian’s weak strength, and before long she -was again whirling round with Captain Ewing. “Come, Miss Leslie,” said -he, “let us see what we can do. Graham and Julia Davis have been saying -that your waltzing days are over, but I think we can put them down.” - -Marian as she got up, and raised her arm in order that Ewing might put -his round her waist, caught Maurice’s eye as he leaned against a wall, -and read in it a stern rebuke. “This is too bad,” she said to herself. -“He shall not make a slave of me, at any rate as yet.” And away she went -as madly, more madly than ever, and for the rest of the evening she -danced with Captain Ewing and with him alone. - -There is an intoxication quite distinct from that which comes from -strong drink. When the judgment is altogether overcome by the spirits -this species of drunkenness comes on, and in this way Marian Leslie was -drunk that night. For two hours she danced with Captain Ewing, and ever -and anon she kept saying to herself that she would teach the world to -know--and of all the world Mr. Cumming especially--that she might be -lead, but not driven. - -Then about four o’clock she went home, and as she attempted to undress -herself in her own room she burst into violent tears and opened her -heart to her sister--“Oh, Fanny, I do love him, I do love him so dearly! -and now he will never come to me again!” - -Maurice stood still with his back against the wall, for the full two -hours of Marian’s exhibition, and then he said to his aunt before he -left--“I hope you have now seen enough; you will hardly mention her name -to me again.” Miss Jack groaned from the bottom of her heart but she -said nothing. She said nothing that night to any one; but she lay awake -in her bed, thinking, till it was time to rise and dress herself. “Ask -Miss Marian to come to me,” she said to the black girl who came to -assist her. But it was not till she had sent three times, that Miss -Marian obeyed the summons. - -At three o’clock on the following day Miss Jack arrived at her own hall -door in Spanish Town. Long as the distance was she ordinarily rode it -all, but on this occasion she had provided a carriage to bring her over -as much of the journey as it was practicable for her to perform on -wheels. As soon as she reached her own hall door she asked if Mr. -Cumming was at home. “Yes,” the servant said. “He was in the small -book-room, at the back of the house, up stairs.” Silently, as if afraid -of being heard, she stepped up her own stairs into her own drawing-room; -and very silently she was followed by a pair of feet lighter and smaller -than her own. - -Miss Jack was usually somewhat of a despot in her own house, but there -was nothing despotic about her now as she peered into the book-room. -This she did with her bonnet still on, looking round the half-opened -door as though she were afraid to disturb her nephew. He sat at the -window looking out into the verandah which ran behind the house, so -intent on his thoughts that he did not hear her. - -“Maurice,” she said, “can I come in?” - -“Come in? oh yes, of course;” and he turned round sharply at her. “I -tell you what, aunt; I am not well here and I cannot stay out the -session. I shall go back to Mount Pleasant.” - -“Maurice,” and she walked close up to him as she spoke, “Maurice, I have -brought some one with me to ask your pardon.” - -His face became red up to the roots of his hair as he stood looking at -her without answering. “You would grant it certainly,” she continued, -“if you knew how much it would be valued.” - -“Whom do you mean? who is it?” he asked at last. - -“One who loves you as well as you love her--and she cannot love you -better. Come in, Marian.” The poor girl crept in at the door, ashamed of -what she was induced to do, but yet looking anxiously into her lover’s -face. “You asked her yesterday to be your wife,” said Miss Jack, “and -she did not then know her own mind. Now she has had a lesson. You will -ask her once again; will you not, Maurice?” - -What was he to say? How was he to refuse, when that soft little hand was -held out to him; when those eyes laden with tears just ventured to look -into his face? - -“I beg your pardon if I angered you last night,” she said. - -In half a minute Miss Jack had left the room, and in the space of -another thirty seconds Maurice had forgiven her. “I am your own now, you -know,” she whispered to him in the course of that long evening. -“Yesterday, you know--,” but the sentence was never finished. - -It was in vain that Julia Davis was ill-natured and sarcastic, in vain -that Ewing and Graham made joint attempt upon her constancy. From that -night to the morning of her marriage--and the interval was only three -months--Marian Leslie was never known to flirt. - - - - -THE COURTSHIP OF SUSAN BELL. - - -John Munroe Bell had been a lawyer in Albany, State of New York, and as -such had thriven well. He had thriven well as long as thrift and -thriving on this earth had been allowed to him. But the Almighty had -seen fit to shorten his span. - -Early in life he had married a timid, anxious, pretty, good little wife, -whose whole heart and mind had been given up to do his bidding and -deserve his love. She had not only deserved it but had possessed it, and -as long as John Munroe Bell had lived, Henrietta Bell--Hetta as he -called her--had been a woman rich in blessings. After twelve years of -such blessings he had left her, and had left with her two daughters, a -second Hetta, and the heroine of our little story, Susan Bell. - -A lawyer in Albany may thrive passing well for eight or ten years, and -yet not leave behind him any very large sum of money if he dies at the -end of that time. Some small modicum, some few thousand dollars, John -Bell had amassed, so that his widow and daughters were not absolutely -driven to look for work or bread. - -In those happy days, when cash had begun to flow in plenteously to the -young father of the family, he had taken it into his head to build for -himself, or rather for his young female brood, a small neat house in the -outskirts of Saratoga Springs. In doing so he was instigated as much by -the excellence of the investment for his pocket as by the salubrity of -the place for his girls. He furnished the house well, and then during -some summer weeks his wife lived there, and sometimes he let it. - -How the widow grieved when the lord of her heart and master of her mind -was laid in the grave, I need not tell. She had already counted ten -years of widowhood, and her children had grown to be young women beside -her at the time of which I am now about to speak. Since that sad day on -which they had left Albany they had lived together at the cottage at -the Springs. In winter their life had been lonely enough; but as soon as -the hot weather began to drive the fainting citizens out from New York, -they had always received two or three boarders--old ladies generally, -and occasionally an old gentleman--persons of very steady habits, with -whose pockets the widow’s moderate demands agreed better than the hotel -charges. And so the Bells lived for ten years. - -That Saratoga is a gay place in July, August, and September, the world -knows well enough. To girls who go there with trunks full of muslin and -crinoline, for whom a carriage and pair of horses is always waiting -immediately after dinner, whose fathers’ pockets are bursting with -dollars, it is a very gay place. Dancing and flirtations come as a -matter of course, and matrimony follows after with only too great -rapidity. But the place was not very gay for Hetta or Susan Bell. - -In the first place the widow was a timid woman, and among other fears -feared greatly that she should be thought guilty of setting traps for -husbands. Poor mothers! how often are they charged with this sin when -their honest desires go no further than that their bairns may be -“respectit like the lave.” And then she feared flirtations; flirtations -that should be that and nothing more, flirtations that are so -destructive of the heart’s sweetest essence. She feared love also, -though she longed for that as well as feared it;--for her girls, I mean; -all such feelings for herself were long laid under ground;--and then, -like a timid creature as she was, she had other indefinite fears, and -among them, a great fear that those girls of hers would be left -husbandless,--a phase of life which after her twelve years of bliss she -regarded as anything but desirable. But the upshot was,--the upshot of -so many fears and such small means,--that Hetta and Susan Bell had but a -dull life of it. - -Were it not that I am somewhat closely restricted in the number of my -pages, I would describe at full the merits and beauties of Hetta and -Susan Bell. As it is I can but say a few words. At our period of their -lives Hetta was nearly one-and-twenty, and Susan was just nineteen. -Hetta was a short, plump, demure young woman, with the softest smoothed -hair, and the brownest brightest eyes. She was very useful in the house, -good at corn cakes, and thought much, particularly in these latter -months, of her religious duties. Her sister in the privacy of their own -little room would sometimes twit her with the admiring patience with -which she would listen to the lengthened eloquence of Mr. Phineas -Beckard, the Baptist minister. Now Mr. Phineas Beckard was a bachelor. - -Susan was not so good a girl in the kitchen or about the house as was -her sister; but she was bright in the parlour, and if that motherly -heart could have been made to give out its inmost secret--which, -however, it could not have been made to give out in any way painful to -dear Hetta--perhaps it might have been found that Susan was loved with -the closest love. She was taller than her sister, and lighter; her eyes -were blue as were her mother’s; her hair was brighter than Hetta’s, but -not always so singularly neat. She had a dimple on her chin, whereas -Hetta had none; dimples on her cheeks too, when she smiled; and, oh, -such a mouth! There; my allowance of pages permits no more. - -One piercing cold winter’s day there came knocking at the widow’s -door--a young man. Winter days, when the ice of January is refrozen by -the wind of February, are very cold at Saratoga Springs. In these days -there was not often much to disturb the serenity of Mrs. Bell’s house; -but on the day in question there came knocking at the door--a young man. - -Mrs. Bell kept an old domestic, who had lived with them in those happy -Albany days. Her name was Kate O’Brien, but though picturesque in name -she was hardly so in person. She was a thick-set, noisy, good-natured -old Irishwoman, who had joined her lot to that of Mrs. Bell when the -latter first began housekeeping, and knowing when she was well off, had -remained in the same place from that day forth. She had known Hetta as a -baby, and, so to say, had seen Susan’s birth. - -“And what might you be wanting, sir?” said Kate O’Brien, apparently not -quite pleased as she opened the door and let in all the cold air. - -“I wish to see Mrs. Bell. Is not this Mrs. Bell’s house?” said the young -man, shaking the snow from out of the breast of his coat. - -He did see Mrs. Bell, and we will now tell who he was, and why he had -come, and how it came to pass that his carpet-bag was brought down to -the widow’s house and one of the front bedrooms was prepared for him, -and that he drank tea that night in the widow’s parlour. - -His name was Aaron Dunn, and by profession he was an engineer. What -peculiar misfortune in those days of frost and snow had befallen the -line of rails which runs from Schenectady to Lake Champlain, I never -quite understood. Banks and bridges had in some way come to grief, and -on Aaron Dunn’s shoulders was thrown the burden of seeing that they were -duly repaired. Saratoga Springs was the centre of these mishaps, and -therefore at Saratoga Springs it was necessary that he should take up -his temporary abode. - -Now there was at that time in New York city a Mr. Bell, great in railway -matters--an uncle of the once thriving but now departed Albany lawyer. -He was a rich man, but he liked his riches himself; or at any rate had -not found himself called upon to share them with the widow and daughters -of his nephew. But when it chanced to come to pass that he had a hand in -despatching Aaron Dunn to Saratoga, he took the young man aside and -recommended him to lodge with the widow. “There,” said he, “show her my -card.” So much the rich uncle thought he might vouchsafe to do for the -nephew’s widow. - -Mrs. Bell and both her daughters were in the parlour when Aaron Dunn was -shown in, snow and all. He told his story in a rough, shaky voice, for -his teeth chattered; and he gave the card, almost wishing that he had -gone to the empty big hotel, for the widow’s welcome was not at first -quite warm. - -The widow listened to him as he gave his message, and then she took the -card and looked at it. Hetta, who was sitting on the side of the -fireplace facing the door, went on demurely with her work. Susan gave -one glance round--her back was to the stranger--and then another; and -then she moved her chair a little nearer to the wall, so as to give the -young man room to come to the fire, if he would. He did not come, but -his eyes glanced upon Susan Bell; and he thought that the old man in New -York was right, and that the big hotel would be cold and dull. It was a -pretty face to look on that cold evening as she turned it up from the -stocking she was mending. - -“Perhaps you don’t wish to take winter boarders, ma’am?” said Aaron -Dunn. - -“We never have done so yet, sir,” said Mrs. Bell timidly. Could she let -this young wolf in among her lamb-fold? He might be a wolf;--who could -tell? - -“Mr. Bell seemed to think it would suit,” said Aaron. - -Had he acquiesced in her timidity and not pressed the point, it would -have been all up with him. But the widow did not like to go against the -big uncle; and so she said, “Perhaps it may, sir.” - -“I guess it will, finely,” said Aaron. And then the widow seeing that -the matter was so far settled, put down her work and came round into -the passage. Hetta followed her, for there would be housework to do. -Aaron gave himself another shake, settled the weekly number of -dollars--with very little difficulty on his part, for he had caught -another glance at Susan’s face; and then went after his bag. ’Twas thus -that Aaron Dunn obtained an entrance into Mrs. Bell’s house. “But what -if he be a wolf?” she said to herself over and over again that night, -though not exactly in those words. Ay, but there is another side to that -question. What if he be a stalwart man, honest-minded, with clever eye, -cunning hand, ready brain, broad back, and warm heart; in want of a wife -mayhap; a man that can earn his own bread and another’s;--half a dozen -others’ when the half dozen come? Would not that be a good sort of -lodger? Such a question as that too did flit, just flit, across the -widow’s sleepless mind. But then she thought so much more of the wolf! -Wolves, she had taught herself to think, were more common than stalwart, -honest-minded, wife-desirous men. - -“I wonder mother consented to take him,” said Hetta, when they were in -the little room together. - -“And why shouldn’t she?” said Susan. “It will be a help.” - -“Yes, it will be a little help,” said Hetta. “But we have done very well -hitherto without winter lodgers.” - -“But uncle Bell said she was to.” - -“What is uncle Bell to us?” said Hetta, who had a spirit of her own. And -she began to surmise within herself whether Aaron Dunn would join the -Baptist congregation, and whether Phineas Beckard would approve of this -new move. - -“He is a very well-behaved young man at any rate,” said Susan, “and he -draws beautifully. Did you see those things he was doing?” - -“He draws very well, I dare say,” said Hetta, who regarded this as but a -poor warranty for good behaviour. Hetta also had some fear of -wolves--not for herself, perhaps; but for her sister. - -Aaron Dunn’s work--the commencement of his work--lay at some distance -from the Springs, and he left every morning with a lot of workmen by an -early train--almost before daylight. And every morning, cold and wintry -as the mornings were, the widow got him his breakfast with her own -hands. She took his dollars and would not leave him altogether to the -awkward mercies of Kate O’Brien; nor would she trust her girls to attend -upon the young man. Hetta she might have trusted; but then Susan would -have asked why she was spared her share of such hardship. - -In the evening, leaving his work when it was dark, Aaron always -returned, and then the evening was passed together. But they were passed -with the most demure propriety. These women would make the tea, cut the -bread and butter, and then sew; while Aaron Dunn, when the cups were -removed, would always go to his plans and drawings. - -On Sundays they were more together; but even on this day there was cause -of separation, for Aaron went to the Episcopalian church, rather to the -disgust of Hetta. In the afternoon, however, they were together; and -then Phineas Beckard came in to tea on Sundays, and he and Aaron got to -talking on religion; and though they disagreed pretty much, and would -not give an inch either one or the other, nevertheless the minister told -the widow, and Hetta too probably, that the lad had good stuff in him, -though he was so stiff-necked. - -“But he should be more modest in talking on such matters with a -minister,” said Hetta. - -The Rev. Phineas acknowledged that perhaps he should; but he was honest -enough to repeat that the lad had stuff in him. “Perhaps after all he is -not a wolf,” said the widow to herself. - -Things went on in this way for above a month. Aaron had declared to -himself over and over again that that face was sweet to look upon, and -had unconsciously promised to himself certain delights in talking and -perhaps walking with the owner of it. But the walkings had not been -achieved--nor even the talkings as yet. The truth was that Dunn was -bashful with young women, though he could be so stiff-necked with the -minister. - -And then he felt angry with himself, inasmuch as he had advanced no -further; and as he lay in his bed--which perhaps those pretty hands had -helped to make--he resolved that he would be a thought bolder in his -bearing. He had no idea of making love to Susan Bell; of course not. But -why should he not amuse himself by talking to a pretty girl when she sat -so near him, evening after evening? - -“What a very quiet young man he is,” said Susan to her sister. - -“He has his bread to earn, and sticks to his work,” said Hetta. “No -doubt he has his amusement when he is in the city,” added the elder -sister, not wishing to leave too strong an impression of the young man’s -virtue. - -They had all now their settled places in the parlour. Hetta sat on one -side of the fire, close to the table, having that side to herself. There -she sat always busy. She must have made every dress and bit of linen -worn in the house, and hemmed every sheet and towel, so busy was she -always. Sometimes, once in a week or so, Phineas Beckard would come in, -and then place was made for him between Hetta’s usual seat and the -table. For when there he would read out loud. On the other side, close -also to the table, sat the widow, busy, but not savagely busy as her -elder daughter. Between Mrs. Bell and the wall, with her feet ever on -the fender, Susan used to sit; not absolutely idle, but doing work of -some slender pretty sort, and talking ever and anon to her mother. -Opposite to them all, at the other side of the table, far away from the -fire, would Aaron Dunn place himself with his plans and drawings before -him. - -“Are you a judge of bridges, ma’am?” said Aaron, the evening after he -had made his resolution. ’Twas thus he began his courtship. - -“Of bridges?” said Mrs. Bell--“oh dear no, sir.” But she put out her -hand to take the little drawing which Aaron handed to her. - -“Because that’s one I’ve planned for our bit of a new branch from Moreau -up to Lake George. I guess Miss Susan knows something about bridges.” - -“I guess I don’t,” said Susan--“only that they oughtn’t to tumble down -when the frost comes.” - -“Ha, ha, ha; no more they ought. I’ll tell McEvoy that.” McEvoy had been -a former engineer on the line. “Well, that won’t burst with any frost, I -guess.” - -“Oh my! how pretty!” said the widow, and then Susan of course jumped up -to look over her mother’s shoulder. - -The artful dodger! He had drawn and coloured a beautiful little sketch -of a bridge; not an engineer’s plan with sections and measurements, -vexatious to a woman’s eye, but a graceful little bridge with a string -of cars running under it. You could almost hear the bell going. - -“Well; that is a pretty bridge,” said Susan. “Isn’t it, Hetta?” - -“I don’t know anything about bridges,” said Hetta, to whose clever eyes -the dodge was quite apparent. But in spite of her cleverness Mrs. Bell -and Susan had soon moved their chairs round to the table, and were -looking through the contents of Aaron’s portfolio. “But yet he maybe a -wolf,” thought the poor widow, just as she was kneeling down to say her -prayers. - -That evening certainly made a commencement. Though Hetta went on -pertinaciously with the body of a new dress, the other two ladies did -not put in another stitch that night. From his drawings Aaron got to his -instruments, and before bedtime was teaching Susan how to draw parallel -lines. Susan found that she had quite an aptitude for parallel lines, -and altogether had a good time of it that evening. It is dull to go on -week after week, and month after month, talking only to one’s mother and -sister. It is dull though one does not oneself recognise it to be so. A -little change in such matters is so very pleasant. Susan had not the -slightest idea of regarding Aaron as even a possible lover. But young -ladies do like the conversation of young gentlemen. Oh, my exceedingly -proper prim old lady, you who are so shocked at this as a general -doctrine, has it never occurred to you that the Creator has so intended -it? - -Susan understanding little of the how and why, knew that she had had a -good time, and was rather in spirits as she went to bed. But Hetta had -been frightened by the dodge. - -“Oh, Hetta, you should have looked at those drawings. He is so clever!” -said Susan. - -“I don’t know that they would have done me much good,” replied Hetta. - -“Good! Well, they’d do me more good than a long sermon, I know,” said -Susan; “except on a Sunday, of course,” she added apologetically. This -was an ill-tempered attack both on Hetta and Hetta’s admirer. But then -why had Hetta been so snappish? - -“I’m sure he’s a wolf,” thought Hetta as she went to bed. - -“What a very clever young man he is!” thought Susan to herself as she -pulled the warm clothes round about her shoulders and ears. - -“Well that certainly was an improvement,” thought Aaron as he went -through the same operation, with a stronger feeling of self-approbation -than he had enjoyed for some time past. - -In the course of the next fortnight the family arrangements all altered -themselves. Unless when Beckard was there Aaron would sit in the widow’s -place, the widow would take Susan’s chair, and the two girls would be -opposite. And then Dunn would read to them; not sermons, but passages -from Shakspeare, and Byron, and Longfellow. “He reads much better than -Mr. Beckard,” Susan had said one night. “Of course you’re a competent -judge!” had been Hetta’s retort. “I mean that I like it better,” said -Susan. “It’s well that all people don’t think alike,” replied Hetta. - -And then there was a deal of talking. The widow herself, as unconscious -in this respect as her youngest daughter, certainly did find that a -little variety was agreeable on those long winter nights; and talked -herself with unaccustomed freedom. And Beckard came there oftener and -talked very much. When he was there the two young men did all the -talking, and they pounded each other immensely. But still there grew up -a sort of friendship between them. - -“Mr. Beckard seems quite to take to him,” said Mrs. Bell to her eldest -daughter. - -“It is his great good nature, mother,” replied Hetta. - -It was at the end of the second month when Aaron took another step in -advance--a perilous step. Sometimes on evenings he still went on with -his drawing for an hour or so; but during three or four evenings he -never asked any one to look at what he was doing. On one Friday he sat -over his work till late, without any reading or talking at all; so late -that at last Mrs. Bell said, “If you’re going to sit much longer, Mr. -Dunn, I’ll get you to put out the candles.” Thereby showing, had he -known it or had she, that the mother’s confidence in the young man was -growing fast. Hetta knew all about it, and dreaded that the growth was -too quick. - -“I’ve finished now,” said Aaron; and he looked carefully at the -card-board on which he had been washing in his water-colours. “I’ve -finished now.” He then hesitated a moment; but ultimately he put the -card into his portfolio and carried it up to his bed-room. Who does not -perceive that it was intended as a present to Susan Bell? - -The question which Aaron asked himself that night, and which he hardly -knew how to answer, was this. Should he offer the drawing to Susan in -the presence of her mother and sister, or on some occasion when they two -might be alone together? No such occasion had ever yet occurred, but -Aaron thought that it might probably be brought about. But then he -wanted to make no fuss about it. His first intention had been to chuck -the drawing lightly across the table when it was completed, and so make -nothing of it. But he had finished it with more care than he had at -first intended; and then he had hesitated when he had finished it. It -was too late now for that plan of chucking it over the table. - -On the Saturday evening when he came down from his room, Mr. Beckard was -there, and there was no opportunity that night. On the Sunday, in -conformity with a previous engagement, he went to hear Mr. Beckard -preach, and walked to and from meeting with the family. This pleased -Mrs. Bell, and they were all very gracious that afternoon. But Sunday -was no day for the picture. - -On Monday the thing had become of importance to him. Things always do -when they are kept over. Before tea that evening when he came down Mrs. -Bell and Susan only were in the room. He knew Hetta for his foe, and -therefore determined to use this occasion. - -“Miss Susan,” he said, stammering somewhat, and blushing too, poor fool! -“I have done a little drawing which I want you to accept,” and he put -his portfolio down on the table. - -“Oh! I don’t know,” said Susan, who had seen the blush. - -Mrs. Bell had seen the blush also, and pursed her mouth up, and looked -grave. Had there been no stammering and no blush, she might have thought -nothing of it. - -Aaron saw at once that his little gift was not to go down smoothly. He -was, however, in for it now, so he picked it out from among the other -papers in the case and brought it over to Susan. He endeavoured to hand -it to her with an air of indifference, but I cannot say that he -succeeded. - -It was a very pretty, well-finished, water-coloured drawing, -representing still the same bridge, but with more adjuncts. In Susan’s -eyes it was a work of high art. Of pictures probably she had seen but -little, and her liking for the artist no doubt added to her admiration. -But the more she admired it and wished for it, the stronger was her -feeling that she ought not to take it. - -Poor Susan! she stood for a minute looking at the drawing, but she said -nothing; not even a word of praise. She felt that she was red in the -face, and uncourteous to their lodger; but her mother was looking at her -and she did not know how to behave herself. - -Mrs. Bell put out her hand for the sketch, trying to bethink herself as -she did so in what least uncivil way she could refuse the present. She -took a moment to look at it collecting her thoughts, and as she did so -her woman’s wit came to her aid. - -“Oh dear, Mr. Dunn, it is very pretty; quite a beautiful picture. I -cannot let Susan rob you of that. You must keep that for some of your -own particular friends.” - -“But I did it for her,” said Aaron innocently. - -Susan looked down at the ground, half pleased at the declaration. The -drawing would look very pretty in a small gilt frame put over her -dressing-table. But the matter now was altogether in her mother’s hands. - -“I am afraid it is too valuable, sir, for Susan to accept.” - -“It is not valuable at all,” said Aaron, declining to take it back from -the widow’s hand. - -“Oh, I am quite sure it is. It is worth ten dollars at least--or -twenty,” said poor Mrs. Bell, not in the very best taste. But she was -perplexed, and did not know how to get out of the scrape. The article in -question now lay upon the table-cloth, appropriated by no one, and at -this moment Hetta came into the room. - -“It is not worth ten cents,” said Aaron, with something like a frown on -his brow. “But as we had been talking about the bridge, I thought Miss -Susan would accept it.” - -“Accept what?” said Hetta. And then her eye fell upon the drawing and -she took it up. - -“It is beautifully done,” said Mrs. Bell, wishing much to soften the -matter; perhaps the more so that Hetta the demure was now present. “I am -telling Mr. Dunn that we can’t take a present of anything so valuable.” - -“Oh dear no,” said Hetta. “It wouldn’t be right.” - -It was a cold frosty evening in March, and the fire was burning brightly -on the hearth. Aaron Dunn took up the drawing quietly--very quietly--and -rolling it up, as such drawings are rolled, put it between the blazing -logs. It was the work of four evenings, and his chef-d’œuvre in the -way of art. - -Susan, when she saw what he had done, burst out into tears. The widow -could very readily have done so also, but she was able to refrain -herself, and merely exclaimed--“Oh, Mr. Dunn!” - -“If Mr. Dunn chooses to burn his own picture, he has certainly a right -to do so,” said Hetta. - -Aaron immediately felt ashamed of what he had done; and he also could -have cried, but for his manliness. He walked away to one of the -parlour-windows, and looked out upon the frosty night. It was dark, but -the stars were bright, and he thought that he should like to be walking -fast by himself along the line of rails towards Balston. There he stood, -perhaps for three minutes. He thought it would be proper to give Susan -time to recover from her tears. - -“Will you please to come to your tea, sir?” said the soft voice of Mrs. -Bell. - -He turned round to do so, and found that Susan was gone. It was not -quite in her power to recover from her tears in three minutes. And then -the drawing had been so beautiful! It had been done expressly for her -too! And there had been something, she knew not what, in his eye as he -had so declared. She had watched him intently over those four evenings’ -work, wondering why he did not show it, till her feminine curiosity had -become rather strong. It was something very particular, she was sure, -and she had learned that all that precious work had been for her. Now -all that precious work was destroyed. How was it possible that she -should not cry for more than three minutes? - -The others took their meal in perfect silence, and when it was over the -two women sat down to their work. Aaron had a book which he pretended to -read, but instead of reading he was bethinking himself that he had -behaved badly. What right had he to throw them all into such confusion -by indulging in his passion? He was ashamed of what he had done, and -fancied that Susan would hate him. Fancying that, he began to find at -the same time that he by no means hated her. - -At last Hetta got up and left the room. She knew that her sister was -sitting alone in the cold, and Hetta was affectionate. Susan had not -been in fault, and therefore Hetta went up to console her. - -“Mrs. Bell,” said Aaron, as soon as the door was closed, “I beg your -pardon for what I did just now.” - -“Oh, sir, I’m so sorry that the picture is burnt,” said poor Mrs. Bell. - -“The picture does not matter a straw,” said Aaron. “But I see that I -have disturbed you all,--and I am afraid I have made Miss Susan -unhappy.” - -“She was grieved because your picture was burnt,” said Mrs. Bell, -putting some emphasis on the “your,” intending to show that her daughter -had not regarded the drawing as her own. But the emphasis bore another -meaning; and so the widow perceived as soon as she had spoken. - -“Oh, I can do twenty more of the same if anybody wanted them,” said -Aaron. “If I do another like it, will you let her take it, Mrs. -Bell?--just to show that you have forgiven me, and that we are friends -as we were before?” - -Was he, or was he not a wolf? That was the question which Mrs. Bell -scarcely knew how to answer. Hetta had given her voice, saying he was -lupine. Mr. Beckard’s opinion she had not liked to ask directly. Mr. -Beckard she thought would probably propose to Hetta; but as yet he had -not done so. And, as he was still a stranger in the family, she did not -like in any way to compromise Susan’s name. Indirectly she had asked the -question, and, indirectly also, Mr. Beckard’s answer had been -favourable. - -“But it mustn’t mean anything, sir,” was the widow’s weak answer, when -she had paused on the question for a moment. - -“Oh no, of course not,” said Aaron, joyously, and his face became -radiant and happy. “And I do beg your pardon for burning it; and the -young ladies’ pardon too.” And then, he rapidly got out his cardboard, -and set himself to work about another bridge. The widow, meditating many -things in her heart, commenced the hemming of a handkerchief. - -In about an hour the two girls came back to the room and silently took -their accustomed places. Aaron hardly looked up, but went on diligently -with his drawing. This bridge should be a better bridge than that other. -Its acceptance was now assured. Of course it was to mean nothing. That -was a matter of course. So he worked away diligently, and said nothing -to anybody. - -When they went off to bed the two girls went into the mother’s room. -“Oh, mother, I hope he is not very angry,” said Susan. - -“Angry!” said Hetta, “if anybody should be angry, it is mother. He ought -to have known that Susan could not accept it. He should never have -offered it.” - -“But he’s doing another,” said Mrs. Bell. - -“Not for her,” said Hetta. - -“Yes he is,” said Mrs. Bell, “and I have promised that she shall take -it.” Susan as she heard this sank gently into the chair behind her, and -her eyes became full of tears. The intimation was almost too much for -her. - -“Oh, mother!” said Hetta. - -“But I particularly said that it was to mean nothing.” - -“Oh, mother, that makes it worse.” - -Why should Hetta interfere in this way, thought Susan to herself. Had -she interfered when Mr. Beckard gave Hetta a testament bound in Morocco? -Had not she smiled, and looked gratified, and kissed her sister, and -declared that Phineas Beckard was a nice dear man, and by far the most -elegant preacher at the Springs? Why should Hetta be so cruel? - -“I don’t see that, my dear,” said the mother. Hetta would not explain -before her sister, so they all went to bed. - -On the Thursday evening the drawing was finished. Not a word had been -said about it, at any rate in his presence, and he had gone on working -in silence. “There,” said he, late on the Thursday evening, “I don’t -know that it will be any better if I go on daubing for another hour. -There, Miss Susan; there’s another bridge. I hope that will neither -burst with the frost, nor yet be destroyed by fire,” and he gave it a -light flip with his fingers and sent it skimming over the table. - -Susan blushed and smiled, and took it up. “Oh, it is beautiful,” she -said. “Isn’t it beautifully done, mother?” and then all the three got up -to look at it, and all confessed that it was excellently done. - -“And I am sure we are very much obliged to you,” said Susan after a -pause, remembering that she had not yet thanked him. - -“Oh, it’s nothing,” said he, not quite liking the word “we.” - -On the following day he returned from his work to Saratoga about noon. -This he had never done before, and therefore no one expected that he -would be seen in the house before the evening. On this occasion, -however, he went straight thither, and as chance would have it, both the -widow and her elder daughter were out. Susan was there alone in charge -of the house. - -He walked in and opened the parlour door. There she sat, with her feet -on the fender, with her work unheeded on the table behind her, and the -picture, Aaron’s drawing, lying on her knees. She was gazing at it -intently as he entered, thinking in her young heart that it possessed -all the beauties which a picture could possess. - -“Oh, Mr. Dunn,” she said, getting up and holding the tell-tale sketch -behind the skirt of her dress. - -“Miss Susan, I have come here to tell your mother that I must start for -New York this afternoon and be there for six weeks, or perhaps longer.” - -“Mother is out,” said she; “I’m so sorry.” - -“Is she?” said Aaron. - -“And Hetta too. Dear me. And you’ll be wanting dinner. I’ll go and see -about it.” - -Aaron began to swear that he could not possibly eat any dinner. He had -dined once, and was going to dine again;--anything to keep her from -going. - -“But you must have something, Mr. Dunn,” and she walked towards the -door. - -But he put his back to it. “Miss Susan,” said he, “I guess I’ve been -here nearly two months.” - -“Yes, sir, I believe you have,” she replied, shaking in her shoes, and -not knowing which way to look. - -“And I hope we have been good friends.” - -“Yes, sir,” said Susan, almost beside herself as to what she was saying. - -“I’m going away now, and it seems to be such a time before I’ll be -back.” - -“Will it, sir?” - -“Six weeks, Miss Susan!” and then he paused, looking into her eyes, to -see what he could read there. She leant against the table, pulling to -pieces a morsel of half-ravelled muslin which she held in her hand; but -her eyes were turned to the ground, and he could hardly see them. - -“Miss Susan,” he continued, “I may as well speak out now as at another -time.” He too was looking towards the ground, and clearly did not know -what to do with his hands. “The truth is just this. I--I love you -dearly, with all my heart. I never saw any one I ever thought so -beautiful, so nice and so good;--and what’s more, I never shall. I’m not -very good at this sort of thing, I know; but I couldn’t go away from -Saratoga for six weeks and not tell you.” And then he ceased. He did not -ask for any love in return. His presumption had not got so far as that -yet. He merely declared his passion, leaning against the door, and there -he stood twiddling his thumbs. - -Susan had not the slightest conception of the way in which she ought to -receive such a declaration. She had never had a lover before; nor had -she ever thought of Aaron absolutely as a lover, though something very -like love for him had been crossing over her spirit. Now, at this -moment, she felt that he was the beau-idéal of manhood, though his boots -were covered with the railway mud, and though his pantaloons were tucked -up in rolls round his ankles. He was a fine, well-grown, open-faced -fellow, whose eye was bold and yet tender, whose brow was full and -broad, and all his bearing manly. Love him! Of course she loved him. Why -else had her heart melted with pleasure when her mother said that that -second picture was to be accepted? - -But what was she to say? Anything but the open truth; she well knew -that. The open truth would not do at all. What would her mother say and -Hetta if she were rashly to say that? Hetta, she knew, would be dead -against such a lover, and of her mother’s approbation she had hardly -more hope. Why they should disapprove of Aaron as a lover she had never -asked herself. There are many nice things that seem to be wrong only -because they are so nice. Maybe that Susan regarded a lover as one of -them. “Oh, Mr. Dunn, you shouldn’t.” That in fact was all that she could -say. - -“Should not I?” said he. “Well, perhaps not; but there’s the truth, and -no harm ever comes of that. Perhaps I’d better not ask you for an answer -now, but I thought it better you should know it all. And remember -this--I only care for one thing now in the world, and that is for your -love.” And then he paused, thinking possibly that in spite of what he -had said he might perhaps get some sort of an answer, some inkling of -the state of her heart’s disposition towards him. - -But Susan had at once resolved to take him at his word when he suggested -that an immediate reply was not necessary. To say that she loved him was -of course impossible, and to say that she did not was equally so. She -determined therefore to close at once with the offer of silence. - -When he ceased speaking there was a moment’s pause, during which he -strove hard to read what might be written on her down-turned face. But -he was not good at such reading. “Well, I guess I’ll go and get my -things ready now,” he said, and then turned round to open the door. - -“Mother will be in before you are gone, I suppose,” said Susan. - -“I have only got twenty minutes,” said he, looking at his watch. “But, -Susan, tell her what I have said to you. Good-bye.” And he put out his -hand. He knew he should see her again, but this had been his plan to get -her hand in his. - -“Good-bye, Mr. Dunn,” and she gave him her hand. - -He held it tight for a moment, so that she could not draw it -away,--could not if she would. “Will you tell your mother?” he asked. - -“Yes,” she answered, quite in a whisper. “I guess I’d better tell her.” -And then she gave a long sigh. He pressed her hand again and got it up -to his lips. - -“Mr. Dunn, don’t,” she said. But he did kiss it. “God bless you, my own -dearest, dearest girl! I’ll just open the door as I come down. Perhaps -Mrs. Bell will be here.” And then he rushed up stairs. - -But Mrs. Bell did not come in. She and Hetta were at a weekly service at -Mr. Beckard’s meeting-house, and Mr. Beckard it seemed had much to say. -Susan, when left alone, sat down and tried to think. But she could not -think; she could only love. She could use her mind only in recounting to -herself the perfections of that demigod whose heavy steps were so -audible overhead, as he walked to and fro collecting his things and -putting them into his bag. - -And then, just when he had finished, she bethought herself that he must -be hungry. She flew to the kitchen, but she was too late. Before she -could even reach at the loaf of bread he descended the stairs, with a -clattering noise, and heard her voice as she spoke quickly to Kate -O’Brien. - -“Miss Susan,” he said, “don’t get anything for me, for I’m off.” - -“Oh, Mr. Dunn, I am so sorry. You’ll be so hungry on your journey,” and -she came out to him in the passage. - -“I shall want nothing on the journey, dearest, if you’ll say one kind -word to me.” - -Again her eyes went to the ground. “What do you want me to say, Mr. -Dunn?” - -“Say, God bless you, Aaron.” - -“God bless you, Aaron,” said she; and yet she was sure that she had not -declared her love. He however thought otherwise, and went up to New York -with a happy heart. - -Things happened in the next fortnight rather quickly. Susan at once -resolved to tell her mother, but she resolved also not to tell Hetta. -That afternoon she got her mother to herself in Mrs. Bell’s own room, -and then she made a clean breast of it. - -“And what did you say to him, Susan?” - -“I said nothing, mother.” - -“Nothing, dear!” - -“No, mother; not a word. He told me he didn’t want it.” - -She forgot how she had used his Christian name in bidding God bless him. - -“Oh dear!” said the widow. - -“Was it very wrong?” asked Susan. - -“But what do you think yourself, my child?” asked Mrs. Bell after a -while. “What are your own feelings.” - -Mrs. Bell was sitting on a chair and Susan was standing opposite to her -against the post of the bed. She made no answer, but moving from her -place, she threw herself into her mother’s arms, and hid her face on her -mother’s shoulder. It was easy enough to guess what were her feelings. - -“But, my darling,” said her mother, “you must not think that it is an -engagement.” - -“No,” said Susan, sorrowfully. - -“Young men say those things to amuse themselves.” Wolves, she would have -said, had she spoken out her mind freely. - -“Oh, mother, he is not like that.” - -The daughter contrived to extract a promise from the mother that Hetta -should not be told just at present. Mrs. Bell calculated that she had -six weeks before her; as yet Mr. Beckard had not spoken out, but there -was reason to suppose that he would do so before those six weeks would -be over, and then she would be able to seek counsel from him. - -Mr. Beckard spoke out at the end of six days, and Hetta frankly accepted -him. “I hope you’ll love your brother-in-law,” said she to Susan. - -“Oh, I will indeed,” said Susan; and in the softness of her heart at the -moment she almost made up her mind to tell; but Hetta was full of her -own affairs, and thus it passed off. - -It was then arranged that Hetta should go and spend a week with Mr. -Beckard’s parents. Old Mr. Beckard was a farmer living near Utica, and -now that the match was declared and approved, it was thought well that -Hetta should know her future husband’s family. So she went for a week, -and Mr. Beckard went with her. “He will be back in plenty of time for me -to speak to him before Aaron Dunn’s six weeks are over,” said Mrs. Bell -to herself. - -But things did not go exactly as she expected. On the very morning after -the departure of the engaged couple, there came a letter from Aaron, -saying that he would be at Saratoga that very evening. The railway -people had ordered him down again for some days’ special work; then he -was to go elsewhere, and not to return to Saratoga till June. “But he -hoped,” so said the letter, “that Mrs. Bell would not turn him into the -street even then, though the summer might have come, and her regular -lodgers might be expected.” - -“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mrs. Bell to herself, reflecting that she had -no one of whom she could ask advice, and that she must decide that very -day. Why had she let Mr. Beckard go without telling him? Then she told -Susan, and Susan spent the day trembling. Perhaps, thought Mrs. Bell, he -will say nothing about it. In such case, however, would it not be her -duty to say something? Poor mother! She trembled nearly as much as -Susan. - -It was dark when the fatal knock came at the door. The tea-things were -already laid, and the tea-cake was already baked; for it would at any -rate be necessary to give Mr. Dunn his tea. Susan, when she heard the -knock, rushed from her chair and took refuge up stairs. The widow gave a -long sigh and settled her dress. Kate O’Brien with willing step opened -the door, and bade her old friend welcome. - -“How are the ladies?” asked Aaron, trying to gather something from the -face and voice of the domestic. - -“Miss Hetta and Mr. Beckard be gone off to Utica, just man-and-wife -like! and so they are, more power to them.” - -“Oh indeed; I’m very glad,” said Aaron--and so he was; very glad to -have Hetta the demure out of the way. And then he made his way into the -parlour, doubting much, and hoping much. - -Mrs. Bell rose from her chair, and tried to look grave. Aaron glancing -round the room saw that Susan was not there. He walked straight up to -the widow, and offered her his hand, which she took. It might be that -Susan had not thought fit to tell, and in such case it would not be -right for him to compromise her; so he said never a word. - -But the subject was too important to the mother to allow of her being -silent when the young man stood before her. “Oh, Mr. Dunn,” said she, -“what is this you have been saying to Susan?” - -“I have asked her to be my wife,” said he, drawing himself up and -looking her full in the face. Mrs. Bell’s heart was almost as soft as -her daughter’s, and it was nearly gone; but at the moment she had -nothing to say but, “Oh dear, oh dear!” - -“May I not call you mother?” said he, taking both her hands in his. - -“Oh dear--oh dear! But will you be good to her? Oh, Aaron Dunn, if you -deceive my child!” - -In another quarter of an hour, Susan was kneeling at her mother’s knee, -with her face on her mother’s lap; the mother was wiping tears out of -her eyes; and Aaron was standing by holding one of the widow’s hands. - -“You are my mother too, now,” said he. What would Hetta and Mr. Beckard -say, when they came back? But then he surely was not a wolf! - -There were four or five days left for courtship before Hetta and Mr. -Beckard would return; four or five days during which Susan might be -happy, Aaron triumphant, and Mrs. Bell nervous. Days I have said, but -after all it was only the evenings that were so left. Every morning -Susan got up to give Aaron his breakfast, but Mrs. Bell got up also. -Susan boldly declared her right to do so, and Mrs. Bell found no -objection which she could urge. - -But after that Aaron was always absent till seven or eight in the -evening, when he would return to his tea. Then came the hour or two of -lovers’ intercourse. - -But they were very tame, those hours. The widow still felt an undefined -fear that she was wrong, and though her heart yearned to know that her -daughter was happy in the sweet happiness of accepted love, yet she -dreaded to be too confident. Not a word had been said about money -matters; not a word of Aaron Dunn’s relatives. So she did not leave -them by themselves, but waited with what patience she could for the -return of her wise counsellors. - -And then Susan hardly knew how to behave herself with her accepted -suitor. She felt that she was very happy; but perhaps she was most happy -when she was thinking about him through the long day, assisting in -fixing little things for his comfort, and waiting for his evening -return. And as he sat there in the parlour, she could be happy then too, -if she were but allowed to sit still and look at him,--not stare at him, -but raise her eyes every now and again to his face for the shortest -possible glance, as she had been used to do ever since he came there. - -But he, unconscionable lover, wanted to hear her speak, was desirous of -being talked to, and perhaps thought that he should by rights be allowed -to sit by her, and hold her hand. No such privileges were accorded to -him. If they had been alone together, walking side by side on the green -turf, as lovers should walk, she would soon have found the use of her -tongue,--have talked fast enough no doubt. Under such circumstances, -when a girl’s shyness has given way to real intimacy, there is in -general no end to her power of chatting. But though there was much love -between Aaron and Susan, there was as yet but little intimacy. And then, -let a mother be ever so motherly--and no mother could have more of a -mother’s tenderness than Mrs. Bell--still her presence must be a -restraint. Aaron was very fond of Mrs. Bell; but nevertheless he did -sometimes wish that some domestic duty would take her out of the parlour -for a few happy minutes. Susan went out very often, but Mrs. Bell seemed -to be a fixture. - -Once for a moment he did find his love alone, immediately as he came -into the house. “My own Susan, you do love me? do say so to me once.” -And he contrived to slip his arm round her waist. “Yes,” she whispered; -but she slipped like an eel from his hands, and left him only preparing -himself for a kiss. And then when she got to her room, half frightened, -she clasped her hands together, and bethought herself that she did -really love him with a strength and depth of love which filled her whole -existence. Why could she not have told him something of all this? - -And so the few days of his second sojourn at Saratoga passed away, not -altogether satisfactorily. It was settled that he should return to New -York on Saturday night, leaving Saratoga on that evening; and as the -Beckards--Hetta was already regarded quite as a Beckard--were to be -back to dinner on that day, Mrs. Bell would have an opportunity of -telling her wondrous tale. It might be well that Mr. Beckard should see -Aaron before his departure. - -On that Saturday the Beckards did arrive just in time for dinner. It may -be imagined that Susan’s appetite was not very keen, nor her manner very -collected. But all this passed by unobserved in the importance attached -to the various Beckard arrangements which came under discussion. Ladies -and gentlemen circumstanced as were Hetta and Mr. Beckard are perhaps a -little too apt to think that their own affairs are paramount. But after -dinner Susan vanished at once, and when Hetta prepared to follow her, -desirous of further talk about matrimonial arrangements, her mother -stopped her, and the disclosure was made. - -“Proposed to her!” said Hetta, who perhaps thought that one marriage in -a family was enough at a time. - -“Yes, my love--and he did it, I must say, in a very honourable way, -telling her not to make any answer till she had spoken to me;--now that -was very nice; was it not, Phineas?” Mrs. Bell had become very anxious -that Aaron should not be voted a wolf. - -“And what has been said to him since?” asked the discreet Phineas. - -“Why--nothing absolutely decisive.” Oh, Mrs. Bell! “You see I know -nothing as to his means.” - -“Nothing at all,” said Hetta. - -“He is a man that will always earn his bread,” said Mr. Beckard; and -Mrs. Bell blessed him in her heart for saying it. - -“But has he been encouraged?” asked Hetta. - -“Well; yes, he has,” said the widow. - -“Then Susan I suppose likes him?” asked Phineas. - -“Well; yes, she does,” said the widow. And the conference ended in a -resolution that Phineas Beckard should have a conversation with Aaron -Dunn, as to his worldly means and position; and that he, Phineas, should -decide whether Aaron might, or might not be at once accepted as a lover, -according to the tenor of that conversation. Poor Susan was not told -anything of all this. “Better not,” said Hetta the demure. “It will only -flurry her the more.” How would she have liked it, if without consulting -her, they had left it to Aaron to decide whether or no she might marry -Phineas? - -They knew where on the works Aaron was to be found, and thither Mr. -Beckard rode after dinner. We need not narrate at length, the -conference between, the young men. Aaron at once declared that he had -nothing but what he made as an engineer, and explained that he held no -permanent situation on the line. He was well paid at that present -moment, but at the end of summer he would have to look for employment. - -“Then you can hardly marry quite at present,” said the discreet -minister. - -“Perhaps not quite immediately.” - -“And long engagements are never wise,” said the other. - -“Three or four months,” suggested Aaron. But Mr. Beckard shook his head. - -The afternoon at Mrs. Bell’s house was melancholy. The final decision of -the three judges was as follows. There was to be no engagement; of -course no correspondence. Aaron was to be told that it would be better -that he should get lodgings elsewhere when he returned; but that he -would be allowed to visit at Mrs. Bell’s house,--and at Mrs. Beckard’s, -which was very considerate. If he should succeed in getting a permanent -appointment, and if he and Susan still held the same mind, why then---- -&c. &c. Such was Susan’s fate, as communicated to her by Mrs. Bell and -Hetta. She sat still and wept when she heard it; but she did not -complain. She had always felt that Hetta would be against her. - -“Mayn’t I see him, then?” she said through, her tears. - -Hetta thought she had better not. Mrs. Bell thought she might. Phineas -decided that they might shake hands, but only in full conclave. There -was to be no lovers’ farewell. Aaron was to leave the house at half-past -five; but before he went Susan should be called down. Poor Susan! She -sat down and bemoaned herself; uncomplaining, but very sad. - -Susan was soft, feminine, and manageable. But Aaron Dunn was not very -soft, was especially masculine, and in some matters not easily -manageable. When Mr. Beckard in the widow’s presence--Hetta had retired -in obedience to her lover--informed him of the court’s decision, there -came over his face the look which he had worn when he burned the -picture. “Mrs. Bell,” he said, “had encouraged his engagement; and he -did not understand why other people should now come and disturb it.” - -“Not an engagement, Aaron,” said Mrs. Bell piteously. - -“He was able and willing to work,” he said, “and knew his profession. -What young man of his age had done better than he had?” and he glanced -round at them with perhaps more pride than was quite becoming. - -Then Mr. Beckard spoke out, very wisely no doubt, but perhaps a little -too much at length. Sons and daughters, as well as fathers and mothers, -will know very well what he said; so I need not repeat his words. I -cannot say that Aaron listened with much attention, but he understood -perfectly what the upshot of it was. Many a man understands the purport -of many a sermon without listening to one word in ten. Mr. Beckard meant -to be kind in his manner; indeed was so, only that Aaron could not -accept as kindness any interference on his part. - -“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Bell,” said he. “I look upon myself as engaged -to her. And I look on her as engaged to me. I tell you so fairly; and I -believe that’s her mind as well as mine.” - -“But, Aaron, you won’t try to see her--or to write to her,--not in -secret; will you?” - -“When I try to see her, I’ll come and knock at this door; and if I write -to her, I’ll write to her full address by the post. I never did and -never will do anything in secret.” - -“I know you’re good and honest,” said the widow with her handkerchief to -her eyes. - -“Then why do you separate us?” asked he, almost roughly. “I suppose I -may see her at any rate before I go. My time’s nearly up now, I guess.” - -And then Susan was called for, and she and Hetta came down together. -Susan crept in behind her sister. Her eyes were red with weeping, and -her appearance was altogether disconsolate. She had had a lover for a -week, and now she was to be robbed of him. - -“Good-bye, Susan,” said Aaron, and he walked up to her without -bashfulness or embarrassment. Had they all been compliant and gracious -to him he would have been as bashful as his love; but now his temper was -hot. “Good-bye, Susan,” and she took his hand, and he held hers till he -had finished. “And remember this, I look upon you as my promised wife, -and I don’t fear that you’ll deceive me. At any rate I shan’t deceive -you.” - -“Good-bye, Aaron,” she sobbed. - -“Good-bye, and God bless you, my own darling!” And then without saying a -word to any one else, he turned his back upon them and went his way. - -There had been something very consolatory, very sweet, to the poor girl -in her lover’s last words. And yet they had almost made her tremble. He -had been so bold, and stern, and confident. He had seemed so utterly to -defy the impregnable discretion of Mr. Beckard, so to despise the -demure propriety of Hetta. But of this she felt sure, when she came to -question her heart, that she could never, never, never cease to love him -better than all the world beside. She would wait--patiently if she could -find patience--and then, if he deserted her, she would die. - -In another month Hetta became Mrs. Beckard. Susan brisked up a little -for the occasion, and looked very pretty as bridesmaid. She was -serviceable too in arranging household matters, hemming linen and sewing -table-cloths; though of course in these matters she did not do a tenth -of what Hetta did. - -Then the summer came, the Saratoga summer of July, August, and -September, during which the widow’s house was full; and Susan’s hands -saved the pain of her heart, for she was forced into occupation. Now -that Hetta was gone to her own duties, it was necessary that Susan’s -part in the household should be more prominent. - -Aaron did not come back to his work at Saratoga. Why he did not they -could not then learn. During the whole long summer they heard not a word -of him nor from him; and then when the cold winter months came and their -boarders had left them, Mrs. Beckard congratulated her sister in that -she had given no further encouragement to a lover who cared so little -for her. This was very hard to bear. But Susan did bear it. - -That winter was very sad. They learned nothing of Aaron Dunn till about -January; and then they heard that he was doing very well. He was engaged -on the Erie trunk line, was paid highly, and was much esteemed. And yet -he neither came nor sent! “He has an excellent situation,” their -informant told them. “And a permanent one?” asked the widow. “Oh, yes, -no doubt,” said the gentleman, “for I happen to know that they count -greatly on him.” And yet he sent no word of love. - -After that the winter became very sad indeed. Mrs. Bell thought it to be -her duty now to teach her daughter that in all probability she would see -Aaron Dunn no more. It was open to him to leave her without being -absolutely a wolf. He had been driven from the house when he was poor, -and they had no right to expect that he would return, now that he had -made some rise in the world. “Men do amuse themselves in that way,” the -widow tried to teach her. - -“He is not like that, mother,” she said again. - -“But they do not think so much of these things as we do,” urged the -mother. - -“Don’t they?” said Susan, oh, so sorrowfully; and so through the whole -long winter months she became paler and paler, and thinner and thinner. - -And then Hetta tried to console her with religion, and that perhaps did -not make things any better. Religious consolation is the best cure for -all griefs; but it must not be looked for specially with regard to any -individual sorrow. A religious man, should he become bankrupt through -the misfortunes of the world, will find true consolation in his religion -even for that sorrow. But a bankrupt, who has not thought much of such -things, will hardly find solace by taking up religion for that special -occasion. - -And Hetta perhaps was hardly prudent in her attempts. She thought that -it was wicked in Susan to grow thin and pale for love of Aaron Dunn, and -she hardly hid her thoughts. Susan was not sure but that it might be -wicked, but this doubt in no way tended to make her plump or rosy. So -that in those days she found no comfort in her sister. - -But her mother’s pity and soft love did ease her sufferings, though it -could not make them cease. Her mother did not tell her that she was -wicked, or bid her read long sermons, or force her to go oftener to the -meeting-house. - -“He will never come again, I think,” she said one day, as with a shawl -wrapped around her shoulders, she leant with her head upon her mother’s -bosom. - -“My own darling,” said the mother, pressing her child closely to her -side. - -“You think he never will, eh, mother?” What could Mrs. Bell say? In her -heart of hearts she did not think he ever would come again. - -“No, my child. I do not think he will.” And then the hot tears ran down, -and the sobs came thick and frequent. - -“My darling, my darling!” exclaimed the mother; and they wept together. - -“Was I wicked to love him at the first,” she asked that night. - -“No, my child; you were not wicked at all. At least I think not.” - -“Then why----” Why was he sent away? It was on her tongue to ask that -question; but she paused and spared her mother. This was as they were -going to bed. The next morning Susan did not get up. She was not ill, -she said; but weak and weary. Would her mother let her lie that day? And -then Mrs. Bell went down alone to her room, and sorrowed with all her -heart for the sorrow of her child. Why, oh why, had she driven away from -her door-sill the love of an honest man? - -On the next morning Susan again did not get up;--nor did she hear, or if -she heard she did not recognise, the step of the postman who brought a -letter to the door. Early, before the widow’s breakfast, the postman -came, and the letter which he brought was as follows:-- - - “MY DEAR MRS. BELL, - - “I have now got a permanent situation on the Erie line, and the - salary is enough for myself and a wife. At least I think so, and I - hope you will too. I shall be down at Saratoga to-morrow evening, - and I hope neither Susan, nor you will refuse to receive me. - - “Yours affectionately, - - “AARON DUNN.” - - - -That was all. It was very short, and did not contain one word of love; -but it made the widow’s heart leap for joy. She was rather afraid that -Aaron was angry, he wrote so curtly and with such a brusque -business-like attention to mere facts; but surely he could have but one -object in coming there. And then he alluded specially to a wife. So the -widow’s heart leapt with joy. - -But how was she to tell Susan? She ran up stairs almost breathless with -haste, to the bedroom door; but then she stopped; too much joy she had -heard was as dangerous as too much sorrow; she must think it over for a -while, and so she crept back again. - -But after breakfast--that is, when she had sat for a while over her -teacup--she returned to the room, and this time she entered it. The -letter was in her hand, but held so as to be hidden;--in her left hand -as she sat down with her right arm towards the invalid. - -“Susan dear,” she said, and smiled at her child, “you’ll be able to get -up this morning? eh, dear?” - -“Yes, mother,” said Susan, thinking that her mother objected to this -idleness of her lying in bed. And so she began to bestir herself. - -“I don’t mean this very moment, love. Indeed, I want to sit with you for -a little while,” and she put her right arm affectionately round her -daughter’s waist. - -“Dearest mother,” said Susan. - -“Ah! there’s one dearer than me, I guess,” and Mrs. Bell smiled sweetly, -as she made the maternal charge against her daughter. - -Susan raised herself quickly in the bed, and looked straight into her -mother’s face. “Mother, mother,” she said, “what is it? You’ve something -to tell. Oh, mother!” And stretching herself over, she struck her hand -against the corner of Aaron’s letter. “Mother, you’ve a letter. Is he -coming, mother?” and with eager eyes and open lips, she sat up, holding -tight to her mother’s arm. - -“Yes, love. I have got a letter.” - -“Is he--is he coming?” - -How the mother answered, I can hardly tell; but she did answer, and they -were soon lying in each other’s arms, warm with each other’s tears. It -was almost hard to say which was the happier. - -Aaron was to be there that evening--that very evening. “Oh, mother, let -me get up,” said Susan. - -But Mrs. Bell said no, not yet; her darling was pale and thin, and she -almost wished that Aaron was not coming for another week. What if he -should come and look at her, and finding her beauty gone, vanish again -and seek a wife elsewhere! - -So Susan lay in bed, thinking of her happiness, dozing now and again, -and fearing as she waked that it was a dream, looking constantly at that -drawing of his, which she kept outside upon the bed, nursing her love -and thinking of it, and endeavouring, vainly endeavouring, to arrange -what she would say to him. - -“Mother,” she said, when Mrs. Bell once went up to her, “you won’t tell -Hetta and Phineas, will you? Not to-day, I mean?” Mrs. Bell agreed that -it would be better not to tell them. Perhaps she thought that she had -already depended too much on Hetta and Phineas in the matter. - -Susan’s finery in the way of dress had never been extensive, and now -lately, in these last sad winter days, she had thought but little of the -fashion of her clothes. But when she began to dress herself for the -evening, she did ask her mother with some anxiety what she had better -wear. “If he loves you he will hardly see what you have on,” said the -mother. But not the less was she careful to smooth her daughter’s hair, -and make the most that might be made of those faded roses. - -How Susan’s heart beat,--how both their hearts beat as the hands of the -clock came round to seven! And then, sharp at seven, came the knock; -that same short bold ringing knock which Susan had so soon learned to -know as belonging to Aaron Dunn. “Oh mother, I had better go up stairs,” -she cried, starting from her chair. - -“No dear; you would only be more nervous.” - -“I will, mother.” - -“No, no, dear; you have not time;” and then Aaron Dunn was in the room. - -She had thought much what she would say to him, but had not yet quite -made up her mind. It mattered however but very little. On whatever she -might have resolved, her resolution would have vanished to the wind. -Aaron Dunn came into the room, and in one second she found herself in -the centre of a whirlwind, and his arms were the storms that enveloped -her on every side. - -“My own, own darling girl,” he said over and over again, as he pressed -her to his heart, quite regardless of Mrs. Bell, who stood by, sobbing -with joy. “My own Susan.” - -“Aaron, dear Aaron,” she whispered. But she had already recognised the -fact that for the present meeting a passive part would become her well, -and save her a deal of trouble. She had her lover there quite safe, safe -beyond anything that Mr. or Mrs. Beckard might have to say to the -contrary. She was quite happy; only that there were symptoms now and -again that the whirlwind was about to engulf her yet once more. - -“Dear Aaron, I am so glad you are come,” said the innocent-minded widow, -as she went up stairs with him, to show him his room; and then he -embraced her also. “Dear, dear mother,” he said. - -On the next day there was, as a matter of course, a family conclave. -Hetta and Phineas came down, and discussed the whole subject of the -coming marriage with Mrs. Bell. Hetta at first was not quite -certain;--ought they not to inquire whether the situation was permanent? - -“I won’t inquire at all,” said Mrs. Bell, with an energy that startled -both the daughter and son-in-law. “I would not part them now; no, not -if----” and the widow shuddered as she thought of her daughter’s sunken -eyes, and pale cheeks. - -“He is a good lad,” said Phineas, “and I trust she will make him a sober -steady wife;” and so the matter was settled. - -During this time, Susan and Aaron were walking along the Balston road; -and they also had settled the matter--quite as satisfactorily. - -Such was the courtship of Susan Dunn. - - - - -RELICS OF GENERAL CHASSÉ. - -A TALE OF ANTWERP. - - -That Belgium is now one of the European kingdoms, living by its own -laws, resting on its own bottom, with a king and court, palaces and -parliament of its own, is known to all the world. And a very nice little -kingdom it is; full of old towns, fine Flemish pictures, and interesting -Gothic churches. But in the memory of very many of us who do not think -ourselves old men, Belgium, as it is now called--in those days it used -to be Flanders and Brabant--was a part of Holland; and it obtained its -own independence by a revolution. In that revolution the most important -military step was the siege of Antwerp, which was defended on the part -of the Dutch by General Chassé, with the utmost gallantry, but -nevertheless ineffectually. - -After the siege Antwerp became quite a show place; and among the -visitors who flocked there to talk of the gallant general, and to see -what remained of the great effort which he had made to defend the place, -were two Englishmen. One was the hero of this little history; and the -other was a young man of considerably less weight in the world. The less -I say of the latter the better; but it is necessary that I should give -some description of the former. - -The Rev. Augustus Horne was, at the time of my narrative, a beneficed -clergyman of the Church of England. The profession which he had graced -sat easily on him. Its external marks and signs were as pleasing to his -friends as were its internal comforts to himself. He was a man of much -quiet mirth, full of polished wit, and on some rare occasions he could -descend to the more noisy hilarity of a joke. Loved by his friends he -loved all the world. He had known no care and seen no sorrow. Always -intended for holy orders he had entered them without a scruple, and -remained within their pale without a regret. At twenty-four he had been -a deacon, at twenty-seven a priest, at thirty a rector, and at -thirty-five a prebendary; and as his rectory was rich and his prebendal -stall well paid, the Rev. Augustus Horne was called by all, and called -himself, a happy man. His stature was about six feet two, and his -corpulence exceeded even those bounds which symmetry would have -preferred as being most perfectly compatible even with such a height. -But nevertheless Mr. Horne was a well-made man; his hands and feet were -small; his face was handsome, frank, and full of expression; his bright -eyes twinkled with humour; his finely-cut mouth disclosed two marvellous -rows of well-preserved ivory; and his slightly aquiline nose was just -such a projection as one would wish to see on the face of a well-fed -good-natured dignitary of the Church of England. When I add to all this -that the reverend gentleman was as generous as he was rich--and the kind -mother in whose arms he had been nurtured had taken care that he should -never want--I need hardly say that I was blessed with a very pleasant -travelling companion. - -I must mention one more interesting particular. Mr. Horne was rather -inclined to dandyism, in an innocent way. His clerical starched -neckcloth was always of the whitest, his cambric handkerchief of the -finest, his bands adorned with the broadest border; his sable suit never -degenerated to a rusty brown; it not only gave on all occasions glossy -evidence of freshness, but also of the talent which the artisan had -displayed in turning out a well-dressed clergyman of the Church of -England. His hair was ever brushed with scrupulous attention, and showed -in its regular waves the guardian care of each separate bristle. And all -this was done with that ease and grace which should be the -characteristics of a dignitary of the established English Church. - -I had accompanied Mr. Horne to the Rhine; and we had reached Brussels on -our return, just at the close of that revolution which ended in -affording a throne to the son-in-law of George the Fourth. At that -moment General Chassé’s name and fame were in every man’s mouth, and, -like other curious admirers of the brave, Mr. Horne determined to devote -two days to the scene of the late events at Antwerp. Antwerp, moreover, -possesses perhaps the finest spire, and certainly one of the three or -four finest pictures, in the world. Of General Chassé, of the cathedral, -and of the Rubens, I had heard much, and was therefore well pleased that -such should be his resolution. This accomplished we were to return to -Brussels; and thence, viâ Ghent, Ostend, and Dover, I to complete my -legal studies in London, and Mr. Horne to enjoy once more the peaceful -retirement of Ollerton rectory. As we were to be absent from Brussels -but one night we were enabled to indulge in the gratification of -travelling without our luggage. A small sac-de-nuit was prepared; -brushes, combs, razors, strops, a change of linen, &c. &c., were -carefully put up; but our heavy baggage, our coats, waistcoats, and -other wearing apparel were unnecessary. It was delightful to feel -oneself so light-handed. The reverend gentleman, with my humble self by -his side, left the portal of the Hôtel de Belle Vue at 7 A.M., in good -humour with all the world. There were no railroads in those days; but a -cabriolet, big enough to hold six persons, with rope traces and -corresponding appendages, deposited us at the Golden Fleece in something -less than six hours. The inward man was duly fortified, and we started -for the castle. - -It boots not here to describe the effects which gunpowder and grape-shot -had had on the walls of Antwerp. Let the curious in these matters read -the horrors of the siege of Troy, or the history of Jerusalem taken by -Titus. The one may be found in Homer, and the other in Josephus. Or if -they prefer doings of a later date there is the taking of Sebastopol, as -narrated in the columns of the “Times” newspaper. The accounts are -equally true, instructive, and intelligible. In the mean time allow the -Rev. Augustus Horne and myself to enter the private chambers of the -renowned though defeated general. - -We rambled for a while through the covered way, over the glacis and -along the counterscarp, and listened to the guide as he detailed to us, -in already accustomed words, how the siege had gone. Then we got into -the private apartments of the general, and, having dexterously shaken -off our attendant, wandered at large among the deserted rooms. - -“It is clear that no one ever comes here,” said I. - -“No,” said the Rev. Augustus; “it seems not; and to tell the truth, I -don’t know why any one should come. The chambers in themselves are not -attractive.” - -What he said was true. They were plain, ugly, square, unfurnished rooms, -here a big one, and there a little one, as is usual in most -houses;--unfurnished, that is, for the most part. In one place we did -find a table and a few chairs, in another a bedstead, and so on. But to -me it was pleasant to indulge in those ruminations which any traces of -the great or unfortunate create in softly sympathising minds. For a time -we communicated our thoughts to each other as we roamed free as air -through the apartments; and then I lingered for a few moments behind, -while Mr. Horne moved on with a quicker step. - -At last I entered the bedchamber of the general, and there I overtook my -friend. He was inspecting, with much attention, an article of the great -man’s wardrobe which he held in his hand. It was precisely that virile -habiliment to which a well-known gallant captain alludes in his -conversation with the posthumous appearance of Miss Bailey, as -containing a Bank of England £5 note. - -“The general must have been a large man, George, or he would hardly have -filled these,” said Mr. Horne, holding up to the light the respectable -leathern articles in question. “He must have been a very large man,--the -largest man in Antwerp, I should think; or else his tailor has done him -more than justice.” - -They were certainly large, and had about them a charming regimental -military appearance. They were made of white leather, with bright metal -buttons at the knees and bright metal buttons at the top. They owned no -pockets, and were, with the exception of the legitimate outlet, -continuous in the circumference of the waistband. No dangling strings -gave them an appearance of senile imbecility. Were it not for a certain -rigidity, sternness, and mental inflexibility,--we will call it military -ardour,--with which they were imbued, they would have created envy in -the bosom of a fox-hunter. - -Mr. Horne was no fox-hunter, but still he seemed to be irresistibly -taken with the lady-like propensity of wishing to wear them. “Surely, -George,” he said, “the general must have been a stouter man than I -am”--and he contemplated his own proportions with complacency--“these -what’s-the-names are quite big enough for me.” - -I differed in opinion, and was obliged to explain that I thought he did -the good living of Ollerton insufficient justice. - -“I am sure they are large enough for me,” he repeated, with considerable -obstinacy. I smiled incredulously; and then to settle the matter he -resolved that he would try them on. Nobody had been in these rooms for -the last hour, and it appeared as though they were never visited. Even -the guide had not come on with us, but was employed in showing other -parties about the fortifications. It was clear that this portion of the -building was left desolate, and that the experiment might be safely -made. So the sportive rector declared that he would for a short time -wear the regimentals which had once contained the valorous heart of -General Chassé. - -With all decorum the Rev. Mr. Horne divested himself of the work of the -London artist’s needle, and, carefully placing his own garments beyond -the reach of dust, essayed to fit himself in military garb. - -At that important moment--at the critical instant of the attempt--the -clatter of female voices was heard approaching the chamber. They must -have suddenly come round some passage corner, for it was evident by the -sound that they were close upon us before we had any warning of their -advent. At this very minute Mr. Horne was somewhat embarrassed in his -attempts, and was not fully in possession of his usual active powers of -movement, nor of his usual presence of mind. He only looked for escape; -and seeing a door partly open, he with difficulty retreated through it, -and I followed him. We found that we were in a small dressing-room; and -as by good luck the door was defended by an inner bolt, my friend was -able to protect himself. - -“There shall be another siege, at any rate as stout as the last, before -I surrender,” said he. - -As the ladies seemed inclined to linger in the room it became a matter -of importance that the above-named articles should fit, not only for -ornament but for use. It was very cold, and Mr. Horne was altogether -unused to move in a Highland sphere of life. But alas, alas! General -Chassé had not been nurtured in the classical retirement of Ollerton. -The ungiving leather would stretch no point to accommodate the divine, -though it had been willing to minister to the convenience of the -soldier. Mr. Horne was vexed and chilled; and throwing the now hateful -garments into a corner, and protecting himself from the cold as best he -might by standing with his knees together and his body somewhat bent so -as to give the skirts of his coat an opportunity of doing extra duty, he -begged me to see if those jabbering females were not going to leave him -in peace to recover his own property. I accordingly went to the door, -and opening it to a small extent I peeped through. - -Who shall describe my horror at the sight which I then saw? The scene, -which had hitherto been tinted with comic effect, was now becoming so -decidedly tragic that I did not dare at once to acquaint my worthy -pastor with that which was occurring,--and, alas! had already occurred. - -Five country-women of our own--it was easy to know them by their dress -and general aspect--were standing in the middle of the room; and one of -them, the centre of the group, the senior harpy of the lot, a maiden -lady--I could have sworn to that--with a red nose, held in one hand a -huge pair of scissors, and in the other--the already devoted goods of my -most unfortunate companion! Down from the waistband, through that goodly -expanse, a fell gash had already gone through and through; and in -useless, unbecoming disorder the broadcloth fell pendant from her arm on -this side and on that. At that moment I confess that I had not the -courage to speak to Mr. Horne,--not even to look at him. - -I must describe that group. Of the figure next to me I could only see -the back. It was a broad back done up in black silk not of the newest. -The whole figure, one may say, was dumpy. The black silk was not long, -as dresses now are worn, nor wide in its skirts. In every way it was -skimpy, considering the breadth it had to cover; and below the silk I -saw the heels of two thick shoes, and enough to swear by of two woollen -stockings. Above the silk was a red and blue shawl; and above that a -ponderous, elaborate brown bonnet, as to the materials of which I should -not wish to undergo an examination. Over and beyond this I could only -see the backs of her two hands. They were held up as though in wonder at -that which the red-nosed holder of the scissors had dared to do. - -Opposite to this lady, and with her face fully turned to me, was a -kindly-looking, fat motherly woman, with light-coloured hair, not in the -best order. She was hot and scarlet with exercise, being perhaps too -stout for the steep steps of the fortress; and in one hand she held a -handkerchief, with which from time to time she wiped her brow. In the -other hand she held one of the extremities of my friend’s property, -feeling--good, careful soul!--what was the texture of the cloth. As she -did so, I could see a glance of approbation pass across her warm -features. I liked that lady’s face, in spite of her untidy hair, and -felt that had she been alone my friend would not have been injured. - -On either side of her there stood a flaxen-haired maiden, with long -curls, large blue eyes, fresh red cheeks, an undefined lumpy nose, and -large good-humoured mouth. They were as like as two peas, only that one -was half an inch taller than the other; and there was no difficulty in -discovering, at a moment’s glance, that they were the children of that -over-heated matron who was feeling the web of my friend’s cloth. - -But the principal figure was she who held the centre place in the group. -She was tall and thin, with fierce-looking eyes, rendered more fierce by -the spectacles which she wore; with a red nose as I said before; and -about her an undescribable something which quite convinced me that she -had never known--could never know--aught of the comforts of married -life. It was she who held the scissors and the black garments. It was -she who had given that unkind cut. As I looked at her she whisked -herself quickly round from one companion to the other, triumphing in -what she had done, and ready to triumph further in what she was about to -do. I immediately conceived a deep hatred for that Queen of the Harpies. - -“Well, I suppose they can’t be wanted again,” said the mother, rubbing -her forehead. - -“Oh dear no!” said she of the red nose. “They are relics!” - -I thought to leap forth; but for what purpose should I have leaped? The -accursed scissors had already done their work; and the symmetry, nay, -even the utility of the vestment was destroyed. - -“General Chassé wore a very good article;--I will say that for him,” -continued the mother. - -“Of course he did!” said the Queen Harpy. “Why should he not, seeing -that the country paid for it for him? Well, ladies, who’s for having a -bit?” - -“Oh my! you won’t go for to cut them up,” said the stout back. - -“Won’t I,” said the scissors; and she immediately made another incision. -“Who’s for having a bit? Don’t all speak at once.” - -“I should like a morsel for a pincushion,” said flaxen-haired Miss No. -1, a young lady about nineteen, actuated by a general affection for all -sword-bearing, fire-eating heroes. “I should like to have something to -make me think of the poor general!” - -Snip, snip went the scissors with professional rapidity, and a round -piece was extracted from the back of the calf of the left leg. I -shuddered with horror; and so did the Rev. Augustus Horne with cold. - -“I hardly think it’s proper to cut them up,” said Miss No. 2. - -“Oh isn’t it?” said the harpy. “Then I’ll do what’s improper!” And she -got her finger and thumb well through the holes in the scissors’ -handles. As she spoke resolution was plainly marked on her brow. - -“Well, if they are to be cut up, I should certainly like a bit for a -pen-wiper,” said No. 2. No. 2 was a literary young lady with a -periodical correspondence, a journal, and an album. Snip, snip went the -scissors again, and the broad part of the upper right division afforded -ample materials for a pen-wiper. - -Then the lady with the back, seeing that the desecration of the article -had been completed, plucked up heart of courage and put in her little -request; “I think I might have a needle-case out of it,” said she, “just -as a suvneer of the poor general”--and a long fragment cut rapidly out -of the waistband afforded her unqualified delight. - -Mamma, with the hot face and untidy hair, came next. “Well, girls,” she -said, “as you are all served, I don’t see why I’m to be left out. -Perhaps, Miss Grogram”--she was an old maid, you see--“perhaps, Miss -Grogram, you could get me as much as would make a decent-sized -reticule.” - -There was not the slightest difficulty in doing this. The harpy in the -centre again went to work, snip, snip, and extracting from that portion -of the affairs which usually sustained the greater portion of Mr. -Horne’s weight two large round pieces of cloth, presented them to the -well-pleased matron. “The general knew well where to get a bit of good -broadcloth, certainly,” said she, again feeling the pieces. - -“And now for No. 1,” said she whom I so absolutely hated; “I think there -is still enough for a pair of slippers. There’s nothing so nice for the -house as good black cloth slippers that are warm to the feet and don’t -show the dirt.” And so saying, she spread out on the floor the lacerated -remainders. - -“There’s a nice bit there,” said young lady No. 2, poking at one of the -pockets with the end of her parasol. - -“Yes,” said the harpy, contemplating her plunder. “But I’m thinking -whether I couldn’t get leggings as well. I always wear leggings in the -thick of the winter.” And so she concluded her operations, and there was -nothing left but a melancholy skeleton of seams and buttons. - -All this having been achieved, they pocketed their plunder and prepared -to depart. There are people who have a wonderful appetite for relics. A -stone with which Washington had broken a window when a boy--with which -he had done so or had not, for there is little difference; a button that -was on a coat of Napoleon’s, or on that of one of his lackeys; a bullet -said to have been picked up at Waterloo or Bunker’s Hill; these, and -suchlike things are great treasures. And their most desirable -characteristic is the ease with which they are attained. Any bullet or -any button does the work. Faith alone is necessary. And now these -ladies had made themselves happy and glorious with “Relics” of General -Chassé cut from the ill-used habiliments of an elderly English -gentleman! - -They departed at last, and Mr. Horne, for once in an ill humour, -followed me into the bedroom. Here I must be excused if I draw a veil -over his manly sorrow at discovering what fate had done for him. -Remember what was his position, unclothed in the Castle of Antwerp! The -nearest suitable change for those which had been destroyed was locked up -in his portmanteau at the Hôtel de Belle Vue in Brussels! He had nothing -left to him--literally nothing, in that Antwerp world. There was no -other wretched being wandering then in that Dutch town so utterly -denuded of the goods of life. For what is a man fit,--for what can he be -fit,--when left in such a position? There are some evils which seem -utterly to crush a man; and if there be any misfortune to which a man -may be allowed to succumb without imputation on his manliness, surely it -is such as this. How was Mr. Home to return to his hotel without -incurring the displeasure of the municipality? That was my first -thought. - -He had a cloak, but it was at the inn; and I found that my friend was -oppressed with a great horror at the idea of being left alone; so that I -could not go in search of it. There is an old saying, that no man is a -hero to his valet de chambre,--the reason doubtless being this, that it -is customary for his valet to see the hero divested of those trappings -in which so much of the heroic consists. Who reverences a clergyman -without his gown, or a warrior without his sword and sabre-tasche? What -would even Minerva be without her helmet? - -I do not wish it to be understood that I no longer reverenced Mr. Horne -because he was in an undress; but he himself certainly lost much of his -composed, well-sustained dignity of demeanour. He was fearful and -querulous, cold, and rather cross. When, forgetting his size, I offered -him my own, he thought that I was laughing at him. He began to be afraid -that the story would get abroad, and he then and there exacted a promise -that I would never tell it during his lifetime. I have kept my word; but -now my old friend has been gathered to his fathers, full of years. - -At last I got him to the hotel. It was long before he would leave the -castle, cloaked though he was;--not, indeed, till the shades of evening -had dimmed the outlines of men and things, and made indistinct the -outward garniture of those who passed to and fro in the streets. Then, -wrapped in his cloak, Mr. Horne followed me along the quays and through -the narrowest of the streets; and at length, without venturing to return -the gaze of any one in the hotel court, he made his way up to his own -bedroom. - -Dinnerless and supperless he went to his couch. But when there he did -consent to receive some consolation in the shape of mutton cutlets and -fried potatoes, a savory omelet, and a bottle of claret. The mutton -cutlets and fried potatoes at the Golden Fleece at Antwerp are--or were -then, for I am speaking now of well-nigh thirty years since--remarkably -good; the claret, also, was of the best; and so, by degrees, the look of -despairing dismay passed from his face, and some scintillations of the -old fire returned to his eyes. - -“I wonder whether they find themselves much happier for what they have -got?” said he. - -“A great deal happier,” said I. “They’ll boast of those things to all -their friends at home, and we shall doubtless see some account of their -success in the newspapers.” - -“It would be delightful to expose their blunder,--to show them up. Would -it not, George? To turn the tables on them?” - -“Yes,” said I, “I should like to have the laugh against them.” - -“So would I, only that I should compromise myself by telling the story. -It wouldn’t do at all to have it told at Oxford with my name attached to -it.” - -To this also I assented. To what would I not have assented in my anxiety -to make him happy after his misery? - -But all was not over yet. He was in bed now, but it was necessary that -he should rise again on the morrow. At home, in England, what was -required might perhaps have been made during the night; but here, among -the slow Flemings, any such exertion would have been impossible. Mr. -Horne, moreover, had no desire to be troubled in his retirement by a -tailor. - -Now the landlord of the Golden fleece was a very stout man,--a very -stout man indeed. Looking at him as he stood with his hands in his -pockets at the portal of his own establishment, I could not but think -that he was stouter even than Mr. Horne. But then he was certainly much -shorter, and the want of due proportion probably added to his unwieldy -appearance. I walked round him once or twice wishfully, measuring him in -my eye, and thinking of what texture might be the Sunday best of such a -man. The clothes which he then had on were certainly not exactly suited -to Mr. Horne’s tastes. - -He saw that I was observing him, and appeared uneasy and offended. I had -already ascertained that he spoke a little English. Of Flemish I knew -literally nothing, and in French, with which probably he was also -acquainted, I was by no means voluble. The business which I had to -transact was intricate, and I required the use of my mother-tongue. - -It was intricate and delicate, and difficult withal. I began by -remarking on the weather, but he did not take my remarks kindly. I am -inclined to fancy that he thought I was desirous of borrowing money from -him. At any rate he gave me no encouragement in my first advances. - -“Vat misfortune?” at last he asked, when I had succeeded in making him -understand that a gentleman up stairs required his assistance. - -“He has lost these things,” and I took hold of my own garments. “It’s a -long story, or I’d tell you how; but he has not a pair in the world till -he gets back to Brussels,--unless you can lend him one.” - -“Lost hees br----?” and he opened his eyes wide, and looked at me with -astonishment. - -“Yes, yes, exactly so,” said I, interrupting him. “Most astonishing -thing, isn’t it? But it’s quite true.” - -“Vas hees money in de pocket?” asked my suspicious landlord. - -“No, no, no. It’s not so bad as that. His money is all right. I had the -money, luckily.” - -“Ah! dat is better. But he have lost hees b----?” - -“Yes, yes;” I was now getting rather impatient. “There is no mistake -about it. He has lost them as sure as you stand there.” And then I -proceeded to explain that as the gentleman in question was very stout, -and as he, the landlord, was stout also, he might assist us in this -great calamity by a loan from his own wardrobe. - -When he found that the money was not in the pocket, and that his bill -therefore would be paid, he was not indisposed to be gracious. He would, -he said, desire his servant to take up what was required to Mr. Horne’s -chamber. I endeavoured to make him understand that a sombre colour would -be preferable; but he only answered that he would put the best that he -had at the gentleman’s disposal. He could not think of offering anything -less than his best on such an occasion. And then he turned his back and -went his way, muttering as he went something in Flemish, which I -believed to be an exclamation of astonishment that any man should, -under any circumstances, lose such an article. - -It was now getting late; so when I had taken a short stroll by myself, I -went to bed without disturbing Mr. Horne again that night. On the -following morning I thought it best not to go to him unless he sent for -me; so I desired the boots to let him know that I had ordered breakfast -in a private room, and that I would await him there unless he wished to -see me. He sent me word back to say that he would be with me very -shortly. - -He did not keep me waiting above half an hour, but I confess that that -half hour was not pleasantly spent. I feared that his temper would be -tried in dressing, and that he would not be able to eat his breakfast in -a happy state of mind. So that when I heard his heavy footstep advancing -along the passage my heart did misgive me, and I felt that I was -trembling. - -That step was certainly slower and more ponderous than usual. There was -always a certain dignity in the very sound of his movements, but now -this seemed to have been enhanced. To judge merely by the step one would -have said that a bishop was coming that way instead of a prebendary. - -And then he entered. In the upper half of his august person no -alteration was perceptible. The hair was as regular and as graceful as -ever, the handkerchief as white, the coat as immaculate; but below his -well-filled waistcoat a pair of red plush began to shine in unmitigated -splendour, and continued from thence down to within an inch above his -knee; nor, as it appeared, could any pulling induce them to descend -lower. Mr. Horne always wore black silk stockings,--at least so the -world supposed, but it was now apparent that the world had been wrong in -presuming him to be guilty of such extravagance. Those, at any rate, -which he exhibited on the present occasion were more economical. They -were silk to the calf, but thence upwards they continued their career in -white cotton. These then followed the plush; first two snowy, full-sized -pillars of white, and then two jet columns of flossy silk. Such was the -appearance, on that well-remembered morning, of the Rev. Augustus Horne, -as he entered the room in which his breakfast was prepared. - -I could see at a glance that a dark frown contracted his eyebrows, and -that the compressed muscles of his upper lip gave a strange degree of -austerity to his open face. He carried his head proudly on high, -determined to be dignified in spite of his misfortunes, and advanced two -steps into the room without a remark, as though he were able to show -that neither red plush nor black cloth could disarrange the equal poise -of his mighty mind! - -And after all what are a man’s garments but the outward husks in which -the fruit is kept, duly tempered from the wind? - - “The rank is but the guinea stamp, - The man’s the gowd for a’ that.” - -And is not the tailor’s art as little worthy, as insignificant as that -of the king who makes - - “A marquis, duke, and a’ that”? - -Who would be content to think that his manly dignity depended on his -coat and waistcoat, or his hold on the world’s esteem on any other -garment of usual wear? That no such weakness soiled his mind Mr. Horne -was determined to prove; and thus he entered the room with measured -tread, and stern dignified demeanour. - -Having advanced two steps his eye caught mine. I do not know whether he -was moved by some unconscious smile on my part;--for in truth I -endeavoured to seem as indifferent as himself to the nature of his -dress;--or whether he was invincibly tickled by some inward fancy of his -own, but suddenly his advancing step ceased, a broad flash of comic -humour spread itself over his features, he retreated with his back -against the wall, and then burst out into an immoderate roar of loud -laughter. - -And I--what else could I then do but laugh? He laughed, and I laughed. -He roared, and I roared. He lifted up his vast legs to view till the -rays of the morning sun shone through the window on the bright hues -which he displayed; and he did not sit down to his breakfast till he had -in every fantastic attitude shown off to the best advantage the red -plush of which he had so recently become proud. - -An Antwerp private cabriolet on that day reached the yard of the Hôtel -de Belle Vue at about 4 P.M., and four waiters, in a frenzy of -astonishment, saw the Reverend Augustus Horne descend from the vehicle -and seek his chamber dressed in the garments which I have described. But -I am inclined to think that he never again favoured any of his friends -with such a sight. - -It was on the next evening after this that I went out to drink tea with -two maiden ladies, relatives of mine, who kept a seminary for English -girls at Brussels. The Misses Macmanus were very worthy women, and -earned their bread in an upright, painstaking manner. I would not for -worlds have passed through Brussels without paying them this -compliment. They were, however, perhaps a little dull, and I was aware -that I should not probably meet in their drawing-room many of the -fashionable inhabitants of the city. Mr. Horne had declined to accompany -me; but in doing so he was good enough to express a warm admiration for -the character of my worthy cousins. - -The elder Miss Macmanus, in her little note, had informed me that she -would have the pleasure of introducing me to a few of my “compatriots.” -I presumed she meant Englishmen; and as I was in the habit of meeting -such every day of my life at home, I cannot say that I was peculiarly -elevated by the promise. When, however, I entered the room, there was no -Englishman there;--there was no man of any kind. There were twelve -ladies collected together with the view of making the evening pass -agreeably to me, the single virile being among them all. I felt as -though I were a sort of Mohammed in Paradise; but I certainly felt also -that the Paradise was none of my own choosing. - -In the centre of the amphitheatre which the ladies formed sat the two -Misses Macmanus;--there, at least, they sat when they had completed the -process of shaking hands with me. To the left of them, making one wing -of the semicircle, were arranged the five pupils by attending to whom -the Misses Macmanus earned their living; and the other wing consisted of -the five ladies who had furnished themselves with relics of General -Chassé. They were my “compatriots.” - -I was introduced to them all, one after the other; but their names did -not abide in my memory one moment. I was thinking too much of the -singularity of the adventure, and could not attend to such minutiæ. That -the red-rosed harpy was Miss Grogram, that I remembered;--that, I may -say, I shall never forget. But whether the motherly lady with the -somewhat blowsy hair was Mrs. Jones, or Mrs. Green, or Mrs. Walker, I -cannot now say. The dumpy female with the broad back was always called -Aunt Sally by the young ladies. - -Too much sugar spoils one’s tea; I think I have heard that even -prosperity will cloy when it comes in overdoses; and a schoolboy has -been known to be overdone with jam. I myself have always been peculiarly -attached to ladies’ society, and have avoided bachelor parties as things -execrable in their very nature. But on this special occasion I felt -myself to be that schoolboy;--I was literally overdone with jam. My tea -was all sugar, so that I could not drink it. I was one among twelve. -What could I do or say? The proportion of alloy was too small to have -any effect in changing the nature of the virgin silver, and the -conversation became absolutely feminine. - -I must confess also that my previous experience as to these compatriots -of mine had not prejudiced me in their favour. I regarded them with,--I -am ashamed to say so, seeing that they were ladies,--but almost with -loathing. When last I had seen them their occupation had reminded me of -some obscene feast of harpies, or almost of ghouls. They had brought -down to the verge of desperation the man whom of all men I most -venerated. On these accounts I was inclined to be taciturn with -reference to them;--and then what could I have to say to the Misses -Macmanus’s five pupils? - -My cousin at first made an effort or two in my favour, but these efforts -were fruitless. I soon died away into utter unrecognised insignificance, -and the conversation, as I have before said, became feminine. And indeed -that horrid Miss Grogram, who was, as it were, the princess of the -ghouls, nearly monopolised the whole of it. Mamma Jones--we will call -her Jones for the occasion--put in a word now and then, as did also the -elder and more energetic Miss Macmanus. The dumpy lady with the broad -back ate tea-cake incessantly; the two daughters looked scornful, as -though they were above their company with reference to the five pupils; -and the five pupils themselves sat in a row with the utmost propriety, -each with her hands crossed on her lap before her. - -Of what they were talking at last I became utterly oblivious. They had -ignored me, going into realms of muslin, questions of maid-servants, -female rights, and cheap under-clothing; and I therefore had ignored -them. My mind had gone back to Mr. Horne and his garments. While they -spoke of their rights, I was thinking of his wrongs; when they mentioned -the price of flannel, I thought of that of broadcloth. - -But of a sudden my attention was arrested. Miss Macmanus had said -something of the black silks of Antwerp, when Miss Grogram replied that -she had just returned from that city and had there enjoyed a great -success. My cousin had again asked something about the black silks, -thinking, no doubt, that Miss Grogram had achieved some bargain; but -that lady had soon undeceived her. - -“Oh no,” said Miss Grogram, “it was at the castle. We got such beautiful -relics of General Chassé! Didn’t we, Mrs. Jones?” - -“Indeed we did,” said Mrs. Jones, bringing out from beneath the skirts -of her dress and ostensibly displaying a large black bag. - -“And I’ve got such a beautiful needle-case,” said the broad-back, -displaying her prize. “I’ve been making it up all the morning.” And she -handed over the article to Miss Macmanus. - -“And only look at this duck of a pen-wiper,” simpered flaxen-hair No. 2. -“Only think of wiping one’s pens with relics of General Chassé!” and she -handed it over to the other Miss Macmanus. - -“And mine’s a pin-cushion,” said No. 1, exhibiting the trophy. - -“But that’s nothing to what I’ve got,” said Miss Grogram. “In the first -place, there’s a pair of slippers,--a beautiful pair;--they’re not made -up yet, of course; and then--” - -The two Misses Macmanus and their five pupils were sitting open-eared, -open-eyed, and open-mouthed. How all these sombre-looking articles could -be relics of General Chassé did not at first appear clear to them. - -“What are they, Miss Grogram?” said the elder Miss Macmanus, holding the -needle-case in one hand and Mrs. Jones’s bag in the other. Miss Macmanus -was a strong-minded female, and I reverenced my cousin when I saw the -decided way in which she intended to put down the greedy arrogance of -Miss Grogram. - -“They are relics.” - -“But where do they come from, Miss Grogram?” - -“Why, from the castle, to be sure;--from General Chasse’s own rooms.” - -“Did anybody sell them to you?” - -“No.” - -“Or give them to you?” - -“Why, no;--at least not exactly give.” - -“There they were, and she took ’em,” said the broad-back. - -Oh, what a look Miss Grogram gave her! “Took them! of course I took -them. That is, you took them as much as I did. They were things that we -found lying about.” - -“What things?” asked Miss Macmanus, in a peculiarly strong-minded tone. - -Miss Grogram seemed to be for a moment silenced. I had been ignored, as -I have said, and my existence forgotten; but now I observed that the -eyes of the culprits were turned towards me,--the eyes, that is, of four -of them. Mrs. Jones looked at me from beneath her fan; the two girls -glanced at me furtively, and then their eyes fell to the lowest flounces -of their frocks. Miss Grogram turned her spectacles right upon me, and -I fancied that she nodded her head at me as a sort of answer to Miss -Macmanus. The five pupils opened their mouths and eyes wider; but she of -the broad back was nothing abashed. It would have been nothing to her -had there been a dozen gentlemen in the room. “We just found a pair of -black ----.” The whole truth was told in the plainest possible language. - -“Oh, Aunt Sally!” “Aunt Sally, how can you?” “Hold your tongue, Aunt -Sally!” - -“And then Miss Grogram just cut them up with her scissors,” continued -Aunt Sally, not a whit abashed, “and gave us each a bit, only she took -more than half for herself.” It was clear to me that there had been some -quarrel, some delicious quarrel, between Aunt Sally and Miss Grogram. -Through the whole adventure I had rather respected Aunt Sally. “She took -more than half for herself,” continued Aunt Sally. “She kept all -the----” - -“Jemima,” said the elder Miss Macmanus, interrupting the speaker and -addressing her sister, “it is time, I think, for the young ladies to -retire. Will you be kind enough to see them to their rooms?” The five -pupils thereupon rose from their seats and courtesied. They then left -the room in file, the younger Miss Macmanus showing them the way. - -“But we haven’t done any harm, have we?” asked Mrs. Jones, with some -tremulousness in her voice. - -“Well, I don’t know,” said Miss Macmanus. “What I’m thinking of now is -this;--to whom, I wonder, did the garments properly belong? Who had been -the owner and wearer of them?” - -“Why, General Chassé of course,” said Miss Grogram. - -“They were the general’s,” repeated the two young ladies; blushing, -however, as they alluded to the subject. - -“Well, we thought they were the general’s, certainly; and a very -excellent article they were,” said Mrs. Jones. - -“Perhaps they were the butler’s?” said Aunt Sally. I certainly had not -given her credit for so much sarcasm. - -“Butler’s!” exclaimed Miss Grogram, with a toss of her head. - -“Oh, Aunt Sally, Aunt Sally! how can you?” shrieked the two young -ladies. - -“Oh laws!” ejaculated Mrs. Jones. - -“I don’t think that they could have belonged to the butler,” said Miss -Macmanus, with much authority, “seeing that domestics in this country -are never clad in garments of that description; so far my own -observation enables me to speak with certainty. But it is equally sure -that they were never the property of the general lately in command at -Antwerp. Generals, when they are in full dress, wear ornamental lace -upon their--their regimentals; and when--” So much she said, and -something more, which it may be unnecessary that I should repeat; but -such were her eloquence and logic that no doubt would have been left on -the mind of any impartial hearer. If an argumentative speaker ever -proved anything, Miss Macmanus proved that General Chassé had never been -the wearer of the article in question. - -“But I know very well they were his!” said Miss Grogram, who was not an -impartial hearer. “Of course they were; whose else’s should they be?” - -“I’m sure I hope they were his,” said one of the young ladies, almost -crying. - -“I wish I’d never taken it,” said the other. - -“Dear, dear, dear!” said Mrs. Jones. - -“I’ll give you my needle-case, Miss Grogram,” said Aunt Sally. - -I had sat hitherto silent during the whole scene, meditating how best I -might confound the red-nosed harpy. Now, I thought, was the time for me -to strike in. - -“I really think, ladies, that there has been some mistake,” said I. - -“There has been no mistake at all, sir!” said Miss Grogram. - -“Perhaps not,” I answered, very mildly; “very likely not. But some -affair of a similar nature was very much talked about in Antwerp -yesterday.” - -“Oh laws!” again ejaculated Mrs. Jones. - -“The affair I allude to has been talked about a good deal, certainly,” I -continued. “But perhaps it may be altogether a different circumstance.” - -“And what may be the circumstance to which you allude?” asked Miss -Macmanus, in the same authoritative tone. - -“I dare say it has nothing to do with these ladies,” said I; “but an -article of dress, of the nature they have described, was cut up in the -Castle of Antwerp on the day before yesterday. It belonged to a -gentleman who was visiting the place; and I was given to understand that -he is determined to punish the people who have wronged him.” - -“It can’t be the same,” said Miss Grogram; but I could see that she was -trembling. - -“Oh laws! what will become of us?” said Mrs. Jones. - -“You can all prove that I didn’t touch them, and that I warned her not,” -said Aunt Sally. In the mean time the two young ladies had almost -fainted behind their fans. - -“But how had it come to pass,” asked Miss Macmanus, “that the gentleman -had--” - -“I know nothing more about it, cousin,” said I; “only it does seem that -there is an odd coincidence.” - -Immediately after this I took my leave. I saw that I had avenged my -friend, and spread dismay in the hearts of those who had injured him. I -had learned in the course of the evening at what hotel the five ladies -were staying; and in the course of the next morning I sauntered into the -hall, and finding one of the porters alone, asked if they were still -there. The man told me that they had started by the earliest diligence. -“And,” said he, “if you are a friend of theirs, perhaps you will take -charge of these things, which they have left behind them?” So saying, he -pointed to a table at the back of the hall, on which were lying the -black bag, the black needle-case, the black pincushion, and the black -pen-wiper. There was also a heap of fragments of cloth which I well knew -had been intended by Miss Grogram for the comfort of her feet and -ancles. - -I declined the commission, however. “They were no special friends of -mine,” I said; and I left all the relics still lying on the little table -in the back hall. - -“Upon the whole, I am satisfied!” said the Rev. Augustus Horne, when I -told him the finale of the story. - - - - -AN UNPROTECTED FEMALE AT THE PYRAMIDS. - - -In the happy days when we were young, no description conveyed to us so -complete an idea of mysterious reality as that of an Oriental city. We -knew it was actually there, but had such vague notions of its ways and -looks! Let any one remember his early impressions as to Bagdad or Grand -Cairo, and then say if this was not so. It was probably taken from the -“Arabian Nights,” and the picture produced was one of strange, -fantastic, luxurious houses; of women who were either very young and -very beautiful, or else very old and very cunning; but in either state -exercising much more influence in life than women in the East do now; of -good-natured, capricious, though sometimes tyrannical monarchs; and of -life full of quaint mysteries, quite unintelligible in every phasis, and -on that account the more picturesque. - -And perhaps Grand Cairo has thus filled us with more wonder even than -Bagdad. We have been in a certain manner at home at Bagdad, but have -only visited Grand Cairo occasionally. I know no place which was to me, -in early years, so delightfully mysterious as Grand Cairo. - -But the route to India and Australia has changed all this. Men from all -countries going to the East, now pass through Cairo, and its streets and -costumes are no longer strange to us. It has become also a resort for -invalids, or rather for those who fear that they may become invalids if -they remain in a cold climate during the winter months. And thus at -Cairo there is always to be found a considerable population of French, -Americans, and of English. Oriental life is brought home to us, -dreadfully diluted by western customs, and the delights of the “Arabian -Nights” are shorn of half their value. When we have seen a thing it is -never so magnificent to us as when it was half unknown. - -It is not much that we deign to learn from these Orientals,--we who -glory in our civilisation. We do not copy their silence or their -abstemiousness, nor that invariable mindfulness of his own personal -dignity which always adheres to a Turk or to an Arab. We chatter as much -at Cairo as elsewhere, and eat as much and drink as much, and dress -ourselves generally in the same old, ugly costume. But we do usually -take upon ourselves to wear red caps, and we do ride on donkeys. - -Nor are the visitors from the West to Cairo by any means confined to the -male sex. Ladies are to be seen in the streets, quite regardless of the -Mahommedan custom which presumes a veil to be necessary for an -appearance in public; and, to tell the truth, the Mahommedans in general -do not appear to be much shocked by their effrontery. - -A quarter of the town, has in this way become inhabited by men wearing -coats and waistcoats, and by women who are without veils; but the -English tongue in Egypt finds its centre at Shepheard’s Hotel. It is -here that people congregate who are looking out for parties to visit -with them the Upper Nile, and who are generally all smiles and courtesy; -and here also are to be found they who have just returned from this -journey, and who are often in a frame of mind towards their companions -that is much less amiable. From hence, during the winter, a cortége -proceeds almost daily to the Pyramids, or to Memphis, or to the -petrified forest, or to the City of the Sun. And then, again, four or -five times a month the house is filled with young aspirants going out to -India, male and female, full of valour and bloom; or with others coming -home, no longer young, no longer aspiring, but laden with children and -grievances. - -The party with whom we are at present concerned is not about to proceed -further than the Pyramids, and we shall be able to go with them and -return in one and the same day. - -It consisted chiefly of an English family, Mr. and Mrs. Damer, their -daughter, and two young sons;--of these chiefly, because they were the -nucleus to which the others had attached themselves as adherents; they -had originated the journey, and in the whole management of it Mr. Damer -regarded himself as the master. - -The adherents were, firstly, M. Delabordeau, a Frenchman, now resident -in Cairo, who had given out that he was in some way concerned in the -canal about to be made between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. In -discussion on this subject he had become acquainted with Mr. Damer; and -although the latter gentleman, true to English interests, perpetually -declared that the canal would never be made, and thus irritated M. -Delabordeau not a little--nevertheless, some measure of friendship had -grown up between them. - -There was also an American gentleman, Mr. Jefferson Ingram, who was -comprising all countries and all nations in one grand tour, as American -gentlemen so often do. He was young and good-looking, and had made -himself especially agreeable to Mr. Damer, who had declared, more than -once, that Mr. Ingram was by far the most rational American he had ever -met. Mr. Ingram would listen to Mr. Damer by the half-hour as to the -virtue of the British Constitution, and had even sat by almost with -patience when Mr. Damer had expressed a doubt as to the good working of -the United States’ scheme of policy,--which, in an American, was most -wonderful. But some of the sojourners at Shepheard’s had observed that -Mr. Ingram was in the habit of talking with Miss Damer almost as much as -with her father, and argued from that, that fond as the young man was of -politics, he did sometimes turn his mind to other things also. - -And then there was Miss Dawkins. Now Miss Dawkins was an important -person, both as to herself and as to her line of life, and she must be -described. She was, in the first place, an unprotected female of about -thirty years of age. As this is becoming an established profession, -setting itself up as it were in opposition to the old world idea that -women, like green peas, cannot come to perfection without -supporting-sticks, it will be understood at once what were Miss -Dawkins’s sentiments. She considered--or at any rate so expressed -herself--that peas could grow very well without sticks, and could not -only grow thus unsupported, but could also make their way about the -world without any incumbrance of sticks whatsoever. She did not intend, -she said, to rival Ida Pfeiffer, seeing that she was attached in a -moderate way to bed and board, and was attached to society in a manner -almost more than moderate; but she had no idea of being prevented from -seeing anything she wished to see because she had neither father, nor -husband, nor brother available for the purpose of escort. She was a -human creature, with arms and legs, she said; and she intended to use -them. And this was all very well; but nevertheless she had a strong -inclination to use the arms and legs of other people when she could make -them serviceable. - -In person Miss Dawkins was not without attraction. I should exaggerate -if I were to say that she was beautiful and elegant; but she was good -looking, and not usually ill mannered. She was tall, and gifted with -features rather sharp and with eyes very bright. Her hair was of the -darkest shade of brown, and was always worn in bandeaux, very neatly. -She appeared generally in black, though other circumstances did not lead -one to suppose that she was in mourning; and then, no other travelling -costume is so convenient! She always wore a dark broad-brimmed straw -hat, as to the ribbons on which she was rather particular. She was very -neat about her gloves and boots; and though it cannot be said that her -dress was got up without reference to expense, there can be no doubt -that it was not effected without considerable outlay,--and more -considerable thought. - -Miss Dawkins--Sabrina Dawkins was her name, but she seldom had friends -about her intimate enough to use the word Sabrina--was certainly a -clever young woman. She could talk on most subjects, if not well, at -least well enough to amuse. If she had not read much, she never showed -any lamentable deficiency; she was good-humoured, as a rule, and could -on occasions be very soft and winning. People who had known her long -would sometimes say that she was selfish; but with new acquaintance she -was forbearing and self-denying. - -With what income Miss Dawkins was blessed no one seemed to know. She -lived like a gentlewoman, as far as outward appearance went, and never -seemed to be in want; but some people would say that she knew very well -how many sides there were to a shilling, and some enemy had once -declared that she was an “old soldier.” Such was Miss Dawkins. - -She also, as well as Mr. Ingram and M. Delabordeau, had laid herself out -to find the weak side of Mr. Damer. Mr. Damer, with all his family, was -going up the Nile, and it was known that he had room for two in his boat -over and above his own family. Miss Dawkins had told him that she had -not quite made up her mind to undergo so great a fatigue, but that, -nevertheless, she had a longing of the soul to see something of Nubia. -To this Mr. Damer had answered nothing but “Oh!” which Miss Dawkins had -not found to be encouraging. - -But she had not on that account despaired. To a married man there are -always two sides, and in this instance there was Mrs. Damer as well as -Mr. Damer. When Mr. Damer said “Oh!” Miss Dawkins sighed, and said, -“Yes, indeed!” then smiled, and betook herself to Mrs. Damer. - -Now Mrs. Damer was soft-hearted, and also somewhat old-fashioned. She -did not conceive any violent affection for Miss Dawkins, but she told -her daughter that “the single lady by herself was a very nice young -woman, and that it was a thousand pities she should have to go about so -much alone like.” - -Miss Damer had turned up her pretty nose, thinking, perhaps, how small -was the chance that it ever should be her own lot to be an unprotected -female. But Miss Dawkins carried her point at any rate as regarded the -expedition to the Pyramids. - -Miss Damer, I have said, had a pretty nose. I may also say that she had -pretty eyes, mouth, and chin, with other necessary appendages, all -pretty. As to the two Master Damers, who were respectively of the ages -of fifteen and sixteen, it may be sufficient to say that they were -conspicuous for red caps and for the constancy with which they raced -their donkeys. - -And now the donkeys, and the donkey boys, and the dragomans were all -standing at the steps of Shepheard’s Hotel. To each donkey there was a -donkey-boy, and to each gentleman there was a dragoman, so that a goodly -cortége was assembled, and a goodly noise was made. It may here be -remarked, perhaps with some little pride, that not half the noise is -given in Egypt to persons speaking any other language that is bestowed -on those whose vocabulary is English. - -This lasted for half an hour. Had the party been French the donkeys -would have arrived only fifteen minutes before the appointed time. And -then out came Damer père and Damer mère, Damer fille, and Damer fils. -Damer mère was leaning on her husband, as was her wont. She was not an -unprotected female, and had no desire to make any attempts in that line. -Damer fille was attended sedulously by Mr. Ingram, for whose -demolishment, however, Mr. Damer still brought up, in a loud voice, the -fag ends of certain political arguments which he would fain have poured -direct into the ears of his opponent, had not his wife been so -persistent in claiming her privileges. M. Delabordeau should have -followed with Miss Dawkins, but his French politeness, or else his fear -of the unprotected female, taught him to walk on the other side of the -mistress of the party. - -Miss Dawkins left the house with an eager young Damer yelling on each -side of her; but nevertheless, though thus neglected by the gentlemen of -the party, she was all smiles and prettiness, and looked so sweetly on -Mr. Ingram when that gentleman stayed a moment to help her on to her -donkey, that his heart almost misgave him for leaving her as soon as she -was in her seat. - -And then they were off. In going from the hotel to the Pyramids our -party had not to pass through any of the queer old narrow streets of the -true Cairo--Cairo the Oriental. They all lay behind them as they went -down by the back of the hotel, by the barracks of the Pasha and the -College of the Dervishes, to the village of old Cairo and the banks of -the Nile. - -Here they were kept half an hour while their dragomans made a bargain -with the ferryman, a stately reis, or captain of a boat, who declared -with much dignity that he could not carry them over for a sum less than -six times the amount to which he was justly entitled; while the -dragomans, with great energy on behalf of their masters, offered him -only five times that sum. As far as the reis was concerned, the contest -might soon have been at an end, for the man was not without a -conscience; and would have been content with five times and a half; but -then the three dragomans quarrelled among themselves as to which should -have the paying of the money, and the affair became very tedious. - -“What horrid, odious men!” said Miss Dawkins, appealing to Mr. Damer. -“Do you think they will let us go over at all?” - -“Well, I suppose they will; people do get over generally, I believe. -Abdallah! Abdallah! why don’t you pay the man? That fellow is always -striving to save half a piastre for me.” - -“I wish he wasn’t quite so particular,” said Mrs. Damer, who was already -becoming rather tired; “but I’m sure he’s a very honest man in trying to -protect us from being robbed.” - -“That he is,” said Miss Dawkins. “What a delightful trait of national -character it is to see these men so faithful to their employers.” And -then at last they got over the ferry, Mr. Ingram having descended among -the combatants, and settled the matter in dispute by threats and shouts, -and an uplifted stick. - -They crossed the broad Nile exactly at the spot where the nilometer, or -river guage, measures from day to day, and from year to year, the -increasing or decreasing treasures of the stream, and landed at a -village where thousands of eggs are made into chickens by the process of -artificial incubation. - -Mrs. Damer thought that it was very hard upon the maternal hens--the -hens which should have been maternal--that they should be thus robbed of -the delights of motherhood. - -“So unnatural, you know,” said Miss Dawkins; “so opposed to the -fostering principles of creation. Don’t you think so, Mr. Ingram?” - -Mr. Ingram said he didn’t know. He was again seating Miss Damer on her -donkey, and it must be presumed that he performed this feat clumsily; -for Fanny Damer could jump on and off the animal with hardly a finger to -help her, when her brother or her father was her escort; but now, under -the hands of Mr. Ingram, this work of mounting was one which required -considerable time and care. All which Miss Dawkins observed with -precision. - -“It’s all very well talking,” said Mr. Damer, bringing up his donkey -nearly alongside that of Mr. Ingram, and ignoring his daughter’s -presence, just as he would have done that of his dog; “but you must -admit that political power is more equally distributed in England than -it is in America.” - -“Perhaps it is,” said Mr. Ingram; “equally distributed among, we will -say, three dozen families,” and he made a feint as though to hold in his -impetuous donkey, using the spur, however, at the same time on the side -that was unseen by Mr. Damer. As he did so, Fanny’s donkey became -equally impetuous, and the two cantered on in advance of the whole -party. It was quite in vain that Mr. Damer, at the top of his voice, -shouted out something about “three dozen corruptible demagogues.” Mr. -Ingram found it quite impossible to restrain his donkey so as to listen -to the sarcasm. - -“I do believe papa would talk politics,” said Fanny, “if he were at the -top of Mont Blanc, or under the Falls of Niagara. I do hate politics, -Mr. Ingram.” - -“I am sorry for that, very,” said Mr. Ingram, almost sadly. - -“Sorry, why? You don’t want me to talk politics, do you?” - -“In America we are all politicians, more or less; and, therefore, I -suppose you will hate us all.” - -“Well, I rather think I should,” said Fanny; “you would be such bores.” -But there was something in her eye, as she spoke, which atoned for the -harshness of her words. - -“A very nice young man is Mr. Ingram; don’t you think so?” said Miss -Dawkins to Mrs. Damer. Mrs. Damer was going along upon her donkey, not -altogether comfortably. She much wished to have her lord and legitimate -protector by her side, but he had left her to the care of a dragoman -whose English was not intelligible to her, and she was rather cross. - -“Indeed, Miss Dawkins, I don’t know who are nice and who are not. This -nasty donkey stumbles at ever step. There! I know I shall be down -directly.” - -“You need not be at all afraid of that; they are perfectly safe, I -believe, always,” said Miss Dawkins, rising in her stirrup, and handling -her reins quite triumphantly. “A very little practice will make you -quite at home.” - -“I don’t know what you mean by a very little practice. I have been here -six weeks. Why did you put me on such a bad donkey as this?” and she -turned to Abdallah, the dragoman. - -“Him berry good donkey, my lady; berry good,--best of all. Call him Jack -in Cairo. Him go to Pyramid and back, and mind noting.” - -“What does he say, Miss Dawkins?” - -“He says that that donkey is one called Jack. If so I’ve had him myself -many times, and Jack is a very good donkey.” - -“I wish you had him now with all my heart,” said Mrs. Damer. Upon which -Miss Dawkins offered to change; but those perils of mounting and -dismounting were to Mrs. Damer a great deal too severe to admit of this. - -“Seven miles of canal to be carried out into the sea, at a minimum depth -of twenty-three feet, and the stone to be fetched from Heaven knows -where! All the money in France wouldn’t do it.” This was addressed by -Mr. Damer to M. Delabordeau, whom he had caught after the abrupt flight -of Mr. Ingram. - -“Den we will borrow a leetle from England,” said M. Delabordeau. - -“Precious little, I can tell you. Such stock would not hold its price in -our markets for twenty-four hours. If it were made, the freights would -be too heavy to allow of merchandise passing through. The heavy goods -would all go round; and as for passengers and mails, you don’t expect to -get them, I suppose, while there is a railroad ready made to their -hand?” - -“Ve vill carry all your ships through vidout any transportation. Think -of that, my friend.” - -“Pshaw! You are worse than Ingram. Of all the plans I ever heard of it -is the most monstrous, the most impracticable, the most----” But here he -was interrupted by the entreaties of his wife, who had, in absolute deed -and fact, slipped from her donkey, and was now calling lustily for her -husband’s aid. Whereupon Miss Dawkins allied herself to the Frenchman, -and listened with an air of strong conviction to those arguments which -were so weak in the ears of Mr. Damer. M. Delabordeau was about to ride -across the Great Desert to Jerusalem, and it might perhaps be quite as -well to do that with him, as to go up the Nile as far as the second -cataract with the Damers. - -“And so, M. Delabordeau, you intend really to start for Mount Sinai?” - -“Yes, mees; ve intend to make one start on Monday week.” - -“And so on to Jerusalem. You are quite right. It would be a thousand -pities to be in these countries, and to return without going over such -ground as that. I shall certainly go to Jerusalem myself by that route.” - -“Vot, mees! you? Vould you not find it too much fatigante?” - -“I care nothing for fatigue, if I like the party I am with,--nothing at -all, literally. You will hardly understand me, perhaps, M. Delabordeau; -but I do not see any reason why I, as a young woman, should not make any -journey that is practicable for a young man.” - -“Ah! dat is great resolution for you, mees.” - -“I mean as far as fatigue is concerned. You are a Frenchman, and belong -to the nation that is at the head of all human civilisation----” - -M. Delabordeau took off his hat and bowed low, to the peak of his donkey -saddle. He dearly loved to hear his country praised, as Miss Dawkins was -aware. - -“And I am sure you must agree with me,” continued Miss Dawkins, “that -the time is gone by for women to consider themselves helpless animals, -or to be so considered by others.” - -“Mees Dawkins vould never be considered, not in any times at all, to be -one helpless animal,” said M. Delabordeau civilly. - -“I do not, at any rate, intend to be so regarded,” said she. “It suits -me to travel alone; not that I am averse to society; quite the contrary; -if I meet pleasant people I am always ready to join them. But it suits -me to travel without any permanent party, and I do not see why false -shame should prevent my seeing the world as thoroughly as though I -belonged to the other sex. Why should it, M. Delabordeau?” - -M. Delabordeau declared that he did not see any reason why it should. - -“I am passionately anxious to stand upon Mount Sinai,” continued Miss -Dawkins; “to press with my feet the earliest spot in sacred history, of -the identity of which we are certain; to feel within me the -awe-inspiring thrill of that thrice sacred hour!” - -The Frenchman looked as though he did not quite understand her, but he -said that it would be magnifique. - -“You have already made up your party I suppose, M. Delabordeau?” - -M. Delabordeau gave the names of two Frenchmen and one Englishman who -were going with him. - -“Upon my word it is a great temptation to join you,” said Miss Dawkins, -“only for that horrid Englishman.” - -“Vat, Mr. Stanley?” - -“Oh, I don’t mean any disrespect to Mr. Stanley. The horridness I speak -of does not attach to him personally, but to his stiff, respectable, -ungainly, well-behaved, irrational, and uncivilised country. You see I -am not very patriotic.” - -“Not quite so moch as my friend, Mr. Damer.” - -“Ha! ha! ha! an excellent creature, isn’t he? And so they all are, dear -creatures. But then they are so backward. They are most anxious that I -should join them up the Nile, but----,” and then Miss Dawkins shrugged -her shoulders gracefully, and, as she flattered herself, like a -Frenchwoman. After that they rode on in silence for a few moments. - -“Yes, I must see Mount Sinai,” said Miss Dawkins, and then sighed -deeply. M. Delabordeau, notwithstanding that his country does stand at -the head of all human civilisation, was not courteous enough to declare -that if Miss Dawkins would join his party across the desert, nothing -would be wanting to make his beatitude in this world perfect. - -Their road from the village of the chicken-hatching ovens lay up along -the left bank of the Nile, through an immense grove of lofty palm-trees, -looking out from among which our visitors could ever and anon see the -heads of the two great Pyramids;--that is, such of them could see it as -felt any solicitude in the matter. - -It is astonishing how such things lose their great charm as men find -themselves in their close neighbourhood. To one living in New York or -London, how ecstatic is the interest inspired by these huge structures. -One feels that no price would be too high to pay for seeing them as long -as time and distance, and the world’s inexorable task-work, forbid such -a visit. How intense would be the delight of climbing over the wondrous -handiwork of those wondrous architects so long since dead; how thrilling -the awe with which one would penetrate down into their interior -caves--those caves in which lay buried the bones of ancient kings, whose -very names seem to have come to us almost from another world! - -But all these feelings become strangely dim, their acute edges -wonderfully worn, as the subjects which inspired them are brought near -to us. “Ah! so those are the Pyramids, are they?” says the traveller, -when the first glimpse of them is shown to him from the window of a -railway carriage. “Dear me; they don’t look so very high, do they? For -Heaven’s sake put the blind down, or we shall be destroyed by the dust.” -And then the ecstasy and keen delight of the Pyramids has vanished for -ever. - -Our friends, therefore, who for weeks past had seen from a distance, -though they had not yet visited them, did not seem to have any strong -feeling on the subject as they trotted through the grove of palm-trees. -Mr. Damer had not yet escaped from his wife, who was still fretful from -the result of her little accident. - -“It was all the chattering of that Miss Dawkins,” said Mrs. Damer. “She -would not let me attend to what I was doing.” - -“Miss Dawkins is an ass,” said her husband. - -“It is a pity she has no one to look after her,” said Mrs. Damer. - -M. Delabordeau was still listening to Miss Dawkins’s raptures about -Mount Sinai. “I wonder whether she has got any money,” said M. -Delabordeau to himself. “It can’t be much,” he went on thinking, “or she -would not be left in this way by herself.” And the result of his -thoughts was that Miss Dawkins, if undertaken, might probably become -more plague than profit. As to Miss Dawkins herself, though she was -ecstatic about Mount Sinai--which was not present--she seemed to have -forgotten the poor Pyramids, which were then before her nose. - -The two lads were riding races along the dusty path, much to the disgust -of their donkey-boys. Their time for enjoyment was to come. There were -hampers to be opened; and then the absolute climbing of the Pyramids -would actually be a delight to them. - -As for Miss Damer and Mr. Ingram, it was clear that they had forgotten -palm-trees, Pyramids, the Nile, and all Egypt. They had escaped to a -much fairer paradise. - -“Could I bear to live among Republicans?” said Fanny, repeating the last -words of her American lover, and looking down from her donkey to the -ground as she did so. “I hardly know what Republicans are, Mr. Ingram.” - -“Let me teach you,” said he. - -“You do talk such nonsense. I declare there is that Miss Dawkins looking -at us as though she had twenty eyes. Could you not teach her, Mr. -Ingram?” - -And so they emerged from the palm-tree grove, through a village crowded -with dirty, straggling Arab children, on to the cultivated plain, -beyond which the Pyramids stood, now full before them; the two large -Pyramids, a smaller one, and the huge sphynx’s head all in a group -together. - -“Fanny,” said Bob Damer, riding up to her, “mamma wants you; so toddle -back.” - -“Mamma wants me! What can she want me for now?” said Fanny, with a look -of anything but filial duty in her face. - -“To protect her from Miss Dawkins, I think. She wants you to ride at her -side, so that Dawkins mayn’t get at her. Now, Mr. Ingram, I’ll bet you -half-a-crown I’m at the top of the big Pyramid before you.” - -Poor Fanny! She obeyed, however; doubtless feeling that it would not do -as yet to show too plainly that she preferred Mr. Ingram to her mother. -She arrested her donkey, therefore, till Mrs. Damer overtook her; and -Mr. Ingram, as he paused for a moment with her while she did so, fell -into the hands of Miss Dawkins. - -“I cannot think, Fanny, how you get on so quick,” said Mrs. Damer. “I’m -always last; but then my donkey is such a very nasty one. Look there, -now; he’s always trying to get me off.” - -“We shall soon be at the Pyramids now, mamma.” - -“How on earth I am ever to get back again I cannot think. I am so tired -now that I can hardly sit.” - -“You’ll be better, mamma, when you get your luncheon and a glass of -wine.” - -“How on earth we are to eat and drink with those nasty Arab people -around us, I can’t conceive. They tell me we shall be eaten up by them. -But, Fanny, what has Mr. Ingram been saying to you all the day?” - -“What has he been saying, mamma? Oh! I don’t know;--a hundred things, I -dare say. But he has not been talking to me all the time.” - -“I think he has, Fanny, nearly, since we crossed the river. Oh, dear! -oh, dear! this animal does hurt me so! Every time he moves he flings his -head about, and that gives me such a bump.” And then Fanny commiserated -her mother’s sufferings, and in her commiseration contrived to elude any -further questionings as to Mr. Ingram’s conversation. - -“Majestic piles, are they not?” said Miss Dawkins, who, having changed -her companion, allowed her mind to revert from Mount Sinai to the -Pyramids. They were now riding through cultivated ground, with the vast -extent of the sands of Libya before them. The two Pyramids were standing -on the margin of the sand, with the head of the recumbent sphynx -plainly visible between them. But no idea can be formed of the size of -this immense figure till it is visited much more closely. The body is -covered with sand, and the head and neck alone stand above the surface -of the ground. They were still two miles distant, and the sphynx as yet -was but an obscure mount between the two vast Pyramids. - -“Immense piles!” said Miss Dawkins, repeating her own words. - -“Yes, they are large,” said Mr. Ingram, who did not choose to indulge in -enthusiasm in the presence of Miss Dawkins. - -“Enormous! What a grand idea!--eh, Mr. Ingram? The human race does not -create such things as those nowadays!” - -“No, indeed,” he answered; “but perhaps we create better things.” - -“Better! You do not mean to say, Mr. Ingram, that you are an -utilitarian. I do, in truth, hope better things of you than that. Yes! -steam mills are better, no doubt, and mechanics’ institutes and penny -newspapers. But is nothing to be valued but what is useful?” And Miss -Dawkins, in the height of her enthusiasm, switched her donkey severely -over the shoulder. - -“I might, perhaps, have said also that we create more beautiful things,” -said Mr. Ingram. - -“But we cannot create older things.” - -“No, certainly; we cannot do that.” - -“Nor can we imbue what we do create with the grand associations which -environ those piles with so intense an interest. Think of the mighty -dead, Mr. Ingram, and of their great homes when living. Think of the -hands which it took to raise those huge blocks--” - -“And of the lives which it cost.” - -“Doubtless. The tyranny and invincible power of the royal architects add -to the grandeur of the idea. One would not wish to have back the kings -of Egypt.” - -“Well, no; they would be neither useful nor beautiful.” - -“Perhaps not; and I do not wish to be picturesque at the expense of my -fellow-creatures.” - -“I doubt, even, whether they would be picturesque.” - -“You know what I mean, Mr. Ingram. But the associations of such names, -and the presence of the stupendous works with which they are connected, -fill the soul with awe. Such, at least, is the effect with mine.” - -“I fear that my tendencies, Miss Dawkins, are more realistic than your -own.” - -“You belong to a young country, Mr. Ingram, and are naturally prone to -think of material life. The necessity of living looms large before you.” - -“Very large, indeed, Miss Dawkins.” - -“Whereas with us, with some of us at least, the material aspect has -given place to one in which poetry and enthusiasm prevail. To such among -us the associations of past times are very dear. Cheops, to me, is more -than Napoleon Bonaparte.” - -“That is more than most of your countrymen can say, at any rate, just at -present.” - -“I am a woman,” continued Miss Dawkins. - -Mr. Ingram took off his hat in acknowledgment both of the announcement -and of the fact. - -“And to us it is not given--not given as yet--to share in the great -deeds of the present. The envy of your sex has driven us from the paths -which lead to honour. But the deeds of the past are as much ours as -yours.” - -“Oh, quite as much.” - -“‘Tis to your country that we look for enfranchisement from this -thraldom. Yes, Mr. Ingram, the women of America have that strength of -mind which has been wanting to those of Europe. In the United States -woman will at last learn to exercise her proper mission.” - -Mr. Ingram expressed a sincere wish that such might be the case; and -then wondering at the ingenuity with which Miss Dawkins had travelled -round from Cheops and his Pyramid to the rights of women in America, he -contrived to fall back, under the pretence of asking after the ailments -of Mrs. Damer. - -And now at last they were on the sand, in the absolute desert, making -their way up to the very foot of the most northern of the two Pyramids. -They were by this time surrounded by a crowd of Arab guides, or Arabs -professing to be guides, who had already ascertained that Mr. Damer was -the chief of the party, and were accordingly driving him almost to -madness by the offers of their services, and their assurance that he -could not possibly see the outside or the inside of either structure, or -even remain alive upon the ground, unless he at once accepted their -offers made at their own prices. - -“Get away, will you?” said he. “I don’t want any of you, and I won’t -have you! If you take hold of me I’ll shoot you!” This was said to one -specially energetic Arab, who, in his efforts to secure his prey, had -caught hold of Mr. Damer by the leg. - -“Yes, yes, I say! Englishmen always take me;--me--me, and then no break -him leg. Yes--yes--yes;--I go. Master, say yes. Only one leetle ten -shillings!” - -“Abdallah!” shouted Mr. Damer, “why don’t you take this man away? Why -don’t you make him understand that if all the Pyramids depended on it, I -would not give him sixpence!” - -And then Abdallah, thus invoked, came up, and explained to the man in -Arabic that he would gain his object more surely if he would behave -himself a little more quietly; a hint which the man took for one minute, -and for one minute only. - -And then poor Mrs. Damer replied to an application for backsheish by the -gift of a sixpence. Unfortunate woman! The word backsheish means, I -believe, a gift; but it has come in Egypt to signify money, and is -eternally dinned into the ears of strangers by Arab suppliants. Mrs. -Damer ought to have known better, as, during the last six weeks she had -never shown her face out of Shepheard’s Hotel without being pestered for -backsheish; but she was tired and weak, and foolishly thought to rid -herself of the man who was annoying her. - -No sooner had the coin dropped from her hand into that of the Arab, than -she was surrounded by a cluster of beggars, who loudly made their -petitions as though they would, each of them, individually be injured if -treated with less liberality than that first comer. They took hold of -her donkey, her bridle, her saddle, her legs, and at last her arms and -hands, screaming for backsheish in voices that were neither sweet nor -mild. - -In her dismay she did give away sundry small coins--all, probably, that -she had about her; but this only made the matter worse. Money was going, -and each man, by sufficient energy, might hope to get some of it. They -were very energetic, and so frightened the poor lady that she would -certainly have fallen, had she not been kept on her seat by the pressure -around her. - -“Oh, dear! oh, dear! get away,” she cried. “I haven’t got any more; -indeed I haven’t. Go away, I tell you! Mr. Damer! oh, Mr. Damer!” and -then, in the excess of her agony, she uttered one loud, long, and -continuous shriek. - -Up came Mr. Damer; up came Abdallah; up came M. Delabordeau; up came Mr. -Ingram, and at last she was rescued. “You shouldn’t go away and leave me -to the mercy of these nasty people. As to that Abdallah, he is of no use -to anybody.” - -“Why you bodder de good lady, you dem blackguard?” said Abdallah, -raising his stick, as though he were, going to lay them all low with a -blow. “Now you get noting, you tief!” - -The Arabs for a moment retired to a little distance, like flies driven -from a sugar-bowl; but it was easy to see that, like the flies, they -would return at the first vacant moment. - -And now they had reached the very foot of the Pyramids and proceeded to -dismount from their donkeys. Their intention was first to ascend to the -top, then to come down to their banquet, and after that to penetrate -into the interior. And all this would seem to be easy of performance. -The Pyramid is undoubtedly high, but it is so constructed as to admit of -climbing without difficulty. A lady mounting it would undoubtedly need -some assistance, but any man possessed of moderate activity would -require no aid at all. - -But our friends were at once imbued with the tremendous nature of the -task before them. A sheikh of the Arabs came forth, who communicated -with them through Abdallah. The work could be done, no doubt, he said; -but a great many men would be wanted to assist. Each lady must have four -Arabs, and each gentlemen three; and then, seeing that the work would be -peculiarly severe on this special day, each of these numerous Arabs must -be remunerated by some very large number of piastres. - -Mr. Damer, who was by no means a close man in his money dealings, opened -his eyes with surprise, and mildly expostulated; M. Delabordeau, who was -rather a close man in his reckonings, immediately buttoned up his -breeches pocket and declared that he should decline to mount the Pyramid -at all at that price; and then Mr. Ingram descended to the combat. - -The protestations of the men were fearful. They declared, with loud -voices, eager actions, and manifold English oaths, that an attempt was -being made to rob them. They had a right to demand the sums which they -were charging, and it was a shame that English gentlemen should come and -take the bread out of their mouths. And so they screeched, gesticulated, -and swore, and frightened poor Mrs. Damer almost into fits. - -But at last it was settled and away they started, the sheikh declaring -that the bargain had been made at so low a rate as to leave him not one -piastre for himself. Each man had an Arab on each side of him, and Miss -Dawkins and Miss Damer had each, in addition, one behind. Mrs. Damer was -so frightened as altogether to have lost all ambition to ascend. She sat -below on a fragment of stone, with the three dragomans standing around -her as guards; but even with the three dragomans the attacks on her were -so frequent, and as she declared afterwards she was so bewildered, that -she never had time to remember that she had come there from England to -see the Pyramids, and that she was now immediately under them. - -The boys, utterly ignoring their guides, scrambled up quicker than the -Arabs could follow them. Mr. Damer started off at a pace which soon -brought him to the end of his tether, and from, that point was dragged -up by the sheer strength of his assistants; thereby accomplishing the -wishes of the men, who induce their victims to start as rapidly as -possible, in order that they may soon find themselves helpless from want -of wind. Mr. Ingram endeavoured to attach himself to Fanny, and she -would have been nothing loth to have him at her right hand instead of -the hideous brown, shrieking, one-eyed Arab who took hold of her. But it -was soon found that any such arrangement was impossible. Each guide felt -that if he lost his own peculiar hold he would lose his prey, and held -on, therefore, with invincible tenacity. Miss Dawkins looked, too, as -though she had thought to be attended to by some Christian cavalier, but -no Christian cavalier was forthcoming. M. Delabordeau was the wisest, -for he took the matter quietly, did as he was bid, and allowed the -guides nearly to carry him to the top of the edifice. - -“Ha! so this is the top of the Pyramid, is it?” said Mr. Damer, bringing -out his words one by one, being terribly out of breath. “Very wonderful, -very wonderful, indeed!” - -“It is wonderful,” said Miss Dawkins, whose breath had not failed her in -the least, “very wonderful, indeed! Only think, Mr. Damer, you might -travel on for days and days, till days became months, through those -interminable sands, and yet you would never come to the end of them. Is -it not quite stupendous?” - -“Ah, yes, quite,--puff, puff”--said Mr. Damer striving to regain his -breath. - -Mr. Damer was now at her disposal; weak and worn with toil and travel, -out of breath, and with half his manhood gone; if ever she might prevail -over him so as to procure from his mouth an assent to that Nile -proposition, it would be now. And after all, that Nile proposition was -the best one now before her. She did not quite like the idea of starting -off across the Great Desert without any lady, and was not sure that she -was prepared to be fallen in love with by M. Delabordeau, even if there -should ultimately be any readiness on the part of that gentleman to -perform the rôle of lover. With Mr. Ingram the matter was different, nor -was she so diffident of her own charms as to think it altogether -impossible that she might succeed, in the teeth of that little chit, -Fanny Damer. That Mr. Ingram would join the party up the Nile she had -very little doubt; and then, there would be one place left for her. She -would thus, at any rate, become commingled with a most respectable -family, who might be of material service to her. - -Thus actuated she commenced an earnest attack upon Mr. Damer. - -“Stupendous!” she said again, for she was fond of repeating favourite -words. “What a wondrous race must have been those Egyptian kings of -old!” - -“I dare say they were,” said Mr. Damer, wiping his brow as he sat upon a -large loose stone, a fragment lying on the flat top of the Pyramid, one -of those stones with which the complete apex was once made, or was once -about to be made. - -“A magnificent race! so gigantic in their conceptions! Their ideas -altogether overwhelm us poor, insignificant, latter-day mortals. They -built these vast Pyramids; but for us, it is task enough to climb to -their top.” - -“Quite enough,” ejaculated Mr. Damer. - -But Mr. Damer would not always remain weak and out of breath, and it was -absolutely necessary for Miss Dawkins to hurry away from Cheops and his -tomb, to Thebes and Karnac. - -“After seeing this it is impossible for any one with a spark of -imagination to leave Egypt without going farther a-field.” - -Mr. Damer merely wiped his brow and grunted. This Miss Dawkins took as a -signal of weakness, and went on with her task perseveringly. - -“For myself, I have resolved to go up, at any rate, as far as Asouan and -the first cataract. I had thought of acceding to the wishes of a party -who are going across the Great Desert by Mount Sinai to Jerusalem; but -the kindness of yourself and Mrs. Damer is so great, and the prospect of -joining in your boat is so pleasurable, that I have made up my mind to -accept your very kind offer.” - -This, it will be acknowledged, was bold on the part of Miss Dawkins; but -what will not audacity effect? To use the slang of modern language, -cheek carries everything nowadays. And whatever may have been Miss -Dawkins’s deficiencies, in this virtue she was not deficient. - -“I have made up my mind to accept your very kind offer,” she said, -shining on Mr. Damer with her blandest smile. - -What was a stout, breathless, perspiring, middle-aged gentleman to do -under such circumstances? Mr. Damer was a man who, in most matters, had -his own way. That his wife should have given such an invitation without -consulting him, was, he knew, quite impossible. She would as soon have -thought of asking all those Arab guides to accompany them. Nor was it to -be thought of that he should allow himself to be kidnapped into such an -arrangement by the impudence of any Miss Dawkins. But there was, he -felt, a difficulty in answering such a proposition from a young lady -with a direct negative, especially while he was so scant of breath. So -he wiped his brow again, and looked at her. - -“But I can only agree to this on one understanding,” continued Miss -Dawkins, “and that is, that I am allowed to defray my own full share of -the expense of the journey.” - -Upon hearing this Mr. Damer thought that he saw his way out of the wood. -“Wherever I go, Miss Dawkins, I am always the paymaster myself,” and -this he contrived to say with some sternness, palpitating though he -still was; and the sternness which was deficient in his voice he -endeavoured to put into his countenance. - -But he did not know Miss Dawkins. “Oh, Mr. Damer,” she said, and as she -spoke her smile became almost blander than it was before; “oh, Mr. -Damer, I could not think of suffering you to be so liberal; I could not, -indeed. But I shall be quite content that you should pay everything, and -let me settle with you in one sum afterwards.” - -Mr. Damer’s breath was now rather more under his own command. “I am -afraid, Miss Dawkins,” he said, “that Mrs. Damer’s weak state of health -will not admit of such an arrangement.” - -“What, about the paying?” - -“Not only as to that, but we are a family party, Miss Dawkins; and great -as would be the benefit of your society to all of us, in Mrs. Damer’s -present state of health, I am afraid--in short, you would not find it -agreeable.--And therefore--” this he added, seeing that she was still -about to persevere--“I fear that we must forego the advantage you -offer.” - -And then, looking into his face, Miss Dawkins did perceive that even her -audacity would not prevail. - -“Oh, very well,” she said, and moving from the stone on which she had -been sitting, she walked off, carrying her head very high, to a corner -of the Pyramid from which she could look forth alone towards the sands -of Libya. - -In the mean time another little overture was being made on the top of -the same Pyramid,--an overture which was not received quite in the same -spirit. While Mr. Damer was recovering his breath for the sake of -answering Miss Dawkins, Miss Damer had walked to the further corner of -the square platform on which they were placed, and there sat herself -down with her face turned towards Cairo. Perhaps it was not singular -that Mr. Ingram should have followed her. - -This would have been very well if a dozen Arabs had not also followed -them. But as this was the case, Mr. Ingram had to play his game under -some difficulty. He had no sooner seated himself beside her than they -came and stood directly in front of the seat, shutting out the view, and -by no means improving the fragrance of the air around them. - -“And this, then, Miss Damer, will be our last excursion together,” he -said, in his tenderest, softest tone. - -“De good Englishman will gib de poor Arab one little backsheish,” said -an Arab, putting out his hand and shaking Mr. Ingram’s shoulder. - -“Yes, yes, yes; him gib backsheish,” said another. - -“Him berry good man,” said a third, putting up his filthy hand, and -touching Mr. Ingram’s face. - -“And young lady berry good, too; she give backsheish to poor Arab.” - -“Yes,” said a fourth, preparing to take a similar liberty with Miss -Damer. - -This was too much for Mr. Ingram. He had already used very positive -language in his endeavour to assure his tormentors that they would not -get a piastre from him. But this only changed their soft persuasions -into threats. Upon hearing which, and upon seeing what the man attempted -to do in his endeavour to get money from Miss Damer, he raised his -stick, and struck first one and then the other as violently as he could -upon their heads. - -Any ordinary civilised men would have been stunned by such blows, for -they fell on the bare foreheads of the Arabs; but the objects of the -American’s wrath merely skulked away; and the others, convinced by the -only arguments which they understood, followed in pursuit of victims who -might be less pugnacious. - -It is hard for a man to be at once tender and pugnacious--to be -sentimental, while he is putting forth his physical strength with all -the violence in his power. It is difficult, also, for him to be gentle -instantly after having been in a rage. So he changed his tactics at the -moment, and came to the point at once in a manner befitting his present -state of mind. - -“Those vile wretches have put me in such a heat,” he said, “that I -hardly know what I am saying. But the fact is this, Miss Damer, I cannot -leave Cairo without knowing----. You understand what I mean, Miss -Damer.” - -“Indeed I do not, Mr. Ingram; except that I am afraid you mean -nonsense.” - -“Yes, you do; you know that I love you. I am sure you must know it. At -any rate you know it now.” - -“Mr. Ingram, you should not talk in such a way.” - -“Why should I not? But the truth is, Fanny, I can talk in no other way. -I do love you dearly. Can you love me well enough to go and be my wife -in a country far away from your own?” - -Before she left the top of the Pyramid Fanny Damer had said that she -would try. - -Mr. Ingram was now a proud and happy man, and seemed to think the steps -of the Pyramid too small for his elastic energy. But Fanny feared that -her troubles were to come. There was papa--that terrible bugbear on all -such occasions. What would papa say? She was sure her papa would not -allow her to marry and go so far away from her own family and country. -For herself, she liked the Americans--always had liked them; so she -said;--would desire nothing better than to live among them. But papa! -And Fanny sighed as she felt that all the recognised miseries of a young -lady in love were about to fall upon her. - -Nevertheless, at her lover’s instance, she promised, and declared, in -twenty different loving phrases, that nothing on earth should ever make -her false to her love or to her lover. - -“Fanny, where are you? Why are you not ready to come down?” shouted Mr. -Damer, not in the best of tempers. He felt that he had almost been -unkind to an unprotected female, and his heart misgave him. And yet it -would have misgiven him more had he allowed himself to be entrapped by -Miss Dawkins. - -“I am quite ready, papa,” said Fanny, running up to him--for it may be -understood that there is quite room enough for a young lady to run on -the top of the Pyramid. - -“I am sure I don’t know where you have been all the time,” said Mr. -Damer; “and where are those two boys?” - -Fanny pointed to the top of the other Pyramid, and there they were, -conspicuous with their red caps. - -“And M. Delabordeau?” - -“Oh! he has gone down, I think;--no, he is there with Miss Dawkins.” -And in truth Miss Dawkins was leaning on his arm most affectionately, as -she stooped over and looked down upon the ruins below her. - -“And where is that fellow, Ingram?” said Mr. Damer, looking about him. -“He is always out of the way when he’s wanted.” - -To this Fanny said nothing. Why should she? She was not Mr. Ingram’s -keeper. - -And then they all descended, each again with his proper number of Arabs -to hurry and embarrass him; and they found Mrs. Damer at the bottom, -like a piece of sugar covered with flies. She was heard to declare -afterwards that she would not go to the Pyramids again, not if they were -to be given to her for herself, as ornaments for her garden. - -The picnic lunch among the big stones at the foot of the Pyramid was not -a very gay affair. Miss Dawkins talked more than any one else, being -determined to show that she bore her defeat gallantly. Her conversation, -however, was chiefly addressed to M. Delabordeau, and he seemed to think -more of his cold chicken and ham than he did of her wit and attention. - -Fanny hardly spoke a word. There was her father before her and she could -not eat, much less talk, as she thought of all that she would have to go -through. What would he say to the idea of having an American for a -son-in-law? - -Nor was Mr. Ingram very lively. A young man when he has been just -accepted, never is so. His happiness under the present circumstances -was, no doubt, intense, but it was of a silent nature. - -And then the interior of the building had to be visited. To tell the -truth none of the party would have cared to perform this feat had it not -been for the honour of the thing. To have come from Paris, New York, or -London, to the Pyramids, and then not to have visited the very tomb of -Cheops, would have shown on the part of all of them an indifference to -subjects of interest which would have been altogether fatal to their -character as travellers. And so a party for the interior was made up. - -Miss Damer when she saw the aperture through which it was expected that -she should descend, at once declared for staying with her mother. Miss -Dawkins, however, was enthusiastic for the journey. “Persons with so -very little command over their nerves might really as well stay at -home,” she said to Mr. Ingram, who glowered at her dreadfully for -expressing such an opinion about his Fanny. - -This entrance into the Pyramids is a terrible task, which should be -undertaken by no lady. Those who perform it have to creep down, and then -to be dragged up, through infinite dirt, foul smells, and bad air; and -when they have done it, they see nothing. But they do earn the -gratification of saying that they have been inside a Pyramid. - -“Well, I’ve done that once,” said Mr. Damer, coming out, “and I do not -think that any one will catch me doing it again. I never was in such a -filthy place in my life.” - -“Oh, Fanny! I am so glad you did not go; I am sure it is not fit for -ladies,” said poor Mrs. Damer, forgetful of her friend Miss Dawkins. - -“I should have been ashamed of myself,” said Miss Dawkins, bristling up, -and throwing back her head as she stood, “if I had allowed any -consideration to have prevented my visiting such a spot. If it be not -improper for men to go there, how can it be improper for women?” - -“I did not say improper, my dear,” said Mrs. Damer, apologetically. - -“And as for the fatigue, what can a woman be worth who is afraid to -encounter as much as I have now gone through for the sake of visiting -the last resting-place of such a king as Cheops?” And Miss Dawkins, as -she pronounced the last words, looked round her with disdain upon poor -Fanny Damer. - -“But I meant the dirt,” said Mrs. Damer. - -“Dirt!” ejaculated Miss Dawkins, and then walked away. Why should she -now submit her high tone of feeling to the Damers, or why care longer -for their good opinion? Therefore she scattered contempt around her as -she ejaculated the last word, “dirt.” - -And then the return home! “I know I shall never get there,” said Mrs. -Damer, looking piteously up into her husband’s face. - -“Nonsense, my dear; nonsense; you must get there.” Mrs. Damer groaned, -and acknowledged in her heart that she must,--either dead or alive. - -“And, Jefferson,” said Fanny, whispering--for there had been a moment -since their descent in which she had been instructed to call him by his -Christian name--“never mind talking to me going home. I will ride by -mamma. Do you go with papa and put him in good humour; and if he says -anything about the lords and the bishops, don’t you contradict him, you -know.” - -What will not a man do for love? Mr. Ingram promised. And in this way -they started; the two boys led the van; then came Mr. Damer and Mr. -Ingram, unusually and unpatriotically acquiescent as to England’s -aristocratic propensities; then Miss Dawkins riding, alas! alone; after -her, M. Delabordeau, also alone,--the ungallant Frenchman! And the rear -was brought up by Mrs. Damer and her daughter, flanked on each side by a -dragoman, with a third dragoman behind them. - -And in this order they went back to Cairo, riding their donkeys, and -crossing the ferry solemnly, and, for the most part, silently. Mr. -Ingram did talk, as he had an important object in view,--that of putting -Mr. Damer into a good humour. - -In this he succeeded so well that by the time they had remounted, after -crossing the Nile, Mr. Damer opened his heart to his companion on the -subject that was troubling him, and told him all about Miss Dawkins. - -“I don’t see why we should have a companion that we don’t like for eight -or ten weeks, merely because it seems rude to refuse a lady.” - -“Indeed, I agree with you,” said Mr. Ingram; “I should call it -weak-minded to give way in such a case.” - -“My daughter does not like her at all,” continued Mr. Damer. - -“Nor would she be a nice companion for Miss Damer; not according to my -way of thinking,” said Mr. Ingram. - -“And as to my having asked her, or Mrs. Damer having asked her! Why, God -bless my soul, it is pure invention on the woman’s part!” - -“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mr. Ingrain; “I must say she plays her game well; -but then she is an old soldier, and has the benefit of experience.” What -would Miss Dawkins have said had she known that Mr. Ingram called her an -old soldier? - -“I don’t like the kind of thing at all,” said Mr. Damer, who was very -serious upon the subject. “You see the position in which I am placed. I -am forced to be very rude, or----” - -“I don’t call it rude at all.” - -“Disobliging, then; or else I must have all my comfort invaded and -pleasure destroyed by, by, by----” And Mr. Damer paused, being at a loss -for an appropriate name for Miss Dawkins. - -“By an unprotected female,” suggested Mr. Ingram. - -“Yes, just so. I am as fond of pleasant company as anybody; but then I -like to choose it myself.” - -“So do I,” said Mr. Ingram, thinking of his own choice. - -“Now, Ingram, if you would join us, we should be delighted.” - -“Upon my word, sir, the offer is too flattering,” said Ingram, -hesitatingly; for he felt that he could not undertake such a journey -until Mr. Damer knew on what terms he stood with Fanny. - -“You are a terrible democrat,” said Mr. Damer, laughing; “but then, on -that matter, you know, we could agree to differ.” - -“Exactly so,” said Mr. Ingram, who had not collected his thoughts or -made up his mind as to what he had better say and do, on the spur of the -moment. - -“Well, what do you say to it?” said Mr. Damer, encouragingly. But Ingram -paused before he answered. - -“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, don’t have the slightest hesitation -in refusing, if you don’t like the plan.” - -“The fact is, Mr. Damer, I should like it too well.” - -“Like it too well?” - -“Yes, sir, and I may as well tell you now as later. I had intended this -evening to have asked for your permission to address your daughter.” - -“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer, looking as though a totally new -idea had now been opened to him. - -“And under these circumstances, I will now wait and see whether or no -you will renew your offer.” - -“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer, again. It often does strike an old -gentleman as very odd that any man should fall in love with his -daughter, whom he has not ceased to look upon as a child. The case is -generally quite different with mothers. They seem to think that every -young man must fall in love with their girls. - -“And have you said anything to Fanny about this?” asked Mr. Damer. - -“Yes, sir, I have her permission to speak to you.” - -“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer; and by this time they had arrived -at Shepheard’s Hotel. - -“Oh, mamma,” said Fanny, as soon as she found herself alone with her -mother that evening, “I have something that I must tell you.” - -“Oh, Fanny, don’t tell me anything to-night, for I am a great deal too -tired to listen.” - -“But oh, mamma, pray;--you must listen to this; indeed you must.” And -Fanny knelt down at her mother’s knee, and looked beseechingly up into -her face. - -“What is it, Fanny? You know that all my bones are sore, and I am so -tired that I am almost dead.” - -“Mamma, Mr. Ingram has----” - -“Has what, my dear? has he done anything wrong?” - -“No, mamma: but he has;--he has proposed to me.” And Fanny, bursting -into tears, hid her face in her mother’s lap. - -And thus the story was told on both sides of the house. On the next day, -as a matter of course, all the difficulties and dangers of such a -marriage as that which was now projected were insisted on by both father -and mother. It was improper; it would cause a severing of the family not -to be thought of; it would be an alliance of a dangerous nature, and not -at all calculated to insure happiness; and, in short, it was impossible. -On that day, therefore, they all went to bed very unhappy. But on the -next day, as was also a matter of course, seeing that there were no -pecuniary difficulties, the mother and father were talked over, and Mr. -Ingram was accepted as a son-in-law. It need hardly be said that the -offer of a place in Mr. Damer’s boat was again made, and that on this -occasion it was accepted without hesitation. - -There was an American Protestant clergyman resident in Cairo, with whom, -among other persons, Miss Dawkins had become acquainted. Upon this -gentleman or upon his wife Miss Dawkins called a few days after the -journey to the Pyramid, and finding him in his study, thus performed her -duty to her neighbour,-- - -“You know your countryman Mr. Ingram, I think?” said she. - -“Oh, yes; very intimately.” - -“If you have any regard for him, Mr. Burton,” such was the gentleman’s -name, “I think you should put him on his guard.” - -“On his guard against what?” said Mr. Burton with a serious air, for -there was something serious in the threat of impending misfortune as -conveyed by Miss Dawkins. - -“Why,” said she, “those Damers, I fear, are dangerous people.” - -“Do you mean that they will borrow money of him?” - -“Oh, no; not that, exactly; but they are clearly setting their cap at -him.” - -“Setting their cap at him?” - -“Yes; there is a daughter, you know; a little chit of a thing; and I -fear Mr. Ingram may be caught before he knows where he is. It would be -such a pity, you know. He is going up the river with them, I hear. That, -in his place, is very foolish. They asked me, but I positively refused.” - -Mr. Burton remarked that “In such a matter as that Mr. Ingram would be -perfectly able to take care of himself.” - -“Well, perhaps so; but seeing what was going on, I thought it my duty to -tell you.” And so Miss Dawkins took her leave. - -Mr. Ingram did go up the Nile with the Damers, as did an old friend of -the Damers who arrived from England. And a very pleasant trip they had -of it. And, as far as the present historian knows, the two lovers were -shortly afterwards married in England. - -Poor Miss Dawkins was left in Cairo for some time on her beam ends. But -she was one of those who are not easily vanquished. After an interval of -ten days she made acquaintance with an Irish family--having utterly -failed in moving the hard heart of M. Delabordeau--and with these she -proceeded to Constantinople. They consisted of two brothers and a -sister, and were, therefore, very convenient for matrimonial purposes. -But nevertheless, when I last heard of Miss Dawkins, she was still an -unprotected female. - - - - -THE CHATEAU OF PRINCE POLIGNAC. - - -Few Englishmen or Englishwomen are intimately acquainted with the little -town of Le Puy. It is the capital of the old province of Le Velay, which -also is now but little known, even to French ears, for it is in these -days called by the imperial name of the Department of the Haute Loire. -It is to the south-east of Auvergne, and is nearly in the centre of the -southern half of France. - -But few towns, merely as towns, can be better worth visiting. In the -first place, the volcanic formation of the ground on which it stands is -not only singular in the extreme, so as to be interesting to the -geologist, but it is so picturesque as to be equally gratifying to the -general tourist. Within a narrow valley there stand several rocks, -rising up from the ground with absolute abruptness. Round two of these -the town clusters, and a third stands but a mile distant, forming the -centre of a faubourg, or suburb. These rocks appear to be, and I believe -are, the harder particles of volcanic matter, which have not been -carried away through successive ages by the joint agency of water and -air. - -When the tide of lava ran down between the hills the surface left was no -doubt on a level with the heads of these rocks; but here and there the -deposit became harder than elsewhere, and these harder points have -remained, lifting up their steep heads in a line through the valley. - -The highest of these is called the Rocher de Corneille. Round this and -up its steep sides the town stands. On its highest summit there was an -old castle; and there now is, or will be before these pages are printed, -a colossal figure in bronze of the Virgin Mary, made from the cannon -taken at Sebastopol. Half-way down the hill the cathedral is built, a -singularly gloomy edifice,--Romanesque, as it is called, in its style, -but extremely similar in its mode of architecture to what we know of -Byzantine structures. But there has been no surface on the rock side -large enough to form a resting-place for the church, which has -therefore been built out on huge supporting piles, which form a porch -below the west front; so that the approach is by numerous steps laid -along the side of the wall below the church, forming a wondrous flight -of stairs. Let all men who may find themselves stopping at Le Puy visit -the top of these stairs at the time of the setting sun, and look down -from thence through the framework of the porch on the town beneath, and -at the hill-side beyond. - -Behind the church is the seminary of the priests, with its beautiful -walks stretching round the Rocher de Corneille, and overlooking the town -and valley below. - -Next to this rock, and within a quarter of a mile of it, is the second -peak, called the Rock of the Needle. It rises narrow, sharp, and abrupt -from the valley, allowing of no buildings on its sides. But on its very -point has been erected a church sacred to St. Michael, that lover of -rock summits, accessible by stairs cut from the stone. This, -perhaps--this rock, I mean--is the most wonderful of the wonders which -Nature has formed at Le Puy. - -Above this, at a mile’s distance, is the rock of Espailly, formed in the -same way, and almost equally precipitous. On its summit is a castle, -having its own legend, and professing to have been the residence of -Charles VII., when little of France belonged to its kings but the -provinces of Berry, Auvergne, and Le Velay. Some three miles farther up -there is another volcanic rock, larger, indeed, but equally sudden in -its spring,--equally remarkable as rising abruptly from the valley,--on -which stands the castle and old family residence of the house of -Polignac. It was lost by them at the Revolution, but was repurchased by -the minister of Charles X., and is still the property of the head of the -race. - -Le Puy itself is a small, moderate, pleasant French town, in which the -language of the people has not the pure Parisian aroma, nor is the glory -of the boulevards of the capital emulated in its streets. These are -crooked, narrow, steep, and intricate, forming here and there excellent -sketches for a lover of street picturesque beauty; but hurtful to the -feet with their small, round-topped paving stones, and not always as -clean as pedestrian ladies might desire. - -And now I would ask my readers to join me at the morning table d’hôte at -the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. It will of course be understood that this -does not mean a breakfast in the ordinary fashion of England, consisting -of tea or coffee, bread and butter, and perhaps a boiled egg. It -comprises all the requisites for a composite dinner, excepting soup; and -as one gets further south in France, this meal is called dinner. It is, -however, eaten without any prejudice to another similar and somewhat -longer meal at six or seven o’clock, which, when the above name is taken -up by the earlier enterprise, is styled supper. - -The déjeûner, or dinner, at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, on the morning -in question, though very elaborate, was not a very gay affair. There -were some fourteen persons present, of whom half were residents in the -town, men employed in some official capacity, who found this to be the -cheapest, the most luxurious, and to them the most comfortable mode of -living. They clustered together at the head of the table, and as they -were customary guests at the house, they talked their little talk -together--it was very little--and made the most of the good things -before them. Then there were two or three commis-voyageurs, a chance -traveller or two, and an English lady with a young daughter. The English -lady sat next to one of the accustomed guests; but he, unlike the -others, held converse with her rather than with them. Our story at -present has reference only to that lady and to that gentleman. - -Place aux dames. We will speak first of the lady, whose name was Mrs. -Thompson. She was, shall I say, a young woman of about thirty-six. In so -saying, I am perhaps creating a prejudice against her in the minds of -some readers, as they will, not unnaturally, suppose her, after such an -announcement, to be in truth over forty. Any such prejudice will be -unjust. I would have it believed that thirty-six was the outside, not -the inside of her age. She was good-looking, lady-like, and considering -that she was an Englishwoman, fairly well dressed. She was inclined to -be rather full in her person, but perhaps not more so than is becoming -to ladies at her time of life. She had rings on her fingers and a brooch -on her bosom which were of some value, and on the back of her head she -wore a jaunty small lace cap, which seemed to tell, in conjunction with -her other appointments, that her circumstances were comfortable. - -The little girl who sat next to her was the youngest of her two -daughters, and might be about thirteen years of age. Her name was -Matilda, but infantine circumstances had invested her with the nickname -of Mimmy, by which her mother always called her. A nice, pretty, playful -little girl was Mimmy Thompson, wearing two long tails of plaited hair -hanging behind her head, and inclined occasionally to be rather loud in -her sport. - -Mrs. Thompson had another and an elder daughter, now some fifteen years -old, who was at school in Le Puy; and it was with reference to her -tuition that Mrs. Thompson had taken up a temporary residence at the -Hôtel des Ambassadeurs in that town. Lilian Thompson was occasionally -invited down to dine or breakfast at the inn, and was visited daily at -her school by her mother. - -“When I’m sure that she’ll do, I shall leave her there, and go back to -England,” Mrs. Thompson had said, not in the purest French, to the -neighbour who always sat next to her at the table d’hôte, the gentleman, -namely, to whom we have above alluded. But still she had remained at Le -Puy a month, and did not go; a circumstance which was considered -singular, but by no means unpleasant, both by the innkeeper and by the -gentleman in question. - -The facts, as regarded Mrs. Thompson, were as follows:--She was the -widow of a gentleman who had served for many years in the civil service -of the East Indies, and who, on dying, had left her a comfortable income -of--it matters not how many pounds, but constituting quite a sufficiency -to enable her to live at her ease and educate her daughters. - -Her children had been sent home to England before her husband’s death, -and after that event she had followed them; but there, though she was -possessed of moderate wealth, she had no friends and few acquaintances, -and after a little while she had found life to be rather dull. Her -customs were not those of England, nor were her propensities English; -therefore she had gone abroad, and having received some recommendation -of this school at Le Puy, had made her way thither. As it appeared to -her that she really enjoyed more consideration at Le Puy than had been -accorded to her either at Torquay or Leamington, there she remained from -day to day. The total payment required at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs was -but six francs daily for herself and three and a half for her little -girl; and where else could she live with a better junction of economy -and comfort? And then the gentleman who always sat next to her was so -exceedingly civil! - -The gentleman’s name was M. Lacordaire. So much she knew, and had -learned to call him by his name very frequently. Mimmy, too, was quite -intimate with M. Lacordaire; but nothing more than his name was known of -him. But M. Lacordaire carried a general letter of recommendation in his -face, manner, gait, dress, and tone of voice. In all these respects -there was nothing left to be desired; and, in addition to this, he was -decorated, and wore the little red ribbon of the Legion of Honour, -ingeniously twisted into the shape of a small flower. - -M. Lacordaire might be senior in age to Mrs. Thompson by about ten -years, nor had he about him any of the airs or graces of a would-be -young man. His hair, which he wore very short, was grizzled, as was also -the small pretence of a whisker which came down about as far as the -middle of his ear; but the tuft on his chin was still brown, without a -gray hair. His eyes were bright and tender, his voice was low and soft, -his hands were very white, his clothes were always new and well fitting, -and a better-brushed hat could not be seen out of Paris, nor perhaps in -it. - -Now, during the weeks which Mrs. Thompson had passed at Le Puy, the -acquaintance which she had formed with M. Lacordaire had progressed -beyond the prolonged meals in the salle à manger. He had occasionally -sat beside her evening table as she took her English cup of tea in her -own room, her bed being duly screened off in its distant niche by -becoming curtains; and then he had occasionally walked beside her, as he -civilly escorted her to the lions of the place; and he had once -accompanied her, sitting on the back seat of a French voiture, when she -had gone forth to see something of the surrounding country. - -On all such occasions she had been accompanied by one of her daughters, -and the world of Le Puy had had nothing material to say against her. But -still the world of Le Puy had whispered a little, suggesting that M. -Lacordaire knew very well what he was about. But might not Mrs. Thompson -also know as well what she was about? At any rate, everything had gone -on very pleasantly since the acquaintance had been made. And now, so -much having been explained, we will go back to the elaborate breakfast -at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. - -Mrs. Thompson, holding Mimmy by the hand, walked into the room some few -minutes after the last bell had been rung, and took the place which was -now hers by custom. The gentlemen who constantly frequented the house -all bowed to her, but M. Lacordaire rose from his seat and offered her -his hand. - -“And how is Mees Meemy this morning?” said he; for ’twas thus he always -pronounced her name. - -Miss Mimmy, answering for herself, declared that she was very well, and -suggested that M. Lacordaire should give her a fig from off a dish that -was placed immediately before him on the table. This M. Lacordaire did, -presenting it very elegantly between his two fingers, and making a -little bow to the little lady as he did so. - -“Fie, Mimmy!” said her mother; “why do you ask for the things before the -waiter brings them round?” - -“But, mamma,” said Mimmy, speaking English, “M. Lacordaire always gives -me a fig every morning.” - -“M. Lacordaire always spoils you, I think,” answered Mrs. Thompson, in -French. And then they went thoroughly to work at their breakfast. During -the whole meal M. Lacordaire attended assiduously to his neighbour; and -did so without any evil result, except that one Frenchman with a black -moustache, at the head of the table, trod on the toe of another -Frenchman with another black moustache--winking as he made the -sign--just as M. Lacordaire, having selected a bunch of grapes, put it -on Mrs. Thompson’s plate with infinite grace. But who among us all is -free from such impertinences as these? - -“But madame really must see the château of Prince Polignac before she -leaves Le Puy,” said M. Lacordaire. - -“The château of who?” asked Mimmy, to whose young ears the French words -were already becoming familiar. - -“Prince Polignac, my dear. Well, I really don’t know, M. Lacordaire;--I -have seen a great deal of the place already, and I shall be going now -very soon; probably in a day or two,” said Mrs. Thompson. - -“But madame must positively see the château,” said M. Lacordaire, very -impressively; and then after a pause he added, “If madame will have the -complaisance to commission me to procure a carriage for this afternoon, -and will allow me the honour to be her guide, I shall consider myself -one of the most fortunate of men.” - -“Oh, yes, mamma, do go,” said Mimmy, clapping her hands. “And it is -Thursday, and Lilian can go with us.” - -“Be quiet, Mimmy, do. Thank you, no, M. Lacordaire. I could not go -to-day; but I am extremely obliged by your politeness.” - -M. Lacordaire still pressed the matter, and Mrs. Thompson still declined -till it was time to rise from the table. She then declared that she did -not think it possible that she should visit the château before she left -Le Puy; but that she would give him an answer at dinner. - -The most tedious time in the day to Mrs. Thompson were the two hours -after breakfast. At one o’clock she daily went to the school, taking -Mimmy, who for an hour or two shared her sister’s lessons. This and her -little excursions about the place, and her shopping, managed to make -away with her afternoon. Then in the evening, she generally saw -something of M. Lacordaire. But those two hours after breakfast were -hard of killing. - -On this occasion, when she gained her own room, she as usual placed -Mimmy on the sofa with a needle. Her custom then was to take up a novel; -but on this morning she sat herself down in her arm-chair, and resting -her head upon her hand and elbow, began to turn over certain -circumstances in her mind. - -“Mamma,” said Mimmy, “why won’t you go with M. Lacordaire to that place -belonging to the prince? Prince--Polly something, wasn’t it?” - -“Mind your work, my dear,” said Mrs. Thompson. - -“But I do so wish you’d go, mamma. What was the prince’s name?” - -“Polignac.” - -“Mamma, ain’t princes very great people?” - -“Yes, my dear; sometimes.” - -“Is Prince Polly-nac like our Prince Alfred?” - -“No, my dear; not at all. At least, I suppose not.” - -“Is his mother a queen?” - -“No, my dear.” - -“Then his father must be a king?” - -“No, my dear. It is quite a different thing here. Here in France they -have a great many princes.” - -“Well, at any rate I should like to see a prince’s château; so I do hope -you’ll go.” And then there was a pause. “Mamma, could it come to pass, -here in France, that M. Lacordaire should ever be a prince?” - -“M. Lacordaire a prince! No; don’t talk such nonsense, but mind your -work.” - -“Isn’t M. Lacordaire a very nice man? Ain’t you very fond of him?” - -To this question Mrs. Thompson made no answer. - -“Mamma,” continued Mimmy, after a moment’s pause, “won’t you tell me -whether you are fond of M. Lacordaire? I’m quite sure of this,--that -he’s very fond of you.” - -“What makes you think that?” asked Mrs. Thompson, who could not bring -herself to refrain from the question. - -“Because he looks at you in that way, mamma, and squeezes your hand.” - -“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs. Thompson; “hold your tongue. I don’t know -what can have put such stuff into your head.” - -“But he does, mamma,” said Mimmy, who rarely allowed her mother to put -her down. - -Mrs. Thompson made no further answer, but again sat with her head -resting on her hand. She also, if the truth must be told, was thinking -of M. Lacordaire and his fondness for herself. He had squeezed her hand -and he had looked into her face. However much it may have been nonsense -on Mimmy’s part to talk of such things, they had not the less absolutely -occurred. Was it really the fact that M. Lacordaire was in love with -her? - -And if so, what return should she, or could she make to such a passion? -He had looked at her yesterday, and squeezed her hand to-day. Might it -not be probable that he would advance a step further to-morrow? If so, -what answer would she be prepared to make to him? - -She did not think--so she said to herself--that she had any particular -objection to marrying again. Thompson had been dead now for four years, -and neither his friends, nor her friends, nor the world could say she -was wrong on that score. And as to marrying a Frenchman, she could not -say she felt within herself any absolute repugnance to doing that. Of -her own country, speaking of England as such, she, in truth, knew but -little--and perhaps cared less. She had gone to India almost as a child, -and England had not been specially kind to her on her return. She had -found it dull and cold, stiff, and almost ill-natured. People there had -not smiled on her and been civil as M. Lacordaire had done. As far as -England and Englishmen were considered she saw no reason why she should -not marry M. Lacordaire. - -And then, as regarded the man; could she in her heart say that she was -prepared to love, honour, and obey M. Lacordaire? She certainly knew no -reason why she should not do so. She did not know much of him, she said -to herself at first; but she knew as much, she said afterwards, as she -had known personally of Mr. Thompson before their marriage. She had -known, to be sure, what was Mr. Thompson’s profession and what his -income; or, if not, some one else had known for her. As to both these -points she was quite in the dark as regarded M. Lacordaire. - -Personally, she certainly did like him, as she said to herself more than -once. There was a courtesy and softness about him which were very -gratifying to her; and then, his appearance was so much in his favour. -He was not very young, she acknowledged; but neither was she young -herself. It was quite evident that he was fond of her children, and that -he would be a kind and affectionate father to them. Indeed, there was -kindness in all that he did. - -Should she many again,--and she put it to herself quite -hypothetically,--she would look for no romance in such a second -marriage. She would be content to sit down in a quiet home, to the tame -dull realities of life, satisfied with the companionship of a man who -would be kind and gentle to her, and whom she could respect and esteem. -Where could she find a companion with whom this could be more safely -anticipated than with M. Lacordaire? - -And so she argued the question within her own breast in a manner not -unfriendly to that gentleman. That there was as yet one great hindrance -she at once saw; but then that might be remedied by a word. She did not -know what was his income or his profession. The chambermaid, whom she -had interrogated, had told her that he was a “marchand.” To merchants, -generally, she felt that she had no objection. The Barings and the -Rothschilds were merchants, as was also that wonderful man at Bombay, -Sir Hommajee Bommajee, who was worth she did not know how many thousand -lacs of rupees. - -That it would behove her, on her own account and that of her daughters, -to take care of her own little fortune in contracting any such -connection, that she felt strongly. She would never so commit herself as -to put security in that respect out of her power. But then she did not -think that M. Lacordaire would ever ask her to do so; at any rate, she -was determined on this, that there should never be any doubt on that -matter; and as she firmly resolved on this, she again took up her book, -and for a minute or two made an attempt to read. - -“Mamma,” said Mimmy, “will M. Lacordaire go up to the school to see -Lilian when you go away from this?” - -“Indeed, I cannot say, my dear. If Lilian is a good girl, perhaps he may -do so now and then.” - -“And will he write to you and tell you how she is?” - -“Lilian can write for herself; can she not?” - -“Oh yes; I suppose she can; but I hope M. Lacordaire will write too. We -shall come back here some day; shan’t we, mamma?” - -“I cannot say, my dear.” - -“I do so hope we shall see M. Lacordaire again. Do you know what I was -thinking, mamma?” - -“Little girls like you ought not to think,” said Mrs. Thompson, walking -slowly out of the room to the top of the stairs and back again; for she -had felt the necessity of preventing Mimmy from disclosing any more of -her thoughts. “And now, my dear, get yourself ready, and we will go up -to the school.” - -Mrs. Thompson always dressed herself with care, though not in especially -fine clothes, before she went down to dinner at the table d’hôte; but on -this occasion she was more than usually particular. She hardly explained -to herself why she did this; but, nevertheless, as she stood before the -glass, she did in a certain manner feel that the circumstances of her -future life might perhaps depend on what might be said and done that -evening. She had not absolutely decided whether or no she would go to -the Prince’s château; but if she did go----. Well, if she did; what -then? She had sense enough, as she assured herself more than once, to -regulate her own conduct with propriety in any such emergency. - -During the dinner, M. Lacordaire conversed in his usual manner, but said -nothing whatever about the visit to Polignac. He was very kind to Mimmy, -and very courteous to her mother, but did not appear to be at all more -particular than usual. Indeed, it might be a question whether he was not -less so. As she had entered the room Mrs. Thompson had said to herself -that, perhaps, after all, it would be better that there should be -nothing more thought about it; but before the four of five courses were -over, she was beginning to feel a little disappointed. - -And now the fruit was on the table, after the consumption of which it -was her practice to retire. It was certainly open to her to ask M. -Lacordaire to take tea with her that evening, as she had done on former -occasions; but she felt that she must not do this now, considering the -immediate circumstances of the case. If any further steps were to be -taken, they must be taken by him, and not by her;--or else by Mimmy, -who, just as her mother was slowly consuming her last grapes, ran round -to the back of M. Lacordaire’s chair, and whispered something into his -ear. It may be presumed that Mrs. Thompson did not see the intention of -the movement in time to arrest it, for she did nothing till the -whispering had been whispered; and then she rebuked the child, bade her -not to be troublesome, and with more than usual austerity in her voice, -desired her to get herself ready to go up stairs to their chamber. - -As she spoke she herself rose from her chair, and made her final little -bow to the table, and her other final little bow and smile to M. -Lacordaire; but this was certain to all who saw it, that the smile was -not as gracious as usual. - -As she walked forth, M. Lacordaire rose from his chair--such being his -constant practice when she left the table; but on this occasion he -accompanied her to the door. - -“And has madame decided,” he asked, “whether she will permit me to -accompany her to the château?” - -“Well, I really don’t know,” said Mrs. Thompson. - -“Mees Meemy,” continued M. Lacordaire, “is very anxious to see the rock, -and I may perhaps hope that Mees Lilian would be pleased with such a -little excursion. As for myself----” and then M. Lacordaire put his hand -upon his heart in a manner that seemed to speak more plainly than he had -ever spoken. - -“Well, if the children would really like it, and--as you are so very -kind,” said Mrs. Thompson; and so the matter was conceded. - -“To-morrow afternoon?” suggested M. Lacordaire. But Mrs. Thompson fixed -on Saturday, thereby showing that she herself was in no hurry for the -expedition. - -“Oh, I am so glad!” said Mimmy, when they had re-entered their own room. -“Mamma, do let me tell Lilian myself when I go up to the school -to-morrow!” - -But mamma was in no humour to say much to her child on this subject at -the present moment. She threw herself back on her sofa in perfect -silence, and began to reflect whether she would like to sign her name in -future as Fanny Lacordaire, instead of Fanny Thompson. It certainly -seemed as though things were verging towards such a necessity. A -marchand! But a marchand of what? She had an instinctive feeling that -the people in the hotel were talking about her and M. Lacordaire, and -was therefore more than ever averse to asking any one a question. - -As she went up to the school the next afternoon, she walked through more -of the streets of Le Puy than was necessary, and in every street she -looked at the names which she saw over the doors of the more respectable -houses of business. But she looked in vain. It might be that M. -Lacordaire was a marchand of so specially high a quality as to be under -no necessity to put up his name at all. Sir Hommajee Bommajee’s name did -not appear over any door in Bombay;--at least, she thought not. - -And then came the Saturday morning. “We shall be ready at two,” she -said, as she left the breakfast-table; “and perhaps you would not mind -calling for Lilian on the way.” - -M. Lacordaire would be delighted to call anywhere for anybody on behalf -of Mrs. Thompson; and then, as he got to the door of the salon, he -offered her his hand. He did so with so much French courtesy that she -could not refuse it, and then she felt that his purpose was more tender -than ever it had been. And why not, if this was the destiny which Fate -had prepared for her? - -Mrs. Thompson would rather have got into the carriage at any other spot -in Le Puy than at that at which she was forced to do so--the chief -entrance, namely, of the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. And what made it worse -was this, that an appearance of a special fête was given to the -occasion. M. Lacordaire was dressed in more than his Sunday best. He had -on new yellow kid gloves. His coat, if not new, was newer than any Mrs. -Thompson had yet observed, and was lined with silk up to the very -collar. He had on patent leather boots, which glittered, as Mrs. -Thompson thought, much too conspicuously. And as for his hat, it was -quite evident that it was fresh that morning from the maker’s block. - -In this costume, with his hat in his hand, he stood under the great -gateway of the hotel, ready to hand Mrs. Thompson into the carriage. -This would have been nothing if the landlord and landlady had not been -there also, as well as the man-cook, and the four waiters, and the fille -de chambre. Two or three other pair of eyes Mrs. Thompson also saw, as -she glanced round, and then Mimmy walked across the yard in her best -clothes with a fête-day air about her for which her mother would have -liked to have whipped her. - -But what did it matter? If it was written in the book that she should -become Madame Lacordaire, of course the world would know that there must -have been some preparatory love-making. Let them have their laugh; a -good husband would not be dearly purchased at so trifling an expense. -And so they sallied forth with already half the ceremony of a wedding. - -Mimmy seated herself opposite to her mother, and M. Lacordaire also sat -with his back to the horses, leaving the second place of honour for -Lilian. “Pray make yourself comfortable, M. Lacordaire, and don’t mind -her,” said Mrs. Thompson. But he was firm in his purpose of civility, -perhaps making up his mind that when he should in truth stand in the -place of papa to the young lady, then would be his time for having the -back seat in the carriage. - -Lilian, also in her best frock, came down the school-steps, and three of -the school teachers came with her. It would have added to Mrs. -Thompson’s happiness at that moment if M. Lacordaire would have kept -his polished boots out of sight, and put his yellow gloves into his -pocket. - -And then they started. The road from Le Puy to Polignac is nearly all up -hill; and a very steep bill it is, so that there was plenty of time for -conversation. But the girls had it nearly all to themselves. Mimmy -thought that she had never found. M. Lacordaire so stupid; and Lilian -told her sister on the first safe opportunity that occurred, that it -seemed very much as though they were all going to church. - -“And do any of the Polignac people ever live at this place?” asked Mrs. -Thompson, by way of making conversation; in answer to which M. -Lacordaire informed madame that the place was at present only a ruin; -and then there was again silence till they found themselves under the -rock, and were informed by the driver that the rest of the ascent must -be made on foot. - -The rock now stood abrupt and precipitous above their heads. It was -larger in its circumference and with much larger space on its summit -than those other volcanic rocks in and close to the town; but then at -the same time it was higher from the ground, and quite as inaccessible, -except by the single path which led up to the château. - -M. Lacordaire, with conspicuous gallantry, first assisted Mrs. Thompson -from the carriage, and then handed down the two young ladies. No lady -could have been so difficult to please as to complain of him, and yet -Mrs. Thompson thought that he was not as agreeable as usual. Those -horrid boots and those horrid gloves gave him such an air of holiday -finery that neither could he be at his ease wearing them, nor could she, -in seeing them worn. - -They were soon taken in hand by the poor woman whose privilege it was to -show the ruins. For a little distance they walked up the path in single -file; not that it was too narrow to accommodate two, but M. Lacordaire’s -courage had not yet been screwed to a point which admitted of his -offering his arm to the widow. For in France, it must be remembered, -that this means more than it does in some other countries. - -Mrs. Thompson felt that all this was silly and useless. If they were not -to be dear friends this coming out fêting together, those boots and -gloves and new hat were all very foolish; and if they were, the sooner -they understood each other the better. So Mrs. Thompson, finding that -the path was steep and the weather warm, stood still for a while leaning -against the wall, with a look of considerable fatigue in her face. - -“Will madame permit me the honour of offering her my arm?” said M. -Lacordaire. “The road is so extraordinarily steep for madame to climb.” - -Mrs. Thompson did permit him the honour, and so they went on till they -reached the top. - -The view from the summit was both extensive and grand, but neither -Lilian nor Mimmy were much pleased with the place. The elder sister, who -had talked over the matter with her school companions, expected a fine -castle with turrets, battlements, and romance; and the other expected a -pretty smiling house, such as princes, in her mind, ought to inhabit. - -Instead of this they found an old turret, with steps so broken that M. -Lacordaire did not care to ascend them, and the ruined walls of a -mansion, in which nothing was to be seen but the remains of an enormous -kitchen chimney. - -“It was the kitchen of the family,” said the guide. - -“Oh,” said Mrs. Thompson. - -“And this,” said the woman, taking them into the next ruined -compartment, “was the kitchen of monsieur et madame.” - -“What! two kitchens?” exclaimed Lilian, upon which M. Lacordaire -explained that the ancestors of the Prince de Polignac had been very -great people, and had therefore required culinary performances on a -great scale. - -And then the woman began to chatter something about an oracle of Apollo. -There was, she said, a hole in the rock, from which in past times, -perhaps more than a hundred years ago, the oracle used to speak forth -mysterious words. - -“There,” she said, pointing to a part of the rock at some distance, “was -the hole. And if the ladies would follow her to a little outhouse which -was just beyond, she would show them the huge stone mouth out of which -the oracle used to speak.” - -Lilian and Mimmy both declared at once for seeing the oracle, but Mrs. -Thompson expressed her determination to remain sitting where she was -upon the turf. So the guide started off with the young ladies; and will -it be thought surprising that M. Lacordaire should have remained alone -by the side of Mrs. Thompson? - -It must be now or never, Mrs. Thompson felt; and as regarded M. -Lacordaire, he probably entertained some idea of the same kind. Mrs. -Thompson’s inclinations, though they had never been very strong in the -matter, were certainly in favour of the “now.” M. Lacordaire’s -inclinations were stronger. He had fully and firmly made up his mind in -favour of matrimony; but then he was not so absolutely in favour of the -“now.” Mrs. Thompson’s mind, if one could have read it, would have shown -a great objection to shilly-shallying, as she was accustomed to call it. -But M. Lacordaire, were it not for the danger which might thence arise, -would have seen no objection to some slight further procrastination. His -courage was beginning, perhaps, to ooze out from his fingers’ ends. - -“I declare that those girls have scampered away ever so far,” said Mrs. -Thompson. - -“Would madame wish that I should call them back?” said M. Lacordaire, -innocently. - -“Oh, no, dear children! let them enjoy themselves; it will be a pleasure -to them to run about the rock, and I suppose they will be safe with that -woman?” - -“Oh, yes, quite safe,” said M. Lacordaire; and then there was another -little pause. - -Mrs. Thompson was sitting on a broken fragment of a stone just outside -the entrance to the old family kitchen, and M. Lacordaire was standing -immediately before her. He had in his hand a little cane with which he -sometimes slapped his boots and sometimes poked about among the rubbish. -His hat was not quite straight on his head, having a little jaunty twist -to one side, with reference to which, by-the-bye, Mrs. Thompson then -resolved that she would make a change, should ever the gentleman become -her own property. He still wore his gloves, and was very smart; but it -was clear to see that he was not at his ease. - -“I hope the heat does not incommode you,” he said after a few moments’ -silence. Mrs. Thompson declared that it did not, that she liked a good -deal of heat, and that, on the whole, she was very well where she was. -She was afraid, however, that she was detaining M. Lacordaire, who might -probably wish to be moving about upon the rock. In answer to which M. -Lacordaire declared that he never could be so happy anywhere as in her -close vicinity. - -“You are too good to me,” said Mrs. Thompson, almost sighing. “I don’t -know what my stay here would have been without your great kindness.” - -“It is madame that has been kind to me,” said M. Lacordaire, pressing -the handle of his cane against his heart. - -There was then another pause, after which Mrs. Thompson said that that -was all his French politeness; that she knew that she had been very -troublesome to him, but that she would now soon be gone; and that then, -in her own country, she would never forget his great goodness. - -“Ah, madame!” said M. Lacordaire; and, as he said it, much more was -expressed in his face than in his words. But, then, you can neither -accept nor reject a gentleman by what he says in his face. He blushed, -too, up to his grizzled hair, and, turning round, walked a step or two -away from the widow’s seat, and back again. - -Mrs. Thompson the while sat quite still. The displaced fragment, lying, -as it did, near a corner of the building, made not an uncomfortable -chair. She had only to be careful that she did not injure her hat or -crush her clothes, and throw in a word here and there to assist the -gentleman, should occasion permit it. - -“Madame!” said M. Lacordaire, on his return from a second little walk. - -“Monsieur!” replied Mrs. Thompson, perceiving that M. Lacordaire paused -in his speech. - -“Madame,” he began again, and then, as he again paused, Mrs. Thompson -looked up to him very sweetly; “madame, what I am going to say will, I -am afraid, seem to evince by far too great audacity on my part.” - -Mrs. Thompson may, perhaps, have thought that, at the present moment, -audacity was not his fault. She replied, however, that she was quite -sure that monsieur would say nothing that was in any way unbecoming -either for him to speak or for her to hear. - -“Madame, may I have ground to hope that such may be your sentiments -after I have spoken! Madame”--and now he went down, absolutely on his -knees, on the hard stones; and Mrs. Thompson, looking about into the -distance, almost thought that she saw the top of the guide’s -cap--“Madame, I have looked forward to this opportunity as one in which -I may declare for you the greatest passion that I have ever yet felt. -Madame, with all my heart and soul I love you. Madame, I offer to you -the homage of my heart, my hand, the happiness of my life, and all that -I possess in this world;” and then, taking her hand gracefully between -his gloves, he pressed his lips against the tips of her fingers. - -If the thing was to be done, this way of doing it was, perhaps, as good -as any other. It was one, at any rate, which left no doubt whatever as -to the gentleman’s intentions. Mrs. Thompson, could she have had her -own way, would not have allowed her lover of fifty to go down upon his -knees, and would have spared him much of the romance of his declaration. -So also would she have spared him his yellow gloves and his polished -boots. But these were a part of the necessity of the situation, and -therefore she wisely took them as matters to be passed over with -indifference. Seeing, however, that M. Lacordaire still remained on his -knees, it was necessary that she should take some step toward raising -him, especially as her two children and the guide would infallibly he -upon them before long. - -“M. Lacordaire,” she said, “you surprise me greatly; but pray get up.” - -“But will madame vouchsafe to give me some small ground for hope?” - -“The girls will be here directly, M. Lacordaire; pray get up. I can talk -to you much better if you will stand up, or sit down on one of these -stones.” - -M. Lacordaire did as he was bid; he got up, wiped the knees of his -pantaloons with his handkerchief, sat down beside her, and then pressed -the handle of his cane to his heart. - -“You really have so surprised me that I hardly know how to answer you,” -said Mrs. Thompson. “Indeed, I cannot bring myself to imagine that you -are in earnest.” - -“Ah, madame, do not be so cruel! How can I have lived with you so long, -sat beside you for so many days, without having received your image into -my heart? I am in earnest! Alas! I fear too much in earnest!” And then -he looked at her with all his eyes, and sighed with all his strength. - -Mrs. Thompson’s prudence told her that it would be well to settle the -matter, in one way or the other, as soon as possible. Long periods of -love-making were fit for younger people than herself and her future -possible husband. Her object would be to make him comfortable if she -could, and that he should do the same for her, if that also were -possible. As for lookings and sighings and pressings of the hand, she -had gone through all that some twenty years since in India, when -Thompson had been young, and she was still in her teens. - -“But, M. Lacordaire, there are so many things to be considered. There! I -hear the children coming! Let us walk this way for a minute.” And they -turned behind a wall which placed them out of sight, and walked on a few -paces till they reached a parapet, which stood on the uttermost edge of -the high rock. Leaning upon this they continued their conversation. - -“There are so many things to be considered,” said Mrs. Thompson again. - -“Yes, of course,” said M. Lacordaire. “But my one great consideration is -this;--that I love madame to distraction.” - -“I am very much flattered; of course, any lady would so feel. But, M. -Lacordaire----” - -“Madame, I am all attention. But, if you would deign to make me happy, -say that one word, ‘I love you!’” M. Lacordaire, as he uttered these -words, did not look, as the saying is, at his best. But Mrs. Thompson -forgave him. She knew that elderly gentlemen under such circumstances do -not look at their best. - -“But if I consented to--to--to such an arrangement, I could only do so -on seeing that it would be beneficial--or, at any rate, not -injurious--to my children; and that it would offer to ourselves a fair -promise of future happiness.” - -“Ah, madame; it would be the dearest wish of my heart to be a second -father to those two young ladies; except, indeed----” and then M. -Lacordaire stopped the flow of his speech. - -“In such matters it is so much the best to be explicit at once,” said -Mrs. Thompson. - -“Oh, yes; certainly! Nothing can be more wise that madame.” - -“And the happiness of a household depends so much on money.” - -“Madame!” - -“Let me say a word or two, Monsieur Lacordaire. I have enough for myself -and my children; and, should I every marry again, I should not, I hope, -be felt as a burden by my husband; but it would, of course, be my duty -to know what were his circumstances before I accepted him. Of yourself, -personally, I have seen nothing that I do not like.” - -“Oh, madame!” - -“But as yet I know nothing of your circumstances.” - -M. Lacordaire, perhaps, did feel that Mrs. Thompson’s prudence was of a -strong, masculine description; but he hardly liked her the less on this -account. To give him his due he was not desirous of marrying her solely -for her money’s sake. He also wished for a comfortable home, and -proposed to give as much as he got; only he had been anxious to wrap up -the solid cake of this business in a casing of sugar of romance. Mrs. -Thompson would not have the sugar; but the cake might not be the worse -on that account. - -“No, madame, not as yet; but they shall all be made open and at your -disposal,” said M. Lacordaire; and Mrs. Thompson bowed approvingly. - -“I am in business,” continued M. Lacordaire; “and my business gives me -eight thousand francs a year.” - -“Four times eight are thirty-two,” said Mrs. Thompson to herself; -putting the francs into pounds sterling, in the manner that she had -always found to be the readiest. Well, so far the statement was -satisfactory. An income of three hundred and twenty pounds a year from -business, joined to her own, might do very well. She did not in the -least suspect M. Lacordaire of being false, and so far the matter -sounded well. - -“And what is the business?” she asked, in a tone of voice intended to be -indifferent, but which nevertheless showed that she listened anxiously -for an answer to her question. - -They were both standing with their arms upon the wall, looking down upon -the town of Le Puy; but they had so stood that each could see the -other’s countenance as they talked. Mrs. Thompson could now perceive -that M. Lacordaire became red in the face, as he paused before answering -her. She was near to him, and seeing his emotion gently touched his arm -with her hand. This she did to reassure him, for she saw that he was -ashamed of having to declare that he was a tradesman. As for herself, -she had made up her mind to bear with this, if she found, as she felt -sure she would find, that the trade was one which would not degrade -either him or her. Hitherto, indeed,--in her early days,--she had looked -down on trade; but of what benefit had her grand ideas been to her when -she had returned to England? She had tried her hand at English genteel -society, and no one had seemed to care for her. Therefore, she touched -his arm lightly with her fingers that she might encourage him. - -He paused for a moment, as I have said, and became red; and then feeling -that he had shown some symptoms of shame--and feeling also, probably, -that it was unmanly in him to do so, he shook himself slightly, raised -his head up somewhat more proudly than was his wont, looked her full in -the face with more strength of character than she had yet seen him -assume; and then, declared his business. - -“Madame,” he said, in a very audible, but not in a loud voice, -“madame--je suis tailleur.” And having so spoken, he turned slightly -from her and looked down over the valley towards Le Puy. - - * * * * * - -There was nothing more said upon the subject as they drove down from the -rock of Polignac back to the town. Immediately on receiving the -announcement, Mrs. Thompson found that she had no answer to make. She -withdrew her hand--and felt at once that she had received a blow. It was -not that she was angry with M. Lacordaire for being a tailor; nor was -she angry with him in that, being a tailor, he had so addressed her. But -she was surprised, disappointed, and altogether put beyond her ease. She -had, at any rate, not expected this. She had dreamed of his being a -banker; thought that, perhaps, he might have been a wine merchant; but -her idea had never gone below a jeweller or watchmaker. When those words -broke upon her ear, “Madame, je suis tailleur,” she had felt herself to -be speechless. - -But the words had not been a minute spoken when Lilian and Mimmy ran up -to their mother. “Oh, mamma,” said Lilian, “we thought you were lost; we -have searched for you all over the château.” - -“We have been sitting very quietly here, my dear, looking at the view,” -said Mrs. Thompson. - -“But, mamma, I do wish you’d see the mouth of the oracle. It is so -large, and so round, and so ugly. I put my arm into it all the way,” -said Mimmy. - -But at the present moment her mamma felt no interest in the mouth of the -oracle; and so they all walked down together to the carriage. And, -though the way was steep, Mrs. Thompson managed to pick her steps -without the assistance of an arm; nor did M. Lacordaire presume to offer -it. - -The drive back to town was very silent. Mrs. Thompson did make one or -two attempts at conversation, but they were not effectual. M. Lacordaire -could not speak at his ease till this matter was settled, and he already -had begun to perceive that his business was against him. Why is it that -the trade of a tailor should be less honourable than that of a -haberdasher, or even a grocer? - -They sat next each other at dinner, as usual; and here, as all eyes were -upon them, they both made a great struggle to behave in their accustomed -way. But even in this they failed. All the world of the Hôtel des -Ambassadeurs knew that M. Lacordaire had gone forth to make an offer to -Mrs. Thompson, and all that world, therefore, was full of speculation. -But all the world could make nothing of it. M. Lacordaire did look like -a rejected man, but Mrs. Thompson did not look like the woman who had -rejected him. That the offer had been made--in that everybody agreed, -from the senior habitué of the house who always sat at the head of the -table, down to the junior assistant garçon. But as to reading the -riddle, there was no accord among them. - -When the dessert was done, Mrs. Thompson, as usual, withdrew, and M. -Lacordaire, as usual, bowed as he stood behind his own chair. He did -not, however, attempt to follow her. - -But when she reached the door she called him. He was at her side in a -moment, and then she whispered in his ear-- - -“And I, also--I will be of the same business.” - -When M. Lacordaire regained the table the senior habitué, the junior -garçon, and all the intermediate ranks of men at the Hôtel des -Ambassadeurs knew that they might congratulate him. - -Mrs. Thompson had made a great struggle; but, speaking for myself, I am -inclined to think that she arrived at last at a wise decision. - - - - -AARON TROW. - - -I would wish to declare, at the beginning of this story, that I shall -never regard that cluster of islets which we call Bermuda as the -Fortunate Islands of the ancients. Do not let professional geographers -take me up, and say that no one has so accounted them, and that the -ancients have never been supposed to have gotten themselves so far -westwards. What I mean to assert is this--that, had any ancient been -carried thither by enterprise or stress of weather, he would not have -given those islands so good a name. That the Neapolitan sailors of King -Alonzo should have been wrecked here, I consider to be more likely. The -vexed Bermoothes is a good name for them. There is no getting in or out -of them without the greatest difficulty, and a patient, slow navigation, -which is very heart-rending. That Caliban should have lived here I can -imagine; that Ariel would have been sick of the place is certain; and -that Governor Prospero should have been willing to abandon his -governorship, I conceive to have been only natural. When one regards the -present state of the place, one is tempted to doubt whether any of the -governors have been conjurors since his days. - -Bermuda, as all the world knows, is a British colony at which we -maintain a convict establishment. Most of our outlying convict -establishments have been sent back upon our hands from our colonies, but -here one is still maintained. There is also in the islands a strong -military fortress, though not a fortress looking magnificent to the eyes -of civilians, as do Malta and Gibraltar. There are also here some six -thousand white people and some six thousand black people, eating, -drinking, sleeping, and dying. - -The convict establishment is the most notable feature of Bermuda to a -stranger, but it does not seem to attract much attention from the -regular inhabitants of the place. There is no intercourse between the -prisoners and the Bermudians. The convicts are rarely seen by them, and -the convict islands are rarely visited. As to the prisoners themselves, -of course it is not open to them--or should not be open to them--to have -intercourse with any but the prison authorities. - -There have, however, been instances in which convicts have escaped from -their confinement, and made their way out among the islands. Poor -wretches! As a rule, there is but little chance for any that can so -escape. The whole length of the cluster is but twenty miles, and the -breadth is under four. The prisoners are, of course, white men, and the -lower orders of Bermuda, among whom alone could a runagate have any -chance of hiding himself, are all negroes; so that such a one would be -known at once. Their clothes are all marked. Their only chance of a -permanent escape would be in the hold of an American ship; but what -captain of an American or other ship would willingly encumber himself -with an escaped convict? But, nevertheless, men have escaped; and in one -instance, I believe, a convict got away, so that of him no further -tidings were ever heard. - -For the truth of the following tale I will not by any means vouch. If -one were to inquire on the spot one might probably find that the ladies -all believe it, and the old men; that all the young men know exactly how -much of it is false and how much true; and that the steady, middle-aged, -well-to-do islanders are quite convinced that it is romance from -beginning to end. My readers may range themselves with the ladies, the -young men, or the steady, well-to-do, middle-aged islanders, as they -please. - -Some years ago, soon after the prison was first established on its -present footing, three men did escape from it, and among them a certain -notorious prisoner named Aaron Trow. Trow’s antecedents in England had -not been so villanously bad as those of many of his fellow-convicts, -though the one offence for which he was punished had been of a deep dye: -he had shed man’s blood. At a period of great distress in a -manufacturing town he had led men on to riot, and with his own hand had -slain the first constable who had endeavoured to do his duty against -him. There had been courage in the doing of the deed, and probably no -malice; but the deed, let its moral blackness have been what it might, -had sent him to Bermuda, with a sentence against him of penal servitude -for life. Had he been then amenable to prison discipline,--even then, -with such a sentence against him as that,--he might have won his way -back, after the lapse of years, to the children, and perhaps, to the -wife, that he had left behind him; but he was amenable to no rules--to -no discipline. His heart was sore to death with an idea of injury, and -he lashed himself against the bars of his cage with a feeling that it -would be well if he could so lash himself till he might perish in his -fury. - -And then a day came in which an attempt was made by a large body of -convicts, under his leadership, to get the better of the officers of the -prison. It is hardly necessary to say that the attempt failed. Such -attempts always fail. It failed on this occasion signally, and Trow, -with two other men, were condemned to be scourged terribly, and then -kept in solitary confinement for some lengthened term of months. Before, -however, the day of scourging came, Trow and his two associates had -escaped. - -I have not the space to tell how this was effected, nor the power to -describe the manner. They did escape from the establishment into the -islands, and though two of them were taken after a single day’s run at -liberty, Aaron Trow had not been yet retaken even when a week was over. -When a month was over he had not been retaken, and the officers of the -prison began to say that he had got away from them in a vessel to the -States. It was impossible, they said, that he should have remained in -the islands and not been discovered. It was not impossible that he might -have destroyed himself, leaving his body where it had not yet been -found. But he could not have lived on in Bermuda during that month’s -search. So, at least, said the officers of the prison. There was, -however, a report through the islands that he had been seen from time to -time; that he had gotten bread from the negroes at night, threatening -them with death if they told of his whereabouts; and that all the -clothes of the mate of a vessel had been stolen while the man was -bathing, including a suit of dark blue cloth, in which suit of clothes, -or in one of such a nature, a stranger had been seen skulking about the -rocks near St. George. All this the governor of the prison affected to -disbelieve, but the opinion was becoming very rife in the islands that -Aaron Trow was still there. - -A vigilant search, however, is a task of great labour, and cannot be -kept up for ever. By degrees it was relaxed. The warders and gaolers -ceased to patrol the island roads by night, and it was agreed that Aaron -Trow was gone, or that he would be starved to death, or that he would in -time be driven to leave such traces of his whereabouts as must lead to -his discovery; and this at last did turn out to be the fact. - -There is a sort of prettiness about these islands which, though it never -rises to the loveliness of romantic scenery, is nevertheless attractive -in its way. The land breaks itself into little knolls, and the sea runs -up, hither and thither, in a thousand creeks and inlets; and then, too, -when the oleanders are in bloom, they give a wonderfully bright colour -to the landscape. Oleanders seem to be the roses of Bermuda, and are -cultivated round all the villages of the better class through the -islands. There are two towns, St. George and Hamilton, and one main -high-road, which connects them; but even this high-road is broken by a -ferry, over which every vehicle going from St. George to Hamilton must -be conveyed. Most of the locomotion in these parts is done by boats, and -the residents look to the sea, with its narrow creeks, as their best -highway from their farms to their best market. In those days--and those -days were not very long since--the building of small ships was their -chief trade, and they valued their land mostly for the small scrubby -cedar-trees with which this trade was carried on. - -As one goes from St. George to Hamilton the road runs between two seas; -that to the right is the ocean; that on the left is an inland creek, -which runs up through a large portion of the islands, so that the land -on the other side of it is near to the traveller. For a considerable -portion of the way there are no houses lying near the road, and there is -one residence, some way from the road, so secluded that no other house -lies within a mile of it by land. By water it might probably be reached -within half a mile. This place was called Crump Island, and here lived, -and had lived for many years, an old gentleman, a native of Bermuda, -whose business it had been to buy up cedar wood and sell it to the -ship-builders at Hamilton. In our story we shall not have very much to -do with old Mr. Bergen, but it will be necessary to say a word or two -about his house. - -It stood upon what would have been an island in the creek, had not a -narrow causeway, barely broad enough for a road, joined it to that -larger island on which stands the town of St. George. As the main road -approaches the ferry it runs through some rough, hilly, open ground, -which on the right side towards the ocean has never been cultivated. The -distance from the ocean here may, perhaps, be a quarter of a mile, and -the ground is for the most part covered with low furze. On the left of -the road the land is cultivated in patches, and here, some half mile or -more from the ferry, a path turns away to Crump Island. The house cannot -be seen from the road, and, indeed, can hardly be seen at all, except -from the sea. It lies, perhaps, three furlongs from the high road, and -the path to it is but little used, as the passage to and from it is -chiefly made by water. - -Here, at the time of our story, lived Mr. Bergen, and here lived Mr. -Bergen’s daughter. Miss Bergen was well known at St. George’s as a -steady, good girl, who spent her time in looking after her father’s -household matters, in managing his two black maid-servants and the black -gardener, and who did her duty in that sphere of life to which she had -been called. She was a comely, well-shaped young woman, with a sweet -countenance, rather large in size, and very quiet in demeanour. In her -earlier years, when young girls usually first bud forth into womanly -beauty, the neighbours had not thought much of Anastasia Bergen, nor had -the young men of St. George been wont to stay their boats under the -window of Crump Cottage in order that they might listen to her voice or -feel the light of her eye; but slowly, as years went by, Anastasia -Bergen became a woman that a man might well love; and a man learned to -love her who was well worthy of a woman’s heart. This was Caleb Morton, -the Presbyterian, minister of St. George; and Caleb Morton had been -engaged to marry Miss Bergen for the last two years past, at the period -of Aaron Trow’s escape from prison. - -Caleb Morton was not a native of Bermuda, but had been sent thither by -the synod of his church from Nova Scotia. He was a tall, handsome man, -at this time of some thirty years of age, of a presence which might -almost have been called commanding. He was very strong, but of a -temperament which did not often give him opportunity to put forth his -strength; and his life had been such that neither he nor others knew of -what nature might be his courage. The greater part of his life was spent -in preaching to some few of the white people around him, and in teaching -as many of the blacks as he could get to hear him. His days were very -quiet, and had been altogether without excitement until he had met with -Anastasia Bergen. It will suffice for us to say that he did meet her, -and that now, for two years past, they had been engaged as man and wife. - -Old Mr. Bergen, when he heard of the engagement, was not well pleased at -the information. In the first place, his daughter was very necessary to -him, and the idea of her marrying and going away had hardly as yet -occurred to him; and then he was by no means inclined to part with any -of his money. It must not be presumed that he had amassed a fortune by -his trade in cedar wood. Few tradesmen in Bermuda do, as I imagine, -amass fortunes. Of some few hundred pounds he was possessed, and these, -in the course of nature, would go to his daughter when he died; but he -had no inclination to hand any portion of them over to his daughter -before they did go to her in the course of nature. Now, the income which -Caleb Morton earned as a Presbyterian clergyman was not large, and, -therefore, no day had been fixed as yet for his marriage with Anastasia. - -But, though the old man had been from the first averse to the match, his -hostility had not been active. He had not forbidden Mr. Morton his -house, or affected to be in any degree angry because his daughter had a -lover. He had merely grumbled forth an intimation that those who marry -in haste repent at leisure,--that love kept nobody warm if the pot did -not boil; and that, as for him, it was as much as he could do to keep -his own pot boiling at Crump Cottage. In answer to this Anastasia said -nothing. She asked him for no money, but still kept his accounts, -managed his household, and looked patiently forward for better days. - -Old Mr. Bergen himself spent much of his time at Hamilton, where he had -a woodyard with a couple of rooms attached to it. It was his custom to -remain here three nights of the week, during which Anastasia was left -alone at the cottage; and it happened by no means seldom that she was -altogether alone, for the negro whom they called the gardener would go -to her father’s place at Hamilton, and the two black girls would crawl -away up to the road, tired with the monotony of the sea at the cottage. -Caleb had more than once told her that she was too much alone, but she -had laughed at him, saying that solitude in Bermuda was not dangerous. -Nor, indeed, was it; for the people are quiet and well-mannered, lacking -much energy, but being, in the same degree, free from any propensity to -violence. - -“So you are going,” she said to her lover, one evening, as he rose from -the chair on which he had been swinging himself at the door of the -cottage which looks down over the creek of the sea. He had sat there for -an hour talking to her as she worked, or watching her as she moved about -the place. It was a beautiful evening, and the sun had been falling to -rest with almost tropical glory before his feet. The bright oleanders -were red with their blossoms all around him, and he had thoroughly -enjoyed his hour of easy rest. “So you are going,” she said to him, not -putting her work out of her hand as he rose to depart. - -“Yes; and it is time for me to go. I have still work to do before I can -get to bed. Ah, well; I suppose the day will come at last when I need -not leave you as soon as my hour of rest is over.” - -“Come; of course it will come. That is, if your reverence should choose -to wait for it another ten years or so.” - -“I believe you would not mind waiting twenty years.” - -“Not if a certain friend of mine would come down and see me of evenings -when I’m alone after the day. It seems to me that I shouldn’t mind -waiting as long as I had that to look for.” - -“You are right not to be impatient,” he said to her, after a pause, as -he held her hand before he went. “Quite right. I only wish I could -school myself to be as easy about it.” - -“I did not say I was easy,” said Anastasia. “People are seldom easy in -this world, I take it. I said I could be patient. Do not look in that -way, as though you pretended that you were dissatisfied with me. You -know that I am true to you, and you ought to be very proud of me.” - -“I am proud of you, Anastasia----” on hearing which she got up and -courtesied to him. “I am proud of you; so proud of you that I feel you -should not be left here all alone, with no one to help you if you were -in trouble.” - -“Women don’t get into trouble as men do, and do not want any one to help -them. If you were alone in the house you would have to go to bed without -your supper, because you could not make a basin of boiled milk ready for -your own meal. Now, when your reverence has gone, I shall go to work and -have my tea comfortably.” And then he did go, bidding God bless her as -he left her. Three hours after that he was disturbed in his own lodgings -by one of the negro girls from the cottage rushing to his door, and -begging him in Heaven’s name to come down to the assistance of her -mistress. - -When Morton left her, Anastasia did not proceed to do as she had said, -and seemed to have forgotten her evening meal. She had been working -sedulously with her needle during all that last conversation; but when -her lover was gone, she allowed the work to fall from her hands, and sat -motionless for awhile, gazing at the last streak of colour left by the -setting sun; but there was no longer a sign of its glory to be traced in -the heavens around her. The twilight in Bermuda is not long and enduring -as it is with us, though the daylight does not depart suddenly, leaving -the darkness of night behind it without any intermediate time of -warning, as is the case farther south, down among the islands of the -tropics. But the soft, sweet light of the evening had waned and gone, -and night had absolutely come upon her, while Anastasia was still seated -before the cottage with her eyes fixed upon the white streak of -motionless sea which was still visible through the gloom. She was -thinking of him, of his ways of life, of his happiness, and of her duty -towards him. She had told him, with her pretty feminine falseness, that -she could wait without impatience; but now she said to herself that it -would not be good for him to wait longer. He lived alone and without -comfort, working very hard for his poor pittance, and she could see, and -feel, and understand that a companion in his life was to him almost a -necessity. She would tell her father that all this must be brought to an -end. She would not ask him for money, but she would make him understand -that her services must, at any rate in part, be transferred. Why should -not she and Morton still live at the cottage when they were married? And -so thinking, and at last resolving, she sat there till the dark night -fell upon her. - -She was at last disturbed by feeling a man’s hand upon her shoulder. She -jumped from her chair and faced him,--not screaming, for it was -especially within her power to control herself, and to make no utterance -except with forethought. Perhaps it might have been better for her had -she screamed, and sent a shrill shriek down the shore of that inland -sea. She was silent, however, and with awe-struck face and outstretched -hands gazed into the face of him who still held her by the shoulder. The -night was dark; but her eyes were now accustomed to the darkness, and -she could see indistinctly something of his features. He was a low-sized -man, dressed in a suit of sailor’s blue clothing, with a rough cap of -hair on his head, and a beard that had not been clipped for many weeks. -His eyes were large, and hollow, and frightfully bright, so that she -seemed to see nothing else of him; but she felt the strength of his -fingers as he grasped her tighter and more tightly by the arm. - -“Who are you?” she said, after a moment’s pause. - -“Do you know me?” he asked. - -“Know you! No.” But the words were hardly out of her mouth before it -struck her that the man was Aaron Trow, of whom every one in Bermuda had -been talking. - -“Come into the house,” he said, “and give me food.” And he still held -her with his hand as though he would compel her to follow him. - -She stood for a moment thinking what she would say to him; for even -then, with that terrible man standing close to her in the darkness, her -presence of mind did not desert her. “Surely,” she said, “I will give -you food if you are hungry. But take your hand from me. No man would lay -his hands on a woman.” - -“A woman!” said the stranger. “What does the starved wolf care for that? -A woman’s blood is as sweet to him as that of a man. Come into the -house, I tell you.” And then she preceded him through the open door into -the narrow passage, and thence to the kitchen. There she saw that the -back door, leading out on the other side of the house, was open, and she -knew that he had come down from the road and entered on that side. She -threw her eyes around, looking for the negro girls; but they were away, -and she remembered that there was no human being within sound of her -voice but this man who had told her that he was as a wolf thirsty after -her blood! - -“Give me food at once,” he said. - -“And will you go if I give it you?” she asked. - -“I will knock out your brains if you do not,” he replied, lifting from -the grate a short, thick poker which lay there. “Do as I bid you at -once. You also would be like a tiger if you had fasted for two days, as -I have done.” - -She could see, as she moved across the kitchen, that he had already -searched there for something that he might eat, but that he had searched -in vain. With the close economy common among his class in the islands, -all comestibles were kept under close lock and key in the house of Mr. -Bergen. Their daily allowance was given day by day to the negro -servants, and even the fragments were then gathered up and locked away -in safety. She moved across the kitchen to the accustomed cupboard, -taking the keys from her pocket, and he followed close upon her. There -was a small oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling which just gave them -light to see each other. She lifted her hand to this to take it from its -hook, but he prevented her. “No, by Heaven!” he said, “you don’t touch -that till I’ve done with it. There’s light enough for you to drag out -your scraps.” - -She did drag out her scraps and a bowl of milk, which might hold perhaps -a quart. There was a fragment of bread, a morsel of cold potato-cake, -and the bone of a leg of kid. “And is that all?” said he. But as he -spoke he fleshed his teeth against the bone as a dog would have done. - -“It is the best I have,” she said; “I wish it were better, and you -should have had it without violence, as you have suffered so long from -hunger.” - -“Bah! Better; yes! You would give the best no doubt, and set the hell -hounds on my track the moment I am gone. I know how much I might expect -from your charity.” - -“I would have fed you for pity’s sake,” she answered. - -“Pity! Who are you, that you should dare to pity me! By ----, my young -woman, it is I that pity you. I must cut your throat unless you give me -money. Do you know that?” - -“Money! I have got no money.” - -“I’ll make you have some before I go. Come; don’t move till I have -done.” And as he spoke to her he went on tugging at the bone, and -swallowing the lumps of stale bread. He had already finished the bowl of -milk, “And, now,” said he, “tell me who I am.” - -“I suppose you are Aaron Trow,” she answered, very slowly. - -He said nothing on hearing this, but continued his meal, standing close -to her so that she might not possibly escape from him out into the -darkness. Twice or thrice in those few minutes she made up her mind to -make such an attempt, feeling that it would be better to leave him in -possession of the house, and make sure, if possible, of her own life. -There was no money there; not a dollar! What money her father kept in -his possession was locked up in his safe at Hamilton. And might he not -keep to his threat, and murder her, when he found that she could give -him nothing? She did not tremble outwardly, as she stood there watching -him as he ate, but she thought how probable it might be that her last -moments were very near. And yet she could scrutinise his features, form, -and garments, so as to carry away in her mind a perfect picture of them. -Aaron Trow--for of course it was the escaped convict--was not a man of -frightful, hideous aspect. Had the world used him well, giving him when -he was young ample wages and separating him from turbulent spirits, he -also might have used the world well; and then women would have praised -the brightness of his eye and the manly vigour of his brow. But things -had not gone well with him. He had been separated from the wife he had -loved, and the children who had been raised at his knee,--separated by -his own violence; and now, as he had said of himself, he was a wolf -rather than a man. As he stood there satisfying the craving of his -appetite, breaking up the large morsels of food, he was an object very -sad to be seen. Hunger had made him gaunt and yellow, he was squalid -with the dirt of his hidden lair, and he had the look of a beast;--that -look to which men fall when they live like the brutes of prey, as -outcasts from their brethren. But still there was that about his brow -which might have redeemed him,--which might have turned her horror into -pity, had he been willing that it should be so. - -“And now give me some brandy,” he said. - -There was brandy in the house,--in the sitting-room which was close at -their hand, and the key of the little press which held it was in her -pocket. It was useless, she thought, to refuse him; and so she told him -that there was a bottle partly full, but that she must go to the next -room to fetch it him. - -“We’ll go together, my darling,” he said. “There’s nothing like good -company.” And he again put his hand upon her arm as they passed into the -family sitting-room. - -“I must take the light,” she said. But he unhooked it himself, and -carried it in his own hand. - -Again she went to work without trembling. She found the key of the side -cupboard, and unlocking the door, handed him a bottle which might -contain about half-a-pint of spirits. “And is that all?” he said. - -“There is a full bottle here,” she answered, handing him another; “but -if you drink it, you will be drunk, and they will catch you.” - -“By Heavens, yes; and you would be the first to help them; would you -not?” - -“Look here,” she answered. “If you will go now, I will not say a word to -any one of your coming, nor set them on your track to follow you. There, -take the full bottle with you. If you will go, you shall be safe from -me.” - -“What, and go without money!” - -“I have none to give you. You may believe me when I say so. I have not a -dollar in the house.” - -Before he spoke again he raised the half empty bottle to his mouth, and -drank as long as there was a drop to drink. “There,” said he, putting -the bottle down, “I am better after that. As to the other, you are -right, and I will take it with me. And now, young woman, about the -money?” - -“I tell you that I have not a dollar.” - -“Look here,” said he, and he spoke now in a softer voice, as though he -would be on friendly terms with her. “Give me ten sovereigns, and I will -go. I know you have it, and with ten sovereigns it is possible that I -may save my life. You are good, and would not wish that a man should die -so horrid a death. I know you are good. Come, give me the money.” And he -put his hands up, beseeching her, and looked into her face with -imploring eyes. - -“On the word of a Christian woman I have not got money to give you,” she -replied. - -“Nonsense?” And as he spoke he took her by the arm and shook her. He -shook her violently so that he hurt her, and her breath for a moment was -all but gone from her. “I tell you you must make dollars before I leave -you, or I will so handle you that it would have been better for you to -coin your very blood.” - -“May God help me at my need,” she said, “as I have not above a few penny -pieces in the house.” - -“And you expect me to believe that! Look here! I will shake the teeth -out of your head, but I will have it from you.” And he did shake her -again, using both his hands and striking her against the wall. - -“Would you--murder me?” she said, hardly able now to utter the words. - -“Murder you, yes; why not? I cannot be worse than I am, were I to murder -you ten times over. But with money I may possibly be better.” - -“I have it not.” - -“Then I will do worse than murder you. I will make you such an object -that all the world shall loathe to look on you.” And so saying he took -her by the arm and dragged her forth from the wall against which she had -stood. - -Then there came from her a shriek that was heard far down the shore of -that silent sea, and away across to the solitary houses of those living -on the other side,--a shriek, very sad, sharp, and prolonged,--which -told plainly to those who heard it of woman’s woe when in her extremest -peril. That sound was spoken of in Bermuda for many a day after that, as -something which had been terrible to hear. But then, at that moment, as -it came wailing through the dark, it sounded as though it were not -human. Of those who heard it, not one guessed from whence it came, nor -was the hand of any brother put forward to help that woman at her need. - -“Did you hear that?” said the young wife to her husband, from the far -side of the arm of the sea. - -“Hear it! Oh Heaven, yes! Whence did it come?” The young wife could not -say from whence it came, but clung close to her husband’s breast, -comforting herself with the knowledge that that terrible sorrow was not -hers. - -But aid did come at last, or rather that which seemed as aid. Long and -terrible was the fight between that human beast of prey and the poor -victim which had fallen into his talons. Anastasia Bergen was a strong, -well-built woman, and now that the time had come to her when a struggle -was necessary, a struggle for life, for honour, for the happiness of -him who was more to her than herself, she fought like a tigress attacked -in her own lair. At such a moment as this she also could become wild and -savage as the beast of the forest. When he pinioned her arms with one of -his, as he pressed her down upon the floor, she caught the first joint -of the forefinger of his other hand between her teeth till he yelled in -agony, and another sound was heard across the silent water. And then, -when one hand was loosed in the struggle, she twisted it through his -long hair, and dragged back his head till his eyes were nearly starting -from their sockets. Anastasia Bergen had hitherto been a sheer woman, -all feminine in her nature. But now the foam came to her mouth, and fire -sprang from her eyes, and the muscles of her body worked as though she -had been trained to deeds of violence. Of violence, Aaron Trow had known -much in his rough life, but never had he combated with harder antagonist -than her whom he now held beneath his breast. - -“By ---- I will put an end to you,” he exclaimed, in his wrath, as he -struck her violently across the face with his elbow. His hand was -occupied, and he could not use it for a blow, but, nevertheless, the -violence was so great that the blood gushed from her nostrils, while the -back of her head was driven with violence against the floor. But she did -not lose her hold of him. Her hand was still twined closely through his -thick hair, and in every move he made she clung to him with all her -might. “Leave go my hair,” he shouted at her, but she still kept her -hold, though he again dashed her head against the floor. - -There was still light in the room, for when he first grasped her with -both his hands, he had put the lamp down on a small table. Now they were -rolling on the floor together, and twice he had essayed to kneel on her -that he might thus crush the breath from her body, and deprive her -altogether of her strength; but she had been too active for him, moving -herself along the ground, though in doing so she dragged him with her. -But by degrees he got one hand at liberty, and with that he pulled a -clasp knife out of his pocket and opened it. “I will cut your head off -if you do not let go my hair,” he said. But still she held fast by him. -He then stabbed at her arm, using his left hand and making short, -ineffectual blows. Her dress partly saved her, and partly also the -continual movement of all her limbs; but, nevertheless, the knife -wounded her. It wounded her in several places about the arm, covering -them both with blood;--but still she hung on. So close was her grasp in -her agony, that, as she afterwards found, she cut the skin of her own -hands with her own nails. Had the man’s hair been less thick or strong, -or her own tenacity less steadfast, he would have murdered her before -any interruption could have saved her. - -And yet he had not purposed to murder her, or even, in the first -instance, to inflict on her any bodily harm. But he had been determined -to get money. With such a sum of money as he had named, it might, he -thought, be possible for him to win his way across to America. He might -bribe men to hide him in the hold of a ship, and thus there might be for -him, at any rate, a possibility of escape. That there must be money in -the house he had still thought when first he laid hands on the poor -woman; and then, when the struggle had once begun, when he had felt her -muscles contending with his, the passion of the beast was aroused within -him, and he strove against her as he would have striven against a dog. -But yet, when the knife was in his hand, he had not driven it against -her heart. - -Then suddenly, while they were yet rolling on the floor, there was a -sound of footsteps in the passage. Aaron Trow instantly leaped to his -feet, leaving his victim on the ground, with huge lumps of his thick -clotted hair in her hand. Thus, and thus only, could he have liberated -himself from her grasp. He rushed at the door, and there he came against -the two negro servant-girls who had returned down to their kitchen from -the road on which they had been straying. Trow, as he half saw them in -the dark, not knowing how many there might be, or whether there was a -man among them, rushed through them, upsetting one scared girl in his -passage. With the instinct and with the timidity of a beast, his impulse -now was to escape, and he hurried away back to the road and to his lair, -leaving the three women together in the cottage. Poor wretch! As he -crossed the road, not skulking in his impotent haste, but running at his -best, another pair of eyes saw him, and when the search became hot after -him, it was known that his hiding-place was not distant. - -It was some time before any of the women were able to act, and when some -step was taken, Anastasia was the first to take it. She had not -absolutely swooned, but the reaction, after the violence of her efforts, -was so great, that for some minutes she had been unable to speak. She -had risen from the floor when Trow left her, and had even followed him -to the door; but since that she had fallen back into her father’s old -arm-chair, and there sat gasping not only for words, but for breath -also. At last she bade one of the girls to run into St. George, and beg -Mr. Morton to come to her aid. The girl would not stir without her -companion; and even then, Anastasia, covered as she was with blood, with -dishevelled hair, and her clothes half torn from her body, accompanied -them as far as the road. There they found a negro lad still hanging -about the place, and he told them that he had seen the man cross the -road, and run down over the open ground towards the rocks of the -sea-coast. “He must be there,” said the lad, pointing in the direction -of a corner of the rocks; “unless he swim across the mouth of the -ferry.” But the mouth of that ferry is an arm of the sea, and it was not -probable that a man would do that when he might have taken the narrow -water by keeping on the other side of the road. - -At about one that night Caleb Morton reached the cottage breathless with -running, and before a word was spoken between them, Anastasia had fallen -on his shoulder and had fainted. As soon as she was in the arms of her -lover, all her power had gone from her. The spirit and passion of the -tiger had gone, and she was again a weak woman shuddering at the thought -of what she had suffered. She remembered that she had had the man’s hand -between her teeth, and by degrees she found his hair still clinging to -her fingers; but even then she could hardly call to mind the nature of -the struggle she had undergone. His hot breath close to her own cheek -she did remember, and his glaring eyes, and even the roughness of his -beard as he pressed his face against her own; but she could not say -whence had come the blood, nor till her arm became stiff and motionless -did she know that she had been wounded. - -It was all joy with her now, as she sat motionless without speaking, -while he administered to her wants and spoke words of love into her -ears. She remembered the man’s horrid threat, and knew that by God’s -mercy she had been saved. And _he_ was there caressing her, loving her, -comforting her! As she thought of the fate that had threatened her, of -the evil that had been so imminent, she fell forward on her knees, and -with incoherent sobs uttered her thanksgivings, while her head was still -supported on his arms. - -It was almost morning before she could induce herself to leave him and -lie down. With him she seemed to be so perfectly safe; but the moment he -was away she could see Aaron Trow’s eyes gleaming at her across the -room. At last, however, she slept; and when he saw that she was at rest, -he told himself that his work must then begin. Hitherto Caleb Morton had -lived in all respects the life of a man of peace; but now, asking -himself no questions as to the propriety of what he would do, using no -inward arguments as to this or that line of conduct, he girded the sword -on his loins, and prepared himself, for war. The wretch who had thus -treated the woman whom he loved should be hunted down like a wild beast, -as long as he had arms and legs with which to carry on the hunt. He -would pursue the miscreant with any weapons that might come to his -hands; and might Heaven help him at his need as he dealt forth -punishment to that man, if he caught him within his grasp. Those who had -hitherto known Morton in the island, could not recognise the man as he -came forth on that day, thirsty after blood, and desirous to thrust -himself into personal conflict with the wild ruffian who had injured -him. The meek Presbyterian minister had been a preacher, preaching ways -of peace, and living in accordance with his own doctrines. The world had -been very quiet for him, and he had walked quietly in his appointed -path. But now the world was quiet no longer, nor was there any preaching -of peace. His cry was for blood; for the blood of the untamed savage -brute who had come upon his young doe in her solitude, and striven with -such brutal violence to tear her heart from her bosom. - -He got to his assistance early in the morning some of the constables -from St. George, and before the day was over, he was joined by two or -three of the warders from the convict establishment. There was with him -also a friend or two, and thus a party was formed, numbering together -ten or twelve persons. They were of course all armed, and therefore it -might be thought that there would be but small chance for the wretched -man if they should come upon his track. At first they all searched -together, thinking from the tidings which had reached them that he must -be near to them; but gradually they spread themselves along the rocks -between St. George and the ferry, keeping watchmen on the road, so that -he should not escape unnoticed into the island. - -Ten times during the day did Anastasia send from the cottage up to -Morton, begging him to leave the search to others, and come down to her. -But not for a moment would he lose the scent of his prey. What! should -it be said that she had been so treated, and that others had avenged -her? He sent back to say that her father was with her now, and that he -would come when his work was over. And in that job of work the -life-blood of Aaron Trow was counted up. - -Towards evening they were all congregated on the road near to the spot -at which the path turns off towards the cottage, when a voice was heard -hallooing to them from the summit of a little hill which lies between -the road and the sea on the side towards the ferry, and presently a boy -came running down to them full of news. “Danny Lund has seen him,” said -the boy, “he has seen him plainly in among the rocks.” And then came -Danny Lund himself, a small negro lad about fourteen years of age, who -was known in those parts as the idlest, most dishonest, and most useless -of his race. On this occasion, however, Danny Lund became important, and -every one listened to him. He had seen, he said, a pair of eyes moving -down in a cave of the rocks which he well knew. He had been in the cave -often, he said, and could get there again. But not now; not while that -pair of eyes was moving at the bottom of it. And so they all went up -over the hill, Morton leading the way with hot haste. In his waistband -he held a pistol, and his hand grasped a short iron bar with which he -had armed himself. They ascended the top of the hill, and when there, -the open sea was before them on two sides, and on the third was the -narrow creek over which the ferry passed. Immediately beneath their feet -were the broken rocks; for on that side, towards the sea, the earth and -grass of the hill descended but a little way towards the water. Down -among the rocks they all went, silently, Caleb Morton leading the way, -and Danny Lund directing him from behind. - -“Mr. Morton,” said an elderly man from St. George, “had you not better -let the warders of the gaol go first; he is a desperate man, and they -will best understand his ways?” - -In answer to this Morton said nothing, but he would let no one put a -foot before him. He still pressed forward among the rocks, and at last -came to a spot from whence he might have sprung at one leap into the -ocean. It was a broken cranny on the sea-shore into which the sea beat, -and surrounded on every side but the one by huge broken fragments of -stone, which at first sight seemed as though they would have admitted of -a path down among them to the water’s edge; but which, when scanned more -closely, were seen to be so large in size, that no man could climb from -one to another. It was a singularly romantic spot, but now well known to -them all there, for they had visited it over and over again that -morning. - -“In there,” said Danny Lund, keeping well behind Morton’s body, and -pointing at the same time to a cavern high up among the rocks, but quite -on the opposite side of the little inlet of the sea. The mouth of the -cavern was not twenty yards from where they stood, but at the first -sight it seemed as though it must be impossible to reach it. The -precipice on the brink of which they all now stood, ran down sheer into -the sea, and the fall from the mouth of the cavern on the other side was -as steep. But Danny solved the mystery by pointing upwards, and showing -them how he had been used to climb to a projecting rock over their -heads, and from thence creep round by certain vantages of the stone till -he was able to let himself down into the aperture. But now, at the -present moment, he was unwilling to make essay of his prowess as a -cragsman. He had, he said, been up on that projecting rock thrice, and -there had seen the eyes moving in the cavern. He was quite sure of that -fact of the pair of eyes, and declined to ascend the rock again. - -Traces soon became visible to them by which they knew that some one had -passed in and out of the cavern recently. The stone, when examined, bore -those marks of friction which passage and repassage over it will always -give. At the spot from whence the climber left the platform and -commenced his ascent, the side of the stone had been rubbed by the close -friction of a man’s body. A light boy like Danny Lund might find his way -in and out without leaving such marks behind him, but no heavy man could -do so. Thus before long they all were satisfied that Aaron Trow was in -the cavern before them. - -Then there was a long consultation as to what they would do to carry on -the hunt, and how they would drive the tiger from his lair. That he -should not again come out, except to fall into their hands, was to all -of them a matter of course. They would keep watch and ward there, though -it might be for days and nights. But that was a process which did not -satisfy Morton, and did not indeed well satisfy any of them. It was not -only that they desired to inflict punishment on the miscreant in -accordance with the law, but also that they did not desire that the -miserable man should die in a hole like a starved dog, and that then -they should go after him to take out his wretched skeleton. There was -something in that idea so horrid in every way, that all agreed that -active steps must be taken. The warders of the prison felt that they -would all be disgraced if they could not take their prisoner alive. Yet -who would get round that perilous ledge in the face of such an -adversary? A touch to any man while climbing there would send him -headlong down among the waves! And then his fancy told to each what -might be the nature of an embrace with such an animal as that, driven to -despair, hopeless of life, armed, as they knew, at any rate, with a -knife! If the first adventurous spirit should succeed in crawling round -that ledge, what would be the reception which he might expect in the -terrible depth of that cavern? - -They called to their prisoner, bidding him come out, and telling him -that they would fire in upon him if he did not show himself; but not a -sound was heard. It was indeed possible that they should send their -bullets to, perhaps, every corner of the cavern; and if so, in that way -they might slaughter him; but even of this they were not sure. Who could -tell that there might not be some protected nook in which he could lay -secure? And who could tell when the man was struck, or whether he were -wounded? - -“I will get to him,” said Morton, speaking with a low dogged voice, and -so saying he clambered up to the rock to which Danny Lund had pointed. -Many voices at once attempted to restrain him, and one or two put their -hands upon him to keep him back, but he was too quick for them, and now -stood upon the ledge of rock. “Can you see him?” they asked below. - -“I can see nothing within the cavern,” said Morton. - -“Look down very hard, Massa,” said Danny, “very hard indeed, down in -deep dark hole, and then see him big eyes moving!” - -Morton now crept along the ledge, or rather he was beginning to do so, -having put forward his shoulders and arms to make a first step in -advance from the spot on which he was resting, when a hand was put forth -from one corner of the cavern’s mouth,--a hand armed with a pistol;--and -a shot was fired. There could be no doubt now but that Danny Lund was -right, and no doubt now as to the whereabouts of Aaron Trow. - -A hand was put forth, a pistol was fired, and Caleb Morton still -clinging to a corner of the rock with both his arms was seen to falter. -“He is wounded,” said one of the voices from below; and then they all -expected to see him fall into the sea. But he did not fall, and after a -moment or two, he proceeded carefully to pick his steps along the ledge. -The ball had touched him, grazing his cheek, and cutting through the -light whiskers that he wore; but he had not felt it, though the blow had -nearly knocked him from his perch. And then four or five shots were -fired from the rocks into the mouth of the cavern. The man’s arm had -been seen, and indeed one or two declared that they had traced the dim -outline of his figure. But no sound was heard to come from the cavern, -except the sharp crack of the bullets against the rock, and the echo of -the gunpowder. There had been no groan as of a man wounded, no sound of -a body falling, no voice wailing in despair. For a few seconds all was -dark with the smoke of the gunpowder, and then the empty mouth of the -cave was again yawning before their eyes. Morton was now near it, still -cautiously creeping. The first danger to which he was exposed was this; -that his enemy within the recess might push him down from the rocks with -a touch. But on the other hand, there were three or four men ready to -fire, the moment that a hand should be put forth; and then Morton could -swim,--was known to be a strong swimmer;--whereas of Aaron Trow it was -already declared by the prison gaolers that he could not swim. Two of -the warders had now followed Morton on the rocks, so that in the event -of his making good his entrance into the cavern, and holding his enemy -at bay for a minute, he would be joined by aid. - -It was strange to see how those different men conducted themselves as -they stood on the opposite platform watching the attack. The officers -from the prison had no other thought but of their prisoner, and were -intent on taking him alive or dead. To them it was little or nothing -what became of Morton. It was their business to encounter peril, and -they were ready to do so;--feeling, however, by no means sorry to have -such a man as Morton in advance of them. Very little was said by them. -They had their wits about them, and remembered that every word spoken -for the guidance of their ally would be heard also by the escaped -convict. Their prey was sure, sooner or later, and had not Morton been -so eager in his pursuit, they would have waited till some plan had been -devised of trapping him without danger. But the townsmen from St. -George, of whom some dozen were now standing there, were quick and eager -and loud in their counsels. “Stay where you are, Mr. Morton,--stay -awhile for the love of God--or he’ll have you down.” “Now’s your time, -Caleb; in on him now, and you’ll have him.” “Close with him, Morton, -close with him at once; it’s your only chance.” “There’s four of us -here; we’ll fire on him if he as much as shows a limb.” All of which -words as they were heard by that poor wretch within, must have sounded -to him as the barking of a pack of hounds thirsting for his blood. For -him at any rate there was no longer any hope in this world. - -My reader, when chance has taken you into the hunting-field, has it ever -been your lot to sit by on horseback, and watch the digging out of a -fox? The operation is not an uncommon one, and in some countries it is -held to be in accordance with the rules of fair sport. For myself, I -think that when the brute has so far saved himself, he should be -entitled to the benefit of his cunning; but I will not now discuss the -propriety or impropriety of that practice in venery. I can never, -however, watch the doing of that work without thinking much of the -agonising struggles of the poor beast whose last refuge is being torn -from over his head. There he lies within a few yards of his arch enemy, -the huntsman. The thick breath of the hounds make hot the air within his -hole. The sound of their voices is close upon his ears. His breast is -nearly bursting with the violence of that effort which at last has -brought him to his retreat. And then pickaxe and mattock are plied above -his head, and nearer and more near to him press his foes,--his double -foes, human and canine,--till at last a huge hand grasps him, and he is -dragged forth among his enemies. Almost as soon as his eyes have seen -the light the eager noses of a dozen hounds have moistened themselves in -his entrails. Ah me! I know that he is vermin, the vermin after whom I -have been risking my neck, with a bold ambition that I might ultimately -witness his death-struggles; but, nevertheless, I would fain have saved -him that last half hour of gradually diminished hope. - -And Aaron Trow was now like a hunted fox, doomed to be dug out from his -last refuge, with this addition to his misery, that these hounds when -they caught their prey, would not put him at once out of his misery. -When first he saw that throng of men coming down from the hill top and -resting on the platform, he knew that his fate was come. When they -called to him to surrender himself he was silent, but he knew that his -silence was of no avail. To them who were so eager to be his captors the -matter seemed to be still one of considerable difficulty; but, to his -thinking, there was no difficulty. There were there some score of men, -fully armed, within twenty yards of him. If he but showed a trace of his -limbs he would become a mark for their bullets. And then if he were -wounded, and no one would come to him! If they allowed him to lie there -without food till he perished! Would it not be well for him to yield -himself? Then they called again and he was still silent. That idea of -yielding is very terrible to the heart of a man. And when the worst had -come to the worst, did not the ocean run deep beneath his cavern’s -mouth? - -But as they yelled at him and hallooed, making their preparations for -his death, his presence of mind deserted the poor wretch. He had stolen -an old pistol on one of his marauding expeditions, of which one barrel -had been loaded. That in his mad despair he had fired; and now, as he -lay near the mouth of the cavern, under the cover of the projecting -stone, he had no weapon with him but his hands. He had had a knife, but -that had dropped from him during the struggle on the floor of the -cottage. He had now nothing but his hands, and was considering how he -might best use them in ridding himself of the first of his pursuers. The -man was near him, armed, with all the power and majesty of right on his -side; whereas on his side, Aaron Trow had nothing,--not a hope. He -raised his head that he might look forth, and a dozen voices shouted as -his face appeared above the aperture. A dozen weapons were levelled at -him, and he could see the gleaming of the muzzles of the guns. And then -the foot of his pursuer was already on the corner stone at the cavern’s -mouth. “Now, Caleb, on him at once!” shouted a voice. Ah me! it was a -moment in which to pity even such a man as Aaron Trow. - -“Now, Caleb, at him at once!” shouted the voice. No, by heavens; not so, -even yet! The sound of triumph in those words raised the last burst of -energy in the breast of that wretched man; and he sprang forth, head -foremost, from his prison house. Forth he came, manifest enough before -the eyes of them all, and with head well down, and hands outstretched, -but with his wide glaring eyes still turned towards his pursuers as he -fell, he plunged down into the waves beneath him. Two of those who stood -by, almost unconscious of what they did, fired at his body as it made -its rapid way to the water; but, as they afterwards found, neither of -the bullets struck him. Morton, when his prey thus leaped forth, -escaping him for awhile, was already on the verge of the cavern,--had -even then prepared his foot for that onward spring which should bring -him to the throat of his foe. But he arrested himself, and for a moment -stood there watching the body as it struck the water, and hid itself at -once beneath the ripple. He stood there for a moment watching the deed -and its effect, and then leaving his hold upon the rock, he once again -followed his quarry. Down he went, head foremost, right on to the track -in the waves which the other had made; and when the two rose to the -surface together, each was struggling in the grasp of the other. - -It was a foolish, nay, a mad deed to do. The poor wretch who had first -fallen could not have escaped. He could not even swim, and had therefore -flung himself to certain destruction when he took that leap from out of -the cavern’s mouth. It would have been sad to see him perish beneath the -waves,--to watch him as he rose, gasping for breath, and then to see him -sinking again, to rise again, and then to go for ever. But his life had -been fairly forfeit,--and why should one so much more precious have been -flung after it? It was surely with no view of saving that pitiful life -that Caleb Morton had leaped after his enemy. But the hound, hot with -the chase, will follow the stag over the precipice and dash himself to -pieces against the rocks. The beast thirsting for blood will rush in -even among the weapons of men. Morton in his fury had felt but one -desire, burned with but one passion. If the Fates would but grant him to -fix his clutches in the throat of the man who had ill-used his love; for -the rest it might all go as it would. - -In the earlier part of the morning, while they were all searching for -their victim, they had brought a boat up into this very inlet among the -rocks; and the same boat had been at hand during the whole day. -Unluckily, before they had come hither, it had been taken round the -headland to a place among the rocks at which a government skiff is -always moored. The sea was still so quiet that there was hardly a ripple -on it, and the boat had been again sent for when first it was supposed -that they had at last traced Aaron Trow to his hiding-place. Anxiously -now were all eyes turned to the headland, but as yet no boat was there. - -The two men rose to the surface, each struggling in the arms of the -other. Trow, though he was in an element to which he was not used, -though he had sprung thither as another suicide might spring to certain -death beneath a railway engine, did not altogether lose his presence of -mind. Prompted by a double instinct, he had clutched hold of Morton’s -body when he encountered it beneath the waters. He held on to it, as to -his only protection, and he held on to him also as to his only enemy. If -there was a chance for a life struggle, they would share that chance -together; and if not, then together would they meet that other fate. - -Caleb Morton was a very strong man, and though one of his arms was -altogether encumbered by his antagonist, his other arm and his legs were -free. With these he seemed to succeed in keeping his head above the -water, weighted as he was with the body of his foe. But Trow’s efforts -were also used with the view of keeping himself above the water. Though -he had purposed to destroy himself in taking that leap, and now hoped -for nothing better than that they might both perish together, he yet -struggled to keep his head above the waves. Bodily power he had none -left to him, except that of holding on to Morton’s arm and plunging with -his legs; but he did hold on, and thus both their heads remained above -the surface. - -But this could not last long. It was easy to see that Trow’s strength -was nearly spent, and that when he went down Morton must go with him. If -indeed they could be separated,--if Morton could once make himself free -from that embrace into which he had been so anxious to leap,--then -indeed there might be a hope. All round that little inlet the rock fell -sheer down into the deep sea, so that there was no resting-place for a -foot; but round the headlands on either side, even within forty or fifty -yards of that spot, Morton might rest on the rocks, till a boat should -come to his assistance. To him that distance would have been nothing, if -only his limbs had been at liberty. - -Upon the platform of rocks they were all at their wits’ ends. Many were -anxious to fire at Trow; but even if they hit him, would Morton’s -position have been better? Would not the wounded man have still clung to -him who was not wounded? And then there could be no certainty that any -one of them would hit the right man. The ripple of the waves, though it -was very slight, nevertheless sufficed to keep the bodies in motion; and -then, too, there was not among them any marksman peculiar for his skill. - -Morton’s efforts in the water were too severe to admit of his speaking, -but he could hear and understand the words which were addressed to him. -“Shake him off, Caleb.” “Strike him from you with your foot.” “Swim to -the right shore; swim for it, even if you take him with you.” Yes; he -could hear them all; but hearing and obeying were very different. It was -not easy to shake off that dying man; and as for swimming with him, that -was clearly impossible. It was as much as he could do to keep his head -above water, let alone any attempt to move in one settled direction. - -For some four or five minutes they lay thus battling on the waves before -the head of either of them went down. Trow had been twice below the -surface, but it was before he had succeeded in supporting himself by -Morton’s arm. Now it seemed as though he must sink again,--as though -both must sink. His mouth was barely kept above the water, and as Morton -shook him with his arm, the tide would pass over him. It was horrid to -watch, from the shore the glaring upturned eyes of the dying wretch, as -his long streaming hair lay back upon the wave. “Now, Caleb, hold him -down. Hold him under,” was shouted in the voice of some eager friend. -Rising up on the water, Morton made a last effort to do as he was bid. -He did press the man’s head down,--well down below the surface,--but -still the hand clung to him, and as he struck out against the water, he -was powerless against that grasp. - -Then there came a loud shout along the shore, and all those on the -platform, whose eyes had been fixed so closely on that terrible struggle -beneath them, rushed towards the rocks on the other coast. The sound of -oars was heard close to them,--an eager pressing stroke, as of men who -knew well that they were rowing for the salvation of a life. On they -came, close under the rocks, obeying with every muscle of their bodies -the behests of those who called to them from the shore. The boat came -with such rapidity,--was so recklessly urged, that it was driven -somewhat beyond the inlet; but in passing, a blow was struck which made -Caleb Morton once more the master of his own life. The two men had been -carried out in their struggle towards the open sea; and as the boat -curved in, so as to be as close as the rocks would allow, the bodies of -the men were brought within the sweep of the oars. He in the bow--for -there were four pulling in the boat--had raised his oar as he neared the -rocks,--had raised it high above the water; and now, as they passed -close by the struggling men, he let it fall with all its force on the -upturned face of the wretched convict. It was a terrible, frightful -thing to do,--thus striking one who was so stricken; but who shall say -that the blow was not good and just? Methinks, however, that the eyes -and face of that dying man will haunt for ever the dreams of him who -carried that oar! - -Trow never rose again to the surface. Three days afterwards his body was -found at the ferry, and then they carried him to the convict island and -buried him. Morton was picked up and taken into the boat. His life was -saved; but it may be a question how the battle might have gone had not -that friendly oar been raised in his behalf. As it was, he lay at the -cottage for days before he was able to be moved, so as to receive the -congratulations of those who had watched that terrible conflict from the -shore. Nor did he feel that there had been anything in that day’s work -of which he could be proud;--much rather of which it behoved him to be -thoroughly ashamed. Some six months after that he obtained the hand of -Anastasia Bergen, but they did not remain long in Bermuda. “He went -away, back to his own country,” my informant told me; “because he could -not endure to meet the ghost of Aaron Trow, at that point of the road -which passes near the cottage.” That the ghost of Aaron Trow may be seen -there and round the little rocky inlet of the sea, is part of the creed -of every young woman in Bermuda. - - - - -MRS. GENERAL TALBOYS. - - -Why Mrs. General Talboys first made up her mind to pass the winter of -1859 at Rome I never clearly understood. To myself she explained her -purposes, soon after her arrival at the Eternal City, by declaring, in -her own enthusiastic manner, that she was inspired by a burning desire -to drink fresh at the still living fountains of classical poetry and -sentiment. But I always thought that there was something more than this -in it. Classical poetry and sentiment were doubtless very dear to her; -but so also, I imagine, were the substantial comforts of Hardover Lodge, -the General’s house in Berkshire; and I do not think that she would have -emigrated for the winter had there not been some slight domestic -misunderstanding. Let this, however, be fully made clear,--that such -misunderstanding, if it existed, must have been simply an affair of -temper. No impropriety of conduct has, I am very sure, ever been imputed -to the lady. The General, as all the world knows, is hot; and Mrs. -Talboys, when the sweet rivers of her enthusiasm are unfed by congenial -waters, can, I believe, make herself disagreeable. - -But be this as it may, in November, 1859, Mrs. Talboys came among us -English at Rome, and soon succeeded in obtaining for herself a -comfortable footing in our society. We all thought her more remarkable -for her mental attributes than for physical perfection; but, -nevertheless, she was, in her own way, a sightly woman. She had no -special brilliance, either of eye or complexion, such as would produce -sudden flames in susceptible hearts; nor did she seem to demand instant -homage by the form and step of a goddess; but we found her to be a -good-looking woman of some thirty or thirty-three years of age, with -soft, peach-like cheeks,--rather too like those of a cherub, with -sparkling eyes which were hardly large enough, with good teeth, a white -forehead, a dimpled chin and a full bust. Such, outwardly, was Mrs. -General Talboys. The description of the inward woman is the purport to -which these few pages will be devoted. - -There are two qualities to which the best of mankind are much subject, -which are nearly related to each other, and as to which the world has -not yet decided whether they are to be classed among the good or evil -attributes of our nature. Men and women are under the influence of them -both, but men oftenest undergo the former, and women the latter. They -are ambition and enthusiasm. Now Mrs. Talboys was an enthusiastic woman. - -As to ambition, generally as the world agrees with Mark Antony in -stigmatising it as a grievous fault, I am myself clear that it is a -virtue; but with ambition at present we have no concern. Enthusiasm -also, as I think, leans to virtue’s side; or, at least, if it be a -fault, of all faults it is the prettiest. But then, to partake at all of -virtue, or even to be in any degree pretty, the enthusiasm must be true. - -Bad coin is known from good by the ring of it; and so is bad enthusiasm. -Let the coiner be ever so clever at his art, in the coining of -enthusiasm the sound of true gold can never be imparted to the fake -metal. And I doubt whether the cleverest she in the world can make false -enthusiasm palatable to the taste of man. To the taste of any woman the -enthusiasm of another woman is never very palatable. - -We understood at Rome that Mrs. Talboys had a considerable family,--four -or five children, we were told; but she brought with her only one -daughter, a little girl about twelve years of age. She had torn herself -asunder, as she told me, from the younger nurslings of her heart, and -had left them to the care of a devoted female attendant, whose love was -all but maternal. And then she said a word or two about the General, in -terms which made me almost think that this quasi-maternal love extended -itself beyond the children. The idea, however, was a mistaken one, -arising from the strength of her language, to which I was then -unaccustomed. I have since become aware that nothing can be more -decorous than old Mrs. Upton, the excellent headnurse at Hardover Lodge; -and no gentleman more discreet in his conduct than General Talboys. - -And I may as well here declare, also, that there could be no more -virtuous woman than the General’s wife. Her marriage vow was to her -paramount to all other vows and bonds whatever. The General’s honour was -quite safe when he sent her off to Rome by herself; and he no doubt knew -that it was so. Illi robur et æs triplex, of which I believe no weapons -of any assailant could get the better. But, nevertheless, we used to -fancy that she had no repugnance to impropriety in other women,--to what -the world generally calls impropriety. Invincibly attached herself to -the marriage tie, she would constantly speak of it as by no means -necessarily binding on others; and, virtuous herself as any griffin of -propriety, she constantly patronised, at any rate, the theory of -infidelity in her neighbours. She was very eager in denouncing the -prejudices of the English world, declaring that she had found existence -among them to be no longer possible for herself. She was hot against the -stern unforgiveness of British matrons, and equally eager in reprobating -the stiff conventionalities of a religion in which she said that none of -its votaries had faith, though they all allowed themselves to be -enslaved. - -We had at that time a small set at Rome, consisting chiefly of English -and Americans, who habitually met at each other’s rooms, and spent many -of our evening hours in discussing Italian politics. We were, most of -us, painters, poets, novelists, or sculptors;--perhaps I should say -would-be painters, poets, novelists, and sculptors,--aspirants hoping to -become some day recognised; and among us Mrs. Talboys took her place, -naturally enough, on account of a very pretty taste she had for -painting. I do not know that she ever originated anything that was -grand; but she made some nice copies, and was fond, at any rate, of art -conversation. She wrote essays, too, which she showed in confidence to -various gentlemen, and had some idea of taking lessons in modelling. - -In all our circle Conrad Mackinnon, an American, was, perhaps, the -person most qualified to be styled its leader. He was one who absolutely -did gain his living, and an ample living too, by his pen, and was -regarded on all sides as a literary lion, justified by success in -roaring at any tone he might please. His usual roar was not exactly that -of a sucking-dove or a nightingale; but it was a good-humoured roar, not -very offensive to any man, and apparently acceptable enough to some -ladies. He was a big burly man, near to fifty as I suppose, somewhat -awkward in his gait, and somewhat loud in his laugh. But though nigh to -fifty, and thus ungainly, he liked to be smiled on by pretty women, and -liked, as some said, to be flattered by them also. If so, he should have -been happy, for the ladies at Rome at that time made much of Conrad -Mackinnon. - -Of Mrs. Mackinnon no one did make very much, and yet she was one of the -sweetest, dearest, quietest, little creatures that ever made glad a -man’s fireside. She was exquisitely pretty, always in good humour, never -stupid, self-denying to a fault, and yet she was generally in the -background. She would seldom come forward of her own will, but was -contented to sit behind her teapot and hear Mackinnon do his roaring. He -was certainly much given to what the world at Rome called flirting, but -this did not in the least annoy her. She was twenty years his junior, -and yet she never flirted with any one. Women would tell -her--good-natured friends--how Mackinnon went on; but she received such -tidings as an excellent joke, observing that he had always done the -same, and no doubt always would until he was ninety. I do believe that -she was a happy woman; and yet I used to think that she should have been -happier. There is, however, no knowing the inside of another man’s -house, or reading the riddles of another man’s joy and sorrow. - -We had also there another lion,--a lion cub,--entitled to roar a little, -and of him also I must say something. Charles O’Brien was a young man, -about twenty-five years of age, who had sent out from his studio in the -preceding year a certain bust, supposed by his admirers to be -unsurpassed by any effort of ancient or modern genius. I am no judge of -sculpture, and will not, therefore, pronounce an opinion; but many who -considered themselves to be judges, declared that it was a “goodish head -and shoulders,” and nothing more. I merely mention the fact, as it was -on the strength of that head and shoulders that O’Brien separated -himself from a throng of others such as himself in Rome, walked solitary -during the days, and threw himself at the feet of various ladies when -the days were over. He had ridden on the shoulders of his bust into a -prominent place in our circle, and there encountered much feminine -admiration--from Mrs. General Talboys and others. - -Some eighteen or twenty of us used to meet every Sunday evening in Mrs. -Mackinnon’s drawing-room. Many of us, indeed, were in the habit of -seeing each other daily, and of visiting together the haunts in Rome -which are best loved by art-loving strangers; but here, in this -drawing-room, we were sure to come together, and here before the end of -November, Mrs. Talboys might always be found, not in any accustomed -seat, but moving about the room as the different male mental attractions -of our society might chance to move themselves. She was at first greatly -taken by Mackinnon,--who also was, I think, a little stirred by her -admiration, though he stoutly denied the charge. She became, however, -very dear to us all before she left us, and certainly we owed to her -our love, for she added infinitely to the joys of our winter. - -“I have come here to refresh myself,” she said to Mackinnon one -evening--to Mackinnon and myself, for we were standing together. - -“Shall I get you tea?” said I. - -“And will you have something to eat?” Mackinnon asked. - -“No, no, no;” she answered. “Tea, yes; but for Heaven’s sake let nothing -solid dispel the associations of such a meeting as this!” - -“I thought you might have dined early,” said Mackinnon. Now Mackinnon -was a man whose own dinner was very dear to him. I have seen him become -hasty and unpleasant, even under the pillars of the Forum, when he -thought that the party were placing his fish in jeopardy by their desire -to linger there too long. - -“Early! Yes. No; I know not when it was. One dines and sleeps in -obedience to that dull clay which weighs down so generally the particle -of our spirit. But the clay may sometimes be forgotten. Here I can -always forget it.” - -“I thought you asked for refreshment,” I said. She only looked at me, -whose small attempts at prose composition had, up to that time, been -altogether unsuccessful, and then addressed herself in reply to -Mackinnon. - -“It is the air which we breathe that fills our lungs and gives us life -and light. It is that which refreshes us if pure, or sinks us into -stagnation if it be foul. Let me for awhile inhale the breath of an -invigorating literature. Sit down, Mr. Mackinnon; I have a question that -I must put to you.” And then she succeeded in carrying him off into a -corner. As far as I could see he went willingly enough at that time, -though he soon became averse to any long retirement in company with Mrs. -Talboys. - -We none of us quite understood what were her exact ideas on the subject -of revealed religion. Somebody, I think, had told her that there were -among us one or two whose opinions were not exactly orthodox according -to the doctrines of the established English church. If so, she was -determined to show us that she also was advanced beyond the prejudices -of an old and dry school of theology. “I have thrown down all the -barriers of religion,” she said to poor Mrs. Mackinnon, “and am looking -for the sentiments of a pure Christianity.” - -“Thrown down all the barriers of religion!” said Mrs. Mackinnon, in a -tone of horror which was not appreciated. - -“Indeed, yes,” said Mrs. Talboys, with an exulting voice. “Are not the -days for such trammels gone by?” - -“But yet you hold by Christianity?” - -“A pure Christianity, unstained by blood and perjury, by hypocrisy and -verbose genuflection. Can I not worship and say my prayers among the -clouds?” And she pointed to the lofty ceiling and the handsome -chandelier. - -“But Ida goes to church,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. Ida Talboys was her -daughter. Now, it may be observed, that many who throw down the barriers -of religion, so far as those barriers may affect themselves, still -maintain them on behalf of their children. “Yes,” said Mrs. Talboys; -“dear Ida! her soft spirit is not yet adapted to receive the perfect -truth. We are obliged to govern children by the strength of their -prejudices.” And then she moved away, for it was seldom that Mrs. -Talboys remained long in conversation with any lady. - -Mackinnon, I believe, soon became tired of her. He liked her flattery, -and at first declared that she was clever and nice; but her niceness was -too purely celestial to satisfy his mundane tastes. Mackinnon himself -can revel among the clouds in his own writings, and can leave us -sometimes in doubt whether he ever means to come back to earth; but when -his foot is on terra firma, he loves to feel the earthly substratum -which supports his weight. With women he likes a hand that can remain an -unnecessary moment within his own, an eye that can glisten with the -sparkle of champagne, a heart weak enough to make its owner’s arm -tremble within his own beneath the moonlight gloom of the Coliseum -arches. A dash of sentiment the while makes all these things the -sweeter; but the sentiment alone will not suffice for him. Mrs. Talboys -did, I believe, drink her glass of champagne, as do other ladies; but -with her it had no such pleasing effect. It loosened only her tongue, -but never her eye. Her arm, I think, never trembled, and her hand never -lingered. The General was always safe, and happy, perhaps, in his -solitary safety. - -It so happened that we had unfortunately among us two artists who had -quarrelled with their wives. O’Brien, whom I have before mentioned, was -one of them. In his case, I believe him to have been almost as free from -blame as a man can be whose marriage was in itself a fault. However, he -had a wife in Ireland some ten years older than himself; and though he -might sometimes almost forget the fact, his friends and neighbours were -well aware of it. In the other case the whole fault probably was with -the husband. He was an ill-tempered, bad-hearted man, clever enough, -but without principle; and he was continually guilty of the great sin of -speaking evil of the woman whose name he should have been anxious to -protect. In both cases our friend Mrs. Talboys took a warm interest, and -in each of them she sympathised with the present husband against the -absent wife. - -Of the consolation which she offered in the latter instance we used to -hear something from Mackinnon. He would repeat to his wife, and to me -and my wife, the conversations which she had with him. “Poor Brown;” she -would say, “I pity him, with my very heart’s blood.” - -“You are aware that he has comforted himself in his desolation,” -Mackinnon replied. - -“I know very well to what you allude. I think I may say that I am -conversant with all the circumstances of this heart-blighting -sacrifice.” Mrs. Talboys was apt to boast of the thorough confidence -reposed in her by all those in whom she took an interest. “Yes, he has -sought such comfort in another love as the hard cruel world would allow -him.” - -“Or perhaps something more than that,” said Mackinnon. “He has a family -here in Rome, you know; two little babies.” - -“I know it, I know it,” she said. “Cherub angels!” and as she spoke she -looked up into the ugly face of Marcus Aurelius; for they, were standing -at the moment under the figure of the great horseman on the Campidoglio. -“I have seen them, and they are the children of innocence. If all the -blood of all the Howards ran in their veins it could not make their -birth more noble!” - -“Not if the father and mother of all the Howards had never been -married,” said Mackinnon. - -“What; that from you, Mr. Mackinnon!” said Mrs. Talboys, turning her -back with energy upon the equestrian statue, and looking up into the -faces, first of Pollux and then of Castor, as though from them she might -gain some inspiration on the subject which Marcus Aurelius in his -coldness had denied to her. “From you, who have so nobly claimed for -mankind the divine attributes of free action! From you, who have taught -my mind to soar above the petty bonds which one man in his littleness -contrives for the subjection of his brother. Mackinnon! you who are so -great!” And she now looked up into his face. “Mackinnon, unsay those -words.” - -“They _are_ illegitimate,” said he; “and if there was any landed -property----” - -“Landed property! and that from an American!” - -“The children are English, you know.” - -“Landed property! The time will shortly come--ay, and I see it -coming--when that hateful word shall be expunged from the calendar; when -landed property shall be no more. What! shall the free soul of a -God-born man submit itself for ever to such trammels as that? Shall we -never escape from the clay which so long has manacled the subtler -particles of the divine spirit? Ay, yes, Mackinnon;” and then she took -him by the arm, and led him to the top of the huge steps which lead down -from the Campidoglio into the streets of modern Rome. “Look down upon -that countless multitude.” Mackinnon looked down, and saw three groups -of French soldiers, with three or four little men in each group; he saw, -also, a couple of dirty friars, and three priests very slowly beginning -the side ascent to the church of the Ara Cœli. “Look down upon that -countless multitude,” said Mrs. Talboys, and she stretched her arms out -over the half-deserted city. “They are escaping now from these -trammels,--now, now,--now that I am speaking.” - -“They have escaped long ago from all such trammels as that of landed -property,” said Mackinnon. - -“Ay, and from all terrestrial bonds,” she continued, not exactly -remarking the pith of his last observation; “from bonds -quasi-terrestrial and quasi-celestial. The full-formed limbs of the -present age, running with quick streams of generous blood, will no -longer bear the ligatures which past times have woven for the decrepit. -Look down upon that multitude, Mackinnon; they shall all be free.” And -then, still clutching him by the arm, and still standing at the top of -those stairs, she gave forth her prophecy with the fury of a Sybil. - -“They shall all be free. Oh, Rome, thou eternal one! thou who hast bowed -thy neck to imperial pride and priestly craft; thou who hast suffered -sorely, even to this hour, from Nero down to Pio Nono,--the days of -thine oppression are over. Gone from thy enfranchised ways for ever is -the clang of the Prætorian cohorts, and the more odious drone of -meddling monks!” And yet, as Mackinnon observed, there still stood the -dirty friars and the small French soldiers; and there still toiled the -slow priests, wending their tedious way up to the church of the Ara -Cœli. But that was the mundane view of the matter,--a view not -regarded by Mrs. Talboys in her ecstasy. “O Italia,” she continued, “O -Italia una, one and indivisible in thy rights, and indivisible also in -thy wrongs! to us is it given to see the accomplishment of thy glory. A -people shall arise around thine altars greater in the annals of the -world than thy Scipios, thy Gracchi, or thy Cæsars. Not in torrents of -blood, or with screams of bereaved mothers, shall thy new triumphs be -stained. But mind shall dominate over matter; and doomed, together with -Popes and Bourbons, with cardinals, diplomatists, and police spies, -ignorance and prejudice shall be driven from thy smiling terraces. And -then Rome shall again become the fair capital of the fairest region of -Europe. Hither shall flock the artisans of the world, crowding into thy -marts all that God and man can give. Wealth, beauty, and innocence shall -meet in thy streets----” - -“There will be a considerable change before that takes place,” said -Mackinnon. - -“There shall be a considerable change,” she answered. “Mackinnon, to -thee it is given to read the signs of the time; and hast thou not read? -Why have the fields of Magenta and Solferino been piled with the corpses -of dying heroes? Why have the waters of the Mincio ran red with the -blood of martyrs? That Italy might be united and Rome immortal. Here, -standing on the Capitolium of the ancient city, I say that it shall be -so; and thou, Mackinnon, who hearest me, knowest that my words are -true.” - -There was not then in Rome,--I may almost say there was not in Italy, an -Englishman or an American who did not wish well to the cause for which -Italy was and is still contending; as also there is hardly one who does -not now regard that cause as well-nigh triumphant; but, nevertheless, it -was almost impossible to sympathise with Mrs. Talboys. As Mackinnon -said, she flew so high that there was no comfort in flying with her. - -“Well,” said he, “Brown and the rest of them are down below. Shall we go -and join them?” - -“Poor Brown! How was it that, in speaking of his troubles, we were led -on to this heart-stirring theme? Yes, I have seen them, the sweet -angels; and I tell you also that I have seen their mother. I insisted on -going to her when I heard her history from him.” - -“And what is she like, Mrs. Talboys?” - -“Well; education has done more for some of us than for others; and there -are those from whose morals and sentiments we might thankfully draw a -lesson, whose manners and outward gestures are not such as custom has -made agreeable to us. You, I know, can understand that. I have seen her, -and feel sure that she is pure in heart and high in principle. Has she -not sacrificed herself and is not self-sacrifice the surest guarantee -for true nobility of character? Would Mrs. Mackinnon object to my -bringing them together?” - -Mackinnon was obliged to declare that he thought his wife would object; -and from that time forth he and Mrs. Talboys ceased to be very close in -their friendship. She still came to the house every Sunday evening, -still refreshed herself at the fountains of his literary rills; but her -special prophecies from henceforth were poured into other ears. And it -so happened that O’Brien now became her chief ally. I do not remember -that she troubled herself much further with the cherub angels or with -their mother; and I am inclined to think that, taking up warmly, as she -did, the story of O’Brien’s matrimonial wrongs, she forgot the little -history of the Browns. Be that as it may, Mrs. Talboys and O’Brien now -became strictly confidential, and she would enlarge by the half-hour -together on the miseries of her friend’s position, to any one whom she -could get to hear her. - -“I’ll tell you what, Fanny,” Mackinnon said to his wife one day,--to his -wife and to mine, for we were all together; “we shall have a row in the -house if we don’t take care. O’Brien will be making love to Mrs. -Talboys.” - -“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. “You are always thinking that somebody -is going to make love to some one.” - -“Somebody always is,” said he. - -“She’s old enough to be his mother,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. - -“What does that matter to an Irishman?” said Mackinnon. “Besides, I -doubt if there is more than five years’ difference between them.” - -“There, must be more than that,” said my wife. “Ida Talboys is twelve, I -know, and I am not quite sure that Ida is the eldest.” - -“If she had a son in the Guards it would make no difference,” said -Mackinnon. “There are men who consider themselves bound to make love to -a woman under certain circumstances, let the age of the lady be what it -may. O’Brien is such a one; and if she sympathises with him much -oftener, he will mistake the matter, and go down on his knees. You ought -to put him on his guard,” he said, addressing himself to his wife. - -“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” said she; “if they are two fools, -they must, like other fools, pay the price of their folly.” As a rule -there could be no softer creature than Mrs. Mackinnon; but it seemed to -me that her tenderness never extended itself in the direction of Mrs. -Talboys. - -Just at this time, towards the end, that is, of November, we made a -party to visit the tombs which lie along the Appian Way, beyond that -most beautiful of all sepulchres, the tomb of Cecilia Metella. It was a -delicious day, and we had driven along this road for a couple of miles -beyond the walls of the city, enjoying the most lovely view which the -neighbourhood of Rome affords,--looking over the wondrous ruins of the -old aqueducts, up towards Tivoli and Palestrina. Of all the environs of -Rome this is, on a fair clear day, the most enchanting; and here -perhaps, among a world of tombs, thoughts and almost memories of the -old, old days come upon one with the greatest force. The grandeur of -Rome is best seen and understood from beneath the walls of the Coliseum, -and its beauty among the pillars of the Forum and the arches of the -Sacred Way; but its history and fall become more palpable to the mind, -and more clearly realised, out here among the tombs, where the eyes rest -upon the mountains whose shades were cool to the old Romans as to -us,--than anywhere within the walls of the city. Here we look out at the -same Tivoli and the same Præneste, glittering in the sunshine, embowered -among the far-off valleys, which were dear to them; and the blue -mountains have not crumbled away into ruins. Within Rome itself we can -see nothing as they saw it. - -Our party consisted of some dozen or fifteen persons, and as a hamper -with luncheon in it had been left on the grassy slope at the base of the -tomb of Cecilia Metella, the expedition had in it something of the -nature of a picnic. Mrs. Talboys was of course with us, and Ida Talboys. -O’Brien also was there. The hamper had been prepared in Mrs. Mackinnon’s -room, under the immediate eye of Mackinnon himself, and they therefore -were regarded as the dominant spirits of the party. My wife was leagued -with Mrs. Mackinnon, as was usually the case; and there seemed to be a -general opinion among those who were closely in confidence together, -that something would happen in the O’Brien-Talboys matter. The two had -been inseparable on the previous evening, for Mrs. Talboys had been -urging on the young Irishman her counsels respecting his domestic -troubles. Sir Cresswell Cresswell, she had told him, was his refuge. -“Why should his soul submit to bonds which the world had now declared to -be intolerable? Divorce was not now the privilege of the dissolute rich. -Spirits which were incompatible need no longer be compelled to fret -beneath the same couples.” In short, she had recommended him to go to -England and get rid of his wife, as she would, with a little -encouragement, have recommended any man to get rid of anything. I am -sure that, had she been skilfully brought on to the subject, she might -have been induced to pronounce a verdict against such ligatures for the -body as coats, waistcoats, and trowsers. Her aspirations for freedom -ignored all bounds, and, in theory, there were no barriers which she was -not willing to demolish. - -Poor O’Brien, as we all now began to see, had taken the matter amiss. He -had offered to make a bust of Mrs. Talboys, and she had consented, -expressing a wish that it might find a place among those who had devoted -themselves to the enfranchisement of their fellow-creatures. I really -think she had but little of a woman’s customary personal vanity. I know -she had an idea that her eye was lighted up in her warmer moments by -some special fire, that sparks of liberty shone round her brow, and that -her bosom heaved with glorious aspirations; but all these feelings had -reference to her inner genius, not to any outward beauty. But O’Brien -misunderstood the woman, and thought it necessary to gaze into her face, -and sigh as though his heart were breaking. Indeed he declared to a -young friend that Mrs. Talboys was perfect in her style of beauty, and -began the bust with this idea. It was gradually becoming clear to us all -that he would bring himself to grief; but in such a matter who can -caution a man? - -Mrs. Mackinnon had contrived to separate them in making the carriage -arrangements on this day, but this only added fuel to the fire which was -now burning within O’Brien’s bosom. I believe that he really did love -her, in his easy, eager, susceptible Irish way. That he would get over -the little episode without any serious injury to his heart no one -doubted; but then, what would occur when the declaration was made? How -would Mrs. Talboys bear it? - -“She deserves it,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. - -“And twice as much,” my wife added. Why is it that women are so spiteful -to each other? - -Early in the day Mrs. Talboys clambered up to the top of a tomb, and -made a little speech, holding a parasol over her head. Beneath her feet, -she said, reposed the ashes of some bloated senator, some glutton of the -empire, who had swallowed into his maw the provision necessary for a -tribe. Old Rome had fallen through such selfishness as that; but new -Rome would not forget the lesson. All this was very well, and then -O’Brien helped her down; but after this there was no separating them. -For her own part she would sooner have had Mackinnon at her elbow. But -Mackinnon now had found some other elbow. “Enough of that was as good -as a feast,” he had said to his wife. And therefore Mrs. Talboys, quite -unconscious of evil, allowed herself to be engrossed by O’Brien. - -And then, about three o’clock, we returned to the hamper. Luncheon under -such circumstances always means dinner, and we arranged ourselves for a -very comfortable meal. To those who know the tomb of Cecilia Metella no -description of the scene is necessary, and to those who do not, no -description will convey a fair idea of its reality. It is itself a large -low tower of great diameter, but of beautiful proportion, standing far -outside the city, close on to the side of the old Roman way. It has been -embattled on the top by some latter-day baron, in order that it might be -used for protection to the castle, which has been built on and attached -to it. If I remember rightly, this was done by one of the Frangipani, -and a very lovely ruin he has made of it. I know no castellated old -tumble-down residence in Italy more picturesque than this baronial -adjunct to the old Roman tomb, or which better tallies with the ideas -engendered within our minds by Mrs. Radcliffe and the Mysteries of -Udolpho. It lies along the road, protected on, the side of the city by -the proud sepulchre of the Roman matron, and up to the long ruined walls -of the back of the building stretches a grassy slope, at the bottom of -which are the remains of an old Roman, circus. Beyond that is the long, -thin, graceful line of the Claudian aqueduct, with Soracte in the -distance to the left, and Tivoli, Palestine, and Frascati lying among -the hills which bound the view. That Frangipani baron was in the right -of it, and I hope he got the value of his money out of the residence -which he built for himself. I doubt, however, that he did but little -good to those who lived in his close neighbourhood. - -We had a very comfortable little banquet seated on the broken lumps of -stone which lie about under the walls of the tomb. I wonder whether the -shade of Cecilia Metella was looking down upon us. We have heard much of -her in these latter days, and yet we know nothing about her, nor can -conceive why she was honoured with a bigger tomb than any other Roman -matron. There were those then among our party who believed that she -might still come back among us, and with due assistance from some -cognate susceptible spirit, explain to us the cause of her widowed -husband’s liberality. Alas, alas! if we may judge of the Romans by -ourselves, the true reason for such sepulchral grandeur would redound -little to the credit of the lady Cecilia Metella herself, or to that of -Crassus, her bereaved and desolate lord. - -She did not come among us on the occasion of this banquet, possibly -because we had no tables there to turn in preparation for her presence; -but, had she done so, she could not have been more eloquent of things of -the other world than was Mrs. Talboys. I have said that Mrs. Talboys’ -eye never glanced more brightly after a glass of champagne, but I am -inclined to think that on this occasion it may have done so. O’Brien -enacted Ganymede, and was, perhaps, more liberal than other latter-day -Ganymedes, to whose services Mrs. Talboys had been accustomed. Let it -not, however, be suspected by any one that she exceeded the limits of a -discreet joyousness. By no means! The generous wine penetrated, perhaps, -to some inner cells of her heart, and brought forth thoughts in -sparkling words, which otherwise might have remained concealed; but -there was nothing in what she thought or spoke calculated to give -umbrage either to an anchorite or to a vestal. A word or two she said or -sung about the flowing bowl, and once she called for Falernian; but -beyond this her converse was chiefly of the rights of man and the -weakness of women; of the iron ages that were past, and of the golden -time that was to come. - -She called a toast and drank to the hopes of the latter historians of -the nineteenth century. Then it was that she bade O’Brien “Fill high the -bowl with Samian wine.” The Irishman took her at her word, and she -raised the bumper, and waved it over her head before she put it to her -lips. I am bound to declare that she did not spill a drop. “The true -‘Falernian grape,’” she said, as she deposited the empty beaker on the -grass beneath her elbow. Viler champagne I do not think I ever -swallowed; but it was the theory of the wine, not its palpable body -present there, as it were, in the flesh, which inspired her. There was -really something grand about her on that occasion, and her enthusiasm -almost amounted to reality. - -Mackinnon was amused, and encouraged her, as, I must confess, did I -also. Mrs. Mackinnon made useless little signs to her husband, really -fearing that the Falernian would do its good offices too thoroughly. My -wife, getting me apart as I walked round the circle distributing viands, -remarked that “the woman was a fool, and would disgrace herself.” But I -observed that after the disposal of that bumper she worshipped the rosy -god in theory only, and therefore saw no occasion to interfere. “Come, -Bacchus,” she said; “and come, Silenus, if thou wilt; I know that ye are -hovering round the graves of your departed favourites. And ye, too, -nymphs of Egeria,” and she pointed to the classic grove which was all -but close to us as we sat there. “In olden days ye did not always -despise the abodes of men. But why should we invoke the presence of the -gods,--we, who can become godlike ourselves! We ourselves are the -deities of the present age. For us shall the tables be spread with -ambrosia; for us shall the nectar flow.” - -Upon the whole it was very good fooling,--for awhile; and as soon as we -were tired of it we arose from our seats, and began to stroll about the -place. It was beginning to be a little dusk, and somewhat cool, but the -evening air was pleasant, and the ladies, putting on their shawls, did -not seem inclined at once to get into the carriages. At any rate, Mrs. -Talboys was not so inclined, for she started down the hill towards the -long low wall of the old Roman circus at the bottom; and O’Brien, close -at her elbow, started with her. - -“Ida, my dear, you had better remain here,” she said to her daughter; -“you will be tired if you come as far as we are going.” - -“Oh, no, mamma, I shall not,” said Ida. “You get tired much quicker than -I do.” - -“Oh, yes, you will; besides I do not wish you to come.” There was an end -of it for Ida, and Mrs. Talboys and O’Brien walked off together, while -we all looked into each other’s faces. - -“It would be a charity to go with them,” said Mackinnon. - -“Do you be charitable, then,” said his wife. - -“It should be a lady,” said he. - -“It is a pity that the mother of the spotless cherubim is not here for -the occasion,” said she. “I hardly think that any one less gifted will -undertake such a self sacrifice.” Any attempt of the kind would, -however, now have been too late, for they were already at the bottom of -the hill. O’Brien had certainly drunk freely of the pernicious contents -of those long-necked bottles; and though no one could fairly accuse him -of being tipsy, nevertheless that which might have made others drunk had -made him bold, and he dared to do--perhaps more than might become a man. -If under any circumstances he could be fool enough to make an avowal of -love to Mrs. Talboys, he might be expected, as we all thought, to do it -now. - -We watched them as they made for a gap in the wall which led through -into the large enclosed space of the old circus. It had been an arena -for chariot games, and they had gone down with the avowed purpose of -searching where might have been the meta, and ascertaining how the -drivers could have turned when at their full speed. For awhile we had -heard their voices,--or rather her voice especially. “The heart of a -man, O’Brien, should suffice for all emergencies,” we had heard her say. -She had assumed a strange habit of calling men by their simple names, as -men address each other. When she did this to Mackinnon, who was much -older than herself, we had been all amused by it, and other ladies of -our party had taken to call him “Mackinnon” when Mrs. Talboys was not -by; but we had felt the comedy to be less safe with O’Brien, especially -when, on one occasion, we heard him address her as Arabella. She did not -seem to be in any way struck by his doing so, and we supposed, -therefore, that it had become frequent between them. What reply he made -at the moment about the heart of a man I do not know;--and then in a few -minutes they disappeared through the gap in the wall. - -None of us followed them, though it would have seemed the most natural -thing in the world to do so had nothing out of the way been expected. As -it was we remained there round the tomb quizzing the little foibles of -our dear friend, and hoping that O’Brien would be quick in what he was -doing. That he would undoubtedly get a slap in the -face--metaphorically--we all felt certain, for none of us doubted the -rigid propriety of the lady’s intentions. Some of us strolled into the -buildings, and some of us got out on to the road; but we all of us were -thinking that O’Brien was very slow a considerable time before we saw -Mrs. Talboys reappear through the gap. - -At last, however, she was there, and we at once saw that she was alone. -She came on, breasting the hill with quick steps, and when she drew near -we could see that there was a frown as of injured majesty on her brow. -Mackinnon and his wife went forward to meet her. If she were really in -trouble it would be fitting in some way to assist her; and of all women -Mrs. Mackinnon was the last to see another woman suffer from ill-usage -without attempting to aid her. “I certainly never liked her,” Mrs. -Mackinnon said afterwards; “but I was bound to go and hear her tale, -when she really had a tale to tell.” - -And Mrs. Talboys now had a tale to tell,--if she chose to tell it. The -ladies of our party declared afterwards that she would have acted more -wisely had she kept to herself both O’Brien’s words to her and her -answer. “She was well able to take care of herself,” Mrs. Mackinnon -said; “and, after all, the silly man had taken an answer when he got -it.” Not, however, that O’Brien had taken his answer quite immediately, -as far as I could understand from what we heard of the matter -afterwards. - -At the present moment Mrs. Talboys came up the rising ground all alone, -and at a quick pace. “The man has insulted me,” she said aloud, as well -as her panting breath would allow her, and as soon as she was near -enough to Mrs. Mackinnon to speak to her. - -“I am sorry for that,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. “I suppose he has taken a -little too much wine.” - -“No; it was a premeditated insult. The base-hearted churl has failed to -understand the meaning of true, honest sympathy.” - -“He will forget all about it when he is sober,” said Mackinnon, meaning -to comfort her. - -“What care I what he remembers or what he forgets!” she said, turning -upon poor Mackinnon indignantly. “You men grovel so in your ideas----” -“And yet,” as Mackinnon said afterwards, “she had been telling me that I -was a fool for the last three weeks.”--“You men grovel so in your ideas, -that you cannot understand the feelings of a true-hearted woman. What -can his forgetfulness or his remembrance be to me? Must not I remember -this insult? Is it possible that I should forget it?” - -Mr. and Mrs. Mackinnon only had gone forward to meet her; but, -nevertheless, she spoke so loud that all heard her who were still -clustered round the spot on which we had dined. - -“What has become of Mr. O’Brien?” a lady whispered to me. - -I had a field-glass with me, and, looking round, I saw his hat as he was -walking inside the walls of the circus in the direction towards the -city. “And very foolish he must feel,” said the lady. - -“No doubt he is used to it,” said another. - -“But considering her age, you know,” said the first, who might have been -perhaps three years younger than Mrs. Talboys, and who was not herself -averse to the excitement of a moderate flirtation. But then why should -she have been averse, seeing that she had not as yet become subject to -the will of any imperial lord? - -“He would have felt much more foolish,” said the third, “if she had -listened to what he said to her.” - -“Well I don’t know,” said the second; “nobody would have known anything -about it then, and in a few weeks they would have gradually become tired -of each other in the ordinary way.” - -But in the meantime Mrs. Talboys was among us. There had been no attempt -at secresy, and she was still loudly inveighing against the grovelling -propensities of men. “That’s quite true, Mrs. Talboys,” said one of the -elder ladies; “but then women are not always so careful as they should -be. Of course I do not mean to say that there has been any fault on your -part.” - -“Fault on my part! Of course there has been fault on my part. No one can -make any mistake without fault to some extent. I took him to be a man of -sense, and he is a fool. Go to Naples indeed!” - -“Did he want you to go to Naples?” asked Mrs. Mackinnon. - -“Yes; that was what he suggested. We were to leave by the train for -Civita Vecchia at six to-morrow morning, and catch the steamer which -leaves Leghorn to-night. Don’t tell me of wine. He was prepared for it!” -And she looked round about on us with an air of injured majesty in her -face which was almost insupportable. - -“I wonder whether he took the tickets over-night,” said Mackinnon. - -“Naples!” she said, as though now speaking exclusively to herself, “the -only ground in Italy which has as yet made no struggle on behalf of -freedom;--a fitting residence for such a dastard!” - -“You would have found it very pleasant at this season,” said the -unmarried lady, who was three years her junior. - -My wife had taken Ida out of the way when the first complaining note -from Mrs. Talboys had been heard ascending the hill. But now, when -matters began gradually to become quiescent, she brought her back, -suggesting, as she did so, that they might begin to think of returning. - -“It is getting very cold, Ida, dear, is it not?” said she. - -“But where is Mr. O’Brien?” said Ida. - -“He has fled,--as poltroons always fly,” said Mrs. Talboys. I believe in -my heart that she would have been glad to have had him there in the -middle of the circle, and to have triumphed over him publicly among us -all. No feeling of shame would have kept her silent for a moment. - -“Fled!” said Ida, looking up into her mother’s face. - -“Yes, fled, my child.” And she seized her daughter in her arms, and -pressed her closely to her bosom. “Cowards always fly.” - -“Is Mr. O’Brien a coward?” Ida asked. - -“Yes, a coward, a very coward! And he has fled before the glance of an -honest woman’s eye. Come, Mrs. Mackinnon, shall we go back to the city? -I am sorry that the amusement of the day should have received this -check.” And she walked forward to the carriage and took her place in it -with an air that showed that she was proud of the way in which she had -conducted herself. - -“She is a little conceited about it after all,” said that unmarried -lady. “If poor Mr. O’Brien had not shown so much premature anxiety with -reference to that little journey to Naples, things might have gone -quietly after all.” - -But the unmarried lady was wrong in her judgment. Mrs. Talboys was proud -and conceited in the matter,--but not proud of having excited the -admiration of her Irish lover. She was proud of her own subsequent -conduct, and gave herself credit for coming out strongly as a -noble-minded matron. “I believe she thinks,” said Mrs. Mackinnon, “that -her virtue is quite Spartan and unique; and if she remains in Rome -she’ll boast of it through the whole winter.” - -“If she does, she may be certain that O’Brien will do the same,” said -Mackinnon. “And in spite of his having fled from the field, it is upon -the cards that he may get the best of it. Mrs. Talboys is a very -excellent woman. She has proved her excellence beyond a doubt. But, -nevertheless, she is susceptible of ridicule.” - -We all felt a little anxiety to hear O’Brien’s account of the matter, -and after having deposited the ladies at their homes, Mackinnon and I -went off to his lodgings. At first he was denied to us, but after awhile -we got his servant to acknowledge that he was at home, and then we made -our way up to his studio. We found him seated behind a half-formed -model, or rather a mere lump of clay punched into something resembling -the shape of a head, with a pipe in his mouth and a bit of stick in his -hand. He was pretending to work, though we both knew that it was out of -the question that he should do anything in his present frame of mind. - -“I think I heard my servant tell you that I was not at home,” said he. - -“Yes, he did,” said Mackinnon, “and would have sworn to it too if we -would have let him. Come, don’t pretend to be surly.” - -“I am very busy, Mr. Mackinnon.” - -“Completing your head of Mrs. Talboys, I suppose, before you start for -Naples.” - -“You don’t mean to say that she has told you all about it,” and he -turned away from his work, and looked up into our faces with a comical -expression, half of fun and half of despair. - -“Every word of it,” said I. “When you want a lady to travel with you, -never ask her to get up so early in winter.” - -“But, O’Brien, how could you be such an ass?” said Mackinnon. “As it has -turned out, there is no very great harm done. You have insulted a -respectable middle-aged woman, the mother of a family, and the wife of a -general officer, and there is an end of it;--unless, indeed, the general -officer should come out from England to call you to account.” - -“He is welcome,” said O’Brien, haughtily. - -“No doubt, my dear fellow,” said Mackinnon; “that would be a dignified -and pleasant ending to the affair. But what I want to know is -this;--what would you have done if she had agreed to go?” - -“He never calculated on the possibility of such a contingency,” said I. - -“By heavens, then, I thought she would like it,” said he. - -“And to oblige her you were content to sacrifice yourself,” said -Mackinnon. - -“Well, that was just it. What the deuce is a fellow to do when a woman -goes on in that way. She told me down there, upon the old race course -you know, that matrimonial bonds were made for fools and slaves. What -was I to suppose that she meant by that? But to make all sure, I asked -her what sort of a fellow the General was. ‘Dear old man,’ she said, -clasping her hands together. ‘He might, you know, have been my father.’ -‘I wish he were,’ said I, ‘because then you’d be free.’ ‘I am free,’ -said she, stamping on the ground, and looking up at me as much as to say -that she cared for no one. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘accept all that is left of -the heart of Wenceslaus O’Brien,’ and I threw myself before her in her -path. ‘Hand,’ said I, ‘I have none to give, but the blood which runs red -through my veins is descended from a double line of kings.’ I said that -because she is always fond of riding a high horse. I had gotten close -under the wall, so that none of you should see me from the tower.” - -“And what answer did she make?” said Mackinnon. - -“Why she was pleased as Punch;--gave me both her hands, and declared -that we would be friends for ever. It is my belief, Mackinnon, that that -woman never heard anything of the kind before. The General, no doubt, -did it by letter.” - -“And how was it that she changed her mind?” - -“Why; I got up, put my arm round her waist, and told her that we would -be off to Naples. I’m blest if she didn’t give me a knock in the ribs -that nearly sent me backwards. She took my breath away, so that I -couldn’t speak to her.” - -“And then----” - -“Oh, there was nothing more. Of course I saw how it was. So she walked -off one way and I the other. On the whole I consider that I am well out -of it.” - -“And so do I,” said Mackinnon, very gravely. “But if you will allow me -to give you my advice, I would suggest that it would be well to avoid -such mistakes in future.” - -“Upon my word,” said O’Brien, excusing himself, “I don’t know what a man -is to do under such circumstances. I give you my honour that I did it -all to oblige her.” - -We then decided that Mackinnon should convey to the injured lady the -humble apology of her late admirer. It was settled that no detailed -excuses should be made. It should be left to her to consider whether the -deed which had been done might have been occasioned by wine, or by the -folly of a moment,--or by her own indiscreet enthusiasm. No one but the -two were present when the message was given, and therefore we were -obliged to trust to Mackinnon’s accuracy for an account of it. - -She stood on very high ground indeed, he said, at first refusing to hear -anything that he had to say on the matter. “The foolish young man,” she -declared, “was below her anger and below her contempt.” - -“He is not the first Irishman that has been made indiscreet by beauty,” -said Mackinnon. - -“A truce to that,” she replied, waving her hand with an air of assumed -majesty. “The incident, contemptible as it is, has been unpleasant to -me. It will necessitate my withdrawal from Rome.” - -“Oh, no, Mrs. Talboys; that will be making too much of him.” - -“The greatest hero that lives,” she answered, “may have his house made -uninhabitable by a very small insect.” Mackinnon swore that those were -her own words. Consequently a sobriquet was attached to O’Brien of which -he by no means approved. And from that day we always called Mrs. Talboys -“the hero.” - -Mackinnon prevailed at last with her, and she did not leave Rome. She -was even induced to send a message to O’Brien, conveying her -forgiveness. They shook hands together with great éclat in Mrs. -Mackinnon’s drawing-room; but I do not suppose that she ever again -offered to him sympathy on the score of his matrimonial troubles. - - - - -THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER OF OXNEY COLNE. - - -The prettiest scenery in all England--and if I am contradicted in that -assertion, I will say in all Europe--is in Devonshire, on the southern -and south-eastern skirts of Dartmoor, where the rivers Dart, and Avon, -and Teign form themselves, and where the broken moor is half cultivated, -and the wild-looking upland fields are half moor. In making this -assertion I am often met with much doubt, but it is by persons who do -not really know the locality. Men and women talk to me on the matter, -who have travelled down the line of railway from Exeter to Plymouth, who -have spent a fortnight at Torquay, and perhaps made an excursion from -Tavistock to the convict prison on Dartmoor. But who knows the glories -of Chagford? Who has walked through the parish of Manaton? Who is -conversant with Lustleigh Cleeves and Withycombe in the moor? Who has -explored Holne Chase? Gentle reader, believe me that you will be rash in -contradicting me, unless you have done these things. - -There or thereabouts--I will not say by the waters of which little river -it is washed--is the parish of Oxney Colne. And for those who wish to -see all the beauties of this lovely country, a sojourn in Oxney Colne -would be most desirable, seeing that the sojourner would then be brought -nearer to all that he would wish to visit, than, at any other spot in -the country. But there is an objection to any such arrangement. There -are only two decent houses in the whole parish, and these are--or were -when I knew the locality--small and fully occupied by their possessors. -The larger and better is the parsonage, in which lived the parson and -his daughter; and the smaller is a freehold residence of a certain Miss -Le Smyrger, who owned a farm of a hundred acres, which was rented by one -Farmer Cloysey, and who also possessed some thirty acres round her own -house, which she managed herself, regarding herself to be quite as -great in cream, as Mr. Cloysey, and altogether superior to him in the -article of cyder. “But yeu has to pay no rent, Miss,” Farmer Cloysey -would say, when Miss Le Smyrger expressed this opinion of her art in a -manner too defiant. “Yeu pays no rent, or yeu couldn’t do it.” Miss Le -Smyrger was an old maid, with a pedigree and blood of her own, a hundred -and thirty acres of fee-simple land on the borders of Dartmoor, fifty -years of age, a constitution of iron, and an opinion of her own on every -subject under the sun. - -And now for the parson and his daughter. The parson’s name was -Woolsworthy--or Woolathy, as it was pronounced by all those who lived -around him--the Rev. Saul Woolsworthy; and his daughter was Patience -Woolsworthy, or Miss Patty, as she was known to the Devonshire world of -those parts. That name of Patience had not been well chosen for her, for -she was a hot-tempered damsel, warm in her convictions, and inclined to -express them freely. She had but two closely intimate friends in the -world, and by both of them this freedom of expression had now been fully -permitted to her since she was a child. Miss Le Smyrger and her father -were well accustomed to her ways, and on the whole well satisfied with -them. The former was equally free and equally warm-tempered as herself, -and as Mr. Woolsworthy was allowed by his daughter to be quite paramount -on his own subject--for he had a subject--he did not object to his -daughter being paramount on all others. A pretty girl was Patience -Woolsworthy at the time of which I am writing, and one who possessed -much that was worthy of remark and admiration, had she lived where -beauty meets with admiration, or where force of character is remarked. -But at Oxney Colne, on the borders of Dartmoor, there were few to -appreciate her, and it seemed as though she herself had but little idea -of carrying her talent further afield, so that it might not remain for -ever wrapped in a blanket. - -She was a pretty girl, tall and slender, with dark eyes and black hair. -Her eyes were perhaps too round for regular beauty, and her hair was -perhaps too crisp; her mouth was large and expressive; her nose was -finely formed, though a critic in female form might have declared it to -be somewhat broad. But her countenance altogether was wonderfully -attractive--if only it might be seen without that resolution for -dominion which occasionally marred it, though sometimes it even added to -her attractions. - -It must be confessed on behalf of Patience Woolsworthy, that the -circumstances of her life had peremptorily called upon her to exercise -dominion. She had lost her mother when she was sixteen, and had had -neither brother nor sister. She had no neighbours near her fit either -from education or rank to interfere in the conduct of her life, -excepting always Miss Le Smyrger. Miss Le Smyrger would have done -anything for her, including the whole management of her morals and of -the parsonage household, had Patience been content with such an -arrangement. But much as Patience had ever loved Miss Le Smyrger, she -was not content with this, and therefore she had been called on to put -forth a strong hand of her own. She had put forth this strong hand -early, and hence had come the character which I am attempting to -describe. But I must say on behalf of this girl, that it was not only -over others that she thus exercised dominion. In acquiring that power -she had also acquired the much greater power of exercising rule over -herself. - -But why should her father have been ignored in these family -arrangements? Perhaps it may almost suffice to say, that of all living -men her father was the man best conversant with the antiquities of the -county in which he lived. He was the Jonathan Oldbuck of Devonshire, and -especially of Dartmoor, without that decision of character which enabled -Oldbuck to keep his womenkind in some kind of subjection, and probably -enabled him also to see that his weekly bills did not pass their proper -limits. Our Mr. Oldbuck, of Oxney Colne, was sadly deficient in these. A -a parish pastor with but a small cure, he did his duty with sufficient -energy, to keep him, at any rate, from reproach. He was kind and -charitable to the poor, punctual in his services, forbearing with the -farmers around him, mild with his brother clergymen, and indifferent to -aught that bishop or archdeacon might think or say of him. I do not name -this latter attribute as a virtue, but as a fact. But all these points -were as nothing in the known character of Mr. Woolsworthy, of Oxney -Colne. He was the antiquarian of Dartmoor. That was his line of life. It -was in that capacity that he was known to the Devonshire world; it was -as such that he journeyed about with his humble carpet-bag, staying away -from his parsonage a night or two at a time; it was in that character -that he received now and again stray visitors in the single spare -bedroom--not friends asked to see him and his girl because of their -friendship--but men who knew something as to this buried stone, or that -old land-mark. In all these things his daughter let him have his own -way, assisting and encouraging him. That was his line of life, and -therefore she respected it. But in all other matters she chose to be -paramount at the parsonage. - -Mr. Woolsworthy was a little man, who always wore, except on Sundays, -grey clothes--clothes of so light a grey that they would hardly have -been regarded as clerical in a district less remote. He had now reached -a goodly age, being full seventy years old; but still he was wiry and -active, and showed but few symptoms of decay. His head was bald, and the -few remaining locks that surrounded it were nearly white. But there was -a look of energy about his mouth, and a humour in his light grey eye, -which forbade those who knew him to regard him altogether as an old man. -As it was, he could walk from Oxney Colne to Priestown, fifteen long -Devonshire miles across the moor; and he who could do that could hardly -be regarded as too old for work. - -But our present story will have more to do with his daughter than with -him. A pretty girl, I have said, was Patience Woolsworthy; and one, too, -in many ways remarkable. She had taken her outlook into life, weighing -the things which she had and those which she had not, in a manner very -unusual, and, as a rule, not always desirable for a young lady. The -things which she had not were very many. She had not society; she had -not a fortune; she had not any assurance of future means of livelihood; -she had not high hope of procuring for herself a position in life by -marriage; she had not that excitement and pleasure in life which she -read of in such books as found their way down to Oxney Colne Parsonage. -It would be easy to add to the list of the things which she had not; and -this list against herself she made out with the utmost vigour. The -things which she had, or those rather which she assured herself of -having, were much more easily counted. She had the birth and education -of a lady, the strength of a healthy woman, and a will of her own. Such -was the list as she made it out for herself, and I protest that I assert -no more than the truth in saying that she never added to it either -beauty, wit, or talent. - -I began these descriptions by saying that Oxney Colne would, of all -places, be the best spot from which a tourist could visit those parts of -Devonshire, but for the fact that he could obtain there none of the -accommodation which tourists require. A brother antiquarian might, -perhaps, in those days have done so, seeing that there was, as I have -said, a spare bedroom at the parsonage. Any intimate friend of Miss Le -Smyrger’s might be as fortunate, for she was equally well provided at -Oxney Combe, by which name her house was known. But Miss Le Smyrger was -not given to extensive hospitality, and it was only to those who were -bound to her, either by ties of blood or of very old friendship, that -she delighted to open her doors. As her old friends were very few in -number, as those few lived at a distance, and as her nearest relations -were higher in the world than she was, and were said by herself to look -down upon her, the visits made to Oxney Combe were few and far between. - -But now, at the period of which I am writing, such a visit was about to -be made. Miss Le Smyrger had a younger sister, who had inherited a -property in the parish of Oxney Colne equal to that of the lady who now -lived there; but this the younger sister had inherited beauty also, and -she therefore, in early life, had found sundry lovers, one of whom -became her husband. She had married a man even then well to do in the -world, but now rich and almost mighty; a Member of Parliament, a lord of -this and that board, a man who had a house in Eaton Square, and a park -in the north of England; and in this way her course of life had been -very much divided from that of our Miss Le Smyrger. But the Lord of the -Government Board had been blessed with various children; and perhaps it -was now thought expedient to look after Aunt Penelope’s Devonshire -acres. Aunt Penelope was empowered to leave them to whom she pleased; -and though it was thought in Eaton Square that she must, as a matter of -course, leave them to one of the family, nevertheless a little cousinly -intercourse might make the thing more certain. I will not say that this -was the sole cause of such a visit, but in these days a visit was to be -made by Captain Broughton to his aunt. Now Captain John Broughton was -the second son of Alfonso Broughton, of Clapham Park and Eaton Square, -Member of Parliament, and Lord of the aforesaid Government Board. - -“And what do you mean to do with him?” Patience Woolsworthy asked of -Miss Le Smyrger when that lady walked over from the Combe to say that -her nephew John was to arrive on the following morning. - -“Do with him? Why I shall bring him over here to talk to your father.” - -“He’ll be too fashionable for that; and papa won’t trouble his head -about him if he finds that he doesn’t care for Dartmoor.” - -“Then he may fall in love with you, my dear.” - -“Well, yes; there’s that resource at any rate, and for your sake I dare -say I should be more civil to him than papa. But he’ll soon get tired -of making love, and what you’ll do then I cannot imagine.” - -That Miss Woolsworthy felt no interest in the coming of the Captain I -will not pretend to say. The advent of any stranger with whom she would -be called on to associate must be matter of interest to her in that -secluded place; and she was not so absolutely unlike other young ladies -that the arrival of an unmarried young man would be the same to her as -the advent of some patriarchal paterfamilias. In taking that outlook -into life of which I have spoken, she had never said to herself that she -despised those things from which other girls received the excitement, -the joys, and the disappointment of their lives. She had simply given -herself to understand that very little of such things would come her -way, and that it behoved her to live--to live happily if such might be -possible--without experiencing the need of them. She had heard, when -there was no thought of any such visit to Oxney Colne, that John -Broughton was a handsome, clever man--one who thought much of himself, -and was thought much of by others--that there had been some talk of his -marrying a great heiress, which marriage, however, had not taken place -through unwillingness on his part, and that he was on the whole a man of -more mark in the world than the ordinary captain of ordinary regiments. - -Captain Broughton came to Oxney Combe, stayed there a fortnight,--the -intended period for his projected visit having been fixed at three or -four days,--and then went his way. He went his way back to his London -haunts, the time of the year then being the close of the Easter -holidays; but as he did so he told his aunt that he should assuredly -return to her in the autumn. - -“And assuredly I shall be happy to see you, John--if you come with a -certain purpose. If you have no such purpose, you had better remain -away.” - -“I shall assuredly come,” the Captain had replied, and then he had gone -on his journey. - -The summer passed rapidly by, and very little was said between Miss Le -Smyrger and Miss Woolsworthy about Captain Broughton. In many -respects--nay, I may say, as to all ordinary matters, no two women could -well be more intimate with each other than they were,--and more than -that, they had the courage each to talk to the other with absolute truth -as to things concerning themselves--a courage in which dear friends -often fail. But nevertheless, very little was said between them about -Captain John Broughton. All that was said may be here repeated. - -“John says that he shall return here in August,” Miss Le Smyrger said, -as Patience was sitting with her in the parlour at Oxney Combe, on the -morning after that gentleman’s departure. - -“He told me so himself,” said Patience; and as she spoke her round dark -eyes assumed a look of more than ordinary self-will. If Miss Le Smyrger -had intended to carry the conversation any further, she changed her mind -as she looked at her companion. Then, as I said, the summer ran by, and -towards the close of the warm days of July, Miss Le Smyrger, sitting in -the same chair in the same room, again took up the conversation. - -“I got a letter from John this morning. He says that he shall be here on -the third.” - -“Does he?” - -“He is very punctual to the time he named.” - -“Yes; I fancy that he is a punctual man,” said Patience. - -“I hope that you will be glad to see him,” said Miss Le Smyrger. - -“Very glad to see him,” said Patience, with a bold clear voice; and then -the conversation was again dropped, and nothing further was said till -after Captain Broughton’s second arrival in the parish. - -Four months had then passed since his departure, and during that time -Miss Woolsworthy had performed all her usual daily duties in their -accustomed course. No one could discover that she had been less careful -in her household matters than had been her wont, less willing to go -among her poor neighbours, or less assiduous in her attentions to her -father. But not the less was there a feeling in the minds of those -around her that some great change had come upon her. She would sit -during the long summer evenings on a certain spot outside the parsonage -orchard, at the top of a small sloping field in which their solitary cow -was always pastured, with a book on her knees before her, but rarely -reading. There she would sit, with the beautiful view down to the -winding river below her, watching the setting sun, and thinking, -thinking, thinking--thinking of something of which she had never spoken. -Often would Miss Le Smyrger come upon her there, and sometimes would -pass by her even without a word; but never--never once did she dare to -ask her of the matter of her thoughts. But she knew the matter well -enough. No confession was necessary to inform her that Patience -Woolsworthy was in love with John Broughton--ay, in love, to the full -and entire loss of her whole heart. - -On one evening she was so sitting till the July sun had fallen and -hidden himself for the night, when her father came upon her as he -returned from one of his rambles on the moor. “Patty,” he said, “you are -always sitting there now. Is it not late? Will you not be cold?” - -“No, papa,” said she, “I shall not be cold.” - -“But won’t you come to the house? I miss you when you come in so late -that there’s no time to say a word before we go to bed.” - -She got up and followed him into the parsonage, and when they were in -the sitting-room together, and the door was closed, she came up to him -and kissed him. “Papa,” she said, “would it make you very unhappy if I -were to leave you?” - -“Leave me!” he said, startled by the serious and almost solemn tone of -her voice. “Do you mean for always?” - -“If I were to marry, papa?” - -“Oh, marry! No; that would not make me unhappy. It would make me very -happy, Patty, to see you married to a man you would love--very, very -happy; though my days would be desolate without you.” - -“That is it, papa. What would you do if I went from you?” - -“What would it matter, Patty? I should be free, at any rate, from a load -which often presses heavy on me now. What will you do when I shall leave -you? A few more years and all will be over with me. But who is it, love? -Has anybody said anything to you?” - -“It was only an idea, papa. I don’t often think of such a thing; but I -did think of it then.” And so the subject was allowed to pass by. This -had happened before the day of the second arrival had been absolutely -fixed and made known to Miss Woolsworthy. - -And then that second arrival took place. The reader may have understood -from the words with which Miss Le Smyrger authorised her nephew to make -his second visit to Oxney Combe that Miss Woolsworthy’s passion was not -altogether unauthorised. Captain Broughton had been told that he was not -to come unless he came with a certain purpose; and having been so told, -he still persisted in coming. There can be no doubt but that he well -understood the purport to which his aunt alluded. “I shall assuredly -come,” he had said. And true to his word, he was now there. - -Patience knew exactly the hour at which he must arrive at the station at -Newton Abbot, and the time also which it would take to travel over those -twelve uphill miles from the station to Oxney. It need hardly be said -that she paid no visit to Miss Le Smyrger’s house on that afternoon; -but she might have known something of Captain Broughton’s approach -without going thither. His road to the Combe passed by the -parsonage-gate, and had Patience sat even at her bedroom window she must -have seen him. But on such a morning she would not sit at her bedroom -window--she would do nothing which would force her to accuse herself of -a restless longing for her lover’s coming. It was for him to seek her. -If he chose to do so, he knew the way to the parsonage. - -Miss Le Smyrger--good, dear, honest, hearty Miss Le Smyrger, was in a -fever of anxiety on behalf of her friend. It was not that she wished her -nephew to marry Patience--or rather that she had entertained any such -wish when he first came among them. She was not given to match-making, -and moreover thought, or had thought within herself, that they of Oxney -Colne could do very well without any admixture from Eaton Square. Her -plan of life had been that, when old Mr. Woolsworthy was taken away from -Dartmoor, Patience should live with her; and that when she also shuffled -off her coil, then Patience Woolsworthy should be the maiden mistress of -Oxney Combe--of Oxney Combe and Mr. Cloysey’s farm--to the utter -detriment of all the Broughtons. Such had been her plan before nephew -John had come among them--a plan not to be spoken of till the coming of -that dark day which should make Patience an orphan. But now her nephew -had been there, and all was to be altered. Miss Le Smyrger’s plan would -have provided a companion for her old age; but that had not been her -chief object. She had thought more of Patience than of herself, and now -it seemed that a prospect of a higher happiness was opening for her -friend. - -“John,” she said, as soon as the first greetings were over, “do you -remember the last words that I said to you before you went away?” Now, -for myself, I much admire Miss Le Smyrger’s heartiness, but I do not -think much of her discretion. It would have been better, perhaps, had -she allowed things to take their course. - -“I can’t say that I do,” said the Captain. At the same time the Captain -did remember very well what those last words had been. - -“I am so glad to see you, so delighted to see you, if--if--if--,” and -then she paused, for with all her courage she hardly dared to ask her -nephew whether he had come there with the express purpose of asking Miss -Woolsworthy to marry him. - -To tell the truth, for there is no room for mystery within the limits -of this short story,--to tell, I say, at a word the plain and simple -truth, Captain Broughton had already asked that question. On the day -before he left Oxney Colne, he had in set terms proposed to the parson’s -daughter, and indeed the words, the hot and frequent words, which -previously to that had fallen like sweetest honey into the ears of -Patience Woolsworthy, had made it imperative on him to do so. When a man -in such a place as that has talked to a girl of love day after day, must -not he talk of it to some definite purpose on the day on which he leaves -her? Or if he do not, must he not submit to be regarded as false, -selfish, and almost fraudulent? Captain Broughton, however, had asked -the question honestly and truly. He had done so honestly and truly, but -in words, or, perhaps, simply with a tone, that had hardly sufficed to -satisfy the proud spirit of the girl he loved. She by that time had -confessed to herself that she loved him with all her heart; but she had -made no such confession to him. To him she had spoken no word, granted -no favour, that any lover might rightfully regard as a token of love -returned. She had listened to him as he spoke, and bade him keep such -sayings for the drawing-rooms of his fashionable friends. Then he had -spoken out and had asked for that hand,--not, perhaps, as a suitor -tremulous with hope,--but as a rich man who knows that he can command -that which he desires to purchase. - -“You should think more of this,” she had said to him at last. “If you -would really have me for your wife, it will not be much to you to return -here again when time for thinking of it shall have passed by.” With -these words she had dismissed him, and now he had again come back to -Oxney Colne. But still she would not place herself at the window to look -for him, nor dress herself in other than her simple morning country -dress, nor omit one item of her daily work. If he wished to take her at -all, he should wish to take her as she really was, in her plain country -life, but he should take her also with full observance of all those -privileges which maidens are allowed to claim from their lovers. He -should contract no ceremonious observance because she was the daughter -of a poor country parson who would come to him without a shilling, -whereas he stood high in the world’s books. He had asked her to give him -all that she had, and that all she was ready to give, without stint. But -the gift must be valued before it could be given or received. He also -was to give her as much, and she would accept it as beyond all price. -But she would not allow that that which was offered to her was in any -degree the more precious because of his outward worldly standing. - -She would not pretend to herself that she thought he would come to her -that day, and therefore she busied herself in the kitchen and about the -house, giving directions to her two maids as though the afternoon would -pass as all other days did pass in that household. They usually dined at -four, and she rarely in these summer months went far from the house -before that hour. At four precisely she sat down with her father, and -then said that she was going up as far as Helpholme after dinner. -Helpholme was a solitary farmhouse in another parish, on the border of -the moor, and Mr. Woolsworthy asked her whether he should accompany her. - -“Do, papa,” she said, “if you are not too tired.” And yet she had -thought how probable it might be that she should meet John Broughton on -her walk. And so it was arranged; but just as dinner was over, Mr. -Woolsworthy remembered himself. “Gracious me,” he said, “how my memory -is going. Gribbles, from Ivybridge, and old John Poulter, from Bovey, -are coming to meet here by appointment. You can’t put Helpholme off till -to-morrow?” - -Patience, however, never put off anything, and therefore at six o’clock, -when her father had finished his slender modicum of toddy, she tied on -her hat and went on her walk. She started with a quick step, and left no -word to say by which route she would go. As she passed up along the -little lane which led towards Oxney Combe, she would not even look to -see if he was coming towards her; and when she left the road, passing -over a stone stile into a little path which ran first through the upland -fields, and then across the moor ground towards Helpholme, she did not -look back once, or listen for his coming step. - -She paid her visit, remaining upwards of an hour with the old bedridden -mother of the tenant of Helpholme. “God bless you, my darling!” said the -old woman as she left her; “and send you some one to make your own path -bright and happy through the world.” These words were still ringing in -her ears with all their significance as she saw John Broughton waiting -for her at the first stile which she had to pass after leaving the -farmer’s haggard. - -“Patty,” he said, as he took her hand, and held it close within both his -own, “what a chase I have had after you!” - -“And who asked you, Captain Broughton?” she answered, smiling. “If the -journey was too much for your poor London strength, could you not have -waited till to-morrow morning, when you would have found me at the -parsonage?” But she did not draw her hand away from him, or in any way -pretend that he had not a right to accost her as a lover. - -“No, I could not wait. I am more eager to see those I love than you seem -to be.” - -“How do you know whom I love, or how eager I might be to see them? There -is an old woman there whom I love, and I have thought nothing of this -walk with the object of seeing her.” And now, slowly drawing her hand -away from him, she pointed to the farmhouse which she had left. - -“Patty,” he said, after a minute’s pause, during which she had looked -full into his face with all the force of her bright eyes; “I have come -from London to-day, straight down here to Oxney, and from my aunt’s -house close upon your footsteps after you, to ask you that one -question--Do you love me?” - -“What a Hercules!” she said, again laughing. “Do you really mean that -you left London only this morning? Why, you must have been five hours in -a railway carriage and two in a postchaise, not to talk of the walk -afterwards. You ought to take more care of yourself, Captain Broughton!” - -He would have been angry with her--for he did not like to be -quizzed--had she not put her hand on his arm as she spoke, and the -softness of her touch had redeemed the offence of her words. - -“All that I have done,” said he, “that I may hear one word from you.” - -“That any word of mine should have such potency! But let us walk on, or -my father will take us for some of the standing stones of the moor. How -have you found your aunt? If you only knew the cares that have sat on -her dear shoulders for the last week past, in order that your high -mightiness might have a sufficiency to eat and drink in these desolate -half-starved regions!” - -“She might have saved herself such anxiety. No one can care less for -such things than I do.” - -“And yet I think I have heard you boast of the cook of your club.” And -then again there was silence for a minute or two. - -“Patty,” said he, stopping again in the path; “answer my question. I -have a right to demand an answer. Do you love me?” - -“And what if I do? What if I have been so silly as to allow your -perfections to be too many for my weak heart? What then, Captain -Broughton?” - -“It cannot be that you love me, or you would not joke now.” - -“Perhaps not, indeed,” she said. It seemed as though she were resolved -not to yield an inch in her own humour. And then again they walked on. - -“Patty,” he said once more, “I shall get an answer from you -to-night,--this evening; now, during this walk, or I shall return -to-morrow, and never revisit this spot again.” - -“Oh, Captain Broughton, how should we ever manage to live without you?” - -“Very well,” he said; “up to the end of this walk I can bear it -all;--and one word spoken then will mend it all.” - -During the whole of this time she felt that she was ill-using him. She -knew that she loved him with all her heart; that it would nearly kill -her to part with him; that she had heard his renewed offer with an -ecstacy of joy. She acknowledged to herself that he was giving proof of -his devotion as strong as any which a girl could receive from her lover. -And yet she could hardly bring herself to say the word he longed to -hear. That word once said, and then she knew that she must succumb to -her love for ever! That word once said, and there would be nothing for -her but to spoil him with her idolatry! That word once said, and she -must continue to repeat it into his ears, till perhaps he might be tired -of hearing it! And now he had threatened her, and how could she speak -after that? She certainly would not speak it unless he asked her again -without such threat. And so they walked on in silence. - -“Patty,” he said at last. “By the heavens above us you shall answer me. -Do you love me?” - -She now stood still, and almost trembled as she looked up into his face. -She stood opposite to him for a moment, and then placing her two hands -on his shoulders, she answered him. “I do, I do, I do,” she said, “with -all my heart; with all my heart--with all my heart and strength.” And -then her head fell upon his breast. - - * * * * * - -Captain Broughton was almost as much surprised as delighted by the -warmth of the acknowledgment made by the eager-hearted passionate girl -whom he now held within his arms. She had said it now; the words had -been spoken; and there was nothing for her but to swear to him over and -over again with her sweetest oaths, that those words were true--true as -her soul. And very sweet was the walk down from thence to the parsonage -gate. He spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length of -his day’s journey. But he stopped her at every turn that he might press -her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness of -her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight. There were no more gibes now -on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments on -his coming and going. With downright honesty she told him everything: -how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion; -how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise to -take him at his first word, and had thought it better that he should -return to London, and then think over it; how she had almost repented of -her courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, that he -would forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her old -friend had told her that he was coming. - -“And yet,” said he, “you were not glad to see me!” - -“Oh, was I not glad? You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who -has lived secluded as I have done. Glad is no word for the joy I felt. -But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much. It was the knowledge -that you were near me once again. I almost wish now that I had not seen -you till to-morrow.” But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and this -caress gave the lie to her last words. - -“No, do not come in to-night,” she said, when she reached the little -wicket that led up to the parsonage. “Indeed, you shall not. I could not -behave myself properly if you did.” - -“But I don’t want you to behave properly.” - -“Oh! I am to keep that for London, am I? But, nevertheless, Captain -Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper to-night.” - -“Surely I may shake hands with your father.” - -“Not to-night--not till---- John, I may tell him, may I not? I must tell -him at once.” - -“Certainly,” said he. - -“And then you shall see him to-morrow. Let me see--at what hour shall I -bid you come?” - -“To breakfast.” - -“No, indeed. What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkey -and the cold pie? I have got no cold pie for you.” - -“I hate cold pie.” - -“What a pity! But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly after -breakfast. Come down--come down at two, or three; and then I will go -back with you to Aunt Penelope. I must see her to-morrow;” and so at -last the matter was settled, and the happy Captain, as he left her, was -hardly resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own. - -When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, there -still were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devon -lore. So Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting till -they should go. For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles and -Poulter did go. But it was not in such matters as this that Patience -Woolsworthy was impatient. She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbing -herself for weeks and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyes -good; but she could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words when -things came to be discussed which she did not think to be good. - -“Papa,” she said, when Gribbles’ long-drawn last word had been spoken at -the door. “Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would -say if I were to leave you?” - -“Yes, surely,” he replied, looking up at her in astonishment. - -“I am going to leave you now,” she said. “Dear, dearest father, how am I -to go from you?” - -“Going to leave me,” said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and -thinking of nothing else. - -Now, there had been a story about Helpholme. That bedridden old lady -there had a stalwart son, who was now the owner of the Helpholme -pastures. But though owner in fee of all those wild acres, and of the -cattle which they supported, he was not much above the farmers around -him, either in manners or education. He had his merits, however; for he -was honest, well-to-do in the world, and modest withal. How strong love -had grown up, springing from neighbourly kindness, between our Patience -and his mother, it needs not here to tell; but rising from it had come -another love--or an ambition which might have grown to love. The young -man, after much thought, had not dared to speak to Miss Woolsworthy, but -he had sent a message by Miss Le Smyrger. If there could be any hope for -him, he would present himself as a suitor--on trial. He did not owe a -shilling in the world, and had money by him--saved. He wouldn’t ask the -parson for a shilling of fortune. Such had been the tenor of his -message, and Miss Le Smyrger had delivered it faithfully, “He does not -mean it,” Patience had said with her stern voice “Indeed he does, my -dear. You may be sure he is in earnest,” Miss Le Smyrger had replied; -“and there is not an honester man in these parts.” - -“Tell him,” said Patience, not attending to the latter portion of her -friend’s last speech, “that it cannot be--make him understand, you -know--and tell him also that the matter shall be thought of no more.” -The matter had, at any rate, been spoken of no more, but the young -farmer still remained a bachelor, and Helpholme still wanted a mistress. -But all this came back upon the parson’s mind when his daughter told him -that she was about to leave him. - -“Yes, dearest,” she said; and as she spoke she now knelt at his knees. -“I have been, asked in marriage, and I have given myself away.” - -“Well, my love, if you will be happy----” - -“I hope I shall; I think I shall. But you, papa?” - -“You will not be far from us.” - -“Oh, yes; in London.” - -“In London?” - -“Captain Broughton lives in London generally.” - -“And has Captain Broughton asked you to marry him?” - -“Yes, papa--who else? Is he not good? Will you not love him? Oh, papa, -do not say that I am wrong to love him?” - -He never told her his mistake, or explained to her that he had not -thought it possible that the high-placed son of the London great man -should have fallen in love with his undowered daughter; but he embraced -her, and told her, with all his enthusiasm, that he rejoiced in her joy, -and would be happy in her happiness. “My own Patty,” he said, “I have -ever known that you were too good for this life of ours here.” And then -the evening wore away into the night, with many tears, but still with -much happiness. - -Captain Broughton, as he walked back to Oxney Combe, made up his mind -that he would say nothing on the matter to his aunt till the next -morning. He wanted to think over it all, and to think it over, if -possible, by himself. He had taken a step in life, the most important -that a man is ever called on to take, and he had to reflect whether or -no he had taken it with wisdom. - -“Have you seen her?” said Miss Le Smyrger, very anxiously, when he came -into the drawing-room. - -“Miss Woolsworthy you mean,” said he. “Yes, I’ve seen her. As I found -her out, I took a long walk, and happened to meet her. Do you know, -aunt, I think I’ll go to bed; I was up at five this morning, and have -been on the move ever since.” - -Miss Le Smyrger perceived that she was to hear nothing that evening, so -she handed him his candlestick and allowed him to go to his room. - -But Captain Broughton did not immediately retire to bed, nor when he -did so was he able to sleep at once. Had this step that he had taken -been a wise one? He was not a man who, in worldly matters, had allowed -things to arrange themselves for him, as is the case with so many men. -He had formed views for himself, and had a theory of life. Money for -money’s sake he had declared to himself to be bad. Money, as a -concomitant to things which were in themselves good, he had declared to -himself to be good also. That concomitant in this affair of his -marriage, he had now missed. Well; he had made up his mind to that, and -would put up with the loss. He had means of living of his own, the means -not so extensive as might have been desirable. That it would be well for -him to become a married man, looking merely to the state of life as -opposed to his present state, he had fully resolved. On that point, -therefore, there was nothing to repent. That Patty Woolsworthy was good, -affectionate, clever, and beautiful, he was sufficiently satisfied. It -would be odd indeed if he were not so satisfied now, seeing that for the -last four months he had so declared to himself daily with many inward -asseverations. And yet though he repeated, now again, that he was -satisfied, I do not think that he was so fully satisfied of it as he had -been throughout the whole of those four months. It is sad to say so, but -I fear--I fear that such was the case. When you have your plaything, how -much of the anticipated pleasure vanishes, especially if it be won -easily. - -He had told none of his family what were his intentions in this second -visit to Devonshire, and now he had to bethink himself whether they -would be satisfied. What would his sister say, she who had married the -Honourable Augustus Gumbleton, gold-stick-in-waiting to Her Majesty’s -Privy Council? Would she receive Patience with open arms, and make much -of her about London? And then how far would London suit Patience, or -would Patience suit London? There would be much for him to do in -teaching her, and it would be well for him to set about the lesson -without loss of time. So far he got that night, but when the morning -came he went a step further, and began mentally to criticise her manner -to himself. It had been very sweet, that warm, that full, that ready -declaration of love. Yes; it had been very sweet; but--but--; when, -after her little jokes, she did confess her love, had she not been a -little too free for feminine excellence? A man likes to be told that he -is loved, but he hardly wishes that the girl he is to marry should fling -herself at his head! - -Ah me! yes; it was thus he argued to himself as on that morning he went -through, the arrangements of his toilet. “Then he was a brute,” you say, -my pretty reader. I have never said that he was not a brute. But this I -remark, that many such brutes are to be met with in the beaten paths of -the world’s highway. When Patience Woolsworthy had answered him coldly, -bidding him go back to London and think over his love; while it seemed -from her manner that at any rate as yet she did not care for him; while -he was absent from her, and, therefore, longing for her, the possession -of her charms, her talent and bright honesty of purpose had seemed to -him a thing most desirable. Now they were his own. They had, in fact, -been his own from the first. The heart of this country-bred girl had -fallen at the first word from his mouth. Had she not so confessed to -him? She was very nice--very nice indeed. He loved her dearly. But had -he not sold himself too cheaply? - -I by no means say that he was not a brute. But whether brute or no, he -was an honest man, and had no remotest dream, either then, on that -morning, or during the following days on which such thoughts pressed -more quickly on his mind--of breaking away from his pledged word. At -breakfast on that morning he told all to Miss Le Smyrger, and that lady, -with warm and gracious intentions, confided to him her purpose regarding -her property. “I have always regarded Patience as my heir,” she said, -“and shall do so still.” - -“Oh, indeed,” said Captain Broughton. - -“But it is a great, great pleasure to me to think that she will give -back the little property to my sister’s child. You will have your -mother’s, and thus it will all come together again.” - -“Ah!” said Captain Broughton. He had his own ideas about property, and -did not, even under existing circumstances, like to hear that his aunt -considered herself at liberty to leave the acres away to one who was by -blood quite a stranger to the family. - -“Does Patience know of this?” he asked. - -“Not a word,” said Miss Le Smyrger. And then nothing more was said upon -the subject. - -On that afternoon he went down and received the parson’s benediction and -congratulations with a good grace. Patience said very little on the -occasion, and indeed was absent during the greater part of the -interview. The two lovers then walked up to Oxney Combe, and there were -more benedictions and more congratulations. “All went merry as a -marriage bell,” at any rate as far as Patience was concerned. Not a -word had yet fallen from that dear mouth, not a look had yet come over -that handsome face, which tended in any way to mar her bliss. Her first -day of acknowledged love was a day altogether happy, and when she prayed -for him as she knelt beside her bed there was no feeling in her mind -that any fear need disturb her joy. - -I will pass over the next three or four days very quickly, merely saying -that Patience did not find them so pleasant as that first day after her -engagement. There was something in her lover’s manner--something which -at first she could not define--which by degrees seemed to grate against -her feelings. He was sufficiently affectionate, that being a matter on -which she did not require much demonstration; but joined to his -affection there seemed to be----; she hardly liked to suggest to herself -a harsh word, but could it be possible that he was beginning to think -that she was not good enough for him? And then she asked herself the -question--was she good enough for him? If there were doubt about that, -the match should be broken off, though she tore her own heart out in the -struggle. The truth, however, was this--that he had begun that teaching -which he had already found to be so necessary. Now, had any one essayed -to teach Patience German or mathematics, with that young lady’s free -consent, I believe that she would have been found a meek scholar. But it -was not probable that she would be meek when she found a self-appointed -tutor teaching her manners and conduct without her consent. - -So matters went on for four or five days, and on the evening of the -fifth day Captain Broughton and his aunt drank tea at the parsonage. -Nothing very especial occurred; but as the parson and Miss Le Smyrger -insisted on playing backgammon with devoted perseverance during the -whole evening, Broughton had a good opportunity of saying a word or two -about those changes in his lady-love which a life in London would -require--and some word he said also--some single slight word as to the -higher station in life to which he would exalt his bride. Patience bore -it--for her father and Miss Le Smyrger were in the room--she bore it -well, speaking no syllable of anger, and enduring, for the moment, the -implied scorn of the old parsonage. Then the evening broke up, and -Captain Broughton walked back to Oxney Combe with his aunt. “Patty,” her -father said to her before they went to bed, “he seems to me to be a most -excellent young man.” “Dear papa,” she answered, kissing him. “And -terribly deep in love,” said Mr. Woolsworthy. “Oh, I don’t know about -that,” she answered, as she left him with her sweetest smile. But though -she could thus smile at her father’s joke, she had already made up her -mind that there was still something to be learned as to her promised -husband before she could place herself altogether in his hands. She -would ask him whether he thought himself liable to injury from this -proposed marriage; and though he should deny any such thought, she would -know from the manner of his denial what his true feelings were. - -And he, too, on that night, during his silent walk with Miss Le Smyrger, -had entertained some similar thoughts. “I fear she is obstinate,” he -said to himself, and then he had half accused her of being sullen also. -“If that be her temper, what a life of misery I have before me!” - -“Have you fixed a day yet?” his aunt asked him as they came near to her -house. - -“No, not yet; I don’t know whether it will suit me to fix it before I -leave.” - -“Why, it was but the other day you were in such a hurry.” - -“Ah--yes--I have thought more about it since then.” - -“I should have imagined that this would depend on what Patty thinks,” -said Miss Le Smyrger, standing up for the privileges of her sex. “It is -presumed that the gentleman is always ready as soon as the lady will -consent.” - -“Yes, in ordinary cases it is so; but when a girl is taken out of her -own sphere----” - -“Her own sphere! Let me caution you, Master John, not to talk to Patty -about her own sphere.” - -“Aunt Penelope, as Patience is to be my wife and not yours, I must claim -permission to speak to her on such subjects as may seem suitable to me.” -And then they parted--not in the best humour with each other. - -On the following day Captain Broughton and Miss Woolsworthy did not meet -till the evening. She had said, before those few ill-omened words had -passed her lover’s lips, that she would probably be at Miss Le Smyrger’s -house on the following morning. Those ill-omened words did pass her -lover’s lips, and then she remained at home. This did not come from -sullenness, nor even from anger, but from a conviction that it would be -well that she should think much before she met him again. Nor was he -anxious to hurry a meeting. His thought--his base thought--was this; -that she would be sure to come up to the Combe after him; but she did -not come, and therefore in the evening he went down to her, and asked -her to walk with him. - -They went away by the path that led to Helpholme, and little was said -between them till they had walked some mile together. Patience, as she -went along the path, remembered almost to the letter the sweet words -which had greeted her ears as she came down that way with him on the -night of his arrival; but he remembered nothing of that sweetness then. -Had he not made an ass of himself during these last six months? That was -the thought which very much had possession of his mind. - -“Patience,” he said at last, having hitherto spoken only an indifferent -word now and again since they had left the parsonage, “Patience, I hope -you realise the importance of the step which you and I are about to -take?” - -“Of course I do,” she answered. “What an odd question that is for you to -ask!” - -“Because,” said he, “sometimes I almost doubt it. It seems to me as -though you thought you could remove yourself from here to your new home -with no more trouble than when you go from home up to the Combe.” - -“Is that meant for a reproach, John?” - -“No, not for a reproach, but for advice. Certainly not for a reproach.” - -“I am glad of that.” - -“But I should wish to make you think how great is the leap in the world -which you are about to take.” Then again they walked on for many steps -before she answered him. - -“Tell me, then, John,” she said, when she had sufficiently considered -what words she should speak; and as she spoke a bright colour suffused -her face, and her eyes flashed almost with anger. “What leap do you -mean? Do you mean a leap upwards?” - -“Well, yes; I hope it will be so.” - -“In one sense, certainly, it would be a leap upwards. To be the wife of -the man I loved; to have the privilege of holding his happiness in my -hand; to know that I was his own--the companion whom he had chosen out -of all the world--that would, indeed, be a leap upwards; a leap almost -to heaven, it all that were so. But if you mean upwards in any other -sense----” - -“I was thinking of the social scale.” - -“Then, Captain Broughton, your thoughts were doing me dishonour.” - -“Doing you dishonour!” - -“Yes, doing me dishonour. That your father is, in the world’s esteem, a -greater man than mine is doubtless true enough. That you, as a man, are -richer than I am as a woman, is doubtless also true. But you dishonour -me, and yourself also, if these things can weigh with you now.” - -“Patience,--I think you can hardly know what words you are saying to -me.” - -“Pardon me, but I think I do. Nothing that you can give me--no gifts of -that description--can weigh aught against that which I am giving you. If -you had all the wealth and rank of the greatest lord in the land, it -would count as nothing in such a scale. If--as I have not doubted--if in -return for my heart you have given me yours, then--then--then you have -paid me fully. But when gifts such as those are going, nothing else can -count even as a make-weight.” - -“I do not quite understand you,” he answered, after a pause. “I fear you -are a little high-flown.” And then, while the evening was still early, -they walked back to the parsonage almost without another word. - -Captain Broughton at this time had only one full day more to remain at -Oxney Colne. On the afternoon following that he was to go as far as -Exeter, and thence return to London. Of course, it was to be expected -that the wedding day would be fixed before he went, and much had been -said about it during the first day or two of his engagement. Then he had -pressed for an early time, and Patience, with a girl’s usual diffidence, -had asked for some little delay. But now nothing was said on the -subject; and how was it probable that such a matter could be settled -after such a conversation as that which I have related? That evening, -Miss Le Smyrger asked whether the day had been fixed. “No,” said Captain -Broughton, harshly; “nothing has been fixed.” “But it will be arranged -before you go?” “Probably not,” he said; and then the subject was -dropped for the time. - -“John,” she said, just before she went to bed, “if there be anything -wrong between you and Patience, I conjure you to tell me.” - -“You had better ask her,” he replied. “I can tell you nothing.” - -On the following morning he was much surprised by seeing Patience on the -gravel path before Miss Le Smyrger’s gate immediately after breakfast. -He went to the door to open it for her, and she, as she gave him her -hand, told him that she came up to speak to him. There was no hesitation -in her manner, nor any look of anger in her face. But there was in her -gait and form, in her voice and countenance, a fixedness of purpose -which he had never seen before, or at any rate had never acknowledged. - -“Certainly,” said he. “Shall I come out with you, or will you come up -stairs?” - -“We can sit down in the summer-house,” she said; and thither they both -went. - -“Captain Broughton,” she said--and she began her task the moment that -they were both seated--“you and I have engaged ourselves as man and -wife, but perhaps we have been over rash.” - -“How so?” said he. - -“It may be--and indeed I will say more--it is the case that we have made -this engagement without knowing enough of each other’s character.” - -“I have not thought so.” - -“The time will perhaps come when you will so think, but for the sake of -all that we most value, let it come before it is too late. What would be -our fate--how terrible would be our misery--if such a thought should -come to either of us after we have linked our lots together.” - -There was a solemnity about her as she thus spoke which almost repressed -him,--which for a time did prevent him from taking that tone of -authority which on such a subject he would choose to adopt. But he -recovered himself. “I hardly think that this comes well from you,” he -said. - -“From whom else should it come? Who else can fight my battle for me; -and, John, who else can fight that same battle on your behalf? I tell -you this, that with your mind standing towards me as it does stand at -present, you could not give me your hand at the altar with true words -and a happy conscience. Am I not true? You have half repented of your -bargain already. Is it not so?” - -He did not answer her; but getting up from his seat walked to the front -of the summer-house, and stood there with his back turned upon her. It -was not that he meant to be ungracious, but in truth he did not know how -to answer her. He had half repented of his bargain. - -“John,” she said, getting up and following him, so that she could put -her hand upon his arm, “I have been very angry with you.” - -“Angry with me!” he said, turning sharp upon her. - -“Yes, angry with you. You would have treated me like a child. But that -feeling has gone now. I am not angry now. There is my hand;--the hand of -a friend. Let the words that have been spoken between us be as though -they had not been spoken. Let us both be free.” - -“Do you mean it?” - -“Certainly I mean it.” As she spoke these words her eyes filled with -tears, in spite of all the efforts she could make; but he was not -looking at her, and her efforts had sufficed to prevent any sob from -being audible. - -“With all my heart,” he said; and it was manifest from his tone that he -had no thought of her happiness as he spoke. It was true that she had -been angry with him--angry, as she had herself declared; but -nevertheless, in what she had said and what she had done, she had -thought more of his happiness than of her own. Now she was angry once -again. - -“With all your heart, Captain Broughton! Well, so be it. If with all -your heart, then is the necessity so much the greater. You go to-morrow. -Shall we say farewell now?” - -“Patience, I am not going to be lectured.” - -“Certainly not by me. Shall we say farewell now?” - -“Yes, if you are determined.” - -“I am determined. Farewell, Captain Broughton. You have all my wishes -for your happiness.” And she held out her hand to him. - -“Patience!” he said. And he looked at her with a dark frown, as though -he would strive to frighten her into submission. If so, he might have -saved himself any such attempt. - -“Farewell, Captain Broughton. Give me your hand, for I cannot stay.” He -gave her his hand, hardly knowing why he did so. She lifted it to her -lips and kissed it, and then, leaving him, passed from the summer-house -down through the wicket-gate, and straight home to the parsonage. - -During the whole of that day she said no word to any one of what had -occurred. When she was once more at home she went about her household -affairs as she had done on that day of his arrival. When she sat down to -dinner with her father he observed nothing to make him think that she -was unhappy; nor during the evening was there any expression in her -face, or any tone in her voice, which excited his attention. On the -following morning Captain Broughton called at the parsonage, and the -servant-girl brought word to her mistress that he was in the parlour. -But she would not see him. “Laws, miss, you ain’t a quarrelled with your -beau?” the poor girl said. “No, not quarrelled,” she said; “but give him -that.” It was a scrap of paper, containing a word or two in pencil. “It -is better that we should not meet again. God bless you.” And from that -day to this, now more than ten years, they never have met. - -“Papa,” she said to her father that afternoon, “dear papa, do not be -angry with me. It is all over between me and John Broughton. Dearest, -you and I will not be separated.” - -It would be useless here to tell how great was the old man’s surprise -and how true his sorrow. As the tale was told to him no cause was given -for anger with any one. Not a word was spoken against the suitor who had -on that day returned to London with a full conviction that now at least -he was relieved from his engagement. “Patty, my darling child,” he said, -“may God grant that it be for the best!” - -“It is for the best,” she answered stoutly. “For this place I am fit; -and I much doubt whether I am fit for any other.” - -On that day she did not see Miss Le Smyrger, but on the following -morning, knowing that Captain Broughton had gone off, having heard the -wheels of the carriage as they passed by the parsonage gate on his way -to the station,--she walked up to the Combe. - -“He has told you, I suppose?” said she. - -“Yes,” said Miss Le Smyrger. “And I will never see him again unless he -asks your pardon on his knees. I have told him so. I would not even give -him my hand as he went.” - -“But why so, thou kindest one? The fault was mine more than his.” - -“I understand. I have eyes in my head,” said the old maid. “I have -watched him for the last four or five days. If you could have kept the -truth to yourself and bade him keep off from you, he would have been at -your feet now, licking the dust from your shoes.” - -“But, dear friend, I do not want a man to lick dust from my shoes.” - -“Ah, you are a fool. You do not know the value of your own wealth.” - -“True; I have been a fool. I was a fool to think that one coming from -such a life as he has led could be happy with such as I am. I know the -truth now. I have bought the lesson dearly,--but perhaps not too dearly, -seeing that it will never be forgotten.” - -There was but little more said about the matter between our three -friends at Oxney Colne. What, indeed, could be said? Miss Le Smyrger for -a year or two still expected that her nephew would return and claim his -bride; but he has never done so, nor has there been any correspondence -between them. Patience Woolsworthy had learned her lesson dearly. She -had given her whole heart to the man; and, though she so bore herself -that no one was aware of the violence of the struggle, nevertheless the -struggle within her bosom was very violent. She never told herself that -she had done wrong; she never regretted her loss; but yet--yet--the loss -was very hard to bear. He also had loved her, but he was not capable of -a love which could much injure his daily peace. Her daily peace was gone -for many a day to come. - -Her father is still living; but there is a curate now in the parish. In -conjunction with him and with Miss Le Smyrger she spends her time in the -concerns of the parish. In her own eyes she is a confirmed old maid; and -such is my opinion also. The romance of her life was played out in that -summer. She never sits now lonely on the hill-side thinking how much she -might do for one whom she really loved. But with a large heart she loves -many, and, with no romance, she works hard to lighten the burdens of -those she loves. - -As for Captain Broughton, all the world know that he did marry that -great heiress with whom his name was once before connected, and that he -is now a useful member of Parliament, working on committees three or -four days a week with a zeal that is indefatigable. Sometimes, not -often, as he thinks of Patience Woolsworthy, a gratified smile comes -across his face. - - - - -GEORGE WALKER AT SUEZ. - - -Of all the spots on the world’s surface that I, George Walker, of Friday -Street, London, have ever visited, Suez in Egypt, at the head of the Red -Sea, is by far the vilest, the most unpleasant, and the least -interesting. There are no women there, no water, and no vegetation. It -is surrounded, and indeed often filled, by a world of sand. A scorching -sun is always overhead; and one is domiciled in a huge cavernous hotel, -which seems to have been made purposely destitute of all the comforts of -civilised life. Nevertheless, in looking back upon the week of my life -which I spent there I always enjoy a certain sort of triumph;--or -rather, upon one day of that week, which lends a sort of halo not only -to my sojourn at Suez, but to the whole period of my residence in Egypt. - -I am free to confess that I am not a great man, and that, at any rate in -the earlier part of my career, I had a hankering after the homage which -is paid to greatness. I would fain have been a popular orator, feeding -myself on the incense tendered to me by thousands; or failing that, a -man born to power, whom those around him were compelled to respect, and -perhaps to fear. I am not ashamed to acknowledge this, and I believe -that most of my neighbours in Friday Street would own as much were they -as candid and open-hearted as myself. - -It is now some time since I was recommended to pass the first four -months of the year in Cairo because I had a sore-throat. The doctor may -have been right, but I shall never divest myself of the idea that my -partners wished to be rid of me while they made certain changes in the -management of the firm. They would not otherwise have shown such -interest every time I blew my nose or relieved my huskiness by a slight -cough;--they would not have been so intimate with that surgeon from St. -Bartholomew’s who dined with them twice at the Albion; nor would they -have gone to work directly that my back was turned, and have done those -very things which they could not have done had I remained at home. Be -that as it may, I was frightened and went to Cairo, and while there I -made a trip to Suez for a week. - -I was not happy at Cairo, for I knew nobody there, and the people at the -hotel were, as I thought, uncivil. It seemed to me as though I were -allowed to go in and out merely by sufferance; and yet I paid my bill -regularly every week. The house was full of company, but the company was -made up of parties of twos and threes, and they all seemed to have their -own friends. I did make attempts to overcome that terrible British -exclusiveness, that noli me tangere with which an Englishman arms -himself, and in which he thinks it necessary to envelop his wife; but it -was in vain, and I found myself sitting down to breakfast and dinner, -day after day, as much alone as I should do if I called for a chop at a -separate table in the Cathedral Coffee-house. And yet at breakfast and -dinner I made one of an assemblage of thirty or forty people. That I -thought dull. - -But as I stood one morning on the steps before the hotel, bethinking -myself that my throat was as well as ever I remembered it to be, I was -suddenly slapped on the back. Never in my life did I feel a more -pleasant sensation, or turn round with more unaffected delight to return -a friend’s greeting. It was as though a cup of water had been handed to -me in the desert. I knew that a cargo of passengers for Australia had -reached Cairo that morning, and were to be passed on to Suez as soon as -the railway would take them, and did not therefore expect that the -greeting had come from any sojourner in Egypt. I should perhaps have -explained that the even tenor of our life at the hotel was disturbed -some four times a month by a flight through Cairo of a flock of -travellers, who like locusts eat up all that there was eatable at the -Inn for the day. They sat down at the same tables with us, never mixing -with us, having their separate interests and hopes, and being often, as -I thought, somewhat loud and almost selfish in the expression of them. -These flocks consisted of passengers passing and repassing by the -overland route to and from India and Australia; and had I nothing else -to tell, I should delight to describe all that I watched of their habits -and manners--the outward bound being so different in their traits from -their brethren on their return. But I have to tell of my own triumph at -Suez, and must therefore hasten on to say that on turning round quickly -with my outstretched hand, I found it clasped by John Robinson. - -“Well, Robinson, is this you?” “Holloa, Walker, what are you doing -here?” That of course was the style of greeting. Elsewhere I should not -have cared much to meet John Robinson, for he was a man who had never -done well in the world. He had been in business and connected with a -fairly good house in Sise Lane, but he had married early, and things had -not exactly gone well with him. I don’t think the house broke, but he -did; and so he was driven to take himself and five children off to -Australia. Elsewhere I should not have cared to come across him, but I -was positively glad to be slapped on the back by anybody on that -landing-place in front of Shepheard’s Hotel at Cairo. - -I soon learned that Robinson with his wife and children, and indeed with -all the rest of the Australian cargo, were to be passed on to Suez that -afternoon, and after a while I agreed to accompany their party. I had -made up my mind, on coming out from England, that I would see all the -wonders of Egypt, and hitherto I had seen nothing. I did ride on one day -some fifteen miles on a donkey to see the petrified forest; but the -guide, who called himself a dragoman, took me wrong or cheated me in -some way. We rode half the day over a stony, sandy plain, seeing -nothing, with a terrible wind that filled my mouth with grit, and at -last the dragoman got off. “Dere,” said he, picking up a small bit of -stone, “Dis is de forest made of stone. Carry that home.” Then we turned -round and rode back to Cairo. My chief observation as to the country was -this--that whichever way we went, the wind blew into our teeth. The -day’s work cost me five-and-twenty shillings, and since that I had not -as yet made any other expedition. I was therefore glad of an opportunity -of going to Suez, and of making the journey in company with an -acquaintance. - -At that time the railway was open, as far as I remember, nearly half the -way from Cairo to Suez. It did not run four or five times a day, as -railways do in other countries, but four or five times a month. In fact, -it only carried passengers on the arrival of these flocks passing -between England and her Eastern possessions. There were trains passing -backwards and forwards constantly, as I perceived in walking to and from -the station; but, as I learned, they carried nothing but the labourers -working on the line, and the water sent into the Desert for their use. -It struck me forcibly at the time that I should not have liked to have -money in that investment. - -Well; I went with Robinson to Suez. The journey, like everything else in -Egypt, was sandy, hot, and unpleasant. The railway carriages were pretty -fair, and we had room enough; but even in them the dust was a great -nuisance. We travelled about ten miles an hour, and stopped about an -hour at every ten miles. This was tedious, but we had cigars with us and -a trifle of brandy and water; and in this manner the railway journey -wore itself away. In the middle of the night, however, we were moved -from the railway carriages into omnibuses, as they were called, and then -I was not comfortable. These omnibuses were wooden boxes, placed each -upon a pair of wheels, and supposed to be capable of carrying six -passengers. I was thrust into one with Robinson, his wife and five -children, and immediately began to repent of my good-nature in -accompanying them. To each vehicle were attached four horses or mules, -and I must acknowledge that as on the railway they went as slow as -possible, so now in these conveyances, dragged through the sand, they -went as fast as the beasts could be made to gallop. I remember the Fox -Tally-ho coach on the Birmingham road when Boyce drove it, but as -regards pace the Fox Tally-ho was nothing to these machines in Egypt. On -the first going off I was jolted right on to Mrs. R. and her infant; and -for a long time that lady thought that the child had been squeezed out -of its proper shape; but at last we arrived at Suez, and the baby seemed -to me to be all right when it was handed down into the boat at Suez. - -The Robinsons were allowed time to breakfast at that cavernous -hotel--which looked to me like a scheme to save the expense of the -passengers’ meal on board the ship--and then they were off. I shook -hands with him heartily as I parted with him at the quay, and wished him -well through all his troubles. A man who takes a wife and five young -children out into a colony, and that with his pockets but indifferently -lined, certainly has his trouble before him. So he has at home, no -doubt; but, judging for myself, I should always prefer sticking to the -old ship as long as there is a bag of biscuits in the locker. Poor -Robinson! I have never heard a word of him or his since that day, and -sincerely trust that the baby was none the worse for the little accident -in the box. - -And now I had the prospect of a week before me at Suez, and the -Robinsons had not been gone half an hour before I began to feel that I -should have been better off even at Cairo. I secured a bedroom at the -hotel--I might have secured sixty bedrooms had I wanted them--and then -went out and stood at the front door, or gate. It is a large house, -built round a quadrangle, looking with one front towards the head of the -Red Sea, and with the other into and on a sandy, dead-looking, open -square. There I stood for ten minutes, and finding that it was too hot -to go forth, returned to the long cavernous room in which we had -breakfasted. In that long cavernous room I was destined to eat all my -meals for the next six days. Now at Cairo I could, at any rate, see my -fellow-creatures at their food. So I lit a cigar, and began to wonder -whether I could survive the week. It was now clear to me that I had done -a very rash thing in coming to Suez with the Robinsons. - -Somebody about the place had asked me my name, and I had told it -plainly--George Walker. I never was ashamed of my name yet, and never -had cause to be. I believe at this day it will go as far in Friday -Street as any other. A man may be popular, or he may not. That depends -mostly on circumstances which are in themselves trifling. But the value -of his name depends on the way in which he is known at his bank. I have -never dealt in tea spoons or gravy spoons, but my name will go as far as -another name. “George Walker,” I answered, therefore, in a tone of some -little authority, to the man who asked me, and who sat inside the gate -of the hotel in an old dressing-gown and slippers. - -That was a melancholy day with me, and twenty times before dinner did I -wish myself back at Cairo. I had been travelling all night, and -therefore hoped that I might get through some little time in sleeping, -but the mosquitoes attacked me the moment I laid myself down. In other -places mosquitoes torment you only at night, but at Suez they buzz -around you, without ceasing, at all hours. A scorching sun was blazing -overhead, and absolutely forbade me to leave the house. I stood for a -while in the verandah, looking down at the few small vessels which were -moored to the quay, but there was no life in them; not a sail was set, -not a boatman or a sailor was to be seen, and the very water looked as -though, it were hot. I could fancy the glare of the sun was cracking the -paint on the gunwales of the boats. I was the only visitor in the house, -and during all the long hours of the morning it seemed as though the -servants had deserted it. - -I dined at four; not that I chose that hour, but because no choice was -given to me. At the hotels in Egypt one has to dine at an hour fixed by -the landlord, and no entreaties will suffice to obtain a meal at any -other. So at four I dined, and after dinner was again reduced to -despair. - -I was sitting in the cavernous chamber almost mad at the prospect of the -week before me, when I heard a noise as of various feet in the passage -leading from the quadrangle. Was it possible that other human beings -were coming into the hotel--Christian human beings at whom I could look, -whose voices I could hear, whose words I could understand, and with whom -I might possibly associate? I did not move, however, for I was still -hot, and I knew that my chances might be better if I did not show myself -over eager for companionship at the first moment. The door, however, was -soon opened, and I saw that at least in one respect I was destined to be -disappointed. The strangers who were entering the room were not -Christians--if I might judge by the nature of the garments in which they -were clothed. - -The door had been opened by the man in an old dressing-gown and -slippers, whom I had seen sitting inside the gate. He was the Arab -porter of the hotel, and as he marshalled the new visitors into the -room, I heard him pronounce some sound similar to my own name, and -perceived that he pointed me out to the most prominent person of those -who then entered the apartment. This was a stout, portly man, dressed -from head to foot in Eastern costume of the brightest colours. He wore, -not only the red fez cap which everybody wears--even I had accustomed -myself to a fez cap--but a turban round it, of which the voluminous -folds were snowy white. His face was fat, but not the less grave, and -the lower part of it was enveloped in a magnificent beard, which -projected round it on all sides, and touched his breast as he walked. It -was a grand grizzled beard, and I acknowledged at a moment that it added -a singular dignity to the appearance of the stranger. His flowing robe -was of bright colours, and the under garment which fitted close round -his breast, and then descended, becoming beneath his sash a pair of the -loosest pantaloons--I might, perhaps, better describe them as bags--was -a rich tawny silk. These loose pantaloons were tied close round his -legs, above the ankle, and over a pair of scrupulously white stockings, -and on his feet he wore a pair of yellow slippers. It was manifest to me -at a glance that the Arab gentleman was got up in his best raiment, and -that no expense had been spared on his suit. - -And here I cannot but make a remark on the personal bearing of these -Arabs. Whether they be Arabs or Turks, or Copts, it is always the same. -They are a mean, false, cowardly race, I believe. They will bear blows, -and respect the man who gives them. Fear goes further with them than -love, and between man and man they understand nothing of forbearance. -He who does not exact from them all that he can exact is simply a fool -in their estimation, to the extent of that which he loses. In all this, -they are immeasurably inferior to us who have had Christian teaching. -But in one thing they beat us. They always know how to maintain their -personal dignity. - -Look at my friend and partner Judkins, as he stands with his hands in -his trousers pockets at the door of our house in Friday Street. What can -be meaner than his appearance? He is a stumpy, short, podgy man; but -then so also was my Arab friend at Suez. Judkins is always dressed from -head to foot in a decent black cloth suit; his coat is ever a dress -coat, and is neither old nor shabby. On his head he carries a shining -new silk hat, such as fashion in our metropolis demands. Judkins is -rather a dandy than otherwise, piquing himself somewhat on his apparel. -And yet how mean is his appearance, as compared with the appearance of -that Arab;--how mean also is his gait, how ignoble his step! Judkins -could buy that Arab out four times over, and hardly feel the loss; and -yet were they to enter a room together, Judkins would know and -acknowledge by his look that he was the inferior personage. Not the -less, should a personal quarrel arise between them, would Judkins punch -the Arab’s head; ay, and reduce him to utter ignominy at his feet. -Judkins would break his heart in despair rather than not return a blow; -whereas the Arab would put up with any indignity of that sort. -Nevertheless Judkins is altogether deficient in personal dignity. I -often thought, as the hours hung in Egypt, whether it might not be -practicable to introduce an oriental costume in Friday Street. - -At this moment, as the Arab gentleman entered the cavernous coffee-room, -I felt that I was greatly the inferior personage. He was followed by -four or five others, dressed somewhat as himself, though by no means in -such magnificent colours, and by one gentleman in a coat and trousers. -The gentleman in the coat and trousers came last, and I could see that -he was one of the least of the number. As for myself, I felt almost -overawed by the dignity of the stout party in the turban, and seeing -that he came directly across the room to the place where I was seated, I -got upon my legs and made him some sign of Christian obeisance. I am a -little man, and not podgy, as is Judkins, and I flatter myself that I -showed more deportment, at any rate, than he would have exhibited. - -I made, as I have said, some Christian obeisance. I bobbed my head, -that is, rubbing my hands together the while, and expressed an opinion -that it was a fine day. But if I was civil, as I hope I was, the Arab -was much more so. He advanced till he was about six paces from me, then -placed his right hand open upon his silken breast, and inclining forward -with his whole body, made to me a bow which Judkins never could -accomplish. The turban and the flowing robe might be possible in Friday -Street, but of what avail would be the outer garments and mere symbols, -if the inner sentiment of personal dignity were wanting? I have often -since tried it when alone, but I could never accomplish anything like -that bow. The Arab with the flowing robe bowed, and the other Arabs all -bowed also; and after that the Christian gentleman with the coat and -trousers made a leg. I made a leg also, rubbing my hands again, and -added to my former remarks that it was rather hot. - -“Dat berry true,” said the porter in the dirty dressing-gown, who stood -by. I could see at a glance that the manner of that porter towards me -was greatly altered, and I began to feel comforted in my wretchedness. -Perhaps a Christian from Friday Street, with plenty of money in his -pockets, would stand in higher esteem at Suez than at Cairo. If so, that -alone would go far to atone for the apparent wretchedness of the place. -At Cairo I had not received that attention which had certainly been due -to me as the second partner in the flourishing Manchester house of -Grimes, Walker, and Judkins. - -But now, as my friend with the beard again bowed to me, I felt that this -deficiency was to be made up. It was clear, however, that this new -acquaintance, though I liked the manner of it, would be attended with -considerable inconvenience, for the Arab gentleman commenced an address -to me in French. It has always been to me a source of sorrow that my -parents did not teach me the French language, and this deficiency on my -part has given rise to an incredible amount of supercilious overbearing -pretension on the part of Judkins--who after all can hardly do more than -translate a correspondent’s letter. I do not believe that he could have -understood that Arab’s oration, but at any rate I did not. He went on to -the end, however, speaking for some three or four minutes, and then -again he bowed. If I could only have learned that bow, I might still -have been greater than Judkins with all his French. - -“I am very sorry,” said I, “but I don’t exactly follow the French -language when it is spoken.” - -“Ah! no French!” said the Arab in very broken English, “dat is one -sorrow.” How is it that these fellows learn all languages under the sun? -I afterwards found that this man could talk Italian, and Turkish, and -Armenian fluently, and say a few words in German, as he could also in -English. I could not ask for my dinner in any other language than -English, if it were to save me from starvation. Then he called to the -Christian gentleman in the pantaloons, and, as far as I could -understand, made over to him the duty of interpreting between us. There -seemed, however, to be one difficulty in the way of this being carried -on with efficiency. The Christian gentleman could not speak English -himself. He knew of it perhaps something more than did the Arab, but by -no means enough to enable us to have a fluent conversation. - -And had the interpreter--who turned out to be an Italian from Trieste, -attached to the Austrian Consulate at Alexandria--had the interpreter -spoken English with the greatest ease, I should have had considerable -difficulty in understanding and digesting in all its bearings, the -proposition made to me. But before I proceed to the proposition, I must -describe a ceremony which took place previous to its discussion. I had -hardly observed, when first the procession entered the room, that one of -my friend’s followers--my friend’s name, as I learned afterwards, was -Mahmoud al Ackbar, and I will therefore call him Mahmoud--that one of -Mahmoud’s followers bore in his arms a bundle of long sticks, and that -another carried an iron pot and a tray. Such was the case, and these two -followers came forward to perform their services, while I, having been -literally pressed down on to the sofa by Mahmoud, watched them in their -progress. Mahmoud also sat down, and not a word was spoken while the -ceremony went on. The man with the sticks first placed on the ground two -little pans--one at my feet, and then one at the feet of his master. -After that he loosed an ornamented bag which he carried round his neck, -and producing from it tobacco, proceeded to fill two pipes. This he did -with the utmost gravity, and apparently with very peculiar care. The -pipes had been already fixed at one end of the stick, and to the other -end the man had fastened two large yellow balls. These, as I afterwards -perceived, were mouth-pieces made of amber. Then he lit the pipes, -drawing up the difficult smoke by long painful suckings at the -mouthpiece, and then, when the work had become apparently easy, he -handed one pipe to me, and the other to his master. The bowls he had -first placed in the little pans on the ground. - -During all this time no word was spoken, and I was left altogether in -the dark as to the cause which had produced this extraordinary courtesy. -There was a stationary sofa--they called it there a divan--which was -fixed into the corner of the room, and on one side of the angle sat -Mahmoud al Ackbar, with his feet tucked under him, while I sat on the -other. The remainder of the party stood around, and I felt so little -master of the occasion, that I did not know whether it would become me -to bid them be seated. I was not master of the entertainment. They were -not my pipes. Nor was it my coffee, which I saw one of the followers -preparing in a distant part of the room. And, indeed, I was much -confused as to the management of the stick and amber mouth-piece with -which I had been presented. With a cigar I am as much at home as any man -in the City. I can nibble off the end of it, and smoke it to the last -ash, when I am three parts asleep. But I had never before been invited -to regale myself with such an instrument as this. What was I to do with -that huge yellow ball? So I watched my new friend closely. - -It had manifestly been a part of his urbanity not to commence till I had -done so, but seeing my difficulty he at last raised the ball to his -mouth and sucked at it. I looked at him and envied the gravity of his -countenance, and the dignity of his demeanour. I sucked also, but I made -a sputtering noise, and must confess that I did not enjoy it. The smoke -curled gracefully from his mouth and nostrils as he sat there in mute -composure. I was mute as regarded speech, but I coughed as the smoke -came from me in convulsive puffs. And then the attendant brought us -coffee in little tin cups--black coffee, without sugar and full of grit, -of which the berries had been only bruised, not ground. I took the cup -and swallowed the mixture, for I could not refuse, but I wish that I -might have asked for some milk and sugar. Nevertheless there was -something very pleasing in the whole ceremony, and at last I began to -find myself more at home with my pipe. - -When Mahmoud had exhausted his tobacco, and perceived that I also had -ceased to puff forth smoke, he spoke in Italian to the interpreter, and -the interpreter forthwith proceeded to explain to me the purport of this -visit. This was done with much difficulty, for the interpreter’s stock -of English was very scanty--but after awhile I understood, or thought I -understood, as follows:--At some previous period of my existence I had -done some deed which had given infinite satisfaction to Mahmoud al -Ackbar. Whether, however, I had done it myself, or whether my father -had done it, was not quite clear to me. My father, then some time -deceased, had been a wharfinger at Liverpool, and it was quite possible -that Mahmoud might have found himself at that port. Mahmoud had heard of -my arrival in Egypt, and had been given to understand that I was coming -to Suez--to carry myself away in the ship, as the interpreter phrased -it. This I could not understand, but I let it pass. Having heard these -agreeable tidings--and Mahmoud, sitting in the corner, bowed low to me -as this was said--he had prepared for my acceptance a slight refection -for the morrow, hoping that I would not carry myself away in the ship -till this had been eaten. On this subject I soon made him quite at ease, -and he then proceeded to explain that as there was a point of interest -at Suez, Mahmoud was anxious that I should partake of the refection -somewhat in the guise of a picnic, at the Well of Moses, over in Asia, -on the other side of the head of the Red Sea. Mahmoud would provide a -boat to take across the party in the morning, and camels on which we -would return after sunset. Or else we would go and return on camels, or -go on camels and return in the boat. Indeed any arrangement would be -made that I preferred. If I was afraid of the heat, and disliked the -open boat, I could be carried round in a litter. The provisions had -already been sent over to the Well of Moses in the anticipation that I -would not refuse this little request. - -I did not refuse it. Nothing could have been more agreeable to me than -this plan of seeing something of the sights and wonders of this -land,--and of this seeing them in good company. I had not heard of the -Well of Moses before, but now that I learned that it was in Asia,--in -another quarter of the globe, to be reached by a transit of the Red Sea, -to be returned from by a journey on camels’ backs,--I burned with -anxiety to visit its waters. What a story would this be for Judkins! -This was, no doubt, the point at which the Israelites had passed. Of -those waters had they drunk. I almost felt that I had already found one -of Pharaoh’s chariot wheels. I readily gave my assent, and then, with -much ceremony and many low salaams, Mahmoud and his attendant left me. -“I am very glad that I came to Suez,” said I to myself. - -I did not sleep much that night, for the mosquitoes of Suez are very -persevering; but I was saved from the agonising despair which these -animals so frequently produce, by my agreeable thoughts as to Mahmoud al -Ackbar. I will put it to any of my readers who have travelled, whether -it is not a painful thing to find one’s-self regarded among strangers -without any kindness or ceremonious courtesy. I had on this account been -wretched at Cairo, but all this was to be made up to me at Suez. Nothing -could be more pleasant than the whole conduct of Mahmoud al Ackbar, and -I determined to take full advantage of it, not caring overmuch what -might be the nature of those previous favours to which he had alluded. -That was his look-out, and if he was satisfied, why should not I be so -also? - -On the following morning I was dressed at six, and, looking out of my -bed-room, I saw the boat in which we were to be wafted into Asia being -brought up to the quay close under my window. It had been arranged that -we should start early, so as to avoid the mid-day sun, breakfast in the -boat,--Mahmoud in this way engaged to provide me with two -refections,--take our rest at noon in a pavilion which had been built -close upon the well of the patriarch, and then eat our dinner, and -return riding upon camels in the cool of the evening. Nothing could -sound more pleasant than such a plan; and knowing as I did that the -hampers of provisions had already been sent over, I did not doubt that -the table arrangements would be excellent. Even now, standing at my -window, I could see a basket laden with long-necked bottles going into -the boat, and became aware that we should not depend altogether for our -morning repast on that gritty coffee which my friend Mahmoud’s followers -prepared. - -I had promised to be ready at six, and having carefully completed my -toilet, and put a clean collar and comb into my pocket ready for dinner, -I descended to the great gateway and walked slowly round to the quay. As -I passed out, the porter greeted me with a low obeisance, and walking -on, I felt that I stepped the ground with a sort of dignity of which I -had before been ignorant. It is not, as a rule, the man who gives grace -and honour to the position, but the position which confers the grace and -honour upon the man. I have often envied the solemn gravity and grand -demeanour of the Lord Chancellor, as I have seen him on the bench; but I -almost think that even Judkins would look grave and dignified under such -a wig. Mahmoud al Ackbar had called upon me and done me honour, and I -felt myself personally capable of sustaining before the people of Suez -the honour which he had done me. - -As I walked forth with a proud step from beneath the portal, I -perceived, looking down from the square along the street, that there was -already some commotion in the town. I saw the flowing robes of many -Arabs, with their backs turned towards me, and I thought that I observed -the identical gown and turban of my friend Mahmoud on the back and head -of a stout short man, who was hurrying round a corner in the distance. I -felt sure that it was Mahmoud. Some of his servants had failed in their -preparations, I said to myself, as I made my way round to the water’s -edge. This was only another testimony how anxious he was to do me -honour. - -I stood for a while on the edge of the quay looking into the boat, and -admiring the comfortable cushions which were luxuriously arranged around -the seats. The men who were at work did not know me, and I was -unnoticed, but I should soon take my place upon the softest of those -cushions. I walked slowly backwards and forwards on the quay, listening -to a hum of voices that came to me from a distance. There was clearly -something stirring in the town, and I felt certain that all the movement -and all those distant voices were connected in some way with my -expedition to the Well of Moses. At last there came a lad upon the walk -dressed in Frank costume, and I asked him what was in the wind. He was a -clerk attached to an English warehouse, and he told me that there had -been an arrival from Cairo. He knew no more than that, but he had heard -that the omnibuses had just come in. Could it be possible that Mahmoud -al Ackbar had heard of another old acquaintance, and had gone to welcome -him also? - -At first my ideas on the subject were altogether pleasant. I by no means -wished to monopolise the delights of all those cushions, nor would it be -to me a cause of sorrow that there should be some one to share with me -the conversational powers of that interpreter. Should another guest be -found, he might also be an Englishman, and I might thus form an -acquaintance which would be desirable. Thinking of these things, I -walked the quay for some minutes in a happy state of mind; but by -degrees I became impatient, and by degrees also disturbed in my spirit. -I observed that one of the Arab boatmen walked round from the vessel to -the front of the hotel, and that on his return he looked at me--as I -thought, not with courteous eyes. Then also I saw, or rather heard, some -one in the verandah of the hotel above me, and was conscious that I was -being viewed from thence. I walked and walked, and nobody came to me, -and I perceived by my watch that it was seven o’clock. The noise, too, -had come nearer and nearer, and I was now aware that wheels had been -drawn up before the front door of the hotel, and that many voices were -speaking there. It might be that Mahmoud should wait for some other -friend, but why did he not send some one to inform me? And then, as I -made a sudden turn at the end of the quay, I caught sight of the -retreating legs of the Austrian interpreter, and I became aware that he -had been sent down, and had gone away, afraid to speak to me. “What can -I do?” said I to myself, “I can but keep my ground.” I owned that I -feared to go round to the front of the hotel. So I still walked slowly -up and down the length of the quay, and began to whistle to show that I -was not uneasy. The Arab sailors looked at me uncomfortably, and from -time to time some one peered at me round the corner. It was now fully -half-past seven, and the sun was becoming hot in the heavens. Why did we -not hasten to place ourselves beneath the awning in that boat. - -I had just made up my mind that I would go round to the front and -penetrate this mystery, when, on turning, I saw approaching to me a man -dressed at any rate like an English gentleman. As he came near to me, he -raised his hat, and accosted me in our own language. “Mr. George Walker, -I believe?” said he. - -“Yes,” said I, with some little attempt at a high demeanour, “of the -firm of Grimes, Walker, and Judkins, Friday Street, London.” - -“A most respectable house, I am sure,” said he. “I am afraid there has -been a little mistake here.” - -“No mistake as to the respectability of that house,” said I. I felt that -I was again alone in the world, and that it was necessary that I should -support myself. Mahmoud al Ackbar had separated himself from me for -ever. Of that I had no longer a doubt. - -“Oh, none at all,” said he. “But about this little expedition over the -water;” and he pointed contemptuously to the boat. “There has been a -mistake about that, Mr. Walker; I happen to be the English Vice-Consul -here.” - -I took off my hat and bowed. It was the first time I had ever been -addressed civilly by any English consular authority. - -“And they have made me get out of bed to come down here and explain all -this to you.” - -“All what?” said I. - -“You are a man of the world, I know, and I’ll just tell it you plainly. -My old friend, Mahmoud al Ackbar, has mistaken you for Sir George -Walker, the new Lieutenant-Governor of Pegu. Sir George Walker is here -now; he has come this morning and Mahmoud is ashamed to face you after -what has occurred. If you won’t object to withdraw with me into the -hotel, I’ll explain it all.” - -I felt as though a thunderbolt had fallen; and I must say, that even up -to this day I think that the Consul might have been a little less -abrupt. “We can get in here,” said he, evidently in a hurry, and -pointing to a small door which opened out from one corner of the house -to the quay. What could I do but follow him? I did follow him, and in a -few words learned the remainder of the story. When he had once withdrawn -me from the public walk he seemed but little anxious about the rest, and -soon left me again alone. The facts, as far as I could learn them, were -simply these. - -Sir George Walker, who was now going out to Pegu as Governor, had been -in India before, commanding an army there. I had never heard of him -before, and had made no attempt to pass myself off as his relative. -Nobody could have been more innocent than I was--or have received worse -usage. I have as much right to the name as he has. Well; when he was in -India before, he had taken the city of Begum after a terrible -siege--Begum, I think the Consul called it; and Mahmoud had been there, -having been, it seems, a great man at Begum, and Sir George had spared -him and his money; and in this way the whole thing had come to pass. -There was no further explanation than that. The rest of it was all -transparent. Mahmoud, having heard my name from the porter, had hurried -down to invite me to his party. So far so good. But why had he been -afraid to face me in the morning? And, seeing that the fault had all -been his, why had he not asked me to join the expedition? Sir George and -I may, after all, be cousins. But, coward as he was, he had been afraid -of me. When they found that I was on the quay, they had been afraid of -me, not knowing how to get rid of me. I wish that I had kept the quay -all day, and stared them down one by one as they entered the boat. But I -was down in the mouth, and when the Consul left me, I crept wearily back -to my bed-room. - -And the Consul did leave me almost immediately. A faint hope had at one -time, come upon me that he would have asked me to breakfast. Had he done -so, I should have felt it as a full compensation for all that I had -suffered. I am not an exacting man, but I own that I like civility. In -Friday Street I can command it, and in Friday Street for the rest of my -life will I remain. From this Consul I received no civility. As soon as -he had got me out of the way and spoken the few words which he had to -say, he again raised his hat and left me. I also again raised mine, and -then crept up to my bed-room. - -From my window, standing a little behind the white curtain, I could see -the whole embarkation. There was Mahmoud al Ackbar, looking indeed a -little hot, but still going through his work with all that excellence of -deportment which had graced him on the preceding evening. Had his foot -slipped, and had he fallen backwards into that shallow water, my spirit -would, I confess, have been relieved. But, on the contrary, everything -went well with him. There was the real Sir George, my namesake and -perhaps my cousin, as fresh as paint, cool from the bath which he had -been taking while I had been walking on that terrace. How is it that -these governors and commanders-in-chief go through such a deal of work -without fagging? It was not yet two hours since he was jolting about in -that omnibus-box, and there he had been all night. I could not have gone -off to the Well of Moses immediately on my arrival. It’s the dignity of -the position that does it. I have long known that the head of a firm -must never count on a mere clerk to get through as much work as he could -do himself. It’s the interest in the matter that supports the man. - -They went, and Sir George, as I was well assured, had never heard a word -about me. Had he done so, is it probable that he would have requested my -attendance? - -But Mahmoud and his followers no doubt kept their own counsel as to that -little mistake. There they went, and the gentle rippling breeze filled -their sail pleasantly, as the boat moved away into the bay. I felt no -spite against any of them but Mahmoud. Why had he avoided me with such -cowardice? I could still see them when the morning tchibouk was handed -to Sir George; and, though I wished him no harm, I did envy him as he -lay there reclining luxuriously upon the cushions. - -A more wretched day than that I never spent in my life. As I went in and -out, the porter at the gate absolutely scoffed at me. Once I made up my -mind to complain within the house. But what could I have said of the -dirty Arab? They would have told me that it was his religion, or a -national observance, or meant for a courtesy. What can a man do, in a -strange country, when he is told that a native spits in his face by way -of civility? I bore it, I bore it--like a man; and sighed for the -comforts of Friday Street. - -As to one matter, I made up my mind on that day, and I fully carried out -my purpose on the next: I would go across to the Well of Moses in a -boat. I would visit the coasts of Asia. And I would ride back into -Africa on a camel. Though I did it alone, I would have my day’s -pleasuring. I had money in my pocket, and, though it might cost me £20, -I would see all that my namesake had seen. It did cost me the best part -of £20; and as for the pleasuring, I cannot say much for it. - -I went to bed early that night, having concluded my bargain for the -morrow with a rapacious Arab who spoke English. I went to bed early in -order to escape the returning party, and was again on the quay at six -the next morning. On this occasion, I stepped boldly into the boat the -very moment that I came along the shore. There is nothing in the world -like paying for what you use. I saw myself to the bottle of brandy and -the cold meat, and acknowledged that a cigar out of my own case would -suit me better than that long stick. The long stick might do very well -for a Governor of Pegu, but would be highly inconvenient in Friday -Street. - -Well, I am not going to give an account of my day’s journey here, though -perhaps I may do so some day. I did go to the Well of Moses--if a small -dirty pool of salt water, lying high above the sands, can be called a -well; I did eat my dinner in the miserable ruined cottage which they -graced by the name of a pavilion; and, alas for my poor bones! I did -ride home upon a camel. If Sir George did so early, and started for Pegu -the next morning--and I was informed such was the fact--he must have -been made of iron. I laid in bed the whole day suffering greviously; but -I was told that on such a journey I should have slakened my throat with -oranges, and not with brandy. - -I survived those four terrible days which remained to me at Suez, and -after another month was once again in Friday Street. I suffered greatly -on the occasion; but it is some consolation to me to reflect that I -smoked a pipe of peace with Mahmoud al Ackbar; that I saw the hero of -Begum while journeying out to new triumphs at Pegu; that I sailed into -Asia in my own yacht--hired for the occasion; and that I rode back into -Africa, on a camel. Nor can Judkins, with all his ill-nature, rob me of -these remembrances. - - - - -THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. - - -“Let the boys have it if they like it,” said Mrs. Garrow, pleading to -her only daughter on behalf of her two sons. - -“Pray don’t, mamma,” said Elizabeth Garrow. “It only means romping. To -me all that is detestable, and I am sure it is not the sort of thing -that Miss Holmes would like.” - -“We always had it at Christmas when we were young.” - -“But, mamma, the world is so changed.” - -The point in dispute was one very delicate in its nature, hardly to be -discussed in all its bearings, even in fiction, and the very mention of -which between mother and daughter showed a great amount of close -confidence between them. It was no less than this. Should that branch of -mistletoe which Frank Garrow had brought home with him out of the -Lowther woods be hung up on Christmas Eve in the dining-room at Thwaite -Hall, according to his wishes; or should permission for such hanging be -positively refused? It was clearly a thing not to be done after such a -discussion, and therefore the decision given by Mrs. Garrow was against -it. - -I am inclined to think that Miss Garrow was right in saying that the -world is changed as touching misletoe boughs. Kissing, I fear, is less -innocent now than it used to be when our grand-mothers were alive, and -we have become more fastidious in our amusements. Nevertheless, I think -that she made herself fairly open to the raillery with which her -brothers attacked her. - -“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” said Frank, who was eighteen. - -“Nobody will want to kiss you, my lady Fineairs,” said Harry, who was -just a year younger. - -“Because you choose to be a Puritan, there are to be no more cakes and -ale in the house,” said Frank. - -“Still waters run deep; we all know that,” said Harry. - -The boys had not been present when the matter was decided between Mrs. -Garrow and her daughter, nor had the mother been present when these -little amenities had passed between the brothers and sister. - -“Only that mamma has said it, and I wouldn’t seem to go against her,” -said Frank, “I’d ask my father. He wouldn’t give way to such nonsense, I -know.” - -Elizabeth turned away without answering, and left the room. Her eyes -were full of tears, but she would not let them see that they had vexed -her. They were only two days home from school, and for the last week -before their coming, all her thoughts had been to prepare for their -Christmas pleasures. She had arranged their rooms, making everything -warm and pretty. Out of her own pocket she had bought a shot-belt for -one, and skates for the other. She had told the old groom that her pony -was to belong exclusively to Master Harry for the holidays, and now -Harry told her that still waters ran deep. She had been driven to the -use of all her eloquence in inducing her father to purchase that gun for -Frank, and now Frank called her a Puritan. And why? She did not choose -that a mistletoe bough should be hung in her father’s hall, when Godfrey -Holmes was coming to visit him. She could not explain this to Frank, but -Frank might have had the wit to understand it. But Frank was thinking -only of Patty Coverdale, a blue-eyed little romp of sixteen, who, with -her sister Kate, was coming from Penrith to spend the Christmas at -Thwaite Hall. Elizabeth left the room with her slow, graceful step, -hiding her tears,--hiding all emotion, as latterly she had taught -herself that it was feminine to do. “There goes my lady Fineairs,” said -Harry, sending his shrill voice after her. - -Thwaite Hall was not a place of much pretension. It was a moderate-sized -house, surrounded by pretty gardens and shrubberies, close down upon the -river Eamont, on the Westmoreland side of the river, looking over to a -lovely wooded bank in Cumberland. All the world knows that the Eamont -runs out of Ulleswater, dividing the two counties, passing under Penrith -Bridge and by the old ruins of Brougham Castle, below which it joins the -Eden. Thwaite Hall nestled down close upon the clear rocky stream about -half way between Ulleswater and Penrith, and had been built just at a -bend of the river. The windows of the dining-parlour and of the -drawing-room stood at right angles to each other, and yet each commanded -a reach of the stream. Immediately from a side of the house steps were -cut down through the red rock to the water’s edge, and here a small boat -was always moored to a chain. The chain was stretched across the river, -fixed to the staples driven into the rock on either side, and the boat -was pulled backwards and forwards over the stream, without aid from oars -or paddles. From the opposite side a path led through the woods and -across the fields to Penrith, and this was the route commonly used -between Thwaite Hall and the town. - -Major Garrow was a retired officer of Engineers, who had seen service in -all parts of the world, and who was now spending the evening of his days -on a small property which had come to him from his father. He held in -his own hands about twenty acres of land, and he was the owner of one -small farm close by, which was let to a tenant. That, together with his -half-pay, and the interest of his wife’s thousand pounds, sufficed to -educate his children and keep the wolf at a comfortable distance from -his door. He himself was a spare thin man, with quiet, lazy, literary -habits. He had done the work of life, but had so done it as to permit of -his enjoying that which was left to him. His sole remaining care was the -establishment of his children; and, as far as he could see, he had no -ground for anticipating disappointment. They were clever, good-looking, -well-disposed young people, and upon the whole it may be said that the -sun shone brightly on Thwaite Hall. Of Mrs. Garrow it may suffice to say -that she always deserved such sunshine. - -For years past it had been the practice of the family to have some sort -of gathering at Thwaite Hall during Christmas. Godfrey Holmes had been -left under the guardianship of Major Garrow, and, as he had always spent -his Christmas holidays with his guardian, this, perhaps, had given rise -to the practice. Then the Coverdales were cousins of the Garrows, and -they had usually been there as children. At the Christmas last past the -custom had been broken, for young Holmes had been abroad. Previous to -that, they had all been children, excepting him. But now that they were -to meet again, they were no longer children. Elizabeth, at any rate, was -not so, for she had already counted nineteen winters. And Isabella -Holmes was coming. Now Isabella was two years older than Elizabeth, and -had been educated in Brussels; moreover she was comparatively a stranger -at Thwaite Hall, never having been at those early Christmas meetings. - -And now I must take permission to begin my story by telling a lady’s -secret. Elizabeth Garrow had already been in love with Godfrey Holmes, -or perhaps it might be more becoming to say that Godfrey Holmes had -already been in love with her. They had already been engaged; and, alas! -they had already agreed that that engagement should be broken off! - -Young Holmes was now twenty-seven years of age, and was employed in a -bank at Liverpool, not as a clerk, but as assistant-manager, with a -large salary. He was a man well to do in the world, who had money also -of his own, and who might well afford to marry. Some two years since, on -the eve of leaving Thwaite Hall, he had with low doubting whisper told -Elizabeth that he loved her, and she had flown trembling to her mother. -“Godfrey, my boy,” the father said to him, as he parted with him the -next morning, “Bessy is only a child, and too young to think of this -yet.” At the next Christmas Godfrey was in Italy, and the thing was gone -by,--so at least the father and mother said to each other. But the young -people had met in the summer, and one joyful letter had come from the -girl home to her mother. “I have accepted him. Dearest, dearest mamma, I -do love him. But don’t tell papa yet, for I have not quite accepted him. -I think I am sure, but I am not quite sure. I am not quite sure about -him.” - -And then, two days after that, there had come a letter that was not at -all joyful. “Dearest Mamma,--It is not to be. It is not written in the -book. We have both agreed that it will not do. I am so glad that you -have not told dear papa, for I could never make him understand. You will -understand, for I shall tell you everything, down to his very words. But -we have agreed that there shall be no quarrel. It shall be exactly as it -was, and he will come at Christmas all the same. It would never do that -he and papa should be separated, nor could we now put off Isabella. It -is better so in every way, for there is and need be no quarrel. We still -like each other. I am sure I like him, but I know that I should not make -him happy as his wife. He says it is my fault. I, at any rate, have -never told him that I thought it his.” From all which it will be seen -that the confidence between the mother and daughter was very close. - -Elizabeth Garrow was a very good girl, but it might almost be a question -whether she was not too good. She had learned, or thought that she had -learned, that most girls are vapid, silly, and useless,--given chiefly -to pleasure-seeking and a hankering after lovers; and she had resolved -that she would not be such a one. Industry, self-denial, and a religious -purpose in life, were the tasks which she set herself; and she went -about the performance of them with much courage. But such tasks, though -they are excellently well adapted to fit a young lady for the work of -living, may also be carried too far, and thus have the effect of -unfitting her for that work. When Elizabeth Garrow made up her mind -that the finding of a husband was not the only purpose of life, she did -very well. It is very well that a young lady should feel herself capable -of going through the world happily without one. But in teaching herself -this she also taught herself to think that there was a certain merit in -refusing herself the natural delight of a lover, even though the -possession of the lover were compatible with all her duties to herself, -her father and mother, and the world at large. It was not that she had -determined to have no lover. She made no such resolve, and when the -proper lover came he was admitted to her heart. But she declared to -herself unconsciously that she must put a guard upon herself, lest she -should be betrayed into weakness by her own happiness. She had resolved -that in loving her lord she would not worship him, and that in giving -her heart she would only so give it as it should be given to a human -creature like herself. She had acted on these high resolves, and hence -it had come to pass,--not unnaturally,--that Mr. Godfrey Holmes had told -her that it was “her fault.” - -She was a pretty, fair girl, with soft dark-brown hair, and soft long -dark eyelashes. Her grey eyes, though quiet in their tone, were tender -and lustrous. Her face was oval, and the lines of her cheek and chin -perfect in their symmetry. She was generally quiet in her demeanour, but -when moved she could rouse herself to great energy, and speak with -feeling and almost with fire. Her fault was a reverence for martyrdom in -general, and a feeling, of which she was unconscious, that it became a -young woman to be unhappy in secret;--that it became a young woman, I -might rather say, to have a source of unhappiness hidden from the world -in general, and endured without any detriment to her outward -cheerfulness. We know the story of the Spartan boy who held the fox -under his tunic. The fox was biting into him,--into the very entrails; -but the young hero spake never a word. Now Bessy Garrow was inclined to -think that it was a good thing to have a fox always biting, so that the -torment caused no ruining to her outward smiles. Now at this moment the -fox within her bosom was biting her sore enough, but she bore it without -flinching. - -“If you would rather that he should not come I will have it arranged,” -her mother had said to her. - -“Not for worlds,” she had answered. “I should never think well of myself -again.” - -Her mother had changed her own mind more than once as to the conduct in -this matter which might be best for her to follow, thinking solely of -her daughter’s welfare. “If he comes they will be reconciled, and she -will be happy,” had been her first idea. But then there was a stern -fixedness of purpose in Bessy’s words when she spoke of Mr. Holmes, -which had expelled this hope, and Mrs. Garrow had for a while thought it -better that the young man should not come. But Bessy would not permit -this. It would vex her father, put out of course the arrangements of -other people, and display weakness on her own part. He should come, and -she would endure without flinching while the fox gnawed at her. - -That battle of the mistletoe had been fought on the morning before -Christmas-day, and the Holmeses came on Christmas-eve. Isabella was -comparatively a stranger, and therefore received at first the greater -share of attention. She and Elizabeth had once seen each other, and for -the last year or two had corresponded, but personally they had never -been intimate. Unfortunately for the latter, that story of Godfrey’s -offer and acceptance had been communicated to Isabella, as had of course -the immediately subsequent story of their separation. But now it would -be almost impossible to avoid the subject in conversation. “Dearest -Isabella, let it be as though it had never been,” she had said in one of -her letters. But sometimes it is very difficult to let things be as -though they had never been. - -The first evening passed over very well. The two Coverdale girls were -there, and there had been much talking and merry laughter, rather -juvenile in its nature, but on the whole none the worse for that. -Isabella Holmes was a fine, tall, handsome girl; good-humoured, and well -disposed to be pleased; rather Frenchified in her manners, and quite -able to take care of herself. But she was not above round games, and did -not turn up her nose at the boys. Godfrey behaved himself excellently, -talking much to the Major, but by no means avoiding Miss Garrow. Mrs. -Garrow, though she had known him since he was a boy, had taken an -aversion to him since he had quarrelled with her daughter; but there was -no room on this first night for showing such aversion, and everything -went off well. - -“Godfrey is very much improved,” the Major said to his wife that night. - -“Do you think so?” - -“Indeed I do. He has filled out and become a fine man.” - -“In personal appearance, you mean. Yes, he is well-looking enough.” - -“And in his manner, too. He is doing uncommonly well in Liverpool, I can -tell you; and if he should think of Bessy--” - -“There is nothing of that sort,” said Mrs. Garrow. - -“He did speak to me, you know,--two years ago. Bessy was too young then, -and so indeed was he. But if she likes him--” - -“I don’t think she does.” - -“Then there’s an end of it.” And so they went to bed. - -“Frank,” said the sister to her elder brother, knocking at his door when -they had all gone up stairs, “may I come in,--if you are not in bed?” - -“In bed,” said he, looking up with some little pride from his Greek -book; “I’ve one hundred and fifty lines to do before I can get to bed. -It’ll be two, I suppose. I’ve got to mug uncommon hard these holidays. I -have only one more half, you know, and then----” - -“Don’t overdo it, Frank.” - -“No; I won’t overdo it. I mean to take one day a week, and work eight -hours a day on the other five. That will be forty hours a week, and will -give me just two hundred hours for the holidays. I have got it all down -here on a table. That will be a hundred and five for Greek play, forty -for Algebra--” and so he explained to her the exact destiny of all his -long hours of proposed labour. He had as yet been home a day and a half, -and had succeeded in drawing out with red lines and blue figures the -table which he showed her. “If I can do that, it will be pretty well; -won’t it?” - -“But, Frank, you have come home for your holidays,--to enjoy yourself?” - -“But a fellow must work now-a-days.” - -“Don’t overdo it, dear; that’s all. But, Frank, I could not rest if I -went to bed without speaking to you. You made me unhappy to-day.” - -“Did I, Bessy?” - -“You called me a Puritan, and then you quoted that ill-natured French -proverb at me. Do you really believe your sister thinks evil, Frank?” -and as she spoke she put her arm caressingly round his neck. - -“Of course I don’t.” - -“Then why say so? Harry is so much younger and so thoughtless that I can -bear what he says without so much suffering. But if you and I are not -friends I shall be very wretched. If you knew how I have looked forward -to your coming home!” - -“I did not mean to vex you, and I won’t say such things again.” - -“That’s my own Frank. What I said to mamma, I said because I thought it -right; but you must not say that I am a Puritan. I would do anything in -my power to make your holidays bright and pleasant. I know that boys -require so much more to amuse them than girls do. Good night, dearest; -pray don’t overdo yourself with work, and do take care of your eyes.” So -saying she kissed him and went her way. In twenty minutes after that, he -had gone to sleep over his book; and when he woke up to find the candle -guttering down, he resolved that he would not begin his measured hours -till Christmas-day was fairly over. - -The morning of Christmas-day passed very quietly. They all went to -church, and then sat round the fire chatting until the four o’clock -dinner was ready. The Coverdale girls thought it was rather more dull -than former Thwaite Hall festivities, and Frank was seen to yawn. But -then everybody knows that the real fun of Christmas never begins till -the day itself be passed. The beef and pudding are ponderous, and unless -there be absolute children in the party, there is a difficulty in -grafting any special afternoon amusements on the Sunday pursuits of the -morning. In the evening they were to have a dance; that had been -distinctly promised to Patty Coverdale; but the dance would not commence -till eight. The beef and pudding were ponderous, but with due efforts -they were overcome and disappeared. The glass of port was sipped, the -almonds and raisins were nibbled, and then the ladies left the room. Ten -minutes after that Elizabeth found herself seated with Isabella Holmes -over the fire in her father’s little book-room. It was not by her that -this meeting was arranged, for she dreaded such a constrained -confidence; but of course it could not be avoided, and perhaps it might -be as well now as hereafter. - -“Bessy,” said the elder girl, “I am dying to be alone with you for a -moment.” - -“Well, you shall not die; that is, if being alone with me will save -you.” - -“I have so much to say to you. And if you have any true friendship in -you, you also will have so much to say to me.” Miss Garrow perhaps had -no true friendship in her at that moment, for she would gladly have -avoided saying anything, had that been possible. But in order to prove -that she was not deficient in friendship, she gave her friend her hand. - -“And now tell me everything about Godfrey,” said Isabella. - -“Dear Bella, I have nothing to tell;--literally nothing.” - -“That is nonsense. Stop a moment, dear, and understand that I do not -mean to offend you. It cannot be that you have nothing to tell, if you -choose to tell it. You are not the girl to have accepted Godfrey without -loving him, nor is he the man to have asked you without loving you. When -you write me word that you have changed your mind, as you might about a -dress, of course I know you have not told me all. Now I insist upon -knowing it,--that is, if we are to be friends. I would not speak a word -to Godfrey till I had seen you, in order that I might hear your story -first. - -“Indeed, Bella, there is no story to tell.” - -“Then I must ask him.” - -“If you wish to play the part of a true friend to me, you will let the -matter pass by and say nothing. You must understand that, circumstanced -as we are, your brother’s visit here,--what I mean is, that it is very -difficult for me to act and speak exactly as I should do, and a few -unfortunate words spoken may make my position unendurable.” - -“Will you answer me one question?” - -“I cannot tell. I think I will.” - -“Do you love him?” For a moment or two Bessy remained silent, striving -to arrange her words so that they should contain no falsehood, and yet -betray no truth. “Ah, I see you do,” continued Miss Holmes. “But of -course you do. Why else did you accept him?” - -“I fancied that I did, as young ladies do sometimes fancy.” - -“And will you say that you do not, now?” Again Bessy was silent, and -then her friend rose from her seat. “I see it all,” she said. “What a -pity it was that you both had not some friend like me by you at the -time! But perhaps it may not be too late.” - -I need not repeat at length all the protestations which upon this were -poured forth with hot energy by poor Bessy. She endeavoured to explain -how great had been the difficulty of her position. This Christmas visit -had been arranged before that unhappy affair at Liverpool had occurred. -Isabella’s visit had been partly one of business, it being necessary -that certain money affairs should be arranged between her, her brother, -and the Major. “I determined,” said Bessy, “not to let my feelings stand -in the way; and hoped that things might settle down to their former -friendly footing. I already fear that I have been wrong, but it will be -ungenerous in you to punish me.” Then she went on to say that if anybody -attempted to interfere with her, she should at once go away to her -mother’s sister, who lived at Hexham, in Northumberland. - -Then came the dance, and the hearts of Kate and Patty Coverdale were at -last happy. But here again poor Bessy was made to understand how -terribly difficult was this experiment of entertaining on a footing of -friendship a lover with whom she had quarrelled only a month or two -before. That she must as a necessity become the partner of Godfrey -Holmes she had already calculated, and so much she was prepared to -endure. Her brothers would of course dance with the Coverdale girls, and -her father would of course stand up with Isabella. There was no other -possible arrangement, at any rate as a beginning. She had schooled -herself, too, as to the way in which she would speak to him on the -occasion, and how she would remain mistress of herself and of her -thoughts. But when the time came the difficulty was almost too much for -her. - -“You do not care much for dancing, if I remember?” said he. - -“Oh yes, I do. Not as Patty Coverdale does. It’s a passion with her. But -then I am older than Patty Coverdale.” After that he was silent for a -minute or two. - -“It seems so odd to me to be here again,” he said. It was odd;--she felt -that it was odd. But he ought not to have said so. - -“Two years make a great difference. The boys have grown so much.” - -“Yes, and there are other things,” said he. - -“Bella was never here before; at least not with you.” - -“No. But I did not exactly mean that. All that would not make the place -so strange. But your mother seems altered to me. She used to be almost -like my own mother.” - -“I suppose she finds that you are a more formidable person as you grow -older. It was all very well scolding you when you were a clerk in the -bank, but it does not do to scold the manager. These are the penalties -men pay for becoming great.” - -“It is not my greatness that stands in my way, but--” - -“Then I’m sure I cannot say what it is. But Patty will scold you if you -do not mind the figure, though you were the whole Board of Directors -packed into one. She won’t respect you if you neglect your present -work.” - -When Bessy went to bed that night she began to feel that she had -attempted too much. “Mamma,” she said, “could I not make some excuse and -go away to Aunt Mary?” - -“What now?” - -“Yes, mamma; now; to-morrow. I need not say that it will make me very -unhappy to be away at such a time, but I begin to think that it will be -better.” - -“What will papa say?” - -“You must tell him all.” - -“And Aunt Mary must be told also. You would not like that. Has he said -anything?” - -“No, nothing;--very little, that is. But Bella has spoken to me. Oh, -mamma, I think we have been very wrong in this. That is, I have been -wrong. I feel as though I should disgrace myself, and turn the whole -party here into a misfortune.” - -It would be dreadful, that telling of the story to her father and to her -aunt, and such a necessity must, if possible, be avoided. Should such a -necessity actually come, the former task would, no doubt, be done by her -mother, but that would not lighten the load materially. After a -fortnight she would again meet her father, and would be forced to -discuss it. “I will remain if it be possible,” she said; “but, mamma, if -I wish to go, you will not stop me?” Her mother promised that she would -not stop her, but strongly advised her to stand her ground. - -On the following morning, when she came down stairs before breakfast, -she found Frank standing in the hall with his gun, of which he was -trying the lock. “It is not loaded, is it, Frank?” said she. - -“Oh dear, no; no one thinks of loading now-a-days till he has got out of -the house. Directly after breakfast I am going across with Godfrey to -the back of Greystock, to see after some moor-fowl. He asked me to go, -and I couldn’t well refuse.” - -“Of course not. Why should you?” - -“It will be deuced hard work to make up the time. I was to have been up -at four this morning, but that alarum went off and never woke me. -However, I shall be able to do something to-night.” - -“Don’t make a slavery of your holidays, Frank. What’s the good of having -a new gun if you’re not to use it?” - -“It’s not the new gun. I’m not such a child as that comes to. But, you -see, Godfrey is here, and one ought to be civil to him. I’ll tell you -what I want you girls to do, Bessy. You must come and meet us on our way -home. Come over in the boat and along the path to the Patterdale road. -We’ll be there under the hill about five.” - -“And if you are not, we are to wait in the snow?” - -“Don’t make difficulties, Bessy. I tell you we will be there, We are to -go in the cart, and so shall have plenty of time.” - -“And how do you know the other girls will go?” - -“Why, to tell you the truth, Patty Coverdale has promised. As for Miss -Holmes, if she won’t, why you must leave her at home with mamma. But -Kate and Patty can’t come without you.” - -“Your discretion has found that out, has it?” - -“They say so. But you will come; won’t you, Bessy? As for waiting, it’s -all nonsense. Of course you can walk on. But we’ll be at the stile by -five. I’ve got my watch, you know.” And then Bessy promised him. What -would she not have done for him that was in her power to do? - -“Go! Of course I’ll go,” said Miss Holmes. “I’m up to anything. I’d have -gone with them this morning, and have taken a gun if they’d asked me. -But, by-the-bye, I’d better not.” - -“Why not?” said Patty, who was hardly yet without fear lest something -should mar the expedition. - -“What will three gentlemen do with four ladies?” - -“Oh, I forgot,” said Patty innocently. - -“I’m sure I don’t care,” said Kate; “you may have Harry if you like.” - -“Thank you for nothing,” said Miss Holmes. “I want one for myself. It’s -all very well for you to make the offer, but what should I do if Harry -wouldn’t have me? There are two sides, you know, to every bargain.” - -“I’m sure he isn’t anything to me,” said Kate. “Why, he’s not quite -seventeen years old yet!” - -“Poor boy! What a shame to dispose of him so soon. We’ll let him off for -a year or two; won’t we, Miss Coverdale? But as there seems by -acknowledgment to be one beau with unappropriated services----” - -“I’m sure I have appropriated nobody,” said Patty; “and didn’t intend.” - -“Godfrey, then, is the only knight whose services are claimed,” said -Miss Holmes, looking at Bessy. Bessy made no immediate answer with -either her eyes or tongue; but when the Coverdales were gone, she took -her new friend to task. - -“How can you fill those young girls heads with such nonsense?” - -“Nature has done that, my dear.” - -“But nature should be trained; should it not? You will make them think -that those foolish boys are in love with them.” - -“The foolish boys, as you call them, will look after that themselves. It -seems to me that the foolish boys know what they are about better than -some of their elders.” And then, after a moment’s pause, she added, “As -for my brother, I have no patience with him.” - -“Pray do not discuss your brother,” said Bessy. “And, Bella, unless you -wish to drive me away, pray do not speak of him and me together as you -did just now.” - -“Are you so bad as that,--that the slightest commonplace joke upsets -you? Would not his services be due to you as a matter of course? If you -are so sore about it, you will betray your own secret.” - -“I have no secret,--none at least from you, or from mamma; and, indeed, -none from him. We were both very foolish, thinking that we knew each -other and our own hearts, when we knew neither.” - -“I hate to hear people talk of knowing their hearts. My idea is, that if -you like a young man, and he asks you to marry him, you ought to have -him. That is, if there is enough to live on. I don’t know what more is -wanted. But girls are getting to talk and think as though they were to -send their hearts through some fiery furnace of trial before they may -give them up to a husband’s keeping. I am not at all sure that the -French fashion is not the best, and that these things shouldn’t be -managed by the fathers and mothers, or perhaps by the family lawyers. -Girls who are so intent upon knowing their own hearts generally end by -knowing nobody’s heart but their own; and then they die old maids.” - -“Better that than give themselves to the keeping of those they don’t -know and cannot esteem.” - -“That’s a matter of taste. I mean to take the first that comes, so long -as he looks like a gentleman, and has not less than eight hundred a -year. Now Godfrey does look like a gentleman, and has double that. If I -had such a chance I shouldn’t think twice about it.” - -“But I have no such chance.” - -“That’s the way the wind blows; is it?” - -“No, no. Oh, Bella, pray, pray leave me alone. Pray do not interfere. -There is no wind blowing in any way. All that I want is your silence and -your sympathy.” - -“Very well. I will be silent and sympathetic as the grave. Only don’t -imagine that I am cold as the grave also. I don’t exactly appreciate -your ideas; but if I can do no good, I will at any rate endeavour to do -no harm.” - -After lunch, at about three, they started on their walk, and managed to -ferry themselves over the river. “Oh, do let me, Bessy,” said Kate -Coverdale. “I understand all about it. Look here, Miss Holmes. You pull -the chain through your hands----” - -“And inevitably tear your gloves to pieces,” said Miss Holmes. Kate -certainly had done so, and did not seem to be particularly well pleased -with the accident. “There’s a nasty nail in the chain,” she said. “I -wonder those stupid boys did not tell us.” - -Of course they reached the trysting-place much too soon, and were very -tired of walking up and down, to keep their feet warm, before the -sportsmen came up. But this was their own fault, seeing that they had -reached the stile half an hour before the time fixed. - -“I never will go anywhere to meet gentlemen again,” said Miss Holmes. -“It is most preposterous that ladies should be left in the snow for an -hour. Well, young men, what sport have you had?” - -“I shot the big black cock,” said Harry. - -“Did you indeed?” said Kate Coverdale. - -“And here are the feathers out of his tail for you. He dropped them in -the water, and I had to go in after them up to my middle. But I told you -that I would, so I was determined to get them.” - -“Oh, you silly, silly boy,” said Kate. “But I’ll keep them for ever. I -will indeed.” This was said a little apart, for Harry had managed to -draw the young lady aside before he presented the feathers. - -Frank had also his trophies for Patty, and the tale to tell of his own -prowess. In that he was a year older than his brother, he was by a -year’s growth less ready to tender his present to his lady-love, openly -in the presence of them all. But he found his opportunity, and then he -and Patty went on a little in advance. Kate also was deep in her -consolations to Harry for his ducking; and therefore the four disposed -of themselves in the manner previously suggested by Miss Holmes. Miss -Holmes, therefore, and her brother, and Bessy Garrow, were left together -in the path, and discussed the performances of the day in a manner that -elicited no very ecstatic interest. So they walked for a mile, and by -degrees the conversation between them dwindled down almost to nothing. - -“There is nothing I dislike so much as coming out with people younger -than myself,” said Miss Holmes. “One always feels so old and dull. -Listen to those children there; they make me feel as though I were an -old maiden aunt, brought out with them to do propriety.” - -“Patty won’t at all approve if she hears you call her a child.” - -“Nor shall I approve, if she treats me like an old woman,” and then she -stepped on and joined the children. “I wouldn’t spoil even their sport -if I could help it,” she said to herself. “But with them I shall only be -a temporary nuisance; if I remain behind I shall become a permanent -evil.” And thus Bessy and her old lover were left by themselves. - -“I hope you will get on well with Bella,” said Godfrey, when they had -remained silent for a minute or two. - -“Oh, yes. She is so good-natured and light-spirited that everybody must -like her. She has been used to so much amusement and active life, that I -know she must find it very dull here.” - -“She is never dull anywhere,--even at Liverpool, which, for a young -lady, I sometimes think the dullest place on earth. I know it is for a -man.” - -“A man who has work to do can never be dull; can he?” - -“Indeed he can; as dull as death. I am so often enough. I have never -been very bright there, Bessy, since you left us.” There was nothing in -his calling her Bessy, for it had become a habit with him since they -were children; and they had formerly agreed that everything between them -should be as it had been before that foolish whisper of love had been -spoken and received. Indeed, provision had been made by them specially -on this point, so that there need be no awkwardness in this mode of -addressing each other. Such provision had seemed to be very prudent, but -it hardly had the desired effect on the present occasion. - -“I hardly know what you mean by brightness,” she said, after a pause. -“Perhaps it is not intended that people’s lives should be what you call -bright.” - -“Life ought to be as bright as we can make it.” - -“It all depends on the meaning of the word. I suppose we are not very -bright here at Thwaite Hall, but yet we think ourselves very happy.” - -“I am sure you are,” said Godfrey. “I very often think of you here.” - -“We always think of places where we have been when we were young,” said -Bessy; and then again they walked on for some way in silence, and Bessy -began to increase her pace with the view of catching the children. The -present walk to her was anything but bright, and she bethought herself -with dismay that there were still two miles before she reached the -Ferry. - -“Bessy,” Godfrey said at last. And then he stopped as though he were -doubtful how to proceed. She, however, did not say a word, but walked on -quickly, as though her only hope was in catching the party before her. -But they also were walking quickly, for Bella was determined that she -would not be caught. - -“Bessy, I must speak to you once of what passed between us at -Liverpool.” - -“Must you?” said she. - -“Unless you positively forbid it.” - -“Stop, Godfrey,” she said. And they did stop in the path, for now she no -longer thought of putting an end to her embarrassment by overtaking her -companions. “If any such words are necessary for your comfort, it would -hardly become me to forbid them. Were I to speak so harshly you would -accuse me afterwards in your own heart. It must be for you to judge -whether it is well to reopen a wound that is nearly healed.” - -“But with me it is not nearly healed. The wound is open always.” - -“There are some hurts,” she said, “which do not admit of an absolute and -perfect cure, unless after long years.” As she said so, she could not -but think how much better was his chance of such perfect cure than her -own. With her,--so she said to herself,--such curing was all but -impossible; whereas with him, it was as impossible that the injury -should last. - -“Bessy,” he said, and he again stopped her on the narrow path, standing -immediately before her on the way, “you remember all the circumstances -that made us part?” - -“Yes; I think I remember them.” - -“And you still think that we were right to part?” - -She paused for a moment before she answered him; but it was only for a -moment, and then she spoke quite firmly. “Yes, Godfrey, I do; I have -thought about it much since then. I have thought, I fear, to no good -purpose about aught else. But I have never thought that we had been -unwise in that.” - -“And yet I think you loved me.” - -“I am bound to confess I did so, as otherwise I must confess myself a -liar. I told you at the time that I loved you, and I told you so truly. -But it is better, ten times better, that those who love should part, -even though they still should love, than that two should be joined -together who are incapable of making each other happy. Remember what you -told me.” - -“I do remember.” - -“You found yourself unhappy in your engagement, and you said it was my -fault.” - -“Bessy, there is my hand. If you have ceased to love me, there is an end -of it. But if you love me still, let all that be forgotten.” - -“Forgotten, Godfrey! How can it be forgotten? You were unhappy, and it -was my fault. My fault, as it would be if I tried to solace a sick child -with arithmetic, or feed a dog with grass. I had no right to love you, -knowing you as I did; and knowing also that my ways would not be your -ways. My punishment I understand, and it is not more than I can bear; -but I had hoped that your punishment would have been soon over.” - -“You are too proud, Bessy.” - -“That is very likely. Frank says that I am a Puritan, and pride was the -worst of their sins.” - -“Too proud and unbending. In marriage should not the man and woman adapt -themselves to each other?” - -“When they are married, yes. And every girl who thinks of marrying -should know that in very much she must adapt herself to her husband. But -I do not think that a woman should be the ivy, to take the direction of -every branch of the tree to which she clings. If she does so, what can -be her own character? But we must go on, or we shall be too late.” - -“And you will give me no other answer?” - -“None other, Godfrey. Have you not just now, at this very moment, told -me that I was too proud? Can it be possible that you should wish to tie -yourself for life to female pride? And if you tell me that now, at such -a moment as this, what would you tell me in the close intimacy of -married life, when the trifles of every day would have worn away the -courtesies of guest and lover?” - -There was a sharpness of rebuke in this which Godfrey Holmes could not -at the moment overcome. Nevertheless he knew the girl, and understood -the workings of her heart and mind. Now, in her present state, she could -be unbending, proud, and almost rough. In that she had much to lose in -declining the renewed offer which he made her, she would, as it were, -continually prompt herself to be harsh and inflexible. Had he been -poor, had she not loved him, had not all good things seemed to have -attended the promise of such a marriage, she would have been less -suspicious of herself in receiving the offer, and more gracious in -replying to it. Had he lost all his money before he came back to her, -she would have taken him at once; or had he been deprived of an eye, or -become crippled in his legs, she would have done so. But, circumstanced -as he was, she had no motive to tenderness. There was an organic defect -in her character, which no doubt was plainly marked by its own bump in -her cranium,--the bump of philomartyrdom, it might properly be called. -She had shipwrecked her own happiness in rejecting Godfrey Holmes; but -it seemed to her to be the proper thing that a well-behaved young lady -should shipwreck her own happiness. For the last month or two she had -been tossed about by the waters and was nearly drowned. Now there was -beautiful land again close to her, and a strong pleasant hand stretched -out to save her. But though she had suffered terribly among the waves, -she still thought it wrong to be saved. It would be so pleasant to take -that hand, so sweet, so joyous, that it surely must be wrong. That was -her doctrine; and Godfrey Holmes, though he hardly analysed the matter, -partly understood that it was so. And yet, if once she were landed on -that green island, she would be so happy. She spoke with scorn of a -woman clinging to a tree like ivy; and yet, were she once married, no -woman would cling to her husband with sweeter feminine tenacity than -Bessy Garrow. He spoke no further word to her as he walked home, but in -handing her down to the ferry-boat he pressed her hand. For a second it -seemed as though she had returned this pressure. If so, the action was -involuntary, and her hand instantly resumed its stiffness to his touch. - -It was late that night when Major Garrow went to his bed-room, but his -wife was still up, waiting for him. “Well,” said she, “what has he said -to you? He has been with you above an hour.” - -“Such stories are not very quickly told; and in this case it was -necessary to understand him very accurately. At length I think I do -understand him.” - -It is not necessary to repeat at length all that was said on that night -between Major and Mrs. Garrow, as to the offer which had now for a third -time been made to their daughter. On that evening, after the ladies had -gone, and when the two boys had taken themselves off, Godfrey Holmes -told his tale to his host, and had honestly explained to him what he -believed to be the state of his daughter’s feelings. “Now you know all,” -said he. “I do believe that she loves me, and if she does, perhaps she -may still listen to you.” Major Garrow did not feel sure that he “knew -it all.” But when he had fully discussed the matter that night with his -wife, then he thought that perhaps he had arrived at that knowledge. - -On the following morning Bessy learned from the maid, at an early hour, -that Godfrey Holmes had left Thwaite Hall and gone back to Liverpool. To -the girl she said nothing on the subject, but she felt obliged to say a -word or two to Bella. “It is his coming that I regret,” she said;--“that -he should have had the trouble and annoyance for nothing. I acknowledge -that it was my fault, and I am very sorry.” - -“It cannot be helped,” said Miss Holmes, somewhat gravely. “As to his -misfortunes, I presume that his journeys between here and Liverpool are -not the worst of them.” - -After breakfast on that day Bessy was summoned into her father’s -book-room, and found him there, and her mother also. “Bessy,” said he, -“sit down, my dear. You know why Godfrey has left us this morning?” - -Bessy walked round the room, so that in sitting she might be close to -her mother and take her mother’s hand in her own. “I suppose I do, -papa,” she said. - -“He was with me late last night, Bessy; and when he told me what had -passed between you I agreed with him that he had better go.” - -“It was better that he should go, papa.” - -“But he has left a message for you.” - -“A message, papa?” - -“Yes, Bessy. And your mother agrees with me that it had better be given -to you. It is this,--that if you will send him word to come again, he -will be here by Twelfth-night. He came before on my invitation, but if -he returns it must be on yours.” - -“Oh, papa, I cannot.” - -“I do not say that you can, but think of it calmly before you altogether -refuse. You shall give me your answer on New Year’s morning.” - -“Mamma knows that it would be impossible,” said Bessy. - -“Not impossible, dearest. - -“In such a matter you should do what you believe to be right,” said her -father. - -“If I were to ask him here again, it would be telling him that I -would----” - -“Exactly, Bessy. It would be telling him that you would be his wife. He -would understand it so, and so would your mother and I. It must be so -understood altogether.” - -“But, papa, when we were at Liverpool----” - -“I have told him everything, dearest,” said Mrs. Garrow. - -“I think I understand the whole,” said the Major; “and in such a matter -as this I will not give you counsel on either side. But you must -remember that in making up your mind, you must think of him as well as -of yourself. If you do not love him;--if you feel that as his wife you -should not love him, there is not another word to be said. I need not -explain to my daughter that under such circumstances she would be wrong -to encourage the visits of a suitor. But your mother says you do love -him.” - -“Oh, mamma!” - -“I will not ask you. But if you do;--if you have so told him, and -allowed him to build up an idea of his life-happiness on such telling, -you will, I think, sin greatly against him by allowing a false feminine -pride to mar his happiness. When once a girl has confessed to a man that -she loves him, the confession and the love together put upon her the -burden of a duty towards him, which she cannot with impunity throw -aside.” Then he kissed her, and bidding her give him a reply on the -morning of the new year, left her with her mother. - -She had four days for consideration, and they went past her by no means -easily. Could she have been alone with her mother, the struggle would -not have been so painful; but there was the necessity that she should -talk to Isabella Holmes, and the necessity also that she should not -neglect the Coverdales. Nothing could have been kinder than Bella. She -did not speak on the subject till the morning of the last day, and then -only in a very few words. “Bessy,” she said, “as you are great, be -merciful.” - -“But I am not great, and it would not be mercy.” - -“As to that,” said Bella, “he has surely a right to his own opinion.” - -On that evening she was sitting alone in her room when her mother came -to her, and her eyes were red with weeping. Pen and paper were before -her, as though she were resolved to write, but hitherto no word had been -written. - -“Well, Bessy,” said her mother, sitting down close beside her; “is the -deed done?” - -“What deed, mamma? Who says that I am to do it?” - -“The deed is not the writing, but the resolution to write. Five words -will be sufficient,--if only those five words may be written.” - -“It is for one’s whole life, mamma. For his life, as well as my own.” - -“True, Bessy;--that is quite true. But equally true whether you bid him -come or allow him to remain away. That task of making up one’s mind for -life, must at last be done in some special moment of that life.” - -“Mamma, mamma; tell me what I should do.” - -But this Mrs. Garrow would not do. “I will write the words for you if -you like,” she said, “but it is you who must resolve that they shall be -written. I cannot bid my darling go away and leave me for another -home;--I can only say that in my heart I do believe that home would be a -happy one.” - -It was morning before the note was written, but when the morning came -Bessy had written it and brought it to her mother. - -“You must take it to papa,” she said. Then she went and hid herself from -all eyes till the noon had passed. “Dear Godfrey,” the letter ran, “Papa -says that you will return on Wednesday if I write to ask you. Do come -back to us,--if you wish it. Yours always, - -BESSY.” - -“It is as good as though she had filled the sheet,” said the Major. But -in sending it to Godfrey Holmes, he did not omit a few accompanying -remarks of his own. - -An answer came from Godfrey by return of post; and on the afternoon of -the sixth of January, Frank Garrow drove over to the station at Penrith -to meet him. On their way back to Thwaite Hall there grew up a very -close confidence between the two future brothers-in-law, and Frank -explained with great perspicuity a little plan which he had arranged -himself. “As soon as it is dark, so that she won’t see it, Harry will -hang it up in the dining-room,” he said, “and mind you go in there -before you go anywhere else.” - -“I am very glad you have come back, Godfrey,” said the Major, meeting -him in the hall. - -“God bless you, dear Godfrey,” said Mrs. Garrow, “you will find Bessy in -the dining-room,” she whispered; but in so whispering she was quite -unconscious of the mistletoe bough. - -And so also was Bessy, nor do I think that she was much more conscious -when that introduction was over. Godfrey had made all manner of promises -to Frank, but when the moment arrived, he had found the moment too -important for any special reference to the little bough above his head. -Not so, however, Patty Coverdale. “It’s a shame,” said she, bursting out -of the room, “and if I’d known what you had done, nothing on earth -should have induced me to go in. I won’t enter the room till I know that -you have taken it out.” Nevertheless her sister Kate was bold enough to -solve the mystery before the evening was over. - - - - -RETURNING HOME. - - -It is generally supposed that people who live at home,--good domestic -people, who love tea and their arm-chairs, and who keep the parlour -hearth-rug ever warm,--it is generally supposed that these are the -people who value home the most, and best appreciate all the comforts of -that cherished institution. I am inclined to doubt this. It is, I think, -to those who live farthest away from home, to those who find the -greatest difficulty in visiting home, that the word conveys the sweetest -idea. In some distant parts of the world it may be that an Englishman -acknowledges his permanent resting place; but there are many others in -which he will not call his daily house, his home. He would, in his own -idea, desecrate the word by doing so. His home is across the blue -waters, in the little northern island, which perhaps he may visit no -more; which he has left, at any rate, for half his life; from which -circumstances, and the necessity of living, have banished him. His home -is still in England, and when he speaks of home his thoughts are there. - -No one can understand the intensity of this feeling who has not seen or -felt the absence of interest in life which falls to the lot of many who -have to eat their bread on distant soils. We are all apt to think that a -life in strange countries will be a life of excitement, of stirring -enterprise, and varied scenes;--that in abandoning the comforts of home, -we shall receive in exchange more of movement and of adventure than -would come in our way in our own tame country; and this feeling has, I -am sure, sent many a young man roaming. Take any spirited fellow of -twenty, and ask him whether he would like to go to Mexico for the next -ten years! Prudence and his father may ultimately save him from such -banishment, but he will not refuse without a pang of regret. - -Alas! it is a mistake. Bread may be earned, and fortunes, perhaps, made -in such countries; and as it is the destiny of our race to spread itself -over the wide face of the globe, it is well that there should be -something to gild and paint the outward face of that lot which so many -are called upon to choose. But for a life of daily excitement, there is -no life like life in England; and the farther that one goes from England -the more stagnant, I think, do the waters of existence become. - -But if it be so for men, it is ten times more so for women. An -Englishman, if he be at Guatemala or Belize, must work for his bread, -and that work will find him in thought and excitement. But what of his -wife? Where will she find excitement? By what pursuit will she repay -herself for all that she has left behind her at her mother’s fireside? -She will love her husband. Yes; that at least! If there be not that, -there will be a hell, indeed. Then she will nurse her children, and talk -of her--home. When the time shall come that her promised return thither -is within a year or two of its accomplishment, her thoughts will all be -fixed on that coming pleasure, as are the thoughts of a young girl on -her first ball for the fortnight before that event comes off. - -On the central plain of that portion of Central America which is called -Costa Rica stands the city of San José. It is the capital of the -Republic,--for Costa Rica is a Republic,--and, for Central America, is a -town of some importance. It is in the middle of the coffee district, -surrounded by rich soil on which the sugar-cane is produced, is blessed -with a climate only moderately hot, and the native inhabitants are -neither cut-throats nor cannibals. It may be said, therefore, that by -comparison with some other spots to which Englishmen and others are -congregated for the gathering together of money, San José may be -considered as a happy region; but, nevertheless, a life there is not in -every way desirable. It is a dull place, with little to interest either -the eye or the ear. Although the heat of the tropics is but little felt -there on account of its altitude, men and women become too lifeless for -much enterprise. There is no society. There are a few Germans and a few -Englishmen in the place, who see each other on matters of business -during the day; but, sombre as life generally is, they seem to care -little for each other’s company on any other footing. I know not to what -point the aspirations of the Germans may stretch themselves, but to the -English the one idea that gives salt to life is the idea of home. On -some day, however distant it may be, they will once more turn their -faces towards the little northern island, and then all will be well with -them. - -To a certain Englishman there, and to his dear little wife, this -prospect came some few years since somewhat suddenly. Events and -tidings, it matters not which or what, brought it about that they -resolved between themselves that they would start immediately;--almost -immediately. They would pack up and leave San José within four months of -the day on which their purpose was first formed. At San José a period of -only four months for such a purpose was immediately. It creates a -feeling of instant excitement, a necessity for instant doing, a -consciousness that there was in those few weeks ample work both for the -hands and thoughts,--work almost more than ample. The dear little wife, -who for the last two years had been so listless, felt herself flurried. - -“Harry,” she said to her husband, “how shall we ever be ready?” And her -pretty face was lighted up with unusual brightness at the happy thought -of so much haste with such an object. “And baby’s things too,” she said, -as she thought of all the various little articles of dress that would be -needed. A journey from San José to Southampton cannot in truth be made -as easily as one from London to Liverpool. Let us think of a month to be -passed without any aid from the washerwoman, and the greatest part of -that month amidst the sweltering heats of the West Indian tropics! - -In the first month of her hurry and flurry Mrs. Arkwright was a happy -woman. She would see her mother again and her sisters. It was now four -years since she had left them on the quay at Southampton, while all -their hearts were broken at the parting. She was a young bride then, -going forth with her new lord to meet the stern world. He had then been -home to look for a wife, and he had found what he looked for in the -younger sister of his partner. For he, Henry Arkwright, and his wife’s -brother, Abel Ring, had established themselves together in San José. And -now, she thought, how there would be another meeting on those quays at -which there should be no broken hearts; at which there should be love -without sorrow, and kisses, sweet with the sweetness of welcome, not -bitter with the bitterness of parting. And people told her,--the few -neighbours around her,--how happy, how fortunate she was to get home -thus early in her life. They had been out some ten,--some twenty years, -and still the day of their return was distant. And then she pressed her -living baby to her breast, and wiped away a tear as she thought of the -other darling whom she would leave beneath that distant sod. - -And then came the question as to the route home. San José stands in the -middle of the high plain of Costa Rica, half way between the Pacific and -the Atlantic. The journey thence down to the Pacific is, by comparison, -easy. There is a road, and the mules on which the travellers must ride -go steadily and easily down to Punta Arenas, the port on that ocean. -There are inns, too, on the way,--places of public entertainment at -which refreshment may be obtained, and beds, or fair substitutes for -beds. But then by this route the traveller must take a long additional -sea voyage. He must convey himself and his weary baggage down to that -wretched place on the Pacific, there wait for a steamer to take him to -Panamá, cross the isthmus, and reship himself in the other waters for -his long journey home. That terrible unshipping and reshipping is a sore -burden to the unaccustomed traveller. When it is absolutely -necessary,--then indeed it is done without much thought; but in the case -of the Arkwrights it was not absolutely necessary. And there was another -reason which turned Mrs. Arkwright’s heart against that journey by Punt’ -Arenas. The place is unhealthy, having at certain seasons a very bad -name;--and here on their outward journey her husband had been taken ill. -She had never ceased to think of the fortnight she had spent there among -uncouth strangers, during a portion of which his life had trembled in -the balance. Early, therefore, in those four months she begged that she -might not be taken round by Punt’ Arenas. There was another route. -“Harry, if you love me, let me go by the Serapiqui.” As to Harry’s -loving her, there was no doubt about that, as she well knew. - -There was this other route by the Serapiqui river, and by Greytown. -Greytown, it is true, is quite as unhealthy as Punt’ Arenas, and by that -route one’s baggage must be shipped and unshipped into small boats. -There are all manner of difficulties attached to it. Perhaps no direct -road to and from any city on the world’s surface is subject to sharper -fatigue while it lasts. Journeying by this route also, the traveller -leaves San José mounted on his mule, and so mounted he makes his way -through the vast primeval forests down to the banks of the Serapiqui -river. That there is a track for him is of course true; but it is simply -a track, and during nine months of the twelve is so deep in mud that the -mules sink in it to their bellies. Then, when the river has been -reached, the traveller seats him in his canoe, and for two days is -paddled down,--down along the Serapiqui, into the San Juan River, and -down along the San Juan till he reaches Greytown, passing one night at -some hut on the river side. At Greytown he waits for the steamer which -will carry him his first stage on his road towards Southampton. He must -be a connoisseur in disagreeables of every kind who can say with any -precision whether Greytown or Punt’ Arenas is the better place for a -week’s sojourn. - -For a full month Mr. Arkwright would not give way to his wife. At first -he all but conquered her by declaring that the Serapiqui journey would -be dangerous for the baby; but she heard from some one that it could be -made less fatiguing for the baby than the other route. A baby had been -carried down in a litter strapped on to a mule’s back. A guide at the -mule’s head would be necessary, and that was all. When once in her boat -the baby would be as well as in her cradle. What purpose cannot a woman -gain by perseverance? Her purpose in this instance Mrs. Arkwright did at -last gain by persevering. - -And then their preparations for the journey went on with much flurrying -and hot haste. To us at home, who live and feel our life every day, the -manufacture of endless baby-linen and the packing of mountains of -clothes does not give an idea of much pleasurable excitement; but at San -José, where there was scarcely motion enough in existence to prevent its -waters from becoming foul with stagnation, this packing of baby-linen -was delightful, and for a month or so the days went by with happy wings. - -But by degrees reports began to reach both Arkwright and his wife as to -this new route, which made them uneasy. The wet season had been -prolonged, and even though they might not be deluged by rain themselves, -the path would be in such a state of mud as to render the labour -incessant. One or two people declared that the road was unfit at any -time for a woman,--and then the river would be much swollen. These -tidings did not reach Arkwright and his wife together, or at any rate -not till late amidst their preparations, or a change might still have -been made. As it was, after all her entreaties, Mrs. Arkwright did not -like to ask him again to alter his plans; and he, having altered them -once, was averse to change them again. So things went on till the mules -and the boats had been hired, and things had gone so far that no change -could then be made without much cost and trouble. - -During the last ten days of their sojourn at San José, Mrs. Arkwright -had lost all that appearance of joy which had cheered up her sweet face -during the last few months. Terror at that terrible journey obliterated -in her mind all the happiness which had arisen from the hope of being -soon at home. She was thoroughly cowed by the danger to be encountered, -and would gladly have gone down to Punt’ Arenas, had it been now -possible that she could so arrange it. It rained, and rained, and still -rained, when there was now only a week from the time they started. Oh! -if they could only wait for another month! But this she said to no one. -After what had passed between her and her husband, she had not the heart -to say such words to him. Arkwright himself was a man not given to much -talking, a silent thoughtful man, stern withal in his outward bearing, -but tender-hearted and loving in his nature. The sweet young wife who -had left all, and come with him out to that dull distant place, was very -dear to him,--dearer than she herself was aware, and in these days he -was thinking much of her coming troubles. Why had he given way to her -foolish prayers? Ah, why indeed? - -And thus the last few days of their sojourn in San José passed away from -them. Once or twice during these days she did speak out, expressing her -fears. Her feelings were too much for her, and she could not restrain -herself. “Poor mamma,” she said, “I shall never see her!” And then -again, “Harry, I know I shall never reach home alive.” - -“Fanny, my darling, that is nonsense.” But in order that his spoken word -might not sound stern to her, he took her in his arms and kissed her. - -“You must behave well, Fanny,” he said to her the day before they -started. Though her heart was then very low within her, she promised him -that she would do her best, and then she made a great resolution. Though -she should be dying on the road, she would not complain beyond the -absolute necessity of her nature. She fully recognised his thoughtful -tender kindness, for though he thus cautioned her, he never told her -that the dangers which she feared were the result of her own choice. He -never threw in her teeth those prayers which she had made, in yielding -to which he knew that he had been weak. - -Then came the morning of their departure. The party of travellers -consisted of four besides the baby. There was Mr. Arkwright, his wife, -and an English nurse, who was going to England with them, and her -brother, Abel King, who was to accompany them as far as the Serapiqui -River. When they had reached that, the real labour of the journey would -be over. They had eight mules; four for the four travellers, one for -the baby, a spare mule laden simply with blankets, so that Mrs. -Arkwright might change in order that she should not be fatigued by the -fatigue of her beast, and two for their luggage. The heavier portion of -their baggage had already been sent off by Punt’ Arenas, and would meet -them at the other side of the Isthmus of Panamá. - -For the last four days the rain had ceased,--had ceased at any rate at -San José. Those who knew the country well, would know that it might -still be raining over those vast forests; but now as the matter was -settled, they would hope for the best. On that morning on which they -started the sun shone fairly, and they accepted this as an omen of good. -Baby seemed to lay comfortably on her pile of blankets on the mule’s -back, and the face of the tall Indian guide who took his place at that -mule’s head pleased the anxious mother. - -“Not leave him ever,” he said in Spanish, laying his hand on the cord -which was fastened to the beast’s head; and not for one moment did he -leave his charge, though the labour of sticking close to him was very -great. - -They had four attendants or guides, all of whom made the journey on -foot. That they were all men of mixed race was probable; but three of -them would have been called Spaniards, Spaniards, that is, of Costa -Rica, and the other would be called an Indian. One of the Spaniards was -the leader, or chief man of the party, but the others seemed to stand on -an equal footing with each other; and indeed the place of greatest care -had been given to the Indian. - -For the first four or five miles their route lay along the high road -which leads from San José to Punt’ Arenas, and so far a group of -acquaintances followed them, all mounted on mules. Here, where the ways -forked, their road leading through the great forests to the Atlantic, -they separated, and many tears were shed on each side. What might be the -future life of the Arkwrights had not been absolutely fixed, but there -was a strong hope on their part that they might never be forced to -return to Costa Rica. Those from whom they now parted had not seemed to -be dear to them in any especial degree while they all lived together in -the same small town, seeing each other day by day; but now,--now that -they might never meet again, a certain love sprang up for the old -familiar faces, and women kissed each other who hitherto had hardly -cared to enter each other’s houses. - -And then the party of the Arkwrights again started, and its steady work -began. In the whole of the first day the way beneath their feet was -tolerably good, and the weather continued fine. It was one long gradual -ascent from the plain where the roads parted, but there was no real -labour in travelling. Mrs. Arkwright rode beside her baby’s mule, at the -head of which the Indian always walked, and the two men went together in -front. The husband had found that his wife would prefer this, as long as -the road allowed of such an arrangement. Her heart was too full to admit -of much speaking, and so they went on in silence. - -The first night was passed in a hut by the roadside, which seemed to be -deserted,--a hut or rancho as it is called in that country. Their food -they had, of course, brought with them; and here, by common consent, -they endeavoured in some sort to make themselves merry. - -“Fanny,” Arkwright said to her, “it is not so bad after all; eh, my -darling?” - -“No,” she answered; “only that the mule tires one so. Will all the days -be as long as that?” - -He had not the heart to tell her that as regarded hours of work, that -first day must of necessity be the shortest. They had risen to a -considerable altitude, and the night was very cold; but baby was -enveloped among a pile of coloured blankets, and things did not go very -badly with them; only this, that when Fanny Arkwright rose from her hard -bed, her limbs were more weary and much more stiff than they had been -when Arkwright had lifted her from her mule. - -On the second morning they mounted before the day had quite broken, in -order that they might breakfast on the summit of the ridge which -separates the two oceans. At this spot the good road comes to an end, -and the forest track begins; and here also, they would, in truth, enter -the forest, though their path had for some time been among straggling -trees and bushes. And now, again, they rode two and two, up to this -place of halting, Arkwright and Ring well knowing that from hence their -labours would in truth commence. - -Poor Mrs. Arkwright, when she reached this resting-place, would fain -have remained there for the rest of the day. One word, in her low, -plaintive voice, she said, asking whether they might not sleep in the -large shed which stands there. But this was manifestly impossible. At -such a pace they would never reach Greytown; and she spoke no further -word when he told her that they must go on. - -At about noon that day the file of travellers formed itself into the -line which it afterwards kept during the whole of the journey, and then -started by the narrow-path into the forest. First walked the leader of -the guides, then another man following him; Abel Ring came next, and -behind him the maid-servant; then the baby’s mule, with the Indian ever -at its head; close at his heels followed Mrs. Arkwright, so that the -mother’s eye might be always on her child; and after her her husband; -then another guide on foot completed the number of the travellers. In -this way they went on and on, day after day, till they reached the banks -of the Serapiqui, never once varying their places in the procession. As -they started in the morning, so they went on, till their noon-day’s -rest, and so again they made their evening march. In that journey there -was no idea of variety, no searching after the pleasures of scenery, no -attempts at conversation with any object of interest or amusement. What -words were spoken were those simply needful, or produced by sympathy for -suffering. So they journeyed, always in the same places, with one -exception. They began their work with two guides leading them, but -before the first day was over one of them had fallen back to the side of -Mrs. Arkwright, for she was unable to sit on her mule without support. - -Their daily work was divided into two stages, so as to give some hours -for rest in the middle of the day. It had been arranged that the -distance for each day should not be long,--should be very short as was -thought by them all when they talked it over at San José; but now the -hours which they passed in the saddle seemed to be endless. Their -descent began from that ridge of which I have spoken, and they had no -sooner turned their faces down upon the mountain slopes looking towards -the Atlantic, than that passage of mud began to which there was no -cessation till they found themselves on the banks of the Serapiqui -river. I doubt whether it be possible to convey in words an adequate -idea of the labour of riding over such a path. It is not that any active -exertion is necessary,--that there is anything which requires doing. The -traveller has before him the simple task of sitting on his mule from -hour to hour, and of seeing that his knees do not get themselves jammed -against the trees; but at every step the beast he rides has to drag his -legs out from the deep clinging mud, and the body of the rider never -knows one moment of ease. Why the mules do not die on the road, I cannot -say. They live through it, and do not appear to suffer. They have their -own way in everything, for no exertion on the rider’s part will make -them walk either faster or slower than is their wont. - -On the day on which they entered the forest,--that being the second of -their journey,--Mrs. Arkwright had asked for mercy, for permission to -escape that second stage. On the next she allowed herself to be lifted -into her saddle after her mid-day rest without a word. She had tried to -sleep, but in vain; and had sat within a little hut, looking out upon -the desolate scene before her, with her baby in her lap. She had this -one comfort, that of all the travellers, she, the baby, suffered the -least. They had now left the high grounds, and the heat was becoming -great, though not as yet intense. And then, the Indian guide, looking -out slowly over the forest, saw that the rain was not yet over. He spoke -a word or two to one of his companions in a low voice and in a patois -which Mrs. Arkwright did not understand, and then going after the -husband, told him that the heavens were threatening. - -“We have only two leagues,” said Arkwright, “and it may perhaps hold -up.” - -“It will begin in an hour,” said the Indian, “and the two leagues are -four hours.” - -“And to-morrow,” asked Arkwright. - -“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow it will still rain,” said the -guide, looking as he spoke up over the huge primeval forest. - -“Then we had better start at once,” said Arkwright, “before the first -falling drops frighten the women.” So the mules were brought out, and he -lifted his uncomplaining wife on to the blankets which formed her -pillion. The file again formed itself, and slowly they wound their way -out from the small enclosure by which the hut was surrounded;--out from -the enclosure on to a rough scrap of undrained pasture ground from which -the trees had been cleared. In a few minutes they were once more -struggling through the mud. - -The name of the spot which our travellers had just left is Carablanco. -There they found a woman living all alone. Her husband was away, she -told them, at San José, but would be back to her when the dry weather -came, to look up the young cattle which were straying in the forest. -What a life for a woman! Nevertheless, in talking with Mrs. Arkwright -she made no complaint of her own lot, but had done what little she could -to comfort the poor lady who was so little able to bear the fatigues of -her journey. - -“Is the road very bad?” Mrs. Arkwright asked her in a whisper. - -“Ah, yes; it is a bad road.” - -“And when shall we be at the river?” - -“It took me four days,” said the woman. - -“Then I shall never see my mother again,” and as she spoke Mrs. -Arkwright pressed her baby to her bosom. Immediately after that her -husband came in, and they started. - -Their path now led away across the slope of a mountain which seemed to -fall from the very top of that central ridge in an unbroken descent down -to the valley at its foot. Hitherto, since they had entered the forest, -they had had nothing before their eyes but the trees and bushes which -grew close around them. But now a prospect of unrivalled grandeur was -opened before them, if only had they been able to enjoy it. At the -bottom of the valley ran a river, which, so great was the depth, looked -like a moving silver cord; and on the other side of this there arose -another mountain, steep but unbroken like that which they were -passing,--unbroken, so that the eye could stretch from the river up to -the very summit. Not a spot on that mountain side or on their side -either was left uncovered by thick forest, which had stood there -untouched by man since nature first produced it. - -But all this was nothing to our travellers, nor was the clang of the -macaws anything, or the roaring of the little congo ape. Nothing was -gained by them from beautiful scenery, nor was there any fear from the -beasts of prey. The immediate pain of each step of the journey drove all -other feelings from them, and their thoughts were bounded by an intense -desire for the evening halt. - -And then, as the guide had prophesied, the rain began. At first it came -in such small soft drops that it was found to be refreshing, but the -clouds soon gathered and poured forth their collected waters as though -it had not rained for months among those mountains. Not that it came in -big drops, or with the violence which wind can give it, beating hither -and thither, breaking branches from the trees, and rising up again as it -pattered against the ground. There was no violence in the rain. It fell -softly in a long, continuous, noiseless stream, sinking into everything -that it touched, converting the deep rich earth on all sides into mud. - -Not a word was said by any of them as it came on. The Indian covered the -baby with her blanket, closer than she was covered before, and the guide -who walked by Mrs. Arkwright’s side drew her cloak around her knees. -But such efforts were in vain. There is a rain that will penetrate -everything, and such was the rain which fell upon them now. -Nevertheless, as I have said, hardly a word was spoken. The poor woman, -finding that the heat of her cloak increased her sufferings, threw it -open again. - -“Fanny,” said her husband, “you had better let him protect you as well -as he can.” - -She answered him merely by an impatient wave of her hand, intending to -signify that she could not speak, but that in this matter she must have -her way. - -After that her husband made no further attempt to control her. He could -see, however, that ever and again she would have slipped forward from -her mule, and fallen, had not the man by her side steadied her with his -hand. At every tree he protected her knees and feet, though there was -hardly room for him to move between the beast and the bank against which -he was thrust. - -And then, at last, that day’s work was also over, and Fanny Arkwright -slipped from her pillion down into her husband’s arms at the door of -another rancho in the forest. Here there lived a large family adding -from year to year to the patch of ground which they had rescued from the -wood, and valiantly doing their part in the extension of civilisation. -Our party was but a few steps from the door when they left their mules, -but Mrs. Arkwright did not now as heretofore hasten to receive her baby -in her arms. When placed upon the ground, she still leaned against the -mule, and her husband saw that he must carry her into the hut. This he -did, and then, wet, mud-laden, dishevelled as she was, she laid herself -down upon the planks that were to form her bed, and there stretched out -her arms for her infant. On that evening they undressed and tended her -like a child; and then when she was alone with her husband, she repeated -to him her sad foreboding. - -“Harry,” she said, “I shall never see my mother again.” - -“Oh, yes, Fanny, you will see her and talk over all these troubles with -pleasure. It is very bad, I know; but we shall live through it yet.” - -“You will, of course; and you will take baby home to her.” - -“And face her without you! No, my darling. Three more days’ riding, or -rather two and a half, will bring us to the river, and then your trouble -will be over. All will be easy after that.” - -“Ah, Harry, you do not know.” - -“I do know that it is very bad, my girl, but you must cheer up. We shall -be laughing at all this in a month’s time.” - -On the following morning she allowed herself to be lifted up, speaking -no word of remonstrance. Indeed she was like a child in their hands, -having dropped all the dignity and authority of a woman’s demeanour. It -rained again during the whole of this day, and the heat was becoming -oppressive as every hour they were descending nearer and nearer to the -sea level. During this first stage hardly a word was spoken by any one; -but when she was again taken from her mule she was in tears. The poor -servant-girl, too, was almost prostrate with fatigue, and absolutely -unable to wait upon her mistress, or even to do anything for herself. -Nevertheless they did make the second stage, seeing that their mid-day -resting place had been under the trees of the forest. Had there been any -hut there, they would have remained for the night. - -On the following day they rested altogether, though the place at which -they remained had but few attractions. It was another forest hut -inhabited by an old Spanish couple who were by no means willing to give -them room, although they paid for their accommodation at exorbitant -rates. It is one singularity of places strange and out of the way like -such forest tracks as these, that money in small sums is hardly valued. -Dollars there were not appreciated as sixpences are in this rich -country. But there they stayed for a day, and the guides employed -themselves in making a litter with long poles so that they might carry -Mrs. Arkwright over a portion of the ground. Poor fellows! When once she -had thus changed her mode of conveyance, she never again was lifted on -to the mule. - -There was strong reason against this day’s delay. They were to go down -the Serapiqui along with the post, which would overtake them on its -banks. But if the post should pass them before they got there, it could -not wait; and then they would be deprived of the best canoe on the -water. Then also it was possible, if they encountered further delay, -that the steamer might sail from Greytown without them, and a month’s -residence at that frightful place be thus made necessary. - -The day’s rest apparently did little to relieve Mrs. Arkwright’s -sufferings. On the following day she allowed herself to be put upon the -mule, but after the first hour the beasts were stopped and she was taken -off it. During that hour they had travelled hardly over half a league. -At that time she so sobbed and moaned that Arkwright absolutely feared -that she would perish in the forest, and he implored the guides to use -the poles which they had prepared. She had declared to him over and over -again that she felt sure that she should die, and, half-delirious with -weariness and suffering, had begged him to leave her at the last hut. -They had not yet come to the flat ground over which a litter might be -carried with comparative ease; but nevertheless the men yielded, and she -was placed in a recumbent position upon blankets, supported by boughs of -trees. In this way she went through that day with somewhat less of -suffering than before, and without that necessity for self-exertion -which had been worse to her than any suffering. - -There were places between that and the river at which one would have -said that it was impossible that a litter should be carried, or even -impossible that a mule should walk with a load on his back. But still -they went on, and the men carried their burden without complaining. Not -a word was said about money, or extra pay;--not a word, at least by -them; and when Arkwright was profuse in his offer, their leader told him -that they would not have done it for money. But for the poor suffering -Señora they would make exertions which no money would have bought from -them. - -On the next day about noon the post did pass them, consisting of three -strong men carrying great weights on their backs, suspended by bands -from their foreheads. They travelled much quicker than our friends, and -would reach the banks of the river that evening. In their ordinary -course they would start down the river close upon daybreak on the -following day; but, after some consultation with the guides, they agreed -to wait till noon. Poor Mrs. Arkwright knew nothing of hours or of any -such arrangements now, but her husband greatly doubted their power of -catching this mail despatch. However, it did not much depend on their -exertions that afternoon. Their resting-place was marked out for them, -and they could not go beyond it, unless indeed they could make the whole -journey, which was impossible. - -But towards evening matters seemed to improve with them. They had now -got on to ground which was more open, and the men who carried the litter -could walk with greater ease. Mrs. Arkwright also complained less, and -when they reached their resting-place on that night, said nothing of a -wish to be left there to her fate. This was a place called Padregal, a -cacao plantation, which had been cleared in the forest with much labour. -There was a house here containing three rooms, and some forty or fifty -acres round it had been stripped of the forest trees. But nevertheless -the adventure had not been a prosperous one, for the place was at that -time deserted. There were the cacao plants, but there was no one to pick -the cacao. There was a certain melancholy beauty about the place. A few -grand trees had been left standing near the house, and the grass around -was rich and park-like. But it was deserted, and nothing was heard but -the roaring of the congos. Ah me! Indeed it was a melancholy place as it -was seen by some of that party afterwards. - -On the following morning they were astir very early, and Mrs. Arkwright -was so much better that she offered to sit again upon her mule. The men, -however, declared that they would finish their task, and she was placed -again upon the litter. And then with slow and weary step they did make -their way to the river bank. It was not yet noon when they saw the mud -fort which stands there, and as they drew into the enclosure round a -small house which stands close by the river side, they saw the three -postmen still busy about their packages. - -“Thank God!” said Arkwright. - -“Thank God, indeed!” said his brother. “All will be right with you now.” - -“Well, Fanny,” said her husband, as he took her very gently from the -litter and seated her on a bench which stood outside the door. “It is -all over now,--is it not?” - -She answered him by a shower of tears, but they were tears which brought -her relief. He was aware of this, and therefore stood by her, still -holding her by both her hands while her head rested against his side. -“You will find the motion of the boat very gentle,” he said “indeed -there will be no motion, and you and baby will sleep all the way down to -Greytown.” She did not answer him in words, but she looked up into his -face, and he could see that her spirit was recovering itself. - -There was almost a crowd of people collected on the spot, preparatory to -the departure of the canoes. In the first place there was the commandant -of the fort, to whom the small house belonged. He was looking to the -passports of our friends, and with due diligence endeavouring to make -something of the occasion, by discovering fatal legal impediments to the -further prosecution of their voyage, which impediments would disappear -on the payment of certain dollars. And then there were half a dozen -Costa Rican soldiers, men with coloured caps and old muskets, ready to -support the dignity and authority of the commandant. There were the -guides taking payment from Abel Ring for their past work, and the -postmen preparing their boats for the further journey. And then there -was a certain German there, with a German servant, to whom the boats -belonged. He also was very busy preparing for the river voyage. He was -not going down with them, but it was his business to see them well -started. A singular looking man was he, with a huge shaggy beard, and -shaggy uncombed hair, but with bright blue eyes, which gave to his face -a remarkable look of sweetness. He was an uncouth man to the eye, and -yet a child would have trusted herself with him in a forest. - -At this place they remained some two hours. Coffee was prepared here, -and Mrs. Arkwright refreshed herself and her child. They washed and -arranged their clothes, and when she stepped down the steep bank, -clinging to her husband’s arm as she made her way towards the boat, she -smiled upon him as he looked at her. - -“It is all over now,--is it not, my girl?”--he said, encouraging her. - -“Oh, Harry, do not talk about it,” she answered, shuddering. - -“But I want you to say a word to me to let me know that you are better.” - -“I am better,--much better.” - -“And you will see your mother again; will you not; and give baby to her -yourself?” - -To this she made no immediate answer, for she was on a level with the -river, and the canoe was close at her feet. And then she had to bid -farewell to her brother. He was now the unfortunate one of the party, -for his destiny required that he should go back to San José alone,--go -back and remain there perhaps some ten years longer before he might look -for the happiness of home. - -“God bless you, dearest Abel,” she said, kissing him and sobbing as she -spoke. - -“Good-bye, Fanny,” he said, “and do not let them forget me in England. -It is a great comfort to think that the worst of your troubles are -over.” - -“Oh,--she’s all right now,” said Arkwright. “Good-bye, old boy,”--and -the two brothers-in-law grasped each other’s hands heartily. “Keep up -your spirits, and we’ll have you home before long.” - -“Oh, I’m all right,” said the other. But from the tone of the voices, it -was clear that poor Ring was despondent at the thoughts of his coming -solitude, and that Arkwright was already triumphing in his emancipation. - -And then, with much care, Fanny Arkwright was stowed away in the boat. -There was a great contest about the baby, but at last it was arranged, -that at any rate for the first few hours she should be placed in the -boat with the servant. The mother was told that by this plan she would -feel herself at liberty to sleep during the heat of the day, and then -she might hope to have strength to look to the child when they should be -on shore during the night. In this way therefore they prepared to start, -while Abel Ring stood on the bank looking at them with wishful eyes. In -the first boat were two Indians paddling, and a third man steering with -another paddle. In the middle there was much luggage, and near the -luggage so as to be under shade, was the baby’s soft bed. If nothing -evil happened to the boat, the child could not be more safe in the best -cradle that was ever rocked. With her was the maid-servant and some -stranger who was also going down to Greytown. - -In the second boat were the same number of men to paddle, the Indian -guide being one of them, and there were the mails placed. Then there was -a seat arranged with blankets, cloaks, and cushions, for Mrs. Arkwright, -so that she might lean back and sleep without fatigue, and immediately -opposite to her her husband placed himself. “You all look very -comfortable,” said poor Abel from the bank. - -“We shall do very well now,” said Arkwright. - -“And I do think I shall see mamma again,” said his wife. - -“That’s right, old girl;--of course you will see her. Now then,--we are -all ready.” And with some little assistance from the German on the bank, -the first boat was pushed off into the stream. - -The river in this place is rapid, because the full course of the water -is somewhat impeded by a bank of earth jutting out from the opposite -side of the river into the stream; but it is not so rapid as to make any -recognised danger in the embarkation. Below this bank, which is opposite -to the spot at which the boats were entered, there were four or five -broken trees in the water, some of the shattered boughs of which showed -themselves above the surface. These are called snags, and are very -dangerous if they are met with in the course of the stream; but in this -instance no danger was apprehended from them, as they lay considerably -to the left of the passage which the boats would take. The first canoe -was pushed off by the German, and went rapidly away. The waters were -strong with rain, and it was pretty to see with what velocity the boat -was carried on some hundred of yards in advance of the other by the -force of the first effort of the paddle. The German, however, from the -bank holloaed to the first men in Spanish, bidding them relax their -efforts for a while; and then he said a word or two of caution to those -who were now on the point of starting. - -The boat then was pushed steadily forward, the man at the stern keeping -it with his paddle a little farther away from the bank at which they had -embarked. It was close under the land that the stream ran the fastest, -and in obedience to the directions given to him he made his course -somewhat nearer to the sunken trees. It was but one turn of his hand -that gave the light boat its direction, but that turn of the hand was -too strong. Had the anxious master of the canoes been but a thought less -anxious, all might have been well; but, as it was, the prow of the boat -was caught by some slight hidden branch which impeded its course and -turned it round in the rapid river. The whole length of the canoe was -thus brought against the sunken tree, and in half a minute the five -occupants of the boat were struggling in the stream. - -Abel Ring and the German were both standing on the bank close to the -water when this happened, and each for a moment looked into the other’s -face. “Stand where you are,” shouted the German, “so that you may assist -them from the shore. I will go in.” And then, throwing from him his -boots and coat, he plunged into the river. - -The canoe had been swept round so as to be brought by the force of the -waters absolutely in among the upturned roots and broken stumps of the -trees which impeded the river, and thus, when the party was upset, they -were at first to be seen scrambling among the branches. But -unfortunately there was much more wood below the water than above it, -and the force of the stream was so great, that those who caught hold of -the timber were not able to support themselves by it above the surface. -Arkwright was soon to be seen some forty yards down, having been carried -clear of the trees, and here he got out of the river on the further -bank. The distance to him was not above forty yards, but from the nature -of the ground he could not get up towards his wife, unless he could have -forced his way against the stream. - -The Indian who had had charge of the baby rose quickly to the surface, -was carried once round in the eddy, with his head high above the water, -and then was seen to throw himself among the broken wood. He had seen -the dress of the poor woman, and made his effort to save her. The other -two men were so caught by the fragments of the boughs, that they could -not extricate themselves so as to make any exertions; ultimately, -however, they also got out on the further bank. - -Mrs. Arkwright had sunk at once on being precipitated into the water, -but the buoyancy of her clothes had brought her for a moment again to -the surface. She had risen for a moment, and then had again gone down, -immediately below the forked trunk of a huge tree;--had gone down, alas, -alas! never to rise again with life within her bosom. The poor Indian -made two attempts to save her, and then came up himself, incapable of -further effort. - -It was then that the German, the owner of the canoes, who had fought his -way with great efforts across the violence of the waters, and indeed up -against the stream for some few yards, made his effort to save the life -of that poor frail creature. He had watched the spot at which she had -gone down, and even while struggling across the river, had seen how the -Indian had followed her and had failed. It was now his turn. His life -was in his hand, and he was prepared to throw it away in that attempt. -Having succeeded in placing himself a little above the large tree, he -turned his face towards the bottom of the river, and dived down among -the branches. And he also, after that, was never again seen with the -life-blood flowing round his heart. - -When the sun set that night, the two swollen corpses were lying in the -Commandant’s hut, and Abel Ring and Arkwright were sitting beside them. -Arkwright had his baby sleeping in his arms, but he sat there for -hours,--into the middle of the long night,--without speaking a word to -any one. - -“Harry,” said his brother at last, “come away and lay down. It will be -good for you to sleep.” - -“Nothing ever will be good again for me,” said he. - -“You must bear up against your sorrow as other men do,” said Ring. - -“Why am I not sleeping with her as the poor German sleeps? Why did I let -another man take my place in dying for her?” And then he walked away -that the other might not see the tears on his face. - -It was a sad night,--that at the Commandant’s hut, and a sad morning -followed upon it. It must be remembered that they had there none of -those appurtenances which are so necessary to make woe decent and -misfortune comfortable. They sat through the night in the small hut, and -in the morning they came forth with their clothes still wet and dirty, -with their haggard faces, and weary stiff limbs, encumbered with the -horrid task of burying that loved body among the forest trees. And then, -to keep life in them till it was done, the brandy flask passed from hand -to hand; and after that, with slow but resolute efforts, they reformed -the litter on which the living woman had been carried thither, and took -her body back to the wild plantation at Padregal. There they dug for her -her grave, and repeating over her some portion of the service for the -dead, left her to sleep the sleep of death. But before they left her, -they erected a pallisade of timber round the grave, so that the beasts -of the forest should not tear the body from its resting-place. - -When that was done Arkwright and his brother made their slow journey -back to San José. The widowed husband could not face his darling’s -mother with such a tale upon his tongue as that. - - - - -A RIDE ACROSS PALESTINE. - - -Circumstances took me to the Holy Land without a companion, and -compelled me to visit Bethany, the Mount of Olives, and the Church of -the Sepulchre alone. I acknowledge myself to be a gregarious animal, or, -perhaps, rather one of those which nature has intended to go in pairs. -At any rate I dislike solitude, and especially travelling solitude, and -was, therefore, rather sad at heart as I sat one night at Z----’s -hotel, in Jerusalem, thinking over my proposed wanderings for the next -few days. Early on the following morning I intended to start, of course -on horseback, for the Dead Sea, the banks of Jordan, Jericho, and those -mountains of the wilderness through which it is supposed that Our -Saviour wandered for the forty days when the devil tempted him. I would -then return to the Holy City, and remaining only long enough to refresh -my horse and wipe the dust from my hands and feet, I would start again -for Jaffa, and there catch a certain Austrian steamer which would take -me to Egypt. Such was my programme, and I confess that I was but ill -contented with it, seeing that I was to be alone during the time. - -I had already made all my arrangements, and though I had no reason for -any doubt as to my personal security during the trip, I did not feel -altogether satisfied with them. I intended to take a French guide, or -dragoman, who had been with me for some days, and to put myself under -the peculiar guardianship of two Bedouin Arabs, who were to accompany me -as long as I should remain east of Jerusalem. This travelling through -the desert under the protection of Bedouins was, in idea, pleasant -enough; and I must here declare that I did not at all begrudge the forty -shillings which I was told by our British consul that I must pay them -for their trouble, in accordance with the established tariff. But I did -begrudge the fact of the tariff. I would rather have fallen in with my -friendly Arabs, as it were by chance, and have rewarded their fidelity -at the end of our joint journeyings by a donation of piastres to be -settled by myself, and which, under such circumstances, would certainly -have been as agreeable to them as the stipulated sum. In the same way I -dislike having waiters put down in my bill. I find that I pay them twice -over, and thus lose money; and as they do not expect to be so treated, I -never have the advantage of their civility. The world, I fear, is -becoming too fond of tariffs. - -“A tariff!” said I to the consul, feeling that the whole romance of my -expedition would be dissipated by such an arrangement. “Then I’ll go -alone; I’ll take a revolver with me.” - -“You can’t do it, sir,” said the consul, in a dry and somewhat angry -tone. “You have no more right to ride through that country without -paying the regular price for protection, than you have to stop in Z---- -’s hotel without settling the bill.” - -I could not contest the point, so I ordered my Bedouins for the -appointed day, exactly as I would send for a ticket-porter at home, and -determined to make the best of it. The wild unlimited sands, the -desolation of the Dead Sea, the rushing waters of Jordan, the outlines -of the mountains of Moab;--those things the consular tariff could not -alter, nor deprive them of the glories of their association. - -I had submitted, and the arrangements had been made. Joseph, my -dragoman, was to come to me with the horses and an Arab groom at five in -the morning, and we were to encounter our Bedouins outside the gate of -St. Stephen, down the hill, where the road turns, close to the tomb of -the Virgin. - -I was sitting alone in the public room at the hotel, filling my flask -with brandy,--for matters of primary importance I never leave to -servant, dragoman, or guide,--when the waiter entered, and said that a -gentleman wished to speak with me. The gentleman had not sent in his -card or name; but any gentleman was welcome to me in my solitude, and I -requested that the gentleman might enter. In appearance the gentleman -certainly was a gentleman, for I thought that I had never before seen a -young man whose looks were more in his favour, or whose face and gait -and outward bearing seemed to betoken better breeding. He might be some -twenty or twenty-one years of age, was slight and well made, with very -black hair, which he wore rather long, very dark long bright eyes, a -straight nose, and teeth that were perfectly white. He was dressed -throughout in grey tweed clothing, having coat, waistcoat, and trousers -of the same; and in his hand he carried a very broad-brimmed straw hat. - -“Mr. Jones, I believe,” he said, as he bowed to me. Jones is a good -travelling name, and, if the reader will allow me, I will call myself -Jones on the present occasion. - -“Yes,” I said, pausing with the brandy-bottle in one hand, and the flask -in the other. “That’s my name; I’m Jones. Can I do anything for you, -sir?” - -“Why, yes, you can,” said he. “My name is Smith,--John Smith.” - -“Pray sit down, Mr. Smith,” I said, pointing to a chair. “Will you do -anything in this way?” and I proposed to hand the bottle to him. “As far -as I can judge from a short stay, you won’t find much like that in -Jerusalem.” - -He declined the Cognac, however, and immediately began his story. “I -hear, Mr. Jones,” said he, “that you are going to Moab to-morrow.” - -“Well,” I replied, “I don’t know whether I shall cross the water. It’s -not very easy, I take it, at all times; but I shall certainly get as far -as Jordan. Can I do anything for you in those parts?” - -And then he explained to me what was the object of his visit. He was -quite alone in Jerusalem, as I was myself, and was staying at H----’s -hotel. He had heard that I was starting for the Dead Sea, and had called -to ask if I objected to his joining me. He had found himself, he said, -very lonely; and as he had heard that I also was alone, he had ventured -to call and make his proposition. He seemed to be very bashful, and half -ashamed of what he was doing; and when he had done speaking he declared -himself conscious that he was intruding, and expressed a hope that I -would not hesitate to say so if his suggestion were from any cause -disagreeable to me. - -As a rule I am rather shy of chance travelling English friends. It has -so frequently happened to me that I have had to blush for the -acquaintances whom I have selected, that I seldom indulge in any close -intimacies of this kind. But, nevertheless, I was taken with John Smith, -in spite of his name. There was so much about him that was pleasant, -both to the eye and to the understanding! One meets constantly with men -from contact with whom one revolts without knowing the cause of such -dislike. The cut of their beard is displeasing, or the mode in which -they walk or speak. But, on the other hand, there are men who are -attractive, and I must confess that I was attracted by John Smith at -first sight. I hesitated, however, for a minute; for there are sundry -things of which it behoves a traveller to think before he can join a -companion for such a journey as that which I was about to make. Could -the young man rise early, and remain in the saddle for ten hours -together? Could he live upon hard-boiled eggs and brandy-and-water? -Could he take his chance of a tent under which to sleep, and make -himself happy with the bare fact of being in the desert? He saw my -hesitation, and attributed it to a cause which was not present in my -mind at the moment, though the subject was one of the greatest -importance when strangers consent to join themselves together for a -time, and agree to become no strangers on the spur of the moment. - -“Of course I will take half the expense,” said he, absolutely blushing -as he mentioned the matter. - -“As to that there will be very little. You have your own horse, of -course?” - -“Oh, yes.” - -“My dragoman and groom-boy will do for both. But you’ll have to pay -forty shillings to the Arabs! There’s no getting over that. The consul -won’t even look after your dead body, if you get murdered, without going -through that ceremony.” - -Mr. Smith immediately produced his purse, which he tendered to me. “If -you will manage it all,” said he, “it will make it so much the easier, -and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.” This of course I declined to -do. I had no business with his purse, and explained to him that if we -went together we could settle that on our return to Jerusalem. “But -could he go through really hard work?” I asked. He answered me with an -assurance that he would and could do anything in that way that it was -possible for man to perform. As for eating and drinking he cared nothing -about it, and would undertake to be astir at any hour of the morning -that might be named. As for sleeping accommodation, he did not care if -he kept his clothes on for a week together. He looked slight and weak; -but he spoke so well, and that without boasting, that I ultimately -agreed to his proposal, and in a few minutes he took his leave of me, -promising to be at Z----’s door with his horse at five o’clock on the -following morning. - -“I wish you’d allow me to leave my purse with you,” he said again. - -“I cannot think of it. There is no possible occasion for it,” I said -again. “If there is anything to pay, I’ll ask you for it when the -journey is over. That forty shillings you must fork out. It’s a law of -the Medes and Persians.” - -“I’d better give it you at once,” he said again, offering me money. But -I would not have it. It would be quite time enough for that when the -Arabs were leaving us. - -“Because,” he added, “strangers, I know, are sometimes suspicious about -money; and I would not, for worlds, have you think that I would put you -to expense.” I assured him that I did not think so, and then the subject -was dropped. - -He was, at any rate, up to his time, for when I came down on the -following morning I found him in the narrow street, the first on -horseback. Joseph, the Frenchman, was strapping on to a rough pony our -belongings, and was staring at Mr. Smith. My new friend, unfortunately, -could not speak a word of French, and therefore I had to explain to the -dragoman how it had come to pass that our party was to be enlarged. - -“But the Bedouins will expect full pay for both,” said he, alarmed. Men -in that class, and especially Orientals, always think that every -arrangement of life, let it be made in what way it will, is made with -the intention of saving some expense, or cheating somebody out of some -money. They do not understand that men can have any other object, and -are ever on their guard lest the saving should be made at their cost, or -lest they should be the victims of the fraud. - -“All right,” said I. - -“I shall be responsible, Monsieur,” said the dragoman, piteously. - -“It shall be all right,” said I, again. “If that does not satisfy you, -you may remain behind.” - -“If Monsieur says it is all right, of course it is so;” and then he -completed his strapping. We took blankets with us, of which I had to -borrow two out of the hotel for my friend Smith, a small hamper of -provisions, a sack containing forage for the horses, and a large empty -jar, so that we might supply ourselves with water when leaving the -neighbourhood of wells for any considerable time. - -“I ought to have brought these things for myself,” said Smith, quite -unhappy at finding that he had thrown on me the necessity of catering -for him. But I laughed at him, saying that it was nothing; he should do -as much for me another time. I am prepared to own that I do not -willingly rush up-stairs and load myself with blankets out of strange -rooms for men whom I do not know; nor, as a rule, do I make all the -Smiths of the world free of my canteen. But, with reference to this -fellow I did feel more than ordinarily good-natured and unselfish. There -was something in the tone of his voice which was satisfactory; and I -should really have felt vexed had anything occurred at the last moment -to prevent his going with me. - -Let it be a rule with every man to carry an English saddle with him when -travelling in the East. Of what material is formed the nether man of a -Turk I have never been informed, but I am sure that it is not flesh and -blood. No flesh and blood,--simply flesh and blood,--could withstand the -wear and tear of a Turkish saddle. This being the case, and the -consequences being well known to me, I was grieved to find that Smith -was not properly provided. He was seated on one of those hard, red, -high-pointed machines, in which the shovels intended to act as stirrups -are attached in such a manner, and hang at such an angle, as to be -absolutely destructive to the leg of a Christian. There is no part of -the Christian body with which the Turkish saddle comes in contact that -does not become more or less macerated. I have sat in one for days, but -I left it a flayed man; and, therefore, I was sorry for Smith. - -I explained this to him, taking hold of his leg by the calf to show how -the leather would chafe him; but it seemed to me that he did not quite -like my interference. “Never mind,” said he, twitching his leg away, “I -have ridden in this way before.” - -“Then you must have suffered the very mischief?” - -“Only a little, and I shall be used to it now. You will not hear me -complain.” - -“By heavens, you might have heard me complain a mile off when I came to -the end of a journey I once took. I roared like a bull when I began to -cool. Joseph, could you not get a European saddle for Mr. Smith?” But -Joseph did not seem to like Mr. Smith, and declared such a thing to be -impossible. No European in Jerusalem would think of lending so precious -an article, except to a very dear friend. Joseph himself was on an -English saddle, and I made up my mind that after the first stage, we -would bribe him to make an exchange. And then we started. The Bedouins -were not with us, but we were to meet them, as I have said before, -outside St. Stephen’s gate. “And if they are not there,” said Joseph, -“we shall be sure to come across them on the road.” - -“Not there!” said I. “How about the consul’s tariff, if they don’t keep -their part of the engagement?” But Joseph explained to me that their -part of the engagement really amounted to this,--that we should ride -into their country without molestation, provided that such and such -payments were made. - -It was the period of Easter, and Jerusalem was full of pilgrims. Even at -that early hour of the morning we could hardly make our way through the -narrow streets. It must be understood that there is no accommodation in -the town for the fourteen or fifteen thousand strangers who flock to the -Holy Sepulchre at this period of the year. Many of them sleep out in the -open air, lying on low benches which run along the outside walls of the -houses, or even on the ground, wrapped in their thick hoods and cloaks. -Slumberers such as these are easily disturbed, nor are they detained -long at their toilets. They shake themselves like dogs, and growl and -stretch themselves, and then they are ready for the day. - -We rode out of the town in a long file. First went the groom-boy; I -forget his proper Syrian appellation, but we used to call him Mucherry, -that sound being in some sort like the name. Then followed the horse -with the forage and blankets, and next to him my friend Smith in the -Turkish saddle. I was behind him, and Joseph brought up the rear. We -moved slowly down the Via Dolorosa, noting the spot at which our Saviour -is said to have fallen while bearing his cross; we passed by Pilate’s -house, and paused at the gate of the Temple,--the gate which once was -beautiful,--looking down into the hole of the pool in which the maimed -and halt were healed whenever the waters moved. What names they are! And -yet there at Jerusalem they are bandied to and fro with as little -reverence as are the fanciful appellations given by guides to rocks and -stones and little lakes in all countries overrun by tourists. - -“For those who would still fain believe,--let them stay at home,” said -my friend Smith. - -“For those who cannot divide the wheat from the chaff, let _them_ stay -at home,” I answered. And then we rode out through St. Stephen’s gate, -having the mountain of the men of Galileo directly before us, and the -Mount of Olives a little to our right, and the Valley of Jehoshaphat -lying between us and it. “Of course you know all these places now?” said -Smith. I answered that I did know them well. - -“And was it not better for you when you knew them only in Holy Writ?” he -asked. - -“No, by Jove,” said I. “The mountains stand where they ever stood. The -same valleys are still green with the morning dew, and the water-courses -are unchanged. The children of Mahomet may build their tawdry temple on -the threshing-floor which David bought that there might stand the Lord’s -house. Man may undo what man did, even though the doer was Solomon. But -here we have God’s handiwork and His own evidences.” - -At the bottom of the steep descent from the city gate we came to the -tomb of the Virgin; and by special agreement made with Joseph we left -our horses here for a few moments, in order that we might descend into -the subterranean chapel under the tomb, in which mass was at this moment -being said. There is something awful in that chapel, when, as at the -present moment, it is crowded with Eastern worshippers from the very -altar up to the top of the dark steps by which the descent is made. It -must be remembered that Eastern worshippers are not like the churchgoers -of London, or even of Rome or Cologne. They are wild men of various -nations and races,--Maronites from Lebanon, Roumelians, Candiotes, Copts -from Upper Egypt, Russians from the Crimea, Armenians and Abyssinians. -They savour strongly of Oriental life and of Oriental dirt. They are -clad in skins or hairy cloaks with huge hoods. Their heads are shaved, -and their faces covered with short, grisly, fierce beards. They are -silent mostly, looking out of their eyes ferociously, as though murder -were in their thoughts, and rapine. But they never slouch, or cringe in -their bodies, or shuffle in their gait. Dirty, fierce-looking, uncouth, -repellent as they are, there is always about them a something of -personal dignity which is not compatible with an Englishman’s ordinary -hat and pantaloons. - -As we were about to descend, preparing to make our way through the -crowd, Smith took hold of my arm. “That will never do, my dear fellow,” -said I, “the job will be tough enough for a single file, but we should -never cut our way two and two. I’m broad-shouldered and will go first.” -So I did, and gradually we worked our way into the body of the chapel. -How is it that Englishmen can push themselves anywhere? These men were -fierce-looking, and had murder and rapine, as I have said, almost in -their eyes. One would have supposed that they were not lambs or doves, -capable of being thrust here or there without anger on their part; and -they, too, were all anxious to descend and approach the altar. Yet we -did win our way through them, and apparently no man was angry with us. I -doubt, after all, whether a ferocious eye and a strong smell and dirt -are so efficacious in creating awe and obedience in others, as an open -brow and traces of soap and water. I know this, at least,--that a dirty -Maronite would make very little progress, if he attempted to shove his -way unfairly through a crowd of Englishmen at the door of a London -theatre. We did shove unfairly, and we did make progress, till we found -ourselves in the centre of the dense crowd collected in the body of the -chapel. - -Having got so far, our next object was to get out again. The place was -dark, mysterious, and full of strange odours; but darkness, mystery, and -strange odours soon lose their charms when men have much work before -them. Joseph had made a point of being allowed to attend mass before the -altar of the Virgin, but a very few minutes sufficed for his prayers. So -we again turned round and pushed our way back again, Smith still -following in my wake. The men who had let us pass once let us pass again -without opposition or show of anger. To them the occasion was very holy. -They were stretching out their hands in every direction, with long -tapers, in order that they might obtain a spark of the sacred fire which -was burning on one of the altars. As we made our way out we passed many -who, with dumb motions, begged us to assist them in their object. And we -did assist them, getting lights for their tapers, handing them to and -fro, and using the authority with which we seemed to be invested. But -Smith, I observed, was much more courteous in this way to the women than -to the men, as I did not forget to remind him when we were afterwards on -our road together. - -Remounting our horses we rode slowly up the winding ascent of the Mount -of Olives, turning round at the brow of the hill to look back over -Jerusalem. Sometimes I think that of all spots in the world this one -should be the spot most cherished in the memory of Christians. It was -there that He stood when He wept over the city. So much we do know, -though we are ignorant, and ever shall be so, of the site of His cross -and of the tomb. And then we descended on the eastern side of the hill, -passing through Bethany, the town of Lazarus and his sisters, and turned -our faces steadily towards the mountains of Moab. - -Hitherto we had met no Bedouins, and I interrogated my dragoman about -them more than once; but he always told me that it did not signify; we -should meet them, he said, before any danger could arise. “As for -danger,” said I, “I think more of this than I do of the Arabs,” and I -put my hand on my revolver. “But as they agreed to be here, here they -ought to be. Don’t you carry a revolver, Smith?” - -Smith said that he never had done so, but that he would take the charge -of mine if I liked. To this, however, I demurred. “I never part with my -pistol to any one,” I said, rather drily. But he explained that he only -intended to signify that if there were danger to be encountered, he -would be glad to encounter it; and I fully believed him. “We shan’t -have much, fighting,” I replied; “but if there be any, the tool will -come readiest to the hand of its master. But if you mean to remain here -long I would advise you to get one. These Orientals are a people with -whom appearances go a long way, and, as a rule, fear and respect mean -the same thing with them. A pistol hanging over your loins is no great -trouble to you, and looks as though you could bite. Many a dog goes -through the world well by merely showing his teeth.” - -And then my companion began to talk of himself. “He did not,” he said, -“mean to remain in Syria very long.” - -“Nor I either,” said I. “I have done with this part of the world for the -present, and shall take the next steamer from Jaffa for Alexandria. I -shall only have one night in Jerusalem on my return.” - -After this he remained silent for a few moments and then declared that -that also had been his intention. He was almost ashamed to say so, -however, because it looked as though he had resolved to hook himself on -to me. So he answered, expressing almost regret at the circumstance. - -“Don’t let that trouble you,” said I; “I shall be delighted to have your -company. When you know me better, as I hope you will do, you will find -that if such were not the case I should tell you so as frankly. I shall -remain in Cairo some little time; so that beyond our arrival in Egypt, I -can answer for nothing.” - -He said that he expected letters at Alexandria which would govern his -future movements. I thought he seemed sad as he said so, and imagined, -from his manner, that he did not expect very happy tidings. Indeed I had -made up my mind that he was by no means free from care or sorrow. He had -not the air of a man who could say of himself that he was “totus teres -atque rotundus.” But I had no wish to inquire, and the matter would have -dropped had he not himself added--“I fear that I shall meet -acquaintances in Egypt whom it will give me no pleasure to see.” - -“Then,” said I, “if I were you, I would go to Constantinople -instead;--indeed, anywhere rather than fall among friends who are not -friendly. And the nearer the friend is, the more one feels that sort of -thing. To my way of thinking, there is nothing on earth so pleasant as a -pleasant wife; but then, what is there so damnable as one that is -unpleasant?” - -“Are you a married man?” he inquired. All his questions were put in a -low tone of voice which seemed to give to them an air of special -interest, and made one almost feel that they were asked with some -special view to one’s individual welfare. Now the fact is, that I am a -married man with a family; but I am not much given to talk to strangers -about my domestic concerns, and, therefore, though I had no particular -object in view, I denied my obligations in this respect. “No,” said I; -“I have not come to that promotion yet. I am too frequently on the move -to write myself down as Paterfamilias.” - -“Then you know nothing about that pleasantness of which you spoke just -now?” - -“Nor of the unpleasantness, thank God; my personal experiences are all -to come,--as also are yours, I presume?” - -It was possible that he had hampered himself with some woman, and that -she was to meet him at Alexandria. Poor fellow! thought I. But his -unhappiness was not of that kind. “No,” said he; “I am not married; I am -all alone in the world.” - -“Then I certainly would not allow myself to be troubled by unpleasant -acquaintances.” - -It was now four hours since we had left Jerusalem, and we had arrived at -the place at which it was proposed that we should breakfast. There was a -large well there, and shade afforded by a rock under which the water -sprung; and the Arabs had constructed a tank out of which the horses -could drink, so that the place was ordinarily known as the first stage -out of Jerusalem. - -Smith had said not a word about his saddle, or complained in any way of -discomfort, so that I had in truth forgotten the subject. Other matters -had continually presented themselves, and I had never even asked him how -he had fared. I now jumped from my horse, but I perceived at once that -he was unable to do so. He smiled faintly, as his eye caught mine, but I -knew that he wanted assistance. “Ah,” said I, “that confounded Turkish -saddle has already galled your skin. I see how it is; I shall have to -doctor you with a little brandy,--externally applied, my friend.” But I -lent him my shoulder, and with that assistance he got down, very gently -and slowly. - -“We ate our breakfast with a good will; bread and cold fowl and -brandy-and-water, with a hard-boiled egg by way of a final delicacy; and -then I began to bargain with Joseph for the loan of his English saddle. -I saw that Smith could not get through the journey with that monstrous -Turkish affair, and that he would go on without complaining till he -fainted or came to some other signal grief. But the Frenchman, seeing -the plight in which we were, was disposed to drive a very hard bargain. -He wanted forty shillings, the price of a pair of live Bedouins, for the -accommodation, and declared that, even then, he should make the -sacrifice only out of consideration to me. - -“Very well,” said I. “I’m tolerably tough myself, and I’ll change with -the gentleman. The chances are that I shall not be in a very liberal -humour when I reach Jaffa with stiff limbs and a sore skin. I have a -very good memory, Joseph.” - -“I’ll take thirty shillings, Mr. Jones; though I shall have to groan all -the way like a condemned devil.” - -I struck a bargain with him at last for five-and-twenty, and set him to -work to make the necessary change on the horses. “It will be just the -same thing to him,” I said to Smith. “I find that he is as much used to -one as to the other. - -“But how much money are you to pay him?” he asked. “Oh, nothing,” I -replied. “Give him a few piastres when you part with him at Jaffa.” I do -not know why I should have felt thus inclined to pay money out of my -pocket for this Smith,--a man whom I had only seen for the first time on -the preceding evening, and whose temperament was so essentially -different from my own; but so I did. I would have done almost anything -in reason for his comfort; and yet he was a melancholy fellow, with good -inward pluck as I believed, but without that outward show of dash and -hardihood which I confess I love to see. “Pray tell him that I’ll pay -him for it,” said he. “We’ll make that all right,” I answered; and then -we remounted,--not without some difficulty on his part. “You should have -let me rub in that brandy,” I said. “You can’t conceive how -efficaciously I would have done it.” But he made me no answer. - -At noon we met a caravan of pilgrims coming up from Jordan. There might -be some three or four hundred, but the number seemed to be treble that, -from the loose and straggling line in which they journeyed. It was a -very singular sight, as they moved slowly along the narrow path through -the sand, coming out of a defile among the hills, which was perhaps a -quarter of a mile in front of us, passing us as we stood still by the -wayside, and then winding again out of sight on the track over which we -had come. Some rode on camels,--a whole family, in many cases, being -perched on the same animal. I observed a very old man and a very old -woman slung in panniers over a camel’s back,--not such panniers as might -be befitting such a purpose, but square baskets, so that the heads and -heels of each of the old couple hung out of the rear and front. “Surely -the journey will be their death,” I said to Joseph. “Yes it will,” he -replied, quite coolly; “but what matter how soon they die now that they -have bathed in Jordan?” Very many rode on donkeys; two, generally, on -each donkey; others, who had command of money, on horses; but the -greater number walked, toiling painfully from Jerusalem to Jericho on -the first day, sleeping there in tents and going to bathe on the second -day, and then returning from Jericho to Jerusalem on the third. The -pilgrimage is made throughout in accordance with fixed rules, and there -is a tariff for the tent accommodation at Jericho,--so much per head per -night, including the use of hot water. - -Standing there, close by the wayside, we could see not only the garments -and faces of these strange people, but we could watch their gestures and -form some opinion of what was going on within their thoughts. They were -much quieter,--tamer, as it were,--than Englishmen would be under such -circumstances. Those who were carried seemed to sit on their beasts in -passive tranquillity, neither enjoying nor suffering anything. Their -object had been to wash in Jordan,--to do that once in their lives;--and -they had washed in Jordan. The benefit expected was not to be -immediately spiritual. No earnest prayerfulness was considered necessary -after the ceremony. To these members of the Greek Christian Church it -had been handed down from father to son that washing in Jordan once -during life was efficacious towards salvation. And therefore the journey -had been made at terrible cost and terrible risk; for these people had -come from afar, and were from their habits but little capable of long -journeys. Many die under the toil; but this matters not if they do not -die before they have reached Jordan. Some few there are, undoubtedly, -more ecstatic in this great deed of their religion. One man I especially -noticed on this day. He had bound himself to make the pilgrimage from -Jerusalem to the river with one foot bare. He was of a better class, and -was even nobly dressed, as though it were a part of his vow to show to -all men that he did this deed, wealthy and great though he was. He was a -fine man, perhaps thirty years of age, with a well-grown beard -descending on his breast, and at his girdle he carried a brace of -pistols. But never in my life had I seen bodily pain so plainly written -in a man’s face. The sweat was falling from his brow, and his eyes were -strained and bloodshot with agony. He had no stick, his vow, I presume, -debarring him from such assistance, and he limped along, putting to the -ground the heel of the unprotected foot. I could see it, and it was a -mass of blood, and sores, and broken skin. An Irish girl would walk from -Jerusalem to Jericho without shoes, and be not a penny the worse for it. -This poor fellow clearly suffered so much that I was almost inclined to -think that in the performance of his penance he had done something to -aggravate his pain. Those around him paid no attention to him, and the -dragoman seemed to think nothing of the affair whatever. “Those fools of -Greeks do not understand the Christian religion,” he said, being himself -a Latin or Roman Catholic. - -At the tail of the line we encountered two Bedouins, who were in charge -of the caravan, and Joseph at once addressed them. The men were mounted, -one on a very sorry-looking jade, but the other on a good stout Arab -barb. They had guns slung behind their backs, coloured handkerchiefs on -their heads, and they wore the striped bernouse. The parley went on for -about ten minutes, during which the procession of pilgrims wound out of -sight; and it ended in our being accompanied by the two Arabs, who thus -left their greater charge to take care of itself back to the city. I -understood afterwards that they had endeavoured to persuade Joseph that -we might just as well go on alone, merely satisfying the demand of the -tariff. But he had pointed out that I was a particular man, and that -under such circumstances the final settlement might be doubtful. So they -turned and accompanied us; but, as a matter of fact, we should have been -as well without them. - -The sun was beginning to fall in the heavens when we reached the actual -margin of the Dead Sea. We had seen the glitter of its still waters for -a long time previously, shining under the sun as though it were not -real. We have often heard, and some of us have seen, how effects of -light and shade together will produce so vivid an appearance of water -where there is no water, as to deceive the most experienced. But the -reverse was the case here. There was the lake, and there it had been -before our eyes for the last two hours; and yet it looked, then and now, -as though it were an image of a lake, and not real water. I had long -since made up my mind to bathe in it, feeling well convinced that I -could do so without harm to myself, and I had been endeavouring to -persuade Smith to accompany me; but he positively refused. He would -bathe, he said, neither in the Dead Sea nor in the river Jordan. He did -not like bathing, and preferred to do his washing in his own room. Of -course I had nothing further to say, and begged that, under these -circumstances, he would take charge of my purse and pistols while I was -in the water. This he agreed to do; but even in this he was strange and -almost uncivil. I was to bathe from the farthest point of a little -island, into which there was a rough causeway from the land made of -stones and broken pieces of wood, and I exhorted him to go with me -thither; but he insisted on remaining with his horse on the mainland at -some little distance from the island. He did not feel inclined to go -down to the water’s edge, he said. - -I confess that at this moment I almost suspected that he was going to -play me foul, and I hesitated. He saw in an instant what was passing -through my mind. “You had better take your pistol and money with you; -they will be quite safe on your clothes.” But to have kept the things -now would have shown suspicion too plainly, and as I could not bring -myself to do that, I gave them up. I have sometimes thought that I was a -fool to do so. - -I went away by myself to the end of the island, and then I did bathe. It -is impossible to conceive anything more desolate than the appearance of -the place. The land shelves very gradually away to the water, and the -whole margin, to the breadth of some twenty or thirty feet, is strewn -with the débris of rushes, bits of timber, and old white withered reeds. -Whence these bits of timber have come it seems difficult to say. The -appearance is as though the water had receded and left them there. I -have heard it said that there is no vegetation near the Dead Sea; but -such is not the case, for these rushes do grow on the bank. I found it -difficult enough to get into the water, for the ground shelves down very -slowly, and is rough with stones and large pieces of half-rotten wood; -moreover, when I was in nearly up to my hips the water knocked me down; -indeed, it did so when I had gone as far as my knees, but I recovered -myself, and by perseverance did proceed somewhat farther. It must not be -imagined that this knocking down was effected by the movement of the -water. There is no such movement. Everything is perfectly still, and the -fluid seems hardly to be displaced by the entrance of the body; but the -effect is that one’s feet are tripped up, and that one falls prostrate -on to the surface. The water is so strong and buoyant, that, when above -a few feet in depth has to be encountered, the strength and weight of -the bather are not sufficient to keep down his feet and legs. I then -essayed to swim; but I could not do this in the ordinary way, as I was -unable to keep enough of my body below the surface; so that my head and -face seemed to be propelled down upon it. I turned round and floated, -but the glare of the sun was so powerful that I could not remain long in -that position. However, I had bathed in the Dead Sea, and was so far -satisfied. - -Anything more abominable to the palate than this water, if it be water, -I never had inside my mouth. I expected it to be extremely salt, and no -doubt, if it were analysed, such would be the result; but there is a -flavour in it which kills the salt. No attempt can be made at describing -this taste. It may be imagined that I did not drink heartily, merely -taking up a drop or two with my tongue from the palm of my hand; but it -seemed to me as though I had been drenched with it. Even brandy would -not relieve me from it. And then my whole body was in a mess, and I felt -as though I had been rubbed with pitch. Looking at my limbs, I saw no -sign on them of the fluid. They seemed to dry from this as they usually -do from any other water; but still the feeling remained. However, I was -to ride from hence to a spot on the banks of Jordan, which I should -reach in an hour, and at which I would wash; so I clothed myself, and -prepared for my departure. - -Seated in my position in the island I was unable to see what was going -on among the remainder of the party, and therefore could not tell -whether my pistols and money was safe. I dressed, therefore, rather -hurriedly, and on getting again to the shore, found that Mr. John Smith -had not levanted. He was seated on his horse at some distance from -Joseph and the Arabs, and had no appearance of being in league with -those, no doubt, worthy guides. I certainly had suspected a ruse, and -now was angry with myself that I had done so; and yet, in London, one -would not trust one’s money to a stranger whom one had met twenty-four -hours since in a coffee-room! Why, then, do it with a stranger whom one -chanced to meet in a desert? - -“Thanks,” I said, as he handed me my belongings. “I wish I could have -induced you to come in also. The Dead Sea is now at your elbow, and, -therefore, you think nothing of it; but in ten or fifteen years’ time, -you would be glad to be able to tell your children that you had bathed -in it.” - -“I shall never have any children to care for such tidings,” he replied. - -The river Jordan, for some miles above the point at which it joins the -Dead Sea, runs through very steep banks,--banks which are almost -precipitous,--and is, as it were, guarded by the thick trees and bushes -which grow upon its sides. This is so much the case, that one may ride, -as we did, for a considerable distance along the margin, and not be -able even to approach the water. I had a fancy for bathing in some spot -of my own selection, instead of going to the open shore frequented by -all the pilgrims; but I was baffled in this. When I did force my way -down to the river side, I found that the water ran so rapidly, and that -the bushes and boughs of trees grew so far over and into the stream, as -to make it impossible for me to bathe. I could not have got in without -my clothes, and having got in, I could not have got out again. I was, -therefore obliged to put up with the open muddy shore to which the -bathers descend, and at which we may presume that Joshua passed when he -came over as one of the twelve spies to spy out the land. And even here -I could not go full into the stream as I would fain have done, lest I -should be carried down, and so have assisted to whiten the shores of the -Dead Sea with my bones. As to getting over to the Moabitish side of the -river, that was plainly impossible; and, indeed, it seemed to be the -prevailing opinion that the passage of the river was not practicable -without going up as far as Samaria. And yet we know that there, or -thereabouts, the Israelites did cross it. - -I jumped from my horse the moment I got to the place, and once more gave -my purse and pistols to my friend. “You are going to bathe again?” he -said. “Certainly,” said I; “you don’t suppose that I would come to -Jordan and not wash there, even if I were not foul with the foulness of -the Dead Sea!” “You’ll kill yourself, in your present state of heat;” he -said, remonstrating just as one’s mother or wife might do. But even had -it been my mother or wife I could not have attended to such remonstrance -then; and before he had done looking at me with those big eyes of his, -my coat and waistcoat and cravat were on the ground, and I was at work -at my braces; whereupon he turned from me slowly, and strolled away into -the wood. On this occasion I had no base fears about my money. - -And then I did bathe,--very uncomfortably. The shore was muddy with the -feet of the pilgrims, and the river so rapid that I hardly dared to get -beyond the mud. I did manage to take a plunge in, head-foremost, but I -was forced to wade out through the dirt and slush, so that I found it -difficult to make my feet and legs clean enough for my shoes and -stockings; and then, moreover, the flies plagued me most unmercifully. I -should have thought that the filthy flavour from the Dead Sea would have -saved me from that nuisance; but the mosquitoes thereabouts are probably -used to it. Finding this process of bathing to be so difficult, I -inquired as to the practice of the pilgrims. I found that with them, -bathing in Jordan has come to be much the same as baptism has with us. -It does not mean immersion. No doubt they do take off their shoes and -stockings; but they do not strip, and go bodily into the water. - -As soon as I was dressed I found that Smith was again at my side with -purse and pistols. We then went up a little above the wood, and sat down -together on the long sandy grass. It was now quite evening, so that the -short Syrian twilight had commenced, and the sun was no longer hot in -the heavens. It would be night as we rode on to the tents at Jericho; -but there was no difficulty as to the way, and therefore we did not -hurry the horses, who were feeding on the grass. We sat down together on -a spot from which we could see the stream,--close together, so that when -I stretched myself out in my weariness, as I did before we started, my -head rested on his legs. Ah, me! one does not take such liberties with -new friends in England. It was a place which led one on to some special -thoughts. The mountains of Moab were before us, very plain in their -outline. “Moab is my wash-pot, and over Edom will I cast out my shoe!” -There they were before us, very visible to the eye, and we began -naturally to ask questions of each other. Why was Moab the wash-pot, and -Edom thus cursed with indignity? Why had the right bank of the river -been selected for such great purposes, whereas the left was thus -condemned? Was there, at that time, any special fertility in this land -of promise which has since departed from it? We are told of a bunch of -grapes which took two men to carry it; but now there is not a vine in -the whole country side. Now-a-days the sandy plain round Jericho is as -dry and arid as are any of the valleys of Moab. The Jordan was running -beneath our feet,--the Jordan in which the leprous king had washed, -though the bright rivers of his own Damascus were so much nearer to his -hand. It was but a humble stream to which he was sent; but the spot -probably was higher up, above the Sea of Galilee, where the river is -narrow. But another also had come down to this river, perhaps to this -very spot on its shores, and submitted Himself to its waters;--as to -whom, perhaps, it will be better that I should not speak much in this -light story. - -The Dead Sea was on our right, still glittering in the distance, and -behind us lay the plains of Jericho and the wretched collection of huts -which still bears the name of the ancient city. Beyond that, but still -seemingly within easy distance of us, were the mountains of the -wilderness. The wilderness! In truth, the spot was one which did lead to -many thoughts. - -We talked of these things, as to many of which I found that my friend -was much more free in his doubts and questionings than myself; and then -our words came back to ourselves, the natural centre of all men’s -thoughts and words. “From what you say,” I said, “I gather that you have -had enough of this land?” - -“Quite enough,” he said. “Why seek such spots as these, if they only -dispel the associations and veneration of one’s childhood?” - -“But with me such associations and veneration are riveted the stronger -by seeing the places, and putting my hand upon the spots. I do not speak -of that fictitious marble slab up there; but here, among the sandhills -by this river, and at the Mount of Olives over which we passed, I do -believe.” - -He paused a moment, and then replied: “To me it is all -nothing,--absolutely nothing. But then do we not know that our thoughts -are formed, and our beliefs modelled, not on the outward signs or -intrinsic evidences of things,--as would be the case were we always -rational,--but by the inner workings of the mind itself? At the present -turn of my life I can believe in nothing that is gracious.” - -“Ah, you mean that you are unhappy. You have come to grief in some of -your doings or belongings, and therefore find that all things are bitter -to the taste. I have had my palate out of order too; but the proper -appreciation of flavours has come back to me. Bah,--how noisome was that -Dead Sea water!” - -“The Dead Sea waters are noisome,” he said; “and I have been drinking of -them by long draughts.” - -“Long draughts!” I answered, thinking to console him. “Draughts have not -been long which can have been swallowed in your years. Your disease may -be acute, but it cannot yet have become chronic. A man always thinks at -the moment of each misfortune that that special misery will last his -lifetime; but God is too good for that. I do not know what ails you; but -this day twelvemonth will see you again as sound as a roach.” - -“We then sat silent for a while, during which I was puffing at a cigar. -Smith, among his accomplishments, did not reckon that of smoking,--which -was a grief to me; for a man enjoys the tobacco doubly when another is -enjoying it with him. - -“No, you do not know what ails me,” he said at last, “and, therefore, -cannot judge.” - -“Perhaps not, my dear fellow. But my experience tells me that early -wounds are generally capable of cure; and, therefore, I surmise that -yours may be so. The heart at your time of life is not worn out, and has -strength and soundness left wherewith to throw off its maladies. I hope -it may be so with you.” - -“God knows. I do not mean to say that there are none more to be pitied -than I am; but at the present moment, I am not--not light-hearted.” - -“I wish I could ease your burden, my dear fellow.” - -“It is most preposterous in me thus to force myself upon you, and then -trouble you with my cares. But I had been alone so long, and I was so -weary of it!” - -“By Jove, and so had I. Make no apology. And let me tell you -this,--though perhaps you will not credit me,--that I would sooner laugh -with a comrade than cry with him is true enough; but, if occasion -demands, I can do the latter also.” - -He then put out his hand to me, and I pressed it in token of my -friendship. My own hand was hot and rough with the heat and sand; but -his was soft and cool almost as a woman’s. I thoroughly hate an -effeminate man; but, in spite of a certain womanly softness about this -fellow, I could not hate him. “Yes,” I continued, “though somewhat -unused to the melting mood, I also sometimes give forth my medicinal -gums. I don’t want to ask you any questions, and, as a rule, I hate to -be told secrets, but if I can be of any service to you in any matter I -will do my best. I don’t say this with reference to the present moment, -but think of it before we part.” - -I looked round at him and saw that he was in tears. “I know that you -will think that I am a weak fool,” he said, pressing his handkerchief to -his eyes. - -“By no means. There are moments in a man’s life when it becomes him to -weep like a woman; but the older he grows the more seldom those moments -come to him. As far as I can see of men, they never cry at that which -disgraces them.” - -“It is left for women to do that,” he answered. - -“Oh, women! A woman cries for everything and for nothing. It is the -sharpest arrow she has in her quiver,--the best card in her hand. When a -woman cries, what can you do but give her all she asks for?” - -“Do you--dislike women?” - -“No, by Jove! I am never really happy unless one is near me, or more -than one. A man, as a rule, has an amount of energy within him which he -cannot turn to profit on himself alone. It is good for him to have a -woman by him that he may work for her, and thus have exercise for his -limbs and faculties. I am very fond of women. But I always like those -best who are most helpless.” - -We were silent again for a while, and it was during this time that I -found myself lying with my head in his lap. I had slept, but it could -have been but for a few minutes, and when I woke I found his hand upon -my brow. As I started up he said that the flies had been annoying me, -and that he had not chosen to waken me as I seemed weary. “It has been -that double bathing,” I said, apologetically; for I always feel ashamed -when I am detected sleeping in the day. “In hot weather the water does -make one drowsy. By Jove, it’s getting dark; we had better have the -horses.” - -“Stay half a moment,” he said, speaking very softly, and laying his hand -upon my arm, “I will not detain you a minute.” - -“There is no hurry in life,” I said. - -“You promised me just now you would assist me.” - -“If it be in my power, I will.” - -“Before we part at Alexandria I will endeavour to tell you you the story -of my troubles, and then if you can aid me----” It struck me as he -paused that I had made a rash promise, but nevertheless I must stand by -it now--with one or two provisoes. The chances were that the young man -was short of money, or else that he had got into a scrape about a girl. -In either case I might give him some slight assistance; but, then, it -behoved me to make him understand that I would not consent to become a -participator in mischief. I was too old to get my head willingly into a -scrape, and this I must endeavour to make him understand. - -“I will, if it be in my power,” I said. “I will ask no questions now; -but if your trouble be about some lady----” - -“It is not,” said he. - -“Well; so be it. Of all troubles those are the most troublesome. If you -are short of cash----” - -“No, I am not short of cash.” - -“You are not. That’s well too; for want of money is a sore trouble -also.” And then I paused before I came to the point. “I do not suspect -anything bad of you, Smith. Had I done so, I should not have spoken as I -have done. And if there be nothing bad----” - -“There is nothing disgraceful,” he said. - -“That is just what I mean; and in that case I will do anything for you -that may be within my power. Now let us look for Joseph and the -mucherry-boy, for it is time that we were at Jericho.” - -I cannot describe at length the whole of our journey from thence to our -tents at Jericho, nor back to Jerusalem, nor even from Jerusalem to -Jaffa. At Jericho we did sleep in tents, paying so much per night, -according to the tariff. We wandered out at night, and drank coffee with -a family of Arabs in the desert, sitting in a ring round their -coffee-kettle. And we saw a Turkish soldier punished with the -bastinado,--a sight which did not do me any good, and which made Smith -very sick. Indeed after the first blow he walked away. Jericho is a -remarkable spot in that pilgrim week, and I wish I had space to describe -it. But I have not, for I must hurry on, back to Jerusalem and thence to -Jaffa. I had much to tell also of those Bedouins; how they were -essentially true to us, but teased us almost to frenzy by their -continual begging. They begged for our food and our drink, for our -cigars and our gunpowder, for the clothes off our backs, and the -handkerchiefs out of our pockets. As to gunpowder I had none to give -them, for my charges were all made up in cartridges; and I learned that -the guns behind their backs were a mere pretence, for they had not a -grain of powder among them. - -We slept one night in Jerusalem, and started early on the following -morning. Smith came to my hotel so that we might be ready together for -the move. We still carried with us Joseph and the mucherry-boy; but for -our Bedouins, who had duly received their forty shillings a piece, we -had no further use. On our road down to Jerusalem we had much chat -together, but only one adventure. Those pilgrims, of whom I have spoken, -journey to Jerusalem in the greatest number by the route which we were -now taking from it, and they come in long droves, reaching Jaffa in -crowds by the French and Austrian steamers from Smyrna, Damascus, and -Constantinople. As their number confers security in that somewhat -insecure country, many travellers from the west of Europe make -arrangements to travel with them. On our way down we met the last of -these caravans for the year, and we were passing it for more than two -hours. On this occasion I rode first, and Smith was immediately behind -me; but of a sudden I observed him to wheel his horse round, and to -clamber downwards among bushes and stones towards a river that ran below -us. “Hallo, Smith,” I cried, “you will destroy your horse, and yourself -too.” But he would not answer me, and all I could do was to draw up in -the path and wait. My confusion was made the worse, as at that moment a -long string of pilgrims was passing by. “Good morning, sir,” said an old -man to me in good English. I looked up as I answered him, and saw a -grey-haired gentleman, of very solemn and sad aspect. He might be -seventy years of age, and I could see that he was attended by three or -four servants. I shall never forget the severe and sorrowful expression -of his eyes, over which his heavy eyebrows hung low. “Are there many -English in Jerusalem?” he asked. “A good many,” I replied; “there always -are at Easter.” “Can you tell me anything of any of them?” he asked. -“Not a word,” said I, for I knew no one; “but our consul can.” And then -we bowed to each other and he passed on. - -I got off my horse and scrambled down on foot after Smith. I found him -gathering berries and bushes as though his very soul were mad with -botany; but as I had seen nothing of this in him before, I asked what -strange freak had taken him. - -“You were talking to that old man,” he said. - -“Well, yes, I was.” - -“That is the relation of whom I have spoken to you.” - -“The d---- he is!” - -“And I would avoid him, if it be possible.” - -I then learned that the old gentleman was his uncle. He had no living -father or mother, and he now supposed that his relative was going to -Jerusalem in quest of him. “If so,” said I, “you will undoubtedly give -him leg bail, unless the Austrian boat is more than ordinarily late. It -is as much as we shall do to catch it, and you may be half over Africa, -or far gone on your way to India, before he can be on your track again.” - -“I will tell you all about it at Alexandria,” he replied; and then he -scrambled up again with his horse, and we went on. That night we slept -at the Armenian convent at Ramlath, or Ramath. This place is supposed to -stand on the site of Arimathea, and is marked as such in many of the -maps. The monks at this time of the year are very busy, as the pilgrims -all stay here for one night on their routes backwards and forwards, and -the place on such occasions is terribly crowded. On the night of our -visit it was nearly empty, as a caravan had left it that morning; and -thus we were indulged with separate cells, a point on which my companion -seemed to lay considerable stress. - -On the following day, at about noon, we entered Jaffa, and put up at an -inn there which is kept by a Pole. The boat from Beyrout, which, -touches at Jaffa on its way to Alexandria, was not yet in, nor even -sighted; we were therefore amply in time. “Shall we sail to-night?” I -asked of the agent. “Yes, in all probability,” he replied. “If the -signal be seen before three we shall do so. If not, then not;” and so I -returned to the hotel. - -Smith had involuntarily shown signs of fatigue during the journey, but -yet he had borne up well against it. I had never felt called on to grant -any extra indulgence as to time because the work was too much for him. -But now he was a good deal knocked up, and I was a little frightened, -fearing that I had over-driven him under the heat of the sun. I was -alarmed lest he should have fever, and proposed to send for the Jaffa -doctor. But this he utterly refused. He would shut himself for an hour -or two in his room, he said, and by that time he trusted the boat would -be in sight. It was clear to me that he was very anxious on the subject, -fearing that his uncle would be back upon his heels before he had -started. - -I ordered a serious breakfast for myself, for with me, on such -occasions, my appetite demands more immediate attention than my limbs. I -also acknowledge that I become fatigued, and can lay myself at length -during such idle days and sleep from hour to hour; but the desire to do -so never comes till I have well eaten and drunken. A bottle of French -wine, three or four cutlets of goats’ flesh, an omelet made out of the -freshest eggs, and an enormous dish of oranges, was the banquet set -before me; and though I might have found fault with it in Paris or -London, I thought that it did well enough in Jaffa. My poor friend could -not join me, but had a cup of coffee in his room. “At any rate take a -little brandy in it,” I said to him, as I stood over his bed. “I could -not swallow it,” said he, looking at me with almost beseeching eyes. -“Beshrew the fellow,” I said to myself as I left him, carefully closing -the door, so that the sound should not shake him; “he is little better -than a woman, and yet I have become as fond of him as though he were my -brother.” - -I went out at three, but up to that time the boat had not been -signalled. “And we shall not get out to-night?” “No, not to-night,” said -the agent. “And what time to-morrow?” “If she comes in this evening, you -will start by daylight. But they so manage her departure from Beyrout, -that she seldom is here in the evening.” “It will be noon to-morrow -then?” “Yes,” the man said, “noon to-morrow.” I calculated, however, -that the old gentleman could not possibly be on our track by that time. -He would not have reached Jerusalem till late in the day on which we saw -him, and it would take him some time to obtain tidings of his nephew. -But it might be possible that messengers sent by him should reach Jaffa -by four or five on the day after his arrival. That would be this very -day which we were now wasting at Jaffa. Having thus made my -calculations, I returned to Smith to give him such consolation as it -might be in my power to afford. - -He seemed to be dreadfully afflicted by all this. “He will have traced -me to Jerusalem, and then again away; and will follow me immediately.” - -“That is all very well,” I said; “but let even a young man do the best -he can, and he will not get from Jerusalem to Jaffa in less than twelve -hours. Your uncle is not a young man, and could not possibly do the -journey under two days.” - -“But he will send. He will not mind what money he spends.” - -“And if he does send, take off your hat to his messengers, and bid them -carry your complaints back. You are not a felon whom he can arrest.” - -“No, he cannot arrest me; but, ah! you do not understand;” and then he -sat up on the bed, and seemed as though he were going to wring his hands -in despair. - -I waited for some half hour in his room, thinking that he would tell me -this story of his. If he required that I should give him my aid in the -presence either of his uncle or of his uncle’s myrmidons, I must at any -rate know what was likely to be the dispute between them. But as he said -nothing I suggested that he should stroll out with me among the -orange-groves by which the town is surrounded. In answer to this he -looked up piteously into my face as though begging me to be merciful to -him. “You are strong,” said he, “and cannot understand what it is to -feel fatigue as I do.” And yet he had declared on commencing his journey -that he would not be found to complain? Nor had he complained by a -single word till after that encounter with his uncle. Nay, he had borne -up well till this news had reached us of the boat being late. I felt -convinced that if the boat were at this moment lying in the harbour all -that appearance of excessive weakness would soon vanish. What it was -that he feared I could not guess; but it was manifest to me that some -great terror almost overwhelmed him. - -“My idea is,” said I,--and I suppose that I spoke with something less -of good-nature in my tone than I had assumed for the last day or two, -“that no man should, under any circumstances, be so afraid of another -man, as to tremble at his presence,--either at his presence or his -expected presence.” - -“Ah, now you are angry with me; now you despise me!” - -“Neither the one nor the other. But if I may take the liberty of a -friend with you, I should advise you to combat this feeling of horror. -If you do not, it will unman you. After all, what can your uncle do to -you? He cannot rob you of your heart and soul. He cannot touch your -inner self.” - -“You do not know,” he said. - -“Ah but, Smith, I do know that. Whatever may be this quarrel between you -and him, you should not tremble at the thought of him; unless -indeed----” - -“Unless what?” - -“Unless you had done aught that should make you tremble before every -honest man.” I own I had begun to have my doubts of him, and to fear -that he had absolutely disgraced himself. Even in such case I,--I -individually,--did not wish to be severe on him; but I should be annoyed -to find that I had opened my heart to a swindler or a practised knave. - -“I will tell you all to-morrow,” said he; “but I have been guilty of -nothing of that sort.” - -In the evening he did come out, and sat with me as I smoked my cigar. -The boat, he was told, would almost undoubtedly come in by daybreak on -the following morning, and be off at nine; whereas it was very -improbable that any arrival from Jerusalem would be so early as that. -“Beside,” I reminded him, “your uncle will hardly hurry down to Jaffa, -because he will have no reason to think but what you have already -started. There are no telegraphs here, you know.” - -In the evening he was still very sad, though the paroxysm of his terror -seemed to have passed away. I would not bother him, as he had himself -chosen the following morning for the telling of his story. So I sat and -smoked, and talked to him about our past journey, and by degrees the -power of speech came back to him, and I again felt that I loved him! -Yes, loved him! I have not taken many such fancies into my head, at so -short a notice; but I did love him, as though he were a younger brother. -I felt a delight in serving him, and though I was almost old enough to -be his father, I ministered to him as though he had been an old man, or -a woman. - -On the following morning we were stirring at daybreak, and found that -the vessel was in sight. She would be in the roads off the town in two -hours’ time, they said, and would start at eleven or twelve. And then we -walked round by the gate of the town, and sauntered a quarter of a mile -or so along the way that leads towards Jerusalem. I could see that his -eye was anxiously turned down the road, but he said nothing. We saw no -cloud of dust, and then we returned to breakfast. - -“The steamer has come to anchor,” said our dirty Polish host to us in -execrable English. “And we may be off on board,” said Smith. “Not yet,” -he said; “they must put their cargo out first.” I saw, however, that -Smith was uneasy, and I made up my mind to go off to the vessel at once. -When they should see an English portmanteau making an offer to come up -the gangway, the Austrian sailors would not stop it. So I called for the -bill, and ordered that the things should be taken down to the wretched -broken heap of rotten timber which they called a quay. Smith had not -told me his story, but no doubt he would as soon as he was on board. - -I was in the act of squabbling with the Pole over the last demand for -piastres, when we heard a noise in the gateway of the inn, and I saw -Smith’s countenance become pale. It was an Englishman’s voice asking if -there were any strangers there; so I went into the courtyard, closing -the door behind me, and turning the key upon the landlord and Smith. -“Smith,” said I to myself, “will keep the Pole quiet if he have any wit -left.” - -The man who had asked the question had the air of an upper English -servant, and I thought that I recognised one of those whom I had seen -with the old gentleman on the road; but the matter was soon put at rest -by the appearance of that gentleman himself. He walked up into the -courtyard, looked hard at me from under those bushy eyebrows, just -raised his hat, and then said, “I believe I am speaking to Mr. Jones.” - -“Yes,” said I, “I am Mr. Jones. Can I have the honour of serving you?” - -There was something peculiarly unpleasant about this man’s face. At the -present moment I examined it closely, and could understand the great -aversion which his nephew felt towards him. He looked like a gentleman -and like a man of talent, nor was there anything of meanness in his -face; neither was he ill-looking, in the usual acceptation of the word; -but one could see that he was solemn, austere, and overbearing; that he -would be incapable of any light enjoyment, and unforgiving towards all -offences. I took him to be a man who, being old himself, could never -remember that he had been young, and who, therefore, hated the levities -of youth. To me such a character is specially odious; for I would fain, -if it be possible, be young even to my grave. Smith, if he were clever, -might escape from the window of the room, which opened out upon a -terrace, and still get down to the steamer. I would keep the old man in -play for some time; and, even though I lost my passage, would be true to -my friend. There lay our joint luggage at my feet in the yard. If Smith -would venture away without his portion of it, all might yet be right. - -“My name, sir, is Sir William Weston,” he began. I had heard of the name -before, and knew him to be a man of wealth, and family, and note. I took -off my hat, and said that I had much honour in meeting Sir William -Weston. - -“And I presume you know the object with which I am now here,” he -continued. - -“Not exactly,” said I. “Nor do I understand how I possibly should know -it, seeing that, up to this moment, I did not even know your name, and -have heard nothing concerning either your movements or your affairs.” - -“Sir,” said he, “I have hitherto believed that I might at any rate -expect from you the truth.” - -“Sir,” said I, “I am bold to think that you will not dare to tell me, -either now, or at any other time, that you have received, or expect to -receive, from me anything that is not true.” - -He then stood still, looking at me for a moment or two, and I beg to -assert that I looked as fully at him. There was, at any rate, no cause -why I should tremble before him. I was not his nephew, nor was I -responsible for his nephew’s doings towards him. Two of his servants -were behind him, and on my side there stood a boy and girl belonging to -the inn. They, however, could not understand a word of English. I saw -that he was hesitating, but at last he spoke out. I confess, now, that -his words, when they were spoken, did, at the first moment, make me -tremble. - -“I have to charge you,” said he, “with eloping with my niece, and I -demand of you to inform me where she is. You are perfectly aware that I -am her guardian by law.” - -I did tremble;--not that I cared much for Sir William’s guardianship, -but I saw before me so terrible an embarrassment! And then I felt so -thoroughly abashed in that I had allowed myself to be so deceived! It -all came back upon me in a moment, and covered me with a shame that even -made me blush. I had travelled through the desert with a woman for -days, and had not discovered her, though she had given me a thousand -signs. All those signs I remembered now, and I blushed painfully. When -her hand was on my forehead I still thought that she was a man! I -declare that at this moment I felt a stronger disinclination to face my -late companion than I did to encounter her angry uncle. - -“Your niece!” I said, speaking with a sheepish bewilderment which should -have convinced him at once of my innocence. She had asked me, too, -whether I was a married man, and I had denied it. How was I to escape -from such a mess of misfortunes? I declare that I began to forget her -troubles in my own. - -“Yes, my niece,--Miss Julia Weston. The disgrace which you have brought -upon me must be wiped out; but my first duty is to save that unfortunate -young woman from further misery.” - -“If it be as you say,” I exclaimed, “by the honour of a gentleman----” - -“I care nothing for the honour of a gentleman till I see it proved. Be -good enough to inform me, sir, whether Miss Weston is in this house.” - -For a moment I hesitated; but I saw at once that I should make myself -responsible for certain mischief, of which I was at any rate hitherto in -truth innocent, if I allowed myself to become a party to concealing a -young lady. Up to this period I could at any rate defend myself, whether -my defence were believed or not believed. I still had a hope that the -charming Julia might have escaped through the window, and a feeling that -if she had done so I was not responsible. When I turned the lock I -turned it on Smith. - -For a moment I hesitated, and then walked slowly across the yard and -opened the door. “Sir William,” I said, as I did so, “I travelled here -with a companion dressed as a man; and I believed him to be what he -seemed till this minute.” - -“Sir!” said Sir William, with a look of scorn in his face which gave me -the lie in my teeth as plainly as any words could do. And then he -entered the room. The Pole was standing in one corner, apparently amazed -at what was going on, and Smith,--I may as well call her Miss Weston at -once, for the baronet’s statement was true,--was sitting on a sort of -divan in the corner of the chamber hiding her face in her hands. She had -made no attempt at an escape, and a full explanation was therefore -indispensable. For myself I own that I felt ashamed of my part in the -play,--ashamed even of my own innocency. Had I been less innocent I -should certainly have contrived to appear much less guilty. Had it -occurred to me on the banks of the Jordan that Smith was a lady, I -should not have travelled with her in her gentleman’s habiliments from -Jerusalem to Jaffa. Had she consented to remain under my protection, she -must have done so without a masquerade. - -The uncle stood still and looked at his niece. He probably understood -how thoroughly stern and disagreeable was his own face, and considered -that he could punish the crime of his relative in no severer way than by -looking at her. In this I think he was right. But at last there was a -necessity for speaking. “Unfortunate young woman!” he said, and then -paused. - -“We had better get rid of the landlord,” I said, “before we come to any -explanation.” And I motioned to the man to leave the room. This he did -very unwillingly, but at last he was gone. - -“I fear that it is needless to care on her account who may hear the -story of her shame,” said Sir William. I looked at Miss Weston, but she -still sat hiding her face. However, if she did not defend herself, it -was necessary that I should defend both her and me. - -“I do not know how far I may be at liberty to speak with reference to -the private matters of yourself or of your--your niece, Sir William -Weston. I would not willingly interfere----” - -“Sir,” said he, “your interference has already taken place. Will you -have the goodness to explain to me what are your intentions with regard -to that lady?” - -My intentions! Heaven help me! My intentions, of course, were to leave -her in her uncle’s hands. Indeed, I could hardly be said to have formed -any intention since I had learned that I had been honoured by a lady’s -presence. At this moment I deeply regretted that I had thoughtlessly -stated to her that I was an unmarried man. In doing so I had had no -object. But at that time “Smith” had been quite a stranger to me, and I -had not thought it necessary to declare my own private concerns. Since -that I had talked so little of myself that the fact of my family at home -had not been mentioned. “Will you have the goodness to explain what are -your intentions with regard to that lady?” said the baronet. - -“Oh, Uncle William!” exclaimed Miss Weston, now at length raising her -head from her hands. - -“Hold your peace, madam,” said he. “When called upon to speak, you will -find your words with difficulty enough. Sir, I am waiting for an answer -from you.” - -“But, uncle, he is nothing to me;--the gentleman is nothing to me!” - -“By the heavens above us, he shall be something, or I will know the -reason why! What! he has gone off with you; he has travelled through the -country with you, hiding you from your only natural friend; he has been -your companion for weeks----” - -“Six days, sir,” said I. - -“Sir!” said the baronet, again giving me the lie. “And now,” he -continued, addressing his niece, “you tell me that he is nothing to you. -He shall give me his promise that he will make you his wife at the -consulate at Alexandria, or I will destroy him. I know who he is.” - -“If you know who I am,” said I, “you must know----” - -But he would not listen to me. “And as for you, madam, unless he makes -me that promise----” And then he paused in his threat, and, turning -round, looked me in the face. I saw that she also was looking at me, -though not openly as he did; and some flattering devil that was at work -round my heart, would have persuaded that she also would have heard a -certain answer given without dismay,--would even have received comfort -in her agony from such an answer. But the reader knows how completely -that answer was out of my power. - -“I have not the slightest ground for supposing,” said I, “that the lady -would accede to such an arrangement,--if it were possible. My -acquaintance with her has been altogether confined to----. To tell the -truth, I have not been in Miss Weston’s confidence, and have only taken -her for that which she has seemed to be.” - -“Sir!” said the baronet, again looking at me as though he would wither -me on the spot for my falsehood. - -“It is true!” said Julia, getting up from her seat, and appealing with -clasped hands to her uncle--“as true as Heaven.” - -“Madam!” said he, “do you both take me for a fool?” - -“That you should take me for one,” said I, “would be very natural. The -facts are as we state to you. Miss Weston,--as I now learn that she -is,--did me the honour of calling at my hotel, having heard----” And -then it seemed to me as though I were attempting to screen myself by -telling the story against her, so I was again silent. Never in my life -had I been in a position of such extraordinary difficulty. The duty -which I owed to Julia as a woman, and to Sir William as a guardian, and -to myself as the father of a family, all clashed with each other. I was -anxious to be generous, honest, and prudent, but it was impossible; so I -made up my mind to say nothing further. - -“Mr. Jones,” said the baronet, “I have explained to you the only -arrangement which under the present circumstances I can permit to pass -without open exposure and condign punishment. That you are a gentleman -by birth, education, and position I am aware,”--whereupon I raised my -hat, and then he continued: “That lady has three hundred a year of her -own----” - -“And attractions, personal and mental, which are worth ten times the -money,” said I, and I bowed to my fair friend, who looked at me the -while with sad beseeching eyes. I confess that the mistress of my bosom, -had she known my thoughts at that one moment, might have had cause for -anger. - -“Very well,” continued he. “Then the proposal which I name, cannot, I -imagine, but be satisfactory. If you will make to her and to me the only -amends which it is in your power as a gentleman to afford, I will -forgive all. Tell me that you will make her your wife on your arrival in -Egypt.” - -I would have given anything not to have looked at Miss Weston at this -moment, but I could not help it. I did turn my face half round to her -before I answered, and then felt that I had been cruel in doing so. “Sir -William,” said I, “I have at home already a wife and family of my own.” - -“It is not true!” said he, retreating a step, and staring at me with -amazement. - -“There is something, sir,” I replied, “in the unprecedented -circumstances of this meeting, and in your position with regard to that -lady, which, joined to your advanced age, will enable me to regard that -useless insult as unspoken. I am a married man. There is the signature -of my wife’s last letter,” and I handed him one which I had received as -I was leaving Jerusalem. - -But the coarse violent contradiction which Sir William had given me was -nothing compared with the reproach conveyed in Miss Weston’s -countenance. She looked at me as though all her anger were now turned -against me. And yet, methought, there was more of sorrow than of -resentment in her countenance. But what cause was there for either? Why -should I be reproached, even by her look? She did not remember at the -moment that when I answered her chance question as to my domestic -affairs, I had answered it as to a man who was a stranger to me, and not -as to a beautiful woman, with whom I was about to pass certain days in -close and intimate society. To her, at the moment, it seemed as though I -had cruelly deceived her. In truth, the one person really deceived had -been myself. - -And here I must explain, on behalf of the lady, that when she first -joined me she had no other view than that of seeing the banks of the -Jordan in that guise which she had chosen to assume, in order to escape -from the solemnity and austerity of a disagreeable relative. She had -been very foolish, and that was all. I take it that she had first left -her uncle at Constantinople, but on this point I never got certain -information. Afterwards, while we were travelling together, the idea had -come upon her, that she might go on as far as Alexandria with me. And -then----. I know nothing further of the lady’s intentions, but I am -certain that her wishes were good and pure. Her uncle had been -intolerable to her, and she had fled from him. Such had been her -offence, and no more. - -“Then, sir,” said the baronet, giving me back my letter, “you must be a -double-dyed villain.” - -“And you, sir,” said I---- But here Julia Weston interrupted me. - -“Uncle, you altogether wrong this gentleman,” she said. “He has been -kind to me beyond my power of words to express; but, till told by you, -he knew nothing of my secret. Nor would he have known it,” she added, -looking down upon the ground. As to that latter assertion, I was at -liberty to believe as much as I pleased. - -The Pole now came to the door, informing us that any who wished to start -by the packet must go on board, and therefore, as the unreasonable old -gentleman perceived, it was necessary that we should all make our -arrangements. I cannot say that they were such as enable me to look back -on them with satisfaction. He did seem now at last to believe that I had -been an unconscious agent in his niece’s stratagem, but he hardly on -that account became civil to me. “It was absolutely necessary,” he said, -“that he and that unfortunate young woman,” as he would call her, -“should depart at once,--by this ship now going.” To this proposition of -course I made no opposition. “And you, Mr. Jones,” he continued, “will -at once perceive that you, as a gentleman, should allow us to proceed on -our journey without the honour of your company.” - -This was very dreadful, but what could I say; or, indeed, what could I -do? My most earnest desire in the matter was to save Miss Weston from -annoyance; and under existing circumstances my presence on board could -not but be a burden to her. And then, if I went,--if I did go, in -opposition to the wishes of the baronet, could I trust my own prudence? -It was better for all parties that I should remain. - -“Sir William,” said I, after a minute’s consideration, “if you will -apologise to me for the gross insults you have offered me, it shall be -as you say.” - -“Mr. Jones,” said Sir William, “I do apologise for the words which I -used to you while I was labouring under a very natural misconception of -the circumstances.” I do not know that I was much the better for the -apology, but at the moment I regarded it sufficient. - -Their things were then hurried down to the strand, and I accompanied -them to the ruined quay. I took off my hat to Sir William as he was -first let down into the boat. He descended first, so that he might -receive his niece,--for all Jaffa now knew that it was a lady,--and then -I gave her my hand for the last time. “God bless you, Miss Weston,” I -said, pressing it closely. “God bless you, Mr. Jones,” she replied. And -from that day to this I have neither spoken to her nor seen her. - -I waited a fortnight at Jaffa for the French boat, eating cutlets of -goat’s flesh, and wandering among the orange groves. I certainly look -back on that fortnight as the most miserable period of my life. I had -been deceived, and had failed to discover the deceit, even though the -deceiver had perhaps wished that I should do so. For that blindness I -have never forgiven myself. - - - - -THE HOUSE OF HEINE BROTHERS, IN MUNICH. - - -The house of Heine Brothers, in Munich, was of good repute at the time -of which I am about to tell,--a time not long ago; and is so still, I -trust. It was of good repute in its own way, seeing that no man doubted -the word or solvency of Heine Brothers; but they did not possess, as -bankers, what would in England be considered a large or profitable -business. The operations of English bankers are bewildering in their -magnitude. Legions of clerks are employed. The senior book-keepers, -though only salaried servants, are themselves great men; while the real -partners are inscrutable, mysterious, opulent beyond measure, and -altogether unknown to their customers. Take any firm at random,--Brown, -Jones, and Cox, let us say,--the probability is that Jones has been dead -these fifty years, that Brown is a Cabinet Minister, and that Cox is -master of a pack of hounds in Leicestershire. But it was by no means so -with the house of Heine Brothers, of Munich. There they were, the two -elderly men, daily to be seen at their dingy office in the Schrannen -Platz; and if any business was to be transacted requiring the -interchange of more than a word or two, it was the younger brother with -whom the customer was, as a matter of course, brought into contact. -There were three clerks in the establishment; an old man, namely, who -sat with the elder brother and had no personal dealings with the public; -a young Englishman, of whom we shall anon hear more; and a boy who ran -messages, put the wood on to the stoves, and swept out the bank. Truly -the house of Heine Brothers was of no great importance; but nevertheless -it was of good repute. - -The office, I have said, was in the Schrannen Platz, or old -Market-place. Munich, as every one knows, is chiefly to be noted as a -new town,--so new that many of the streets and most of the palaces look -as though they had been sent home last night from the builders, and had -only just been taken out of their bandboxes. It is angular, methodical, -unfinished, and palatial. But there is an old town; and, though the old -town be not of surpassing interest, it is as dingy, crooked, intricate, -and dark as other old towns in Germany. Here, in the old Market-place, -up one long broad staircase, were situated the two rooms in which was -held the bank of Heine Brothers. - -Of the elder member of the firm we shall have something to say before -this story be completed. He was an old bachelor, and was possessed of a -bachelor’s dwelling somewhere out in the suburbs of the city. The junior -brother was a married man, with a wife some twenty years younger than -himself, with two daughters, the elder of whom was now one-and-twenty, -and one son. His name was Ernest Heine, whereas the senior brother was -known as Uncle Hatto. Ernest Heine and his wife inhabited a portion of -one of those new palatial residences at the further end of the Ludwigs -Strasse; but not because they thus lived must it be considered that they -were palatial people. By no means let it be so thought, as such an idea -would altogether militate against whatever truth of character painting -there may be in this tale. They were not palatial people, but the very -reverse, living in homely guise, pursuing homely duties, and satisfied -with homely pleasures. Up two pairs of stairs, however, in that street -of palaces, they lived, having there a commodious suite of large rooms, -furnished, after the manner of the Germans, somewhat gaudily as regarded -their best salon, and with somewhat meagre comfort as regarded their -other rooms. But, whether in respect of that which was meagre, or -whether in respect of that which was gaudy, they were as well off as -their neighbours; and this, as I take it, is the point of excellence -which is desirable. - -Ernest Heine was at this time over sixty; his wife was past forty; and -his eldest daughter, as I have said, was twenty-one years of age. His -second child, also a girl, was six years younger; and their third child, -a boy, had not been born till another similar interval had elapsed. He -was named Hatto after his uncle, and the two girls had been christened -Isa and Agnes. Such, in number and mode of life, was the family of the -Heines. - -We English folk are apt to imagine that we are nearer akin to Germans -than to our other continental neighbours. This may be so in blood, but, -nevertheless, the difference in manners is so striking, that it could -hardly be enhanced. An Englishman moving himself off to a city in the -middle of Central America will find the customs to which he must adapt -himself less strange to him there, than he would in many a German town. -But in no degree of life is the difference more remarkable than among -unmarried but marriageable young women. It is not my purpose at the -present moment to attribute a superiority in this matter to either -nationality. Each has its own charm, its own excellence, its own -Heaven-given grace, whereby men are led up to purer thoughts and sweet -desires; and each may possibly have its own defect. I will not here -describe the excellence or defect of either; but will, if it be in my -power, say a word as to this difference. The German girl of -one-and-twenty,--our Isa’s age,--is more sedate, more womanly, more -meditative than her English sister. The world’s work is more in her -thoughts, and the world’s amusements less so. She probably knows less of -those things which women learn than the English girl, but that which she -does know is nearer to her hand for use. She is not so much accustomed -to society, but nevertheless she is more mistress of her own manner. She -is not taught to think so much of those things which flurry and disturb -the mind, and therefore she is seldom flurried and disturbed. To both of -them, love,--the idea of love,--must be the thought of all the most -absorbing; for is it not fated for them that the joys and sorrows of -their future life must depend upon it? But the idea of the German girl -is the more realistic, and the less romantic. Poetry and fiction she may -have read, though of the latter sparingly; but they will not have imbued -her with that hope for some transcendental paradise of affection which -so often fills and exalts the hearts of our daughters here at home. She -is moderate in her aspirations, requiring less excitement than an -English girl; and never forgetting the solid necessities of life,--as -they are so often forgotten here in England. In associating with young -men, an English girl will always remember that in each one she so meets -she may find an admirer whom she may possibly love, or an admirer whom -she may probably be called on to repel. She is ever conscious of the -fact of this position; and a romance is thus engendered which, if it may -at times be dangerous, is at any rate always charming. But the German -girl, in her simplicity, has no such consciousness. As you and I, my -reader, might probably become dear friends were we to meet and know each -other, so may the German girl learn to love the fair-haired youth with -whom chance has for a time associated her; but to her mind there occurs -no suggestive reason why it should be so,--no probability that the youth -may regard her in such light, because that chance has come to pass. She -can therefore give him her hand without trepidation, and talk with him -for half an hour, when called on to do so, as calmly as she might do -with his sister. - -Such a one was Isa Heine at the time of which I am writing. We English, -in our passion for daily excitement, might call her phlegmatic, but we -should call her so unjustly. Life to her was a serious matter, of which -the daily duties and daily wants were sufficient to occupy her thoughts. -She was her mother’s companion, the instructress of both her brother and -her sister, and the charm of her father’s vacant hours. With such calls -upon her time, and so many realities around her, her imagination did not -teach her to look for joys beyond those of her present life and home. -When love and marriage should come to her, as come they probably might, -she would endeavour to attune herself to a new happiness and a new -sphere of duties. In the meantime she was contented to keep her mother’s -accounts, and look after her brother and sister up two pair of stairs in -the Ludwigs Strasse. But change would certainly come, we may prophesy; -for Isa Heine was a beautiful girl, tall and graceful, comely to the -eye, and fit in every way to be loved and cherished as the partner of a -man’s home. - -I have said that an English clerk made a part of that small -establishment in the dingy banking-office in the Schrannen Platz, and I -must say a word or two of Herbert Onslow. In his early career he had not -been fortunate. His father, with means sufficiently moderate, and with a -family more than sufficiently large, had sent him to a public school at -which he had been very idle, and then to one of the universities, at -which he had run into debt, and had therefore left without a degree. -When this occurred, a family council of war had been held among the -Onslows, and it was decided that Herbert should be sent off to the -banking-house of Heines, at Munich, there being a cousinship between the -families, and some existing connections of business. It was, therefore, -so settled; and Herbert, willing enough to see the world,--as he -considered he should do by going to Munich,--started for his German -home, with injunctions, very tender from his mother, and very solemn -from his aggrieved father. But there was nothing bad at the heart about -young Onslow, and if the solemn father had well considered it, he might -perhaps have felt that those debts at Cambridge reflected more fault on -him than on his son. When Herbert arrived at Munich, his cousins, the -Heines,--far-away cousins though they were,--behaved kindly to him. -They established him at first in lodgings, where he was boarded with -many others, having heard somewhat of his early youth. But when Madame -Heine, at the end of twelve months, perceived that he was punctual at -the bank, and that his allowances, which, though moderate in England, -were handsome in Munich, carried him on without debt, she opened her -motherly arms and suggested to his mother and to himself, that he should -live with them. In this way he also was domiciled up two pairs of stairs -in the palatial residence in the Ludwigs Strasse. - -But all this happened long ago. Isa Heine had been only seventeen when -her cousin had first come to Munich, and had made acquaintance with him -rather as a child than as a woman. And when, as she ripened into -womanhood, this young man came more closely among them, it did not -strike her that the change would affect her more powerfully than it -would the others. Her uncle and father, she knew, had approved of -Herbert at the bank; and Herbert had shown that he could be steady; -therefore he was to be taken into their family, paying his annual -subsidy, instead of being left with strangers at the boarding-house. All -this was very simple to her. She assisted in mending his linen, as she -did her father’s; she visited his room daily, as she visited all the -others; she took notice of his likings and dislikings as touching their -table arrangements,--but by no means such notice as she did of her -father’s; and without any flutter, inwardly in her imagination or -outwardly as regarded the world, she made him one of the family. So -things went on for a year,--nay, so things went on for two years with -her, after Herbert Onslow had come to the Ludwigs Strasse. - -But the matter had been regarded in a very different light by Herbert -himself. When the proposition had been made to him, his first idea had -been that so close a connection with a girl so very pretty would be -delightful. He had blushed as he had given in his adhesion; but Madame -Heine, when she saw the blush, had attributed it to anything but the -true cause. When Isa had asked him as to his wants and wishes, he had -blushed again, but she had been as ignorant as her mother. The father -had merely stipulated that, as the young Englishman paid for his board, -he should have the full value of his money, so that Isa and Agnes gave -up their pretty front room, going into one that was inferior, and Hatto -was put to sleep in the little closet that had been papa’s own peculiar -property. But nobody complained of this, for it was understood that the -money was of service. - -For the first year Herbert found that nothing especial happened. He -always fancied that he was in love with Isa, and wrote some poetry about -her. But the poetry was in English, and Isa could not read it, even had -he dared to show it to her. During the second year he went home to -England for three months, and by confessing a passion to one of his -sisters, really brought himself to feel one. He returned to Munich -resolved to tell Isa that the possibility of his remaining there -depended upon her acceptance of his heart; but for months he did not -find himself able to put his resolution in force. She was so sedate, so -womanly, so attentive as regarded cousinly friendship, and so cold as -regarded everything else, that he did not know how to speak to her. With -an English girl whom he had met three times at a ball, he might have -been much more able to make progress. He was alone with Isa frequently, -for neither father, mother, nor Isa herself objected to such communion; -but yet things so went between them that he could not take her by the -hand and tell her that he loved her. And thus the third year of his life -in Munich, and the second of his residence in the Ludwigs Strasse, went -by him. So the years went by, and Isa was now past twenty. To Herbert, -in his reveries, it seemed as though life, and the joys of life, were -slipping away from him. But no such feeling disturbed any of the Heines. -Life, of course, was slipping away; but then is it not the destiny of -man that life should slip away? Their wants were all satisfied, and for -them, that, together with their close family affection, was happiness -enough. - -At last, however, Herbert so spoke, or so looked, that both Isa and her -mother that his heart was touched. He still declared to himself that he -had made no sign, and that he was an oaf, an ass, a coward, in that he -had not done so. But he had made some sign, and the sign had been read. -There was no secret,--no necessity for a secret on the subject between -the mother and daughter, but yet it was not spoken of all at once. There -was some little increase of caution between them as Herbert’s name was -mentioned, so that gradually each knew what the other thought; but for -weeks, that was all. Then at last the mother spoke out. - -“Isa,” she said, “I think that Herbert Onslow is becoming attached to -you.” - -“He has never said so, mamma.” - -“No; I am sure he has not. Had he done so, you would have told me. -Nevertheless, is it not true?” - -“Well, mamma, I cannot say. It may be so. Such an idea has occurred to -me, but I have abandoned it as needless. If he has anything to say he -will say it.” - -“And if he were to speak, how should you answer him?” - -“I should take time to think. I do not at all know what means he has for -a separate establishment.” Then the subject was dropped between them for -that time, and Isa, in her communications with her cousin, was somewhat -more reserved than she had been. - -“Isa, are you in love with Herbert?” Agnes asked her, as they were -together in their room one night. - -“In love with him? No; why should I be in love with him?” - -“I think he is in love with you,” said Agnes. - -“That is quite another thing,” said Isa, laughing. “But if so, he has -not taken me into his confidence. Perhaps he has you.” - -“Oh no. He would not do that, I think. Not but what we are great -friends, and I love him dearly. Would it not be nice for you and him to -be betrothed?” - -“That depends on many things, my dear.” - -“Oh yes, I know. Perhaps he has not got money enough. But you could live -here, you know, and he has got some money, because he so often rides on -horseback.” And then the matter was dropped between the two sisters. - -Herbert had given English lessons to the two girls, but the lessons had -been found tedious, and had dwindled away. Isa, nevertheless, had kept -up her exercises, duly translating German into English, and English into -German; and occasionally she had shown them to her cousin. Now, however, -she altogether gave over such showing of them, but, nevertheless, worked -at the task with more energy than before. - -“Isa,” he said to her one day,--having with some difficulty found her -alone in the parlour, “Isa, why should not we go on with our English?” - -“Because it is troublesome,--to you I mean.” - -“Troublesome. Well; yes; it is troublesome. Nothing good is to be had -without trouble. But I should like it if you would not mind.” - -“You know how sick you were of it before;--besides, I shall never be -able to speak it.” - -“I shall not get sick of it now, Isa.” - -“Oh yes you would;--in two days.” - -“And I want you to speak it. I desire it especially.” - -“Why especially?” asked Isa. And even she, with all her tranquillity of -demeanour, could hardly preserve her even tone and quiet look, as she -asked the necessary question. - -“I will tell you why,” said Herbert; and as he spoke, he got up from his -seat, and took a step or two over towards her, where she was sitting -near the window. Isa, as she saw him, still continued her work, and -strove hard to give to the stitches all that attention which they -required. “I will tell you why I would wish you to talk my language. -Because I love you, Isa, and would have you for my wife,--if that be -possible.” - -She still continued her work, and the stitches, if not quite as perfect -as usual, sufficed for their purpose. - -“That is why I wish it. Now will you consent to learn from me again?” - -“If I did, Herbert, that consent would include another.” - -“Yes; certainly it would. That is what I intend. And now will you learn -from me again?” - -“That is,--you mean to ask, will I marry you?” - -“Will you love me? Can you learn to love me? Oh, Isa, I have thought of -this so long! But you have seemed so cold that I have not dared to -speak. Isa, can you love me?” And he sat himself close beside her. Now -that the ice was broken, he was quite prepared to become an ardent -lover,--if she would allow of such ardour. But as he sat down she rose. - -“I cannot answer such a question on the sudden,” she said. “Give me till -to-morrow, Herbert, and then I will make you a reply;” whereupon she -left him, and he stood alone in the room, having done the deed on which -he had been meditating for the last two years. About half an hour -afterwards he met her on the stairs as he was going to his chamber. “May -I speak to your father about this,” he said, hardly stopping her as he -asked the question. “Oh yes; surely,” she answered; and then again they -parted. To him this last-accorded permission sounded as though it -carried with it more weight than it in truth possessed. In his own -country a reference to the lady’s father is taken as indicating a full -consent on the lady’s part, should the stern paterfamilias raise no -objection. But Isa had no such meaning. She had told him that she could -not give her answer till the morrow. If, however, he chose to consult -her father on the subject, she had no objection. It would probably be -necessary that she should discuss the whole matter in family conclave, -before she could bring herself to give any reply. - -On that night, before he went to bed, he did speak to her father; and -Isa also, before she went to rest, spoke to her mother. It was singular -to him that there should appear to be so little privacy on the subject; -that there should be held to be so little necessity for a secret. Had he -made a suggestion that an extra room should be allotted to him at so -much per annum, the proposition could not have been discussed with -simpler ease. At last, after a three days’ debate, the matter ended -thus,--with by no means a sufficiency of romance for his taste. Isa had -agreed to become his betrothed if certain pecuniary conditions should or -could be fulfilled. It appeared now that Herbert’s father had promised -that some small modicum of capital should be forthcoming after a term of -years, and that Heine Brothers had agreed that the Englishman should -have a proportionate share in the bank when that promise should be -brought to bear. Let it not be supposed that Herbert would thus become a -millionaire. If all went well, the best would be that some three hundred -a year would accrue to him from the bank, instead of the quarter of that -income which he at present received. But three hundred a year goes a -long way at Munich, and Isa’s parents were willing that she should be -Herbert’s wife if such an income should be forthcoming. - -But even of this there was much doubt. Application to Herbert’s father -could not be judiciously made for some months. The earliest period at -which, in accordance with old Hatto Heine’s agreement, young Onslow -might be admitted to the bank, was still distant by four years; and the -present moment was thought to be inopportune for applying to him for any -act of grace. Let them wait, said papa and mamma Heine,--at any rate -till New Year’s Day, then ten months distant. Isa quietly said that she -would wait till New Year’s Day. Herbert fretted, fumed, and declared -that he was ill-treated. But in the end he also agreed to wait. What -else could he do? - -“But we shall see each other daily, and be close to each other,” he said -to Isa, looking tenderly into her eyes. “Yes,” she replied, “we shall -see each other daily--of course. But, Herbert----” - -Herbert looked up at her and paused for her to go on. - -“I have promised mamma that there shall be no change between us,--in our -manner to each other, I mean. We are not betrothed as yet, you know, and -perhaps we may never be so.” - -“Isa!” - -“It may not be possible, you know. And therefore we will go on as -before. Of course we shall see each other, and of course we shall be -friends.” - -Herbert Onslow again fretted and again fumed, but he did not have his -way. He had looked forward to the ecstasies of a lover’s life, but very -few of those ecstasies were awarded to him. He rarely found himself -alone with Isa, and when he did do so, her coldness overawed him. He -could dare to scold her, and sometimes did do so, but he could not dare -to take the slightest liberty. Once, on that night when the qualified -consent of papa and mamma Heine had first been given, he had been -allowed to touch her lips with his own; but since that day there had -been for him no such delight as that. She would not even allow her hand -to remain in his. When they all passed their evenings together in the -beer-garden, she would studiously manage that his chair should not be -close to her own. Occasionally she would walk with him, but not more -frequently now than of yore. Very few, indeed, of a lover’s privileges -did he enjoy. And in this way the long year wore itself out, and Isa -Heine was one-and-twenty. - -All those family details which had made it inexpedient to apply either -to old Hatto or to Herbert’s father before the end of the year need not -be specially explained. Old Hatto, who had by far the greater share in -the business, was a tyrant somewhat feared both by his brother and -sister-in-law; and the elder Onslow, as was known to them all, was a man -straitened in circumstances. But soon after New Year’s Day the -proposition was made in the Schrannen Platz, and the letter was written. -On this occasion Madame Heine went down to the bank, and together with -her husband, was closeted for an hour with old Hatto. Uncle Hatto’s -verdict was not favourable. As to the young people’s marriage, that was -his brother’s affair, not his. But as to the partnership, that was a -serious matter. Who ever heard of a partnership being given away merely -because a man wanted to marry? He would keep to his promise, and if the -stipulated moneys were forthcoming, Herbert Onslow should become a -partner,--in four years. Nor was the reply from England more favourable. -The alliance was regarded by all the Onslows very favourably. Nothing -could be nicer than such a marriage! They already knew dear Isa so well -by description! But as for the money,--that could not in any way be -forthcoming till the end of the stipulated period. - -“And what shall we do?” said Herbert to Papa Heine. - -“You must wait,” said he. - -“For four years?” asked Herbert. - -“You must wait,--as I did,” said Papa Heine. “I was forty before I could -marry.” Papa Heine, however, should not have forgotten to say that his -bride was only twenty, and that if he had waited, she had not. - -“Isa,” Herbert said to her, when all this had been fully explained to -her, “what do you say now?” - -“Of course it is all over,” said she, very calmly. - -“Oh, Isa, is that your love?” - -“No, Herbert, that is not my love; that is my discretion;” and she even -laughed with her mild low laughter, as she answered him. “You know you -are too impatient to wait four years, and what else therefore can I -say?” - -“I wonder whether you love me?” said Herbert, with a grand look of -injured sentiment. - -“Well; in your sense of the word I do not think I do. I do not love you -so that I need make every one around us unhappy because circumstances -forbid me to marry you. That sort of love would be baneful.” - -“Ah no, you do not know what love means!” - -“Not your boisterous, heartbreaking English love, Herbert. And, Herbert, -sometimes I think you had better go home and look for a bride there. -Though you fancy that you love me, in your heart you hardly approve of -me.” - -“Fancy that I love you! Do you think, Isa, that a man can carry his -heart round to one customer after another as the huckster carries his -wares?” - -“Yes; I think he can. I know that men do. What did your hero Waverley do -with his heart in that grand English novel which you gave me to read? I -am not Flora Mac Ivor, but you may find a Rose Bradwardine.” - -“And you really wish me to do so?” - -“Look here, Herbert. It is bad to boast, but I will make this boast. I -am so little selfish, that I desire above all that you should do that -which may make you most happy and contented. I will be quite frank with -you. I love you well enough to wait these four years with the hope of -becoming your wife when they are over. But you will think but little of -my love when I tell you that this waiting would not make me unhappy. I -should go on as I do now, and be contented.” - -“Oh heavens!” sighed Herbert. - -“But as I know that this would not suit you,--as I feel sure that such -delay would gall you every day, as I doubt whether it would not make -you sick of me long before the four years be over,--my advice is, that -we should let this matter drop.” - -He now walked up to her and took her hand, and as he did so there was -something in his gait and look and tone of voice that stirred her heart -more sharply than it had yet been stirred. “And even that would not make -you unhappy,” he said. - -She paused before she replied, leaving her hand in his, for he was -contented to hold it without peculiar pressure. “I will not say so,” she -replied. “But, Herbert, I think that you press me too hard. Is it not -enough that I leave you to be the arbiter of my destiny?” - -“I would learn the very truth of your heart,” he replied. - -“I cannot tell you that truth more plainly. Methinks I have told it too -plainly already. If you wish it, I will hold myself as engaged to -you,--to be married to you when those four years are past. But, -remember, I do not advise it. If you wish it, you shall have back your -troth. And that I think will be the wiser course.” - -But neither alternative contented Herbert Onslow, and at the time he did -not resolve on either. He had some little present income from home, some -fifty pounds a year or so, and he would be satisfied to marry on that -and on his salary as a clerk; but to this papa and mamma Heine would not -consent;--neither would Isa. - -“You are not a saving, close man,” she said to him when he boasted of -his economies. “No Englishmen are. You could not live comfortably in two -small rooms, and with bad dinners.” - -“I do not care a straw about my dinners.” - -“Not now that you are a lover, but you would do when you were a husband. -And you change your linen almost every day.” - -“Bah!” - -“Yes; bah, if you please. But I know what these things cost. You had -better go to England and fetch a rich wife. Then you will become a -partner at once, and Uncle Hatto won’t snub you. And you will be a grand -man, and have a horse to ride on.” Whereupon Herbert went away in -disgust. Nothing in all this made him so unhappy as the feeling that -Isa, under all their joint privations, would not be unhappy herself. As -far as he could see, all this made no difference in Isa. - -But, in truth, he had not yet read Isa’s character very thoroughly. She -had spoken truly in saying that she knew nothing of that boisterous love -which was now tormenting him and making him gloomy; but nevertheless she -loved him. She, in her short life, had learnt many lessons of -self-denial; and now with reference to this half-promised husband she -would again have practised such a lesson. Had he agreed at once to go -from her, she would have balanced her own account within her own breast, -and have kept to herself all her sufferings. There would have been no -outward show of baffled love,--none even in the colour of her cheeks; -for such was the nature of her temperament. But she did suffer for him. -Day by day she began to think that his love, though boisterous as she -had at first called it, was more deep-seated than she had believed. He -made no slightest sign that he would accept any of those proffers which -she had made him of release. Though he said so loudly that this waiting -for four years was an impossibility, he spoke of no course that would be -more possible,--except that evidently impossible course of an early -marriage. And thus, while he with redoubled vehemence charged her with -coldness and want of love, her love waxed warmer and warmer, and his -happiness became the chief object of her thoughts. What could she do -that he might no longer suffer? - -And then he took a step which was very strange to them all. He banished -himself altogether from the house, going away again into lodgings, “No,” -he said, on the morning of his departure, “I do not release you. I will -never release you. You are mine, and I have a right so to call you. If -you choose to release yourself, I cannot help it; but in doing so you -will be forsworn.” - -“Nay, but, Herbert, I have sworn to nothing,” said she, meaning that she -had not been formally betrothed to him. - -“You can do as you please; it is a matter of conscience; but I tell you -what are my feelings. Here I cannot stay, for I should go mad; but I -shall see you occasionally;--perhaps on Sundays.” - -“Oh, Herbert!” - -“Well, what would you have? If you really care to see me it would not be -thus. All I ask of you now is this, that if you decide,--absolutely -decide on throwing me over, you will tell me at once. Then I shall leave -Munich.” - -“Herbert, I will never throw you over.” So they parted, and Onslow went -forth to his new lodgings. - -Her promise that she would never throw him over was the warmest word of -love that she had ever spoken, but even that was said in her own quiet, -unimpassioned way. There was in it but very little show of love, though -there might be an assurance of constancy. But her constancy he did not, -in truth, much doubt. Four years,--fourteen,--or twenty-four, would be -the same to her, he said, as he seated himself in the dull, cold room -which he had chosen. While living in the Ludwigs Strasse he did not know -how much had been daily done for his comfort by that hand which he had -been so seldom allowed to press; but he knew that he was now cold and -comfortless, and he wished himself back in the Ludwigs Strasse. - -“Mamma,” said Isa, when they were alone. “Is not Uncle Hatto rather hard -on us? Papa said that he would ask this as a favour from his brother.” - -“So he did, my dear; and offered to give up more of his own time. But -your Uncle Hatto is hard.” - -“He is rich, is he not?” - -“Well; your father says not. Your father says that he spends all his -income. Though he is hard and obstinate, he is not selfish. He is very -good to the poor, but I believe he thinks that early marriages are very -foolish.” - -“Mamma,” said Isa again, when they had sat for some minutes in silence -over their work. - -“Well, my love?” - -“Have you spoken to Uncle Hatto about this?” - -“No, dear; not since that day when your papa and I first went to him. To -tell the truth, I am almost afraid to speak to him; but, if you wish it, -I will do so.” - -“I do wish it, mamma. But you must not think that I am discontented or -impatient. I do not know that I have any right to ask my uncle for his -money;--for it comes to that.” - -“I suppose it does, my dear.” - -“And as for myself, I am happy here with you and papa. I do not think so -much of these four years.” - -“You would still be young, Isa;--quite young enough.” - -“And what if I were not young? What does it matter? But, mamma, there -has been that between Herbert and me which makes me feel myself bound to -think of him. As you and papa have sanctioned it, you are bound to think -of him also. I know that he is unhappy, living there all alone.” - -“But why did he go, dear?” - -“I think he was right to go. I could understand his doing that. He is -not like us, and would have been fretful here, wanting that which I -could not give him. He became worse from day to day, and was silent and -morose. I am glad he went. But, mamma, for his sake I wish that this -could be shortened.” - -Madame Heine told her daughter that she would, if Isa wished it, herself -go to the Schrannen Platz, and see what could be done by talking to -Uncle Hatto. “But,” she added, “I fear that no good will come of it.” - -“Can harm come, mamma?” - -“No, I do not think harm can come.” - -“I’ll tell you what, mamma, I will go to Uncle Hatto myself, if you will -let me. He is cross I know; but I shall not be afraid of him. I feel -that I ought to do something.” And so the matter was settled, Madame -Heine being by no means averse to escape a further personal visit to the -Head of the banking establishment. - -Madame Heine well understood what her daughter meant, when she said she -ought to do something, though Isa feared that she had imperfectly -expressed her meaning. When he, Herbert, was willing to do so much to -prove his love,--when he was ready to sacrifice all the little comforts -of comparative wealth to which he had been accustomed, in order that she -might be his companion and wife,--did it not behove her to give some -proof of her love also? She could not be demonstrative as he was. Such -exhibition of feeling would be quite contrary to her ideas of female -delicacy, and to her very nature. But if called on to work for him, that -she could do as long as strength remained to her. But there was no -sacrifice which would be of service, nor any work which would avail. -Therefore she was driven to think what she might do on his behalf, and -at last she resolved to make her personal appeal to Uncle Hatto. - -“Shall I tell papa?” Isa asked of her mother. - -“I will do so,” said Madame Heine. And then the younger member of the -firm was informed as to the step which was to be taken; and he, though -he said nothing to forbid the attempt, held out no hope that it would be -successful. - -Uncle Hatto was a little snuffy man, now full seventy years of age, who -passed seven hours of every week-day of his life in the dark back -chamber behind the banking-room of the firm, and he had so passed every -week-day of his life for more years than any of the family could now -remember. He had made the house what it was, and had taken his brother -into partnership when that brother married. All the family were somewhat -afraid of him, including even his partner. He rarely came to the -apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse, as he himself lived in one of the -older and shabbier suburbs on the other side of the town. Thither he -always walked, starting punctually from the bank at four o’clock, and -from thence he always walked in the morning, reaching the bank -punctually at nine. His two nieces knew him well; for on certain stated -days they were wont to attend on him at his lodgings, where they would -be regaled with cakes, and afterwards go with him to some old-fashioned -beer-garden in his neighbourhood. But these festivities were of a sombre -kind; and if, on any occasion, circumstances prevented the fulfilment of -the ceremony, neither of the girls would be loud in their lamentations. - -In London, a visit paid by a niece to her uncle would, in all -probability, be made at the uncle’s private residence; but at Munich -private and public matters were not so effectually divided. Isa -therefore, having put on her hat and shawl, walked off by herself to the -Schrannen Platz. - -“Is Uncle Hatto inside?” she asked; and the answer was given to her by -her own lover. Yes, he was within; but the old clerk was with him. Isa, -however, signified her wish to see her uncle alone, and in a few minutes -the ancient grey-haired servant of the house came out into the larger -room. - -“You can go in now, Miss Isa,” he said. And Isa found herself in the -presence of her uncle before she had been two minutes under the roof. In -the mean time Ernest Heine, her father, had said not a word, and Herbert -knew that something very special must be about to occur. - -“Well, my bonny bird,” said Uncle Hatto, “and what do you want at the -bank?” Cheery words, such as these, were by no means uncommon with Uncle -Hatto; but Isa knew very well that no presage could be drawn from them -of any special good nature or temporary weakness on his part. - -“Uncle Hatto,” she began, rushing at once into the middle of her affair, -“you know, I believe, that I am engaged to marry Herbert Onslow?” - -“I know no such thing,” said he. “I thought I understood your father -specially to say that there had been no betrothal.” - -“No, Uncle Hatto, there has been no betrothal; that certainly is true; -but, nevertheless, we are engaged to each other.” - -“Well,” said Uncle Hatto, very sourly; and now there was no longer any -cheery tone, or any calling of pretty names. - -“Perhaps you may think all this very foolish,” said Isa, who, in spite -of her resolves to do so, was hardly able to look up gallantly into her -uncle’s face as she thus talked of her own love affairs. - -“Yes, I do,” said Uncle Hatto. “I do think it foolish for young people -to hold themselves betrothed before they have got anything to live on, -and so I have told your father. He answered me by saying that you were -not betrothed.” - -“Nor are we. Papa is quite right in that.” - -“Then, my dear, I would advise you to tell the young man that, as -neither of you have means of your own, the thing must be at an end. It -is the only step for you to take. If you agreed to wait, one of you -might die, or his money might never be forthcoming, or you might see -somebody else that you liked better.” - -“I don’t think I shall do that.” - -“You can’t tell. And if you don’t, the chances are ten to one that he -will.” - -This little blow, which was intended to be severe, did not hit Isa at -all hard. That plan of a Rose Bradwardine she herself had proposed in -good faith, thinking that she could endure such a termination to the -affair without flinching. She was probably wrong in this estimate of her -power; but, nevertheless, her present object was his release from -unhappiness and doubt, not her own. - -“It might be so,” she said. - -“Take my word for it, it would. Look all around. There was Adelaide -Schropner,--but that was before your time, and you would not remember.” -Considering that Adelaide Schropner had been for many years a -grandmother, it was probable that Isa would not remember. - -“But, Uncle Hatto, you have not heard me. I want to say something to -you, if it will not take too much of your time.” In answer to which, -Uncle Hatto muttered something which was unheeded, to signify that Isa -might speak. - -“I also think that a long engagement is a foolish thing, and so does -Herbert.” - -“But he wants to marry at once.” - -“Yes, he wants to marry--perhaps not at once, but soon.” - -“And I suppose you have come to say that you want the same thing.” - -Isa blushed ever so faintly as she commenced her answer. “Yes, uncle, I -do wish the same thing. What he wishes, I wish.” - -“Very likely,--very likely.” - -“Don’t be scornful to me, uncle. When two people love each other, it is -natural that each should wish that which the other earnestly desires.” - -“Oh, very natural, my dear, that you should wish to get married!” - -“Uncle Hatto, I did not think that you would be unkind to me, though I -knew that you would be stern.” - -“Well, go on. What have you to say? I am not stern; but I have no doubt -you will think me unkind. People are always unkind who do not do what -they are asked.” - -“Papa says that Herbert Onslow is some day to become a partner in the -bank.” - -“That depends on certain circumstances. Neither I nor your papa can say -whether he will or no.” - -But Isa went on as though she had not heard the last reply. “I have come -to ask you to admit him as a partner at once.” - -“Ah, I supposed so;--just as you might ask me to give you a new ribbon.” - -“But uncle, I never did ask you to give me a new ribbon. I never asked -you to give me anything for myself; nor do I ask this for myself.” - -“Do you think that if I could do it,--which of course I can’t,--I would -not sooner do it for you, who are my own flesh and blood, than for him, -who is a stranger?” - -“Nay; he is no stranger. He has sat at your desk and obeyed your orders -for nearly four years. Papa says that he has done well in the bank.” - -“Humph! If every clerk that does well,--pretty well, that is,--wanted a -partnership, where should we be, my dear? No, my dear, go home and tell -him when you see him in the evening that all this must be at an end. -Men’s places in the world are not given away so easily as that. They -must either be earned or purchased. Herbert Onslow has as yet done -neither, and therefore he is not entitled to take a wife. I should have -been glad to have had a wife at his age,--at least I suppose I should, -but at any rate I could not afford it.” - -But Isa had by no means as yet done. So far the interview had progressed -exactly as she had anticipated. She had never supposed it possible that -her uncle would grant her so important a request as soon as she opened -her mouth to ask it. She had not for a moment expected that things would -go so easily with her. Indeed she had never expected that any success -would attend her efforts; but, if any success were possible, the work -which must achieve that success must now commence. It was necessary that -she should first state her request plainly before she began to urge it -with such eloquence as she had at her command. - -“I can understand what you say, Uncle Hatto.” - -“I am glad of that, at any rate.” - -“And I know that I have no right to ask you for anything.” - -“I do not say that. Anything in reason, that a girl like you should ask -of her old uncle, I would give you.” - -“I have no such reasonable request to make, uncle. I have never wanted -new ribbons from you or gay toys. Even from my own mother I have not -wanted them;--not wanted them faster than they seemed to come without -any asking.” - -“No, no; you have been a good girl.” - -“I have been a happy girl; and quite happy with those I loved, and with -what Providence had given me. I had nothing to ask for. But now I am no -longer happy, nor can I be unless you do for me this which I ask of you. -I have wanted nothing till now, and now in my need I come to you.” - -“And now you want a husband with a fortune!” - -“No!” and that single word she spoke, not loudly, for her voice was low -and soft, but with an accent which carried it sharply to his ear and to -his brain. And then she rose from her seat as she went on. “Your scorn, -uncle, is unjust,--unjust and untrue. I have ever acted maidenly, as has -become my mother’s daughter.” - -“Yes, yes, yes;--I believe that.” - -“And I can say more than that for myself. My thoughts have been the -same, nor have my wishes even, ever gone beyond them. And when this -young man came to me, telling me of his feelings, I gave him no answer -till I had consulted my mother.” - -“She should have bade you not to think of him.” - -“Ah, you are not a mother, and cannot know. Why should I not think of -him when he was good and kind, honest and hard-working? And then he had -thought of me first. Why should I not think of him? Did not mamma listen -to my father when he came to her?” - -“But your father was forty years old, and had a business.” - -“You gave it him, Uncle Hatto. I have heard him say so.” - -“And therefore I am to do as much for you. And then next year Agnes will -come to me; and so before I die I shall see you all in want, with large -families. No, Isa; I will not scorn you, but this thing I cannot do.” - -“But I have not told you all yet. You say that I want a husband.” - -“Well, well; I did not mean to say it harshly.” - -“I do want--to be married.” And here her courage failed her a little, -and for a moment her eye fell to the ground. “It is true, uncle. He has -asked me whether I could love him, and I have told him I could. He has -asked me whether I would be his wife, and I have given him a promise. -After that, must not his happiness be my happiness, and his misery my -misery? Am I not his wife already before God?” - -“No, no,” said Uncle Hatto, loudly. - -“Ah, but I am. None feel the strength of the bonds but those who are -themselves bound. I know my duty to my father and mother, and with God’s -help I will do it, but I am not the less bound to him. Without their -approval I will not stand with him at the altar; but not the less is my -lot joined to his for this world. Nothing could release me from that but -his wish.” - -“And he will wish it in a month or two.” - -“Excuse me, Uncle Hatto, but in that I can only judge for myself as best -I may. He has loved me now for two years----” - -“Psha!” - -“And whether it be wise or foolish, I have sanctioned it. I cannot now -go back with honour, even if my own heart would let me. His welfare must -be my welfare, and his sorrow my sorrow. Therefore I am bound to do for -him anything that a girl may do for the man she loves; and, as I knew of -no other resource, I come to you to help me.” - -“And he, sitting out there, knows what you are saying.” - -“Most certainly not. He knows no more than that he has seen me enter -this room.” - -“I am glad of that, because I would not wish that he should be -disappointed. In this matter, my dear, I cannot do anything for you.” - -“And that is your last answer, uncle?” - -“Yes, indeed. When you come to think over this some twenty years hence, -you will know then that I am right, and that your request was -unreasonable.” - -“It may be so,” she replied, “but I do not think it.” - -“It will be so. Such favours as you now ask are not granted in this -world for light reasons.” - -“Light reasons! Well, uncle, I have had my say, and will not take up -your time longer.” - -“Good-bye, my dear. I am sorry that I cannot oblige you;--that it is -quite out of my power to oblige you.” - -Then she went, giving him her hand as she parted from him; and he, as -she left the room looked anxiously at her, watching her countenance and -her gait, and listening to the very fall of her footstep. “Ah,” he said -to himself, when he was alone, “the young people have the best of it. -The sun shines for them; but why should they have all? Poor as he is, -he is a happy dog,--a happy dog. But she is twice too good for him. Why -did she not take to one of her own country?” - -Isa, as she passed through the bank, smiled sweetly on her father, and -then smiled sweetly at her lover, nodding to him with a pleasant kindly -nod. If he could have heard all that had passed at that interview, how -much more he would have known of her than he now knew, and how proud he -would have been of her love. No word was spoken as she went out, and -then she walked home with even step, as she had walked thither. It can -hardly be said that she was disappointed, as she had expected nothing. -But people hope who do not expect, and though her step was even and her -face calm, yet her heart was sad. - -“Mamma,” she said, “there is no hope from Uncle Hatto.” - -“So I feared, my dear.” - -“But I thought it right to try--for Herbert’s sake.” - -“I hope it will not do him an injury in the bank.” - -“Oh, mamma, do not put that into my head. If that were added to it all, -I should indeed be wretched.” - -“No; he is too just for that. Poor young man! Sometimes I almost think -it would be better that he should go back to England.” - -“Mamma, if he did, I should--break my heart.” - -“Isa!” - -“Well, mamma! But do not suppose that I mean to complain, whatever -happens.” - -“But I had been so sure that you had constrained your feelings!” - -“So I had,--till I knew myself. Mamma, I could wait for years, if he -were contented to wait by my side. If I could see him happy, I could -watch him and love him, and be happy also. I do not want to have him -kneeling to me, and making sweet speeches; but it has gone too far -now,--and I could not bear to lose him.” And thus to her mother she -confessed the truth. - -There was nothing more said between Isa and her mother on the subject, -and for two days the matter remained as it then stood. Madame Heine had -been deeply grieved at hearing those last words which her daughter had -spoken. To her also that state of quiescence which Isa had so long -affected seemed to be the proper state at which a maiden’s heart should -stand till after her marriage vows had been pronounced. She had watched -her Isa, and had approved of everything,--of everything till this last -avowal had been made. But now, though she could not approve, she -expressed no disapproval in words. She pressed her daughter’s hand and -sighed, and then the two said no more upon the matter. In this way, for -two days, there was silence in the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse; -for even when the father returned from his work, the whole circle felt -that their old family mirth was for the present necessarily laid aside. - -On the morning of the third day, about noon, Madame Heine returned home -from the market with Isa, and as they reached the landing, Agnes met -them with a packet. “Fritz brought it from the bank,” said Agnes. Now -Fritz was the boy who ran messages and swept out the office, and Madame -Heine put out her hand for the parcel, thinking, not unnaturally, that -it was for her. But Agnes would not give it to her mother. “It is for -you, Isa,” she said. Then Isa, looking at the address, recognised the -handwriting of her uncle. “Mamma,” she said, “I will come to you -directly;” and then she passed quickly away into her own room. - -The parcel was soon opened, and contained a note from her uncle, and a -stiff, large document, looking as though it had come from the hands of a -lawyer. Isa glanced at the document, and read some few of the words on -the outer fold, but they did not carry home to her mind any clear -perception of their meaning. She was flurried at the moment, and the -words, perhaps, were not very plain. Then she took up her note, and that -was plain enough. It was very short, and ran as follows:-- - -“My dear Niece, - - “You told me on Monday that I was stern, and harsh, and unjust. - Perhaps I was. If so, I hope the enclosed will make amends, and - that you will not think me such an old fool as I think myself. - - “Your affectionate uncle, - - “HATTO HEINE. - - - -“I have told nobody yet, and the enclosed will require my brother’s -signature; but I suppose he will not object.” - - * * * * * - -“But he does not know it, mamma,” said Isa. “Who is to tell him? Oh, -mamma, you must tell him.” - -“Nay, my dear; but it must be your own present to him.” - -“I could not give it him. It is Uncle Hatto’s present Mamma, when I left -him I thought that his eye was kind to me.” - -“His heart, at any rate, has been very kind.” And then again they looked -over the document, and talked of the wedding which must now be near at -hand. But still they had not as yet decided how Herbert should be -informed. - -At last Isa resolved that she herself would write to him. She did write, -and this was her letter:-- - -“Dear Herbert, - - “Mamma and I wish to see you, and beg that you will come up to us - this evening. We have tidings for you which I hope you will receive - with joy. I may as well tell you at once, as I do not wish to - flurry you. Uncle Hatto has sent to us a document which admits you - as a partner into the bank. If, therefore, you wish to go on with - our engagement, I suppose there is nothing now to cause any very - great delay. - - “ISA.” - - - -The letter was very simple, and Isa, when she had written it, subsided -into all her customary quiescence. Indeed, when Herbert came to the -Ludwigs Strasse, not in the evening as he was bidden to do, but -instantly, leaving his own dinner uneaten, and coming upon the Heines in -the midst of their dinner, she was more than usually tranquil. But his -love was, as she had told him, boisterous. He could not contain himself, -and embraced them all, and then scolded Isa because she was so calm. - -“Why should I not be calm,” said she, “now that I know you are happy?” - -The house in the Schrannen Platz still goes by the name of Heine -Brothers, but the mercantile world in Bavaria, and in some cities out of -Bavaria, is well aware that the real pith and marrow of the business is -derived from the energy of the young English partner. - - - - -THE MAN WHO KEPT HIS MONEY IN A BOX. - - -I first saw the man who kept his money in a box in the midst of the -ravine of the Via Mala. I interchanged a few words with him or with his -wife at the hospice, at the top of the Splugen; and I became acquainted -with him in the courtyard of Conradi’s hotel at Chiavenna. It was, -however, afterwards at Bellaggio, on the lake of Como, that that -acquaintance ripened into intimacy. A good many years have rolled by -since then, and I believe this little episode in his life may be told -without pain to the feelings of any one. - -His name was ----; let us for the present say that his name was Greene. -How he learned that my name was Robinson I do not know, but I remember -well that he addressed me by my name at Chiavenna. To go back, however, -for a moment to the Via Mala;--I had been staying for a few days at the -Golden Eagle at Tusis,--which, by-the-bye, I hold to be the best small -inn in all Switzerland, and its hostess to be, or to have been, -certainly the prettiest landlady,--and on the day of my departure -southwards, I had walked on, into the Via Mala, so that the diligence -might pick me up in the gorge. This pass I regard as one of the grandest -spots to which my wandering steps have ever carried me, and though I had -already lingered about it for many hours, I now walked thither again to -take my last farewell of its dark towering rocks, its narrow causeway -and roaring river, trusting to my friend the landlady to see that my -luggage was duly packed upon the diligence. I need hardly say that my -friend did not betray her trust. - -As one goes out from Switzerland towards Italy, the road through the Via -Mala ascends somewhat steeply, and passengers by the diligence may walk -from the inn at Tusis into the gorge, and make their way through the -greater part of the ravine before the vehicle will overtake them. This, -however, Mr. Greene with his wife and daughter had omitted to do. When -the diligence passed me in the defile, the horses trotting for a few -yards over some level portion of the road, I saw a man’s nose pressed -close against the glass of the coupé window. I saw more of his nose than -of any other part of his face, but yet I could perceive that his neck -was twisted and his eye upturned, and that he was making a painful -effort to look upwards to the summit of the rocks from his position -inside the carriage. - -There was such a roar of wind and waters at the spot that it was not -practicable to speak to him, but I beckoned with my finger and then -pointed to the road, indicating that he should have walked. He -understood me, though I did not at the moment understand his answering -gesture. It was subsequently, when I knew somewhat of his habits, that -he explained to me that on pointing to his open mouth, he had intended -to signify that he would be afraid of sore throat in exposing himself to -the air of that damp and narrow passage. - -I got up into the conductor’s covered seat at the back of the diligence, -and in this position encountered the drifting snow of the Splugen. I -think it is coldest of all the passes. Near the top of the pass the -diligence stops for awhile, and it is here, if I remember, that the -Austrian officials demand the travellers’ passports. At least in those -days they did so. These officials have now retreated behind the -Quadrilatère,--soon, as we hope, to make a further retreat,--and the -district belongs to the kingdom of United Italy. There is a place of -refreshment or hospice here, into which we all went for a few moments, -and I then saw that my friend with the weak throat was accompanied by -two ladies. - -“You should not have missed the Via Mala,” I said to him, as he stood -warming his toes at the huge covered stove. - -“We miss everything,” said the elder of the two ladies, who, however, -was very much younger than the gentleman, and not very much older than -her companion. - -“I saw it beautifully, mamma,” said the younger one; whereupon mamma -gave her head a toss, and made up her mind, as I thought, to take some -little vengeance before long upon her step-daughter. I observed that -Miss Greene always called her step-mother mamma on the first approach of -any stranger, so that the nature of the connection between them might be -understood. And I observed also that the elder lady always gave her head -a toss when she was so addressed. - -“We don’t mean to enjoy ourselves till we get down to the lake of -Como,” said Mr. Greene. As I looked at him cowering over the stove, and -saw how oppressed he was with great coats and warm wrappings for his -throat, I quite agreed with him that he had not begun to enjoy himself -as yet. Then we all got into our places again, and I saw no more of the -Greenes till we were standing huddled together in the large courtyard of -Conradi’s hotel at Chiavenna. - -Chiavenna is the first Italian town which the tourist reaches by this -route, and I know no town in the North of Italy which is so closely -surrounded by beautiful scenery. The traveller as he falls down to it -from the Splugen road is bewildered by the loveliness of the -valleys,--that is to say, if he so arranges that he can see them without -pressing his nose against the glass of a coach window. And then from the -town itself there are walks of two, three, and four hours, which I think -are unsurpassed for wild and sometimes startling beauties. One gets into -little valleys, green as emeralds, and surrounded on all sides by grey -broken rocks, in which Italian Rasselases might have lived in perfect -bliss; and then again one comes upon distant views up the river courses, -bounded far away by the spurs of the Alps, which are perfect,--to which -the fancy can add no additional charm. Conradi’s hotel also is by no -means bad; or was not in those days. For my part I am inclined to think -that Italian hotels have received a worse name than they deserve; and I -must profess that, looking merely to creature comforts, I would much -sooner stay a week at the Golden Key at Chiavenna, than with mine host -of the King’s Head in the thriving commercial town of Muddleboro, on the -borders of Yorkshire and Lancashire. - -I am always rather keen about my room in travelling, and having secured -a chamber looking out upon the mountains, had returned to the court-yard -to collect my baggage before Mr. Greene had succeeded in realising his -position, or understanding that he had to take upon himself the duties -of settling his family for the night in the hotel by which he was -surrounded. When I descended he was stripping off the outermost of three -great coats, and four waiters around him were beseeching him to tell -them what accommodation he would require. Mr. Greene was giving sundry -very urgent instructions to the conductor respecting his boxes; but as -these were given in English, I was not surprised to find that they were -not accurately followed. The man, however, was much too courteous to say -in any language that he did not understand every word that was said to -him. Miss Greene was standing apart, doing nothing. As she was only -eighteen years of age, it was of course her business to do nothing; and -a very pretty little girl she was, by no means ignorant of her own -beauty, and possessed of quite sufficient wit to enable her to make the -most of it. - -Mr. Greene was very leisurely in his proceedings, and the four waiters -were almost reduced to despair. - -“I want two bed-rooms, a dressing-room, and some dinner,” he said at -last, speaking very slowly, and in his own vernacular. I could not in -the least assist him by translating it into Italian, for I did not speak -a word of the language myself; but I suggested that the man would -understand French. The waiter, however, had understood English. Waiters -do understand all languages with a facility that is marvellous; and this -one now suggested that Mrs. Greene should follow him up-stairs. Mrs. -Greene, however, would not move till she had seen that her boxes were -all right; and as Mrs. Greene was also a pretty woman, I found myself -bound to apply myself to her assistance. - -“Oh, thank you,” said she. “The people are so stupid that one can really -do nothing with them. And as for Mr. Greene, he is of no use at all. You -see that box, the smaller one. I have four hundred pounds’ worth of -jewellery in that, and therefore I am obliged to look after it.” - -“Indeed,” said I, rather startled at this amount of confidence on rather -a short acquaintance. “In that case I do not wonder at your being -careful. But is it not rather rash, perhaps----” - -“I know what you are going to say. Well, perhaps it is rash. But when -you are going to foreign courts, what are you to do? If you have got -those sort of things you must wear them.” - -As I was not myself possessed of anything of that sort, and had no -intention of going to any foreign court, I could not argue the matter -with her. But I assisted her in getting together an enormous pile of -luggage, among which there were seven large boxes covered with canvas, -such as ladies not uncommonly carry with them when travelling. That one -which she represented as being smaller than the others, and as holding -jewellery, might be about a yard long by a foot and a half deep. Being -ignorant in those matters, I should have thought it sufficient to carry -all a lady’s wardrobe for twelve months. When the boxes were collected -together, she sat down upon the jewel-case and looked up into my face. -She was a pretty woman, perhaps thirty years of age, with long light -yellow hair, which she allowed to escape from her bonnet, knowing, -perhaps, that it was not unbecoming to her when thus dishevelled. Her -skin was very delicate, and her complexion good. Indeed her face would -have been altogether prepossessing had there not been a want of -gentleness in her eyes. Her hands, too, were soft and small, and on the -whole she may be said to have been possessed of a strong battery of -feminine attractions. She also well knew how to use them. - -“Whisper,” she said to me, with a peculiar but very proper aspiration on -the h--“Wh-hisper,” and both by the aspiration and the use of the word I -knew at once from what island she had come. “Mr. Greene keeps all his -money in this box also; so I never let it go out of my sight for a -moment. But whatever you do, don’t tell him that I told you so.” - -I laid my hand on my heart, and made a solemn asseveration that I would -not divulge her secret. I need not, however, have troubled myself much -on that head, for as I walked up stairs, keeping my eye upon the -precious trunk, Mr. Greene addressed me. - -“You are an Englishman, Mr. Robinson,” said he. I acknowledged that I -was. - -“I am another. My wife, however, is Irish. My daughter,--by a former -marriage,--is English also. You see that box there.” - -“Oh, yes,” said I, “I see it.” I began to be so fascinated by the box -that I could not keep my eyes off it. - -“I don’t know whether or no it is prudent, but I keep all my money -there; my money for travelling, I mean.” - -“If I were you, then,” I answered, “I would not say anything about it to -any one.” - -“Oh, no, of course not,” said he; “I should not think of mentioning it. -But those brigands in Italy always take away what you have about your -person, but they don’t meddle with the heavy luggage.” - -“Bills of exchange, or circular notes,” I suggested. - -“Ah, yes; and if you can’t identify yourself, or happen to have a -headache, you can’t get them changed. I asked an old friend of mine, who -has been connected with the Bank of England for the last fifty years, -and he assured me that there was nothing like sovereigns.” - -“But you never get the value for them.” - -“Well, not quite. One loses a franc, or a franc and a half. But still, -there’s the certainty, and that’s the great matter. An English sovereign -will go anywhere,” and he spoke these words with considerable triumph. - -“Undoubtedly, if you consent to lose a shilling on each sovereign.” - -“At any rate, I have got three hundred and fifty in that box,” he said. -“I have them done up in rolls of twenty-five pounds each.” - -I again recommended him to keep this arrangement of his as private as -possible,--a piece of counsel which I confess seemed to me to be much -needed,--and then I went away to my own room, having first accepted an -invitation from Mrs. Greene to join their party at dinner. “Do,” said -she; “we have been so dull, and it will be so pleasant.” - -I did not require to be much pressed to join myself to a party in which -there was so pretty a girl as Miss Greene, and so attractive a woman as -Mrs. Greene. I therefore accepted the invitation readily, and went away -to make my toilet. As I did so I passed the door of Mr. Greene’s room, -and saw the long file of boxes being borne into the centre of it. - -I spent a pleasant evening, with, however, one or two slight drawbacks. -As to old Greene himself, he was all that was amiable; but then he was -nervous, full of cares, and somewhat apt to be a bore. He wanted -information on a thousand points, and did not seem to understand that a -young man might prefer the conversation of his daughter to his own. Not -that he showed any solicitude to prevent conversation on the part of his -daughter. I should have been perfectly at liberty to talk to either of -the ladies had he not wished to engross all my attention to himself. He -also had found it dull to be alone with his wife and daughter for the -last six weeks. - -He was a small spare man, probably over fifty years of age, who gave me -to understand that he had lived in London all his life, and had made his -own fortune in the city. What he had done in the city to make his -fortune he did not say. Had I come across him there I should no doubt -have found him to be a sharp man of business, quite competent to teach -me many a useful lesson of which I was as ignorant as an infant. Had he -caught me on the Exchange, or at Lloyd’s, or in the big room of the Bank -of England, I should have been compelled to ask him everything. Now, in -this little town under the Alps, he was as much lost as I should have -been in Lombard Street, and was ready enough to look to me for -information. I was by no means chary in giving him my counsel, and -imparting to him my ideas on things in general in that part of the -world;--only I should have preferred to be allowed to make myself civil -to his daughter. - -In the course of conversation it was mentioned by him that they intended -to stay a few days at Bellaggio, which, as all the world knows, is a -central spot on the lake of Como, and a favourite resting-place for -travellers. There are three lakes which all meet here, and to all of -which we give the name of Como. They are properly called the lakes of -Como, Colico, and Lecco; and Bellaggio is the spot at which their waters -join each other. I had half made up my mind to sleep there one night on -my road into Italy, and now, on hearing their purpose, I declared that -such was my intention. - -“How very pleasant,” said Mrs. Greene. “It will be quite delightful to -have some one to show us how to settle ourselves, for really----” - -“My dear, I’m sure you can’t say that you ever have much trouble.” - -“And who does then, Mr. Greene? I am sure Sophonisba does not do much to -help me.” - -“You won’t let me,” said Sophonisba, whose name I had not before heard. -Her papa had called her Sophy in the yard of the inn. Sophonisba Greene! -Sophonisba Robinson did not sound so badly in my ears, and I confess -that I had tried the names together. Her papa had mentioned to me that -he had no other child, and had mentioned also that he had made his -fortune. - -And then there was a little family contest as to the amount of -travelling labour which fell to the lot of each of the party, during -which I retired to one of the windows of the big front room in which we -were sitting. And how much of this labour there is incidental to a -tourist’s pursuits! And how often these little contests do arise upon a -journey! Who has ever travelled and not known them? I had taken up such -a position at the window as might, I thought, have removed me out of -hearing; but nevertheless from time to time a word would catch my ear -about that precious box. “I have never taken my eyes off it since I left -England,” said Mrs. Greene, speaking quick, and with a considerable -brogue superinduced by her energy. - -“Where would it have been at Basle if I had not been looking afther it?” -“Quite safe,” said Sophonisba; “those large things always are safe.” -“Are they, Miss? That’s all you know about it. I suppose your bonnet-box -was quite safe when I found it on the platform at--at--I forget the name -of the place?” - -“Freidrichshafen,” said Sophonisba, with almost an unnecessary amount of -Teutonic skill in her pronunciation. “Well, mamma, you have told me of -that at least twenty times.” Soon after that, the ladies took them to -their own rooms, weary with the travelling of two days and a night, and -Mr. Greene went fast asleep in the very comfortless chair in which he -was seated. - -At four o’clock on the next morning we started on our journey. - - “Early to bed, and early to rise, - Is the way to be healthy, and wealthy, and wise.” - -We all know that lesson, and many of us believe in it; but if the lesson -be true, the Italians ought to be the healthiest and wealthiest and -wisest of all men and women. Three or four o’clock seems to them quite a -natural hour for commencing the day’s work. Why we should have started -from Chiavenna at four o’clock in order that we might be kept waiting -for the boat an hour and a half on the little quay at Colico, I don’t -know; but such was our destiny. There we remained an hour and a half, -Mrs. Greene sitting pertinaciously on the one important box. She had -designated it as being smaller than the others, and, as all the seven -were now ranged in a row, I had an opportunity of comparing them. It was -something smaller,--perhaps an inch less high, and an inch and a half -shorter. She was a sharp woman, and observed my scrutiny. - -“I always know it,” she said in a loud whisper, “by this little hole in -the canvas,” and she put her finger on a slight rent on one of the ends. -“As for Greene, if one of those Italian brigands were to walk off with -it on his shoulders, before his eyes, he wouldn’t be the wiser. How -helpless you men are, Mr. Robinson!” - -“It is well for us that we have women to look after us.” - -“But you have got no one to look after you;--or perhaps you have left -her behind?” - -“No, indeed. I’m all alone in the world as yet. But it’s not my own -fault. I have asked half a dozen.” - -“Now, Mr. Robinson!” And in this way the time passed on the quay at -Colico, till the boat came and took us away. I should have preferred to -pass my time in making myself agreeable to the younger lady; but the -younger lady stood aloof, turning up her nose, as I thought, at her -mamma. - -I will not attempt to describe the scenery about Colico. The little town -itself is one of the vilest places under the sun, having no -accommodation for travellers, and being excessively unhealthy; but there -is very little either north or south of the Alps,--and, perhaps, I may -add, very little elsewhere,--to beat the beauty of the mountains which -cluster round the head of the lake. When we had sat upon those boxes -that hour and a half, we were taken on board the steamer, which had -been lying off a little way from the shore, and then we commenced our -journey. Of course there was a good deal of exertion and care necessary -in getting the packages off from the shore on to the boat, and I -observed that any one with half an eye in his head might have seen that -the mental anxiety expended on that one box which was marked by the -small hole in the canvas far exceeded that which was extended to all the -other six boxes. “They deserve that it should be stolen,” I said to -myself, “for being such fools.” And then we went down to breakfast in -the cabin. - -“I suppose it must be safe,” said Mrs. Greene to me, ignoring the fact -that the cabin waiter understood English, although she had just ordered -some veal cutlets in that language. - -“As safe as a church,” I replied, not wishing to give much apparent -importance to the subject. - -“They can’t carry it off here,” said Mr. Greene. But he was innocent of -any attempt at a joke, and was looking at me with all his eyes. - -“They might throw it overboard,” said Sophonisba. I at once made up my -mind that she could not be a good-natured girl. The moment that -breakfast was over, Mrs. Greene returned again up-stairs, and I found -her seated on one of the benches near the funnel, from which she could -keep her eyes fixed upon the box. “When one is obliged to carry about -one’s jewels with one, one must be careful, Mr. Robinson,” she said to -me apologetically. But I was becoming tired of the box, and the funnel -was hot and unpleasant, therefore I left her. - -I had made up my mind that Sophonisba was ill-natured; but, -nevertheless, she was pretty, and I now went through some little -manœuvres with the object of getting into conversation with her. This -I soon did, and was surprised by her frankness. “How tired you must be -of mamma and her box,” she said to me. To this I made some answer, -declaring that I was rather interested than otherwise in the safety of -the precious trunk. “It makes me sick,” said Sophonisba, “to hear her go -on in that way to a perfect stranger. I heard what she said about her -jewellery.” - -“It is natural she should be anxious,” I said, “seeing that it contains -so much that is valuable.” - -“Why did she bring them?” said Sophonisba. “She managed to live very -well without jewels till papa married her, about a year since; and now -she can’t travel about for a month without lugging them with her -everywhere. I should be so glad if some one would steal them.” - -“But all Mr. Greene’s money is there also.” - -“I don’t want papa to be bothered, but I declare I wish the box might be -lost for a day or so. She is such a fool; don’t you think so, Mr. -Robinson?” - -At this time it was just fourteen hours since I first had made their -acquaintance in the yard of Conradi’s hotel, and of those fourteen hours -more than half had been passed in bed. I must confess that I looked upon -Sophonisba as being almost more indiscreet than her mother-in-law. -Nevertheless, she was not stupid, and I continued my conversation with -her the greatest part of the way down the lake towards Bellaggio. - -These steamers which run up and down the lake of Como and the Lago -Maggiore, put out their passengers at the towns on the banks of the -water by means of small rowing-boats, and the persons who are about to -disembark generally have their own articles ready to their hands when -their turn comes for leaving the steamer. As we came near to Bellaggio, -I looked up my own portmanteau, and, pointing to the beautiful -wood-covered hill that stands at the fork of the waters, told my friend -Greene that he was near his destination. “I am very glad to hear it,” -said he, complacently, but he did not at the moment busy himself about -the boxes. Then the small boat ran up alongside the steamer, and the -passengers for Como and Milan crowded up the side. - -“We have to go in that boat,” I said to Greene. - -“Nonsense!” he exclaimed. - -“Oh, but we have.” - -“What! put our boxes into that boat,” said Mrs. Greene. “Oh dear! Here, -boatman! there are seven of these boxes, all in white like this,” and -she pointed to the one that had the hole in the canvas. “Make haste. And -there are two bags, and my dressing case, and Mr. Greene’s portmanteau. -Mr. Greene, where is your portmanteau?” - -The boatman whom she addressed, no doubt did not understand a word of -English, but nevertheless he knew what she meant, and, being well -accustomed to the work, got all the luggage together in an incredibly -small number of moments. - -“If you will get down into the boat,” I said, “I will see that the -luggage follows you before I leave the deck.” - -“I won’t stir,” she said, “till I see that box lifted down. Take care; -you’ll let it fall into the lake. I know you will.” - -“I wish they would,” Sophonisba whispered into my ear. - -Mr. Greene said nothing, but I could see that his eyes were as anxiously -fixed on what was going on as were those of his wife. At last, however, -the three Greenes were in the boat, as also were all the packages. Then -I followed them, my portmanteau having gone down before me, and we -pushed off for Bellaggio. Up to this period most of the attendants -around us had understood a word or two of English, but now it would be -well if we could find some one to whose ears French would not be -unfamiliar. As regarded Mr. Greene and his wife, they, I found, must -give up all conversation, as they knew nothing of any language but their -own. Sophonisba could make herself understood in French, and was quite -at home, as she assured me, in German. And then the boat was beached on -the shore at Bellaggio, and we all had to go again to work with the -object of getting ourselves lodged at the hotel which overlooks the -water. - -I had learned before that the Greenes were quite free from any trouble -in this respect, for their rooms had been taken for them before they -left England. Trusting to this, Mrs. Greene gave herself no -inconsiderable airs the moment her foot was on the shore, and ordered -the people about as though she were the Lady Paramount of Bellaggio. -Italians, however, are used to this from travellers of a certain -description. They never resent such conduct, but simply put it down in -the bill with the other articles. Mrs. Greene’s words on this occasion -were innocent enough, seeing that they were English; but had I been that -head waiter who came down to the beach with his nice black shiny hair, -and his napkin under his arm, I should have thought her manner very -insolent. - -Indeed, as it was, I did think so, and was inclined to be angry with -her. She was to remain for some time at Bellaggio, and therefore it -behoved her, as she thought, to assume the character of the grand lady -at once. Hitherto she had been willing enough to do the work, but now -she began to order about Mr. Greene and Sophonisba; and, as it appeared -to me, to order me about also. I did not quite enjoy this; so leaving -her still among her luggage and satellites, I walked up to the hotel to -see about my own bed-room. I had some seltzer water, stood at the window -for three or four minutes, and then walked up and down the room. But -still the Greenes were not there. As I had put in at Bellaggio solely -with the object of seeing something more of Sophonisba, it would not do -for me to quarrel with them, or to allow them so to settle themselves -in their private sitting-room, that I should be excluded. Therefore I -returned again to the road by which they must come up, and met the -procession near the house. - -Mrs. Greene was leading it with great majesty, the waiter with the shiny -hair walking by her side to point out to her the way. Then came all the -luggage,--each porter carrying a white canvas-covered box. That which -was so valuable no doubt was carried next to Mrs. Greene, so that she -might at a moment’s notice put her eye upon the well-known valuable -rent. I confess that I did not observe the hole as the train passed by -me, nor did I count the number of the boxes. Seven boxes, all alike, are -very many; and then they were followed by three other men with the -inferior articles,--Mr. Greene’s portmanteau, the carpet-bag, &c., &c. -At the tail of the line, I found Mr. Greene, and behind him Sophonisba. -“All your fatigues will be over now,” I said to the gentleman, thinking -it well not to be too particular in my attentions to his daughter. He -was panting beneath a terrible great-coat, having forgotten that the -shores of an Italian lake are not so cold as the summits of the Alps, -and did not answer me. “I’m sure I hope so,” said Sophonisba. “And I -shall advise papa not to go any farther unless he can persuade Mrs. -Greene to send her jewels home.” “Sophy, my dear,” he said, “for -Heaven’s sake let us have a little peace since we are here.” From all -which I gathered that Mr. Green had not been fortunate in his second -matrimonial adventure. We then made our way slowly up to the hotel, -having been altogether distanced by the porters, and when we reached the -house we found that the different packages were already being carried -away through the house, some this way and some that. Mrs. Green, the -meanwhile, was talking loudly at the door of her own sitting-room. - -“Mr. Greene,” she said, as soon as she saw her heavily oppressed -spouse,--for the noonday sun was up,--“Mr. Greene, where are you?” - -“Here, my dear,” and Mr. Greene threw himself panting into the corner of -a sofa. - -“A little seltzer water and brandy,” I suggested. Mr. Greene’s inmost -heart leaped at the hint, and nothing that his remonstrant wife could -say would induce him to move, until he had enjoyed the delicious -draught. In the mean time the box with the hole in the canvas had been -lost. - -Yes; when we came to look into matters, to count the packages, and to -find out where we were, the box with the hole in the canvas was not -there. Or, at any rate, Mrs. Greene said it was not there. I worked hard -to look it up, and even went into Sophonisba’s bed-room in my search. In -Sophonisba’s bed-room there was but one canvas-covered box. “That is my -own,” said she, “and it is all that I have, except this bag.” - -“Where on earth can it be?” said I, sitting down on the trunk in -question. At the moment I almost thought that she had been instrumental -in hiding it. - -“How am I to know?” she answered; and I fancied that even she was -dismayed. “What a fool that woman is!” - -“The box must be in the house,” I said. - -“Do find it, for papa’s sake; there’s a good fellow. He will be so -wretched without his money. I heard him say that he had only two pounds -in his purse.” - -“Oh, I can let him have money to go on with,” I answered grandly. And -then I went off to prove that I was a good fellow, and searched -throughout the house. Two white boxes had by order been left downstairs, -as they would not be needed; and these two were in a large cupboard of -the hall, which was used expressly for stowing away luggage. And then -there were three in Mrs. Greene’s bed-room, which had been taken there -as containing the wardrobe which she would require while remaining at -Bellaggio. I searched every one of these myself to see if I could find -the hole in the canvas. But the hole in the canvas was not there. And, -let me count as I would, I could make out only six. Now there certainly -had been seven on board the steamer, though I could not swear that I had -seen the seven put into the small boat. - -“Mr. Greene,” said the lady standing in the middle of her remaining -treasures, all of which were now open, “you are worth nothing when -travelling. Were you not behind?” But Mr. Greene’s mind was full, and he -did not answer. - -“It has been stolen before your very eyes,” she continued. - -“Nonsense, mamma,” said Sophonisba. “If ever it came out of the steamer -it certainly came into the house.” - -“I saw it out of the steamer,” said Mrs. Greene, “and it certainly is -not in the house. Mr. Robinson, may I trouble you to send for the -police?--at once, if you please, sir.” - -I had been at Bellaggio twice before, but nevertheless I was ignorant of -their system of police. And then, again, I did not know what was the -Italian for the word. - -“I will speak to the landlord,” I said. - -“If you will have the goodness to send for the police at once, I will -be obliged to you.” And as she thus reiterated her command, she stamped -with her foot upon the floor. - -“There are no police at Bellaggio,” said Sophonisba. - -“What on earth shall I do for money to go on with?” said Mr. Greene, -looking piteously up to the ceiling, and shaking both his hands. - -And now the whole house was in an uproar, including not only the -landlord, his wife and daughters, and all the servants, but also every -other visitor at the hotel. Mrs. Greene was not a lady who hid either -her glories or her griefs under a bushel, and, though she spoke only in -English, she soon made her protestations sufficiently audible. She -protested loudly that she had been robbed, and that she had been robbed -since she left the steamer. The box had come on shore; of that she was -quite certain. If the landlord had any regard either for his own -character or for that of his house, he would ascertain before an hour -was over where it was, and who had been the thief. She would give him an -hour. And then she sat herself down; but in two minutes she was up -again, vociferating her wrongs as loudly as ever. All this was filtered -through me and Sophonisba to the waiter in French, and from the waiter -to the landlord; but the lady’s gestures required no translation to make -them intelligible, and the state of her mind on the matter was, I -believe, perfectly well understood. - -Mr. Greene I really did pity. His feelings of dismay seemed to be quite -as deep, but his sorrow and solicitude were repressed into more decorum. -“What am I to do for money?” he said. “I have not a shilling to go on -with!” And he still looked up at the ceiling. - -“You must send to England,” said Sophonisba. - -“It will take a month,” he replied. - -“Mr. Robinson will let you have what you want at present,” added -Sophonisba. Now I certainly had said so, and had meant it at the time. -But my whole travelling store did not exceed forty or fifty pounds, with -which I was going on to Venice, and then back to England through the -Tyrol. Waiting a month for Mr. Greene’s money from England might be even -more inconvenient to me than to him. Then it occurred to me that the -wants of the Greene family would be numerous and expensive, and that my -small stock would go but a little way among so many. And what also if -there had been no money and no jewels in that accursed box! I confess -that at the moment such an idea did strike my mind. One hears of -sharpers on every side committing depredations by means of most -singular intrigues and contrivances. Might it not be possible that the -whole batch of Greenes belonged to this order of society. It was a base -idea, I own; but I confess that I entertained it for a moment. - -I retired to my own room for a while that I might think over all the -circumstances. There certainly had been seven boxes, and one had had a -hole in the canvas. All the seven had certainly been on board the -steamer. To so much I felt that I might safely swear. I had not counted -the seven into the small boat, but on leaving the larger vessel I had -looked about the deck to see that none of the Greene trappings were -forgotten. If left on the steamer, it had been so left through an intent -on the part of some one there employed. It was quite possible that the -contents of the box had been ascertained through the imprudence of Mrs. -Greene, and that it had been conveyed away so that it might be rifled at -Como. As to Mrs. Greene’s assertion that all the boxes had been put into -the small boat, I thought nothing of it. The people at Bellaggio could -not have known which box to steal, nor had there been time to concoct -the plan in carrying the boxes up to the hotel. I came at last to this -conclusion, that the missing trunk had either been purloined and carried -on to Como,--in which case it would be necessary to lose no time in -going after it; or that it had been put out of sight in some uncommonly -clever way, by the Greenes themselves, as an excuse for borrowing as -much money as they could raise and living without payment of their -bills. With reference to the latter hypothesis, I declared to myself -that Greene did not look like a swindler; but as to Mrs. Greene--! I -confess that I did not feel so confident in regard to her. - -Charity begins at home, so I proceeded to make myself comfortable in my -room, feeling almost certain that I should not be able to leave -Bellaggio on the following morning. I had opened my portmanteau when I -first arrived, leaving it open on the floor as is my wont. Some people -are always being robbed, and are always locking up everything; while -others wander safe over the world and never lock up anything. For -myself, I never turn a key anywhere, and no one ever purloins from me -even a handkerchief. Cantabit vacuus--, and I am always sufficiently -vacuus. Perhaps it is that I have not a handkerchief worth the stealing. -It is your heavy-laden, suspicious, mal-adroit Greenes that the thieves -attack. I now found out that the accommodating Boots, who already knew -my ways, had taken my travelling gear into a dark recess which was -intended to do for a dressing-room, and had there spread my portmanteau -open upon some table or stool in the corner. It was a convenient -arrangement, and there I left it during the whole period of my sojourn. - -Mrs. Greene had given the landlord an hour to find the box, and during -that time the landlord, the landlady, their three daughters, and all the -servants in the house certainly did exert themselves to the utmost. Half -a dozen times they came to my door, but I was luxuriating in a -washing-tub, making up for that four-o’clock start from Chiavenna. I -assured them, however, that the box was not there, and so the search -passed by. At the end of the hour I went back to the Greenes according -to promise, having resolved that some one must be sent on to Como to -look after the missing article. - -There was no necessity to knock at their sitting-room door, for it was -wide open. I walked in, and found Mrs. Greene still engaged in attacking -the landlord, while all the porters who had carried the luggage up to -the house were standing round. Her voice was loud above the others, but, -luckily for them all, she was speaking English. The landlord, I saw, was -becoming sulky. He spoke in Italian, and we none of us understood him, -but I gathered that he was declining to do anything further. The box, he -was certain, had never come out of the steamer. The Boots stood by -interpreting into French, and, acting as second interpreter, I put it -into English. - -Mr. Greene, who was seated on the sofa, groaned audibly, but said -nothing. Sophonisba, who was sitting by him, beat upon the floor with -both her feet. - -“Do you hear, Mr. Greene?” said she, turning to him. “Do you mean to -allow that vast amount of property to be lost without an effort? Are you -prepared to replace my jewels?” - -“Her jewels!” said Sophonisba, looking up into my face. “Papa had to pay -the bill for every stitch she had when he married her.” These last words -were so spoken as to be audible only by me, but her first exclamation -was loud enough. Were they people for whom it would be worth my while to -delay my journey, and put myself to serious inconvenience with reference -to money? - -A few minutes afterwards I found myself with Greene on the terrace -before the house. “What ought I to do?” said he. - -“Go to Como,” said I, “and look after your box. I will remain here and -go on board the return steamer. It may perhaps be there.” - -“But I can’t speak a word of Italian,” said he. - -“Take the Boots,” said I. - -“But I can’t speak a word of French.” And then it ended in my -undertaking to go to Como. I swear that the thought struck me that I -might as well take my portmanteau with me, and cut and run when I got -there. The Greenes were nothing to me. - -I did not, however, do this. I made the poor man a promise, and I kept -it. I took merely a dressing-bag, for I knew that I must sleep at Como; -and, thus resolving to disarrange all my plans, I started. I was in the -midst of beautiful scenery, but I found it quite impossible to draw any -enjoyment from it;--from that or from anything around me. My whole mind -was given up to anathemas against this odious box, as to which I had -undoubtedly heavy cause of complaint. What was the box to me? I went to -Como by the afternoon steamer, and spent a long dreary evening down on -the steamboat quays searching everywhere, and searching in vain. The -boat by which we had left Colico had gone back to Colico, but the people -swore that nothing had been left on board it. It was just possible that -such a box might have gone on to Milan with the luggage of other -passengers. - -I slept at Como, and on the following morning I went on to Milan. There -was no trace of the box to be found in that city. I went round to every -hotel and travelling office, but could hear nothing of it. Parties had -gone to Venice, and Florence, and Bologna, and any of them might have -taken the box. No one, however, remembered it; and I returned back to -Como, and thence to Bellaggio, reaching the latter place at nine in the -evening, disappointed, weary, and cross. - -“Has Monsieur found the accursed trunk?” said the Bellaggio Boots, -meeting me on the quay. - -“In the name of the ----, no. Has it not turned up here?” - -“Monsieur,” said the Boots, “we shall all be mad soon. The poor master, -he is mad already.” And then I went up to the house. - -“My jewels!” shouted Mrs. Greene, rushing to me with her arms stretched -out as soon as she heard my step in the corridor. I am sure that she -would have embraced me had I found the box. I had not, however, earned -any such reward. “I can hear nothing of the box either at Como or -Milan,” I said. - -“Then what on earth am I to do for my money?” said Mr. Greene. - -I had had neither dinner nor supper, but the elder Greenes did not care -for that. Mr. Greene sat silent in despair, and Mrs. Greene stormed -about the room in her anger. “I am afraid you are very tired,” said -Sophonisba. - -“I am tired, and hungry, and thirsty,” said I. I was beginning to get -angry, and to think myself ill used. And that idea as to a family of -swindlers became strong again. Greene had borrowed ten napoleons from me -before I started for Como, and I had spent above four in my fruitless -journey to that place and Milan. I was beginning to fear that my whole -purpose as to Venice and the Tyrol would be destroyed; and I had -promised to meet friends at Innspruck, who,--who were very much -preferable to the Greenes. As events turned out, I did meet them. Had I -failed in this, the present Mrs. Robinson would not have been sitting -opposite to me. - -I went to my room and dressed myself, and then Sophonisba presided over -the tea-table for me. “What are we to do?” she asked me in a -confidential whisper. - -“Wait for money from England.” - -“But they will think we are all sharpers,” she said; “and upon my word I -do not wonder at it from the way in which that woman goes on.” She then -leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table and her face on her hand, -and told me a long history of all their family discomforts. Her papa was -a very good sort of man, only he had been made a fool of by that -intriguing woman, who had been left without a sixpence with which to -bless herself. And now they had nothing but quarrels and misery. Papa -did not always got the worst of it;--papa could rouse himself sometimes; -only now he was beaten down and cowed by the loss of his money. This -whispering confidence was very nice in its way, seeing that Sophonisba -was a pretty girl; but the whole matter seemed to be full of suspicion. - -“If they did not want to take you in in one way, they did in another,” -said the present Mrs. Robinson, when I told the story to her at -Innspruck. I beg that it may be understood that at the time of my -meeting the Greenes I was not engaged to the present Mrs. Robinson, and -was open to make any matrimonial engagement that might have been -pleasing to me. - -On the next morning, after breakfast, we held a council of war. I had -been informed that Mr. Greene had made a fortune, and was justified in -presuming him to be a rich man. It seemed to me, therefore, that his -course was easy. Let him wait at Bellaggio for more money, and when he -returned home, let him buy Mrs. Greene more jewels. A poor man always -presumes that a rich man is indifferent about his money. But in truth a -rich man never is indifferent about his money, and poor Greene looked -very blank at my proposition. - -“Do you mean to say that it’s gone for ever?” he asked. - -“I’ll not leave the country without knowing more about it,” said Mrs. -Greene. - -“It certainly is very odd,” said Sophonisba. Even Sophonisba seemed to -think that I was too off-hand. - -“It will be a month before I can get money, and my bill here will be -something tremendous,” said Greene. - -“I wouldn’t pay them a farthing till I got my box,” said Mrs. Greene. - -“That’s nonsense,” said Sophonisba. And so it was. - -“Hold your tongue, Miss!” said the step-mother. - -“Indeed, I shall not hold my tongue,” said the step-daughter. - -Poor Greene! He had lost more than his box within the last twelve -months; for, as I had learned in that whispered conversation over the -tea-table with Sophonisba, this was in reality her papa’s marriage trip. - -Another day was now gone, and we all went to bed. Had I not been very -foolish I should have had myself called at five in the morning, and have -gone away by the early boat, leaving my ten napoleons behind me. But, -unfortunately, Sophonisba had exacted a promise from me that I would not -do this, and thus all chance of spending a day or two in Venice was lost -to me. Moreover, I was thoroughly fatigued, and almost glad of any -excuse which would allow me to lie in bed on the following morning. I -did lie in bed till nine o’clock, and then found the Greenes at -breakfast. - -“Let us go and look at the Serbelloni Gardens,” said I, as soon as the -silent meal was over; “or take a boat over to the Sommariva Villa.” - -“I should like it so much,” said Sophonisba. - -“We will do nothing of the kind till I have found my property,” said -Mrs. Greene. “Mr. Robinson, what arrangement did you make yesterday with -the police at Como?” - -“The police at Como?” I said. “I did not go to the police.” - -“Not go to the police? And do you mean to say that I am to be robbed of -my jewels and no efforts made for redress? Is there no such thing as a -constable in this wretched country? Mr. Greene, I do insist upon it that -you at once go to the nearest British consul.” - -“I suppose I had better write home for money,” said he. - -“And do you mean to say that you haven’t written yet?” said I, probably -with some acrimony in my voice. - -“You needn’t scold papa,” said Sophonisba. - -“I don’t know what I am to do,” said Mr. Greene, and he began walking up -and down the room; but still he did not call for pen and ink, and I -began again to feel that he was a swindler. Was it possible that a man -of business, who had made his fortune in London, should allow his wife -to keep all her jewels in a box, and carry about his own money in the -same? - -“I don’t see why you need be so very unhappy, papa,” said Sophonisba. -“Mr. Robinson, I’m sure, will let you have whatever money you may want -at present.” This was pleasant! - -“And will Mr. Robinson return me my jewels which were lost, I must say, -in a great measure, through his carelessness,” said Mrs. Greene. This -was pleasanter! - -“Upon my word, Mrs. Greene, I must deny that,” said I, jumping up. “What -on earth could I have done more than I did do? I have been to Milan and -nearly fagged myself to death.” - -“Why didn’t you bring a policeman back with you?” - -“You would tell everybody on board the boat what there was in it,” said -I. - -“I told nobody but you,” she answered. - -“I suppose you mean to imply that I’ve taken the box,” I rejoined. So -that on this, the third or fourth day of our acquaintance, we did not go -on together quite pleasantly. - -But what annoyed me, perhaps, the most, was the confidence with which it -seemed to be Mr. Greene’s intention to lean upon my resources. He -certainly had not written home yet, and had taken my ten napoleons, as -one friend may take a few shillings from another when he finds that he -has left his own silver on his dressing-table. What could he have wanted -of ten napoleons? He had alleged the necessity of paying the porters, -but the few francs he had had in his pocket would have been enough for -that. And now Sophonisba was ever and again prompt in her assurances -that he need not annoy himself about money, because I was at his right -hand. I went upstairs into my own room, and counting all my treasures, -found that thirty-six pounds and some odd silver was the extent of my -wealth. With that I had to go, at any rate, as far as Innspruck, and -from thence back to London. It was quite impossible that I should make -myself responsible for the Greenes’ bill at Bellaggio. - -We dined early, and after dinner, according to a promise made in the -morning, Sophonisba ascended with me into the Serbelloni Gardens, and -walked round the terraces on that beautiful hill which commands the view -of the three lakes. When we started I confess that I would sooner have -gone alone, for I was sick of the Greenes in my very soul. We had had a -terrible day. The landlord had been sent for so often, that he refused -to show himself again. The landlady--though Italians of that class are -always courteous--had been so driven that she snapped her fingers in -Mrs. Greene’s face. The three girls would not show themselves. The -waiters kept out of the way as much as possible; and the Boots, in -confidence, abused them to me behind their back. “Monsieur,” said the -Boots, “do you think there ever was such a box?” “Perhaps not,” said I; -and yet I knew that I had seen it. - -I would, therefore, have preferred to walk without Sophonisba; but that -now was impossible. So I determined that I would utilise the occasion by -telling her of my present purpose. I had resolved to start on the -following day, and it was now necessary to make my friends understand -that it was not in my power to extend to them any further pecuniary -assistance. - -Sophonisba, when we were on the hill, seemed to have forgotten the box, -and to be willing that I should forget it also. But this was impossible. -When, therefore, she told me how sweet it was to escape from that -terrible woman, and leaned on my arm with all the freedom of old -acquaintance, I was obliged to cut short the pleasure of the moment. - -“I hope your father has written that letter,” said I. - -“He means to write it from Milan. We know you want to get on, so we -purpose to leave here the day after to-morrow.” - -“Oh!” said I, thinking of the bill immediately, and remembering that -Mrs. Greene had insisted on having champagne for dinner. - -“And if anything more is to be done about the nasty box, it may be done -there,” continued Sophonisba. - -“But I must go to-morrow,” said I, “at 5 A.M.” - -“Nonsense,” said Sophonisba. “Go to-morrow, when I,--I mean we,--are -going on the next day!” - -“And I might as well explain,” said I, gently dropping the hand that was -on my arm, “that I find,--I find it will be impossible for -me--to--to----” - -“To what?” - -“To advance Mr. Greene any more money just at present.” Then -Sophonisba’s arm dropped all at once, and she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. -Robinson!” - -After all, there was a certain hard good sense about Miss Greene which -would have protected her from my evil thoughts had I known all the -truth. I found out afterwards that she was a considerable heiress, and, -in spite of the opinion expressed by the present Mrs. Robinson when Miss -Walker, I do not for a moment think she would have accepted me had I -offered to her. - -“You are quite right not to embarrass yourself,” she said, when I -explained to her my immediate circumstances; “but why did you make papa -an offer which you cannot perform? He must remain here now till he hears -from England. Had you explained it all at first, the ten napoleons would -have carried us to Milan.” This was all true, and yet I thought it hard -upon me. - -It was evident to me now, that Sophonisba was prepared to join her -step-mother in thinking that I had ill-treated them, and I had not much -doubt that I should find Mr. Greene to be of the same opinion. There was -very little more said between us during the walk, and when we reached -the hotel at seven or half-past seven o’clock, I merely remarked that I -would go in and wish her father and mother good-bye. “I suppose you will -drink tea with us,” said Sophonisba, and to this I assented. - -I went into my own room, and put all my things into my portmanteau, for -according to the custom, which is invariable in Italy when an early -start is premeditated, the Boots was imperative in his demand that the -luggage should be ready over night. I then went to the Greene’s -sitting-room, and found that the whole party was now aware of my -intentions. - -“So you are going to desert us,” said Mrs. Greene. - -“I must go on upon my journey,” I pleaded in a weak apologetic voice. - -“Go on upon your journey, sir!” said Mrs. Greene. “I would not for a -moment have you put yourself to inconvenience on our account.” And yet I -had already lost fourteen napoleons, and given up all prospect of going -to Venice! - -“Mr. Robinson is certainly right not to break his engagement with Miss -Walker,” said Sophonisba. Now I had said not a word about an engagement -with Miss Walker, having only mentioned incidentally that she would be -one of the party at Innspruck. “But,” continued she, “I think he should -not have misled us.” And in this way we enjoyed our evening meal. - -I was just about to shake hands with them all, previous to my final -departure from their presence, when the Boots came into the room. - -“I’ll leave the portmanteau till to-morrow morning,” said he. - -“All right,” said I. - -“Because,” said he, “there will be such a crowd of things in the hall. -The big trunk I will take away now.” - -“Big trunk,--what big trunk?” - -“The trunk with your rug over it, on which your portmanteau stood.” - -I looked round at Mr., Mrs., and Miss Greene, and saw that they were all -looking at me. I looked round at them, and as their eyes met mine I felt -that I turned as red as fire. I immediately jumped up and rushed away to -my own room, hearing as I went that all their steps were following me. I -rushed to the inner recess, pulled down the portmanteau, which still -remained in its old place, tore away my own carpet rug which covered the -support beneath it, and there saw----a white canvas-covered box, with a -hole in the canvas on the side next to me! - -“It is my box,” said Mrs. Greene, pushing me away, as she hurried up and -put her finger within the rent. - -“It certainly does look like it,” said Mr. Greene, peering over his -wife’s shoulder. - -“There’s no doubt about the box,” said Sophonisba. - -“Not the least in life,” said I, trying to assume an indifferent look. - -“Mon Dieu!” said the Boots. - -“Corpo di Baccho!” exclaimed the landlord, who had now joined the party. - -“Oh--h--h--h--!” screamed Mrs. Greene, and then she threw herself back -on to my bed, and shrieked hysterically. - -There was no doubt whatsoever about the fact. There was the lost box, -and there it had been during all those tedious hours of unavailing -search. While I was suffering all that fatigue in Milan, spending my -precious zwanzigers in driving about from one hotel to another, the box -had been safe, standing in my own room at Bellaggio, hidden by my own -rug. And now that it was found everybody looked at me as though it were -all my fault. Mrs. Greene’s eyes, when she had done being hysterical, -were terrible, and Sophonisba looked at me as though I were a convicted -thief. - -“Who put the box here?” I said, turning fiercely upon the Boots. - -“I did,” said the Boots, “by Monsieur’s express order.” - -“By my order?” I exclaimed. - -“Certainly,” said the Boots. - -“Corpo di Baccho!” said the landlord, and he also looked at me as -though I were a thief. In the mean time the landlady and the three -daughters had clustered round Mrs. Greene, administering to her all -manner of Italian consolation. The box, and the money, and the jewels -were after all a reality; and much incivility can be forgiven to a lady -who has really lost her jewels, and has really found them again. - -There and then there arose a hurly-burly among us as to the manner in -which the odious trunk found its way into my room. Had anybody been just -enough to consider the matter coolly, it must have been quite clear that -I could not have ordered it there. When I entered the hotel, the boxes -were already being lugged about, and I had spoken a word to no one -concerning them. That traitorous Boots had done it,--no doubt without -malice prepense; but he had done it; and now that the Greenes were once -more known as moneyed people, he turned upon me, and told me to my face, -that I had desired that box to be taken to my own room as part of my own -luggage! - -“My dear,” said Mr. Greene, turning to his wife, “you should never -mention the contents of your luggage to any one.” - -“I never will again,” said Mrs. Greene, with a mock repentant air, “but -I really thought----” - -“One never can be sure of sharpers,” said Mr. Greene. - -“That’s true,” said Mrs. Greene. - -“After all, it may have been accidental,” said Sophonisba, on hearing -which good-natured surmise both papa and mamma Greene shook their -suspicious heads. - -I was resolved to say nothing then. It was all but impossible that they -should really think that I had intended to steal their box; nor, if they -did think so, would it have become me to vindicate myself before the -landlord and all his servants. I stood by therefore in silence, while -two of the men raised the trunk, and joined the procession which -followed it as it was carried out of my room into that of the legitimate -owner. Everybody in the house was there by that time, and Mrs. Greene, -enjoying the triumph, by no means grudged them the entrance into her -sitting-room. She had felt that she was suspected, and now she was -determined that the world of Bellaggio should know how much she was -above suspicion. The box was put down upon two chairs, the supporters -who had borne it retiring a pace each. Mrs. Greene then advanced proudly -with the selected key, and Mr. Greene stood by at her right shoulder, -ready to receive his portion of the hidden treasure. Sophonisba was now -indifferent, and threw herself on the sofa, while I walked up and down -the room thoughtfully,--meditating what words I should say when I took -my last farewell of the Greenes. - -But as I walked I could see what occurred. Mrs. Greene opened the box, -and displayed to view the ample folds of a huge yellow woollen -dressing-gown. I could fancy that she would not willingly have exhibited -this article of her toilet, had she not felt that its existence would -speedily be merged in the presence of the glories which were to follow. -This had merely been the padding at the top of the box. Under that lay a -long papier-maché case, and in that were all her treasures. “Ah, they -are safe,” she said, opening the lid and looking upon her tawdry pearls -and carbuncles. - -Mr. Greene, in the mean time, well knowing the passage for his hand, had -dived down to the very bottom of the box, and seized hold of a small -canvas bag. “It is here,” said he, dragging it up, “and as far as I can -tell, as yet, the knot has not been untied.” Whereupon he sat himself -down by Sophonisba, and employing her to assist him in holding them, -began to count his rolls. “They are all right,” said he; and he wiped -the perspiration from his brow. - -I had not yet made up my mind in what manner I might best utter my last -words among them so as to maintain the dignity of my character, and now -I was standing over against Mr. Greene with my arms folded on my breast. -I had on my face a frown of displeasure, which I am able to assume upon -occasions, but I had not yet determined what words I would use. After -all, perhaps, it might be as well that I should leave them without any -last words. - -“Greene, my dear,” said the lady, “pay the gentleman his ten napoleons.” - -“Oh yes, certainly;” whereupon Mr. Greene undid one of the rolls and -extracted eight sovereigns. “I believe that will make it right, sir,” -said he, handing them to me. - -I took the gold, slipped it with an indifferent air into my waistcoat -pocket, and then refolded my arms across my breast. - -“Papa,” said Sophonisba, in a very audible whisper, “Mr. Robinson went -for you to Como. Indeed, I believe he says he went to Milan.” - -“Do not let that be mentioned,” said I. - -“By all means pay him his expenses,” said Mrs. Greene; “I would not owe -him anything for worlds.” - -“He should be paid,” said Sophonisba. - -“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Greene. And he at once extracted another -sovereign, and tendered it to me in the face of the assembled multitude. - -This was too much! “Mr. Greene,” said I, “I intended to be of service to -you when I went to Milan, and you are very welcome to the benefit of my -intentions. The expense of that journey, whatever may be its amount, is -my own affair.” And I remained standing with my closed arms. - -“We will be under no obligation to him,” said Mrs. Greene; “and I shall -insist on his taking the money.” - -“The servant will put it on his dressing-table,” said Sophonisba. And -she handed the sovereign to the Boots, giving him instructions. - -“Keep it yourself, Antonio,” I said. Whereupon the man chucked it to the -ceiling with his thumb, caught it as it fell, and with a well-satisfied -air, dropped it into the recesses of his pocket. The air of the Greenes -was also well satisfied, for they felt that they had paid me in full for -all my services. - -And now, with many obsequious bows and assurances of deep respect, the -landlord and his family withdrew from the room. “Was there anything else -they could do for Mrs. Greene?” Mrs. Greene was all affability. She had -shown her jewels to the girls, and allowed them to express their -admiration in pretty Italian superlatives. There was nothing else she -wanted to-night. She was very happy and liked Bellaggio. She would stay -yet a week, and would make herself quite happy. And, though none of them -understood a word that the other said, each understood that things were -now rose-coloured, and so with scrapings, bows, and grinning smiles, the -landlord and all his myrmidons withdrew. Mr. Greene was still counting -his money, sovereign by sovereign, and I was still standing with my -folded arms upon my bosom. - -“I believe I may now go,” said I. - -“Good night,” said Mrs. Greene. - -“Adieu,” said Sophonisba. - -“I have the pleasure of wishing you good-bye,” said Mr. Greene. - -And then I walked out of the room. After all, what was the use of saying -anything? And what could I say that would have done me any service? If -they were capable of thinking me a thief,--which they certainly -did,--nothing that I could say would remove the impression. Nor, as I -thought, was it suitable that I should defend myself from such an -imputation. What were the Greenes to me? So I walked slowly out of the -room, and never again saw one of the family from that day to this. - -As I stood upon the beach the next morning, while my portmanteau was -being handed into the boat, I gave the Boots five zwanzigers. I was -determined to show him that I did not condescend to feel anger against -him. - -He took the money, looked into my face, and then whispered to me, “Why -did you not give me a word of notice beforehand?” he said, and winked -his eye. He was evidently a thief, and took me to be another;--but what -did it matter? - -I went thence to Milan, in which city I had no heart to look at -anything; thence to Verona, and so over the pass of the Brenner to -Innspruck. When I once found myself near to my dear friends the Walkers -I was again a happy man; and I may safely declare that, though a portion -of my journey was so troublesome and unfortunate, I look back upon that -tour as the happiest and the luckiest epoch of my life. - - - THE END. - - - LONDON: W. H. SMITH AND SON, PRINTERS, 186, STRAND. - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales of All Countries, by Anthony Trollope - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES *** - -***** This file should be named 55147-0.txt or 55147-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/1/4/55147/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at Google Books) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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/license - - -Title: Tales of All Countries - -Author: Anthony Trollope - -Release Date: July 18, 2017 [EBook #55147] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at Google Books) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="330" height="500" alt="" /> -</div> - -<h1>TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES.</h1> - -<p class="cb">BY<br /> -ANTHONY TROLLOPE,<br /> -<small>AUTHOR OF<br /> -“THE WEST INDIES AND THE SPANISH MAIN,” “DOCTOR THORNE,”<br /> -“ORLEY FARM,” ETC.</small><br /><br /> -LONDON:<br /> -CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193, PICCADILLY.<br /> -1867.<br /><br /> -[<i>The right of Translation is reserved.</i>] -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS.</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td valign="top"> </td><td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#LA_MERE_BAUCHE"><span class="smcap">La Mère Bauche</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_001">1</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_OCONORS_OF_CASTLE_CONOR_COUNTY_MAYO"><span class="smcap">The O’Conors of Castle Conor</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_030">30</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#JOHN_BULL_ON_THE_GUADALQUIVIR"><span class="smcap">John Bull on the Guadalquivir</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_043">43</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#MISS_SARAH_JACK_OF_SPANISH_TOWN_JAMAICA"><span class="smcap">Miss Sarah Jack, of Spanish Town, Jamaica</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_070">70</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_COURTSHIP_OF_SUSAN_BELL"><span class="smcap">The Courtship of Susan Bell</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_093">93</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#RELICS_OF_GENERAL_CHASSE"><span class="smcap">Relics of General Chassé</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_121">121</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#AN_UNPROTECTED_FEMALE_AT_THE_PYRAMIDS"><span class="smcap">An Unprotected Female at the Pyramids</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_140">140</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_CHATEAU_OF_PRINCE_POLIGNAC"><span class="smcap">The Château of Prince Polignac</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_107">107</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#AARON_TROW"><span class="smcap">Aaron Trow</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_188">188</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#MRS_GENERAL_TALBOYS"><span class="smcap">Mrs. General Talboys</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_214">214</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_PARSONS_DAUGHTER_OF_OXNEY_COLNE"><span class="smcap">The Parson’s Daughter of Oxney Colne</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_235">235</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#GEORGE_WALKER_AT_SUEZ"><span class="smcap">George Walker at Suez</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_261">261</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_MISTLETOE_BOUGH"><span class="smcap">The Mistletoe Bough</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_278">278</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#RETURNING_HOME"><span class="smcap">Returning Home</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_300">300</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#A_RIDE_ACROSS_PALESTINE"><span class="smcap">A Ride across Palestine</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_320">320</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_HOUSE_OF_HEINE_BROTHERS_IN_MUNICH"><span class="smcap">The House of Heine Brothers, in Munich</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_354">354</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#THE_MAN_WHO_KEPT_HIS_MONEY_IN_A_BOX"><span class="smcap">The Man who kept his Money in a Box</span></a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_377">377</a></td></tr> - -</table> - -<hr /> - -<p class="c"><i>Republished from various Periodicals.</i></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span></p> - -<h1>TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES.</h1> - -<h2><a name="LA_MERE_BAUCHE" id="LA_MERE_BAUCHE"></a>LA MÈRE BAUCHE.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Pyreneean valley in which the baths of Vernet are situated is not -much known to English, or indeed to any travellers. Tourists in search -of good hotels and picturesque beauty combined, do not generally extend -their journeys to the Eastern Pyrenees. They rarely get beyond Luchon; -and in this they are right, as they thus end their peregrinations at the -most lovely spot among these mountains, and are as a rule so deceived, -imposed on, and bewildered by guides, innkeepers, and horse-owners, at -this otherwise delightful place, as to become undesirous of further -travel. Nor do invalids from distant parts frequent Vernet. People of -fashion go to the Eaux Bonnes and to Luchon, and people who are really -ill to Baréges and Cauterets. It is at these places that one meets -crowds of Parisians, and the daughters and wives of rich merchants from -Bordeaux, with an admixture, now by no means inconsiderable, of -Englishmen and Englishwomen. But the Eastern Pyrenees are still -unfrequented. And probably they will remain so; for though there are -among them lovely valleys—and of all such the valley of Vernet is -perhaps the most lovely—they cannot compete with the mountain scenery -of other tourists-loved regions in Europe. At the Port de Venasquez and -the Brèche de Roland in the Western Pyrenees, or rather, to speak more -truly, at spots in the close vicinity of these famous mountain entrances -from France into Spain, one can make comparisons with Switzerland, -Northern Italy, the Tyrol, and Ireland, which will not be injurious to -the scenes then under<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> view. But among the eastern mountains this can -rarely be done. The hills do not stand thickly together so as to group -themselves; the passes from one valley to another, though not wanting in -altitude, are not close pressed together with overhanging rocks, and are -deficient in grandeur as well as loveliness. And then, as a natural -consequence of all this, the hotels—are not quite as good as they -should be.</p> - -<p>But there is one mountain among them which can claim to rank with the -Píc du Midi or the Maledetta. No one can pooh-pooh the stern old -Canigou, standing high and solitary, solemn and grand, between the two -roads which run from Perpignan into Spain, the one by Prades and the -other by Le Boulon. Under the Canigou, towards the west, lie the hot -baths of Vernet, in a close secluded valley, which, as I have said -before, is, as far as I know, the sweetest spot in these Eastern -Pyrenees.</p> - -<p>The frequenters of these baths were a few years back gathered almost -entirely from towns not very far distant, from Perpignan, Narbonne, -Carcassonne, and Bézières, and the baths were not therefore famous, -expensive, or luxurious; but those who believed in them believed with -great faith; and it was certainly the fact that men and women who went -thither worn with toil, sick with excesses, and nervous through -over-care, came back fresh and strong, fit once more to attack the world -with all its woes. Their character in latter days does not seem to have -changed, though their circle of admirers may perhaps be somewhat -extended.</p> - -<p>In those days, by far the most noted and illustrious person in the -village of Vernet was La Mère Bauche. That there had once been a Père -Bauche was known to the world, for there was a Fils Bauche who lived -with his mother; but no one seemed to remember more of him than that he -had once existed. At Vernet he had never been known. La Mère Bauche was -a native of the village, but her married life had been passed away from -it, and she had returned in her early widowhood to become proprietress -and manager, or, as one may say, the heart and soul of the Hôtel Bauche -at Vernet.</p> - -<p>This hotel was a large and somewhat rough establishment, intended for -the accommodation of invalids who came to Vernet for their health. It -was built immediately over one of the thermal springs, so that the water -flowed from the bowels of the earth directly into the baths. There was -accommodation for seventy people, and during the summer and autumn -months the place was always full. Not a few also were to be found there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span> -during the winter and spring, for the charges of Madame Bauche were low, -and the accommodation reasonably good.</p> - -<p>And in this respect, as indeed in all others, Madame Bauche had the -reputation of being an honest woman. She had a certain price, from which -no earthly consideration would induce her to depart; and there were -certain returns for this price in the shape of déjeuners and dinners, -baths and beds, which she never failed to give in accordance with the -dictates of a strict conscience. These were traits in the character of -an hotel-keeper which cannot be praised too highly, and which had met -their due reward in the custom of the public. But nevertheless there -were those who thought that there was occasionally ground for complaint -in the conduct even of Madame Bauche.</p> - -<p>In the first place she was deficient in that pleasant smiling softness -which should belong to any keeper of a house of public entertainment. In -her general mode of life she was stern and silent with her guests, -autocratic, authoritative, and sometimes contradictory in her house, and -altogether irrational and unconciliatory when any change even for a day -was proposed to her, or when any shadow of a complaint reached her ears.</p> - -<p>Indeed of complaint, as made against the establishment, she was -altogether intolerant. To such she had but one answer. He or she who -complained might leave the place at a moment’s notice if it so pleased -them. There were always others ready to take their places. The power of -making this answer came to her from the lowness of her prices; and it -was a power which was very dear to her.</p> - -<p>The baths were taken at different hours according to medical advice, but -the usual time was from five to seven in the morning. The déjeuner or -early meal was at nine o’clock, the dinner was at four. After that, no -eating or drinking was allowed in the Hôtel Bauche. There was a café in -the village, at which ladies and gentlemen could get a cup of coffee or -a glass of eau sucré; but no such accommodation was to be had in the -establishment. Not by any possible bribery or persuasion could any meal -be procured at any other than the authorised hours. A visitor who should -enter the salle à manger more than ten minutes after the last bell would -be looked at very sourly by Madame Bauche, who on all occasions sat at -the top of her own table. Should any one appear as much as half an hour -late, he would receive only his share of what had not been handed round. -But after the last dish had been so handed, it was utterly useless for -any one to enter the room at all.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span></p> - -<p>Her appearance at the period of our tale was perhaps not altogether in -her favour. She was about sixty years of age and was very stout and -short in the neck. She wore her own gray hair, which at dinner was -always tidy enough; but during the whole day previous to that hour she -might be seen with it escaping from under her cap in extreme disorder. -Her eyebrows were large and bushy, but those alone would not have given -to her face that look of indomitable sternness which it possessed. Her -eyebrows were serious in their effect, but not so serious as the pair of -green spectacles which she always wore under them. It was thought by -those who had analysed the subject that the great secret of Madame -Bauche’s power lay in her green spectacles.</p> - -<p>Her custom was to move about and through the whole establishment every -day from breakfast till the period came for her to dress for dinner. She -would visit every chamber and every bath, walk once or twice round the -salle à manger, and very repeatedly round the kitchen; she would go into -every hole and corner, and peer into everything through her green -spectacles: and in these walks it was not always thought pleasant to -meet her. Her custom was to move very slowly, with her hands generally -clasped behind her back: she rarely spoke to the guests unless she was -spoken to, and on such occasions she would not often diverge into -general conversation. If any one had aught to say connected with the -business of the establishment, she would listen, and then she would make -her answers,—often not pleasant in the hearing.</p> - -<p>And thus she walked her path through the world, a stern, hard, solemn -old woman, not without gusts of passionate explosion; but honest withal, -and not without some inward benevolence and true tenderness of heart. -Children she had had many, some seven or eight. One or two had died, -others had been married; she had sons settled far away from home, and at -the time of which we are now speaking but one was left in any way -subject to maternal authority.</p> - -<p>Adolphe Bauche was the only one of her children of whom much was -remembered by the present denizens and hangers-on of the hotel. He was -the youngest of the number, and having been born only very shortly -before the return of Madame Bauche to Vernet, had been altogether reared -there. It was thought by the world of those parts, and rightly thought, -that he was his mother’s darling—more so than had been any of his -brothers and sisters,—the very apple of her eye and gem of her life. At -this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span> time he was about twenty-five years of age, and for the last two -years had been absent from Vernet—for reasons which will shortly be -made to appear. He had been sent to Paris to see something of the world, -and learn to talk French instead of the patois of his valley; and having -left Paris had come down south into Languedoc, and remained there -picking up some agricultural lore which it was thought might prove -useful in the valley farms of Vernet. He was now expected home again -very speedily, much to his mother’s delight.</p> - -<p>That she was kind and gracious to her favourite child does not perhaps -give much proof of her benevolence; but she had also been kind and -gracious to the orphan child of a neighbour; nay, to the orphan child of -a rival innkeeper. At Vernet there had been more than one water -establishment, but the proprietor of the second had died some few years -after Madame Bauche had settled herself at the place. His house had not -thrived, and his only child, a little girl, was left altogether without -provision.</p> - -<p>This little girl, Marie Clavert, La Mère Bauche had taken into her own -house immediately after the father’s death, although she had most -cordially hated that father. Marie was then an infant, and Madame Bauche -had accepted the charge without much thought, perhaps, as to what might -be the child’s ultimate destiny. But since then she had thoroughly done -the duty of a mother by the little girl, who had become the pet of the -whole establishment, the favourite plaything of Adolphe Bauche,—and at -last of course his early sweetheart.</p> - -<p>And then and therefore there had come troubles at Vernet. Of course all -the world of the valley had seen what was taking place and what was -likely to take place, long before Madame Bauche knew anything about it. -But at last it broke upon her senses that her son, Adolphe Bauche, the -heir to all her virtues and all her riches, the first young man in that -or any neighbouring valley, was absolutely contemplating the idea of -marrying that poor little orphan, Marie Clavert!</p> - -<p>That any one should ever fall in love with Marie Clavert had never -occurred to Madame Bauche. She had always regarded the child as a child, -as the object of her charity, and as a little thing to be looked on as -poor Marie by all the world. She, looking through her green spectacles, -had never seen that Marie Clavert was a beautiful creature, full of -ripening charms, such as young men love to look on. Marie was of -infinite daily use to Madame Bauche in a hundred little things about the -house, and the old lady thoroughly recognised and appreciated her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span> -ability. But for this very reason she had never taught herself to regard -Marie otherwise than as a useful drudge. She was very fond of her -protégée—so much so that she would listen to her in affairs about the -house when she would listen to no one else;—but Marie’s prettiness and -grace and sweetness as a girl had all been thrown away upon Maman -Bauche, as Marie used to call her.</p> - -<p>But unluckily it had not been thrown away upon Adolphe. He had -appreciated, as it was natural that he should do, all that had been so -utterly indifferent to his mother; and consequently had fallen in love. -Consequently also he had told his love; and consequently also Marie had -returned his love.</p> - -<p>Adolphe had been hitherto contradicted but in few things, and thought -that all difficulty would be prevented by his informing his mother that -he wished to marry Marie Clavert. But Marie, with a woman’s instinct, -had known better. She had trembled and almost crouched with fear when -she confessed her love; and had absolutely hid herself from sight when -Adolphe went forth, prepared to ask his mother’s consent to his -marriage.</p> - -<p>The indignation and passionate wrath of Madame Bauche were past and gone -two years before the date of this story, and I need not therefore much -enlarge upon that subject. She was at first abusive and bitter, which -was bad for Marie; and afterwards bitter and silent, which was worse. It -was of course determined that poor Marie should be sent away to some -asylum for orphans or penniless paupers—in short anywhere out of the -way. What mattered her outlook into the world, her happiness, or indeed -her very existence? The outlook and happiness of Adolphe Bauche,—was -not that to be considered as everything at Vernet?</p> - -<p>But this terrible sharp aspect of affairs did not last very long. In the -first place La Mère Bauche had under those green spectacles a heart that -in truth was tender and affectionate, and after the first two days of -anger she admitted that something must be done for Marie Clavert; and -after the fourth day she acknowledged that the world of the hotel, her -world, would not go as well without Marie Clavert as it would with her. -And in the next place Madame Bauche had a friend whose advice in grave -matters she would sometimes take. This friend had told her that it would -be much better to send away Adolphe, since it was so necessary that -there should be a sending away of some one; that he would be much -benefited by passing some months of his life away from his native -valley; and that an absence of a year<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span> or two would teach him to forget -Marie, even if it did not teach Marie to forget him.</p> - -<p>And we must say a word or two about this friend. At Vernet he was -usually called M. le Capitaine, though in fact he had never reached that -rank. He had been in the army, and having been wounded in the leg while -still a sous-lieutenant, had been pensioned, and had thus been -interdicted from treading any further the thorny path that leads to -glory. For the last fifteen years he had resided under the roof of -Madame Bauche, at first as a casual visitor, going and coming, but now -for many years as constant there as she was herself.</p> - -<p>He was so constantly called Le Capitaine that his real name was seldom -heard. It may however as well be known to us that this was Theodore -Campan. He was a tall, well-looking man; always dressed in black -garments, of a coarse description certainly, but scrupulously clean and -well brushed; of perhaps fifty years of age, and conspicuous for the -rigid uprightness of his back—and for a black wooden leg.</p> - -<p>This wooden leg was perhaps the most remarkable trait in his character. -It was always jet black, being painted, or polished, or japanned, as -occasion might require, by the hands of the capitaine himself. It was -longer than ordinary wooden legs, as indeed the capitaine was longer -than ordinary men; but nevertheless it never seemed in any way to impede -the rigid punctilious propriety of his movements. It was never in his -way as wooden legs usually are in the way of their wearers. And then to -render it more illustrious it had round its middle, round the calf of -the leg we may so say, a band of bright brass which shone like burnished -gold.</p> - -<p>It had been the capitaine’s custom, now for some years past, to retire -every evening at about seven o’clock into the sanctum sanctorum of -Madame Bauche’s habitation, the dark little private sitting-room in -which she made out her bills and calculated her profits, and there -regale himself in her presence—and indeed at her expense, for the items -never appeared in the bill—with coffee and cognac. I have said that -there was never eating or drinking at the establishment after the -regular dinner-hours; but in so saying I spoke of the world at large. -Nothing further was allowed in the way of trade; but in the way of -friendship so much was now-a-days always allowed to the capitaine.</p> - -<p>It was at these moments that Madame Bauche discussed her private -affairs, and asked for and received advice. For even Madame Bauche was -mortal; nor could her green spectacles<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span> without other aid carry her -through all the troubles of life. It was now five years since the world -of Vernet discovered that La Mère Bauche was going to marry the -capitaine; and for eighteen months the world of Vernet had been full of -this matter: but any amount of patience is at last exhausted, and as no -further steps in that direction were ever taken beyond the daily cup of -coffee, that subject died away—very much unheeded by La Mère Bauche.</p> - -<p>But she, though she thought of no matrimony for herself, thought much of -matrimony for other people; and over most of those cups of evening -coffee and cognac a matrimonial project was discussed in these latter -days. It has been seen that the capitaine pleaded in Marie’s favour when -the fury of Madame Bauche’s indignation broke forth; and that ultimately -Marie was kept at home, and Adolphe sent away by his advice.</p> - -<p>“But Adolphe cannot always stay away,” Madame Bauche had pleaded in her -difficulty. The truth of this the capitaine had admitted; but Marie, he -said, might be married to some one else before two years were over. And -so the matter had commenced.</p> - -<p>But to whom should she be married? To this question the capitaine had -answered in perfect innocence of heart, that La Mère Bauche would be -much better able to make such a choice than himself. He did not know how -Marie might stand with regard to money. If madame would give some little -“dot,” the affair, the capitaine thought, would be more easily arranged.</p> - -<p>All these things took months to say, during which period Marie went on -with her work in melancholy listlessness. One comfort she had. Adolphe, -before he went, had promised to her, holding in his hand as he did so a -little cross which she had given him, that no earthly consideration -should sever them;—that sooner or later he would certainly be her -husband. Marie felt that her limbs could not work nor her tongue speak -were it not for this one drop of water in her cup.</p> - -<p>And then, deeply meditating, La Mère Bauche hit upon a plan, and herself -communicated it to the capitaine over a second cup of coffee into which -she poured a full teaspoonful more than the usual allowance of cognac. -Why should not he, the capitaine himself, be the man to marry Marie -Clavert?</p> - -<p>It was a very startling proposal, the idea of matrimony for himself -never having as yet entered into the capitaine’s head at any period of -his life; but La Mère Bauche did contrive to make it not altogether -unacceptable. As to that matter of dowry<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span> she was prepared to be more -than generous. She did love Marie well, and could find it in her heart -to give her anything—anything except her son, her own Adolphe. What she -proposed was this. Adolphe, himself, would never keep the baths. If the -capitaine would take Marie for his wife, Marie, Madame Bauche declared, -should be the mistress after her death; subject of course to certain -settlements as to Adolphe’s pecuniary interests.</p> - -<p>The plan was discussed a thousand times, and at last so for brought to -bear that Marie was made acquainted with it—having been called in to -sit in presence with La Mère Bauche and her future proposed husband. The -poor girl manifested no disgust to the stiff ungainly lover whom they -assigned to her,—who through his whole frame was in appearance almost -as wooden as his own leg. On the whole, indeed, Marie liked the -capitaine, and felt that he was her friend; and in her country such -marriages were not uncommon. The capitaine was perhaps a little beyond -the age at which a man might usually be thought justified in demanding -the services of a young girl as his nurse and wife, but then Marie of -herself had so little to give—except her youth, and beauty, and -goodness.</p> - -<p>But yet she could not absolutely consent; for was she not absolutely -pledged to her own Adolphe? And therefore, when the great pecuniary -advantages were, one by one, displayed before her, and when La Mère -Bauche, as a last argument, informed her that as wife of the capitaine -she would be regarded as second mistress in the establishment and not as -a servant, she could only burst out into tears, and say that she did not -know.</p> - -<p>“I will be very kind to you,” said the capitaine; “as kind as a man can -be.”</p> - -<p>Marie took his hard withered hand and kissed it; and then looked up into -his face with beseeching eyes which were not without avail upon his -heart.</p> - -<p>“We will not press her now,” said the capitaine. “There is time enough.”</p> - -<p>But let his heart be touched ever so much, one thing was certain. It -could not be permitted that she should marry Adolphe. To that view of -the matter he had given in his unrestricted adhesion; nor could he by -any means withdraw it without losing altogether his position in the -establishment of Madame Bauche. Nor indeed did his conscience tell him -that such a marriage should be permitted. That would be too much. If -every pretty girl were allowed to marry the first young man that might -fall in love with her, what would the world come to?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span></p> - -<p>And it soon appeared that there was not time enough—that the time was -growing very scant. In three months Adolphe would be back. And if -everything was not arranged by that time, matters might still go astray.</p> - -<p>And then Madame Bauche asked her final question: “You do not think, do -you, that you can ever marry Adolphe?” And as she asked it the -accustomed terror of her green spectacles magnified itself tenfold. -Marie could only answer by another burst of tears.</p> - -<p>The affair was at last settled among them. Marie said that she would -consent to marry the capitaine when she should hear from Adolphe’s own -mouth that he, Adolphe, loved her no longer. She declared with many -tears that her vows and pledges prevented her from promising more than -this. It was not her fault, at any rate not now, that she loved her -lover. It was not her fault—not now at least—that she was bound by -these pledges. When she heard from his own mouth that he had discarded -her, then she would marry the capitaine—or indeed sacrifice herself in -any other way that La Mère Bauche might desire. What would anything -signify then?</p> - -<p>Madame Bauche’s spectacles remained unmoved; but not her heart. Marie, -she told the capitaine, should be equal to herself in the establishment, -when once she was entitled to be called Madame Campan, and she should be -to her quite as a daughter. She should have her cup of coffee every -evening, and dine at the big table, and wear a silk gown at church, and -the servants should all call her Madame; a great career should be open -to her, if she would only give up her foolish girlish childish love for -Adolphe. And all these great promises were repeated to Marie by the -capitaine.</p> - -<p>But nevertheless there was but one thing in the world which in Marie’s -eyes was of any value; and that one thing was the heart of Adolphe -Bauche. Without that she would be nothing; with that,—with that -assured, she could wait patiently till doomsday.</p> - -<p>Letters were written to Adolphe during all these eventful doings; and a -letter came from him saying that he greatly valued Marie’s love, but -that as it had been clearly proved to him that their marriage would be -neither for her advantage, nor for his, he was willing to give it up. He -consented to her marriage with the capitaine, and expressed his -gratitude to his mother for the pecuniary advantages which she had held -out to him. Oh, Adolphe, Adolphe! But, alas, alas! is not such the way -of most men’s hearts—and of the hearts of some women?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span></p> - -<p>This letter was read to Marie, but it had no more effect upon her than -would have had some dry legal document. In those days and in those -places men and women did not depend much upon letters; nor when they -were written, was there expressed in them much of heart or of feeling. -Marie would understand, as she was well aware, the glance of Adolphe’s -eye and the tone of Adolphe’s voice; she would perceive at once from -them what her lover really meant, what he wished, what in the innermost -corner of his heart he really desired that she should do. But from that -stiff constrained written document she could understand nothing.</p> - -<p>It was agreed therefore that Adolphe should return, and that she would -accept her fate from his mouth. The capitaine, who knew more of human -nature than poor Marie, felt tolerably sure of his bride. Adolphe, who -had seen something of the world, would not care very much for the girl -of his own valley. Money and pleasure, and some little position in the -world, would soon wean him from his love; and then Marie would accept -her destiny—as other girls in the same position had done since the -French world began.</p> - -<p>And now it was the evening before Adolphe’s expected arrival. La Mère -Bauche was discussing the matter with the capitaine over the usual cup -of coffee. Madame Bauche had of late become rather nervous on the -matter, thinking that they had been somewhat rash in acceding so much to -Marie. It seemed to her that it was absolutely now left to the two young -lovers to say whether or no they would have each other or not. Now -nothing on earth could be further from Madame Bauche’s intention than -this. Her decree and resolve was to heap down blessings on all persons -concerned—provided always that she could have her own way; but, -provided she did not have her own way, to heap down,—anything but -blessings. She had her code of morality in this matter. She would do -good if possible to everybody around her. But she would not on any score -be induced to consent that Adolphe should marry Marie Clavert. Should -that be in the wind she would rid the house of Marie, of the capitaine, -and even of Adolphe himself.</p> - -<p>She had become therefore somewhat querulous, and self-opinionated in her -discussions with her friend.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” she said on the evening in question; “I don’t know. It -may be all right; but if Adolphe turns against me, what are we to do -then?”</p> - -<p>“Mère Bauche,” said the capitaine, sipping his coffee and puffing out -the smoke of his cigar, “Adolphe will not turn<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> against us.” It had been -somewhat remarked by many that the capitaine was more at home in the -house, and somewhat freer in his manner of talking with Madame Bauche, -since this matrimonial alliance had been on the tapis than he had ever -been before. La Mère herself observed it, and did not quite like it; but -how could she prevent it now? When the capitaine was once married she -would make him know his place, in spite of all her promises to Marie.</p> - -<p>“But if he says he likes the girl?” continued Madame Bauche.</p> - -<p>“My friend, you may be sure that he will say nothing of the kind. He has -not been away two years without seeing girls as pretty as Marie. And -then you have his letter.”</p> - -<p>“That is nothing, capitaine; he would eat his letter as quick as you -would eat an omelet aux fines herbes.” Now the capitaine was especially -quick over an omelet aux fines herbes.</p> - -<p>“And, Mère Bauche, you also have the purse; he will know that he cannot -eat that, except with your good will.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” exclaimed Madame Bauche, “poor lad! He has not a sous in the world -unless I give it to him.” But it did not seem that this reflection was -in itself displeasing to her.</p> - -<p>“Adolphe will now be a man of the world,” continued the capitaine. “He -will know that it does not do to throw away everything for a pair of red -lips. That is the folly of a boy, and Adolphe will be no longer a boy. -Believe me, Mère Bauche, things will be right enough.”</p> - -<p>“And then we shall have Marie sick and ill and half dying on our hands,” -said Madame Bauche.</p> - -<p>This was not flattering to the capitaine, and so he felt it. “Perhaps -so, perhaps not,” he said. “But at any rate she will get over it. It is -a malady which rarely kills young women—especially when another -alliance awaits them.”</p> - -<p>“Bah!” said Madame Bauche; and in saying that word she avenged herself -for the too great liberty which the capitaine had lately taken. He -shrugged his shoulders, took a pinch of snuff, and uninvited helped -himself to a teaspoonful of cognac. Then the conference ended, and on -the next morning before breakfast Adolphe Bauche arrived.</p> - -<p>On that morning poor Marie hardly knew how to bear herself. A month or -two back, and even up to the last day or two, she had felt a sort of -confidence that Adolphe would be true to her; but the nearer came that -fatal day the less strong was the confidence of the poor girl. She knew -that those two long-headed, aged counsellors were plotting against her -happiness, and she felt<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> that she could hardly dare hope for success -with such terrible foes opposed to her. On the evening before the day -Madame Bauche had met her in the passages, and kissed her as she wished -her good night. Marie knew little about sacrifices, but she felt that it -was a sacrificial kiss.</p> - -<p>In those days a sort of diligence with the mails for Olette passed -through Prades early in the morning, and a conveyance was sent from -Vernet to bring Adolphe to the baths. Never was prince or princess -expected with more anxiety. Madame Bauche was up and dressed long before -the hour, and was heard to say five several times that she was sure he -would not come. The capitaine was out and on the high road, moving about -with his wooden leg, as perpendicular as a lamp-post and almost as -black. Marie also was up, but nobody had seen her. She was up and had -been out about the place before any of them were stirring; but now that -the world was on the move she lay hidden like a hare in its form.</p> - -<p>And then the old char-à-banc clattered up to the door, and Adolphe -jumped out of it into his mother’s arms. He was fatter and fairer than -she had last seen him, had a larger beard, was more fashionably clothed, -and certainly looked more like a man. Marie also saw him out of her -little window, and she thought that he looked like a god. Was it -probable, she said to herself, that one so godlike would still care for -her?</p> - -<p>The mother was delighted with her son, who rattled away quite at his -ease. He shook hands very cordially with the capitaine—of whose -intended alliance with his own sweetheart he had been informed, and then -as he entered the house with his hand under his mother’s arm, he asked -one question about her. “And where is Marie?” said he. “Marie! oh -upstairs; you shall see her after breakfast,” said La Mère Bauche. And -so they entered the house, and went in to breakfast among the guests. -Everybody had heard something of the story, and they were all on the -alert to see the young man whose love or want of love was considered to -be of so much importance.</p> - -<p>“You will see that it will be all right,” said the capitaine, carrying -his head very high.</p> - -<p>“I think so, I think so,” said La Mére Bauche, who, now that the -capitaine was right, no longer desired to contradict him.</p> - -<p>“I know that it will be all right,” said the capitaine. “I told you that -Adolphe would return a man; and he is a man. Look at him; he does not -care this for Marie Clavert;” and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> capitaine, with much eloquence in -his motion, pitched over a neighbouring wall a small stone which he held -in his hand.</p> - -<p>And then they all went to breakfast with many signs of outward joy. And -not without some inward joy; for Madame Bauche thought she saw that her -son was cured of his love. In the mean time Marie sat up stairs still -afraid to show herself.</p> - -<p>“He has come,” said a young girl, a servant in the house, running up to -the door of Marie’s room.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Marie; “I could see that he has come.”</p> - -<p>“And, oh, how beautiful he is!” said the girl, putting her hands -together and looking up to the ceiling. Marie in her heart of hearts -wished that he was not half so beautiful, as then her chance of having -him might be greater.</p> - -<p>“And the company are all talking to him as though he were the préfet,” -said the girl.</p> - -<p>“Never mind who is talking to him,” said Marie; “go away, and leave -me—you are wanted for your work.” Why before this was he not talking to -her? Why not, if he were really true to her? Alas, it began to fall upon -her mind that he would be false! And what then? What should she do then? -She sat still gloomily, thinking of that other spouse that had been -promised to her.</p> - -<p>As speedily after breakfast as was possible Adolphe was invited to a -conference in his mother’s private room. She had much debated in her own -mind whether the capitaine should be invited to this conference or no. -For many reasons she would have wished to exclude him. She did not like -to teach her son that she was unable to manage her own affairs, and she -would have been well pleased to make the capitaine understand that his -assistance was not absolutely necessary to her. But then she had an -inward fear that her green spectacles would not now be as efficacious on -Adolphe, as they had once been, in old days, before he had seen the -world and become a man. It might be necessary that her son, being a man, -should be opposed by a man. So the capitaine was invited to the -conference.</p> - -<p>What took place there need not be described at length. The three were -closeted for two hours, at the end of which time they came forth -together. The countenance of Madame Bauche was serene and comfortable; -her hopes of ultimate success ran higher than ever. The face of the -capitaine was masked, as are always the faces of great diplomatists; he -walked placid and upright, raising his wooden leg with an ease and skill -that was absolutely marvellous. But poor Adolphe’s brow was clouded.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span> -Yes, poor Adolphe! for he was poor in spirit. He had pledged himself to -give up Marie, and to accept the liberal allowance which his mother -tendered him; but it remained for him now to communicate these tidings -to Marie herself.</p> - -<p>“Could not you tell her?” he had said to his mother, with very little of -that manliness in his face on which his mother now so prided herself. -But La Mère Bauche explained to him that it was a part of the general -agreement that Marie was to hear his decision from his own mouth.</p> - -<p>“But you need not regard it,” said the capitaine, with the most -indifferent air in the world. “The girl expects it. Only she has some -childish idea that she is bound till you yourself release her. I don’t -think she will be troublesome.” Adolphe at that moment did feel that he -should have liked to kick the capitaine out of his mother’s house.</p> - -<p>And where should the meeting take place? In the hall of the bath-house, -suggested Madame Bauche; because, as she observed, they could walk round -and round, and nobody ever went there at that time of day. But to this -Adolphe objected; it would be so cold and dismal and melancholy.</p> - -<p>The capitaine thought that Mère Bauche’s little parlour was the place; -but La Mère herself did not like this. They might be overheard, as she -well knew; and she guessed that the meeting would not conclude without -some sobs that would certainly be bitter and might perhaps be loud.</p> - -<p>“Send her up to the grotto, and I will follow her,” said Adolphe. On -this therefore they agreed. Now the grotto was a natural excavation in a -high rock, which stood precipitously upright over the establishment of -the baths. A steep zigzag path with almost never-ending steps had been -made along the face of the rock from a little flower garden attached to -the house which lay immediately under the mountain. Close along the -front of the hotel ran a little brawling river, leaving barely room for -a road between it and the door; over this there was a wooden bridge -leading to the garden, and some two or three hundred yards from the -bridge began the steps by which the ascent was made to the grotto.</p> - -<p>When the season was full and the weather perfectly warm the place was -much frequented. There was a green table in it, and four or five deal -chairs; a green garden seat also was there, which however had been -removed into the innermost back corner of the excavation, as its hinder -legs were somewhat at fault. A wall about two feet high ran along the -face of it, guarding its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span> occupants from the precipice. In fact it was -no grotto, but a little chasm in the rock, such as we often see up above -our heads in rocky valleys, and which by means of these steep steps had -been turned into a source of exercise and amusement for the visitors at -the hotel.</p> - -<p>Standing at the wall one could look down into the garden, and down also -upon the shining slate roof of Madame Bauche’s house; and to the left -might be seen the sombre, silent, snow-capped top of stern old Canigou, -king of mountains among those Eastern Pyrenees.</p> - -<p>And so Madame Bauche undertook to send Marie up to the grotto, and -Adolphe undertook to follow her thither. It was now spring; and though -the winds had fallen and the snow was no longer lying on the lower -peaks, still the air was fresh and cold, and there was no danger that -any of the few guests at the establishment would visit the place.</p> - -<p>“Make her put on her cloak, Mère Bauche,” said the capitaine, who did -not wish that his bride should have a cold in her head on their -wedding-day. La Mère Bauche pished and pshawed, as though she were not -minded to pay any attention to recommendations on such subjects from the -capitaine. But nevertheless when Marie was seen slowly to creep across -the little bridge about fifteen minutes after this time, she had a -handkerchief on her head, and was closely wrapped in a dark brown cloak.</p> - -<p>Poor Marie herself little heeded the cold fresh air, but she was glad to -avail herself of any means by which she might hide her face. When Madame -Bauche sought her out in her own little room, and with a smiling face -and kind kiss bade her go to the grotto, she knew, or fancied that she -knew that it was all over.</p> - -<p>“He will tell you all the truth,—how it all is,” said La Mère. “We will -do all we can, you know, to make you happy, Marie. But you must remember -what Monsieur le Curé told us the other day. In this vale of tears we -cannot have everything; as we shall have some day, when our poor wicked -souls have been purged of all their wickedness. Now go, dear, and take -your cloak.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, maman.”</p> - -<p>“And Adolphe will come to you. And try and behave well, like a sensible -girl.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, maman,”—and so she went, bearing on her brow another sacrificial -kiss—and bearing in her heart such an unutterable load of woe!</p> - -<p>Adolphe had gone out of the house before her; but standing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span> in the -stable yard, well within the gate so that she should not see him, he -watched her slowly crossing the bridge and mounting the first flight of -the steps. He had often seen her tripping up those stairs, and had, -almost as often, followed her with his quicker feet. And she, when she -would hear him, would run; and then he would catch her breathless at the -top, and steal kisses from her when all power of refusing them had been -robbed from her by her efforts at escape. There was no such running now, -no such following, no thought of such kisses.</p> - -<p>As for him, he would fain have skulked off and shirked the interview had -he dared. But he did not dare; so he waited there, out of heart, for -some ten minutes, speaking a word now and then to the bath-man, who was -standing by, just to show that he was at his ease. But the bath-man knew -that he was not at his ease. Such would-be lies as those rarely achieve -deception;—are rarely believed. And then, at the end of the ten -minutes, with steps as slow as Marie’s had been, he also ascended to the -grotto.</p> - -<p>Marie had watched him from the top, but so that she herself should not -be seen. He however had not once lifted up his head to look for her; but -with eyes turned to the ground had plodded his way up to the cave. When -he entered she was standing in the middle, with her eyes downcast and -her hands clasped before her. She had retired some way from the wall, so -that no eyes might possibly see her but those of her false lover. There -she stood when he entered, striving to stand motionless, but trembling -like a leaf in every limb.</p> - -<p>It was only when he reached the top step that he made up his mind how he -would behave. Perhaps after all, the capitaine was right; perhaps she -would not mind it.</p> - -<p>“Marie,” said he, with a voice that attempted to be cheerful; “this is -an odd place to meet in after such a long absence,” and he held out his -hand to her. But only his hand! He offered her no salute. He did not -even kiss her cheek as a brother would have done! Of the rules of the -outside world it must be remembered that poor Marie knew but little. He -had been a brother to her before he had become her lover.</p> - -<p>But Marie took his hand saying, “Yes, it has been very long.”</p> - -<p>“And now that I have come back,” he went on to say, “it seems that we -are all in a confusion together. I never knew such a piece of work. -However, it is all for the best, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps so,” said Marie, still trembling violently, and still looking -down upon the ground. And then there was silence between, them for a -minute or so.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span></p> - -<p>“I tell you what it is, Marie,” said Adolphe at last, dropping her hand -and making a great effort to get through the work before him. “I am -afraid we two have been very foolish. Don’t you think we have now? It -seems quite clear that we can never get ourselves married. Don’t you see -it in that light?”</p> - -<p>Marie’s head turned round and round with her, but she was not of the -fainting order. She took three steps backwards and leant against the -wall of the cave. She also was trying to think how she might best fight -her battle. Was there no chance for her? Could no eloquence, no love -prevail? On her own beauty she counted but little; but might not prayers -do something, and a reference to those old vows which had been so -frequent, so eager, so solemnly pledged between them?</p> - -<p>“Never get ourselves married!” she said, repeating his words. “Never, -Adolphe? Can we never be married?”</p> - -<p>“Upon my word, my dear girl, I fear not. You see my mother is so dead -against it.”</p> - -<p>“But we could wait; could we not?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but that’s just it, Marie. We cannot wait. We must decide -now,—to-day. You see I can do nothing without money from her—and as -for you, you see she won’t even let you stay in the house unless you -marry old Campan at once. He’s a very good sort of fellow though, old as -he is. And if you do marry him, why you see you’ll stay here, and have -it all your own way in everything. As for me, I shall come and see you -all from time to time, and shall be able to push my way as I ought to -do.”</p> - -<p>“Then, Adolphe, you wish me to marry the capitaine?”</p> - -<p>“Upon my honour I think it is the best thing you can do; I do indeed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Adolphe!”</p> - -<p>“What can I do for you, you know? Suppose I was to go down to my mother -and tell her that I had decided to keep you myself, what would come of -it? Look at it in that light, Marie.”</p> - -<p>“She could not turn you out—you her own son!”</p> - -<p>“But she would turn you out; and deuced quick, too, I can assure you of -that; I can, upon my honour.”</p> - -<p>“I should not care that,” and she made a motion with her hand to show -how indifferent she would be to such treatment as regarded herself. “Not -that—; if I still had the promise of your love.”</p> - -<p>“But what would you do?”</p> - -<p>“I would work. There are other houses beside that one,” and she pointed -to the slate roof of the Bauche establishment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span></p> - -<p>“And for me—I should not have a penny in the world,” said the young -man.</p> - -<p>She came up to him and took his right hand between both of hers and -pressed it warmly, oh, so warmly. “You would have my love,” said she; -“my deepest, warmest, best heart’s love. I should want nothing more, -nothing on earth, if I could still have yours.” And she leaned against -his shoulder and looked with all her eyes into his face.</p> - -<p>“But, Marie, that’s nonsense, you know.”</p> - -<p>“No, Adolphe, it is not nonsense. Do not let them teach you so. What -does love mean, if it does not mean that? Oh, Adolphe, you do love me, -you do love me, you do love me?”</p> - -<p>“Yes;—I love you,” he said slowly;—as though he would not have said -it, if he could have helped it. And then his arm crept slowly round her -waist, as though in that also he could not help himself.</p> - -<p>“And do not I love you?” said the passionate girl. “Oh, I do, so dearly; -with all my heart, with all my soul. Adolphe, I so love you, that I -cannot give you up. Have I not sworn to be yours; sworn, sworn a -thousand times? How can I marry that man! Oh Adolphe, how can you wish -that I should marry him?” And she clung to him, and looked at him, and -besought him with her eyes.</p> - -<p>“I shouldn’t wish it;—only—” and then he paused. It was hard to tell -her that he was willing to sacrifice her to the old man because he -wanted money from his mother.</p> - -<p>“Only what! But, Adolphe, do not wish it at all! Have you not sworn that -I should be your wife? Look here, look at this;” and she brought out -from her bosom a little charm that he had given her in return for that -cross. “Did you not kiss that when you swore before the figure of the -Virgin that I should be your wife? And do you not remember that I feared -to swear too, because your mother was so angry; and then you made me? -After that, Adolphe! Oh, Adolphe! Tell me that I may have some hope. I -will wait; oh, I will wait so patiently.”</p> - -<p>He turned himself away from her and walked backwards and forwards -uneasily through the grotto. He did love her;—love her as such men do -love sweet, pretty girls. The warmth of her hand, the affection of her -touch, the pure bright passion of her tear-laden eye had re-awakened -what power of love there was within him. But what was he to do? Even if -he were willing to give up the immediate golden hopes which his mother -held out to him, how was he to begin, and then how carry out this work<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span> -of self-devotion? Marie would be turned away, and he would be left a -victim in the hands of his mother, and of that stiff, wooden-legged -militaire;—a penniless victim, left to mope about the place without a -grain of influence or a morsel of pleasure.</p> - -<p>“But what can we do?” he exclaimed again, as he once more met Marie’s -searching eye.</p> - -<p>“We can be true and honest, and we can wait,” she said, coming close up -to him and taking hold of his arm. “I do not fear it; and she is not my -mother, Adolphe. You need not fear your own mother.”</p> - -<p>“Fear! no, of course I don’t fear. But I don’t see how the very devil we -can manage it.”</p> - -<p>“Will you let me tell her that I will not marry the capitaine; that I -will not give up your promises; and then I am ready to leave the house?”</p> - -<p>“It would do no good.”</p> - -<p>“It would do every good, Adolphe, if I had your promised word once more; -if I could hear from your own voice one more tone of love. Do you not -remember this place? It was here that you forced me to say that I loved -you. It is here also that you will tell me that I have been deceived.”</p> - -<p>“It is not I that would deceive you,” he said. “I wonder that you should -be so hard upon me. God knows that I have trouble enough.”</p> - -<p>“Well, if I am a trouble to you, be it so. Be it as you wish,” and she -leaned back against the wall of the rock, and crossing her arms upon her -breast looked away from him and fixed her eyes upon the sharp granite -peaks of Canigou.</p> - -<p>He again betook himself to walk backwards and forwards through the cave. -He had quite enough of love for her to make him wish to marry her; quite -enough now, at this moment, to make the idea of her marriage with the -capitaine very distasteful to him; enough probably to make him become a -decently good husband to her, should fate enable him to marry her; but -not enough to enable him to support all the punishment which would be -the sure effects of his mother’s displeasure. Besides, he had promised -his mother that he would give up Marie;—had entirely given in his -adhesion to that plan of the marriage with the capitaine. He had owned -that the path of life as marked out for him by his mother was the one -which it behoved him, as a man, to follow. It was this view of his -duties as a man which had been specially urged on him with all the -capitaine’s eloquence. And old Campan had entirely succeeded. It is so -easy to get the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> assent of such young men, so weak in mind and so weak -in pocket, when the arguments are backed by a promise of two thousand -francs a year.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” at last he said. “I’ll get my mother by -herself, and will ask her to let the matter remain as it is for the -present.”</p> - -<p>“Not if it be a trouble, M. Adolphe;” and the proud girl still held her -hands upon her bosom, and still looked towards the mountain.</p> - -<p>“You know what I mean, Marie. You can understand how she and the -capitaine are worrying me.”</p> - -<p>“But tell me, Adolphe, do you love me?”</p> - -<p>“You know I love you, only—”</p> - -<p>“And you will not give me up?”</p> - -<p>“I will ask my mother. I will try and make her yield.”</p> - -<p>Marie could not feel that she received much confidence from her lover’s -promise; but still, even that, weak and unsteady as it was, even that -was better than absolute fixed rejection. So she thanked him, promised -him with tears in her eyes that she would always, always be faithful to -him, and then bade him go down to the house. She would follow, she said, -as soon as his passing had ceased to be observed.</p> - -<p>Then she looked at him as though she expected some sign of renewed love. -But no such sign was vouchsafed to her. Now that she thirsted for the -touch of his lip upon her cheek, it was denied to her. He did as she -bade him; he went down, slowly loitering, by himself; and in about half -an hour she followed him, and unobserved crept to her chamber.</p> - -<p>Again we will pass over what took place between the mother and the son; -but late in that evening, after the guests had gone to bed, Marie -received a message, desiring her to wait on Madame Bauche in a small -salon which looked out from one end of the house. It was intended as a -private sitting-room should any special stranger arrive who required -such accommodation, and therefore was but seldom used. Here she found La -Mère Bauche sitting in an arm-chair behind a small table on which stood -two candles; and on a sofa against the wall sat Adolphe. The capitaine -was not in the room.</p> - -<p>“Shut the door, Marie, and come in and sit down,” said Madame Bauche. It -was easy to understand from the tone of her voice that she was angry and -stern, in an unbending mood, and resolved to carry out to the very -letter all the threats conveyed by those terrible spectacles.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span></p> - -<p>Marie did as she was bid. She closed the door and sat down on the chair -that was nearest to her.</p> - -<p>“Marie,” said La Mère Bauche—and the voice sounded fierce in the poor -girl’s ears, and an angry fire glimmered through the green -glasses—“what is all this about that I hear? Do you dare to say that -you hold my son bound to marry you?” And then the august mother paused -for an answer.</p> - -<p>But Marie had no answer to give. She looked suppliantly towards her -lover, as though beseeching him to carry on the fight for her. But if -she could not do battle for herself, certainly he could not do it for -her. What little amount of fighting he had had in him, had been -thoroughly vanquished before her arrival.</p> - -<p>“I will have an answer, and that immediately,” said Madame Bauche. “I am -not going to be betrayed into ignominy and disgrace by the object of my -own charity. Who picked you out of the gutter, miss, and brought you up -and fed you, when you would otherwise have gone to the foundling? And -this is your gratitude for it all? You are not satisfied with being fed -and clothed and cherished by me, but you must rob me of my son! Know -this then, Adolphe shall never marry a child of charity such as you -are.”</p> - -<p>Marie sat still, stunned by the harshness of these words. La Mère Bauche -had often scolded her; indeed, she was given to much scolding; but she -had scolded her as a mother may scold a child. And when this story of -Marie’s love first reached her ears, she had been very angry; but her -anger had never brought her to such a pass as this. Indeed, Marie had -not hitherto been taught to look at the matter in this light. No one had -heretofore twitted her with eating the bread of charity. It had not -occurred to her that on this account she was unfit to be Adolphe’s wife. -There, in that valley, they were all so nearly equal, that no idea of -her own inferiority had ever pressed itself upon her mind. But now—!</p> - -<p>When the voice ceased she again looked at him; but it was no longer a -beseeching look. Did he also altogether scorn her? That was now the -inquiry which her eyes were called upon to make. No; she could not say -that he did. It seemed to her that his energies were chiefly occupied in -pulling to pieces the tassel on the sofa cushion.</p> - -<p>“And now, miss, let me know at once whether this nonsense is to be over -or not,” continued La Mère Bauche; “and I will tell you at once, I am -not going to maintain you here, in my house, to plot against our welfare -and happiness. As Marie Clavert you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> shall not stay here. Capitaine -Campan is willing to marry you; and as his wife I will keep my word to -you, though you little deserve it. If you refuse to marry him, you must -go. As to my son, he is there; and he will tell you now, in my presence, -that he altogether declines the honour you propose for him.”</p> - -<p>And then she ceased, waiting for an answer, drumming the table with a -wafer stamp which happened to be ready to her hand; but Marie said -nothing. Adolphe had been appealed to; but Adolphe had not yet spoken.</p> - -<p>“Well, miss?” said La Mère Bauche.</p> - -<p>Then Marie rose from her seat, and walking round she touched Adolphe -lightly on the shoulder. “Adolphe,” she said, “it is for you to speak -now. I will do as you bid me.”</p> - -<p>He gave a long sigh, looked first at Marie and then at his mother, shook -himself slightly, and then spoke: “Upon my word, Marie, I think mother -is right. It would never do for us to marry; it would not indeed.”</p> - -<p>“Then it is decided,” said Marie, returning to her chair.</p> - -<p>“And you will marry the capitaine?” said La Mère Bauche.</p> - -<p>Marie merely bowed her head in token of acquiescence.</p> - -<p>“Then we are friends again. Come here, Marie, and kiss me. You must know -that it is my duty to take care of my own son. But I don’t want to be -angry with you if I can help it; I don’t indeed. When once you are -Madame Campan, you shall be my own child; and you shall have any room in -the house you like to choose—there!” And she once more imprinted a kiss -on Marie’s cold forehead.</p> - -<p>How they all got out of the room, and off to their own chambers, I can -hardly tell. But in five minutes from the time of this last kiss they -were divided. La Mère Bauche had patted Marie, and smiled on her, and -called her her dear good little Madame Campan, her young little Mistress -of the Hôtel Bauche; and had then got herself into her own room, -satisfied with her own victory.</p> - -<p>Nor must my readers be too severe on Madame Bauche. She had already done -much for Marie Clavert; and when she found herself once more by her own -bedside, she prayed to be forgiven for the cruelty which she felt that -she had shown to the orphan. But in making this prayer, with her -favourite crucifix in her hand and the little image of the Virgin before -her, she pleaded her duty to her son. Was it not right, she asked the -Virgin, that she should save her son from a bad marriage? And then she -promised ever so much of recompense, both to the Virgin and to Marie; a -new<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> trousseau for each, with candles to the Virgin, with a gold watch -and chain for Marie, as soon as she should be Marie Campan. She had been -cruel; she acknowledged it. But at such a crisis was it not defensible? -And then the recompense should be so full!</p> - -<p>But there was one other meeting that night, very short indeed, but not -the less significant. Not long after they had all separated, just so -long as to allow of the house being quiet, Adolphe, still sitting in his -room, meditating on what the day had done for him, heard a low tap at -his door. “Come in,” he said, as men always do say; and Marie opening -the door, stood just within the verge of his chamber. She had on her -countenance neither the soft look of entreating love which she had worn -up there in the grotto, nor did she appear crushed and subdued as she -had done before his mother. She carried her head somewhat more erect -than usual, and looked boldly out at him from under her soft eyelashes. -There might still be love there, but it was love proudly resolving to -quell itself. Adolphe, as he looked at her, felt that he was afraid of -her.</p> - -<p>“It is all over then between us, M. Adolphe?” she said.</p> - -<p>“Well, yes. Don’t you think it had better be so, eh, Marie?”</p> - -<p>“And this is the meaning of oaths and vows, sworn to each other so -sacredly?”</p> - -<p>“But, Marie, you heard what my mother said.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir! I have not come to ask you again to love me. Oh no! I am not -thinking of that. But this, this would be a lie if I kept it now; it -would choke me if I wore it as that man’s wife. Take it back;” and she -tendered to him the little charm, which she had always worn round her -neck since he had given it to her. He took it abstractedly, without -thinking what he did, and placed it on his dressing-table.</p> - -<p>“And you,” she continued, “can you still keep that cross? Oh, no! you -must give me back that. It would remind you too often of vows that were -untrue.”</p> - -<p>“Marie,” he said, “do not be so harsh to me.”</p> - -<p>“Harsh!” said she, “no; there has been enough of harshness. I would not -be harsh to you, Adolphe. But give me the cross; it would prove a curse -to you if you kept it.”</p> - -<p>He then opened a little box which stood upon the table, and taking out -the cross gave it to her.</p> - -<p>“And now good-bye,” she said. “We shall have but little more to say to -each other. I know this now, that I was wrong<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span> ever to have loved you. I -should have been to you as one of the other poor girls in the house. -But, oh! how was I to help it?” To this he made no answer, and she, -closing the door softly, went back to her chamber. And thus ended the -first day of Adolphe Bauche’s return to his own house.</p> - -<p>On the next morning the capitaine and Marie were formally betrothed. -This was done with some little ceremony, in the presence of all the -guests who were staying at the establishment, and with all manner of -gracious acknowledgments of Marie’s virtues. It seemed as though La Mère -Bauche could not be courteous enough to her. There was no more talk of -her being a child of charity; no more allusion now to the gutter. La -Mère Bauche with her own hand brought her cake with a glass of wine -after her betrothal was over, and patted her on the cheek, and called -her her dear little Marie Campan. And then the capitaine was made up of -infinite politeness, and the guests all wished her joy, and the servants -of the house began to perceive that she was a person entitled to -respect. How different was all this from that harsh attack that was made -on her the preceding evening! Only Adolphe,—he alone kept aloof. Though -he was present there he said nothing. He, and he only, offered no -congratulations.</p> - -<p>In the midst of all these gala doings Marie herself said little or -nothing. La Mère Bauche perceived this, but she forgave it. Angrily as -she had expressed herself at the idea of Marie’s daring to love her son, -she had still acknowledged within her own heart that such love had been -natural. She could feel no pity for Marie as long as Adolphe was in -danger; but now she knew how to pity her. So Marie was still petted and -still encouraged, though she went through the day’s work sullenly and in -silence.</p> - -<p>As to the capitaine it was all one to him. He was a man of the world. He -did not expect that he should really be preferred, con amore, to a young -fellow like Adolphe. But he did expect that Marie, like other girls, -would do as she was bid; and that in a few days she would regain her -temper and be reconciled to her life.</p> - -<p>And then the marriage was fixed for a very early day; for as La Mère -said, “What was the use of waiting? All their minds were made up now, -and therefore the sooner the two were married the better. Did not the -capitaine think so?”</p> - -<p>The capitaine said that he did think so.</p> - -<p>And then Marie was asked. It was all one to her, she said. Whatever -Maman Bauche liked, that she would do; only she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> would not name a day -herself. Indeed she would neither do nor say anything herself which -tended in any way to a furtherance of these matrimonials. But then she -acquiesced, quietly enough if not readily, in what other people did and -said; and so the marriage was fixed for the day week after Adolphe’s -return.</p> - -<p>The whole of that week passed much in the same way. The servants about -the place spoke among themselves of Marie’s perverseness, obstinacy, and -ingratitude, because she would not look pleased, or answer Madame -Bauche’s courtesies with gratitude; but La Mère herself showed no signs -of anger. Marie had yielded to her, and she required no more. And she -remembered also the harsh words she had used to gain her purpose; and -she reflected on all that Marie had lost. On these accounts she was -forbearing and exacted nothing—nothing but that one sacrifice which was -to be made in accordance to her wishes.</p> - -<p>And it was made. They were married in the great salon, the dining-room, -immediately after breakfast. Madame Bauche was dressed in a new puce -silk dress, and looked very magnificent on the occasion. She simpered -and smiled, and looked gay even in spite of her spectacles; and as the -ceremony was being performed, she held fast clutched in her hand the -gold watch and chain which were intended for Marie as soon as ever the -marriage should be completed.</p> - -<p>The capitaine was dressed exactly as usual, only that all his clothes -were new. Madame Bauche had endeavoured to persuade him to wear a blue -coat; but he answered that such a change would not, he was sure, be to -Marie’s taste. To tell the truth, Marie would hardly have known the -difference had he presented himself in scarlet vestments.</p> - -<p>Adolphe, however, was dressed very finely, but he did not make himself -prominent on the occasion. Marie watched him closely, though none saw -that she did so; and of his garments she could have given an account -with much accuracy—of his garments, ay! and of every look. “Is he a -man,” she said at last to herself, “that he can stand by and see all -this?”</p> - -<p>She too was dressed in silk. They had put on her what they pleased, and -she bore the burden of her wedding finery without complaint and without -pride. There was no blush on her face as she walked up to the table at -which the priest stood, nor hesitation in her low voice as she made the -necessary answers. She put her hand into that of the capitaine when -required to do so; and when the ring was put on her finger she -shuddered, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> ever so slightly. No one observed it but La Mère Bauche. -“In one week she will be used to it, and then we shall all be happy,” -said La Mère to herself. “And I,—I will be so kind to her!”</p> - -<p>And so the marriage was completed, and the watch was at once given to -Marie. “Thank you, maman,” said she, as the trinket was fastened to her -girdle. Had it been a pincushion that had cost three sous, it would have -affected her as much.</p> - -<p>And then there was cake and wine and sweetmeats; and after a few minutes -Marie disappeared. For an hour or so the capitaine was taken up with the -congratulations of his friends, and with the efforts necessary to the -wearing of his new honours with an air of ease; but after that time he -began to be uneasy because his wife did not come to him. At two or three -in the afternoon he went to La Mère Bauche to complain. “This -lackadaisical nonsense is no good,” he said. “At any rate it is too late -now. Marie had better come down among us and show herself satisfied with -her husband.”</p> - -<p>But Madame Bauche took Marie’s part. “You must not be too hard on -Marie,” she said. “She has gone through a good deal this week past, and -is very young; whereas, capitaine, you are not very young.”</p> - -<p>The capitaine merely shrugged his shoulders. In the mean time Mère -Bauche went up to visit her protégée in her own room, and came down with -a report that she was suffering from a headache. She could not appear at -dinner, Madame Bauche said; but would make one at the little party which -was to be given in the evening. With this the capitaine was forced to be -content.</p> - -<p>The dinner therefore went on quietly without her, much as it did on -other ordinary days. And then there was a little time for vacancy, -during which the gentlemen drank their coffee and smoked their cigars at -the café, talking over the event that had taken place that morning, and -the ladies brushed their hair and added some ribbon or some brooch to -their usual apparel. Twice during this time did Madame Bauche go up to -Marie’s room with offers to assist her. “Not yet, maman; not quite yet,” -said Marie piteously through her tears, and then twice did the green -spectacles leave the room, covering eyes which also were not dry. Ah! -what had she done? What had she dared to take upon herself to do? She -could not undo it now.</p> - -<p>And then it became quite dark in the passages and out of doors, and the -guests assembled in the salon. La Mère came in and out three or four -times, uneasy in her gait and unpleasant in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> her aspect, and everybody -began to see that things were wrong. “She is ill, I am afraid,” said -one. “The excitement has been too much,” said a second; “and he is so -old,” whispered a third. And the capitaine stalked about erect on his -wooden leg, taking snuff, and striving to look indifferent; but he also -was uneasy in his mind.</p> - -<p>Presently La Mère came in again, with a quicker step than before, and -whispered something, first to Adolphe and then to the capitaine, -whereupon they both followed her out of the room.</p> - -<p>“Not in her chamber,” said Adolphe.</p> - -<p>“Then she must be in yours,” said the capitaine.</p> - -<p>“She is in neither,” said La Mère Bauche, with her sternest voice; “nor -is she in the house!”</p> - -<p>And now there was no longer an affectation of indifference on the part -of any of them. They were anything but indifferent. The capitaine was -eager in his demands that the matter should still be kept secret from -the guests. She had always been romantic, he said, and had now gone out -to walk by the river-side. They three and the old bath-man would go out -and look for her.</p> - -<p>“But it is pitch, dark,” said La Mère Bauche.</p> - -<p>“We will take lanterns,” said the capitaine. And so they sallied forth -with creeping steps over the gravel, so that they might not be heard by -those within, and proceeded to search for the young wife.</p> - -<p>“Marie! Marie!” said La Mère Bauche, in piteous accents; “do come to me; -pray do!”</p> - -<p>“Hush!” said the capitaine. “They’ll hear you if you call.” He could not -endure that the world should learn that a marriage with him had been so -distasteful to Marie Clavert.</p> - -<p>“Marie, dear Marie!” called Madame Bauche, louder than before, quite -regardless of the capitaine’s feelings; but no Marie answered. In her -innermost heart now did La Mère Bauche wish that this cruel marriage had -been left undone.</p> - -<p>Adolphe was foremost with his lamp, but he hardly dared to look in the -spot where he felt that it was most likely that she should have taken -refuge. How could he meet her again, alone, in that grotto? Yet he alone -of the four was young. It was clearly for him to ascend. “Marie,” he -shouted, “are you there?” as he slowly began the long ascent of the -steps.</p> - -<p>But he had hardly begun to mount when a whirring sound struck his ear, -and he felt that the air near him was moved; and then there was a crash -upon the lower platform of rock, and a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> moan, repeated twice, but so -faintly, and a rustle of silk, and a slight struggle somewhere as he -knew within twenty paces of him; and then all was again quiet and still -in the night air.</p> - -<p>“What was that?” asked the capitaine in a hoarse voice. He made his way -half across the little garden, and he also was within forty or fifty -yards of the flat rock. But Adolphe was unable to answer him. He had -fainted and the lamp had fallen from his hands and rolled to the bottom -of the steps.</p> - -<p>But the capitaine, though even his heart was all but quenched within -him, had still strength enough to make his way up to the rock; and -there, holding the lantern above his eyes, he saw all that was left for -him to see of his bride.</p> - -<p>As for La Mère Bauche, she never again sat at the head of that -table,—never again dictated to guests,—never again laid down laws for -the management of any one. A poor bedridden old woman, she lay there in -her house at Vernet for some seven tedious years, and then was gathered -to her fathers.</p> - -<p>As for the capitaine—but what matters? He was made of sterner stuff. -What matters either the fate of such a one as Adolphe Bauche?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_OCONORS_OF_CASTLE_CONOR_COUNTY_MAYO" id="THE_OCONORS_OF_CASTLE_CONOR_COUNTY_MAYO"></a>THE O’CONORS OF CASTLE CONOR, COUNTY MAYO.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I shall</span> never forget my first introduction to country life in Ireland, -my first day’s hunting there, or the manner in which I passed the -evening afterwards. Nor shall I ever cease to be grateful for the -hospitality which I received from the O’Conors of Castle Conor. My -acquaintance with the family was first made in the following manner. But -before I begin my story, let me inform my reader that my name is -Archibald Green.</p> - -<p>I had been for a fortnight in Dublin, and was about to proceed into -county Mayo on business which would occupy me there for some weeks. My -head-quarters would, I found, be at the town of Ballyglass; and I soon -learned that Ballyglass was not a place in which I should find hotel -accommodation of a luxurious kind, or much congenial society indigenous -to the place itself.</p> - -<p>“But you are a hunting man, you say,” said old Sir P—— C——; “and in -that case you will soon know Tom O’Conor. Tom won’t let you be dull. I’d -write you a letter to Tom, only he’ll certainly make you out without my -taking the trouble.”</p> - -<p>I did think at the time that the old baronet might have written the -letter for me, as he had been a friend of my father’s in former days; -but he did not, and I started for Ballyglass with no other introduction -to any one in the county than that contained in Sir P——’s promise -that I should soon know Mr. Thomas O’Conor.</p> - -<p>I had already provided myself with a horse, groom, saddle and bridle, -and these I sent down, en avant, that the Ballyglassians might know that -I was somebody. Perhaps, before I arrived, Tom O’Conor might learn that -a hunting man was coming into the neighbourhood, and I might find at the -inn a polite note intimating that a bed was at my service at Castle -Conor. I had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> heard so much of the free hospitality of the Irish gentry -as to imagine that such a thing might be possible.</p> - -<p>But I found nothing of the kind. Hunting gentlemen in those days were -very common in county Mayo, and one horse was no great evidence of a -man’s standing in the world. Men there, as I learnt afterwards, are -sought for themselves quite as much as they are elsewhere; and though my -groom’s top-boots were neat, and my horse a very tidy animal, my entry -into Ballyglass created no sensation whatever.</p> - -<p>In about four days after my arrival, when I was already infinitely -disgusted with the little pot-house in which I was forced to stay, and -had made up my mind that the people in county Mayo were a churlish set, -I sent my horse on to a meet of the fox-hounds, and followed after -myself on an open car.</p> - -<p>No one but an erratic fox-hunter such as I am,—a fox-hunter, I mean, -whose lot it has been to wander about from one pack of hounds to -another,—can understand the melancholy feeling which a man has when he -first intrudes himself, unknown by any one, among an entirely new set of -sportsmen. When a stranger falls thus as it were out of the moon into a -hunt, it is impossible that men should not stare at him and ask who he -is. And it is so disagreeable to be stared at, and to have such -questions asked! This feeling does not come upon a man in Leicestershire -or Gloucestershire, where the numbers are large, and a stranger or two -will always be overlooked, but in small hunting fields it is so painful -that a man has to pluck up much courage before he encounters it.</p> - -<p>We met on the morning in question at Bingham’s Grove. There were not -above twelve or fifteen men out, all of whom, or nearly all, were -cousins to each other. They seemed to be all Toms, and Pats, and Larrys, -and Micks. I was done up very knowingly in pink, and thought that I -looked quite the thing; but for two or three hours nobody noticed me.</p> - -<p>I had my eyes about me, however, and soon found out which of them was -Tom O’Conor. He was a fine-looking fellow, thin and tall, but not -largely made, with a piercing gray eye, and a beautiful voice for -speaking to a hound. He had two sons there also, short, slight fellows, -but exquisite horsemen. I already felt that I had a kind of acquaintance -with the father, but I hardly knew on what ground to put in my claim.</p> - -<p>We had no sport early in the morning. It was a cold bleak February day, -with occasional storms of sleet. We rode from cover to cover, but all in -vain. “I am sorry, sir, that we are to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> have such a bad day, as you are -a stranger here,” said one gentleman to me. This was Jack O’Conor, Tom’s -eldest son, my bosom friend for many a year after. Poor Jack! I fear -that the Encumbered Estates Court sent him altogether adrift upon the -world.</p> - -<p>“We may still have a run from Poulnaroe, if the gentleman chooses to -come on,” said a voice coming from behind with a sharp trot. It was Tom -O’Conor.</p> - -<p>“Wherever the hounds go, I’ll follow,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Then come on to Poulnaroe,” said Mr. O’Conor. I trotted on quickly by -his side, and before we reached the cover had managed to slip in -something about Sir P. C.</p> - -<p>“What the deuce!” said he. “What! a friend of Sir P——’s? Why the -deuce didn’t you tell me so? What are you doing down here? Where are you -staying?” &c. &c. &c.</p> - -<p>At Poulnaroe we found a fox, but before we did so Mr. O’Conor had asked -me over to Castle Conor. And this he did in such a way that there was no -possibility of refusing him—or, I should rather say, of disobeying him. -For his invitation came quite in the tone of a command.</p> - -<p>“You’ll come to us of course when the day is over—and let me see; we’re -near Ballyglass now, but the run will be right away in our direction. -Just send word for them to send your things to Castle Conor.”</p> - -<p>“But they’re all about, and unpacked,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Never mind. Write a note and say what you want now, and go and get the -rest to-morrow yourself. Here, Patsey!—Patsey! run into Ballyglass for -this gentleman at once. Now don’t be long, for the chances are we shall -find here.” And then, after giving some further hurried instructions he -left me to write a line in pencil to the innkeeper’s wife on the back of -a ditch.</p> - -<p>This I accordingly did. “Send my small portmanteau,” I said, “and all my -black dress clothes, and shirts, and socks, and all that, and above all -my dressing things which are on the little table, and the satin -neck-handkerchief, and whatever you do, mind you send my <i>pumps;</i>” and I -underscored the latter word; for Jack O’Conor, when his father left me, -went on pressing the invitation. “My sisters are going to get up a -dance,” said he; “and if you are fond of that kind of things perhaps we -can amuse you.” Now in those days I was very fond of dancing—and very -fond of young ladies too, and therefore glad enough to learn that Tom -O’Conor had daughters as well as sons. On this account I was very -particular in underscoring the word pumps.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<p>“And hurry, you young divil,” Jack O’Conor said to Patsey.</p> - -<p>“I have told him to take the portmanteau over on a car,” said I.</p> - -<p>“All right; then you’ll find it there on our arrival.”</p> - -<p>We had an excellent run, in which I may make bold to say that I did not -acquit myself badly. I stuck very close to the hounds, as did the whole -of the O’Conor brood; and when the fellow contrived to earth himself, as -he did, I received those compliments on my horse, which is the most -approved praise which one fox-hunter ever gives to another.</p> - -<p>“We’ll buy that fellow of you before we let you go,” said Peter, the -youngest son.</p> - -<p>“I advise you to look sharp after your money if you sell him to my -brother,” said Jack.</p> - -<p>And then we trotted slowly off to Castle Conor, which, however, was by -no means near to us. “We have ten miles to go;—good Irish miles,” said -the father. “I don’t know that I ever remember a fox from Poulnaroe -taking that line before.”</p> - -<p>“He wasn’t a Poulnaroe fox,” said Peter.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that,” said Jack; and then they debated that question -hotly.</p> - -<p>Our horses were very tired, and it was late before we reached Mr. -O’Conor’s house. That getting home from hunting with a thoroughly weary -animal, who has no longer sympathy or example to carry him on, is very -tedious work. In the present instance I had company with me; but when a -man is alone, when his horse toes at every ten steps, when the night is -dark and the rain pouring, and there are yet eight miles of road to be -conquered,—at such times a man is almost apt to swear that he will give -up hunting.</p> - -<p>At last we were in the Castle Conor stable yard;—for we had approached -the house by some back way; and as we entered the house by a door -leading through a wilderness of back passages, Mr. O’Conor said out -loud, “Now, boys, remember I sit down to dinner in twenty minutes.” And -then turning expressly to me, he laid his hand kindly upon my shoulder -and said, “I hope you will make yourself quite at home at Castle -Conor,—and whatever you do, don’t keep us waiting for dinner. You can -dress in twenty minutes, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“In ten!” said I, glibly.</p> - -<p>“That’s well. Jack and Peter will show you your room,” and so he turned -away and left us.</p> - -<p>My two young friends made their way into the great hall, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> thence -into the drawing-room, and I followed them. We were all dressed in pink, -and had waded deep through bog and mud. I did not exactly know whither I -was being led in this guise, but I soon found myself in the presence of -two young ladies, and of a girl about thirteen years of age.</p> - -<p>“My sisters,” said Jack, introducing me very laconically; “Miss O’Conor, -Miss Kate O’Conor, Miss Tizzy O’Conor.”</p> - -<p>“My name is not Tizzy,” said the younger; “it’s Eliza. How do you do, -sir? I hope you had a fine hunt! Was papa well up, Jack?”</p> - -<p>Jack did not condescend to answer this question, but asked one of the -elder girls whether anything had come, and whether a room had been made -ready for me.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes!” said Miss O’Conor; “they came, I know, for I saw them brought -into the house; and I hope Mr. Green will find everything comfortable.” -As she said this I thought I saw a slight smile steal across her -remarkably pretty mouth.</p> - -<p>They were both exceedingly pretty girls. Fanny the elder wore long -glossy curls,—for I write, oh reader, of bygone days, as long ago as -that, when ladies wore curls if it pleased them so to do, and gentlemen -danced in pumps, with black handkerchiefs round their necks,—yes, long -black, or nearly black silken curls; and then she had such eyes;—I -never knew whether they were most wicked or most bright; and her face -was all dimples, and each dimple was laden with laughter and laden with -love. Kate was probably the prettier girl of the two, but on the whole -not so attractive. She was fairer than her sister, and wore her hair in -braids; and was also somewhat more demure in her manner.</p> - -<p>In spite of the special injunctions of Mr. O’Conor senior, it was -impossible not to loiter for five minutes over the drawing-room fire -talking to these houris—more especially as I seemed to know them -intimately by intuition before half of the five minutes was over. They -were so easy, so pretty, so graceful, so kind, they seemed to take it so -much as a matter of course that I should stand there talking in my red -coat and muddy boots.</p> - -<p>“Well; do go and dress yourselves,” at last said Fanny, pretending to -speak to her brothers but looking more especially at me. “You know how -mad papa will be. And remember, Mr. Green, we expect great things from -your dancing to-night. Your coming just at this time is such a Godsend.” -And again that soupçon of a smile passed over her face.</p> - -<p>I hurried up to my room, Peter and Jack coming with me to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> the door. “Is -everything right?” said Peter, looking among the towels and water-jugs. -“They’ve given you a decent fire for a wonder,” said Jack, stirring up -the red hot turf which blazed in the grate. “All right as a trivet,” -said I. “And look alive like a good fellow,” said Jack. We had scowled -at each other in the morning as very young men do when they are -strangers; and now, after a few hours, we were intimate friends.</p> - -<p>I immediately turned to my work, and was gratified to find that all my -things were laid out ready for dressing; my portmanteau had of course -come open, as my keys were in my pocket, and therefore some of the -excellent servants of the house had been able to save me all the trouble -of unpacking. There was my shirt hanging before the fire; my black -clothes were spread upon the bed, my socks and collar and handkerchief -beside them; my brushes were on the toilet table, and everything -prepared exactly as though my own man had been there. How nice!</p> - -<p>I immediately went to work at getting off my spurs and boots, and then -proceeded to loosen the buttons at my knees. In doing this I sat down in -the arm-chair which had been drawn up for me, opposite the fire. But -what was the object on which my eyes then fell;—the objects I should -rather say!</p> - -<p>Immediately in front of my chair was placed, just ready for my feet, an -enormous pair of shooting-boots—half-boots, made to lace up round the -ankles, with thick double leather soles, and each bearing half a stone -of iron in the shape of nails and heel-pieces. I had superintended the -making of these shoes in Burlington Arcade with the greatest diligence. -I was never a good shot; and, like some other sportsmen, intended to -make up for my deficiency in performance by the excellence of my -shooting apparel. “Those nails are not large enough,” I had said; “nor -nearly large enough.” But when the boots came home they struck even me -as being too heavy, too metalsome. “He, he, he,” laughed the boot boy as -he turned them up for me to look at. It may therefore be imagined of -what nature were the articles which were thus set out for the evening’s -dancing.</p> - -<p>And then the way in which they were placed! When I saw this the -conviction flew across my mind like a flash of lightning that the -preparation had been made under other eyes than those of the servant. -The heavy big boots were placed so prettily before the chair, and the -strings of each were made to dangle down at the sides, as though just -ready for tying! They seemed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span> to say, the boots did, “Now, make haste. -We at any rate are ready—you cannot say that you were kept waiting for -us.” No mere servant’s hand had ever enabled a pair of boots to laugh at -one so completely.</p> - -<p>But what was I to do? I rushed at the small portmanteau, thinking that -my pumps also might be there. The woman surely could not have been such -a fool as to send me those tons of iron for my evening wear! But, alas, -alas! no pumps were there. There was nothing else in the way of covering -for my feet; not even a pair of slippers.</p> - -<p>And now what was I to do? The absolute magnitude of my misfortune only -loomed upon me by degrees. The twenty minutes allowed by that stern old -paterfamilias were already gone and I had done nothing towards dressing. -And indeed it was impossible that I should do anything that would be of -avail. I could not go down to dinner in my stocking feet, nor could I -put on my black dress trousers, over a pair of mud-painted top-boots. As -for those iron-soled horrors—; and then I gave one of them a kick with -the side of my bare foot which sent it half way under the bed.</p> - -<p>But what was I to do? I began washing myself and brushing my hair with -this horrid weight upon my mind. My first plan was to go to bed, and -send down word that I had been taken suddenly ill in the stomach; then -to rise early in the morning and get away unobserved. But by such a -course of action I should lose all chance of any further acquaintance -with those pretty girls! That they were already aware of the extent of -my predicament, and were now enjoying it—of that I was quite sure.</p> - -<p>What if I boldly put on the shooting-boots, and clattered down to dinner -in them? What if I took the bull by the horns, and made, myself, the -most of the joke? This might be very well for the dinner, but it would -be a bad joke for me when the hour for dancing came. And, alas! I felt -that I lacked the courage. It is not every man that can walk down to -dinner, in a strange house full of ladies, wearing such boots as those I -have described.</p> - -<p>Should I not attempt to borrow a pair? This, all the world will say, -should have been my first idea. But I have not yet mentioned that I am -myself a large-boned man, and that my feet are especially well -developed. I had never for a moment entertained a hope that I should -find any one in that house whose boot I could wear. But at last I rang -the bell. I would send<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> for Jack, and if everything failed, I would -communicate my grief to him.</p> - -<p>I had to ring twice before anybody came. The servants, I well knew, were -putting the dinner on the table. At last a man entered the room, dressed -in rather shabby black, whom I afterwards learned to be the butler.</p> - -<p>“What is your name, my friend?” said I, determined to make an ally of -the man.</p> - -<p>“My name? Why Larry sure, yer honer. And the masther is out of his -sinses in a hurry, becase yer honer don’t come down.”</p> - -<p>“Is he though? Well now, Larry; tell me this; which of all the gentlemen -in the house has got the largest foot?”</p> - -<p>“Is it the largest foot, yer honer?” said Larry, altogether surprised by -my question.</p> - -<p>“Yes; the largest foot,” and then I proceeded to explain to him my -misfortune. He took up first my top-boot, and then the shooting-boot—in -looking at which he gazed with wonder at the nails;—and then he glanced -at my feet, measuring them with his eye; and after this he pronounced -his opinion.</p> - -<p>“Yer honer couldn’t wear a morsel of leather belonging to ere a one of -’em, young or ould. There niver was a foot like that yet among the -O’Conors.”</p> - -<p>“But are there no strangers staying here?”</p> - -<p>“There’s three or four on ’em come in to dinner; but they’ll be wanting -their own boots I’m thinking. And there’s young Misther Dillon; he’s -come to stay. But Lord love you—” and he again looked at the enormous -extent which lay between the heel and the toe of the shooting apparatus -which he still held in his hand. “I niver see such a foot as that in the -whole barony,” he said, “barring my own.”</p> - -<p>Now Larry was a large man, much larger altogether than myself, and as he -said this I looked down involuntarily at his feet; or rather at his -foot, for as he stood I could only see one. And then a sudden hope -filled my heart. On that foot there glittered a shoe—not indeed such as -were my own which were now resting ingloriously at Ballyglass while they -were so sorely needed at Castle Conor; but one which I could wear before -ladies, without shame—and in my present frame of mind with infinite -contentment.</p> - -<p>“Let me look at that one of your own,” said I to the man, as though it -were merely a subject for experimental inquiry. Larry, accustomed to -obedience, took off the shoe and handed it to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> My own foot was -immediately in it, and I found that it fitted me like a glove.</p> - -<p>“And now the other,” said I—not smiling, for a smile would have put him -on his guard; but somewhat sternly, so that that habit of obedience -should not desert him at this perilous moment. And then I stretched out -my hand.</p> - -<p>“But yer honer can’t keep ’em, you know,” said he. “I haven’t the ghost -of another shoe to my feet.” But I only looked more sternly than before, -and still held out my hand. Custom prevailed. Larry stooped down slowly, -looking at me the while, and pulling off the other slipper handed it to -me with much hesitation. Alas! as I put it to my foot I found that it -was old, and worn, and irredeemably down at heel;—that it was in fact -no counterpart at all to that other one which was to do duty as its -fellow. But nevertheless I put my foot into it, and felt that a descent -to the drawing-room was now possible.</p> - -<p>“But yer honer will give ’em back to a poor man?” said Larry almost -crying. “The masther’s mad this minute becase the dinner’s not up. Glory -to God, only listhen to that!” And as he spoke a tremendous peal rang -out from some bell down stairs that had evidently been shaken by an -angry hand.</p> - -<p>“Larry,” said I—and I endeavoured to assume a look of very grave -importance as I spoke—“I look to you to assist me in this matter.”</p> - -<p>“Och—wirra sthrue then, and will you let me go? just listhen to that,” -and another angry peal rang out, loud and repeated.</p> - -<p>“If you do as I ask you,” I continued, “you shall be well rewarded. Look -here; look at these boots,” and I held up the shooting-shoes new from -Burlington Arcade. “They cost thirty shillings—thirty shillings! and I -will give them to you for the loan of this pair of slippers.”</p> - -<p>“They’d be no use at all to me, yer honer; not the laist use in life.”</p> - -<p>“You could do with them very well for to-night, and then you could sell -them. And here are ten shillings besides,” and I held out half a -sovereign which the poor fellow took into his hand.</p> - -<p>I waited no further parley but immediately walked out of the room. With -one foot I was sufficiently pleased. As regarded that I felt that I had -overcome my difficulty. But the other was not so satisfactory. Whenever -I attempted to lift it from the ground the horrid slipper would fall -off, or only just hang by the toe. As for dancing, that would be out of -the question.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span></p> - -<p>“Och, murther, murther,” sang out Larry, as he heard me going down -stairs. “What will I do at all? Tare and ’ounds; there, he’s at it agin, -as mad as blazes.” This last exclamation had reference to another peal -which was evidently the work of the master’s hand.</p> - -<p>I confess I was not quite comfortable as I walked down stairs. In the -first place I was nearly half an hour late, and I knew from the vigour -of the peals that had sounded that my slowness had already been made the -subject of strong remarks. And then my left shoe went flop, flop, on -every alternate step of the stairs. By no exertion of my foot in the -drawing up of my toe could I induce it to remain permanently fixed upon -my foot. But over and above and worse than all this was the conviction -strong upon my mind that I should become a subject of merriment to the -girls as soon as I entered the room. They would understand the cause of -my distress, and probably at this moment were expecting to hear me -clatter through the stone hall with those odious metal boots.</p> - -<p>However, I hurried down and entered the drawing-room, determined to keep -my position near the door, so that I might have as little as possible to -do on entering and as little as possible in going out. But I had other -difficulties in store for me. I had not as yet been introduced to Mrs. -O’Conor; nor to Miss O’Conor, the squire’s unmarried sister.</p> - -<p>“Upon my word I thought you were never coming,” said Mr. O’Conor as soon -as he saw me. “It is just one hour since we entered the house. Jack, I -wish you would find out what has come to that fellow Larry,” and again -he rang the bell. He was too angry, or it might be too impatient to go -through the ceremony of introducing me to anybody.</p> - -<p>I saw that the two girls looked at me very sharply, but I stood at the -back of an arm-chair so that no one could see my feet. But that little -imp Tizzy walked round deliberately, looked at my heels, and then walked -back again. It was clear that she was in the secret.</p> - -<p>There were eight or ten people in the room, but I was too much fluttered -to notice well who they were.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Miss O’Conor, “let me introduce Mr. Green to you.”</p> - -<p>It luckily happened that Mrs. O’Conor was on the same side of the fire -as myself, and I was able to take the hand which she offered me without -coming round into the middle of the circle. Mrs. O’Conor was a little -woman, apparently not of much importance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> in the world, but, if one -might judge from first appearance, very good-natured.</p> - -<p>“And my aunt Die, Mr. Green,” said Kate, pointing to a very -straight-backed, grim-looking lady, who occupied a corner of a sofa, on -the opposite side of the hearth. I knew that politeness required that I -should walk across the room and make acquaintance with her. But under -the existing circumstances how was I to obey the dictates of politeness? -I was determined therefore to stand my ground, and merely bowed across -the room at Miss O’Conor. In so doing I made an enemy who never deserted -me during the whole of my intercourse with the family. But for her, who -knows who might have been sitting opposite to me as I now write?</p> - -<p>“Upon my word, Mr. Green, the ladies will expect much from an Adonis who -takes so long over his toilet,” said Tom O’Conor in that cruel tone of -banter which he knew so well how to use.</p> - -<p>“You forget, father, that men in London can’t jump in and out of their -clothes as quick as we wild Irishmen,” said Jack.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Green knows that we expect a great deal from him this evening. I -hope you polk well, Mr. Green,” said Kate.</p> - -<p>I muttered something about never dancing, but I knew that that which I -said was inaudible.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think Mr. Green will dance,” said Tizzy; “at least not much.” -The impudence of that child was, I think, unparalleled by any that I -have ever witnessed.</p> - -<p>“But in the name of all that’s holy, why don’t we have dinner?” And Mr. -O’Conor thundered at the door. “Larry, Larry, Larry!” he screamed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yer honer, it’ll be all right in two seconds,” answered Larry, -from some bottomless abyss. “Tare an’ ages; what’ll I do at all,” I -heard him continuing, as he made his way into the hall. Oh what a -clatter he made upon the pavement,—for it was all stone! And how the -drops of perspiration stood upon my brow as I listened to him!</p> - -<p>And then there was a pause, for the man had gone into the dining-room. I -could see now that Mr. O’Conor was becoming very angry, and Jack the -eldest son—oh, how often he and I have laughed over all this -since—left the drawing-room for the second time. Immediately afterwards -Larry’s footsteps were again heard, hurrying across the hall, and then -there was a great slither, and an exclamation, and the noise of a -fall—and I could plainly hear poor Larry’s head strike against the -stone floor.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span></p> - -<p>“Ochone, ochone!” he cried at the top of his voice—“I’m murthered with -’em now intirely; and d—— ’em for boots—St. Peter be good to me.”</p> - -<p>There was a general rush into the hall, and I was carried with the -stream. The poor fellow who had broken his head would be sure to tell -how I had robbed him of his shoes. The coachman was already helping him -up, and Peter good-naturedly lent a hand.</p> - -<p>“What on earth is the matter?” said Mr. O’Conor.</p> - -<p>“He must be tipsy,” whispered Miss O’Conor, the maiden sister.</p> - -<p>“I aint tipsy at all thin,” said Larry, getting up and rubbing the back -of his head, and sundry other parts of his body. “Tipsy indeed!” And -then he added when he was quite upright, “The dinner is sarved—at -last.”</p> - -<p>And he bore it all without telling! “I’ll give that fellow a guinea -to-morrow morning,” said I to myself—“if it’s the last that I have in -the world.”</p> - -<p>I shall never forget the countenance of the Miss O’Conors as Larry -scrambled up cursing the unfortunate boots—“What on earth has he got -on?” said Mr. O’Conor.</p> - -<p>“Sorrow take ’em for shoes,” ejaculated Larry. But his spirit was good -and he said not a word to betray me.</p> - -<p>We all then went in to dinner how we best could. It was useless for us -to go back into the drawing-room, that each might seek his own partner. -Mr. O’Conor “the masther,” not caring much for the girls who were around -him, and being already half beside himself with the confusion and delay, -led the way by himself. I as a stranger should have given my arm to Mrs. -O’Conor; but as it was I took her eldest daughter instead, and contrived -to shuffle along into the dining-room without exciting much attention, -and when there I found myself happily placed between Kate and Fanny.</p> - -<p>“I never knew anything so awkward,” said Fanny; “I declare I can’t -conceive what has come to our old servant Larry. He’s generally the most -precise person in the world, and now he is nearly an hour late—and then -he tumbles down in the hall.”</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I am responsible for the delay,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But not for the tumble I suppose,” said Kate from the other side. I -felt that I blushed up to the eyes, but I did not dare to enter into -explanations.</p> - -<p>“Tom,” said Tizzy, addressing her father across the table, “I hope you -had a good run to-day.” It did seem odd to me that a young lady should -call her father Tom, but such was the fact.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span></p> - -<p>“Well; pretty well,” said Mr. O’Conor.</p> - -<p>“And I hope you were up with the hounds.”</p> - -<p>“You may ask Mr. Green that. He at any rate was with them, and therefore -he can tell you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he wasn’t before you, I know. No Englishman could get before -you;—I am quite sure of that.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t you be impertinent, miss,” said Kate. “You can easily see, Mr. -Green, that papa spoils my sister Eliza.”</p> - -<p>“Do you hunt in top-boots, Mr. Green?” said Tizzy.</p> - -<p>To this I made no answer. She would have drawn me into a conversation -about my feet in half a minute, and the slightest allusion to the -subject threw me into a fit of perspiration.</p> - -<p>“Are you fond of hunting, Miss O’Conor?” asked I, blindly hurrying into -any other subject of conversation.</p> - -<p>Miss O’Conor owned that she was fond of hunting—just a little; only -papa would not allow it. When the hounds met anywhere within reach of -Castle Conor, she and Kate would ride out to look at them; and if papa -was not there that day,—an omission of rare occurrence,—they would -ride a few fields with the hounds.</p> - -<p>“But he lets Tizzy keep with them the whole day,” said she, whispering.</p> - -<p>“And has Tizzy a pony of her own?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, Tizzy has everything. She’s papa’s pet, you know.”</p> - -<p>“And whose pet are you?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh—I am nobody’s pet, unless sometimes Jack makes a pet of me when -he’s in a good humour. Do you make pets of your sisters, Mr. Green?”</p> - -<p>“I have none. But if I had I should not make pets of them.”</p> - -<p>“Not of your own sisters?”</p> - -<p>“No. As for myself, I’d sooner make a pet of my friend’s sister; a great -deal.”</p> - -<p>“How very unnatural,” said Miss O’Conor, with the prettiest look of -surprise imaginable.</p> - -<p>“Not at all unnatural I think,” said I, looking tenderly and lovingly -into her face. Where does one find girls so pretty, so easy, so sweet, -so talkative as the Irish girls? And then with all their talking and all -their ease who ever hears of their misbehaving? They certainly love -flirting as they also love dancing. But they flirt without mischief and -without malice.</p> - -<p>I had now quite forgotten my misfortune, and was beginning to think how -well I should like to have Fanny O’Conor for my wife. In this frame of -mind I was bending over towards her as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> a servant took away a plate from -the other side, when a sepulchral note sounded in my ear. It was like -the memento mori of the old Roman;—as though some one pointed in the -midst of my bliss to the sword hung over my head by a thread. It was the -voice of Larry, whispering in his agony just above, my head—</p> - -<p>“They’s disthroying my poor feet intirely, intirely; so they is! I can’t -bear it much longer, yer honer.” I had committed murder like Macbeth; -and now my Banquo had come to disturb me at my feast.</p> - -<p>“What is it he says to you?” asked Fanny.</p> - -<p>“Oh nothing,” I answered, once more in my misery.</p> - -<p>“There seems to be some point of confidence between you and our Larry,” -she remarked.</p> - -<p>“Oh no,” said I, quite confused; “not at all.”</p> - -<p>“You need not be ashamed of it. Half the gentlemen in the county have -their confidences with Larry;—and some of the ladies too, I can tell -you. He was born in this house, and never lived anywhere else; and I am -sure he has a larger circle of acquaintance than any one else in it.”</p> - -<p>I could not recover my self-possession for the next ten minutes. -Whenever Larry was on our side of the table I was afraid he was coming -to me with another agonised whisper. When he was opposite, I could not -but watch him as he hobbled in his misery. It was evident that the boots -were too tight for him, and had they been made throughout of iron they -could not have been less capable of yielding to the feet. I pitied him -from the bottom of my heart. And I pitied myself also, wishing that I -was well in bed upstairs with some feigned malady, so that Larry might -have had his own again.</p> - -<p>And then for a moment I missed him from the room. He had doubtless gone -to relieve his tortured feet in the servants’ hall, and as he did so was -cursing my cruelty. But what mattered it? Let him curse. If he would -only stay away and do that, I would appease his wrath when we were alone -together with pecuniary satisfaction.</p> - -<p>But there was no such rest in store for me. “Larry, Larry,” shouted Mr. -O’Conor, “where on earth has the fellow gone to?” They were all cousins -at the table except myself, and Mr. O’Conor was not therefore restrained -by any feeling of ceremony. “There is something wrong with that fellow -to-day; what is it, Jack?”</p> - -<p>“Upon my word, sir, I don’t know,” said Jack.</p> - -<p>“I think he must be tipsy,” whispered Miss O’Conor, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> maiden sister, -who always sat at her brother’s left hand. But a whisper though it was, -it was audible all down the table.</p> - -<p>“No, ma’am; it aint dhrink at all,” said the coachman. “It is his feet -as does it.”</p> - -<p>“His feet!” shouted Tom O’Conor.</p> - -<p>“Yes; I know it’s his feet,” said that horrid Tizzy. “He’s got on great -thick nailed shoes. It was that that made him tumble down in the hall.”</p> - -<p>I glanced at each side of me, and could see that there was a certain -consciousness expressed in the face of each of my two neighbours;—on -Kate’s mouth there was decidedly a smile, or rather, perhaps, the -slightest possible inclination that way; whereas on Fanny’s part I -thought I saw something like a rising sorrow at my distress. So at least -I flattered myself.</p> - -<p>“Send him back into the room immediately,” said Tom, who looked at me as -though he had some consciousness that I had introduced all this -confusion into his household. What should I do? Would it not be best for -me to make a clean breast of it before them all? But alas! I lacked the -courage.</p> - -<p>The coachman went out, and we were left for five minutes without any -servant, and Mr. O’Conor the while became more and more savage. I -attempted to say a word to Fanny, but failed. Vox faucibus hæsit.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think he has got any others,” said Tizzy—“at least none others -left.”</p> - -<p>On the whole I am glad I did not marry into the family, as I could not -have endured that girl to stay in my house as a sister-in-law.</p> - -<p>“Where the d—— has that other fellow gone to?” said Tom. “Jack, do go -out and see what is the matter. If anybody is drunk send for me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there is nobody drunk,” said Tizzy.</p> - -<p>Jack went out, and the coachman returned; but what was done and said I -hardly remember. The whole room seemed to swim round and round, and as -far as I can recollect the company sat mute, neither eating nor -drinking. Presently Jack returned.</p> - -<p>“It’s all right,” said he. I always liked Jack. At the present moment he -just looked towards me and laughed slightly.</p> - -<p>“All right?” said Tom. “But is the fellow coming?”</p> - -<p>“We can do with Richard, I suppose,” said Jack.</p> - -<p>“No—I can’t do with Richard,” said the father. “And I will know what it -all means. Where is that fellow Larry?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span></p> - -<p>Larry had been standing just outside the door, and now he entered gently -as a mouse. No sound came from his footfall, nor was there in his face -that look of pain which it had worn for the last fifteen minutes. But he -was not the less abashed, frightened, and unhappy.</p> - -<p>“What is all this about, Larry?” said his master, turning to him. “I -insist upon knowing.”</p> - -<p>“Och thin, Mr. Green, yer honer, I wouldn’t be afther telling agin yer -honer; indeed I wouldn’t thin, av’ the masther would only let me hould -my tongue.” And he looked across at me, deprecating my anger.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Green!” said Mr. O’Conor.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yer honer. It’s all along of his honor’s thick shoes;” and Larry, -stepping backwards towards the door, lifted them up from some corner, -and coming well forward, exposed them with the soles uppermost to the -whole table.</p> - -<p>“And that’s not all, yer honer; but they’ve squoze the very toes of me -into a jelly.”</p> - -<p>There was now a loud laugh, in which Jack and Peter and Fanny and Kate -and Tizzy all joined; as too did Mr. O’Conor—and I also myself after a -while.</p> - -<p>“Whose boots are they?” demanded Miss O’Conor senior, with her severest -tone and grimmest accent.</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Deed then and the divil may have them for me, Miss,” answered Larry. -“They war Mr. Green’s, but the likes of him won’t wear them agin afther -the likes of me—barring he wanted them very particular,” added he, -remembering his own pumps.</p> - -<p>I began muttering something, feeling that the time had come when I must -tell the tale. But Jack with great good nature, took up the story and -told it so well, that I hardly suffered in the telling.</p> - -<p>“And that’s it,” said Tom O’Conor, laughing till I thought he would have -fallen from his chair. “So you’ve got Larry’s shoes on—”</p> - -<p>“And very well he fills them,” said Jack.</p> - -<p>“And it’s his honer that’s welcome to ’em,” said Larry, grinning from -ear to ear now that he saw that “the masther” was once more in a good -humour.</p> - -<p>“I hope they’ll be nice shoes for dancing,” said Kate.</p> - -<p>“Only there’s one down at the heel I know,” said Tizzy.</p> - -<p>“The servant’s shoes!” This was an exclamation made by the maiden lady, -and intended apparently only for her brother’s ear. But it was clearly -audible by all the party.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span></p> - -<p>“Better that than no dinner,” said Peter.</p> - -<p>“But what are you to do about the dancing?” said Fanny, with an air of -dismay on her face which flattered me with an idea that she did care -whether I danced or no.</p> - -<p>In the mean time Larry, now as happy as an emperor, was tripping round -the room without any shoes to encumber him as he withdrew the plates -from the table.</p> - -<p>“And it’s his honer that’s welcome to ’em,” said he again, as he pulled -off the table-cloth with a flourish. “And why wouldn’t he, and he able -to folly the hounds betther nor any Englishman that iver war in these -parts before,—anyways so Mick says!”</p> - -<p>Now Mick was the huntsman, and this little tale of eulogy from Larry -went far towards easing my grief. I had ridden well to the hounds that -day, and I knew it.</p> - -<p>There was nothing more said about the shoes, and I was soon again at my -ease, although Miss O’Conor did say something about the impropriety of -Larry walking about in his stocking feet. The ladies however soon -withdrew,—to my sorrow, for I was getting on swimmingly with Fanny; and -then we gentlemen gathered round the fire and filled our glasses.</p> - -<p>In about ten minutes a very light tap was heard, the door was opened to -the extent of three inches, and a female voice which I readily -recognised called to Jack.</p> - -<p>Jack went out, and in a second or two put his head back into the room -and called to me—“Green,” he said, “just step here a moment, there’s a -good fellow.” I went out, and there I found Fanny standing with her -brother.</p> - -<p>“Here are the girls at their wits’ ends,” said he, “about your dancing. -So Fanny has put a boy upon one of the horses, and proposes that you -should send another line to Mrs. Meehan at Ballyglass. It’s only ten -miles, and he’ll be back in two hours.”</p> - -<p>I need hardly say that I acted in conformity with this advice. I went -into Mr. O’Conor’s book room, with Jack and his sister, and there -scribbled a note. It was delightful to feel how intimate I was with -them, and how anxious they were to make me happy.</p> - -<p>“And we won’t begin till they come,” said Fanny.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Miss O’Conor, pray don’t wait,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but we will,” she answered. “You have your wine to drink, and then -there’s the tea; and then we’ll have a song or two. I’ll spin it out; -see if I don’t.” And so we went to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span> front door where the boy was -already on his horse—her own nag as I afterwards found.</p> - -<p>“And Patsey,” said she, “ride for your life; and Patsey, whatever you -do, don’t come back without Mr. Green’s pumps—his dancing-shoes you -know.”</p> - -<p>And in about two hours the pumps did arrive; and I don’t think I ever -spent a pleasanter evening or got more satisfaction out of a pair of -shoes. They had not been two minutes on my feet before Larry was -carrying a tray of negus across the room in those which I had worn at -dinner.</p> - -<p>“The Dillon girls are going to stay here,” said Fanny as I wished her -good night at two o’clock. “And we’ll have dancing every evening as long -as you remain.”</p> - -<p>“But I shall leave to-morrow,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Indeed you won’t. Papa will take care of that.”</p> - -<p>And so he did. “You had better go over to Ballyglass yourself -to-morrow,” said he, “and collect your own things. There’s no knowing -else what you may have to borrow of Larry.”</p> - -<p>I stayed there three weeks, and in the middle of the third I thought -that everything would be arranged between me and Fanny. But the aunt -interfered; and in about a twelvemonth after my adventures she consented -to make a more fortunate man happy for his life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="JOHN_BULL_ON_THE_GUADALQUIVIR" id="JOHN_BULL_ON_THE_GUADALQUIVIR"></a>JOHN BULL ON THE GUADALQUIVIR.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I am</span> an Englishman, living, as all Englishman should do, in England, and -my wife would not, I think, be well pleased were any one to insinuate -that she were other than an Englishwoman; but in the circumstances of my -marriage I became connected with the south of Spain, and the narrative -which I am to tell requires that I should refer to some of those -details.</p> - -<p>The Pomfrets and Daguilars have long been in trade together in this -country, and one of the partners has usually resided at Seville for the -sake of the works which the firm there possesses. My father, James -Pomfret, lived there for ten years before his marriage; and since that -and up to the present period, old Mr. Daguilar has always been on the -spot. He was, I believe, born in Spain, but he came very early to -England; he married an English wife, and his sons had been educated -exclusively in England. His only daughter, Maria Daguilar, did not pass -so large a proportion of her early life in this country, but she came to -us for a visit at the age of seventeen, and when she returned I made up -my mind that I most assuredly would go after her. So I did, and she is -now sitting on the other side of the fireplace with a legion of small -linen habiliments in a huge basket by her side.</p> - -<p>I felt, at the first, that there was something lacking to make my cup of -love perfectly delightful. It was very sweet, but there was wanting that -flower of romance which is generally added to the heavenly draught by a -slight admixture of opposition. I feared that the path of my true love -would run too smooth. When Maria came to our house, my mother and elder -sister seemed to be quite willing that I should be continually alone -with her; and she had not been there ten days before my father, by -chance, remarked that there was nothing old Mr. Daguilar valued so -highly as a thorough feeling of intimate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> alliance between the two -families which had been so long connected in trade. I was never told -that Maria was to be my wife, but I felt that the same thing was done -without words; and when, after six weeks of somewhat elaborate -attendance upon her, I asked her to be Mrs. John Pomfret, I had no more -fear of a refusal, or even of hesitation on her part, than I now have -when I suggest to my partner some commercial transaction of undoubted -advantage.</p> - -<p>But Maria, even, at that age, had about her a quiet sustained decision -of character quite unlike anything I had seen in English girls. I used -to hear, and do still hear, how much more flippant is the education of -girls in France and Spain than in England; and I know that this is shown -to be the result of many causes—the Roman Catholic religion being, -perhaps, the chief offender; but, nevertheless, I rarely see in one of -our own young women the same power of a self-sustained demeanour as I -meet on the Continent. It goes no deeper than the demeanour, people say. -I can only answer that I have not found that shallowness in my own wife.</p> - -<p>Miss Daguilar replied to me that she was not prepared with an answer; -she had only known me six weeks, and wanted more time to think about it; -besides, there was one in her own country with whom she would wish to -consult. I knew she had no mother; and as for consulting old Mr. -Daguilar on such a subject, that idea, I knew, could not have troubled -her. Besides, as I afterwards learned, Mr. Daguilar had already proposed -the marriage to his partner exactly as he would have proposed a division -of assets. My mother declared that Maria was a foolish chit—in which, -by-the-bye, she showed her entire ignorance of Miss Daguilar’s -character; my eldest sister begged that no constraint might be put on -the young lady’s inclinations—which provoked me to assert that the -young lady’s inclinations were by no means opposed to my own; and my -father, in the coolest manner, suggested that the matter might stand -over for twelve months, and that I might then go to Seville, and see -about it! Stand over for twelve months! Would not Maria, long before -that time, have been snapped up and carried off by one of those -inordinately rich Spanish grandees who are still to be met with -occasionally in Andalucia?</p> - -<p>My father’s dictum, however, had gone forth; and Maria, in the calmest -voice, protested that she thought it very wise. I should be less of a -boy by that time, she said, smiling on me, but driving wedges between -every fibre of my body as she spoke.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> “Be it so,” I said, proudly. “At -any rate, I am not so much of a boy that I shall forget you.” “And, -John, you still have the trade to learn,” she added, with her -deliciously foreign intonation—speaking very slowly, but with perfect -pronunciation. The trade to learn! However, I said not a word, but -stalked out of the room, meaning to see her no more before she went. But -I could not resist attending on her in the hall as she started; and, -when she took leave of us, she put her face up to be kissed by me, as -she did by my father, and seemed to receive as much emotion from one -embrace as from the other. “He’ll go out by the packet of the 1st -April,” said my father, speaking of me as though I were a bale of goods. -“Ah! that will be so nice,” said Maria, settling her dress in the -carriage; “the oranges will be ripe for him then!”</p> - -<p>On the 17th April I did sail, and felt still very like a bale of goods. -I had received one letter from her, in which she merely stated that her -papa would have a room ready for me on my arrival; and, in answer to -that, I had sent an epistle somewhat longer, and, as I then thought, a -little more to the purpose. Her turn of mind was more practical than -mine, and I must confess my belief that she did not appreciate my -poetry.</p> - -<p>I landed at Cadiz, and was there joined by an old family friend, one of -the very best fellows that ever lived. He was to accompany me up as far -as Seville; and, as he had lived for a year or two at Xeres, was -supposed to be more Spanish almost than a Spaniard. His name was -Johnson, and he was in the wine trade; and whether for travelling or -whether for staying at home—whether for paying you a visit in your own -house, or whether for entertaining you in his—there never was (and I am -prepared to maintain there never will be) a stancher friend, a choicer -companion, or a safer guide than Thomas Johnson. Words cannot produce a -eulogium sufficient for his merits. But, as I have since learned, he was -not quite so Spanish as I had imagined. Three years among the bodegas of -Xeres had taught him, no doubt, to appreciate the exact twang of a good, -dry sherry; but not, as I now conceive, the exactest flavour of the true -Spanish character. I was very lucky, however, in meeting such a friend, -and now reckon him as one of the stanchest allies of the house of -Pomfret, Daguilar, and Pomfret.</p> - -<p>He met me at Cadiz, took me about the town, which appeared to me to be -of no very great interest;—though the young ladies were all very well. -But, in this respect, I was then a Stoic, till such time as I might be -able to throw myself at the feet of her whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span> I was ready to proclaim -the most lovely of all the Dulcineas of Andalucia. He carried me up by -boat and railway to Xeres; gave me a most terrific headache, by dragging -me out into the glare of the sun, after I had tasted some half a dozen -different wines, and went through all the ordinary hospitalities. On the -next day we returned to Puerto, and from thence getting across to St. -Lucar and Bonanza, found ourselves on the banks of the Guadalquivir, and -took our places in the boat for Seville. I need say but little to my -readers respecting that far-famed river. Thirty years ago we in England -generally believed that on its banks was to be found a pure elysium of -pastoral beauty; that picturesque shepherds and lovely maidens here fed -their flocks in fields of asphodel; that the limpid stream ran cool and -crystal over bright stones and beneath perennial shade; and that -everything on the Guadalquivir was as lovely and as poetical as its -name. Now, it is pretty widely known that no uglier river oozes down to -its bourn in the sea through unwholesome banks of low mud. It is brown -and dirty; ungifted by any scenic advantage; margined for miles upon -miles by huge, flat, expansive fields, in which cattle are reared,—the -bulls wanted for the bull-fights among other; and birds of prey sit -constant on the shore, watching for the carcases of such as die. Such -are the charms of the golden Guadalquivir.</p> - -<p>At first we were very dull on board that steamer. I never found myself -in a position in which there was less to do. There was a nasty smell -about the little boat which made me almost ill; every turn in the river -was so exactly like the last, that we might have been standing still; -there was no amusement except eating, and that, when once done, was not -of a kind to make an early repetition desirable. Even Johnson was -becoming dull, and I began to doubt whether I was so desirous as I once -had been to travel the length and breadth of all Spain. But about noon a -little incident occurred which did for a time remove some of our tedium. -The boat had stopped to take in passengers on the river; and, among -others, a man had come on board dressed in a fashion that, to my eyes, -was equally strange and picturesque. Indeed, his appearance was so -singular, that I could not but regard him with care, though I felt at -first averse to stare at a fellow-passenger on account of his clothes. -He was a man of about fifty, but as active apparently as though not more -than twenty-five; he was of low stature, but of admirable make; his hair -was just becoming grizzled, but was short and crisp and well cared for; -his face was prepossessing, having a look of good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> humour added to -courtesy, and there was a pleasant, soft smile round his mouth which -ingratiated one at the first sight. But it was his dress rather than his -person which attracted attention. He wore the ordinary Andalucian -cap—of which such hideous parodies are now making themselves common in -England—but was not contented with the usual ornament of the double -tuft. The cap was small, and jaunty; trimmed with silk velvet—as is -common here with men careful to adorn their persons; but this man’s cap -was finished off with a jewelled button and golden filigree work. He was -dressed in a short jacket with a stand-up collar; and that also was -covered with golden buttons and with golden button-holes. It was all -gilt down the front, and all lace down the back. The rows of buttons -were double; and those of the more backward row hung down in heavy -pendules. His waistcoat was of coloured silk—very pretty to look at; -and ornamented with a small sash, through which gold threads were -worked. All the buttons of his breeches also were of gold; and there -were gold tags to all the button-holes. His stockings were of the finest -silk, and clocked with gold from the knee to the ankle.</p> - -<p>Dress any Englishman in such a garb and he will at once give you the -idea of a hog in armour. In the first place he will lack the proper -spirit to carry it off, and in the next place the motion of his limbs -will disgrace the ornaments they bear. “And so best,” most Englishmen -will say. Very likely; and, therefore, let no Englishman try it. But my -Spaniard did not look at all like a hog in armour. He walked slowly down -the plank into the boat, whistling lowly but very clearly a few bars -from an opera tune. It was plain to see that he was master of himself, -of his ornaments, and of his limbs. He had no appearance of thinking -that men were looking at him, or of feeling that he was beauteous in his -attire;—nothing could be more natural than his foot-fall, or the quiet -glance of his cheery gray eye. He walked up to the captain, who held the -helm, and lightly raised his hand to his cap. The captain, taking one -hand from the wheel, did the same, and then the stranger, turning his -back to the stern of the vessel, and fronting down the river with his -face, continued to whistle slowly, clearly, and in excellent time. Grand -as were his clothes they were no burden on his mind.</p> - -<p>“What is he?” said I, going up to my friend Johnson, with a whisper.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ve been looking at him,” said Johnson—which was true enough;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> -“he’s a——an uncommonly good-looking fellow, isn’t he?”</p> - -<p>“Particularly so,” said I; “and got up quite irrespective of expense. Is -he a—a—a gentleman, now, do you think?”</p> - -<p>“Well, those things are so different in Spain, that it’s almost -impossible to make an Englishman understand them. One learns to know all -this sort of people by being with them in the country, but one can’t -explain.”</p> - -<p>“No; exactly. Are they real gold?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes; I dare say they are. They sometimes have them silver gilt.”</p> - -<p>“It is quite a common thing, then, isn’t it?” asked I.</p> - -<p>“Well, not exactly; that—— Ah! yes; I see! of course. He is a torero.”</p> - -<p>“A what?”</p> - -<p>“A mayo. I will explain it all to you. You will see them about in all -places, and you will get used to them.”</p> - -<p>“But I haven’t seen one other as yet.”</p> - -<p>“No, and they are not all so gay as this, nor so new in their finery, -you know.”</p> - -<p>“And what is a torero?”</p> - -<p>“Well, a torero is a man engaged in bull-fighting.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! he is a matador, is he?” said I, looking at him with more than all -my eyes.</p> - -<p>“No, not exactly that;—not of necessity. He is probably a mayo. A -fellow that dresses himself smart for fairs, and will be seen hanging -about with the bull-fighters. What would be a sporting fellow in -England—only he won’t drink and curse like a low man on the turf there. -Come, shall we go and speak to him?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t talk to him,” said I, diffident of my Spanish. I had received -lessons in England from Maria Daguilar; but six weeks is little enough -for making love, let alone the learning of a foreign language.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I’ll do the talking. You’ll find the language easy enough before -long. It soon becomes the same as English to you, when you live among -them.” And then Johnson, walking up to the stranger, accosted him with -that good-natured familiarity with which a thoroughly nice fellow always -opens a conversation with his inferior. Of course I could not understand -the words which were exchanged; but it was clear enough that the “mayo” -took the address in good part, and was inclined to be communicative and -social.</p> - -<p>“They are all of pure gold,” said Johnson, turning to me after a minute, -making as he spoke a motion with his head to show the importance of the -information.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span></p> - -<p>“Are they indeed?” said I. “Where on earth did a fellow like that get -them?” Whereupon Johnson again returned to his conversation with the -man. After another minute he raised his hand, and began to finger the -button on the shoulder; and to aid him in doing so, the man of the -bull-ring turned a little on one side.</p> - -<p>“They are wonderfully well made,” said Johnson, talking to me, and still -fingering the button. “They are manufactured, he says, at Osuna, and he -tells me that they make them better there than anywhere else.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder what the whole set would cost?” said I. “An enormous deal of -money for a fellow like him, I should think!”</p> - -<p>“Over twelve ounces,” said Johnson, having asked the question; “and that -will be more than forty pounds.”</p> - -<p>“What an uncommon ass he must be!” said I.</p> - -<p>As Johnson by this time was very closely scrutinising the whole set of -ornaments I thought I might do so also, and going up close to our -friend, I too began to handle the buttons and tags on the other side. -Nothing could have been more good-humoured than he was—so much so that -I was emboldened to hold up his arm that I might see the cut of his -coat, to take off his cap and examine the make, to stuff my finger in -beneath his sash, and at last to kneel down while I persuaded him to -hold up his legs that I might look to the clocking. The fellow was -thoroughly good-natured, and why should I not indulge my curiosity?</p> - -<p>“You’ll upset him if you don’t take care,” said Johnson; for I had got -fast hold of him by one ankle, and was determined to finish the survey -completely.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, I shan’t,” said I; “a bull-fighting chap can surely stand on -one leg. But what I wonder at is, how on earth he can afford it!” -Whereupon Johnson again began to interrogate him in Spanish.</p> - -<p>“He says he has got no children,” said Johnson, having received a reply, -“and that as he has nobody but himself to look after, he is able to -allow himself such little luxuries.”</p> - -<p>“Tell him that I say he would be better with a wife and couple of -babies,” said I—and Johnson interpreted.</p> - -<p>“He says that he’ll think of it some of these days, when he finds that -the supply of fools in the world is becoming short,” said Johnson.</p> - -<p>We had nearly done with him now; but after regaining my feet, I -addressed myself once more to the heavy pendules, which hung down almost -under his arm. I lifted one of these, meaning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> to feel its weight -between my fingers; but unfortunately I gave a lurch, probably through -the motion of the boat, and still holding by the button, tore it almost -off from our friend’s coat.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said, in broad English.</p> - -<p>“It do not matter at all,” he said, bowing, and speaking with equal -plainness. And then, taking a knife from his pocket, he cut the pendule -off, leaving a bit of torn cloth on the side of his jacket.</p> - -<p>“Upon my word, I am quite unhappy,” said I; “but I always am so -awkward.” Whereupon he bowed low.</p> - -<p>“Couldn’t I make it right?” said I, bringing out my purse.</p> - -<p>He lifted his hand, and I saw that it was small and white; he lifted it -and gently put it upon my purse, smiling sweetly as he did so. “Thank -you, no, señor; thank you, no.” And then, bowing to us both, he walked -away down into the cabin.</p> - -<p>“Upon my word he is a deuced well-mannered fellow,” said I.</p> - -<p>“You shouldn’t have offered him money,” said Johnson; “a Spaniard does -not like it.”</p> - -<p>“Why, I thought you could do nothing without money in this country. -Doesn’t every one take bribes?”</p> - -<p>“Ah! yes; that is a different thing; but not the price of a button. By -Jove! he understood English, too. Did you see that?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; and I called him an ass! I hope he doesn’t mind it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! no; he won’t think anything about it,” said Johnson. “That sort of -fellows don’t. I dare say we shall see him in the bull-ring next Sunday, -and then we’ll make all right with a glass of lemonade.”</p> - -<p>And so our adventure ended with the man of the gold ornaments. I was -sorry that I had spoken English before him so heedlessly, and resolved -that I would never be guilty of such gaucherie again. But, then, who -would think that a Spanish bull-fighter would talk a foreign language? I -was sorry, also, that I had torn his coat; it had looked so awkward; and -sorry again that I had offered the man money. Altogether I was a little -ashamed of myself; but I had too much to look forward to at Seville to -allow any heaviness to remain long at my heart; and before I had arrived -at the marvellous city I had forgotten both him and his buttons.</p> - -<p>Nothing could be nicer than the way in which I was welcomed at Mr. -Daguilar’s house, or more kind—I may almost say affectionate—than -Maria’s manner to me. But it was too affectionate; and I am not sure -that I should not have liked my reception<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> better had she been more -diffident in her tone, and less inclined to greet me with open warmth. -As it was, she again gave me her cheek to kiss, in her father’s -presence, and called me dear John, and asked me specially after some -rabbits which I had kept at home merely for a younger sister; and then -it seemed as though she were in no way embarrassed by the peculiar -circumstances of our position. Twelve months since I had asked her to be -my wife, and now she was to give me an answer; and yet she was as -assured in her gait, and as serenely joyous in her tone, as though I -were a brother just returned from college. It could not be that she -meant to refuse me, or she would not smile on me and be so loving; but I -could almost have found it in my heart to wish that she would. “It is -quite possible,” said I to myself, “that I may not be found so ready for -this family bargain. A love that is to be had like a bale of goods is -not exactly the love to suit my taste.” But then, when I met her again -in the morning, I could no more have quarrelled with her than I could -have flown.</p> - -<p>I was inexpressibly charmed with the whole city, and especially with the -house in which Mr. Daguilar lived. It opened from the corner of a -narrow, unfrequented street—a corner like an elbow—and, as seen from -the exterior, there was nothing prepossessing to recommend it; but the -outer door led by a short hall or passage to an inner door or grille, -made of open ornamental iron-work, and through that we entered a court, -or patio, as they called it. Nothing could be more lovely or deliciously -cool than was this small court. The building on each side was covered by -trellis-work; and beautiful creepers, vines, and parasite flowers, now -in the full magnificence of the early summer, grew up and clustered -round the windows. Every inch of wall was covered, so that none of the -glaring whitewash wounded the eye, In the four corners of the patio were -four large orange-trees, covered with fruit. I would not say a word in -special praise of these, remembering that childish promise she had made -on my behalf. In the middle of the court there was a fountain, and round -about on the marble floor there were chairs, and here and there a small -table, as though the space were really a portion of the house. It was -here that we used to take our cup of coffee and smoke our cigarettes, I -and old Mr. Daguilar, while Maria sat by, not only approving, but -occasionally rolling for me the thin paper round the fragrant weed with -her taper fingers. Beyond the patio was an open passage or gallery, -filled also with flowers in pots; and then, beyond this, one entered the -drawing-room of the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> It was by no means a princely palace or -mansion, fit for the owner of untold wealth. The rooms were not over -large nor very numerous; but the most had been made of a small space, -and everything had been done to relieve the heat of an almost tropical -sun.</p> - -<p>“It is pretty, is it not?” she said, as she took me through it.</p> - -<p>“Very pretty,” I said. “I wish we could live in such houses.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, they would not do at all for dear old fat, cold, cozy England. You -are quite different, you know, in everything from us in the south; more -phlegmatic, but then so much steadier. The men and the houses are all -the same.”</p> - -<p>I can hardly tell why, but even this wounded me. It seemed to me as -though she were inclined to put into one and the same category things -English, dull, useful, and solid; and that she was disposed to show a -sufficient appreciation for such necessaries of life, though she herself -had another and inner sense—a sense keenly alive to the poetry of her -own southern clime; and that I, as being English, was to have no -participation in this latter charm. An English husband might do very -well, the interests of the firm might make such an arrangement -desirable, such a mariage de convenance—so I argued to myself—might be -quite compatible with—with heaven only knows what delights of -super-terrestial romance, from which I, as being an English thick-headed -lump of useful coarse mortality, was to be altogether debarred. She had -spoken to me of oranges, and having finished the survey of the house, -she offered me some sweet little cakes. It could not be that of such -things were the thoughts which lay undivulged beneath the clear waters -of those deep black eyes—undivulged to me, though no one else could -have so good a right to read those thoughts! It could not be that that -noble brow gave index of a mind intent on the trade of which she spoke -so often! Words of other sort than any that had been vouchsafed to me -must fall at times from the rich curves of that perfect mouth.</p> - -<p>So felt I then, pining for something to make me unhappy. Ah, me! I know -all about it now, and am content. But I wish that some learned pundit -would give us a good definition of romance, would describe in words that -feeling with which our hearts are so pestered when we are young, which -makes us sigh for we know not what, and forbids us to be contented with -what God sends us. We invest female beauty with impossible attributes, -and are angry because our women have not the spiritualised<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span> souls of -angels, anxious as we are that they should also be human in the flesh. A -man looks at her he would love as at a distant landscape in a -mountainous land. The peaks are glorious with more than the beauty of -earth and rock and vegetation. He dreams of some mysterious grandeur of -design which tempts him on under the hot sun, and over the sharp rock, -till he has reached the mountain goal which he had set before him. But -when there, he finds that the beauty is well-nigh gone, and as for that -delicious mystery on which his soul had fed, it has vanished for ever.</p> - -<p>I know all about it now, and am, as I said, content. Beneath those deep -black eyes there lay a well of love, good, honest, homely love, love of -father and husband and children that were to come—of that love which -loves to see the loved ones prospering in honesty. That noble brow—for -it is noble; I am unchanged in that opinion, and will go unchanged to my -grave—covers thoughts as to the welfare of many, and an intellect -fitted to the management of a household, of servants, namely, and -children, and perchance a husband. That mouth can speak words of wisdom, -of very useful wisdom—though of poetry it has latterly uttered little -that was original. Poetry and romance! They are splendid mountain views -seen in the distance. So let men be content to see them, and not attempt -to tread upon the fallacious heather of the mystic hills.</p> - -<p>In the first week of my sojourn in Seville I spoke no word of overt love -to Maria, thinking, as I confess, to induce her thereby to alter her -mode of conduct to myself. “She knows that I have come here to make love -to her—to repeat my offer; and she will at any rate be chagrined if I -am slow to do so.” But it had no effect. At home my mother was rather -particular about her table, and Maria’s greatest efforts seemed to be -used in giving me as nice dinners as we gave her. In those days I did -not care a straw about my dinner, and so I took an opportunity of -telling her. “Dear me,” said she, looking at me almost with grief, “do -you not? What a pity! And do you not like music either?” “Oh, yes, I -adore it,” I replied. I felt sure at the time that had I been born in -her own sunny clime, she would never have talked to me about eating. But -that was my mistake.</p> - -<p>I used to walk out with her about the city, seeing all that is there of -beauty and magnificence. And in what city is there more that is worth -the seeing? At first this was very delightful to me, for I felt that I -was blessed with a privilege that would not be granted to any other man. -But its value soon fell in my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span> eyes, for others would accost her, and -walk on the other side, talking to her in Spanish, as though I hardly -existed, or were a servant there for her protection. And I was not -allowed to take her arm, and thus to appropriate her, as I should have -done in England. “No, John,” she said, with the sweetest, prettiest -smile, “we don’t do that here; only when people are married.” And she -made this allusion to married life out, openly, with no slightest tremor -on her tongue.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I beg pardon,” said I, drawing back my hand, and feeling angry with -myself for not being fully acquainted with all the customs of a foreign -country.</p> - -<p>“You need not beg pardon,” said she; “when we were in England we always -walked so. It is just a custom, you know.” And then I saw her drop her -large dark eyes to the ground, and bow gracefully in answer to some -salute.</p> - -<p>I looked round, and saw that we had been joined by a young cavalier,—a -Spanish nobleman, as I saw at once; a man with jet black hair, and a -straight nose, and a black moustache, and patent leather boots, very -slim and very tall, and—though I would not confess it then—uncommonly -handsome. I myself am inclined to be stout, my hair is light, my nose -broad, I have no hair on my upper lip, and my whiskers are rough and -uneven. “I could punch your head though, my fine fellow,” said I to -myself, when I saw that he placed himself at Maria’s side, “and think -very little of the achievement.”</p> - -<p>The wretch went on with us round the plaza for some quarter of an hour -talking Spanish with the greatest fluency, and she was every whit as -fluent. Of course I could not understand a word that they said. Of all -positions that a man can occupy, I think that that is about the most -uncomfortable; and I cannot say that, even up to this day, I have quite -forgiven her for that quarter of an hour.</p> - -<p>“I shall go in,” said I, unable to bear my feelings, and preparing to -leave her. “The heat is unendurable.”</p> - -<p>“Oh dear, John, why did you not speak before?” she answered. “You cannot -leave me here, you know, as I am in your charge; but I will go with you -almost directly.” And then she finished her conversation with the -Spaniard, speaking with an animation she had never displayed in her -conversations with me.</p> - -<p>It had been agreed between us for two or three days before this, that we -were to rise early on the following morning for the sake of ascending -the tower of the cathedral, and visiting the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span> Giralda, as the iron -figure is called, which turns upon a pivot on the extreme summit. We had -often wandered together up and down the long dark gloomy aisle of the -stupendous building, and had, together, seen its treasury of art; but as -yet we had not performed the task which has to be achieved by all -visitors to Seville; and in order that we might have a clear view over -the surrounding country, and not be tormented by the heat of an advanced -sun, we had settled that we would ascend the Giralda before breakfast.</p> - -<p>And now, as I walked away from the plaza towards Mr. Daguilar’s house, -with Maria by my side, I made up my mind that I would settle my business -during this visit to the cathedral. Yes, and I would so manage the -settlement that there should be no doubt left as to my intentions and my -own ideas. I would not be guilty of shilly-shally conduct; I would tell -her frankly what I felt and what I thought, and would make her -understand that I did not desire her hand if I could not have her heart. -I did not value the kindness of her manner, seeing that that kindness -sprung from indifference rather than passion; and so I would declare to -her. And I would ask her, also, who was this young man with whom she was -intimate—for whom all her volubility and energy of tone seemed to be -employed? She had told me once that it behoved her to consult a friend -in Seville as to the expediency of her marriage with me. Was this the -friend whom she had wished to consult? If so, she need not trouble -herself. Under such circumstances I should decline the connection! And I -resolved that I would find out how this might be. A man who proposes to -take a woman to his bosom as his wife, has a right to ask for -information—ay, and to receive it too. It flashed upon my mind at this -moment that Donna Maria was well enough inclined to come to me as my -wife, but——. I could hardly define the “buts” to myself, for there -were three or four of them. Why did she always speak to me in a tone of -childish affection, as though I were a schoolboy home for the holidays? -I would have all this out with her on the tower on the following -morning, standing under the Giralda.</p> - -<p>On that morning we met together in the patio, soon after five o’clock, -and started for the cathedral. She looked beautiful, with her black -mantilla over her head, and with black gloves on, and her black morning -silk dress—beautiful, composed, and at her ease, as though she were -well satisfied to undertake this early morning walk from feelings of -good nature—sustained, probably, by some under-current of a deeper -sentiment. Well;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> I would know all about it before I returned to her -father’s house.</p> - -<p>There hardly stands, as I think, on the earth, a building more -remarkable than the cathedral of Seville, and hardly one more grand. Its -enormous size; its gloom and darkness; the richness of ornamentation in -the details, contrasted with the severe simplicity of the larger -outlines; the variety of its architecture; the glory of its paintings; -and the wondrous splendour of its metallic decoration, its -altar-friezes, screens, rails, gates, and the like, render it, to my -mind, the first in interest among churches. It has not the coloured -glass of Chartres, or the marble glory of Milan, or such a forest of -aisles as Antwerp, or so perfect a hue in stone as Westminster, nor in -mixed beauty of form and colour does it possess anything equal to the -choir of Cologne; but, for combined magnificence and awe-compelling -grandeur, I regard it as superior to all other ecclesiastical edifices.</p> - -<p>It is its deep gloom with which the stranger is so greatly struck on his -first entrance. In a region so hot as the south of Spain, a cool -interior is a main object with the architect, and this it has been -necessary to effect by the exclusion of light; consequently the church -is dark, mysterious, and almost cold. On the morning in question, as we -entered, it seemed to be filled with gloom, and the distant sound of a -slow footstep here and there beyond the transept inspired one almost -with awe. Maria, when she first met me, had begun to talk with her usual -smile, offering me coffee and a biscuit before I started. “I never eat -biscuit,” I said, with almost a severe tone, as I turned from her. That -dark, horrid man of the plaza—would she have offered him a cake had she -been going to walk with him in the gloom of the morning? After that -little had been spoken between us. She walked by my side with her -accustomed smile; but she had, as I flattered myself, begun to learn -that I was not to be won by a meaningless good nature. “We are lucky in -our morning for the view!” that was all she said, speaking with that -peculiarly clear, but slow pronunciation which she had assumed in -learning our language.</p> - -<p>We entered the cathedral, and, walking the whole length of the aisle, -left it again at the porter’s porch at the farther end. Here we passed -through a low door on to the stone flight of steps, and at once began to -ascend. “There are a party of your countrymen up before us,” said Maria; -“the porter says that they went through the lodge half an hour since.” -“I hope they will return before we are on the top,” said I, bethinking -myself of the task that was before me. And indeed my heart<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span> was hardly -at ease within me, for that which I had to say would require all the -spirit of which I was master.</p> - -<p>The ascent to the Giralda is very long and very fatiguing; and we had to -pause on the various landings and in the singular belfry in order that -Miss Daguilar might recruit her strength and breath. As we rested on one -of these occasions, in a gallery which runs round the tower below the -belfry, we heard a great noise of shouting, and a clattering of sticks -among the bells. “It is the party of your countrymen who went up before -us,” said she. “What a pity that Englishmen should always make so much -noise!” And then she spoke in Spanish to the custodian of the bells, who -is usually to be found in a little cabin up there within the tower. “He -says that they went up shouting like demons,” continued Maria; and it -seemed to me that she looked as though I ought to be ashamed of the name -of an Englishman. “They may not be so solemn in their demeanour as -Spaniards,” I answered; “but, for all that, there may be quite as much -in them.”</p> - -<p>We then again began to mount, and before we had ascended much farther we -passed my three countrymen. They were young men, with gray coats and -gray trousers, with slouched hats, and without gloves. They had fair -faces and fair hair, and swung big sticks in their hands, with crooked -handles. They laughed and talked loud, and, when we met them, seemed to -be racing with each other; but nevertheless they were gentlemen. No one -who knows by sight what an English gentleman is, could have doubted -that; but I did acknowledge to myself that they should have remembered -that the edifice they were treading was a church, and that the silence -they were invading was the cherished property of a courteous people.</p> - -<p>“They are all just the same as big boys,” said Maria. The colour -instantly flew into my face, and I felt that it was my duty to speak up -for my own countrymen. The word “boys” especially wounded my ears. It -was as a boy that she treated me; but, on looking at that befringed -young Spanish Don—who was not, apparently, my elder in age—she had -recognised a man. However, I said nothing further till I reached the -summit. One cannot speak with manly dignity while one is out of breath -on a staircase.</p> - -<p>“There, John,” she said, stretching her hands away over the fair plain -of the Guadalquivir, as soon as we stood against the parapet; “is not -that lovely?”</p> - -<p>I would not deign to notice this. “Maria,” I said, “I think, that you -are too hard upon my countrymen?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span></p> - -<p>“Too hard! no; for I love them. They are so good and industrious; and -they come home to their wives, and take care of their children. But why -do they make themselves so—so—what the French call gauche?”</p> - -<p>“Good and industrious, and come home to their wives!” thought I. “I -believe you hardly understand us as yet,” I answered. “Our domestic -virtues are not always so very prominent; but, I believe, we know how to -conduct ourselves as gentlemen: at any rate, as well as Spaniards.” I -was very angry—not at the faults, but at the good qualities imputed to -us.</p> - -<p>“In affairs of business, yes,” said Maria, with a look of firm -confidence in her own opinion—that look of confidence which she has -never lost, and I pray that she may never lose it while I remain with -her—“but in the little intercourses of the world, no! A Spaniard never -forgets what is personally due either to himself or his neighbours. If -he is eating an onion, he eats it as an onion should be eaten.”</p> - -<p>“In such matters as that he is very grand, no doubt,” said I, angrily.</p> - -<p>“And why should you not eat an onion properly, John? Now, I heard a -story yesterday from Don —— about two Englishmen, which annoyed me very -much.” I did not exactly catch the name of the Don in question, but I -felt through every nerve in my body that it was the man who had been -talking to her on the plaza.</p> - -<p>“And what have they done?” said I. “But it is the same everywhere. We -are always abused; but, nevertheless, no people are so welcome. At any -rate, we pay for the mischief we do.” I was angry with myself the moment -the words were out of my mouth, for, after all, there is no feeling more -mean than that pocket-confidence with which an Englishman sometimes -swaggers.</p> - -<p>“There was no mischief done in this case,” she answered. “It was simply -that two men have made themselves ridiculous for ever. The story is all -about Seville, and, of course, it annoys me that they should be -Englishmen.”</p> - -<p>“And what did they do?”</p> - -<p>“The Marquis D’Almavivas was coming up to Seville in the boat, and they -behaved to him in the most outrageous manner. He is here now, and is -going to give a series of fêtes. Of course he will not ask a single -Englishman.”</p> - -<p>“We shall manage to live, even though the Marquis D’Almavivas may frown -upon us,” said I, proudly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span></p> - -<p>“He is the richest, and also the best of our noblemen,” continued Maria; -“and I never heard of anything so absurd as what they did to him. It -made me blush when Don —— told me.” Don Tomàs, I thought she said.</p> - -<p>“If he be the best of your noblemen, how comes it that he is angry -because he has met two vulgar men? It is not to be supposed that every -Englishman is a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“Angry! Oh, no! he was not angry; he enjoyed the joke too much for that. -He got completely the best of them, though they did not know it; poor -fools! How would your Lord John Russell behave if two Spaniards in an -English railway carriage were to pull him about and tear his clothes?”</p> - -<p>“He would give them in charge to a policeman, of course,” said I, -speaking of such a matter with the contempt it deserved.</p> - -<p>“If that were done here your ambassador would be demanding national -explanations. But Almavivas did much better;—he laughed at them without -letting them know it.”</p> - -<p>“But do you mean that they took hold of him violently, without any -provocation? They must have been drunk.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, they were sober enough. I did not see it, so I do not quite -know exactly how it was, but I understand that they committed themselves -most absurdly, absolutely took hold of his coat and tore it, and—; but -they did such ridiculous things that I cannot tell you.” And yet Don -Tomàs, if that was the man’s name, had been able to tell her, and she -had been able to listen to him.</p> - -<p>“What made them take hold of the marquis?” said I.</p> - -<p>“Curiosity, I suppose,” she answered. “He dresses somewhat fancifully, -and they could not understand that any one should wear garments -different from their own.” But even then the blow did not strike home -upon me.</p> - -<p>“Is it not pretty to look down upon the quiet town?” she said, coming -close up to me, so that the skirt of her dress pressed me, and her elbow -touched my arm. Now was the moment I should have asked her how her heart -stood towards me; but I was sore and uncomfortable, and my destiny was -before me. She was willing enough to let these English faults pass by -without further notice, but I would not allow the subject to drop.</p> - -<p>“I will find out who these men were,” said I, “and learn the truth of -it. When did it occur?”</p> - -<p>“Last Thursday, I think he said.”</p> - -<p>“Why, that was the day we came up in the boat, Johnson<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> and myself. -There was no marquis there then, and we were the only Englishmen on -board.”</p> - -<p>“It was on Thursday, certainly, because it was well known in Seville -that he arrived on that day. You must have remarked him because he talks -English perfectly—though, by-the-bye, these men would go on chattering -before him about himself as though it were impossible that a Spaniard -should know their language. They are ignorant of Spanish, and they -cannot bring themselves to believe that any one should be better -educated than themselves.”</p> - -<p>Now the blow had fallen, and I straightway appreciated the necessity of -returning immediately to Clapham, where my family resided, and giving up -for ever all idea of Spanish connections. I had resolved to assert the -full strength of my manhood on that tower, and now words had been spoken -which left me weak as a child. I felt that I was shivering, and did not -dare to pronounce the truth which must be made known. As to speaking of -love, and signifying my pleasure that Don Tomàs should for the future be -kept at a distance, any such effort was quite beyond me. Had Don Tomàs -been there, he might have walked off with her from before my face -without a struggle on my part. “Now I remember about it,” she continued, -“I think he must have been in the boat on Thursday.”</p> - -<p>“And now that I remember,” I replied, turning away to hide my -embarrassment, “he was there. Your friend down below in the plaza seems -to have made out a grand story. No doubt he is not fond of the English, -There was such a man there, and I did take hold——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, John, was it you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Donna Maria, it was I; and if Lord John Russell were to dress -himself in the same way——” But I had no time to complete my -description of what might occur under so extravagantly impossible a -combination of circumstances, for as I was yet speaking, the little door -leading out on to the leads of the tower was opened, and my friend, the -mayo of the boat, still bearing all his gewgaws on his back, stepped up -on to the platform. My eye instantly perceived that the one pendule was -still missing from his jacket. He did not come alone, but three other -gentlemen followed him, who, however, had no peculiarities in their -dress. He saw me at once, and bowed and smiled; and then observing Donna -Maria, he lifted his cap from his head, and addressing himself to her in -Spanish, began to converse with her as though she were an old friend.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span></p> - -<p>“Señor,” said Maria, after the first words of greeting had been spoken -between them; “you must permit me to present to you my father’s most -particular friend, and my own,—Mr. Pomfret; John, this is the Marquis -D’Almavivas.”</p> - -<p>I cannot now describe the grace with which this introduction was -effected, or the beauty of her face as she uttered the word. There was a -boldness about her as though she had said, “I know it all—the whole -story. But, in spite of that you must take him on my representation, and -be gracious to him in spite of what he has done. You must be content to -do that; or in quarrelling with him you must quarrel with me also.” And -it was done at the spur of the moment—without delay. She, who not five -minutes since had been loudly condemning the unknown Englishman for his -rudeness, had already pardoned him, now that he was known to be her -friend; and had determined that he should be pardoned by others also or -that she would share his disgrace. I recognised the nobleness of this at -the moment; but, nevertheless, I was so sore that I would almost have -preferred that she should have disowned me.</p> - -<p>The marquis immediately lifted his cap with his left hand while he gave -me his right. “I have already had the pleasure of meeting this -gentleman,” he said; “we had some conversation in the boat together.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, pointing to his rent, “and you still bear the marks of -our encounter.”</p> - -<p>“Was it not delightful, Donna Maria,” he continued, turning to her; -“your friend’s friend took me for a torero?”</p> - -<p>“And it served you properly, señor,” said Donna Maria, laughing; “you -have no right to go about with all those rich ornaments upon you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! quite properly; indeed, I make no complaint; and I must beg your -friend to understand, and his friend also, how grateful I am for their -solicitude as to my pecuniary welfare. They were inclined to be severe -on me for being so extravagant in such trifles. I was obliged to explain -that I had no wife at home kept without her proper allowance of dresses, -in order that I might be gay.”</p> - -<p>“They are foreigners, and you should forgive their error,” said she.</p> - -<p>“And in token that I do so,” said the marquis, “I shall beg your friend -to accept the little ornament which attracted his attention.” And so -saying, he pulled the identical button out of his pocket, and gracefully -proffered it to me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span></p> - -<p>“I shall carry it about with me always,” said I, accepting it, “as a -memento of humiliation. When I look at it, I shall ever remember the -folly of an Englishman and the courtesy of a Spaniard;” and as I made -the speech I could not but reflect whether it might, under any -circumstances, be possible that Lord John Russell should be induced to -give a button off his coat to a Spaniard.</p> - -<p>There were other civil speeches made, and before we left the tower the -marquis had asked me to his parties, and exacted from me an unwilling -promise that I would attend them. “The señora,” he said, bowing again to -Maria, “would, he was sure, grace them. She had done so on the previous -year; and as I had accepted his little present I was bound to -acknowledge him as my friend.” All this was very pretty, and of course I -said that I would go, but I had not at that time the slightest intention -of doing so. Maria had behaved admirably; she had covered my confusion, -and shown herself not ashamed to own me, delinquent as I was; but, not -the less, had she expressed her opinion, in language terribly strong, of -the awkwardness of which I had been guilty, and had shown almost an -aversion to my English character. I should leave Seville as quickly as I -could, and should certainly not again put myself in the way of the -Marquis D’Almavivas. Indeed, I dreaded the moment that I should be first -alone with her, and should find myself forced to say something -indicative of my feelings—to hear something also indicative of her -feelings. I had come out this morning resolved to demand my rights and -to exercise them—and now my only wish was to run away. I hated the -marquis, and longed to be alone that I might cast his button from me. To -think that a man should be so ruined by such a trifle!</p> - -<p>We descended that prodigious flight without a word upon the subject, and -almost without a word at all. She had carried herself well in the -presence of Almavivas, and had been too proud to seem ashamed of her -companion; but now, as I could well see, her feelings of disgust and -contempt had returned. When I begged her not to hurry herself, she would -hardly answer me; and when she did speak, her voice was constrained and -unlike herself. And yet how beautiful she was! Well, my dream of Spanish -love must be over. But I was sure of this; that having known her, and -given her my heart, I could never afterwards share it with another.</p> - -<p>We came out at last on the dark, gloomy aisle of the cathedral, and -walked together without a word up along the side of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> choir, till we -came to the transept. There was not a soul near us, and not a sound was -to be heard but the distant, low pattering of a mass, then in course of -celebration at some far-off chapel in the cathedral. When we got to the -transept Maria turned a little, as though she was going to the transept -door, and then stopped herself. She stood still; and when I stood also, -she made two steps towards me, and put her hand on my arm. “Oh, John!” -she said.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said I; “after all it does not signify. You can make a joke of -it when my back is turned.”</p> - -<p>“Dearest John!”—she had never spoken to me in that way before—“you -must not be angry with me. It is better that we should explain to each -other, is it not?</p> - -<p>“Oh, much better. I am very glad you heard of it at once. I do not look -at it quite in the same light that you do; but nevertheless——”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean? But I know you are angry with me. And yet you cannot -think that I intended those words for you. Of course I know now that -there was nothing rude in what passed.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but there was.”</p> - -<p>“No, I am sure there was not. You could not be rude though you are so -free hearted. I see it all now, and so does the marquis. You will like -him so much when you come to know him. Tell me that you won’t be cross -with me for what I have said. Sometimes I think that I have displeased -you, and yet my whole wish has been to welcome you to Seville, and to -make you comfortable as an old friend. Promise me that you will not be -cross with me.”</p> - -<p>Cross with her! I certainly had no intention of being cross, but I had -begun to think that she would not care what my humour might be. “Maria,” -I said, taking hold of her hand.</p> - -<p>“No, John, do not do that. It is in the church, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Maria, will you answer me a question?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, very slowly, looking down upon the stone slabs beneath -our feet.</p> - -<p>“Do you love me?”</p> - -<p>“Love you!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, do you love me? You were to give me an answer here, in Seville, -and now I ask for it. I have almost taught myself to think that it is -needless to ask; and now this horrid mischance——”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” said she, speaking very quickly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> “Why this -miserable blunder about the marquis’s button! After that I suppose——”</p> - -<p>“The marquis! Oh, John, is that to make a difference between you and -me?—a little joke like that?”</p> - -<p>“But does it not?”</p> - -<p>“Make a change between us!—such a thing as that! Oh, John!”</p> - -<p>“But tell me, Maria, what am I to hope? If you will say that you can -love me, I shall care nothing for the marquis. In that case I can bear -to be laughed at.”</p> - -<p>“Who will dare to laugh at you? Not the marquis, whom I am sure you will -like.”</p> - -<p>“Your friend in the plaza, who told you of all this.”</p> - -<p>“What, poor Tomàs!”</p> - -<p>“I do not know about his being poor. I mean the gentleman who was with -you last night.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Tomàs. You do not know who he is?”</p> - -<p>“Not in the least.”</p> - -<p>“How droll! He is your own clerk—partly your own, now that you are one -of the firm. And, John, I mean to make you do something for him; he is -such a good fellow; and last year he married a young girl whom I -love—oh, almost like a sister.”</p> - -<p>Do something for him! Of course I would. I promised, then and there, -that I would raise his salary to any conceivable amount that a Spanish -clerk could desire; which promise I have since kept, if not absolutely -to the letter, at any rate, to an extent which has been considered -satisfactory by the gentleman’s wife.</p> - -<p>“But, Maria—dearest Maria——”</p> - -<p>“Remember, John, we are in the church; and poor papa will be waiting -breakfast.”</p> - -<p>I need hardly continue the story further. It will be known to all that -my love-suit throve in spite of my unfortunate raid on the button of the -Marquis D’Almavivas, at whose series of fêtes through that month I was, -I may boast, an honoured guest. I have since that had the pleasure of -entertaining him in my own poor house in England, and one of our boys -bears his Christian name.</p> - -<p>From that day in which I ascended the Giralda to this present day in -which I write, I have never once had occasion to complain of a -deficiency of romance either in Maria Daguilar or in Maria Pomfret.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="MISS_SARAH_JACK_OF_SPANISH_TOWN_JAMAICA" id="MISS_SARAH_JACK_OF_SPANISH_TOWN_JAMAICA"></a>MISS SARAH JACK, OF SPANISH TOWN, JAMAICA.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> is nothing so melancholy as a country in its decadence, unless it -be a people in their decadence. I am not aware that the latter -misfortune can be attributed to the Anglo-Saxon race in any part of the -world; but there is reason to fear that it has fallen on an English -colony in the island of Jamaica.</p> - -<p>Jamaica was one of those spots on which fortune shone with the full -warmth of all her noonday splendour. That sun has set;—whether for ever -or no none but a prophet can tell; but as far as a plain man may see, -there are at present but few signs of a coming morrow, or of another -summer.</p> - -<p>It is not just or proper that one should grieve over the misfortunes of -Jamaica with a stronger grief because her savannahs are so lovely, her -forests so rich, her mountains so green, and her rivers so rapid; but it -is so. It is piteous that a land so beautiful should be one which fate -has marked for misfortune. Had Guiana, with its flat, level, unlovely -soil, become poverty-stricken, one would hardly sorrow over it as one -does sorrow for Jamaica.</p> - -<p>As regards scenery she is the gem of the western tropics. It is -impossible to conceive spots on the earth’s surface more gracious to the -eye than those steep green valleys which stretch down to the south-west -from the Blue Mountain peak towards the sea; and but little behind these -in beauty are the rich wooded hills which in the western part of the -island divide the counties of Hanover and Westmoreland. The hero of the -tale which I am going to tell was a sugar-grower in the latter district, -and the heroine was a girl who lived under that Blue Mountain peak.</p> - -<p>The very name of a sugar-grower as connected with Jamaica savours of -fruitless struggle, failure, and desolation. And from his earliest -growth fruitless struggle, failure, and desolation had been the lot of -Maurice Cumming. At eighteen years of age he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span> had been left by his -father sole possessor of the Mount Pleasant estate, than which in her -palmy days Jamaica had little to boast of that was more pleasant or more -palmy. But those days had passed by before Roger Cumming, the father of -our friend, had died.</p> - -<p>These misfortunes coming on the head of one another, at intervals of a -few years, had first stunned and then killed him. His slaves rose -against him, as they did against other proprietors around him, and -burned down his house and mills, his homestead and offices. Those who -know the amount of capital which a sugar-grower must invest in such -buildings will understand the extent of this misfortune. Then the slaves -were emancipated. It is not perhaps possible that we, now-a-days, should -regard this as a calamity; but it was quite impossible that a Jamaica -proprietor of those days should not have done so. Men will do much for -philanthropy, they will work hard, they will give the coat from their -back;—nay the very shirt from their body; but few men will endure to -look on with satisfaction while their commerce is destroyed.</p> - -<p>But even this Mr. Cumming did bear after a while, and kept his shoulder -to the wheel. He kept his shoulder to the wheel till that third -misfortune came upon him—till the protection duty on Jamaica sugar was -abolished. Then he turned his face to the wall and died.</p> - -<p>His son at this time was not of age, and the large but lessening -property which Mr. Cumming left behind him was for three years in the -hands of trustees. But nevertheless Maurice, young as he was, managed -the estate. It was he who grew the canes, and made the sugar;—or else -failed to make it. He was the “massa” to whom the free negroes looked as -the source from whence their wants should be supplied, notwithstanding -that, being free, they were ill inclined to work for him, let his want -of work be ever so sore.</p> - -<p>Mount Pleasant had been a very large property. In addition to his -sugar-canes Mr. Cumming had grown coffee; for his land ran up into the -hills of Trelawney to that altitude which in the tropics seems necessary -for the perfect growth of the coffee berry. But it soon became evident -that labour for the double produce could not be had, and the coffee -plantation was abandoned. Wild brush and the thick undergrowth of forest -reappeared on the hill-sides which had been rich with produce. And the -evil re-created and exaggerated itself. Negroes squatted on the -abandoned property; and being able to live with abundance from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> their -stolen gardens, were less willing than ever to work in the cane pieces.</p> - -<p>And thus things went from bad to worse. In the good old times Mr. -Cumming’s sugar produce had spread itself annually over some three -hundred acres; but by degrees this dwindled down to half that extent of -land. And then in those old golden days they had always taken a full -hogshead from the acre;—very often more. The estate had sometimes given -four hundred hogsheads in the year. But in the days of which we now -speak the crop had fallen below fifty.</p> - -<p>At this time Maurice Cumming was eight-and-twenty, and it is hardly too -much to say that misfortune had nearly crushed him. But nevertheless it -had not crushed him. He, and some few like him, had still hoped against -hope; had still persisted in looking forward to a future for the island -which once was so generous with its gifts. When his father died he might -still have had enough for the wants of life had he sold his property for -what it would fetch. There was money in England, and the remains of -large wealth. But he would not sacrifice Mount Pleasant or abandon -Jamaica; and now after ten years’ struggling he still kept Mount -Pleasant, and the mill was still going; but all other property had -parted from his hands.</p> - -<p>By nature Maurice Cumming would have been gay and lively, a man with a -happy spirit and easy temper; but struggling had made him silent if not -morose, and had saddened if not soured his temper. He had lived alone at -Mount Pleasant, or generally alone. Work or want of money, and the -constant difficulty of getting labour for his estate, had left him but -little time for a young man’s ordinary amusements. Of the charms of -ladies’ society he had known but little. Very many of the estates around -him had been absolutely abandoned, as was the case with his own coffee -plantation, and from others men had sent away their wives and daughters. -Nay, most of the proprietors had gone themselves, leaving an overseer to -extract what little might yet be extracted out of the property. It too -often happened that that little was not sufficient to meet the demands -of the overseer himself.</p> - -<p>The house at Mount Pleasant had been an irregular, low-roofed, -picturesque residence, built with only one floor, and surrounded on all -sides by large verandahs. In the old days it had always been kept in -perfect order, but now this was far from being the case. Few young -bachelors can keep a house in order, but no bachelor young or old can do -so under such a doom as that of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> Maurice Cumming. Every shilling that -Maurice Cumming could collect was spent in bribing negroes to work for -him. But bribe as he would the negroes would not work. “No, massa; me -pain here; me no workee to-day,” and Sambo would lay his fat hand on his -fat stomach.</p> - -<p>I have said that he lived generally alone. Occasionally his house on -Mount Pleasant was enlivened by visits of an aunt, a maiden sister of -his mother, whose usual residence was at Spanish Town. It is or should -be known to all men that Spanish Town was and is the seat of Jamaica -legislature.</p> - -<p>But Maurice was not over fond of his relative. In this he was both wrong -and foolish, for Miss Sarah Jack—such was her name—was in many -respects a good woman, and was certainly a rich woman. It is true that -she was not a handsome woman, nor a fashionable woman, nor perhaps -altogether an agreeable woman. She was tall, thin, ungainly, and yellow. -Her voice, which she used freely, was harsh. She was a politician and a -patriot. She regarded England as the greatest of countries, and Jamaica -as the greatest of colonies. But much as she loved England she was very -loud in denouncing what she called the perfidy of the mother to the -brightest of her children. And much as she loved Jamaica she was equally -severe in her taunts against those of her brother-islanders who would -not believe that the island might yet flourish as it had flourished in -her father’s days.</p> - -<p>“It is because you and men like you will not do your duty by your -country,” she had said some score of times to Maurice—not with much -justice considering the laboriousness of his life.</p> - -<p>But Maurice knew well what she meant. “What could I do there up at -Spanish Town,” he would answer, “among such a pack as there are there? -Here I may do something.”</p> - -<p>And then she would reply with the full swing of her eloquence, “It is -because you and such as you think only of yourself and not of Jamaica, -that Jamaica has come to such a pass as this. Why is there a pack there -as you call them in the honourable House of Assembly? Why are not the -best men in the island to be found there, as the best men in England are -to be found in the British House of Commons? A pack, indeed! My father -was proud of a seat in that house, and I remember the day, Maurice -Cumming, when your father also thought it no shame to represent his own -parish. If men like you, who have a stake in the country, will not go -there, of course the house is filled with men who have no stake. If they -are a pack, it is you who send them there;—you, and others like you.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span></p> - -<p>All had its effect, though at the moment Maurice would shrug his -shoulders and turn away his head from the torrent of the lady’s -discourse. But Miss Jack, though she was not greatly liked, was greatly -respected. Maurice would not own that she convinced him; but at last he -did allow his name to be put up as candidate for his own parish, and in -due time he became a member of the honourable House of Assembly in -Jamaica.</p> - -<p>This honour entails on the holder of it the necessity of living at or -within reach of Spanish Town for some ten weeks towards the close of -every year. Now on the whole face of the uninhabited globe there is -perhaps no spot more dull to look at, more Lethean in its aspect, more -corpse-like or more cadaverous than Spanish Town. It is the -head-quarters of the government, the seat of the legislature, the -residence of the governor;—but nevertheless it is, as it were, a city -of the very dead.</p> - -<p>Here, as we have said before, lived Miss Jack in a large forlorn -ghost-like house in which her father and all her family had lived before -her. And as a matter of course Maurice Cumming when he came up to attend -to his duties as a member of the legislature took up his abode with her.</p> - -<p>Now at the time of which we are specially speaking he had completed the -first of these annual visits. He had already benefited his country by -sitting out one session of the colonial parliament, and had satisfied -himself that he did no other good than that of keeping away some person -more objectionable than himself. He was however prepared to repeat this -self-sacrifice in a spirit of patriotism for which he received a very -meagre meed of eulogy from Miss Jack, and an amount of self-applause -which was not much more extensive.</p> - -<p>“Down at Mount Pleasant I can do something,” he would say over and over -again, “but what good can any man do up here?”</p> - -<p>“You can do your duty,” Miss Jack would answer, “as others did before -you when the colony was made to prosper.” And then they would run off -into a long discussion about free labour and protective duties. But at -the present moment Maurice Cumming had another vexation on his mind over -and above that arising from his wasted hours at Spanish Town, and his -fruitless labours at Mount Pleasant. He was in love, and was not -altogether satisfied with the conduct of his lady-love.</p> - -<p>Miss Jack had other nephews besides Maurice Cumming, and nieces also, of -whom Marian Leslie was one. The family of the Leslies lived up near -Newcastle—in the mountains, that is, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span> stand over Kingston—at a -distance of some eighteen miles from Kingston, but in a climate as -different from that of the town as the climate of Naples is from that of -Berlin. In Kingston the heat is all but intolerable throughout the year, -by day and by night, in the house and out of it. In the mountains round -Newcastle, some four thousand feet above the sea, it is merely warm -during the day, and cool enough at night to make a blanket desirable.</p> - -<p>It is pleasant enough living up amongst those green mountains. There are -no roads there for wheeled carriages, nor are there carriages with or -without wheels. All journeys are made on horseback. Every visit paid -from house to house is performed in this manner. Ladies young and old -live before dinner in their riding-habits. The hospitality is free, -easy, and unembarrassed. The scenery is magnificent. The tropical -foliage is wild and luxuriant beyond measure. There may be enjoyed all -that a southern climate has to offer of enjoyment, without the penalties -which such enjoyments usually entail.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Leslie was a half-sister of Miss Jack, and Miss Jack had been a -half-sister also of Mrs. Cumming; but Mrs. Leslie and Mrs. Cumming had -in no way been related. And it had so happened that up to the period of -his legislative efforts Maurice Cumming had seen nothing of the Leslies. -Soon after his arrival at Spanish Town he had been taken by Miss Jack to -Shandy Hall, for so the residence of the Leslies was called, and having -remained there for three days, had fallen in love with Marian Leslie. -Now in the West Indies all young ladies flirt; it is the first habit of -their nature—and few young ladies in the West Indies were more given to -flirting, or understood the science better than Marian Leslie.</p> - -<p>Maurice Cumming fell violently in love, and during his first visit at -Shandy Hall found that Marian was perfection—for during this first -visit her propensities were exerted altogether in his own favour. That -little circumstance does make such a difference in a young man’s -judgment of a girl! He came back full of admiration, not altogether to -Miss Jack’s dissatisfaction; for Miss Jack was willing enough that both -her nephew and her niece should settle down into married life.</p> - -<p>But then Maurice met his fair one at a governor’s ball—at a ball where -red coats abounded, and aides-de-camp dancing in spurs, and -narrow-waisted lieutenants with sashes or epaulettes! The aides-de-camp -and narrow-waisted lieutenants waltzed better than he did; and as one -after the other whisked round the ball-room<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> with Marian firmly clasped -in his arms, Maurice’s feelings were not of the sweetest. Nor was this -the worst of it. Had the whisking been divided equally among ten, he -might have forgiven it; but there was one specially narrow-waisted -lieutenant, who towards the end of the evening kept Marian nearly wholly -to himself. Now to a man in love, who has had but little experience of -either balls or young ladies, this is intolerable.</p> - -<p>He only met her twice after that before his return to Mount Pleasant, -and on the first occasion that odious soldier was not there. But a -specially devout young clergyman was present, an unmarried, evangelical, -handsome young curate fresh from England; and Marian’s piety had been so -excited that she had cared for no one else. It appeared moreover that -the curate’s gifts for conversion were confined, as regarded that -opportunity, to Marian’s advantage. “I will have nothing more to say to -her,” said Maurice to himself, scowling. But just as he went away Marian -had given him her hand, and called him Maurice—for she pretended that -they were cousins—and had looked into his eyes and declared that she -did hope that the assembly at Spanish Town would soon be sitting again. -Hitherto, she said, she had not cared one straw about it. Then poor -Maurice pressed the little fingers which lay within his own, and swore -that he would be at Shandy Hall on the day before his return to Mount -Pleasant. So he was; and there he found the narrow-waisted lieutenant, -not now bedecked with sash and epaulettes, but lolling at his ease on -Mrs. Leslie’s sofa in a white jacket, while Marian sat at his feet -telling his fortune with a book about flowers.</p> - -<p>“Oh, a musk rose, Mr. Ewing; you know what a musk rose means!” Then, she -got up and shook hands with Mr. Cumming; but her eyes still went away to -the white jacket and the sofa. Poor Maurice had often been nearly -broken-hearted in his efforts to manage his free black labourers; but -even that was easier than managing such as Marian Leslie.</p> - -<p>Marian Leslie was a Creole—as also were Miss Jack and Maurice -Cumming—a child of the tropics; but by no means such a child as -tropical children are generally thought to be by us in more northern -latitudes. She was black-haired and black-eyed, but her lips were as red -and her cheeks as rosy as though she had been born and bred in regions -where the snow lies in winter. She was a small, pretty, beautifully made -little creature, somewhat idle as regards the work of the world, but -active and strong enough when dancing or riding were required from her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span> -Her father was a banker, and was fairly prosperous in spite of the -poverty of his country. His house of business was at Kingston, and he -usually slept there twice a week; but he always resided at Shandy Hall, -and Mrs. Leslie and her children knew but very little of the miseries of -Kingston. For be it known to all men, that of all towns Kingston, -Jamaica, is the most miserable.</p> - -<p>I fear that I shall have set my readers very much against Marian -Leslie;—much more so than I would wish to do. As a rule they will not -know how thoroughly flirting is an institution in the West -Indies—practised by all young ladies, and laid aside by them when they -marry, exactly as their young-lady names and young-lady habits of -various kinds are laid aside. All I would say of Marian Leslie is this, -that she understood the working of the institution more thoroughly than -others did. And I must add also in her favour that she did not keep her -flirting for sly corners, nor did her admirers keep their distance till -mamma was out of the way. It mattered not to her who was present. Had -she been called on to make one at a synod of the clergy of the island, -she would have flirted with the bishop before all his priests. And there -have been bishops in the colony who would not have gainsayed her!</p> - -<p>But Maurice Cumming did not rightly calculate all this; nor indeed did -Miss Jack do so as thoroughly as she should have done, for Miss Jack -knew more about such matters than did poor Maurice. “If you like Marian, -why don’t you marry her?” Miss Jack had once said to him; and this -coming from Miss Jack, who was made of money, was a great deal.</p> - -<p>“She wouldn’t have me,” Maurice had answered.</p> - -<p>“That’s more than you know or I either,” was Miss Jack’s reply. “But if -you like to try, I’ll help you.”</p> - -<p>With reference to this, Maurice as he left Miss Jack’s residence on his -return to Mount Pleasant, had declared that Marian Leslie was not worth -an honest man’s love.</p> - -<p>“Psha!” Miss Jack replied; “Marian will do like other girls. When you -marry a wife I suppose you mean to be master?”</p> - -<p>“At any rate I shan’t marry her,” said Maurice. And so he went his way -back to Hanover with a sore heart. And no wonder, for that was the very -day on which Lieutenant Ewing had asked the question about the musk -rose.</p> - -<p>But there was a dogged constancy of feeling about Maurice which could -not allow him to disburden himself of his love.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> When he was again at -Mount Pleasant among his sugar-canes and hogsheads he could not help -thinking about Marian. It is true he always thought of her as flying -round that ball-room in Ewing’s arms, or looking up with rapt admiration -into that young parson’s face; and so he got but little pleasure from -his thoughts. But not the less was he in love with her;—not the less, -though he would swear to himself three times in the day that for no -earthly consideration would he marry Marian Leslie.</p> - -<p>The early months of the year from January to May are the busiest with a -Jamaica sugar-grower, and in this year they were very busy months with -Maurice Cumming. It seemed as though there were actually some truth in -Miss Jack’s prediction that prosperity would return to him if he -attended to his country; for the prices of sugar had risen higher than -they had ever been since the duty had been withdrawn, and there was more -promise of a crop at Mount Pleasant than he had seen since his reign -commenced. But then the question of labour? How he slaved in trying to -get work from those free negroes; and alas! how often he slaved in vain! -But it was not all in vain; for as things went on it became clear to him -that in this year he would, for the first time since he commenced, -obtain something like a return from his land. What if the turning-point -had come, and things were now about to run the other way.</p> - -<p>But then the happiness which might have accrued to him from this source -was dashed by his thoughts of Marian Leslie. Why had he thrown himself -in the way of that syren? Why had he left Mount Pleasant at all? He knew -that on his return to Spanish Town his first work would be to visit -Shandy Hall; and yet he felt that of all places in the island, Shandy -Hall was the last which he ought to visit.</p> - -<p>And then about the beginning of May, when he was hard at work turning -the last of his canes into sugar and rum, he received his annual visit -from Miss Jack. And whom should Miss Jack bring with her but Mr. Leslie.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what it is,” said Miss Jack; “I have spoken to Mr. Leslie -about you and Marian.”</p> - -<p>“Then you had no business to do anything of the kind,” said Maurice, -blushing up to his ears.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense,” replied Miss Jack, “I understand what I am about. Of course -Mr. Leslie will want to know something about the estate.”</p> - -<p>“Then he may go back as wise as he came, for he’ll learn nothing from -me. Not that I have anything to hide.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span></p> - -<p>“So I told him. Now there are a large family of them, you see; and of -course he can’t give Marian much.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t care a straw if he doesn’t give her a shilling. If she cared -for me, or I for her, I shouldn’t look after her for her money.”</p> - -<p>“But a little money is not a bad thing, Maurice,” said Miss Jack, who in -her time had had a good deal, and had managed to take care of it.</p> - -<p>“It is all one to me.”</p> - -<p>“But what I was going to say is this—hum—ha—. I don’t like to pledge -myself for fear I should raise hopes which mayn’t be fulfilled.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t pledge yourself to anything, aunt, in which Marian Leslie and I -are concerned.”</p> - -<p>“But what I was going to say is this; my money, what little I have, you -know, must go some day either to you or to the Leslies.”</p> - -<p>“You may give all to them if you please.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I may, and I dare say I shall,” said Miss Jack, who was -beginning to be irritated. “But at any rate you might have the civility -to listen to me when I am endeavouring to put you on your legs. I am -sure I think about nothing else, morning, noon, and night, and yet I -never get a decent word from you. Marian is too good for you; that’s the -truth.”</p> - -<p>But at length Miss Jack was allowed to open her budget, and to make her -proposition; which amounted to this—that she had already told Mr. -Leslie that she would settle the bulk of her property conjointly on -Maurice and Marian if they would make a match of it. Now as Mr. Leslie -had long been casting a hankering eye after Miss Jack’s money, with a -strong conviction however that Maurice Cumming was her favourite nephew -and probable heir, this proposition was not unpalatable. So he agreed to -go down to Mount Pleasant and look about him.</p> - -<p>“But you may live for the next thirty years, my dear Miss Jack,” Mr. -Leslie had said.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I may,” Miss Jack replied, looking very dry.</p> - -<p>“And I am sure I hope you will,” continued Mr. Leslie. And then the -subject was allowed to drop; for Mr. Leslie knew that it was not always -easy to talk to Miss Jack on such matters.</p> - -<p>Miss Jack was a person in whom I think we may say that the good -predominated over the bad. She was often morose, crabbed, and -self-opinionated; but then she knew her own imperfections, and forgave -those she loved for evincing their dislike of them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> Maurice Cumming was -often inattentive to her, plainly showing that he was worried by her -importunities and ill at ease in her company. But she loved her nephew -with all her heart; and though she dearly liked to tyrannise over him, -never allowed herself to be really angry with him, though he so -frequently refused to bow to her dictation. And she loved Marian Leslie -also, though Marian was so sweet and lovely and she herself so harsh and -ill-favoured. She loved Marian, though Marian would often be -impertinent. She forgave the flirting, the light-heartedness, the love -of amusement. Marian, she said to herself, was young and pretty. She, -Miss Jack, had never known Marian’s temptation. And so she resolved in -her own mind that Marian should be made a good and happy woman;—but -always as the wife of Maurice Cumming.</p> - -<p>But Maurice turned a deaf ear to all these good tidings—or rather he -turned to them an ear that seemed to be deaf. He dearly, ardently loved -that little flirt; but seeing that she was a flirt, that she had flirted -so grossly when he was by, he would not confess his love to a human -being. He would not have it known that he was wasting his heart for a -worthless little chit, to whom every man was the same—except that those -were most eligible whose toes were the lightest and their outside -trappings the brightest. That he did love her he could not help, but he -would not disgrace himself by acknowledging it.</p> - -<p>He was very civil to Mr. Leslie, but he would not speak a word that -could be taken as a proposal for Marian. It had been part of Miss Jack’s -plan that the engagement should absolutely be made down there at Mount -Pleasant, without any reference to the young lady; but Maurice could not -be induced to break the ice. So he took Mr. Leslie through his mills and -over his cane-pieces, talked to him about the laziness of the “niggers,” -while the “niggers” themselves stood by tittering, and rode with him -away to the high grounds where the coffee plantation had been in the -good old days; but not a word was said between them about Marian. And -yet Marian was never out of his heart.</p> - -<p>And then came the day on which Mr. Leslie was to go back to Kingston. -“And you won’t have her then?” said Miss Jack to her nephew early that -morning. “You won’t be said by me?”</p> - -<p>“Not in this matter, aunt.”</p> - -<p>“Then you will live and die a poor man; you mean that, I suppose?”</p> - -<p>“It’s likely enough that I shall. There’s this comfort, at any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> rate, -I’m used to it.” And then Miss Jack was silent again for a while.</p> - -<p>“Very well, sir; that’s enough,” she said angrily. And then she began -again. “But, Maurice, you wouldn’t have to wait for my death, you know.” -And she put out her hand and touched his arm, entreating him as it were -to yield to her. “Oh, Maurice,” she said, “I do so want to make you -comfortable. Let us speak to Mr. Leslie.”</p> - -<p>But Maurice would not. He took her hand and thanked her, but said that -on this matter he must be his own master. “Very well, sir,” she -exclaimed, “I have done. In future you may manage for yourself. As for -me, I shall go back with Mr. Leslie to Kingston.” And so she did. Mr. -Leslie returned that day, taking her with him. When he took his leave, -his invitation to Maurice to come to Shandy Hall was not very pressing. -“Mrs. Leslie and the children will always be glad to see you,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Remember me very kindly to Mrs. Leslie and the children,” said Maurice. -And so they parted.</p> - -<p>“You have brought me down here on a regular fool’s errand,” said Mr. -Leslie, on their journey back to town.</p> - -<p>“It will all come right yet,” replied Miss Jack. “Take my word for it he -loves her.”</p> - -<p>“Fudge,” said Mr. Leslie. But he could not afford to quarrel with his -rich connection.</p> - -<p>In spite of all that he had said and thought to the contrary, Maurice -did look forward during the remainder of the summer to his return to -Spanish Town with something like impatience. It was very dull work, -being there alone at Mount Pleasant; and let him do what he would to -prevent it, his very dreams took him to Shandy Hall. But at last the -slow time made itself away, and he found himself once more in his aunt’s -house.</p> - -<p>A couple of days passed and no word was said about the Leslies. On the -morning of the third day he determined to go to Shandy Hall. Hitherto he -had never been there without staying for the night; but on this occasion -he made up his mind to return the same day. “It would not be civil of me -not to go there,” he said to his aunt.</p> - -<p>“Certainly not,” she replied, forbearing to press the matter further. -“But why make such a terrible hard day’s work of it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I shall go down in the cool, before breakfast; and then I need not -have the bother of taking a bag.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span></p> - -<p>And in this way he started. Miss Jack said nothing further; but she -longed in her heart that she might be at Marian’s elbow unseen during -the visit.</p> - -<p>He found them all at breakfast, and the first to welcome him at the hall -door was Marian. “Oh, Mr. Cumming, we are so glad to see you;” and she -looked into his eyes with a way she had, that was enough to make a man’s -heart wild. But she did not call him Maurice now.</p> - -<p>Miss Jack had spoken to her sister, Mrs. Leslie, as well as to Mr. -Leslie, about this marriage scheme. “Just let them alone,” was Mrs. -Leslie’s advice. “You can’t alter Marian by lecturing her. If they -really love each other they’ll come together; and if they don’t, why -then they’d better not.”</p> - -<p>“And you really mean that you’re going back to Spanish Town to-day?” -said Mrs. Leslie to her visitor.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid I must. Indeed I haven’t brought my things with me.” And -then he again caught Marian’s eye, and began to wish that his resolution -had not been so sternly made.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you are so fond of that House of Assembly,” said Marian, -“that you cannot tear yourself away for more than one day. You’ll not be -able, I suppose, to find time to come to our picnic next week?”</p> - -<p>Maurice said he feared that he should not have time to go to a picnic.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nonsense,” said Fanny—one of the younger girls—“you must come. We -can’t do without him, can we?”</p> - -<p>“Marian has got your name down the first on the list of the gentlemen,” -said another.</p> - -<p>“Yes; and Captain Ewing’s second,” said Bell, the youngest.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid I must induce your sister to alter her list,” said Maurice, -in his sternest manner. “I cannot manage to go, and I’m sure she will -not miss me.”</p> - -<p>Marian looked at the little girl who had so unfortunately mentioned the -warrior’s name, and the little girl knew that she had sinned.</p> - -<p>“Oh, we cannot possibly do without you; can we, Marian?” said Fanny. -“It’s to be at Bingley’s Dell, and we’ve got a bed for you at Newcastle; -quite near, you know.”</p> - -<p>“And another for——” began Bell, but she stopped herself.</p> - -<p>“Go away to your lessons, Bell,” said Marian. “You know how angry mamma -will be at your staying here all the morning;” and poor Bell with a -sorrowful look left the room.</p> - -<p>“We are all certainly very anxious that you should come;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span> very anxious -for a great many reasons,” said Marian, in a voice that was rather -solemn, and as though the matter were one of considerable import. “But -if you really cannot, why of course there is no more to be said.”</p> - -<p>“There will be plenty without me, I am sure.”</p> - -<p>“As regards numbers, I dare say there will; for we shall have pretty -nearly the whole of the two regiments;” and Marian as she alluded to the -officers spoke in a tone which might lead one to think that she would -much rather be without them; “but we counted on you as being one of -ourselves; and as you had been away so long, we thought—we thought—,” -and then she turned away her face, and did not finish her speech. Before -he could make up his mind as to his answer she had risen from her chair, -and walked out of the room. Maurice almost thought that he saw a tear in -her eye as she went.</p> - -<p>He did ride back to Spanish Town that afternoon, after an early dinner; -but before he went Marian spoke to him alone for one minute.</p> - -<p>“I hope you are not offended with me,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Offended! oh no; how could I be offended with you?”</p> - -<p>“Because you seem so stern. I am sure I would do anything I could to -oblige you, if I knew how. It would be so shocking not to be good -friends with a cousin like you.”</p> - -<p>“But there are so many different sorts of friends,” said Maurice.</p> - -<p>“Of course there are. There are a great many friends that one does not -care a bit for,—people that one meets at balls and places like that—”</p> - -<p>“And at picnics,” said Maurice.</p> - -<p>“Well, some of them there too; but we are not like that; are we?”</p> - -<p>What could Maurice do but say, “no,” and declare that their friendship -was of a warmer description? And how could he resist promising to go to -the picnic, though as he made the promise he knew that misery would be -in store for him? He did promise, and then she gave him her hand and -called him Maurice.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I am so glad,” she said. “It seemed so shocking that you should -refuse to join us. And mind and be early, Maurice; for I shall want to -explain it all. We are to meet, you know, at Clifton Gate at one -o’clock, but do you be a little before that, and we shall be there.”</p> - -<p>Maurice Cumming resolved within his own breast as he rode back to -Spanish Town, that if Marian behaved to him all that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> day at the picnic -as she had done this day at Shandy Hall, he would ask her to be his wife -before he left her.</p> - -<p>And Miss Jack also was to be at the picnic.</p> - -<p>“There is no need of going early,” said she, when her nephew made a fuss -about the starting. “People are never very punctual at such affairs as -that; and then they are always quite long enough.” But Maurice explained -that he was anxious to be early, and on this occasion he carried his -point.</p> - -<p>When they reached Clifton Gate the ladies were already there; not in -carriages, as people go to picnics in other and tamer countries; but -each on her own horse or her own pony. But they were not alone. Beside -Miss Leslie was a gentleman, whom Maurice knew as Lieutenant Graham, of -the flag-ship at Port Royal; and at a little distance which quite -enabled him to join in the conversation was Captain Ewing, the -lieutenant with the narrow waist of the previous year.</p> - -<p>“We shall have a delightful day, Miss Leslie,” said the lieutenant.</p> - -<p>“Oh, charming, isn’t it?” said Marian.</p> - -<p>“But now to choose a place for dinner, Captain Ewing;—what do you say?”</p> - -<p>“Will you commission me to select? You know I’m very well up in -geometry, and all that?”</p> - -<p>“But that won’t teach you what sort of a place does for a picnic -dinner;—will it, Mr. Cumming?” And then she shook hands with Maurice, -but did not take any further special notice of him. “We’ll all go -together, if you please. The commission is too important to be left to -one.” And then Marian rode off, and the lieutenant and the captain rode -with her.</p> - -<p>It was open for Maurice to join them if he chose, but he did not choose. -He had come there ever so much earlier than he need have done, dragging -his aunt with him, because Marian had told him that his services would -be specially required by her. And now as soon as she saw him she went -away with the two officers!—went away without vouchsafing him a word. -He made up his mind, there on the spot, that he would never think of her -again—never speak to her otherwise than he might speak to the most -indifferent of mortals.</p> - -<p>And yet he was a man that could struggle right manfully with the world’s -troubles; one who had struggled with them from his boyhood, and had -never been overcome. Now he was unable to conceal the bitterness of his -wrath because a little girl had ridden off to look for a green spot for -her tablecloth without asking his assistance!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<p>Picnics are, I think, in general, rather tedious for the elderly people -who accompany them. When the joints become a little stiff, dinners are -eaten most comfortably with the accompaniment of chairs and tables, and -a roof overhead is an agrément de plus. But, nevertheless, picnics -cannot exist without a certain allowance of elderly people. The Miss -Marians and Captains Ewing cannot go out to dine on the grass without -some one to look after them. So the elderly people go to picnics, in a -dull tame way, doing their duty, and wishing the day over. Now on the -morning in question, when Marian rode off with Captain Ewing and -Lieutenant Graham, Maurice Cumming remained among the elderly people.</p> - -<p>A certain Mr. Pomken, a great Jamaica agriculturist, one of the Council, -a man who had known the good old times, got him by the button and held -him fast, discoursing wisely of sugar and rum, of Gadsden pans and -recreant negroes, on all of which subjects Maurice Cumming was known to -have an opinion of his own. But as Mr. Pomken’s words sounded into one -ear, into the other fell notes, listened to from afar,—the shrill -laughing voice of Marian Leslie as she gave her happy order to her -satellites around her, and ever and anon the bass haw-haw of Captain -Ewing, who was made welcome as the chief of her attendants. That evening -in a whisper to a brother councillor Mr. Pomken communicated his opinion -that after all there was not so much in that young Cumming as some -people said. But Mr. Pomken had no idea that that young Cumming was in -love.</p> - -<p>And then the dinner came, spread over half an acre. Maurice was among -the last who seated himself; and when he did so it was in an awkward -comfortless corner, behind Mr. Pomken’s back, and far away from the -laughter and mirth of the day. But yet from his comfortless corner he -could see Marian as she sat in her pride of power, with her friend Julia -Davis near her, a flirt as bad as herself, and her satellites around -her, obedient to her nod, and happy in her smiles.</p> - -<p>“Now I won’t allow any more champagne,” said Marian, “or who will there -be steady enough to help me over the rocks to the grotto?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you have promised me!” cried the captain.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I have not; have I, Julia?”</p> - -<p>“Miss Davis has certainly promised me,” said the lieutenant.</p> - -<p>“I have made no promise, and don’t think I shall go at all,” said Julia, -who was sometimes inclined to imagine that Captain Ewing should be her -own property.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span></p> - -<p>All which and much more of the kind Maurice Cumming could not hear; but -he could see—and imagine, which was worse. How innocent and inane are, -after all, the flirtings of most young ladies, if all their words and -doings in that line could be brought to paper! I do not know whether -there be as a rule more vocal expression of the sentiment of love -between a man and woman than there is between two thrushes! They whistle -and call to each other, guided by instinct rather than by reason.</p> - -<p>“You are going home with the ladies to-night, I believe,” said Maurice -to Miss Jack, immediately after dinner. Miss Jack acknowledged that such -was her destination for the night.</p> - -<p>“Then my going back to Spanish Town at once won’t hurt any one—for, to -tell the truth, I have had enough of this work.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Maurice, you were in such a hurry to come.”</p> - -<p>“The more fool I; and so now I am in a hurry to go away. Don’t notice it -to anybody.”</p> - -<p>Miss Jack looked in his face and saw that he was really wretched; and -she knew the cause of his wretchedness.</p> - -<p>“Don’t go yet, Maurice,” she said; and then added with a tenderness that -was quite uncommon with her, “Go to her, Maurice, and speak to her -openly and freely, once for all; you will find that she will listen -then. Dear Maurice, do, for my sake.”</p> - -<p>He made no answer, but walked away, roaming sadly by himself among the -trees. “Listen!” he exclaimed to himself. “Yes, she will alter a dozen -times in as many hours. Who can care for a creature that can change as -she changes?” And yet he could not help caring for her.</p> - -<p>As he went on, climbing among rocks, he again came upon the sound of -voices, and heard especially that of Captain Ewing. “Now, Miss Leslie, -if you will take my hand you will soon be over all the difficulty.” And -then a party of seven or eight, scrambling over some stones, came nearly -on the level on which he stood, in full view of him; and leading the -others were Captain Ewing and Miss Leslie.</p> - -<p>He turned on his heel to go away, when he caught the sound of a step -following him, and a voice saying, “Oh, there is Mr. Cumming, and I want -to speak to him;” and in a minute a light hand was on his arm.</p> - -<p>“Why are you running away from us?” said Marian.</p> - -<p>“Because—oh, I don’t know. I am not running away. You have your party -made up, and I am not going to intrude on it.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span></p> - -<p>“What nonsense! Do come now; we are going to this wonderful grotto. I -thought it so ill-natured of you, not joining us at dinner. Indeed you -know you had promised.”</p> - -<p>He did not answer her, but he looked at her—full in the face, with his -sad eyes laden with love. She half understood his countenance, but only -half understood it.</p> - -<p>“What is the matter, Maurice?” she said. “Are you angry with me? Will -you come and join us?”</p> - -<p>“No, Marian, I cannot do that. But if you can leave them and come with -me for half an hour, I will not keep you longer.”</p> - -<p>She stood hesitating a moment, while her companion remained on the spot -where she had left him. “Come, Miss Leslie,” called Captain Ewing. “You -will have it dark before we can get down.”</p> - -<p>“I will come with you,” whispered she to Maurice, “but wait a moment.” -And she tripped back, and in some five minutes returned after an eager -argument with her friends. “There,” she said, “I don’t care about the -grotto, one bit, and I will walk with you now;—only they will think it -so odd.” And so they started off together.</p> - -<p>Before the tropical darkness had fallen upon them Maurice had told the -tale of his love,—and had told it in a manner differing much from that -of Marian’s usual admirers. He spoke with passion and almost with -violence; he declared that his heart was so full of her image that he -could not rid himself of it for one minute; “nor would he wish to do -so,” he said, “if she would be his Marian, his own Marian, his very own. -But if not——” and then he explained to her, with all a lover’s warmth, -and with almost more than a lover’s liberty, what was his idea of her -being “his own, his very own,” and in doing so inveighed against her -usual light-heartedness in terms which at any rate were strong enough.</p> - -<p>But Marian bore it all well. Perhaps she knew that the lesson was -somewhat deserved; and perhaps she appreciated at its value the love of -such a man as Maurice Cumming, weighing in her judgment the difference -between him and the Ewings and the Grahams.</p> - -<p>And then she answered him well and prudently, with words which startled -him by their prudent seriousness as coming from her. She begged his -pardon heartily, she said, for any grief which she had caused him; but -yet how was she to be blamed, seeing that she had known nothing of his -feelings? Her father and mother had said something to her of this -proposed marriage;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span> something, but very little; and she had answered by -saying that she did not think Maurice had any warmer regard for her than -of a cousin. After this answer neither father nor mother had pressed the -matter further. As to her own feelings she could then say nothing, for -she then knew nothing;—nothing but this, that she loved no one better -than him, or rather that she loved no one else. She would ask herself if -she could love him; but he must give her some little time for that. In -the meantime—and she smiled sweetly at him as she made the promise—she -would endeavour to do nothing that would offend him; and then she added -that on that evening she would dance with him any dances that he liked. -Maurice, with a self-denial that was not very wise, contented himself -with engaging her for the first quadrille.</p> - -<p>They were to dance that night in the mess-room of the officers at -Newcastle. This scheme had been added on as an adjunct to the picnic, -and it therefore became necessary that the ladies should retire to their -own or their friends’ houses at Newcastle to adjust their dresses. -Marian Leslie and Julia Davis were there accommodated with the loan of a -small room by the major’s wife, and as they were brushing their hair, -and putting on their dancing-shoes, something was said between them -about Maurice Cumming.</p> - -<p>“And so you are to be Mrs. C. of Mount Pleasant,” said Julia. “Well; I -didn’t think it would come to that at last.”</p> - -<p>“But it has not come to that, and if it did why should I not be Mrs. C., -as you call it?”</p> - -<p>“The knight of the rueful countenance, I call him.”</p> - -<p>“I tell you what then, he is an excellent young man, and the fact is you -don’t know him.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t like excellent young men with long faces. I suppose you won’t -be let to dance quick dances at all now.”</p> - -<p>“I shall dance whatever dances I like, as I have always done,” said -Marian, with some little asperity in her tone.</p> - -<p>“Not you; or if you do, you’ll lose your promotion. You’ll never live to -be my Lady Rue. And what will Graham say? You know you’ve given him half -a promise.”</p> - -<p>“That’s not true, Julia;—I never gave him the tenth part of a promise.”</p> - -<p>“Well, he says so;” and then the words between the young ladies became a -little more angry. But, nevertheless, in due time they came forth with -faces smiling as usual, with their hair properly brushed, and without -any signs of warfare.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span></p> - -<p>But Marian had to stand another attack before the business of the -evening commenced, and this was from no less doughty an antagonist than -her aunt, Miss Jack. Miss Jack soon found that Maurice had not kept his -threat of going home; and though she did not absolutely learn from him -that he had gone so far towards perfecting her dearest hopes as to make -a formal offer to Marian, nevertheless she did gather that things were -fast that way tending. If only this dancing were over! she said to -herself, dreading the unnumbered waltzes with Ewing, and the violent -polkas with Graham. So Miss Jack resolved to say one word to Marian—“A -wise word in good season,” said Miss Jack to herself, “how sweet a thing -it is.”</p> - -<p>“Marian,” said she. “Step here a moment, I want to say a word to you.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, aunt Sarah,” said Marian, following her aunt into a corner, not -quite in the best humour in the world; for she had a dread of some -further interference.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to dance with Maurice to-night?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I believe so,—the first quadrille.”</p> - -<p>“Well, what I was going to say is this. I don’t want you to dance many -quick dances to-night, for a reason I have;—that is, not a great many.”</p> - -<p>“Why, aunt, what nonsense!”</p> - -<p>“Now my dearest, dearest girl, it is all for your own sake. Well, then, -it must out. He does not like it, you know.”</p> - -<p>“What he?”</p> - -<p>“Maurice.”</p> - -<p>“Well, aunt, I don’t know that I’m bound to dance or not to dance just -as Mr. Cumming may like. Papa does not mind my dancing. The people have -come here to dance, and you can hardly want to make me ridiculous by -sitting still.” And so that wise word did not appear to be very sweet.</p> - -<p>And then the amusement of the evening commenced, and Marian stood up for -a quadrille with her lover. She however was not in the very best humour. -She had, as she thought, said and done enough for one day in Maurice’s -favour. And she had no idea, as she declared to herself, of being -lectured by aunt Sarah.</p> - -<p>“Dearest Marian,” he said to her, as the quadrille came to a close, “it -is in your power to make me so happy,—so perfectly happy.”</p> - -<p>“But then people have such different ideas of happiness,” she replied. -“They can’t all see with the same eyes, you know.” And so they parted.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span></p> - -<p>But during the early part of the evening she was sufficiently discreet; -she did waltz with Lieutenant Graham, and polka with Captain Ewing, but -she did so in a tamer manner than was usual with her, and she made no -emulous attempts to dance down other couples. When she had done she -would sit down, and then she consented to stand up for two quadrilles -with two very tame gentlemen, to whom no lover could object.</p> - -<p>“And so, Marian, your wings are regularly clipped at last,” said Julia -Davis coming up to her.</p> - -<p>“No more clipped than your own,” said Marian.</p> - -<p>“If Sir Rue won’t let you waltz now, what will he require of you when -you’re married to him?”</p> - -<p>“I am just as well able to waltz with whom I like as you are, Julia; and -if you say so in that way, I shall think it’s envy.”</p> - -<p>“Ha—ha—ha; I may have envied you some of your beaux before now; I dare -say I have. But I certainly do not envy you Sir Rue.” And then she went -off to her partner.</p> - -<p>All this was too much for Marian’s weak strength, and before long she -was again whirling round with Captain Ewing. “Come, Miss Leslie,” said -he, “let us see what we can do. Graham and Julia Davis have been saying -that your waltzing days are over, but I think we can put them down.”</p> - -<p>Marian as she got up, and raised her arm in order that Ewing might put -his round her waist, caught Maurice’s eye as he leaned against a wall, -and read in it a stern rebuke. “This is too bad,” she said to herself. -“He shall not make a slave of me, at any rate as yet.” And away she went -as madly, more madly than ever, and for the rest of the evening she -danced with Captain Ewing and with him alone.</p> - -<p>There is an intoxication quite distinct from that which comes from -strong drink. When the judgment is altogether overcome by the spirits -this species of drunkenness comes on, and in this way Marian Leslie was -drunk that night. For two hours she danced with Captain Ewing, and ever -and anon she kept saying to herself that she would teach the world to -know—and of all the world Mr. Cumming especially—that she might be -lead, but not driven.</p> - -<p>Then about four o’clock she went home, and as she attempted to undress -herself in her own room she burst into violent tears and opened her -heart to her sister—“Oh, Fanny, I do love him, I do love him so dearly! -and now he will never come to me again!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span></p> - -<p>Maurice stood still with his back against the wall, for the full two -hours of Marian’s exhibition, and then he said to his aunt before he -left—“I hope you have now seen enough; you will hardly mention her name -to me again.” Miss Jack groaned from the bottom of her heart but she -said nothing. She said nothing that night to any one; but she lay awake -in her bed, thinking, till it was time to rise and dress herself. “Ask -Miss Marian to come to me,” she said to the black girl who came to -assist her. But it was not till she had sent three times, that Miss -Marian obeyed the summons.</p> - -<p>At three o’clock on the following day Miss Jack arrived at her own hall -door in Spanish Town. Long as the distance was she ordinarily rode it -all, but on this occasion she had provided a carriage to bring her over -as much of the journey as it was practicable for her to perform on -wheels. As soon as she reached her own hall door she asked if Mr. -Cumming was at home. “Yes,” the servant said. “He was in the small -book-room, at the back of the house, up stairs.” Silently, as if afraid -of being heard, she stepped up her own stairs into her own drawing-room; -and very silently she was followed by a pair of feet lighter and smaller -than her own.</p> - -<p>Miss Jack was usually somewhat of a despot in her own house, but there -was nothing despotic about her now as she peered into the book-room. -This she did with her bonnet still on, looking round the half-opened -door as though she were afraid to disturb her nephew. He sat at the -window looking out into the verandah which ran behind the house, so -intent on his thoughts that he did not hear her.</p> - -<p>“Maurice,” she said, “can I come in?”</p> - -<p>“Come in? oh yes, of course;” and he turned round sharply at her. “I -tell you what, aunt; I am not well here and I cannot stay out the -session. I shall go back to Mount Pleasant.”</p> - -<p>“Maurice,” and she walked close up to him as she spoke, “Maurice, I have -brought some one with me to ask your pardon.”</p> - -<p>His face became red up to the roots of his hair as he stood looking at -her without answering. “You would grant it certainly,” she continued, -“if you knew how much it would be valued.”</p> - -<p>“Whom do you mean? who is it?” he asked at last.</p> - -<p>“One who loves you as well as you love her—and she cannot love you -better. Come in, Marian.” The poor girl crept in at the door, ashamed of -what she was induced to do, but yet looking anxiously into her lover’s -face. “You asked her yesterday<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> to be your wife,” said Miss Jack, “and -she did not then know her own mind. Now she has had a lesson. You will -ask her once again; will you not, Maurice?”</p> - -<p>What was he to say? How was he to refuse, when that soft little hand was -held out to him; when those eyes laden with tears just ventured to look -into his face?</p> - -<p>“I beg your pardon if I angered you last night,” she said.</p> - -<p>In half a minute Miss Jack had left the room, and in the space of -another thirty seconds Maurice had forgiven her. “I am your own now, you -know,” she whispered to him in the course of that long evening. -“Yesterday, you know—,” but the sentence was never finished.</p> - -<p>It was in vain that Julia Davis was ill-natured and sarcastic, in vain -that Ewing and Graham made joint attempt upon her constancy. From that -night to the morning of her marriage—and the interval was only three -months—Marian Leslie was never known to flirt.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_COURTSHIP_OF_SUSAN_BELL" id="THE_COURTSHIP_OF_SUSAN_BELL"></a>THE COURTSHIP OF SUSAN BELL.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">John Munroe Bell</span> had been a lawyer in Albany, State of New York, and as -such had thriven well. He had thriven well as long as thrift and -thriving on this earth had been allowed to him. But the Almighty had -seen fit to shorten his span.</p> - -<p>Early in life he had married a timid, anxious, pretty, good little wife, -whose whole heart and mind had been given up to do his bidding and -deserve his love. She had not only deserved it but had possessed it, and -as long as John Munroe Bell had lived, Henrietta Bell—Hetta as he -called her—had been a woman rich in blessings. After twelve years of -such blessings he had left her, and had left with her two daughters, a -second Hetta, and the heroine of our little story, Susan Bell.</p> - -<p>A lawyer in Albany may thrive passing well for eight or ten years, and -yet not leave behind him any very large sum of money if he dies at the -end of that time. Some small modicum, some few thousand dollars, John -Bell had amassed, so that his widow and daughters were not absolutely -driven to look for work or bread.</p> - -<p>In those happy days, when cash had begun to flow in plenteously to the -young father of the family, he had taken it into his head to build for -himself, or rather for his young female brood, a small neat house in the -outskirts of Saratoga Springs. In doing so he was instigated as much by -the excellence of the investment for his pocket as by the salubrity of -the place for his girls. He furnished the house well, and then during -some summer weeks his wife lived there, and sometimes he let it.</p> - -<p>How the widow grieved when the lord of her heart and master of her mind -was laid in the grave, I need not tell. She had already counted ten -years of widowhood, and her children had grown to be young women beside -her at the time of which I am now about to speak. Since that sad day on -which they had left<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> Albany they had lived together at the cottage at -the Springs. In winter their life had been lonely enough; but as soon as -the hot weather began to drive the fainting citizens out from New York, -they had always received two or three boarders—old ladies generally, -and occasionally an old gentleman—persons of very steady habits, with -whose pockets the widow’s moderate demands agreed better than the hotel -charges. And so the Bells lived for ten years.</p> - -<p>That Saratoga is a gay place in July, August, and September, the world -knows well enough. To girls who go there with trunks full of muslin and -crinoline, for whom a carriage and pair of horses is always waiting -immediately after dinner, whose fathers’ pockets are bursting with -dollars, it is a very gay place. Dancing and flirtations come as a -matter of course, and matrimony follows after with only too great -rapidity. But the place was not very gay for Hetta or Susan Bell.</p> - -<p>In the first place the widow was a timid woman, and among other fears -feared greatly that she should be thought guilty of setting traps for -husbands. Poor mothers! how often are they charged with this sin when -their honest desires go no further than that their bairns may be -“respectit like the lave.” And then she feared flirtations; flirtations -that should be that and nothing more, flirtations that are so -destructive of the heart’s sweetest essence. She feared love also, -though she longed for that as well as feared it;—for her girls, I mean; -all such feelings for herself were long laid under ground;—and then, -like a timid creature as she was, she had other indefinite fears, and -among them, a great fear that those girls of hers would be left -husbandless,—a phase of life which after her twelve years of bliss she -regarded as anything but desirable. But the upshot was,—the upshot of -so many fears and such small means,—that Hetta and Susan Bell had but a -dull life of it.</p> - -<p>Were it not that I am somewhat closely restricted in the number of my -pages, I would describe at full the merits and beauties of Hetta and -Susan Bell. As it is I can but say a few words. At our period of their -lives Hetta was nearly one-and-twenty, and Susan was just nineteen. -Hetta was a short, plump, demure young woman, with the softest smoothed -hair, and the brownest brightest eyes. She was very useful in the house, -good at corn cakes, and thought much, particularly in these latter -months, of her religious duties. Her sister in the privacy of their own -little room would sometimes twit her with the admiring patience with -which she would listen to the lengthened<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> eloquence of Mr. Phineas -Beckard, the Baptist minister. Now Mr. Phineas Beckard was a bachelor.</p> - -<p>Susan was not so good a girl in the kitchen or about the house as was -her sister; but she was bright in the parlour, and if that motherly -heart could have been made to give out its inmost secret—which, -however, it could not have been made to give out in any way painful to -dear Hetta—perhaps it might have been found that Susan was loved with -the closest love. She was taller than her sister, and lighter; her eyes -were blue as were her mother’s; her hair was brighter than Hetta’s, but -not always so singularly neat. She had a dimple on her chin, whereas -Hetta had none; dimples on her cheeks too, when she smiled; and, oh, -such a mouth! There; my allowance of pages permits no more.</p> - -<p>One piercing cold winter’s day there came knocking at the widow’s -door—a young man. Winter days, when the ice of January is refrozen by -the wind of February, are very cold at Saratoga Springs. In these days -there was not often much to disturb the serenity of Mrs. Bell’s house; -but on the day in question there came knocking at the door—a young man.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bell kept an old domestic, who had lived with them in those happy -Albany days. Her name was Kate O’Brien, but though picturesque in name -she was hardly so in person. She was a thick-set, noisy, good-natured -old Irishwoman, who had joined her lot to that of Mrs. Bell when the -latter first began housekeeping, and knowing when she was well off, had -remained in the same place from that day forth. She had known Hetta as a -baby, and, so to say, had seen Susan’s birth.</p> - -<p>“And what might you be wanting, sir?” said Kate O’Brien, apparently not -quite pleased as she opened the door and let in all the cold air.</p> - -<p>“I wish to see Mrs. Bell. Is not this Mrs. Bell’s house?” said the young -man, shaking the snow from out of the breast of his coat.</p> - -<p>He did see Mrs. Bell, and we will now tell who he was, and why he had -come, and how it came to pass that his carpet-bag was brought down to -the widow’s house and one of the front bedrooms was prepared for him, -and that he drank tea that night in the widow’s parlour.</p> - -<p>His name was Aaron Dunn, and by profession he was an engineer. What -peculiar misfortune in those days of frost and snow had befallen the -line of rails which runs from Schenectady to Lake Champlain, I never -quite understood. Banks and bridges<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> had in some way come to grief, and -on Aaron Dunn’s shoulders was thrown the burden of seeing that they were -duly repaired. Saratoga Springs was the centre of these mishaps, and -therefore at Saratoga Springs it was necessary that he should take up -his temporary abode.</p> - -<p>Now there was at that time in New York city a Mr. Bell, great in railway -matters—an uncle of the once thriving but now departed Albany lawyer. -He was a rich man, but he liked his riches himself; or at any rate had -not found himself called upon to share them with the widow and daughters -of his nephew. But when it chanced to come to pass that he had a hand in -despatching Aaron Dunn to Saratoga, he took the young man aside and -recommended him to lodge with the widow. “There,” said he, “show her my -card.” So much the rich uncle thought he might vouchsafe to do for the -nephew’s widow.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bell and both her daughters were in the parlour when Aaron Dunn was -shown in, snow and all. He told his story in a rough, shaky voice, for -his teeth chattered; and he gave the card, almost wishing that he had -gone to the empty big hotel, for the widow’s welcome was not at first -quite warm.</p> - -<p>The widow listened to him as he gave his message, and then she took the -card and looked at it. Hetta, who was sitting on the side of the -fireplace facing the door, went on demurely with her work. Susan gave -one glance round—her back was to the stranger—and then another; and -then she moved her chair a little nearer to the wall, so as to give the -young man room to come to the fire, if he would. He did not come, but -his eyes glanced upon Susan Bell; and he thought that the old man in New -York was right, and that the big hotel would be cold and dull. It was a -pretty face to look on that cold evening as she turned it up from the -stocking she was mending.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you don’t wish to take winter boarders, ma’am?” said Aaron -Dunn.</p> - -<p>“We never have done so yet, sir,” said Mrs. Bell timidly. Could she let -this young wolf in among her lamb-fold? He might be a wolf;—who could -tell?</p> - -<p>“Mr. Bell seemed to think it would suit,” said Aaron.</p> - -<p>Had he acquiesced in her timidity and not pressed the point, it would -have been all up with him. But the widow did not like to go against the -big uncle; and so she said, “Perhaps it may, sir.”</p> - -<p>“I guess it will, finely,” said Aaron. And then the widow seeing that -the matter was so far settled, put down her work and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> came round into -the passage. Hetta followed her, for there would be housework to do. -Aaron gave himself another shake, settled the weekly number of -dollars—with very little difficulty on his part, for he had caught -another glance at Susan’s face; and then went after his bag. ’Twas thus -that Aaron Dunn obtained an entrance into Mrs. Bell’s house. “But what -if he be a wolf?” she said to herself over and over again that night, -though not exactly in those words. Ay, but there is another side to that -question. What if he be a stalwart man, honest-minded, with clever eye, -cunning hand, ready brain, broad back, and warm heart; in want of a wife -mayhap; a man that can earn his own bread and another’s;—half a dozen -others’ when the half dozen come? Would not that be a good sort of -lodger? Such a question as that too did flit, just flit, across the -widow’s sleepless mind. But then she thought so much more of the wolf! -Wolves, she had taught herself to think, were more common than stalwart, -honest-minded, wife-desirous men.</p> - -<p>“I wonder mother consented to take him,” said Hetta, when they were in -the little room together.</p> - -<p>“And why shouldn’t she?” said Susan. “It will be a help.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, it will be a little help,” said Hetta. “But we have done very well -hitherto without winter lodgers.”</p> - -<p>“But uncle Bell said she was to.”</p> - -<p>“What is uncle Bell to us?” said Hetta, who had a spirit of her own. And -she began to surmise within herself whether Aaron Dunn would join the -Baptist congregation, and whether Phineas Beckard would approve of this -new move.</p> - -<p>“He is a very well-behaved young man at any rate,” said Susan, “and he -draws beautifully. Did you see those things he was doing?”</p> - -<p>“He draws very well, I dare say,” said Hetta, who regarded this as but a -poor warranty for good behaviour. Hetta also had some fear of -wolves—not for herself, perhaps; but for her sister.</p> - -<p>Aaron Dunn’s work—the commencement of his work—lay at some distance -from the Springs, and he left every morning with a lot of workmen by an -early train—almost before daylight. And every morning, cold and wintry -as the mornings were, the widow got him his breakfast with her own -hands. She took his dollars and would not leave him altogether to the -awkward mercies of Kate O’Brien; nor would she trust her girls to attend -upon the young man. Hetta she might have trusted; but then Susan would -have asked why she was spared her share of such hardship.</p> - -<p>In the evening, leaving his work when it was dark, Aaron<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> always -returned, and then the evening was passed together. But they were passed -with the most demure propriety. These women would make the tea, cut the -bread and butter, and then sew; while Aaron Dunn, when the cups were -removed, would always go to his plans and drawings.</p> - -<p>On Sundays they were more together; but even on this day there was cause -of separation, for Aaron went to the Episcopalian church, rather to the -disgust of Hetta. In the afternoon, however, they were together; and -then Phineas Beckard came in to tea on Sundays, and he and Aaron got to -talking on religion; and though they disagreed pretty much, and would -not give an inch either one or the other, nevertheless the minister told -the widow, and Hetta too probably, that the lad had good stuff in him, -though he was so stiff-necked.</p> - -<p>“But he should be more modest in talking on such matters with a -minister,” said Hetta.</p> - -<p>The Rev. Phineas acknowledged that perhaps he should; but he was honest -enough to repeat that the lad had stuff in him. “Perhaps after all he is -not a wolf,” said the widow to herself.</p> - -<p>Things went on in this way for above a month. Aaron had declared to -himself over and over again that that face was sweet to look upon, and -had unconsciously promised to himself certain delights in talking and -perhaps walking with the owner of it. But the walkings had not been -achieved—nor even the talkings as yet. The truth was that Dunn was -bashful with young women, though he could be so stiff-necked with the -minister.</p> - -<p>And then he felt angry with himself, inasmuch as he had advanced no -further; and as he lay in his bed—which perhaps those pretty hands had -helped to make—he resolved that he would be a thought bolder in his -bearing. He had no idea of making love to Susan Bell; of course not. But -why should he not amuse himself by talking to a pretty girl when she sat -so near him, evening after evening?</p> - -<p>“What a very quiet young man he is,” said Susan to her sister.</p> - -<p>“He has his bread to earn, and sticks to his work,” said Hetta. “No -doubt he has his amusement when he is in the city,” added the elder -sister, not wishing to leave too strong an impression of the young man’s -virtue.</p> - -<p>They had all now their settled places in the parlour. Hetta sat on one -side of the fire, close to the table, having that side to herself. There -she sat always busy. She must have made every dress and bit of linen -worn in the house, and hemmed every sheet and towel, so busy was she -always. Sometimes, once in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span> week or so, Phineas Beckard would come in, -and then place was made for him between Hetta’s usual seat and the -table. For when there he would read out loud. On the other side, close -also to the table, sat the widow, busy, but not savagely busy as her -elder daughter. Between Mrs. Bell and the wall, with her feet ever on -the fender, Susan used to sit; not absolutely idle, but doing work of -some slender pretty sort, and talking ever and anon to her mother. -Opposite to them all, at the other side of the table, far away from the -fire, would Aaron Dunn place himself with his plans and drawings before -him.</p> - -<p>“Are you a judge of bridges, ma’am?” said Aaron, the evening after he -had made his resolution. ’Twas thus he began his courtship.</p> - -<p>“Of bridges?” said Mrs. Bell—“oh dear no, sir.” But she put out her -hand to take the little drawing which Aaron handed to her.</p> - -<p>“Because that’s one I’ve planned for our bit of a new branch from Moreau -up to Lake George. I guess Miss Susan knows something about bridges.”</p> - -<p>“I guess I don’t,” said Susan—“only that they oughtn’t to tumble down -when the frost comes.”</p> - -<p>“Ha, ha, ha; no more they ought. I’ll tell McEvoy that.” McEvoy had been -a former engineer on the line. “Well, that won’t burst with any frost, I -guess.”</p> - -<p>“Oh my! how pretty!” said the widow, and then Susan of course jumped up -to look over her mother’s shoulder.</p> - -<p>The artful dodger! He had drawn and coloured a beautiful little sketch -of a bridge; not an engineer’s plan with sections and measurements, -vexatious to a woman’s eye, but a graceful little bridge with a string -of cars running under it. You could almost hear the bell going.</p> - -<p>“Well; that is a pretty bridge,” said Susan. “Isn’t it, Hetta?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know anything about bridges,” said Hetta, to whose clever eyes -the dodge was quite apparent. But in spite of her cleverness Mrs. Bell -and Susan had soon moved their chairs round to the table, and were -looking through the contents of Aaron’s portfolio. “But yet he maybe a -wolf,” thought the poor widow, just as she was kneeling down to say her -prayers.</p> - -<p>That evening certainly made a commencement. Though Hetta went on -pertinaciously with the body of a new dress, the other two ladies did -not put in another stitch that night. From his drawings Aaron got to his -instruments, and before bedtime was teaching Susan how to draw parallel -lines. Susan found that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span> she had quite an aptitude for parallel lines, -and altogether had a good time of it that evening. It is dull to go on -week after week, and month after month, talking only to one’s mother and -sister. It is dull though one does not oneself recognise it to be so. A -little change in such matters is so very pleasant. Susan had not the -slightest idea of regarding Aaron as even a possible lover. But young -ladies do like the conversation of young gentlemen. Oh, my exceedingly -proper prim old lady, you who are so shocked at this as a general -doctrine, has it never occurred to you that the Creator has so intended -it?</p> - -<p>Susan understanding little of the how and why, knew that she had had a -good time, and was rather in spirits as she went to bed. But Hetta had -been frightened by the dodge.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Hetta, you should have looked at those drawings. He is so clever!” -said Susan.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know that they would have done me much good,” replied Hetta.</p> - -<p>“Good! Well, they’d do me more good than a long sermon, I know,” said -Susan; “except on a Sunday, of course,” she added apologetically. This -was an ill-tempered attack both on Hetta and Hetta’s admirer. But then -why had Hetta been so snappish?</p> - -<p>“I’m sure he’s a wolf,” thought Hetta as she went to bed.</p> - -<p>“What a very clever young man he is!” thought Susan to herself as she -pulled the warm clothes round about her shoulders and ears.</p> - -<p>“Well that certainly was an improvement,” thought Aaron as he went -through the same operation, with a stronger feeling of self-approbation -than he had enjoyed for some time past.</p> - -<p>In the course of the next fortnight the family arrangements all altered -themselves. Unless when Beckard was there Aaron would sit in the widow’s -place, the widow would take Susan’s chair, and the two girls would be -opposite. And then Dunn would read to them; not sermons, but passages -from Shakspeare, and Byron, and Longfellow. “He reads much better than -Mr. Beckard,” Susan had said one night. “Of course you’re a competent -judge!” had been Hetta’s retort. “I mean that I like it better,” said -Susan. “It’s well that all people don’t think alike,” replied Hetta.</p> - -<p>And then there was a deal of talking. The widow herself, as unconscious -in this respect as her youngest daughter, certainly did find that a -little variety was agreeable on those long winter nights; and talked -herself with unaccustomed freedom. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span> Beckard came there oftener and -talked very much. When he was there the two young men did all the -talking, and they pounded each other immensely. But still there grew up -a sort of friendship between them.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Beckard seems quite to take to him,” said Mrs. Bell to her eldest -daughter.</p> - -<p>“It is his great good nature, mother,” replied Hetta.</p> - -<p>It was at the end of the second month when Aaron took another step in -advance—a perilous step. Sometimes on evenings he still went on with -his drawing for an hour or so; but during three or four evenings he -never asked any one to look at what he was doing. On one Friday he sat -over his work till late, without any reading or talking at all; so late -that at last Mrs. Bell said, “If you’re going to sit much longer, Mr. -Dunn, I’ll get you to put out the candles.” Thereby showing, had he -known it or had she, that the mother’s confidence in the young man was -growing fast. Hetta knew all about it, and dreaded that the growth was -too quick.</p> - -<p>“I’ve finished now,” said Aaron; and he looked carefully at the -card-board on which he had been washing in his water-colours. “I’ve -finished now.” He then hesitated a moment; but ultimately he put the -card into his portfolio and carried it up to his bed-room. Who does not -perceive that it was intended as a present to Susan Bell?</p> - -<p>The question which Aaron asked himself that night, and which he hardly -knew how to answer, was this. Should he offer the drawing to Susan in -the presence of her mother and sister, or on some occasion when they two -might be alone together? No such occasion had ever yet occurred, but -Aaron thought that it might probably be brought about. But then he -wanted to make no fuss about it. His first intention had been to chuck -the drawing lightly across the table when it was completed, and so make -nothing of it. But he had finished it with more care than he had at -first intended; and then he had hesitated when he had finished it. It -was too late now for that plan of chucking it over the table.</p> - -<p>On the Saturday evening when he came down from his room, Mr. Beckard was -there, and there was no opportunity that night. On the Sunday, in -conformity with a previous engagement, he went to hear Mr. Beckard -preach, and walked to and from meeting with the family. This pleased -Mrs. Bell, and they were all very gracious that afternoon. But Sunday -was no day for the picture.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span></p> - -<p>On Monday the thing had become of importance to him. Things always do -when they are kept over. Before tea that evening when he came down Mrs. -Bell and Susan only were in the room. He knew Hetta for his foe, and -therefore determined to use this occasion.</p> - -<p>“Miss Susan,” he said, stammering somewhat, and blushing too, poor fool! -“I have done a little drawing which I want you to accept,” and he put -his portfolio down on the table.</p> - -<p>“Oh! I don’t know,” said Susan, who had seen the blush.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bell had seen the blush also, and pursed her mouth up, and looked -grave. Had there been no stammering and no blush, she might have thought -nothing of it.</p> - -<p>Aaron saw at once that his little gift was not to go down smoothly. He -was, however, in for it now, so he picked it out from among the other -papers in the case and brought it over to Susan. He endeavoured to hand -it to her with an air of indifference, but I cannot say that he -succeeded.</p> - -<p>It was a very pretty, well-finished, water-coloured drawing, -representing still the same bridge, but with more adjuncts. In Susan’s -eyes it was a work of high art. Of pictures probably she had seen but -little, and her liking for the artist no doubt added to her admiration. -But the more she admired it and wished for it, the stronger was her -feeling that she ought not to take it.</p> - -<p>Poor Susan! she stood for a minute looking at the drawing, but she said -nothing; not even a word of praise. She felt that she was red in the -face, and uncourteous to their lodger; but her mother was looking at her -and she did not know how to behave herself.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bell put out her hand for the sketch, trying to bethink herself as -she did so in what least uncivil way she could refuse the present. She -took a moment to look at it collecting her thoughts, and as she did so -her woman’s wit came to her aid.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear, Mr. Dunn, it is very pretty; quite a beautiful picture. I -cannot let Susan rob you of that. You must keep that for some of your -own particular friends.”</p> - -<p>“But I did it for her,” said Aaron innocently.</p> - -<p>Susan looked down at the ground, half pleased at the declaration. The -drawing would look very pretty in a small gilt frame put over her -dressing-table. But the matter now was altogether in her mother’s hands.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid it is too valuable, sir, for Susan to accept.”</p> - -<p>“It is not valuable at all,” said Aaron, declining to take it back from -the widow’s hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, I am quite sure it is. It is worth ten dollars at least—or -twenty,” said poor Mrs. Bell, not in the very best taste. But she was -perplexed, and did not know how to get out of the scrape. The article in -question now lay upon the table-cloth, appropriated by no one, and at -this moment Hetta came into the room.</p> - -<p>“It is not worth ten cents,” said Aaron, with something like a frown on -his brow. “But as we had been talking about the bridge, I thought Miss -Susan would accept it.”</p> - -<p>“Accept what?” said Hetta. And then her eye fell upon the drawing and -she took it up.</p> - -<p>“It is beautifully done,” said Mrs. Bell, wishing much to soften the -matter; perhaps the more so that Hetta the demure was now present. “I am -telling Mr. Dunn that we can’t take a present of anything so valuable.”</p> - -<p>“Oh dear no,” said Hetta. “It wouldn’t be right.”</p> - -<p>It was a cold frosty evening in March, and the fire was burning brightly -on the hearth. Aaron Dunn took up the drawing quietly—very quietly—and -rolling it up, as such drawings are rolled, put it between the blazing -logs. It was the work of four evenings, and his chef-d’œuvre in the -way of art.</p> - -<p>Susan, when she saw what he had done, burst out into tears. The widow -could very readily have done so also, but she was able to refrain -herself, and merely exclaimed—“Oh, Mr. Dunn!”</p> - -<p>“If Mr. Dunn chooses to burn his own picture, he has certainly a right -to do so,” said Hetta.</p> - -<p>Aaron immediately felt ashamed of what he had done; and he also could -have cried, but for his manliness. He walked away to one of the -parlour-windows, and looked out upon the frosty night. It was dark, but -the stars were bright, and he thought that he should like to be walking -fast by himself along the line of rails towards Balston. There he stood, -perhaps for three minutes. He thought it would be proper to give Susan -time to recover from her tears.</p> - -<p>“Will you please to come to your tea, sir?” said the soft voice of Mrs. -Bell.</p> - -<p>He turned round to do so, and found that Susan was gone. It was not -quite in her power to recover from her tears in three minutes. And then -the drawing had been so beautiful! It had been done expressly for her -too! And there had been something, she knew not what, in his eye as he -had so declared. She had watched him intently over those four evenings’ -work, wondering why he did not show it, till her feminine curiosity had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> -become rather strong. It was something very particular, she was sure, -and she had learned that all that precious work had been for her. Now -all that precious work was destroyed. How was it possible that she -should not cry for more than three minutes?</p> - -<p>The others took their meal in perfect silence, and when it was over the -two women sat down to their work. Aaron had a book which he pretended to -read, but instead of reading he was bethinking himself that he had -behaved badly. What right had he to throw them all into such confusion -by indulging in his passion? He was ashamed of what he had done, and -fancied that Susan would hate him. Fancying that, he began to find at -the same time that he by no means hated her.</p> - -<p>At last Hetta got up and left the room. She knew that her sister was -sitting alone in the cold, and Hetta was affectionate. Susan had not -been in fault, and therefore Hetta went up to console her.</p> - -<p>“Mrs. Bell,” said Aaron, as soon as the door was closed, “I beg your -pardon for what I did just now.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, sir, I’m so sorry that the picture is burnt,” said poor Mrs. Bell.</p> - -<p>“The picture does not matter a straw,” said Aaron. “But I see that I -have disturbed you all,—and I am afraid I have made Miss Susan -unhappy.”</p> - -<p>“She was grieved because your picture was burnt,” said Mrs. Bell, -putting some emphasis on the “your,” intending to show that her daughter -had not regarded the drawing as her own. But the emphasis bore another -meaning; and so the widow perceived as soon as she had spoken.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can do twenty more of the same if anybody wanted them,” said -Aaron. “If I do another like it, will you let her take it, Mrs. -Bell?—just to show that you have forgiven me, and that we are friends -as we were before?”</p> - -<p>Was he, or was he not a wolf? That was the question which Mrs. Bell -scarcely knew how to answer. Hetta had given her voice, saying he was -lupine. Mr. Beckard’s opinion she had not liked to ask directly. Mr. -Beckard she thought would probably propose to Hetta; but as yet he had -not done so. And, as he was still a stranger in the family, she did not -like in any way to compromise Susan’s name. Indirectly she had asked the -question, and, indirectly also, Mr. Beckard’s answer had been -favourable.</p> - -<p>“But it mustn’t mean anything, sir,” was the widow’s weak answer, when -she had paused on the question for a moment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh no, of course not,” said Aaron, joyously, and his face became -radiant and happy. “And I do beg your pardon for burning it; and the -young ladies’ pardon too.” And then, he rapidly got out his cardboard, -and set himself to work about another bridge. The widow, meditating many -things in her heart, commenced the hemming of a handkerchief.</p> - -<p>In about an hour the two girls came back to the room and silently took -their accustomed places. Aaron hardly looked up, but went on diligently -with his drawing. This bridge should be a better bridge than that other. -Its acceptance was now assured. Of course it was to mean nothing. That -was a matter of course. So he worked away diligently, and said nothing -to anybody.</p> - -<p>When they went off to bed the two girls went into the mother’s room. -“Oh, mother, I hope he is not very angry,” said Susan.</p> - -<p>“Angry!” said Hetta, “if anybody should be angry, it is mother. He ought -to have known that Susan could not accept it. He should never have -offered it.”</p> - -<p>“But he’s doing another,” said Mrs. Bell.</p> - -<p>“Not for her,” said Hetta.</p> - -<p>“Yes he is,” said Mrs. Bell, “and I have promised that she shall take -it.” Susan as she heard this sank gently into the chair behind her, and -her eyes became full of tears. The intimation was almost too much for -her.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother!” said Hetta.</p> - -<p>“But I particularly said that it was to mean nothing.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, that makes it worse.”</p> - -<p>Why should Hetta interfere in this way, thought Susan to herself. Had -she interfered when Mr. Beckard gave Hetta a testament bound in Morocco? -Had not she smiled, and looked gratified, and kissed her sister, and -declared that Phineas Beckard was a nice dear man, and by far the most -elegant preacher at the Springs? Why should Hetta be so cruel?</p> - -<p>“I don’t see that, my dear,” said the mother. Hetta would not explain -before her sister, so they all went to bed.</p> - -<p>On the Thursday evening the drawing was finished. Not a word had been -said about it, at any rate in his presence, and he had gone on working -in silence. “There,” said he, late on the Thursday evening, “I don’t -know that it will be any better if I go on daubing for another hour. -There, Miss Susan; there’s another bridge. I hope that will neither -burst with the frost, nor yet be destroyed by fire,” and he gave it a -light flip with his fingers and sent it skimming over the table.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span></p> - -<p>Susan blushed and smiled, and took it up. “Oh, it is beautiful,” she -said. “Isn’t it beautifully done, mother?” and then all the three got up -to look at it, and all confessed that it was excellently done.</p> - -<p>“And I am sure we are very much obliged to you,” said Susan after a -pause, remembering that she had not yet thanked him.</p> - -<p>“Oh, it’s nothing,” said he, not quite liking the word “we.”</p> - -<p>On the following day he returned from his work to Saratoga about noon. -This he had never done before, and therefore no one expected that he -would be seen in the house before the evening. On this occasion, -however, he went straight thither, and as chance would have it, both the -widow and her elder daughter were out. Susan was there alone in charge -of the house.</p> - -<p>He walked in and opened the parlour door. There she sat, with her feet -on the fender, with her work unheeded on the table behind her, and the -picture, Aaron’s drawing, lying on her knees. She was gazing at it -intently as he entered, thinking in her young heart that it possessed -all the beauties which a picture could possess.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Dunn,” she said, getting up and holding the tell-tale sketch -behind the skirt of her dress.</p> - -<p>“Miss Susan, I have come here to tell your mother that I must start for -New York this afternoon and be there for six weeks, or perhaps longer.”</p> - -<p>“Mother is out,” said she; “I’m so sorry.”</p> - -<p>“Is she?” said Aaron.</p> - -<p>“And Hetta too. Dear me. And you’ll be wanting dinner. I’ll go and see -about it.”</p> - -<p>Aaron began to swear that he could not possibly eat any dinner. He had -dined once, and was going to dine again;—anything to keep her from -going.</p> - -<p>“But you must have something, Mr. Dunn,” and she walked towards the -door.</p> - -<p>But he put his back to it. “Miss Susan,” said he, “I guess I’ve been -here nearly two months.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, I believe you have,” she replied, shaking in her shoes, and -not knowing which way to look.</p> - -<p>“And I hope we have been good friends.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir,” said Susan, almost beside herself as to what she was saying.</p> - -<p>“I’m going away now, and it seems to be such a time before I’ll be -back.”</p> - -<p>“Will it, sir?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span></p> - -<p>“Six weeks, Miss Susan!” and then he paused, looking into her eyes, to -see what he could read there. She leant against the table, pulling to -pieces a morsel of half-ravelled muslin which she held in her hand; but -her eyes were turned to the ground, and he could hardly see them.</p> - -<p>“Miss Susan,” he continued, “I may as well speak out now as at another -time.” He too was looking towards the ground, and clearly did not know -what to do with his hands. “The truth is just this. I—I love you -dearly, with all my heart. I never saw any one I ever thought so -beautiful, so nice and so good;—and what’s more, I never shall. I’m not -very good at this sort of thing, I know; but I couldn’t go away from -Saratoga for six weeks and not tell you.” And then he ceased. He did not -ask for any love in return. His presumption had not got so far as that -yet. He merely declared his passion, leaning against the door, and there -he stood twiddling his thumbs.</p> - -<p>Susan had not the slightest conception of the way in which she ought to -receive such a declaration. She had never had a lover before; nor had -she ever thought of Aaron absolutely as a lover, though something very -like love for him had been crossing over her spirit. Now, at this -moment, she felt that he was the beau-idéal of manhood, though his boots -were covered with the railway mud, and though his pantaloons were tucked -up in rolls round his ankles. He was a fine, well-grown, open-faced -fellow, whose eye was bold and yet tender, whose brow was full and -broad, and all his bearing manly. Love him! Of course she loved him. Why -else had her heart melted with pleasure when her mother said that that -second picture was to be accepted?</p> - -<p>But what was she to say? Anything but the open truth; she well knew -that. The open truth would not do at all. What would her mother say and -Hetta if she were rashly to say that? Hetta, she knew, would be dead -against such a lover, and of her mother’s approbation she had hardly -more hope. Why they should disapprove of Aaron as a lover she had never -asked herself. There are many nice things that seem to be wrong only -because they are so nice. Maybe that Susan regarded a lover as one of -them. “Oh, Mr. Dunn, you shouldn’t.” That in fact was all that she could -say.</p> - -<p>“Should not I?” said he. “Well, perhaps not; but there’s the truth, and -no harm ever comes of that. Perhaps I’d better not ask you for an answer -now, but I thought it better you should know it all. And remember -this—I only care for one thing now in the world, and that is for your -love.” And then<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> he paused, thinking possibly that in spite of what he -had said he might perhaps get some sort of an answer, some inkling of -the state of her heart’s disposition towards him.</p> - -<p>But Susan had at once resolved to take him at his word when he suggested -that an immediate reply was not necessary. To say that she loved him was -of course impossible, and to say that she did not was equally so. She -determined therefore to close at once with the offer of silence.</p> - -<p>When he ceased speaking there was a moment’s pause, during which he -strove hard to read what might be written on her down-turned face. But -he was not good at such reading. “Well, I guess I’ll go and get my -things ready now,” he said, and then turned round to open the door.</p> - -<p>“Mother will be in before you are gone, I suppose,” said Susan.</p> - -<p>“I have only got twenty minutes,” said he, looking at his watch. “But, -Susan, tell her what I have said to you. Good-bye.” And he put out his -hand. He knew he should see her again, but this had been his plan to get -her hand in his.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, Mr. Dunn,” and she gave him her hand.</p> - -<p>He held it tight for a moment, so that she could not draw it -away,—could not if she would. “Will you tell your mother?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered, quite in a whisper. “I guess I’d better tell her.” -And then she gave a long sigh. He pressed her hand again and got it up -to his lips.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Dunn, don’t,” she said. But he did kiss it. “God bless you, my own -dearest, dearest girl! I’ll just open the door as I come down. Perhaps -Mrs. Bell will be here.” And then he rushed up stairs.</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Bell did not come in. She and Hetta were at a weekly service at -Mr. Beckard’s meeting-house, and Mr. Beckard it seemed had much to say. -Susan, when left alone, sat down and tried to think. But she could not -think; she could only love. She could use her mind only in recounting to -herself the perfections of that demigod whose heavy steps were so -audible overhead, as he walked to and fro collecting his things and -putting them into his bag.</p> - -<p>And then, just when he had finished, she bethought herself that he must -be hungry. She flew to the kitchen, but she was too late. Before she -could even reach at the loaf of bread he descended the stairs, with a -clattering noise, and heard her voice as she spoke quickly to Kate -O’Brien.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span></p> - -<p>“Miss Susan,” he said, “don’t get anything for me, for I’m off.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Mr. Dunn, I am so sorry. You’ll be so hungry on your journey,” and -she came out to him in the passage.</p> - -<p>“I shall want nothing on the journey, dearest, if you’ll say one kind -word to me.”</p> - -<p>Again her eyes went to the ground. “What do you want me to say, Mr. -Dunn?”</p> - -<p>“Say, God bless you, Aaron.”</p> - -<p>“God bless you, Aaron,” said she; and yet she was sure that she had not -declared her love. He however thought otherwise, and went up to New York -with a happy heart.</p> - -<p>Things happened in the next fortnight rather quickly. Susan at once -resolved to tell her mother, but she resolved also not to tell Hetta. -That afternoon she got her mother to herself in Mrs. Bell’s own room, -and then she made a clean breast of it.</p> - -<p>“And what did you say to him, Susan?”</p> - -<p>“I said nothing, mother.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing, dear!”</p> - -<p>“No, mother; not a word. He told me he didn’t want it.”</p> - -<p>She forgot how she had used his Christian name in bidding God bless him.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear!” said the widow.</p> - -<p>“Was it very wrong?” asked Susan.</p> - -<p>“But what do you think yourself, my child?” asked Mrs. Bell after a -while. “What are your own feelings.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bell was sitting on a chair and Susan was standing opposite to her -against the post of the bed. She made no answer, but moving from her -place, she threw herself into her mother’s arms, and hid her face on her -mother’s shoulder. It was easy enough to guess what were her feelings.</p> - -<p>“But, my darling,” said her mother, “you must not think that it is an -engagement.”</p> - -<p>“No,” said Susan, sorrowfully.</p> - -<p>“Young men say those things to amuse themselves.” Wolves, she would have -said, had she spoken out her mind freely.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother, he is not like that.”</p> - -<p>The daughter contrived to extract a promise from the mother that Hetta -should not be told just at present. Mrs. Bell calculated that she had -six weeks before her; as yet Mr. Beckard had not spoken out, but there -was reason to suppose that he would do so before those six weeks would -be over, and then she would be able to seek counsel from him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span></p> - -<p>Mr. Beckard spoke out at the end of six days, and Hetta frankly accepted -him. “I hope you’ll love your brother-in-law,” said she to Susan.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I will indeed,” said Susan; and in the softness of her heart at the -moment she almost made up her mind to tell; but Hetta was full of her -own affairs, and thus it passed off.</p> - -<p>It was then arranged that Hetta should go and spend a week with Mr. -Beckard’s parents. Old Mr. Beckard was a farmer living near Utica, and -now that the match was declared and approved, it was thought well that -Hetta should know her future husband’s family. So she went for a week, -and Mr. Beckard went with her. “He will be back in plenty of time for me -to speak to him before Aaron Dunn’s six weeks are over,” said Mrs. Bell -to herself.</p> - -<p>But things did not go exactly as she expected. On the very morning after -the departure of the engaged couple, there came a letter from Aaron, -saying that he would be at Saratoga that very evening. The railway -people had ordered him down again for some days’ special work; then he -was to go elsewhere, and not to return to Saratoga till June. “But he -hoped,” so said the letter, “that Mrs. Bell would not turn him into the -street even then, though the summer might have come, and her regular -lodgers might be expected.”</p> - -<p>“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Mrs. Bell to herself, reflecting that she had -no one of whom she could ask advice, and that she must decide that very -day. Why had she let Mr. Beckard go without telling him? Then she told -Susan, and Susan spent the day trembling. Perhaps, thought Mrs. Bell, he -will say nothing about it. In such case, however, would it not be her -duty to say something? Poor mother! She trembled nearly as much as -Susan.</p> - -<p>It was dark when the fatal knock came at the door. The tea-things were -already laid, and the tea-cake was already baked; for it would at any -rate be necessary to give Mr. Dunn his tea. Susan, when she heard the -knock, rushed from her chair and took refuge up stairs. The widow gave a -long sigh and settled her dress. Kate O’Brien with willing step opened -the door, and bade her old friend welcome.</p> - -<p>“How are the ladies?” asked Aaron, trying to gather something from the -face and voice of the domestic.</p> - -<p>“Miss Hetta and Mr. Beckard be gone off to Utica, just man-and-wife -like! and so they are, more power to them.”</p> - -<p>“Oh indeed; I’m very glad,” said Aaron—and so he was;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> very glad to -have Hetta the demure out of the way. And then he made his way into the -parlour, doubting much, and hoping much.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Bell rose from her chair, and tried to look grave. Aaron glancing -round the room saw that Susan was not there. He walked straight up to -the widow, and offered her his hand, which she took. It might be that -Susan had not thought fit to tell, and in such case it would not be -right for him to compromise her; so he said never a word.</p> - -<p>But the subject was too important to the mother to allow of her being -silent when the young man stood before her. “Oh, Mr. Dunn,” said she, -“what is this you have been saying to Susan?”</p> - -<p>“I have asked her to be my wife,” said he, drawing himself up and -looking her full in the face. Mrs. Bell’s heart was almost as soft as -her daughter’s, and it was nearly gone; but at the moment she had -nothing to say but, “Oh dear, oh dear!”</p> - -<p>“May I not call you mother?” said he, taking both her hands in his.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear—oh dear! But will you be good to her? Oh, Aaron Dunn, if you -deceive my child!”</p> - -<p>In another quarter of an hour, Susan was kneeling at her mother’s knee, -with her face on her mother’s lap; the mother was wiping tears out of -her eyes; and Aaron was standing by holding one of the widow’s hands.</p> - -<p>“You are my mother too, now,” said he. What would Hetta and Mr. Beckard -say, when they came back? But then he surely was not a wolf!</p> - -<p>There were four or five days left for courtship before Hetta and Mr. -Beckard would return; four or five days during which Susan might be -happy, Aaron triumphant, and Mrs. Bell nervous. Days I have said, but -after all it was only the evenings that were so left. Every morning -Susan got up to give Aaron his breakfast, but Mrs. Bell got up also. -Susan boldly declared her right to do so, and Mrs. Bell found no -objection which she could urge.</p> - -<p>But after that Aaron was always absent till seven or eight in the -evening, when he would return to his tea. Then came the hour or two of -lovers’ intercourse.</p> - -<p>But they were very tame, those hours. The widow still felt an undefined -fear that she was wrong, and though her heart yearned to know that her -daughter was happy in the sweet happiness of accepted love, yet she -dreaded to be too confident. Not a word had been said about money -matters; not a word of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> Aaron Dunn’s relatives. So she did not leave -them by themselves, but waited with what patience she could for the -return of her wise counsellors.</p> - -<p>And then Susan hardly knew how to behave herself with her accepted -suitor. She felt that she was very happy; but perhaps she was most happy -when she was thinking about him through the long day, assisting in -fixing little things for his comfort, and waiting for his evening -return. And as he sat there in the parlour, she could be happy then too, -if she were but allowed to sit still and look at him,—not stare at him, -but raise her eyes every now and again to his face for the shortest -possible glance, as she had been used to do ever since he came there.</p> - -<p>But he, unconscionable lover, wanted to hear her speak, was desirous of -being talked to, and perhaps thought that he should by rights be allowed -to sit by her, and hold her hand. No such privileges were accorded to -him. If they had been alone together, walking side by side on the green -turf, as lovers should walk, she would soon have found the use of her -tongue,—have talked fast enough no doubt. Under such circumstances, -when a girl’s shyness has given way to real intimacy, there is in -general no end to her power of chatting. But though there was much love -between Aaron and Susan, there was as yet but little intimacy. And then, -let a mother be ever so motherly—and no mother could have more of a -mother’s tenderness than Mrs. Bell—still her presence must be a -restraint. Aaron was very fond of Mrs. Bell; but nevertheless he did -sometimes wish that some domestic duty would take her out of the parlour -for a few happy minutes. Susan went out very often, but Mrs. Bell seemed -to be a fixture.</p> - -<p>Once for a moment he did find his love alone, immediately as he came -into the house. “My own Susan, you do love me? do say so to me once.” -And he contrived to slip his arm round her waist. “Yes,” she whispered; -but she slipped like an eel from his hands, and left him only preparing -himself for a kiss. And then when she got to her room, half frightened, -she clasped her hands together, and bethought herself that she did -really love him with a strength and depth of love which filled her whole -existence. Why could she not have told him something of all this?</p> - -<p>And so the few days of his second sojourn at Saratoga passed away, not -altogether satisfactorily. It was settled that he should return to New -York on Saturday night, leaving Saratoga on that evening; and as the -Beckards—Hetta was already<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> regarded quite as a Beckard—were to be -back to dinner on that day, Mrs. Bell would have an opportunity of -telling her wondrous tale. It might be well that Mr. Beckard should see -Aaron before his departure.</p> - -<p>On that Saturday the Beckards did arrive just in time for dinner. It may -be imagined that Susan’s appetite was not very keen, nor her manner very -collected. But all this passed by unobserved in the importance attached -to the various Beckard arrangements which came under discussion. Ladies -and gentlemen circumstanced as were Hetta and Mr. Beckard are perhaps a -little too apt to think that their own affairs are paramount. But after -dinner Susan vanished at once, and when Hetta prepared to follow her, -desirous of further talk about matrimonial arrangements, her mother -stopped her, and the disclosure was made.</p> - -<p>“Proposed to her!” said Hetta, who perhaps thought that one marriage in -a family was enough at a time.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my love—and he did it, I must say, in a very honourable way, -telling her not to make any answer till she had spoken to me;—now that -was very nice; was it not, Phineas?” Mrs. Bell had become very anxious -that Aaron should not be voted a wolf.</p> - -<p>“And what has been said to him since?” asked the discreet Phineas.</p> - -<p>“Why—nothing absolutely decisive.” Oh, Mrs. Bell! “You see I know -nothing as to his means.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing at all,” said Hetta.</p> - -<p>“He is a man that will always earn his bread,” said Mr. Beckard; and -Mrs. Bell blessed him in her heart for saying it.</p> - -<p>“But has he been encouraged?” asked Hetta.</p> - -<p>“Well; yes, he has,” said the widow.</p> - -<p>“Then Susan I suppose likes him?” asked Phineas.</p> - -<p>“Well; yes, she does,” said the widow. And the conference ended in a -resolution that Phineas Beckard should have a conversation with Aaron -Dunn, as to his worldly means and position; and that he, Phineas, should -decide whether Aaron might, or might not be at once accepted as a lover, -according to the tenor of that conversation. Poor Susan was not told -anything of all this. “Better not,” said Hetta the demure. “It will only -flurry her the more.” How would she have liked it, if without consulting -her, they had left it to Aaron to decide whether or no she might marry -Phineas?</p> - -<p>They knew where on the works Aaron was to be found, and thither Mr. -Beckard rode after dinner. We need not narrate at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> length, the -conference between, the young men. Aaron at once declared that he had -nothing but what he made as an engineer, and explained that he held no -permanent situation on the line. He was well paid at that present -moment, but at the end of summer he would have to look for employment.</p> - -<p>“Then you can hardly marry quite at present,” said the discreet -minister.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not quite immediately.”</p> - -<p>“And long engagements are never wise,” said the other.</p> - -<p>“Three or four months,” suggested Aaron. But Mr. Beckard shook his head.</p> - -<p>The afternoon at Mrs. Bell’s house was melancholy. The final decision of -the three judges was as follows. There was to be no engagement; of -course no correspondence. Aaron was to be told that it would be better -that he should get lodgings elsewhere when he returned; but that he -would be allowed to visit at Mrs. Bell’s house,—and at Mrs. Beckard’s, -which was very considerate. If he should succeed in getting a permanent -appointment, and if he and Susan still held the same mind, why then—— -&c. &c. Such was Susan’s fate, as communicated to her by Mrs. Bell and -Hetta. She sat still and wept when she heard it; but she did not -complain. She had always felt that Hetta would be against her.</p> - -<p>“Mayn’t I see him, then?” she said through, her tears.</p> - -<p>Hetta thought she had better not. Mrs. Bell thought she might. Phineas -decided that they might shake hands, but only in full conclave. There -was to be no lovers’ farewell. Aaron was to leave the house at half-past -five; but before he went Susan should be called down. Poor Susan! She -sat down and bemoaned herself; uncomplaining, but very sad.</p> - -<p>Susan was soft, feminine, and manageable. But Aaron Dunn was not very -soft, was especially masculine, and in some matters not easily -manageable. When Mr. Beckard in the widow’s presence—Hetta had retired -in obedience to her lover—informed him of the court’s decision, there -came over his face the look which he had worn when he burned the -picture. “Mrs. Bell,” he said, “had encouraged his engagement; and he -did not understand why other people should now come and disturb it.”</p> - -<p>“Not an engagement, Aaron,” said Mrs. Bell piteously.</p> - -<p>“He was able and willing to work,” he said, “and knew his profession. -What young man of his age had done better than he had?” and he glanced -round at them with perhaps more pride than was quite becoming.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span></p> - -<p>Then Mr. Beckard spoke out, very wisely no doubt, but perhaps a little -too much at length. Sons and daughters, as well as fathers and mothers, -will know very well what he said; so I need not repeat his words. I -cannot say that Aaron listened with much attention, but he understood -perfectly what the upshot of it was. Many a man understands the purport -of many a sermon without listening to one word in ten. Mr. Beckard meant -to be kind in his manner; indeed was so, only that Aaron could not -accept as kindness any interference on his part.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Bell,” said he. “I look upon myself as engaged -to her. And I look on her as engaged to me. I tell you so fairly; and I -believe that’s her mind as well as mine.”</p> - -<p>“But, Aaron, you won’t try to see her—or to write to her,—not in -secret; will you?”</p> - -<p>“When I try to see her, I’ll come and knock at this door; and if I write -to her, I’ll write to her full address by the post. I never did and -never will do anything in secret.”</p> - -<p>“I know you’re good and honest,” said the widow with her handkerchief to -her eyes.</p> - -<p>“Then why do you separate us?” asked he, almost roughly. “I suppose I -may see her at any rate before I go. My time’s nearly up now, I guess.”</p> - -<p>And then Susan was called for, and she and Hetta came down together. -Susan crept in behind her sister. Her eyes were red with weeping, and -her appearance was altogether disconsolate. She had had a lover for a -week, and now she was to be robbed of him.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, Susan,” said Aaron, and he walked up to her without -bashfulness or embarrassment. Had they all been compliant and gracious -to him he would have been as bashful as his love; but now his temper was -hot. “Good-bye, Susan,” and she took his hand, and he held hers till he -had finished. “And remember this, I look upon you as my promised wife, -and I don’t fear that you’ll deceive me. At any rate I shan’t deceive -you.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, Aaron,” she sobbed.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, and God bless you, my own darling!” And then without saying a -word to any one else, he turned his back upon them and went his way.</p> - -<p>There had been something very consolatory, very sweet, to the poor girl -in her lover’s last words. And yet they had almost made her tremble. He -had been so bold, and stern, and confident. He had seemed so utterly to -defy the impregnable discretion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> of Mr. Beckard, so to despise the -demure propriety of Hetta. But of this she felt sure, when she came to -question her heart, that she could never, never, never cease to love him -better than all the world beside. She would wait—patiently if she could -find patience—and then, if he deserted her, she would die.</p> - -<p>In another month Hetta became Mrs. Beckard. Susan brisked up a little -for the occasion, and looked very pretty as bridesmaid. She was -serviceable too in arranging household matters, hemming linen and sewing -table-cloths; though of course in these matters she did not do a tenth -of what Hetta did.</p> - -<p>Then the summer came, the Saratoga summer of July, August, and -September, during which the widow’s house was full; and Susan’s hands -saved the pain of her heart, for she was forced into occupation. Now -that Hetta was gone to her own duties, it was necessary that Susan’s -part in the household should be more prominent.</p> - -<p>Aaron did not come back to his work at Saratoga. Why he did not they -could not then learn. During the whole long summer they heard not a word -of him nor from him; and then when the cold winter months came and their -boarders had left them, Mrs. Beckard congratulated her sister in that -she had given no further encouragement to a lover who cared so little -for her. This was very hard to bear. But Susan did bear it.</p> - -<p>That winter was very sad. They learned nothing of Aaron Dunn till about -January; and then they heard that he was doing very well. He was engaged -on the Erie trunk line, was paid highly, and was much esteemed. And yet -he neither came nor sent! “He has an excellent situation,” their -informant told them. “And a permanent one?” asked the widow. “Oh, yes, -no doubt,” said the gentleman, “for I happen to know that they count -greatly on him.” And yet he sent no word of love.</p> - -<p>After that the winter became very sad indeed. Mrs. Bell thought it to be -her duty now to teach her daughter that in all probability she would see -Aaron Dunn no more. It was open to him to leave her without being -absolutely a wolf. He had been driven from the house when he was poor, -and they had no right to expect that he would return, now that he had -made some rise in the world. “Men do amuse themselves in that way,” the -widow tried to teach her.</p> - -<p>“He is not like that, mother,” she said again.</p> - -<p>“But they do not think so much of these things as we do,” urged the -mother.</p> - -<p>“Don’t they?” said Susan, oh, so sorrowfully; and so through<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span> the whole -long winter months she became paler and paler, and thinner and thinner.</p> - -<p>And then Hetta tried to console her with religion, and that perhaps did -not make things any better. Religious consolation is the best cure for -all griefs; but it must not be looked for specially with regard to any -individual sorrow. A religious man, should he become bankrupt through -the misfortunes of the world, will find true consolation in his religion -even for that sorrow. But a bankrupt, who has not thought much of such -things, will hardly find solace by taking up religion for that special -occasion.</p> - -<p>And Hetta perhaps was hardly prudent in her attempts. She thought that -it was wicked in Susan to grow thin and pale for love of Aaron Dunn, and -she hardly hid her thoughts. Susan was not sure but that it might be -wicked, but this doubt in no way tended to make her plump or rosy. So -that in those days she found no comfort in her sister.</p> - -<p>But her mother’s pity and soft love did ease her sufferings, though it -could not make them cease. Her mother did not tell her that she was -wicked, or bid her read long sermons, or force her to go oftener to the -meeting-house.</p> - -<p>“He will never come again, I think,” she said one day, as with a shawl -wrapped around her shoulders, she leant with her head upon her mother’s -bosom.</p> - -<p>“My own darling,” said the mother, pressing her child closely to her -side.</p> - -<p>“You think he never will, eh, mother?” What could Mrs. Bell say? In her -heart of hearts she did not think he ever would come again.</p> - -<p>“No, my child. I do not think he will.” And then the hot tears ran down, -and the sobs came thick and frequent.</p> - -<p>“My darling, my darling!” exclaimed the mother; and they wept together.</p> - -<p>“Was I wicked to love him at the first,” she asked that night.</p> - -<p>“No, my child; you were not wicked at all. At least I think not.”</p> - -<p>“Then why——” Why was he sent away? It was on her tongue to ask that -question; but she paused and spared her mother. This was as they were -going to bed. The next morning Susan did not get up. She was not ill, -she said; but weak and weary. Would her mother let her lie that day? And -then Mrs. Bell went down alone to her room, and sorrowed with all her -heart for the sorrow of her child. Why, oh why, had she driven away from -her door-sill the love of an honest man?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span></p> - -<p>On the next morning Susan again did not get up;—nor did she hear, or if -she heard she did not recognise, the step of the postman who brought a -letter to the door. Early, before the widow’s breakfast, the postman -came, and the letter which he brought was as follows:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">My dear Mrs. Bell</span>,</p> - -<p class="indd">“I have now got a permanent situation on the Erie line, and the -salary is enough for myself and a wife. At least I think so, and I -hope you will too. I shall be down at Saratoga to-morrow evening, -and I hope neither Susan, nor you will refuse to receive me.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 8em;">“Yours affectionately,</span><br /> -“<span class="smcap">Aaron Dunn</span>.”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>That was all. It was very short, and did not contain one word of love; -but it made the widow’s heart leap for joy. She was rather afraid that -Aaron was angry, he wrote so curtly and with such a brusque -business-like attention to mere facts; but surely he could have but one -object in coming there. And then he alluded specially to a wife. So the -widow’s heart leapt with joy.</p> - -<p>But how was she to tell Susan? She ran up stairs almost breathless with -haste, to the bedroom door; but then she stopped; too much joy she had -heard was as dangerous as too much sorrow; she must think it over for a -while, and so she crept back again.</p> - -<p>But after breakfast—that is, when she had sat for a while over her -teacup—she returned to the room, and this time she entered it. The -letter was in her hand, but held so as to be hidden;—in her left hand -as she sat down with her right arm towards the invalid.</p> - -<p>“Susan dear,” she said, and smiled at her child, “you’ll be able to get -up this morning? eh, dear?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mother,” said Susan, thinking that her mother objected to this -idleness of her lying in bed. And so she began to bestir herself.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mean this very moment, love. Indeed, I want to sit with you for -a little while,” and she put her right arm affectionately round her -daughter’s waist.</p> - -<p>“Dearest mother,” said Susan.</p> - -<p>“Ah! there’s one dearer than me, I guess,” and Mrs. Bell smiled sweetly, -as she made the maternal charge against her daughter.</p> - -<p>Susan raised herself quickly in the bed, and looked straight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span> into her -mother’s face. “Mother, mother,” she said, “what is it? You’ve something -to tell. Oh, mother!” And stretching herself over, she struck her hand -against the corner of Aaron’s letter. “Mother, you’ve a letter. Is he -coming, mother?” and with eager eyes and open lips, she sat up, holding -tight to her mother’s arm.</p> - -<p>“Yes, love. I have got a letter.”</p> - -<p>“Is he—is he coming?”</p> - -<p>How the mother answered, I can hardly tell; but she did answer, and they -were soon lying in each other’s arms, warm with each other’s tears. It -was almost hard to say which was the happier.</p> - -<p>Aaron was to be there that evening—that very evening. “Oh, mother, let -me get up,” said Susan.</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Bell said no, not yet; her darling was pale and thin, and she -almost wished that Aaron was not coming for another week. What if he -should come and look at her, and finding her beauty gone, vanish again -and seek a wife elsewhere!</p> - -<p>So Susan lay in bed, thinking of her happiness, dozing now and again, -and fearing as she waked that it was a dream, looking constantly at that -drawing of his, which she kept outside upon the bed, nursing her love -and thinking of it, and endeavouring, vainly endeavouring, to arrange -what she would say to him.</p> - -<p>“Mother,” she said, when Mrs. Bell once went up to her, “you won’t tell -Hetta and Phineas, will you? Not to-day, I mean?” Mrs. Bell agreed that -it would be better not to tell them. Perhaps she thought that she had -already depended too much on Hetta and Phineas in the matter.</p> - -<p>Susan’s finery in the way of dress had never been extensive, and now -lately, in these last sad winter days, she had thought but little of the -fashion of her clothes. But when she began to dress herself for the -evening, she did ask her mother with some anxiety what she had better -wear. “If he loves you he will hardly see what you have on,” said the -mother. But not the less was she careful to smooth her daughter’s hair, -and make the most that might be made of those faded roses.</p> - -<p>How Susan’s heart beat,—how both their hearts beat as the hands of the -clock came round to seven! And then, sharp at seven, came the knock; -that same short bold ringing knock which Susan had so soon learned to -know as belonging to Aaron Dunn. “Oh mother, I had better go up stairs,” -she cried, starting from her chair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span></p> - -<p>“No dear; you would only be more nervous.”</p> - -<p>“I will, mother.”</p> - -<p>“No, no, dear; you have not time;” and then Aaron Dunn was in the room.</p> - -<p>She had thought much what she would say to him, but had not yet quite -made up her mind. It mattered however but very little. On whatever she -might have resolved, her resolution would have vanished to the wind. -Aaron Dunn came into the room, and in one second she found herself in -the centre of a whirlwind, and his arms were the storms that enveloped -her on every side.</p> - -<p>“My own, own darling girl,” he said over and over again, as he pressed -her to his heart, quite regardless of Mrs. Bell, who stood by, sobbing -with joy. “My own Susan.”</p> - -<p>“Aaron, dear Aaron,” she whispered. But she had already recognised the -fact that for the present meeting a passive part would become her well, -and save her a deal of trouble. She had her lover there quite safe, safe -beyond anything that Mr. or Mrs. Beckard might have to say to the -contrary. She was quite happy; only that there were symptoms now and -again that the whirlwind was about to engulf her yet once more.</p> - -<p>“Dear Aaron, I am so glad you are come,” said the innocent-minded widow, -as she went up stairs with him, to show him his room; and then he -embraced her also. “Dear, dear mother,” he said.</p> - -<p>On the next day there was, as a matter of course, a family conclave. -Hetta and Phineas came down, and discussed the whole subject of the -coming marriage with Mrs. Bell. Hetta at first was not quite -certain;—ought they not to inquire whether the situation was permanent?</p> - -<p>“I won’t inquire at all,” said Mrs. Bell, with an energy that startled -both the daughter and son-in-law. “I would not part them now; no, not -if——” and the widow shuddered as she thought of her daughter’s sunken -eyes, and pale cheeks.</p> - -<p>“He is a good lad,” said Phineas, “and I trust she will make him a sober -steady wife;” and so the matter was settled.</p> - -<p>During this time, Susan and Aaron were walking along the Balston road; -and they also had settled the matter—quite as satisfactorily.</p> - -<p>Such was the courtship of Susan Dunn.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="RELICS_OF_GENERAL_CHASSE" id="RELICS_OF_GENERAL_CHASSE"></a>RELICS OF GENERAL CHASSÉ.<br /><br /> -<small>A TALE OF ANTWERP.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> Belgium is now one of the European kingdoms, living by its own -laws, resting on its own bottom, with a king and court, palaces and -parliament of its own, is known to all the world. And a very nice little -kingdom it is; full of old towns, fine Flemish pictures, and interesting -Gothic churches. But in the memory of very many of us who do not think -ourselves old men, Belgium, as it is now called—in those days it used -to be Flanders and Brabant—was a part of Holland; and it obtained its -own independence by a revolution. In that revolution the most important -military step was the siege of Antwerp, which was defended on the part -of the Dutch by General Chassé, with the utmost gallantry, but -nevertheless ineffectually.</p> - -<p>After the siege Antwerp became quite a show place; and among the -visitors who flocked there to talk of the gallant general, and to see -what remained of the great effort which he had made to defend the place, -were two Englishmen. One was the hero of this little history; and the -other was a young man of considerably less weight in the world. The less -I say of the latter the better; but it is necessary that I should give -some description of the former.</p> - -<p>The Rev. Augustus Horne was, at the time of my narrative, a beneficed -clergyman of the Church of England. The profession which he had graced -sat easily on him. Its external marks and signs were as pleasing to his -friends as were its internal comforts to himself. He was a man of much -quiet mirth, full of polished wit, and on some rare occasions he could -descend to the more noisy hilarity of a joke. Loved by his friends he -loved all the world. He had known no care and seen no sorrow. Always -intended for holy orders he had entered them without a scruple, and -remained within their pale without a regret. At twenty-four<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> he had been -a deacon, at twenty-seven a priest, at thirty a rector, and at -thirty-five a prebendary; and as his rectory was rich and his prebendal -stall well paid, the Rev. Augustus Horne was called by all, and called -himself, a happy man. His stature was about six feet two, and his -corpulence exceeded even those bounds which symmetry would have -preferred as being most perfectly compatible even with such a height. -But nevertheless Mr. Horne was a well-made man; his hands and feet were -small; his face was handsome, frank, and full of expression; his bright -eyes twinkled with humour; his finely-cut mouth disclosed two marvellous -rows of well-preserved ivory; and his slightly aquiline nose was just -such a projection as one would wish to see on the face of a well-fed -good-natured dignitary of the Church of England. When I add to all this -that the reverend gentleman was as generous as he was rich—and the kind -mother in whose arms he had been nurtured had taken care that he should -never want—I need hardly say that I was blessed with a very pleasant -travelling companion.</p> - -<p>I must mention one more interesting particular. Mr. Horne was rather -inclined to dandyism, in an innocent way. His clerical starched -neckcloth was always of the whitest, his cambric handkerchief of the -finest, his bands adorned with the broadest border; his sable suit never -degenerated to a rusty brown; it not only gave on all occasions glossy -evidence of freshness, but also of the talent which the artisan had -displayed in turning out a well-dressed clergyman of the Church of -England. His hair was ever brushed with scrupulous attention, and showed -in its regular waves the guardian care of each separate bristle. And all -this was done with that ease and grace which should be the -characteristics of a dignitary of the established English Church.</p> - -<p>I had accompanied Mr. Horne to the Rhine; and we had reached Brussels on -our return, just at the close of that revolution which ended in -affording a throne to the son-in-law of George the Fourth. At that -moment General Chassé’s name and fame were in every man’s mouth, and, -like other curious admirers of the brave, Mr. Horne determined to devote -two days to the scene of the late events at Antwerp. Antwerp, moreover, -possesses perhaps the finest spire, and certainly one of the three or -four finest pictures, in the world. Of General Chassé, of the cathedral, -and of the Rubens, I had heard much, and was therefore well pleased that -such should be his resolution. This accomplished we were to return to -Brussels; and thence, viâ<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> Ghent, Ostend, and Dover, I to complete my -legal studies in London, and Mr. Horne to enjoy once more the peaceful -retirement of Ollerton rectory. As we were to be absent from Brussels -but one night we were enabled to indulge in the gratification of -travelling without our luggage. A small sac-de-nuit was prepared; -brushes, combs, razors, strops, a change of linen, &c. &c., were -carefully put up; but our heavy baggage, our coats, waistcoats, and -other wearing apparel were unnecessary. It was delightful to feel -oneself so light-handed. The reverend gentleman, with my humble self by -his side, left the portal of the Hôtel de Belle Vue at 7 <small>A.M.</small>, in good -humour with all the world. There were no railroads in those days; but a -cabriolet, big enough to hold six persons, with rope traces and -corresponding appendages, deposited us at the Golden Fleece in something -less than six hours. The inward man was duly fortified, and we started -for the castle.</p> - -<p>It boots not here to describe the effects which gunpowder and grape-shot -had had on the walls of Antwerp. Let the curious in these matters read -the horrors of the siege of Troy, or the history of Jerusalem taken by -Titus. The one may be found in Homer, and the other in Josephus. Or if -they prefer doings of a later date there is the taking of Sebastopol, as -narrated in the columns of the “Times” newspaper. The accounts are -equally true, instructive, and intelligible. In the mean time allow the -Rev. Augustus Horne and myself to enter the private chambers of the -renowned though defeated general.</p> - -<p>We rambled for a while through the covered way, over the glacis and -along the counterscarp, and listened to the guide as he detailed to us, -in already accustomed words, how the siege had gone. Then we got into -the private apartments of the general, and, having dexterously shaken -off our attendant, wandered at large among the deserted rooms.</p> - -<p>“It is clear that no one ever comes here,” said I.</p> - -<p>“No,” said the Rev. Augustus; “it seems not; and to tell the truth, I -don’t know why any one should come. The chambers in themselves are not -attractive.”</p> - -<p>What he said was true. They were plain, ugly, square, unfurnished rooms, -here a big one, and there a little one, as is usual in most -houses;—unfurnished, that is, for the most part. In one place we did -find a table and a few chairs, in another a bedstead, and so on. But to -me it was pleasant to indulge in those ruminations which any traces of -the great or unfortunate create in softly sympathising minds. For a time -we communicated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> our thoughts to each other as we roamed free as air -through the apartments; and then I lingered for a few moments behind, -while Mr. Horne moved on with a quicker step.</p> - -<p>At last I entered the bedchamber of the general, and there I overtook my -friend. He was inspecting, with much attention, an article of the great -man’s wardrobe which he held in his hand. It was precisely that virile -habiliment to which a well-known gallant captain alludes in his -conversation with the posthumous appearance of Miss Bailey, as -containing a Bank of England £5 note.</p> - -<p>“The general must have been a large man, George, or he would hardly have -filled these,” said Mr. Horne, holding up to the light the respectable -leathern articles in question. “He must have been a very large man,—the -largest man in Antwerp, I should think; or else his tailor has done him -more than justice.”</p> - -<p>They were certainly large, and had about them a charming regimental -military appearance. They were made of white leather, with bright metal -buttons at the knees and bright metal buttons at the top. They owned no -pockets, and were, with the exception of the legitimate outlet, -continuous in the circumference of the waistband. No dangling strings -gave them an appearance of senile imbecility. Were it not for a certain -rigidity, sternness, and mental inflexibility,—we will call it military -ardour,—with which they were imbued, they would have created envy in -the bosom of a fox-hunter.</p> - -<p>Mr. Horne was no fox-hunter, but still he seemed to be irresistibly -taken with the lady-like propensity of wishing to wear them. “Surely, -George,” he said, “the general must have been a stouter man than I -am”—and he contemplated his own proportions with complacency—“these -what’s-the-names are quite big enough for me.”</p> - -<p>I differed in opinion, and was obliged to explain that I thought he did -the good living of Ollerton insufficient justice.</p> - -<p>“I am sure they are large enough for me,” he repeated, with considerable -obstinacy. I smiled incredulously; and then to settle the matter he -resolved that he would try them on. Nobody had been in these rooms for -the last hour, and it appeared as though they were never visited. Even -the guide had not come on with us, but was employed in showing other -parties about the fortifications. It was clear that this portion of the -building was left desolate, and that the experiment might be safely -made. So the sportive rector declared that he would for a short time<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> -wear the regimentals which had once contained the valorous heart of -General Chassé.</p> - -<p>With all decorum the Rev. Mr. Horne divested himself of the work of the -London artist’s needle, and, carefully placing his own garments beyond -the reach of dust, essayed to fit himself in military garb.</p> - -<p>At that important moment—at the critical instant of the attempt—the -clatter of female voices was heard approaching the chamber. They must -have suddenly come round some passage corner, for it was evident by the -sound that they were close upon us before we had any warning of their -advent. At this very minute Mr. Horne was somewhat embarrassed in his -attempts, and was not fully in possession of his usual active powers of -movement, nor of his usual presence of mind. He only looked for escape; -and seeing a door partly open, he with difficulty retreated through it, -and I followed him. We found that we were in a small dressing-room; and -as by good luck the door was defended by an inner bolt, my friend was -able to protect himself.</p> - -<p>“There shall be another siege, at any rate as stout as the last, before -I surrender,” said he.</p> - -<p>As the ladies seemed inclined to linger in the room it became a matter -of importance that the above-named articles should fit, not only for -ornament but for use. It was very cold, and Mr. Horne was altogether -unused to move in a Highland sphere of life. But alas, alas! General -Chassé had not been nurtured in the classical retirement of Ollerton. -The ungiving leather would stretch no point to accommodate the divine, -though it had been willing to minister to the convenience of the -soldier. Mr. Horne was vexed and chilled; and throwing the now hateful -garments into a corner, and protecting himself from the cold as best he -might by standing with his knees together and his body somewhat bent so -as to give the skirts of his coat an opportunity of doing extra duty, he -begged me to see if those jabbering females were not going to leave him -in peace to recover his own property. I accordingly went to the door, -and opening it to a small extent I peeped through.</p> - -<p>Who shall describe my horror at the sight which I then saw? The scene, -which had hitherto been tinted with comic effect, was now becoming so -decidedly tragic that I did not dare at once to acquaint my worthy -pastor with that which was occurring,—and, alas! had already occurred.</p> - -<p>Five country-women of our own—it was easy to know them<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> by their dress -and general aspect—were standing in the middle of the room; and one of -them, the centre of the group, the senior harpy of the lot, a maiden -lady—I could have sworn to that—with a red nose, held in one hand a -huge pair of scissors, and in the other—the already devoted goods of my -most unfortunate companion! Down from the waistband, through that goodly -expanse, a fell gash had already gone through and through; and in -useless, unbecoming disorder the broadcloth fell pendant from her arm on -this side and on that. At that moment I confess that I had not the -courage to speak to Mr. Horne,—not even to look at him.</p> - -<p>I must describe that group. Of the figure next to me I could only see -the back. It was a broad back done up in black silk not of the newest. -The whole figure, one may say, was dumpy. The black silk was not long, -as dresses now are worn, nor wide in its skirts. In every way it was -skimpy, considering the breadth it had to cover; and below the silk I -saw the heels of two thick shoes, and enough to swear by of two woollen -stockings. Above the silk was a red and blue shawl; and above that a -ponderous, elaborate brown bonnet, as to the materials of which I should -not wish to undergo an examination. Over and beyond this I could only -see the backs of her two hands. They were held up as though in wonder at -that which the red-nosed holder of the scissors had dared to do.</p> - -<p>Opposite to this lady, and with her face fully turned to me, was a -kindly-looking, fat motherly woman, with light-coloured hair, not in the -best order. She was hot and scarlet with exercise, being perhaps too -stout for the steep steps of the fortress; and in one hand she held a -handkerchief, with which from time to time she wiped her brow. In the -other hand she held one of the extremities of my friend’s property, -feeling—good, careful soul!—what was the texture of the cloth. As she -did so, I could see a glance of approbation pass across her warm -features. I liked that lady’s face, in spite of her untidy hair, and -felt that had she been alone my friend would not have been injured.</p> - -<p>On either side of her there stood a flaxen-haired maiden, with long -curls, large blue eyes, fresh red cheeks, an undefined lumpy nose, and -large good-humoured mouth. They were as like as two peas, only that one -was half an inch taller than the other; and there was no difficulty in -discovering, at a moment’s glance, that they were the children of that -over-heated matron who was feeling the web of my friend’s cloth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<p>But the principal figure was she who held the centre place in the group. -She was tall and thin, with fierce-looking eyes, rendered more fierce by -the spectacles which she wore; with a red nose as I said before; and -about her an undescribable something which quite convinced me that she -had never known—could never know—aught of the comforts of married -life. It was she who held the scissors and the black garments. It was -she who had given that unkind cut. As I looked at her she whisked -herself quickly round from one companion to the other, triumphing in -what she had done, and ready to triumph further in what she was about to -do. I immediately conceived a deep hatred for that Queen of the Harpies.</p> - -<p>“Well, I suppose they can’t be wanted again,” said the mother, rubbing -her forehead.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear no!” said she of the red nose. “They are relics!”</p> - -<p>I thought to leap forth; but for what purpose should I have leaped? The -accursed scissors had already done their work; and the symmetry, nay, -even the utility of the vestment was destroyed.</p> - -<p>“General Chassé wore a very good article;—I will say that for him,” -continued the mother.</p> - -<p>“Of course he did!” said the Queen Harpy. “Why should he not, seeing -that the country paid for it for him? Well, ladies, who’s for having a -bit?”</p> - -<p>“Oh my! you won’t go for to cut them up,” said the stout back.</p> - -<p>“Won’t I,” said the scissors; and she immediately made another incision. -“Who’s for having a bit? Don’t all speak at once.”</p> - -<p>“I should like a morsel for a pincushion,” said flaxen-haired Miss No. -1, a young lady about nineteen, actuated by a general affection for all -sword-bearing, fire-eating heroes. “I should like to have something to -make me think of the poor general!”</p> - -<p>Snip, snip went the scissors with professional rapidity, and a round -piece was extracted from the back of the calf of the left leg. I -shuddered with horror; and so did the Rev. Augustus Horne with cold.</p> - -<p>“I hardly think it’s proper to cut them up,” said Miss No. 2.</p> - -<p>“Oh isn’t it?” said the harpy. “Then I’ll do what’s improper!” And she -got her finger and thumb well through the holes in the scissors’ -handles. As she spoke resolution was plainly marked on her brow.</p> - -<p>“Well, if they are to be cut up, I should certainly like a bit for a -pen-wiper,” said No. 2. No. 2 was a literary young lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span> with a -periodical correspondence, a journal, and an album. Snip, snip went the -scissors again, and the broad part of the upper right division afforded -ample materials for a pen-wiper.</p> - -<p>Then the lady with the back, seeing that the desecration of the article -had been completed, plucked up heart of courage and put in her little -request; “I think I might have a needle-case out of it,” said she, “just -as a suvneer of the poor general”—and a long fragment cut rapidly out -of the waistband afforded her unqualified delight.</p> - -<p>Mamma, with the hot face and untidy hair, came next. “Well, girls,” she -said, “as you are all served, I don’t see why I’m to be left out. -Perhaps, Miss Grogram”—she was an old maid, you see—“perhaps, Miss -Grogram, you could get me as much as would make a decent-sized -reticule.”</p> - -<p>There was not the slightest difficulty in doing this. The harpy in the -centre again went to work, snip, snip, and extracting from that portion -of the affairs which usually sustained the greater portion of Mr. -Horne’s weight two large round pieces of cloth, presented them to the -well-pleased matron. “The general knew well where to get a bit of good -broadcloth, certainly,” said she, again feeling the pieces.</p> - -<p>“And now for No. 1,” said she whom I so absolutely hated; “I think there -is still enough for a pair of slippers. There’s nothing so nice for the -house as good black cloth slippers that are warm to the feet and don’t -show the dirt.” And so saying, she spread out on the floor the lacerated -remainders.</p> - -<p>“There’s a nice bit there,” said young lady No. 2, poking at one of the -pockets with the end of her parasol.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said the harpy, contemplating her plunder. “But I’m thinking -whether I couldn’t get leggings as well. I always wear leggings in the -thick of the winter.” And so she concluded her operations, and there was -nothing left but a melancholy skeleton of seams and buttons.</p> - -<p>All this having been achieved, they pocketed their plunder and prepared -to depart. There are people who have a wonderful appetite for relics. A -stone with which Washington had broken a window when a boy—with which -he had done so or had not, for there is little difference; a button that -was on a coat of Napoleon’s, or on that of one of his lackeys; a bullet -said to have been picked up at Waterloo or Bunker’s Hill; these, and -suchlike things are great treasures. And their most desirable -characteristic is the ease with which they are attained. Any bullet or -any button does the work. Faith alone is necessary.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> And now these -ladies had made themselves happy and glorious with “Relics” of General -Chassé cut from the ill-used habiliments of an elderly English -gentleman!</p> - -<p>They departed at last, and Mr. Horne, for once in an ill humour, -followed me into the bedroom. Here I must be excused if I draw a veil -over his manly sorrow at discovering what fate had done for him. -Remember what was his position, unclothed in the Castle of Antwerp! The -nearest suitable change for those which had been destroyed was locked up -in his portmanteau at the Hôtel de Belle Vue in Brussels! He had nothing -left to him—literally nothing, in that Antwerp world. There was no -other wretched being wandering then in that Dutch town so utterly -denuded of the goods of life. For what is a man fit,—for what can he be -fit,—when left in such a position? There are some evils which seem -utterly to crush a man; and if there be any misfortune to which a man -may be allowed to succumb without imputation on his manliness, surely it -is such as this. How was Mr. Home to return to his hotel without -incurring the displeasure of the municipality? That was my first -thought.</p> - -<p>He had a cloak, but it was at the inn; and I found that my friend was -oppressed with a great horror at the idea of being left alone; so that I -could not go in search of it. There is an old saying, that no man is a -hero to his valet de chambre,—the reason doubtless being this, that it -is customary for his valet to see the hero divested of those trappings -in which so much of the heroic consists. Who reverences a clergyman -without his gown, or a warrior without his sword and sabre-tasche? What -would even Minerva be without her helmet?</p> - -<p>I do not wish it to be understood that I no longer reverenced Mr. Horne -because he was in an undress; but he himself certainly lost much of his -composed, well-sustained dignity of demeanour. He was fearful and -querulous, cold, and rather cross. When, forgetting his size, I offered -him my own, he thought that I was laughing at him. He began to be afraid -that the story would get abroad, and he then and there exacted a promise -that I would never tell it during his lifetime. I have kept my word; but -now my old friend has been gathered to his fathers, full of years.</p> - -<p>At last I got him to the hotel. It was long before he would leave the -castle, cloaked though he was;—not, indeed, till the shades of evening -had dimmed the outlines of men and things, and made indistinct the -outward garniture of those who passed to and fro in the streets. Then, -wrapped in his cloak, Mr. Horne<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> followed me along the quays and through -the narrowest of the streets; and at length, without venturing to return -the gaze of any one in the hotel court, he made his way up to his own -bedroom.</p> - -<p>Dinnerless and supperless he went to his couch. But when there he did -consent to receive some consolation in the shape of mutton cutlets and -fried potatoes, a savory omelet, and a bottle of claret. The mutton -cutlets and fried potatoes at the Golden Fleece at Antwerp are—or were -then, for I am speaking now of well-nigh thirty years since—remarkably -good; the claret, also, was of the best; and so, by degrees, the look of -despairing dismay passed from his face, and some scintillations of the -old fire returned to his eyes.</p> - -<p>“I wonder whether they find themselves much happier for what they have -got?” said he.</p> - -<p>“A great deal happier,” said I. “They’ll boast of those things to all -their friends at home, and we shall doubtless see some account of their -success in the newspapers.”</p> - -<p>“It would be delightful to expose their blunder,—to show them up. Would -it not, George? To turn the tables on them?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, “I should like to have the laugh against them.”</p> - -<p>“So would I, only that I should compromise myself by telling the story. -It wouldn’t do at all to have it told at Oxford with my name attached to -it.”</p> - -<p>To this also I assented. To what would I not have assented in my anxiety -to make him happy after his misery?</p> - -<p>But all was not over yet. He was in bed now, but it was necessary that -he should rise again on the morrow. At home, in England, what was -required might perhaps have been made during the night; but here, among -the slow Flemings, any such exertion would have been impossible. Mr. -Horne, moreover, had no desire to be troubled in his retirement by a -tailor.</p> - -<p>Now the landlord of the Golden fleece was a very stout man,—a very -stout man indeed. Looking at him as he stood with his hands in his -pockets at the portal of his own establishment, I could not but think -that he was stouter even than Mr. Horne. But then he was certainly much -shorter, and the want of due proportion probably added to his unwieldy -appearance. I walked round him once or twice wishfully, measuring him in -my eye, and thinking of what texture might be the Sunday best of such a -man. The clothes which he then had on were certainly not exactly suited -to Mr. Horne’s tastes.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span></p> - -<p>He saw that I was observing him, and appeared uneasy and offended. I had -already ascertained that he spoke a little English. Of Flemish I knew -literally nothing, and in French, with which probably he was also -acquainted, I was by no means voluble. The business which I had to -transact was intricate, and I required the use of my mother-tongue.</p> - -<p>It was intricate and delicate, and difficult withal. I began by -remarking on the weather, but he did not take my remarks kindly. I am -inclined to fancy that he thought I was desirous of borrowing money from -him. At any rate he gave me no encouragement in my first advances.</p> - -<p>“Vat misfortune?” at last he asked, when I had succeeded in making him -understand that a gentleman up stairs required his assistance.</p> - -<p>“He has lost these things,” and I took hold of my own garments. “It’s a -long story, or I’d tell you how; but he has not a pair in the world till -he gets back to Brussels,—unless you can lend him one.”</p> - -<p>“Lost hees br——?” and he opened his eyes wide, and looked at me with -astonishment.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, exactly so,” said I, interrupting him. “Most astonishing -thing, isn’t it? But it’s quite true.”</p> - -<p>“Vas hees money in de pocket?” asked my suspicious landlord.</p> - -<p>“No, no, no. It’s not so bad as that. His money is all right. I had the -money, luckily.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! dat is better. But he have lost hees b——?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes;” I was now getting rather impatient. “There is no mistake -about it. He has lost them as sure as you stand there.” And then I -proceeded to explain that as the gentleman in question was very stout, -and as he, the landlord, was stout also, he might assist us in this -great calamity by a loan from his own wardrobe.</p> - -<p>When he found that the money was not in the pocket, and that his bill -therefore would be paid, he was not indisposed to be gracious. He would, -he said, desire his servant to take up what was required to Mr. Horne’s -chamber. I endeavoured to make him understand that a sombre colour would -be preferable; but he only answered that he would put the best that he -had at the gentleman’s disposal. He could not think of offering anything -less than his best on such an occasion. And then he turned his back and -went his way, muttering as he went something in Flemish, which I -believed to be an exclamation of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> astonishment that any man should, -under any circumstances, lose such an article.</p> - -<p>It was now getting late; so when I had taken a short stroll by myself, I -went to bed without disturbing Mr. Horne again that night. On the -following morning I thought it best not to go to him unless he sent for -me; so I desired the boots to let him know that I had ordered breakfast -in a private room, and that I would await him there unless he wished to -see me. He sent me word back to say that he would be with me very -shortly.</p> - -<p>He did not keep me waiting above half an hour, but I confess that that -half hour was not pleasantly spent. I feared that his temper would be -tried in dressing, and that he would not be able to eat his breakfast in -a happy state of mind. So that when I heard his heavy footstep advancing -along the passage my heart did misgive me, and I felt that I was -trembling.</p> - -<p>That step was certainly slower and more ponderous than usual. There was -always a certain dignity in the very sound of his movements, but now -this seemed to have been enhanced. To judge merely by the step one would -have said that a bishop was coming that way instead of a prebendary.</p> - -<p>And then he entered. In the upper half of his august person no -alteration was perceptible. The hair was as regular and as graceful as -ever, the handkerchief as white, the coat as immaculate; but below his -well-filled waistcoat a pair of red plush began to shine in unmitigated -splendour, and continued from thence down to within an inch above his -knee; nor, as it appeared, could any pulling induce them to descend -lower. Mr. Horne always wore black silk stockings,—at least so the -world supposed, but it was now apparent that the world had been wrong in -presuming him to be guilty of such extravagance. Those, at any rate, -which he exhibited on the present occasion were more economical. They -were silk to the calf, but thence upwards they continued their career in -white cotton. These then followed the plush; first two snowy, full-sized -pillars of white, and then two jet columns of flossy silk. Such was the -appearance, on that well-remembered morning, of the Rev. Augustus Horne, -as he entered the room in which his breakfast was prepared.</p> - -<p>I could see at a glance that a dark frown contracted his eyebrows, and -that the compressed muscles of his upper lip gave a strange degree of -austerity to his open face. He carried his head proudly on high, -determined to be dignified in spite of his misfortunes, and advanced two -steps into the room without a remark,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> as though he were able to show -that neither red plush nor black cloth could disarrange the equal poise -of his mighty mind!</p> - -<p>And after all what are a man’s garments but the outward husks in which -the fruit is kept, duly tempered from the wind?</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“The rank is but the guinea stamp,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">The man’s the gowd for a’ that.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">And is not the tailor’s art as little worthy, as insignificant as that -of the king who makes</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“A marquis, duke, and a’ that”?<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Who would be content to think that his manly dignity depended on his -coat and waistcoat, or his hold on the world’s esteem on any other -garment of usual wear? That no such weakness soiled his mind Mr. Horne -was determined to prove; and thus he entered the room with measured -tread, and stern dignified demeanour.</p> - -<p>Having advanced two steps his eye caught mine. I do not know whether he -was moved by some unconscious smile on my part;—for in truth I -endeavoured to seem as indifferent as himself to the nature of his -dress;—or whether he was invincibly tickled by some inward fancy of his -own, but suddenly his advancing step ceased, a broad flash of comic -humour spread itself over his features, he retreated with his back -against the wall, and then burst out into an immoderate roar of loud -laughter.</p> - -<p>And I—what else could I then do but laugh? He laughed, and I laughed. -He roared, and I roared. He lifted up his vast legs to view till the -rays of the morning sun shone through the window on the bright hues -which he displayed; and he did not sit down to his breakfast till he had -in every fantastic attitude shown off to the best advantage the red -plush of which he had so recently become proud.</p> - -<p>An Antwerp private cabriolet on that day reached the yard of the Hôtel -de Belle Vue at about 4 <small>P.M.</small>, and four waiters, in a frenzy of -astonishment, saw the Reverend Augustus Horne descend from the vehicle -and seek his chamber dressed in the garments which I have described. But -I am inclined to think that he never again favoured any of his friends -with such a sight.</p> - -<p>It was on the next evening after this that I went out to drink tea with -two maiden ladies, relatives of mine, who kept a seminary for English -girls at Brussels. The Misses Macmanus were very worthy women, and -earned their bread in an upright, painstaking manner. I would not for -worlds have passed through<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> Brussels without paying them this -compliment. They were, however, perhaps a little dull, and I was aware -that I should not probably meet in their drawing-room many of the -fashionable inhabitants of the city. Mr. Horne had declined to accompany -me; but in doing so he was good enough to express a warm admiration for -the character of my worthy cousins.</p> - -<p>The elder Miss Macmanus, in her little note, had informed me that she -would have the pleasure of introducing me to a few of my “compatriots.” -I presumed she meant Englishmen; and as I was in the habit of meeting -such every day of my life at home, I cannot say that I was peculiarly -elevated by the promise. When, however, I entered the room, there was no -Englishman there;—there was no man of any kind. There were twelve -ladies collected together with the view of making the evening pass -agreeably to me, the single virile being among them all. I felt as -though I were a sort of Mohammed in Paradise; but I certainly felt also -that the Paradise was none of my own choosing.</p> - -<p>In the centre of the amphitheatre which the ladies formed sat the two -Misses Macmanus;—there, at least, they sat when they had completed the -process of shaking hands with me. To the left of them, making one wing -of the semicircle, were arranged the five pupils by attending to whom -the Misses Macmanus earned their living; and the other wing consisted of -the five ladies who had furnished themselves with relics of General -Chassé. They were my “compatriots.”</p> - -<p>I was introduced to them all, one after the other; but their names did -not abide in my memory one moment. I was thinking too much of the -singularity of the adventure, and could not attend to such minutiæ. That -the red-rosed harpy was Miss Grogram, that I remembered;—that, I may -say, I shall never forget. But whether the motherly lady with the -somewhat blowsy hair was Mrs. Jones, or Mrs. Green, or Mrs. Walker, I -cannot now say. The dumpy female with the broad back was always called -Aunt Sally by the young ladies.</p> - -<p>Too much sugar spoils one’s tea; I think I have heard that even -prosperity will cloy when it comes in overdoses; and a schoolboy has -been known to be overdone with jam. I myself have always been peculiarly -attached to ladies’ society, and have avoided bachelor parties as things -execrable in their very nature. But on this special occasion I felt -myself to be that schoolboy;—I was literally overdone with jam. My tea -was all sugar, so that I could not drink it. I was one among twelve. -What could I do or say? The proportion of alloy was too small to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span> have -any effect in changing the nature of the virgin silver, and the -conversation became absolutely feminine.</p> - -<p>I must confess also that my previous experience as to these compatriots -of mine had not prejudiced me in their favour. I regarded them with,—I -am ashamed to say so, seeing that they were ladies,—but almost with -loathing. When last I had seen them their occupation had reminded me of -some obscene feast of harpies, or almost of ghouls. They had brought -down to the verge of desperation the man whom of all men I most -venerated. On these accounts I was inclined to be taciturn with -reference to them;—and then what could I have to say to the Misses -Macmanus’s five pupils?</p> - -<p>My cousin at first made an effort or two in my favour, but these efforts -were fruitless. I soon died away into utter unrecognised insignificance, -and the conversation, as I have before said, became feminine. And indeed -that horrid Miss Grogram, who was, as it were, the princess of the -ghouls, nearly monopolised the whole of it. Mamma Jones—we will call -her Jones for the occasion—put in a word now and then, as did also the -elder and more energetic Miss Macmanus. The dumpy lady with the broad -back ate tea-cake incessantly; the two daughters looked scornful, as -though they were above their company with reference to the five pupils; -and the five pupils themselves sat in a row with the utmost propriety, -each with her hands crossed on her lap before her.</p> - -<p>Of what they were talking at last I became utterly oblivious. They had -ignored me, going into realms of muslin, questions of maid-servants, -female rights, and cheap under-clothing; and I therefore had ignored -them. My mind had gone back to Mr. Horne and his garments. While they -spoke of their rights, I was thinking of his wrongs; when they mentioned -the price of flannel, I thought of that of broadcloth.</p> - -<p>But of a sudden my attention was arrested. Miss Macmanus had said -something of the black silks of Antwerp, when Miss Grogram replied that -she had just returned from that city and had there enjoyed a great -success. My cousin had again asked something about the black silks, -thinking, no doubt, that Miss Grogram had achieved some bargain; but -that lady had soon undeceived her.</p> - -<p>“Oh no,” said Miss Grogram, “it was at the castle. We got such beautiful -relics of General Chassé! Didn’t we, Mrs. Jones?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed we did,” said Mrs. Jones, bringing out from beneath<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> the skirts -of her dress and ostensibly displaying a large black bag.</p> - -<p>“And I’ve got such a beautiful needle-case,” said the broad-back, -displaying her prize. “I’ve been making it up all the morning.” And she -handed over the article to Miss Macmanus.</p> - -<p>“And only look at this duck of a pen-wiper,” simpered flaxen-hair No. 2. -“Only think of wiping one’s pens with relics of General Chassé!” and she -handed it over to the other Miss Macmanus.</p> - -<p>“And mine’s a pin-cushion,” said No. 1, exhibiting the trophy.</p> - -<p>“But that’s nothing to what I’ve got,” said Miss Grogram. “In the first -place, there’s a pair of slippers,—a beautiful pair;—they’re not made -up yet, of course; and then—”</p> - -<p>The two Misses Macmanus and their five pupils were sitting open-eared, -open-eyed, and open-mouthed. How all these sombre-looking articles could -be relics of General Chassé did not at first appear clear to them.</p> - -<p>“What are they, Miss Grogram?” said the elder Miss Macmanus, holding the -needle-case in one hand and Mrs. Jones’s bag in the other. Miss Macmanus -was a strong-minded female, and I reverenced my cousin when I saw the -decided way in which she intended to put down the greedy arrogance of -Miss Grogram.</p> - -<p>“They are relics.”</p> - -<p>“But where do they come from, Miss Grogram?”</p> - -<p>“Why, from the castle, to be sure;—from General Chasse’s own rooms.”</p> - -<p>“Did anybody sell them to you?”</p> - -<p>“No.”</p> - -<p>“Or give them to you?”</p> - -<p>“Why, no;—at least not exactly give.”</p> - -<p>“There they were, and she took ’em,” said the broad-back.</p> - -<p>Oh, what a look Miss Grogram gave her! “Took them! of course I took -them. That is, you took them as much as I did. They were things that we -found lying about.”</p> - -<p>“What things?” asked Miss Macmanus, in a peculiarly strong-minded tone.</p> - -<p>Miss Grogram seemed to be for a moment silenced. I had been ignored, as -I have said, and my existence forgotten; but now I observed that the -eyes of the culprits were turned towards me,—the eyes, that is, of four -of them. Mrs. Jones looked at me from beneath her fan; the two girls -glanced at me furtively, and then their eyes fell to the lowest flounces -of their frocks.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> Miss Grogram turned her spectacles right upon me, and -I fancied that she nodded her head at me as a sort of answer to Miss -Macmanus. The five pupils opened their mouths and eyes wider; but she of -the broad back was nothing abashed. It would have been nothing to her -had there been a dozen gentlemen in the room. “We just found a pair of -black ——.” The whole truth was told in the plainest possible language.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Aunt Sally!” “Aunt Sally, how can you?” “Hold your tongue, Aunt -Sally!”</p> - -<p>“And then Miss Grogram just cut them up with her scissors,” continued -Aunt Sally, not a whit abashed, “and gave us each a bit, only she took -more than half for herself.” It was clear to me that there had been some -quarrel, some delicious quarrel, between Aunt Sally and Miss Grogram. -Through the whole adventure I had rather respected Aunt Sally. “She took -more than half for herself,” continued Aunt Sally. “She kept all -the——”</p> - -<p>“Jemima,” said the elder Miss Macmanus, interrupting the speaker and -addressing her sister, “it is time, I think, for the young ladies to -retire. Will you be kind enough to see them to their rooms?” The five -pupils thereupon rose from their seats and courtesied. They then left -the room in file, the younger Miss Macmanus showing them the way.</p> - -<p>“But we haven’t done any harm, have we?” asked Mrs. Jones, with some -tremulousness in her voice.</p> - -<p>“Well, I don’t know,” said Miss Macmanus. “What I’m thinking of now is -this;—to whom, I wonder, did the garments properly belong? Who had been -the owner and wearer of them?”</p> - -<p>“Why, General Chassé of course,” said Miss Grogram.</p> - -<p>“They were the general’s,” repeated the two young ladies; blushing, -however, as they alluded to the subject.</p> - -<p>“Well, we thought they were the general’s, certainly; and a very -excellent article they were,” said Mrs. Jones.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps they were the butler’s?” said Aunt Sally. I certainly had not -given her credit for so much sarcasm.</p> - -<p>“Butler’s!” exclaimed Miss Grogram, with a toss of her head.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Aunt Sally, Aunt Sally! how can you?” shrieked the two young -ladies.</p> - -<p>“Oh laws!” ejaculated Mrs. Jones.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think that they could have belonged to the butler,” said Miss -Macmanus, with much authority, “seeing that domestics<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> in this country -are never clad in garments of that description; so far my own -observation enables me to speak with certainty. But it is equally sure -that they were never the property of the general lately in command at -Antwerp. Generals, when they are in full dress, wear ornamental lace -upon their—their regimentals; and when—” So much she said, and -something more, which it may be unnecessary that I should repeat; but -such were her eloquence and logic that no doubt would have been left on -the mind of any impartial hearer. If an argumentative speaker ever -proved anything, Miss Macmanus proved that General Chassé had never been -the wearer of the article in question.</p> - -<p>“But I know very well they were his!” said Miss Grogram, who was not an -impartial hearer. “Of course they were; whose else’s should they be?”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I hope they were his,” said one of the young ladies, almost -crying.</p> - -<p>“I wish I’d never taken it,” said the other.</p> - -<p>“Dear, dear, dear!” said Mrs. Jones.</p> - -<p>“I’ll give you my needle-case, Miss Grogram,” said Aunt Sally.</p> - -<p>I had sat hitherto silent during the whole scene, meditating how best I -might confound the red-nosed harpy. Now, I thought, was the time for me -to strike in.</p> - -<p>“I really think, ladies, that there has been some mistake,” said I.</p> - -<p>“There has been no mistake at all, sir!” said Miss Grogram.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not,” I answered, very mildly; “very likely not. But some -affair of a similar nature was very much talked about in Antwerp -yesterday.”</p> - -<p>“Oh laws!” again ejaculated Mrs. Jones.</p> - -<p>“The affair I allude to has been talked about a good deal, certainly,” I -continued. “But perhaps it may be altogether a different circumstance.”</p> - -<p>“And what may be the circumstance to which you allude?” asked Miss -Macmanus, in the same authoritative tone.</p> - -<p>“I dare say it has nothing to do with these ladies,” said I; “but an -article of dress, of the nature they have described, was cut up in the -Castle of Antwerp on the day before yesterday. It belonged to a -gentleman who was visiting the place; and I was given to understand that -he is determined to punish the people who have wronged him.”</p> - -<p>“It can’t be the same,” said Miss Grogram; but I could see that she was -trembling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh laws! what will become of us?” said Mrs. Jones.</p> - -<p>“You can all prove that I didn’t touch them, and that I warned her not,” -said Aunt Sally. In the mean time the two young ladies had almost -fainted behind their fans.</p> - -<p>“But how had it come to pass,” asked Miss Macmanus, “that the gentleman -had—”</p> - -<p>“I know nothing more about it, cousin,” said I; “only it does seem that -there is an odd coincidence.”</p> - -<p>Immediately after this I took my leave. I saw that I had avenged my -friend, and spread dismay in the hearts of those who had injured him. I -had learned in the course of the evening at what hotel the five ladies -were staying; and in the course of the next morning I sauntered into the -hall, and finding one of the porters alone, asked if they were still -there. The man told me that they had started by the earliest diligence. -“And,” said he, “if you are a friend of theirs, perhaps you will take -charge of these things, which they have left behind them?” So saying, he -pointed to a table at the back of the hall, on which were lying the -black bag, the black needle-case, the black pincushion, and the black -pen-wiper. There was also a heap of fragments of cloth which I well knew -had been intended by Miss Grogram for the comfort of her feet and -ancles.</p> - -<p>I declined the commission, however. “They were no special friends of -mine,” I said; and I left all the relics still lying on the little table -in the back hall.</p> - -<p>“Upon the whole, I am satisfied!” said the Rev. Augustus Horne, when I -told him the finale of the story.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="AN_UNPROTECTED_FEMALE_AT_THE_PYRAMIDS" id="AN_UNPROTECTED_FEMALE_AT_THE_PYRAMIDS"></a>AN UNPROTECTED FEMALE AT THE PYRAMIDS.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">In</span> the happy days when we were young, no description conveyed to us so -complete an idea of mysterious reality as that of an Oriental city. We -knew it was actually there, but had such vague notions of its ways and -looks! Let any one remember his early impressions as to Bagdad or Grand -Cairo, and then say if this was not so. It was probably taken from the -“Arabian Nights,” and the picture produced was one of strange, -fantastic, luxurious houses; of women who were either very young and -very beautiful, or else very old and very cunning; but in either state -exercising much more influence in life than women in the East do now; of -good-natured, capricious, though sometimes tyrannical monarchs; and of -life full of quaint mysteries, quite unintelligible in every phasis, and -on that account the more picturesque.</p> - -<p>And perhaps Grand Cairo has thus filled us with more wonder even than -Bagdad. We have been in a certain manner at home at Bagdad, but have -only visited Grand Cairo occasionally. I know no place which was to me, -in early years, so delightfully mysterious as Grand Cairo.</p> - -<p>But the route to India and Australia has changed all this. Men from all -countries going to the East, now pass through Cairo, and its streets and -costumes are no longer strange to us. It has become also a resort for -invalids, or rather for those who fear that they may become invalids if -they remain in a cold climate during the winter months. And thus at -Cairo there is always to be found a considerable population of French, -Americans, and of English. Oriental life is brought home to us, -dreadfully diluted by western customs, and the delights of the “Arabian -Nights” are shorn of half their value. When we have seen a thing it is -never so magnificent to us as when it was half unknown.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span></p> - -<p>It is not much that we deign to learn from these Orientals,—we who -glory in our civilisation. We do not copy their silence or their -abstemiousness, nor that invariable mindfulness of his own personal -dignity which always adheres to a Turk or to an Arab. We chatter as much -at Cairo as elsewhere, and eat as much and drink as much, and dress -ourselves generally in the same old, ugly costume. But we do usually -take upon ourselves to wear red caps, and we do ride on donkeys.</p> - -<p>Nor are the visitors from the West to Cairo by any means confined to the -male sex. Ladies are to be seen in the streets, quite regardless of the -Mahommedan custom which presumes a veil to be necessary for an -appearance in public; and, to tell the truth, the Mahommedans in general -do not appear to be much shocked by their effrontery.</p> - -<p>A quarter of the town, has in this way become inhabited by men wearing -coats and waistcoats, and by women who are without veils; but the -English tongue in Egypt finds its centre at Shepheard’s Hotel. It is -here that people congregate who are looking out for parties to visit -with them the Upper Nile, and who are generally all smiles and courtesy; -and here also are to be found they who have just returned from this -journey, and who are often in a frame of mind towards their companions -that is much less amiable. From hence, during the winter, a cortége -proceeds almost daily to the Pyramids, or to Memphis, or to the -petrified forest, or to the City of the Sun. And then, again, four or -five times a month the house is filled with young aspirants going out to -India, male and female, full of valour and bloom; or with others coming -home, no longer young, no longer aspiring, but laden with children and -grievances.</p> - -<p>The party with whom we are at present concerned is not about to proceed -further than the Pyramids, and we shall be able to go with them and -return in one and the same day.</p> - -<p>It consisted chiefly of an English family, Mr. and Mrs. Damer, their -daughter, and two young sons;—of these chiefly, because they were the -nucleus to which the others had attached themselves as adherents; they -had originated the journey, and in the whole management of it Mr. Damer -regarded himself as the master.</p> - -<p>The adherents were, firstly, M. Delabordeau, a Frenchman, now resident -in Cairo, who had given out that he was in some way concerned in the -canal about to be made between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. In -discussion on this subject he had become acquainted with Mr. Damer; and -although the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> latter gentleman, true to English interests, perpetually -declared that the canal would never be made, and thus irritated M. -Delabordeau not a little—nevertheless, some measure of friendship had -grown up between them.</p> - -<p>There was also an American gentleman, Mr. Jefferson Ingram, who was -comprising all countries and all nations in one grand tour, as American -gentlemen so often do. He was young and good-looking, and had made -himself especially agreeable to Mr. Damer, who had declared, more than -once, that Mr. Ingram was by far the most rational American he had ever -met. Mr. Ingram would listen to Mr. Damer by the half-hour as to the -virtue of the British Constitution, and had even sat by almost with -patience when Mr. Damer had expressed a doubt as to the good working of -the United States’ scheme of policy,—which, in an American, was most -wonderful. But some of the sojourners at Shepheard’s had observed that -Mr. Ingram was in the habit of talking with Miss Damer almost as much as -with her father, and argued from that, that fond as the young man was of -politics, he did sometimes turn his mind to other things also.</p> - -<p>And then there was Miss Dawkins. Now Miss Dawkins was an important -person, both as to herself and as to her line of life, and she must be -described. She was, in the first place, an unprotected female of about -thirty years of age. As this is becoming an established profession, -setting itself up as it were in opposition to the old world idea that -women, like green peas, cannot come to perfection without -supporting-sticks, it will be understood at once what were Miss -Dawkins’s sentiments. She considered—or at any rate so expressed -herself—that peas could grow very well without sticks, and could not -only grow thus unsupported, but could also make their way about the -world without any incumbrance of sticks whatsoever. She did not intend, -she said, to rival Ida Pfeiffer, seeing that she was attached in a -moderate way to bed and board, and was attached to society in a manner -almost more than moderate; but she had no idea of being prevented from -seeing anything she wished to see because she had neither father, nor -husband, nor brother available for the purpose of escort. She was a -human creature, with arms and legs, she said; and she intended to use -them. And this was all very well; but nevertheless she had a strong -inclination to use the arms and legs of other people when she could make -them serviceable.</p> - -<p>In person Miss Dawkins was not without attraction. I should exaggerate -if I were to say that she was beautiful and elegant;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> but she was good -looking, and not usually ill mannered. She was tall, and gifted with -features rather sharp and with eyes very bright. Her hair was of the -darkest shade of brown, and was always worn in bandeaux, very neatly. -She appeared generally in black, though other circumstances did not lead -one to suppose that she was in mourning; and then, no other travelling -costume is so convenient! She always wore a dark broad-brimmed straw -hat, as to the ribbons on which she was rather particular. She was very -neat about her gloves and boots; and though it cannot be said that her -dress was got up without reference to expense, there can be no doubt -that it was not effected without considerable outlay,—and more -considerable thought.</p> - -<p>Miss Dawkins—Sabrina Dawkins was her name, but she seldom had friends -about her intimate enough to use the word Sabrina—was certainly a -clever young woman. She could talk on most subjects, if not well, at -least well enough to amuse. If she had not read much, she never showed -any lamentable deficiency; she was good-humoured, as a rule, and could -on occasions be very soft and winning. People who had known her long -would sometimes say that she was selfish; but with new acquaintance she -was forbearing and self-denying.</p> - -<p>With what income Miss Dawkins was blessed no one seemed to know. She -lived like a gentlewoman, as far as outward appearance went, and never -seemed to be in want; but some people would say that she knew very well -how many sides there were to a shilling, and some enemy had once -declared that she was an “old soldier.” Such was Miss Dawkins.</p> - -<p>She also, as well as Mr. Ingram and M. Delabordeau, had laid herself out -to find the weak side of Mr. Damer. Mr. Damer, with all his family, was -going up the Nile, and it was known that he had room for two in his boat -over and above his own family. Miss Dawkins had told him that she had -not quite made up her mind to undergo so great a fatigue, but that, -nevertheless, she had a longing of the soul to see something of Nubia. -To this Mr. Damer had answered nothing but “Oh!” which Miss Dawkins had -not found to be encouraging.</p> - -<p>But she had not on that account despaired. To a married man there are -always two sides, and in this instance there was Mrs. Damer as well as -Mr. Damer. When Mr. Damer said “Oh!” Miss Dawkins sighed, and said, -“Yes, indeed!” then smiled, and betook herself to Mrs. Damer.</p> - -<p>Now Mrs. Damer was soft-hearted, and also somewhat old-fashioned.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span> She -did not conceive any violent affection for Miss Dawkins, but she told -her daughter that “the single lady by herself was a very nice young -woman, and that it was a thousand pities she should have to go about so -much alone like.”</p> - -<p>Miss Damer had turned up her pretty nose, thinking, perhaps, how small -was the chance that it ever should be her own lot to be an unprotected -female. But Miss Dawkins carried her point at any rate as regarded the -expedition to the Pyramids.</p> - -<p>Miss Damer, I have said, had a pretty nose. I may also say that she had -pretty eyes, mouth, and chin, with other necessary appendages, all -pretty. As to the two Master Damers, who were respectively of the ages -of fifteen and sixteen, it may be sufficient to say that they were -conspicuous for red caps and for the constancy with which they raced -their donkeys.</p> - -<p>And now the donkeys, and the donkey boys, and the dragomans were all -standing at the steps of Shepheard’s Hotel. To each donkey there was a -donkey-boy, and to each gentleman there was a dragoman, so that a goodly -cortége was assembled, and a goodly noise was made. It may here be -remarked, perhaps with some little pride, that not half the noise is -given in Egypt to persons speaking any other language that is bestowed -on those whose vocabulary is English.</p> - -<p>This lasted for half an hour. Had the party been French the donkeys -would have arrived only fifteen minutes before the appointed time. And -then out came Damer père and Damer mère, Damer fille, and Damer fils. -Damer mère was leaning on her husband, as was her wont. She was not an -unprotected female, and had no desire to make any attempts in that line. -Damer fille was attended sedulously by Mr. Ingram, for whose -demolishment, however, Mr. Damer still brought up, in a loud voice, the -fag ends of certain political arguments which he would fain have poured -direct into the ears of his opponent, had not his wife been so -persistent in claiming her privileges. M. Delabordeau should have -followed with Miss Dawkins, but his French politeness, or else his fear -of the unprotected female, taught him to walk on the other side of the -mistress of the party.</p> - -<p>Miss Dawkins left the house with an eager young Damer yelling on each -side of her; but nevertheless, though thus neglected by the gentlemen of -the party, she was all smiles and prettiness, and looked so sweetly on -Mr. Ingram when that gentleman stayed a moment to help her on to her -donkey, that his heart almost misgave him for leaving her as soon as she -was in her seat.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span></p> - -<p>And then they were off. In going from the hotel to the Pyramids our -party had not to pass through any of the queer old narrow streets of the -true Cairo—Cairo the Oriental. They all lay behind them as they went -down by the back of the hotel, by the barracks of the Pasha and the -College of the Dervishes, to the village of old Cairo and the banks of -the Nile.</p> - -<p>Here they were kept half an hour while their dragomans made a bargain -with the ferryman, a stately reis, or captain of a boat, who declared -with much dignity that he could not carry them over for a sum less than -six times the amount to which he was justly entitled; while the -dragomans, with great energy on behalf of their masters, offered him -only five times that sum. As far as the reis was concerned, the contest -might soon have been at an end, for the man was not without a -conscience; and would have been content with five times and a half; but -then the three dragomans quarrelled among themselves as to which should -have the paying of the money, and the affair became very tedious.</p> - -<p>“What horrid, odious men!” said Miss Dawkins, appealing to Mr. Damer. -“Do you think they will let us go over at all?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I suppose they will; people do get over generally, I believe. -Abdallah! Abdallah! why don’t you pay the man? That fellow is always -striving to save half a piastre for me.”</p> - -<p>“I wish he wasn’t quite so particular,” said Mrs. Damer, who was already -becoming rather tired; “but I’m sure he’s a very honest man in trying to -protect us from being robbed.”</p> - -<p>“That he is,” said Miss Dawkins. “What a delightful trait of national -character it is to see these men so faithful to their employers.” And -then at last they got over the ferry, Mr. Ingram having descended among -the combatants, and settled the matter in dispute by threats and shouts, -and an uplifted stick.</p> - -<p>They crossed the broad Nile exactly at the spot where the nilometer, or -river guage, measures from day to day, and from year to year, the -increasing or decreasing treasures of the stream, and landed at a -village where thousands of eggs are made into chickens by the process of -artificial incubation.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Damer thought that it was very hard upon the maternal hens—the -hens which should have been maternal—that they should be thus robbed of -the delights of motherhood.</p> - -<p>“So unnatural, you know,” said Miss Dawkins; “so opposed to the -fostering principles of creation. Don’t you think so, Mr. Ingram?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span></p> - -<p>Mr. Ingram said he didn’t know. He was again seating Miss Damer on her -donkey, and it must be presumed that he performed this feat clumsily; -for Fanny Damer could jump on and off the animal with hardly a finger to -help her, when her brother or her father was her escort; but now, under -the hands of Mr. Ingram, this work of mounting was one which required -considerable time and care. All which Miss Dawkins observed with -precision.</p> - -<p>“It’s all very well talking,” said Mr. Damer, bringing up his donkey -nearly alongside that of Mr. Ingram, and ignoring his daughter’s -presence, just as he would have done that of his dog; “but you must -admit that political power is more equally distributed in England than -it is in America.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it is,” said Mr. Ingram; “equally distributed among, we will -say, three dozen families,” and he made a feint as though to hold in his -impetuous donkey, using the spur, however, at the same time on the side -that was unseen by Mr. Damer. As he did so, Fanny’s donkey became -equally impetuous, and the two cantered on in advance of the whole -party. It was quite in vain that Mr. Damer, at the top of his voice, -shouted out something about “three dozen corruptible demagogues.” Mr. -Ingram found it quite impossible to restrain his donkey so as to listen -to the sarcasm.</p> - -<p>“I do believe papa would talk politics,” said Fanny, “if he were at the -top of Mont Blanc, or under the Falls of Niagara. I do hate politics, -Mr. Ingram.”</p> - -<p>“I am sorry for that, very,” said Mr. Ingram, almost sadly.</p> - -<p>“Sorry, why? You don’t want me to talk politics, do you?”</p> - -<p>“In America we are all politicians, more or less; and, therefore, I -suppose you will hate us all.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I rather think I should,” said Fanny; “you would be such bores.” -But there was something in her eye, as she spoke, which atoned for the -harshness of her words.</p> - -<p>“A very nice young man is Mr. Ingram; don’t you think so?” said Miss -Dawkins to Mrs. Damer. Mrs. Damer was going along upon her donkey, not -altogether comfortably. She much wished to have her lord and legitimate -protector by her side, but he had left her to the care of a dragoman -whose English was not intelligible to her, and she was rather cross.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, Miss Dawkins, I don’t know who are nice and who are not. This -nasty donkey stumbles at ever step. There! I know I shall be down -directly.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span></p> - -<p>“You need not be at all afraid of that; they are perfectly safe, I -believe, always,” said Miss Dawkins, rising in her stirrup, and handling -her reins quite triumphantly. “A very little practice will make you -quite at home.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what you mean by a very little practice. I have been here -six weeks. Why did you put me on such a bad donkey as this?” and she -turned to Abdallah, the dragoman.</p> - -<p>“Him berry good donkey, my lady; berry good,—best of all. Call him Jack -in Cairo. Him go to Pyramid and back, and mind noting.”</p> - -<p>“What does he say, Miss Dawkins?”</p> - -<p>“He says that that donkey is one called Jack. If so I’ve had him myself -many times, and Jack is a very good donkey.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you had him now with all my heart,” said Mrs. Damer. Upon which -Miss Dawkins offered to change; but those perils of mounting and -dismounting were to Mrs. Damer a great deal too severe to admit of this.</p> - -<p>“Seven miles of canal to be carried out into the sea, at a minimum depth -of twenty-three feet, and the stone to be fetched from Heaven knows -where! All the money in France wouldn’t do it.” This was addressed by -Mr. Damer to M. Delabordeau, whom he had caught after the abrupt flight -of Mr. Ingram.</p> - -<p>“Den we will borrow a leetle from England,” said M. Delabordeau.</p> - -<p>“Precious little, I can tell you. Such stock would not hold its price in -our markets for twenty-four hours. If it were made, the freights would -be too heavy to allow of merchandise passing through. The heavy goods -would all go round; and as for passengers and mails, you don’t expect to -get them, I suppose, while there is a railroad ready made to their -hand?”</p> - -<p>“Ve vill carry all your ships through vidout any transportation. Think -of that, my friend.”</p> - -<p>“Pshaw! You are worse than Ingram. Of all the plans I ever heard of it -is the most monstrous, the most impracticable, the most——” But here he -was interrupted by the entreaties of his wife, who had, in absolute deed -and fact, slipped from her donkey, and was now calling lustily for her -husband’s aid. Whereupon Miss Dawkins allied herself to the Frenchman, -and listened with an air of strong conviction to those arguments which -were so weak in the ears of Mr. Damer. M. Delabordeau was about to ride -across the Great Desert to Jerusalem, and it might perhaps be quite as -well to do that with him, as to go up the Nile as far as the second -cataract with the Damers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span></p> - -<p>“And so, M. Delabordeau, you intend really to start for Mount Sinai?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mees; ve intend to make one start on Monday week.”</p> - -<p>“And so on to Jerusalem. You are quite right. It would be a thousand -pities to be in these countries, and to return without going over such -ground as that. I shall certainly go to Jerusalem myself by that route.”</p> - -<p>“Vot, mees! you? Vould you not find it too much fatigante?”</p> - -<p>“I care nothing for fatigue, if I like the party I am with,—nothing at -all, literally. You will hardly understand me, perhaps, M. Delabordeau; -but I do not see any reason why I, as a young woman, should not make any -journey that is practicable for a young man.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! dat is great resolution for you, mees.”</p> - -<p>“I mean as far as fatigue is concerned. You are a Frenchman, and belong -to the nation that is at the head of all human civilisation——”</p> - -<p>M. Delabordeau took off his hat and bowed low, to the peak of his donkey -saddle. He dearly loved to hear his country praised, as Miss Dawkins was -aware.</p> - -<p>“And I am sure you must agree with me,” continued Miss Dawkins, “that -the time is gone by for women to consider themselves helpless animals, -or to be so considered by others.”</p> - -<p>“Mees Dawkins vould never be considered, not in any times at all, to be -one helpless animal,” said M. Delabordeau civilly.</p> - -<p>“I do not, at any rate, intend to be so regarded,” said she. “It suits -me to travel alone; not that I am averse to society; quite the contrary; -if I meet pleasant people I am always ready to join them. But it suits -me to travel without any permanent party, and I do not see why false -shame should prevent my seeing the world as thoroughly as though I -belonged to the other sex. Why should it, M. Delabordeau?”</p> - -<p>M. Delabordeau declared that he did not see any reason why it should.</p> - -<p>“I am passionately anxious to stand upon Mount Sinai,” continued Miss -Dawkins; “to press with my feet the earliest spot in sacred history, of -the identity of which we are certain; to feel within me the -awe-inspiring thrill of that thrice sacred hour!”</p> - -<p>The Frenchman looked as though he did not quite understand her, but he -said that it would be magnifique.</p> - -<p>“You have already made up your party I suppose, M. Delabordeau?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span></p> - -<p>M. Delabordeau gave the names of two Frenchmen and one Englishman who -were going with him.</p> - -<p>“Upon my word it is a great temptation to join you,” said Miss Dawkins, -“only for that horrid Englishman.”</p> - -<p>“Vat, Mr. Stanley?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t mean any disrespect to Mr. Stanley. The horridness I speak -of does not attach to him personally, but to his stiff, respectable, -ungainly, well-behaved, irrational, and uncivilised country. You see I -am not very patriotic.”</p> - -<p>“Not quite so moch as my friend, Mr. Damer.”</p> - -<p>“Ha! ha! ha! an excellent creature, isn’t he? And so they all are, dear -creatures. But then they are so backward. They are most anxious that I -should join them up the Nile, but——,” and then Miss Dawkins shrugged -her shoulders gracefully, and, as she flattered herself, like a -Frenchwoman. After that they rode on in silence for a few moments.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I must see Mount Sinai,” said Miss Dawkins, and then sighed -deeply. M. Delabordeau, notwithstanding that his country does stand at -the head of all human civilisation, was not courteous enough to declare -that if Miss Dawkins would join his party across the desert, nothing -would be wanting to make his beatitude in this world perfect.</p> - -<p>Their road from the village of the chicken-hatching ovens lay up along -the left bank of the Nile, through an immense grove of lofty palm-trees, -looking out from among which our visitors could ever and anon see the -heads of the two great Pyramids;—that is, such of them could see it as -felt any solicitude in the matter.</p> - -<p>It is astonishing how such things lose their great charm as men find -themselves in their close neighbourhood. To one living in New York or -London, how ecstatic is the interest inspired by these huge structures. -One feels that no price would be too high to pay for seeing them as long -as time and distance, and the world’s inexorable task-work, forbid such -a visit. How intense would be the delight of climbing over the wondrous -handiwork of those wondrous architects so long since dead; how thrilling -the awe with which one would penetrate down into their interior -caves—those caves in which lay buried the bones of ancient kings, whose -very names seem to have come to us almost from another world!</p> - -<p>But all these feelings become strangely dim, their acute edges -wonderfully worn, as the subjects which inspired them are brought near -to us. “Ah! so those are the Pyramids, are they?” says<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span> the traveller, -when the first glimpse of them is shown to him from the window of a -railway carriage. “Dear me; they don’t look so very high, do they? For -Heaven’s sake put the blind down, or we shall be destroyed by the dust.” -And then the ecstasy and keen delight of the Pyramids has vanished for -ever.</p> - -<p>Our friends, therefore, who for weeks past had seen from a distance, -though they had not yet visited them, did not seem to have any strong -feeling on the subject as they trotted through the grove of palm-trees. -Mr. Damer had not yet escaped from his wife, who was still fretful from -the result of her little accident.</p> - -<p>“It was all the chattering of that Miss Dawkins,” said Mrs. Damer. “She -would not let me attend to what I was doing.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Dawkins is an ass,” said her husband.</p> - -<p>“It is a pity she has no one to look after her,” said Mrs. Damer.</p> - -<p>M. Delabordeau was still listening to Miss Dawkins’s raptures about -Mount Sinai. “I wonder whether she has got any money,” said M. -Delabordeau to himself. “It can’t be much,” he went on thinking, “or she -would not be left in this way by herself.” And the result of his -thoughts was that Miss Dawkins, if undertaken, might probably become -more plague than profit. As to Miss Dawkins herself, though she was -ecstatic about Mount Sinai—which was not present—she seemed to have -forgotten the poor Pyramids, which were then before her nose.</p> - -<p>The two lads were riding races along the dusty path, much to the disgust -of their donkey-boys. Their time for enjoyment was to come. There were -hampers to be opened; and then the absolute climbing of the Pyramids -would actually be a delight to them.</p> - -<p>As for Miss Damer and Mr. Ingram, it was clear that they had forgotten -palm-trees, Pyramids, the Nile, and all Egypt. They had escaped to a -much fairer paradise.</p> - -<p>“Could I bear to live among Republicans?” said Fanny, repeating the last -words of her American lover, and looking down from her donkey to the -ground as she did so. “I hardly know what Republicans are, Mr. Ingram.”</p> - -<p>“Let me teach you,” said he.</p> - -<p>“You do talk such nonsense. I declare there is that Miss Dawkins looking -at us as though she had twenty eyes. Could you not teach her, Mr. -Ingram?”</p> - -<p>And so they emerged from the palm-tree grove, through a village crowded -with dirty, straggling Arab children, on to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> cultivated plain, -beyond which the Pyramids stood, now full before them; the two large -Pyramids, a smaller one, and the huge sphynx’s head all in a group -together.</p> - -<p>“Fanny,” said Bob Damer, riding up to her, “mamma wants you; so toddle -back.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma wants me! What can she want me for now?” said Fanny, with a look -of anything but filial duty in her face.</p> - -<p>“To protect her from Miss Dawkins, I think. She wants you to ride at her -side, so that Dawkins mayn’t get at her. Now, Mr. Ingram, I’ll bet you -half-a-crown I’m at the top of the big Pyramid before you.”</p> - -<p>Poor Fanny! She obeyed, however; doubtless feeling that it would not do -as yet to show too plainly that she preferred Mr. Ingram to her mother. -She arrested her donkey, therefore, till Mrs. Damer overtook her; and -Mr. Ingram, as he paused for a moment with her while she did so, fell -into the hands of Miss Dawkins.</p> - -<p>“I cannot think, Fanny, how you get on so quick,” said Mrs. Damer. “I’m -always last; but then my donkey is such a very nasty one. Look there, -now; he’s always trying to get me off.”</p> - -<p>“We shall soon be at the Pyramids now, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“How on earth I am ever to get back again I cannot think. I am so tired -now that I can hardly sit.”</p> - -<p>“You’ll be better, mamma, when you get your luncheon and a glass of -wine.”</p> - -<p>“How on earth we are to eat and drink with those nasty Arab people -around us, I can’t conceive. They tell me we shall be eaten up by them. -But, Fanny, what has Mr. Ingram been saying to you all the day?”</p> - -<p>“What has he been saying, mamma? Oh! I don’t know;—a hundred things, I -dare say. But he has not been talking to me all the time.”</p> - -<p>“I think he has, Fanny, nearly, since we crossed the river. Oh, dear! -oh, dear! this animal does hurt me so! Every time he moves he flings his -head about, and that gives me such a bump.” And then Fanny commiserated -her mother’s sufferings, and in her commiseration contrived to elude any -further questionings as to Mr. Ingram’s conversation.</p> - -<p>“Majestic piles, are they not?” said Miss Dawkins, who, having changed -her companion, allowed her mind to revert from Mount Sinai to the -Pyramids. They were now riding through cultivated ground, with the vast -extent of the sands of Libya before them. The two Pyramids were standing -on the margin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> of the sand, with the head of the recumbent sphynx -plainly visible between them. But no idea can be formed of the size of -this immense figure till it is visited much more closely. The body is -covered with sand, and the head and neck alone stand above the surface -of the ground. They were still two miles distant, and the sphynx as yet -was but an obscure mount between the two vast Pyramids.</p> - -<p>“Immense piles!” said Miss Dawkins, repeating her own words.</p> - -<p>“Yes, they are large,” said Mr. Ingram, who did not choose to indulge in -enthusiasm in the presence of Miss Dawkins.</p> - -<p>“Enormous! What a grand idea!—eh, Mr. Ingram? The human race does not -create such things as those nowadays!”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed,” he answered; “but perhaps we create better things.”</p> - -<p>“Better! You do not mean to say, Mr. Ingram, that you are an -utilitarian. I do, in truth, hope better things of you than that. Yes! -steam mills are better, no doubt, and mechanics’ institutes and penny -newspapers. But is nothing to be valued but what is useful?” And Miss -Dawkins, in the height of her enthusiasm, switched her donkey severely -over the shoulder.</p> - -<p>“I might, perhaps, have said also that we create more beautiful things,” -said Mr. Ingram.</p> - -<p>“But we cannot create older things.”</p> - -<p>“No, certainly; we cannot do that.”</p> - -<p>“Nor can we imbue what we do create with the grand associations which -environ those piles with so intense an interest. Think of the mighty -dead, Mr. Ingram, and of their great homes when living. Think of the -hands which it took to raise those huge blocks—”</p> - -<p>“And of the lives which it cost.”</p> - -<p>“Doubtless. The tyranny and invincible power of the royal architects add -to the grandeur of the idea. One would not wish to have back the kings -of Egypt.”</p> - -<p>“Well, no; they would be neither useful nor beautiful.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not; and I do not wish to be picturesque at the expense of my -fellow-creatures.”</p> - -<p>“I doubt, even, whether they would be picturesque.”</p> - -<p>“You know what I mean, Mr. Ingram. But the associations of such names, -and the presence of the stupendous works with which they are connected, -fill the soul with awe. Such, at least, is the effect with mine.”</p> - -<p>“I fear that my tendencies, Miss Dawkins, are more realistic than your -own.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span></p> - -<p>“You belong to a young country, Mr. Ingram, and are naturally prone to -think of material life. The necessity of living looms large before you.”</p> - -<p>“Very large, indeed, Miss Dawkins.”</p> - -<p>“Whereas with us, with some of us at least, the material aspect has -given place to one in which poetry and enthusiasm prevail. To such among -us the associations of past times are very dear. Cheops, to me, is more -than Napoleon Bonaparte.”</p> - -<p>“That is more than most of your countrymen can say, at any rate, just at -present.”</p> - -<p>“I am a woman,” continued Miss Dawkins.</p> - -<p>Mr. Ingram took off his hat in acknowledgment both of the announcement -and of the fact.</p> - -<p>“And to us it is not given—not given as yet—to share in the great -deeds of the present. The envy of your sex has driven us from the paths -which lead to honour. But the deeds of the past are as much ours as -yours.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, quite as much.”</p> - -<p>“<span class="lftspc">’</span>Tis to your country that we look for enfranchisement from this -thraldom. Yes, Mr. Ingram, the women of America have that strength of -mind which has been wanting to those of Europe. In the United States -woman will at last learn to exercise her proper mission.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Ingram expressed a sincere wish that such might be the case; and -then wondering at the ingenuity with which Miss Dawkins had travelled -round from Cheops and his Pyramid to the rights of women in America, he -contrived to fall back, under the pretence of asking after the ailments -of Mrs. Damer.</p> - -<p>And now at last they were on the sand, in the absolute desert, making -their way up to the very foot of the most northern of the two Pyramids. -They were by this time surrounded by a crowd of Arab guides, or Arabs -professing to be guides, who had already ascertained that Mr. Damer was -the chief of the party, and were accordingly driving him almost to -madness by the offers of their services, and their assurance that he -could not possibly see the outside or the inside of either structure, or -even remain alive upon the ground, unless he at once accepted their -offers made at their own prices.</p> - -<p>“Get away, will you?” said he. “I don’t want any of you, and I won’t -have you! If you take hold of me I’ll shoot you!” This was said to one -specially energetic Arab, who, in his efforts to secure his prey, had -caught hold of Mr. Damer by the leg.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, I say! Englishmen always take me;—me—me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span> and then no break -him leg. Yes—yes—yes;—I go. Master, say yes. Only one leetle ten -shillings!”</p> - -<p>“Abdallah!” shouted Mr. Damer, “why don’t you take this man away? Why -don’t you make him understand that if all the Pyramids depended on it, I -would not give him sixpence!”</p> - -<p>And then Abdallah, thus invoked, came up, and explained to the man in -Arabic that he would gain his object more surely if he would behave -himself a little more quietly; a hint which the man took for one minute, -and for one minute only.</p> - -<p>And then poor Mrs. Damer replied to an application for backsheish by the -gift of a sixpence. Unfortunate woman! The word backsheish means, I -believe, a gift; but it has come in Egypt to signify money, and is -eternally dinned into the ears of strangers by Arab suppliants. Mrs. -Damer ought to have known better, as, during the last six weeks she had -never shown her face out of Shepheard’s Hotel without being pestered for -backsheish; but she was tired and weak, and foolishly thought to rid -herself of the man who was annoying her.</p> - -<p>No sooner had the coin dropped from her hand into that of the Arab, than -she was surrounded by a cluster of beggars, who loudly made their -petitions as though they would, each of them, individually be injured if -treated with less liberality than that first comer. They took hold of -her donkey, her bridle, her saddle, her legs, and at last her arms and -hands, screaming for backsheish in voices that were neither sweet nor -mild.</p> - -<p>In her dismay she did give away sundry small coins—all, probably, that -she had about her; but this only made the matter worse. Money was going, -and each man, by sufficient energy, might hope to get some of it. They -were very energetic, and so frightened the poor lady that she would -certainly have fallen, had she not been kept on her seat by the pressure -around her.</p> - -<p>“Oh, dear! oh, dear! get away,” she cried. “I haven’t got any more; -indeed I haven’t. Go away, I tell you! Mr. Damer! oh, Mr. Damer!” and -then, in the excess of her agony, she uttered one loud, long, and -continuous shriek.</p> - -<p>Up came Mr. Damer; up came Abdallah; up came M. Delabordeau; up came Mr. -Ingram, and at last she was rescued. “You shouldn’t go away and leave me -to the mercy of these nasty people. As to that Abdallah, he is of no use -to anybody.”</p> - -<p>“Why you bodder de good lady, you dem blackguard?” said Abdallah, -raising his stick, as though he were, going to lay them all low with a -blow. “Now you get noting, you tief!”</p> - -<p>The Arabs for a moment retired to a little distance, like flies<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span> driven -from a sugar-bowl; but it was easy to see that, like the flies, they -would return at the first vacant moment.</p> - -<p>And now they had reached the very foot of the Pyramids and proceeded to -dismount from their donkeys. Their intention was first to ascend to the -top, then to come down to their banquet, and after that to penetrate -into the interior. And all this would seem to be easy of performance. -The Pyramid is undoubtedly high, but it is so constructed as to admit of -climbing without difficulty. A lady mounting it would undoubtedly need -some assistance, but any man possessed of moderate activity would -require no aid at all.</p> - -<p>But our friends were at once imbued with the tremendous nature of the -task before them. A sheikh of the Arabs came forth, who communicated -with them through Abdallah. The work could be done, no doubt, he said; -but a great many men would be wanted to assist. Each lady must have four -Arabs, and each gentlemen three; and then, seeing that the work would be -peculiarly severe on this special day, each of these numerous Arabs must -be remunerated by some very large number of piastres.</p> - -<p>Mr. Damer, who was by no means a close man in his money dealings, opened -his eyes with surprise, and mildly expostulated; M. Delabordeau, who was -rather a close man in his reckonings, immediately buttoned up his -breeches pocket and declared that he should decline to mount the Pyramid -at all at that price; and then Mr. Ingram descended to the combat.</p> - -<p>The protestations of the men were fearful. They declared, with loud -voices, eager actions, and manifold English oaths, that an attempt was -being made to rob them. They had a right to demand the sums which they -were charging, and it was a shame that English gentlemen should come and -take the bread out of their mouths. And so they screeched, gesticulated, -and swore, and frightened poor Mrs. Damer almost into fits.</p> - -<p>But at last it was settled and away they started, the sheikh declaring -that the bargain had been made at so low a rate as to leave him not one -piastre for himself. Each man had an Arab on each side of him, and Miss -Dawkins and Miss Damer had each, in addition, one behind. Mrs. Damer was -so frightened as altogether to have lost all ambition to ascend. She sat -below on a fragment of stone, with the three dragomans standing around -her as guards; but even with the three dragomans the attacks on her were -so frequent, and as she declared afterwards she was so bewildered, that -she never had time to remember that she had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span> come there from England to -see the Pyramids, and that she was now immediately under them.</p> - -<p>The boys, utterly ignoring their guides, scrambled up quicker than the -Arabs could follow them. Mr. Damer started off at a pace which soon -brought him to the end of his tether, and from, that point was dragged -up by the sheer strength of his assistants; thereby accomplishing the -wishes of the men, who induce their victims to start as rapidly as -possible, in order that they may soon find themselves helpless from want -of wind. Mr. Ingram endeavoured to attach himself to Fanny, and she -would have been nothing loth to have him at her right hand instead of -the hideous brown, shrieking, one-eyed Arab who took hold of her. But it -was soon found that any such arrangement was impossible. Each guide felt -that if he lost his own peculiar hold he would lose his prey, and held -on, therefore, with invincible tenacity. Miss Dawkins looked, too, as -though she had thought to be attended to by some Christian cavalier, but -no Christian cavalier was forthcoming. M. Delabordeau was the wisest, -for he took the matter quietly, did as he was bid, and allowed the -guides nearly to carry him to the top of the edifice.</p> - -<p>“Ha! so this is the top of the Pyramid, is it?” said Mr. Damer, bringing -out his words one by one, being terribly out of breath. “Very wonderful, -very wonderful, indeed!”</p> - -<p>“It is wonderful,” said Miss Dawkins, whose breath had not failed her in -the least, “very wonderful, indeed! Only think, Mr. Damer, you might -travel on for days and days, till days became months, through those -interminable sands, and yet you would never come to the end of them. Is -it not quite stupendous?”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, quite,—puff, puff”—said Mr. Damer striving to regain his -breath.</p> - -<p>Mr. Damer was now at her disposal; weak and worn with toil and travel, -out of breath, and with half his manhood gone; if ever she might prevail -over him so as to procure from his mouth an assent to that Nile -proposition, it would be now. And after all, that Nile proposition was -the best one now before her. She did not quite like the idea of starting -off across the Great Desert without any lady, and was not sure that she -was prepared to be fallen in love with by M. Delabordeau, even if there -should ultimately be any readiness on the part of that gentleman to -perform the rôle of lover. With Mr. Ingram the matter was different, nor -was she so diffident of her own charms as to think it altogether -impossible that she might succeed, in the teeth of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> little chit, -Fanny Damer. That Mr. Ingram would join the party up the Nile she had -very little doubt; and then, there would be one place left for her. She -would thus, at any rate, become commingled with a most respectable -family, who might be of material service to her.</p> - -<p>Thus actuated she commenced an earnest attack upon Mr. Damer.</p> - -<p>“Stupendous!” she said again, for she was fond of repeating favourite -words. “What a wondrous race must have been those Egyptian kings of -old!”</p> - -<p>“I dare say they were,” said Mr. Damer, wiping his brow as he sat upon a -large loose stone, a fragment lying on the flat top of the Pyramid, one -of those stones with which the complete apex was once made, or was once -about to be made.</p> - -<p>“A magnificent race! so gigantic in their conceptions! Their ideas -altogether overwhelm us poor, insignificant, latter-day mortals. They -built these vast Pyramids; but for us, it is task enough to climb to -their top.”</p> - -<p>“Quite enough,” ejaculated Mr. Damer.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Damer would not always remain weak and out of breath, and it was -absolutely necessary for Miss Dawkins to hurry away from Cheops and his -tomb, to Thebes and Karnac.</p> - -<p>“After seeing this it is impossible for any one with a spark of -imagination to leave Egypt without going farther a-field.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Damer merely wiped his brow and grunted. This Miss Dawkins took as a -signal of weakness, and went on with her task perseveringly.</p> - -<p>“For myself, I have resolved to go up, at any rate, as far as Asouan and -the first cataract. I had thought of acceding to the wishes of a party -who are going across the Great Desert by Mount Sinai to Jerusalem; but -the kindness of yourself and Mrs. Damer is so great, and the prospect of -joining in your boat is so pleasurable, that I have made up my mind to -accept your very kind offer.”</p> - -<p>This, it will be acknowledged, was bold on the part of Miss Dawkins; but -what will not audacity effect? To use the slang of modern language, -cheek carries everything nowadays. And whatever may have been Miss -Dawkins’s deficiencies, in this virtue she was not deficient.</p> - -<p>“I have made up my mind to accept your very kind offer,” she said, -shining on Mr. Damer with her blandest smile.</p> - -<p>What was a stout, breathless, perspiring, middle-aged gentleman to do -under such circumstances? Mr. Damer was a man<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> who, in most matters, had -his own way. That his wife should have given such an invitation without -consulting him, was, he knew, quite impossible. She would as soon have -thought of asking all those Arab guides to accompany them. Nor was it to -be thought of that he should allow himself to be kidnapped into such an -arrangement by the impudence of any Miss Dawkins. But there was, he -felt, a difficulty in answering such a proposition from a young lady -with a direct negative, especially while he was so scant of breath. So -he wiped his brow again, and looked at her.</p> - -<p>“But I can only agree to this on one understanding,” continued Miss -Dawkins, “and that is, that I am allowed to defray my own full share of -the expense of the journey.”</p> - -<p>Upon hearing this Mr. Damer thought that he saw his way out of the wood. -“Wherever I go, Miss Dawkins, I am always the paymaster myself,” and -this he contrived to say with some sternness, palpitating though he -still was; and the sternness which was deficient in his voice he -endeavoured to put into his countenance.</p> - -<p>But he did not know Miss Dawkins. “Oh, Mr. Damer,” she said, and as she -spoke her smile became almost blander than it was before; “oh, Mr. -Damer, I could not think of suffering you to be so liberal; I could not, -indeed. But I shall be quite content that you should pay everything, and -let me settle with you in one sum afterwards.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Damer’s breath was now rather more under his own command. “I am -afraid, Miss Dawkins,” he said, “that Mrs. Damer’s weak state of health -will not admit of such an arrangement.”</p> - -<p>“What, about the paying?”</p> - -<p>“Not only as to that, but we are a family party, Miss Dawkins; and great -as would be the benefit of your society to all of us, in Mrs. Damer’s -present state of health, I am afraid—in short, you would not find it -agreeable.—And therefore—” this he added, seeing that she was still -about to persevere—“I fear that we must forego the advantage you -offer.”</p> - -<p>And then, looking into his face, Miss Dawkins did perceive that even her -audacity would not prevail.</p> - -<p>“Oh, very well,” she said, and moving from the stone on which she had -been sitting, she walked off, carrying her head very high, to a corner -of the Pyramid from which she could look forth alone towards the sands -of Libya.</p> - -<p>In the mean time another little overture was being made on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> the top of -the same Pyramid,—an overture which was not received quite in the same -spirit. While Mr. Damer was recovering his breath for the sake of -answering Miss Dawkins, Miss Damer had walked to the further corner of -the square platform on which they were placed, and there sat herself -down with her face turned towards Cairo. Perhaps it was not singular -that Mr. Ingram should have followed her.</p> - -<p>This would have been very well if a dozen Arabs had not also followed -them. But as this was the case, Mr. Ingram had to play his game under -some difficulty. He had no sooner seated himself beside her than they -came and stood directly in front of the seat, shutting out the view, and -by no means improving the fragrance of the air around them.</p> - -<p>“And this, then, Miss Damer, will be our last excursion together,” he -said, in his tenderest, softest tone.</p> - -<p>“De good Englishman will gib de poor Arab one little backsheish,” said -an Arab, putting out his hand and shaking Mr. Ingram’s shoulder.</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, yes; him gib backsheish,” said another.</p> - -<p>“Him berry good man,” said a third, putting up his filthy hand, and -touching Mr. Ingram’s face.</p> - -<p>“And young lady berry good, too; she give backsheish to poor Arab.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said a fourth, preparing to take a similar liberty with Miss -Damer.</p> - -<p>This was too much for Mr. Ingram. He had already used very positive -language in his endeavour to assure his tormentors that they would not -get a piastre from him. But this only changed their soft persuasions -into threats. Upon hearing which, and upon seeing what the man attempted -to do in his endeavour to get money from Miss Damer, he raised his -stick, and struck first one and then the other as violently as he could -upon their heads.</p> - -<p>Any ordinary civilised men would have been stunned by such blows, for -they fell on the bare foreheads of the Arabs; but the objects of the -American’s wrath merely skulked away; and the others, convinced by the -only arguments which they understood, followed in pursuit of victims who -might be less pugnacious.</p> - -<p>It is hard for a man to be at once tender and pugnacious—to be -sentimental, while he is putting forth his physical strength with all -the violence in his power. It is difficult, also, for him to be gentle -instantly after having been in a rage. So he changed his tactics at the -moment, and came to the point at once in a manner befitting his present -state of mind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span></p> - -<p>“Those vile wretches have put me in such a heat,” he said, “that I -hardly know what I am saying. But the fact is this, Miss Damer, I cannot -leave Cairo without knowing——. You understand what I mean, Miss -Damer.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I do not, Mr. Ingram; except that I am afraid you mean -nonsense.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, you do; you know that I love you. I am sure you must know it. At -any rate you know it now.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Ingram, you should not talk in such a way.”</p> - -<p>“Why should I not? But the truth is, Fanny, I can talk in no other way. -I do love you dearly. Can you love me well enough to go and be my wife -in a country far away from your own?”</p> - -<p>Before she left the top of the Pyramid Fanny Damer had said that she -would try.</p> - -<p>Mr. Ingram was now a proud and happy man, and seemed to think the steps -of the Pyramid too small for his elastic energy. But Fanny feared that -her troubles were to come. There was papa—that terrible bugbear on all -such occasions. What would papa say? She was sure her papa would not -allow her to marry and go so far away from her own family and country. -For herself, she liked the Americans—always had liked them; so she -said;—would desire nothing better than to live among them. But papa! -And Fanny sighed as she felt that all the recognised miseries of a young -lady in love were about to fall upon her.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, at her lover’s instance, she promised, and declared, in -twenty different loving phrases, that nothing on earth should ever make -her false to her love or to her lover.</p> - -<p>“Fanny, where are you? Why are you not ready to come down?” shouted Mr. -Damer, not in the best of tempers. He felt that he had almost been -unkind to an unprotected female, and his heart misgave him. And yet it -would have misgiven him more had he allowed himself to be entrapped by -Miss Dawkins.</p> - -<p>“I am quite ready, papa,” said Fanny, running up to him—for it may be -understood that there is quite room enough for a young lady to run on -the top of the Pyramid.</p> - -<p>“I am sure I don’t know where you have been all the time,” said Mr. -Damer; “and where are those two boys?”</p> - -<p>Fanny pointed to the top of the other Pyramid, and there they were, -conspicuous with their red caps.</p> - -<p>“And M. Delabordeau?”</p> - -<p>“Oh! he has gone down, I think;—no, he is there with Miss<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span> Dawkins.” -And in truth Miss Dawkins was leaning on his arm most affectionately, as -she stooped over and looked down upon the ruins below her.</p> - -<p>“And where is that fellow, Ingram?” said Mr. Damer, looking about him. -“He is always out of the way when he’s wanted.”</p> - -<p>To this Fanny said nothing. Why should she? She was not Mr. Ingram’s -keeper.</p> - -<p>And then they all descended, each again with his proper number of Arabs -to hurry and embarrass him; and they found Mrs. Damer at the bottom, -like a piece of sugar covered with flies. She was heard to declare -afterwards that she would not go to the Pyramids again, not if they were -to be given to her for herself, as ornaments for her garden.</p> - -<p>The picnic lunch among the big stones at the foot of the Pyramid was not -a very gay affair. Miss Dawkins talked more than any one else, being -determined to show that she bore her defeat gallantly. Her conversation, -however, was chiefly addressed to M. Delabordeau, and he seemed to think -more of his cold chicken and ham than he did of her wit and attention.</p> - -<p>Fanny hardly spoke a word. There was her father before her and she could -not eat, much less talk, as she thought of all that she would have to go -through. What would he say to the idea of having an American for a -son-in-law?</p> - -<p>Nor was Mr. Ingram very lively. A young man when he has been just -accepted, never is so. His happiness under the present circumstances -was, no doubt, intense, but it was of a silent nature.</p> - -<p>And then the interior of the building had to be visited. To tell the -truth none of the party would have cared to perform this feat had it not -been for the honour of the thing. To have come from Paris, New York, or -London, to the Pyramids, and then not to have visited the very tomb of -Cheops, would have shown on the part of all of them an indifference to -subjects of interest which would have been altogether fatal to their -character as travellers. And so a party for the interior was made up.</p> - -<p>Miss Damer when she saw the aperture through which it was expected that -she should descend, at once declared for staying with her mother. Miss -Dawkins, however, was enthusiastic for the journey. “Persons with so -very little command over their nerves might really as well stay at -home,” she said to Mr. Ingram, who glowered at her dreadfully for -expressing such an opinion about his Fanny.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span></p> - -<p>This entrance into the Pyramids is a terrible task, which should be -undertaken by no lady. Those who perform it have to creep down, and then -to be dragged up, through infinite dirt, foul smells, and bad air; and -when they have done it, they see nothing. But they do earn the -gratification of saying that they have been inside a Pyramid.</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ve done that once,” said Mr. Damer, coming out, “and I do not -think that any one will catch me doing it again. I never was in such a -filthy place in my life.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Fanny! I am so glad you did not go; I am sure it is not fit for -ladies,” said poor Mrs. Damer, forgetful of her friend Miss Dawkins.</p> - -<p>“I should have been ashamed of myself,” said Miss Dawkins, bristling up, -and throwing back her head as she stood, “if I had allowed any -consideration to have prevented my visiting such a spot. If it be not -improper for men to go there, how can it be improper for women?”</p> - -<p>“I did not say improper, my dear,” said Mrs. Damer, apologetically.</p> - -<p>“And as for the fatigue, what can a woman be worth who is afraid to -encounter as much as I have now gone through for the sake of visiting -the last resting-place of such a king as Cheops?” And Miss Dawkins, as -she pronounced the last words, looked round her with disdain upon poor -Fanny Damer.</p> - -<p>“But I meant the dirt,” said Mrs. Damer.</p> - -<p>“Dirt!” ejaculated Miss Dawkins, and then walked away. Why should she -now submit her high tone of feeling to the Damers, or why care longer -for their good opinion? Therefore she scattered contempt around her as -she ejaculated the last word, “dirt.”</p> - -<p>And then the return home! “I know I shall never get there,” said Mrs. -Damer, looking piteously up into her husband’s face.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, my dear; nonsense; you must get there.” Mrs. Damer groaned, -and acknowledged in her heart that she must,—either dead or alive.</p> - -<p>“And, Jefferson,” said Fanny, whispering—for there had been a moment -since their descent in which she had been instructed to call him by his -Christian name—“never mind talking to me going home. I will ride by -mamma. Do you go with papa and put him in good humour; and if he says -anything about the lords and the bishops, don’t you contradict him, you -know.”</p> - -<p>What will not a man do for love? Mr. Ingram promised.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> And in this way -they started; the two boys led the van; then came Mr. Damer and Mr. -Ingram, unusually and unpatriotically acquiescent as to England’s -aristocratic propensities; then Miss Dawkins riding, alas! alone; after -her, M. Delabordeau, also alone,—the ungallant Frenchman! And the rear -was brought up by Mrs. Damer and her daughter, flanked on each side by a -dragoman, with a third dragoman behind them.</p> - -<p>And in this order they went back to Cairo, riding their donkeys, and -crossing the ferry solemnly, and, for the most part, silently. Mr. -Ingram did talk, as he had an important object in view,—that of putting -Mr. Damer into a good humour.</p> - -<p>In this he succeeded so well that by the time they had remounted, after -crossing the Nile, Mr. Damer opened his heart to his companion on the -subject that was troubling him, and told him all about Miss Dawkins.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why we should have a companion that we don’t like for eight -or ten weeks, merely because it seems rude to refuse a lady.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I agree with you,” said Mr. Ingram; “I should call it -weak-minded to give way in such a case.”</p> - -<p>“My daughter does not like her at all,” continued Mr. Damer.</p> - -<p>“Nor would she be a nice companion for Miss Damer; not according to my -way of thinking,” said Mr. Ingram.</p> - -<p>“And as to my having asked her, or Mrs. Damer having asked her! Why, God -bless my soul, it is pure invention on the woman’s part!”</p> - -<p>“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Mr. Ingrain; “I must say she plays her game well; -but then she is an old soldier, and has the benefit of experience.” What -would Miss Dawkins have said had she known that Mr. Ingram called her an -old soldier?</p> - -<p>“I don’t like the kind of thing at all,” said Mr. Damer, who was very -serious upon the subject. “You see the position in which I am placed. I -am forced to be very rude, or——”</p> - -<p>“I don’t call it rude at all.”</p> - -<p>“Disobliging, then; or else I must have all my comfort invaded and -pleasure destroyed by, by, by——” And Mr. Damer paused, being at a loss -for an appropriate name for Miss Dawkins.</p> - -<p>“By an unprotected female,” suggested Mr. Ingram.</p> - -<p>“Yes, just so. I am as fond of pleasant company as anybody; but then I -like to choose it myself.”</p> - -<p>“So do I,” said Mr. Ingram, thinking of his own choice.</p> - -<p>“Now, Ingram, if you would join us, we should be delighted.”</p> - -<p>“Upon my word, sir, the offer is too flattering,” said Ingram,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> -hesitatingly; for he felt that he could not undertake such a journey -until Mr. Damer knew on what terms he stood with Fanny.</p> - -<p>“You are a terrible democrat,” said Mr. Damer, laughing; “but then, on -that matter, you know, we could agree to differ.”</p> - -<p>“Exactly so,” said Mr. Ingram, who had not collected his thoughts or -made up his mind as to what he had better say and do, on the spur of the -moment.</p> - -<p>“Well, what do you say to it?” said Mr. Damer, encouragingly. But Ingram -paused before he answered.</p> - -<p>“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, don’t have the slightest hesitation -in refusing, if you don’t like the plan.”</p> - -<p>“The fact is, Mr. Damer, I should like it too well.”</p> - -<p>“Like it too well?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, and I may as well tell you now as later. I had intended this -evening to have asked for your permission to address your daughter.”</p> - -<p>“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer, looking as though a totally new -idea had now been opened to him.</p> - -<p>“And under these circumstances, I will now wait and see whether or no -you will renew your offer.”</p> - -<p>“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer, again. It often does strike an old -gentleman as very odd that any man should fall in love with his -daughter, whom he has not ceased to look upon as a child. The case is -generally quite different with mothers. They seem to think that every -young man must fall in love with their girls.</p> - -<p>“And have you said anything to Fanny about this?” asked Mr. Damer.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, I have her permission to speak to you.”</p> - -<p>“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Damer; and by this time they had arrived -at Shepheard’s Hotel.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma,” said Fanny, as soon as she found herself alone with her -mother that evening, “I have something that I must tell you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Fanny, don’t tell me anything to-night, for I am a great deal too -tired to listen.”</p> - -<p>“But oh, mamma, pray;—you must listen to this; indeed you must.” And -Fanny knelt down at her mother’s knee, and looked beseechingly up into -her face.</p> - -<p>“What is it, Fanny? You know that all my bones are sore, and I am so -tired that I am almost dead.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, Mr. Ingram has—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Has what, my dear? has he done anything wrong?”</p> - -<p>“No, mamma: but he has;—he has proposed to me.” And Fanny, bursting -into tears, hid her face in her mother’s lap.</p> - -<p>And thus the story was told on both sides of the house. On the next day, -as a matter of course, all the difficulties and dangers of such a -marriage as that which was now projected were insisted on by both father -and mother. It was improper; it would cause a severing of the family not -to be thought of; it would be an alliance of a dangerous nature, and not -at all calculated to insure happiness; and, in short, it was impossible. -On that day, therefore, they all went to bed very unhappy. But on the -next day, as was also a matter of course, seeing that there were no -pecuniary difficulties, the mother and father were talked over, and Mr. -Ingram was accepted as a son-in-law. It need hardly be said that the -offer of a place in Mr. Damer’s boat was again made, and that on this -occasion it was accepted without hesitation.</p> - -<p>There was an American Protestant clergyman resident in Cairo, with whom, -among other persons, Miss Dawkins had become acquainted. Upon this -gentleman or upon his wife Miss Dawkins called a few days after the -journey to the Pyramid, and finding him in his study, thus performed her -duty to her neighbour,—</p> - -<p>“You know your countryman Mr. Ingram, I think?” said she.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; very intimately.”</p> - -<p>“If you have any regard for him, Mr. Burton,” such was the gentleman’s -name, “I think you should put him on his guard.”</p> - -<p>“On his guard against what?” said Mr. Burton with a serious air, for -there was something serious in the threat of impending misfortune as -conveyed by Miss Dawkins.</p> - -<p>“Why,” said she, “those Damers, I fear, are dangerous people.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that they will borrow money of him?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no; not that, exactly; but they are clearly setting their cap at -him.”</p> - -<p>“Setting their cap at him?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; there is a daughter, you know; a little chit of a thing; and I -fear Mr. Ingram may be caught before he knows where he is. It would be -such a pity, you know. He is going up the river with them, I hear. That, -in his place, is very foolish. They asked me, but I positively refused.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Burton remarked that “In such a matter as that Mr. Ingram would be -perfectly able to take care of himself.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, perhaps so; but seeing what was going on, I thought it my duty to -tell you.” And so Miss Dawkins took her leave.</p> - -<p>Mr. Ingram did go up the Nile with the Damers, as did an old friend of -the Damers who arrived from England. And a very pleasant trip they had -of it. And, as far as the present historian knows, the two lovers were -shortly afterwards married in England.</p> - -<p>Poor Miss Dawkins was left in Cairo for some time on her beam ends. But -she was one of those who are not easily vanquished. After an interval of -ten days she made acquaintance with an Irish family—having utterly -failed in moving the hard heart of M. Delabordeau—and with these she -proceeded to Constantinople. They consisted of two brothers and a -sister, and were, therefore, very convenient for matrimonial purposes. -But nevertheless, when I last heard of Miss Dawkins, she was still an -unprotected female.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_CHATEAU_OF_PRINCE_POLIGNAC" id="THE_CHATEAU_OF_PRINCE_POLIGNAC"></a>THE CHATEAU OF PRINCE POLIGNAC.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Few</span> Englishmen or Englishwomen are intimately acquainted with the little -town of Le Puy. It is the capital of the old province of Le Velay, which -also is now but little known, even to French ears, for it is in these -days called by the imperial name of the Department of the Haute Loire. -It is to the south-east of Auvergne, and is nearly in the centre of the -southern half of France.</p> - -<p>But few towns, merely as towns, can be better worth visiting. In the -first place, the volcanic formation of the ground on which it stands is -not only singular in the extreme, so as to be interesting to the -geologist, but it is so picturesque as to be equally gratifying to the -general tourist. Within a narrow valley there stand several rocks, -rising up from the ground with absolute abruptness. Round two of these -the town clusters, and a third stands but a mile distant, forming the -centre of a faubourg, or suburb. These rocks appear to be, and I believe -are, the harder particles of volcanic matter, which have not been -carried away through successive ages by the joint agency of water and -air.</p> - -<p>When the tide of lava ran down between the hills the surface left was no -doubt on a level with the heads of these rocks; but here and there the -deposit became harder than elsewhere, and these harder points have -remained, lifting up their steep heads in a line through the valley.</p> - -<p>The highest of these is called the Rocher de Corneille. Round this and -up its steep sides the town stands. On its highest summit there was an -old castle; and there now is, or will be before these pages are printed, -a colossal figure in bronze of the Virgin Mary, made from the cannon -taken at Sebastopol. Half-way down the hill the cathedral is built, a -singularly gloomy edifice,—Romanesque, as it is called, in its style, -but extremely similar in its mode of architecture to what we know of -Byzantine structures. But there has been no surface on the rock side -large<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> enough to form a resting-place for the church, which has -therefore been built out on huge supporting piles, which form a porch -below the west front; so that the approach is by numerous steps laid -along the side of the wall below the church, forming a wondrous flight -of stairs. Let all men who may find themselves stopping at Le Puy visit -the top of these stairs at the time of the setting sun, and look down -from thence through the framework of the porch on the town beneath, and -at the hill-side beyond.</p> - -<p>Behind the church is the seminary of the priests, with its beautiful -walks stretching round the Rocher de Corneille, and overlooking the town -and valley below.</p> - -<p>Next to this rock, and within a quarter of a mile of it, is the second -peak, called the Rock of the Needle. It rises narrow, sharp, and abrupt -from the valley, allowing of no buildings on its sides. But on its very -point has been erected a church sacred to St. Michael, that lover of -rock summits, accessible by stairs cut from the stone. This, -perhaps—this rock, I mean—is the most wonderful of the wonders which -Nature has formed at Le Puy.</p> - -<p>Above this, at a mile’s distance, is the rock of Espailly, formed in the -same way, and almost equally precipitous. On its summit is a castle, -having its own legend, and professing to have been the residence of -Charles VII., when little of France belonged to its kings but the -provinces of Berry, Auvergne, and Le Velay. Some three miles farther up -there is another volcanic rock, larger, indeed, but equally sudden in -its spring,—equally remarkable as rising abruptly from the valley,—on -which stands the castle and old family residence of the house of -Polignac. It was lost by them at the Revolution, but was repurchased by -the minister of Charles X., and is still the property of the head of the -race.</p> - -<p>Le Puy itself is a small, moderate, pleasant French town, in which the -language of the people has not the pure Parisian aroma, nor is the glory -of the boulevards of the capital emulated in its streets. These are -crooked, narrow, steep, and intricate, forming here and there excellent -sketches for a lover of street picturesque beauty; but hurtful to the -feet with their small, round-topped paving stones, and not always as -clean as pedestrian ladies might desire.</p> - -<p>And now I would ask my readers to join me at the morning table d’hôte at -the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. It will of course be understood that this -does not mean a breakfast in the ordinary fashion of England, consisting -of tea or coffee, bread and butter,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span> and perhaps a boiled egg. It -comprises all the requisites for a composite dinner, excepting soup; and -as one gets further south in France, this meal is called dinner. It is, -however, eaten without any prejudice to another similar and somewhat -longer meal at six or seven o’clock, which, when the above name is taken -up by the earlier enterprise, is styled supper.</p> - -<p>The déjeûner, or dinner, at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs, on the morning -in question, though very elaborate, was not a very gay affair. There -were some fourteen persons present, of whom half were residents in the -town, men employed in some official capacity, who found this to be the -cheapest, the most luxurious, and to them the most comfortable mode of -living. They clustered together at the head of the table, and as they -were customary guests at the house, they talked their little talk -together—it was very little—and made the most of the good things -before them. Then there were two or three commis-voyageurs, a chance -traveller or two, and an English lady with a young daughter. The English -lady sat next to one of the accustomed guests; but he, unlike the -others, held converse with her rather than with them. Our story at -present has reference only to that lady and to that gentleman.</p> - -<p>Place aux dames. We will speak first of the lady, whose name was Mrs. -Thompson. She was, shall I say, a young woman of about thirty-six. In so -saying, I am perhaps creating a prejudice against her in the minds of -some readers, as they will, not unnaturally, suppose her, after such an -announcement, to be in truth over forty. Any such prejudice will be -unjust. I would have it believed that thirty-six was the outside, not -the inside of her age. She was good-looking, lady-like, and considering -that she was an Englishwoman, fairly well dressed. She was inclined to -be rather full in her person, but perhaps not more so than is becoming -to ladies at her time of life. She had rings on her fingers and a brooch -on her bosom which were of some value, and on the back of her head she -wore a jaunty small lace cap, which seemed to tell, in conjunction with -her other appointments, that her circumstances were comfortable.</p> - -<p>The little girl who sat next to her was the youngest of her two -daughters, and might be about thirteen years of age. Her name was -Matilda, but infantine circumstances had invested her with the nickname -of Mimmy, by which her mother always called her. A nice, pretty, playful -little girl was Mimmy Thompson, wearing two long tails of plaited hair -hanging behind her head, and inclined occasionally to be rather loud in -her sport.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson had another and an elder daughter, now some fifteen years -old, who was at school in Le Puy; and it was with reference to her -tuition that Mrs. Thompson had taken up a temporary residence at the -Hôtel des Ambassadeurs in that town. Lilian Thompson was occasionally -invited down to dine or breakfast at the inn, and was visited daily at -her school by her mother.</p> - -<p>“When I’m sure that she’ll do, I shall leave her there, and go back to -England,” Mrs. Thompson had said, not in the purest French, to the -neighbour who always sat next to her at the table d’hôte, the gentleman, -namely, to whom we have above alluded. But still she had remained at Le -Puy a month, and did not go; a circumstance which was considered -singular, but by no means unpleasant, both by the innkeeper and by the -gentleman in question.</p> - -<p>The facts, as regarded Mrs. Thompson, were as follows:—She was the -widow of a gentleman who had served for many years in the civil service -of the East Indies, and who, on dying, had left her a comfortable income -of—it matters not how many pounds, but constituting quite a sufficiency -to enable her to live at her ease and educate her daughters.</p> - -<p>Her children had been sent home to England before her husband’s death, -and after that event she had followed them; but there, though she was -possessed of moderate wealth, she had no friends and few acquaintances, -and after a little while she had found life to be rather dull. Her -customs were not those of England, nor were her propensities English; -therefore she had gone abroad, and having received some recommendation -of this school at Le Puy, had made her way thither. As it appeared to -her that she really enjoyed more consideration at Le Puy than had been -accorded to her either at Torquay or Leamington, there she remained from -day to day. The total payment required at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs was -but six francs daily for herself and three and a half for her little -girl; and where else could she live with a better junction of economy -and comfort? And then the gentleman who always sat next to her was so -exceedingly civil!</p> - -<p>The gentleman’s name was M. Lacordaire. So much she knew, and had -learned to call him by his name very frequently. Mimmy, too, was quite -intimate with M. Lacordaire; but nothing more than his name was known of -him. But M. Lacordaire carried a general letter of recommendation in his -face, manner, gait, dress, and tone of voice. In all these respects -there was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span> nothing left to be desired; and, in addition to this, he was -decorated, and wore the little red ribbon of the Legion of Honour, -ingeniously twisted into the shape of a small flower.</p> - -<p>M. Lacordaire might be senior in age to Mrs. Thompson by about ten -years, nor had he about him any of the airs or graces of a would-be -young man. His hair, which he wore very short, was grizzled, as was also -the small pretence of a whisker which came down about as far as the -middle of his ear; but the tuft on his chin was still brown, without a -gray hair. His eyes were bright and tender, his voice was low and soft, -his hands were very white, his clothes were always new and well fitting, -and a better-brushed hat could not be seen out of Paris, nor perhaps in -it.</p> - -<p>Now, during the weeks which Mrs. Thompson had passed at Le Puy, the -acquaintance which she had formed with M. Lacordaire had progressed -beyond the prolonged meals in the salle à manger. He had occasionally -sat beside her evening table as she took her English cup of tea in her -own room, her bed being duly screened off in its distant niche by -becoming curtains; and then he had occasionally walked beside her, as he -civilly escorted her to the lions of the place; and he had once -accompanied her, sitting on the back seat of a French voiture, when she -had gone forth to see something of the surrounding country.</p> - -<p>On all such occasions she had been accompanied by one of her daughters, -and the world of Le Puy had had nothing material to say against her. But -still the world of Le Puy had whispered a little, suggesting that M. -Lacordaire knew very well what he was about. But might not Mrs. Thompson -also know as well what she was about? At any rate, everything had gone -on very pleasantly since the acquaintance had been made. And now, so -much having been explained, we will go back to the elaborate breakfast -at the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson, holding Mimmy by the hand, walked into the room some few -minutes after the last bell had been rung, and took the place which was -now hers by custom. The gentlemen who constantly frequented the house -all bowed to her, but M. Lacordaire rose from his seat and offered her -his hand.</p> - -<p>“And how is Mees Meemy this morning?” said he; for ’twas thus he always -pronounced her name.</p> - -<p>Miss Mimmy, answering for herself, declared that she was very well, and -suggested that M. Lacordaire should give her a fig from off a dish that -was placed immediately before him on the table. This M. Lacordaire did, -presenting it very elegantly between his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> two fingers, and making a -little bow to the little lady as he did so.</p> - -<p>“Fie, Mimmy!” said her mother; “why do you ask for the things before the -waiter brings them round?”</p> - -<p>“But, mamma,” said Mimmy, speaking English, “M. Lacordaire always gives -me a fig every morning.”</p> - -<p>“M. Lacordaire always spoils you, I think,” answered Mrs. Thompson, in -French. And then they went thoroughly to work at their breakfast. During -the whole meal M. Lacordaire attended assiduously to his neighbour; and -did so without any evil result, except that one Frenchman with a black -moustache, at the head of the table, trod on the toe of another -Frenchman with another black moustache—winking as he made the -sign—just as M. Lacordaire, having selected a bunch of grapes, put it -on Mrs. Thompson’s plate with infinite grace. But who among us all is -free from such impertinences as these?</p> - -<p>“But madame really must see the château of Prince Polignac before she -leaves Le Puy,” said M. Lacordaire.</p> - -<p>“The château of who?” asked Mimmy, to whose young ears the French words -were already becoming familiar.</p> - -<p>“Prince Polignac, my dear. Well, I really don’t know, M. Lacordaire;—I -have seen a great deal of the place already, and I shall be going now -very soon; probably in a day or two,” said Mrs. Thompson.</p> - -<p>“But madame must positively see the château,” said M. Lacordaire, very -impressively; and then after a pause he added, “If madame will have the -complaisance to commission me to procure a carriage for this afternoon, -and will allow me the honour to be her guide, I shall consider myself -one of the most fortunate of men.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, mamma, do go,” said Mimmy, clapping her hands. “And it is -Thursday, and Lilian can go with us.”</p> - -<p>“Be quiet, Mimmy, do. Thank you, no, M. Lacordaire. I could not go -to-day; but I am extremely obliged by your politeness.”</p> - -<p>M. Lacordaire still pressed the matter, and Mrs. Thompson still declined -till it was time to rise from the table. She then declared that she did -not think it possible that she should visit the château before she left -Le Puy; but that she would give him an answer at dinner.</p> - -<p>The most tedious time in the day to Mrs. Thompson were the two hours -after breakfast. At one o’clock she daily went to the school, taking -Mimmy, who for an hour or two shared her sister’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span> lessons. This and her -little excursions about the place, and her shopping, managed to make -away with her afternoon. Then in the evening, she generally saw -something of M. Lacordaire. But those two hours after breakfast were -hard of killing.</p> - -<p>On this occasion, when she gained her own room, she as usual placed -Mimmy on the sofa with a needle. Her custom then was to take up a novel; -but on this morning she sat herself down in her arm-chair, and resting -her head upon her hand and elbow, began to turn over certain -circumstances in her mind.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Mimmy, “why won’t you go with M. Lacordaire to that place -belonging to the prince? Prince—Polly something, wasn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Mind your work, my dear,” said Mrs. Thompson.</p> - -<p>“But I do so wish you’d go, mamma. What was the prince’s name?”</p> - -<p>“Polignac.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, ain’t princes very great people?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, my dear; sometimes.”</p> - -<p>“Is Prince Polly-nac like our Prince Alfred?”</p> - -<p>“No, my dear; not at all. At least, I suppose not.”</p> - -<p>“Is his mother a queen?”</p> - -<p>“No, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“Then his father must be a king?”</p> - -<p>“No, my dear. It is quite a different thing here. Here in France they -have a great many princes.”</p> - -<p>“Well, at any rate I should like to see a prince’s château; so I do hope -you’ll go.” And then there was a pause. “Mamma, could it come to pass, -here in France, that M. Lacordaire should ever be a prince?”</p> - -<p>“M. Lacordaire a prince! No; don’t talk such nonsense, but mind your -work.”</p> - -<p>“Isn’t M. Lacordaire a very nice man? Ain’t you very fond of him?”</p> - -<p>To this question Mrs. Thompson made no answer.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” continued Mimmy, after a moment’s pause, “won’t you tell me -whether you are fond of M. Lacordaire? I’m quite sure of this,—that -he’s very fond of you.”</p> - -<p>“What makes you think that?” asked Mrs. Thompson, who could not bring -herself to refrain from the question.</p> - -<p>“Because he looks at you in that way, mamma, and squeezes your hand.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs. Thompson; “hold your tongue. I don’t know -what can have put such stuff into your head.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span></p> - -<p>“But he does, mamma,” said Mimmy, who rarely allowed her mother to put -her down.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson made no further answer, but again sat with her head -resting on her hand. She also, if the truth must be told, was thinking -of M. Lacordaire and his fondness for herself. He had squeezed her hand -and he had looked into her face. However much it may have been nonsense -on Mimmy’s part to talk of such things, they had not the less absolutely -occurred. Was it really the fact that M. Lacordaire was in love with -her?</p> - -<p>And if so, what return should she, or could she make to such a passion? -He had looked at her yesterday, and squeezed her hand to-day. Might it -not be probable that he would advance a step further to-morrow? If so, -what answer would she be prepared to make to him?</p> - -<p>She did not think—so she said to herself—that she had any particular -objection to marrying again. Thompson had been dead now for four years, -and neither his friends, nor her friends, nor the world could say she -was wrong on that score. And as to marrying a Frenchman, she could not -say she felt within herself any absolute repugnance to doing that. Of -her own country, speaking of England as such, she, in truth, knew but -little—and perhaps cared less. She had gone to India almost as a child, -and England had not been specially kind to her on her return. She had -found it dull and cold, stiff, and almost ill-natured. People there had -not smiled on her and been civil as M. Lacordaire had done. As far as -England and Englishmen were considered she saw no reason why she should -not marry M. Lacordaire.</p> - -<p>And then, as regarded the man; could she in her heart say that she was -prepared to love, honour, and obey M. Lacordaire? She certainly knew no -reason why she should not do so. She did not know much of him, she said -to herself at first; but she knew as much, she said afterwards, as she -had known personally of Mr. Thompson before their marriage. She had -known, to be sure, what was Mr. Thompson’s profession and what his -income; or, if not, some one else had known for her. As to both these -points she was quite in the dark as regarded M. Lacordaire.</p> - -<p>Personally, she certainly did like him, as she said to herself more than -once. There was a courtesy and softness about him which were very -gratifying to her; and then, his appearance was so much in his favour. -He was not very young, she acknowledged; but neither was she young -herself. It was quite evident that he was fond of her children, and that -he would be a kind<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span> and affectionate father to them. Indeed, there was -kindness in all that he did.</p> - -<p>Should she many again,—and she put it to herself quite -hypothetically,—she would look for no romance in such a second -marriage. She would be content to sit down in a quiet home, to the tame -dull realities of life, satisfied with the companionship of a man who -would be kind and gentle to her, and whom she could respect and esteem. -Where could she find a companion with whom this could be more safely -anticipated than with M. Lacordaire?</p> - -<p>And so she argued the question within her own breast in a manner not -unfriendly to that gentleman. That there was as yet one great hindrance -she at once saw; but then that might be remedied by a word. She did not -know what was his income or his profession. The chambermaid, whom she -had interrogated, had told her that he was a “marchand.” To merchants, -generally, she felt that she had no objection. The Barings and the -Rothschilds were merchants, as was also that wonderful man at Bombay, -Sir Hommajee Bommajee, who was worth she did not know how many thousand -lacs of rupees.</p> - -<p>That it would behove her, on her own account and that of her daughters, -to take care of her own little fortune in contracting any such -connection, that she felt strongly. She would never so commit herself as -to put security in that respect out of her power. But then she did not -think that M. Lacordaire would ever ask her to do so; at any rate, she -was determined on this, that there should never be any doubt on that -matter; and as she firmly resolved on this, she again took up her book, -and for a minute or two made an attempt to read.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Mimmy, “will M. Lacordaire go up to the school to see -Lilian when you go away from this?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I cannot say, my dear. If Lilian is a good girl, perhaps he may -do so now and then.”</p> - -<p>“And will he write to you and tell you how she is?”</p> - -<p>“Lilian can write for herself; can she not?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes; I suppose she can; but I hope M. Lacordaire will write too. We -shall come back here some day; shan’t we, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot say, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“I do so hope we shall see M. Lacordaire again. Do you know what I was -thinking, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“Little girls like you ought not to think,” said Mrs. Thompson, walking -slowly out of the room to the top of the stairs and back<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span> again; for she -had felt the necessity of preventing Mimmy from disclosing any more of -her thoughts. “And now, my dear, get yourself ready, and we will go up -to the school.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson always dressed herself with care, though not in especially -fine clothes, before she went down to dinner at the table d’hôte; but on -this occasion she was more than usually particular. She hardly explained -to herself why she did this; but, nevertheless, as she stood before the -glass, she did in a certain manner feel that the circumstances of her -future life might perhaps depend on what might be said and done that -evening. She had not absolutely decided whether or no she would go to -the Prince’s château; but if she did go——. Well, if she did; what -then? She had sense enough, as she assured herself more than once, to -regulate her own conduct with propriety in any such emergency.</p> - -<p>During the dinner, M. Lacordaire conversed in his usual manner, but said -nothing whatever about the visit to Polignac. He was very kind to Mimmy, -and very courteous to her mother, but did not appear to be at all more -particular than usual. Indeed, it might be a question whether he was not -less so. As she had entered the room Mrs. Thompson had said to herself -that, perhaps, after all, it would be better that there should be -nothing more thought about it; but before the four of five courses were -over, she was beginning to feel a little disappointed.</p> - -<p>And now the fruit was on the table, after the consumption of which it -was her practice to retire. It was certainly open to her to ask M. -Lacordaire to take tea with her that evening, as she had done on former -occasions; but she felt that she must not do this now, considering the -immediate circumstances of the case. If any further steps were to be -taken, they must be taken by him, and not by her;—or else by Mimmy, -who, just as her mother was slowly consuming her last grapes, ran round -to the back of M. Lacordaire’s chair, and whispered something into his -ear. It may be presumed that Mrs. Thompson did not see the intention of -the movement in time to arrest it, for she did nothing till the -whispering had been whispered; and then she rebuked the child, bade her -not to be troublesome, and with more than usual austerity in her voice, -desired her to get herself ready to go up stairs to their chamber.</p> - -<p>As she spoke she herself rose from her chair, and made her final little -bow to the table, and her other final little bow and smile to M. -Lacordaire; but this was certain to all who saw it, that the smile was -not as gracious as usual.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span></p> - -<p>As she walked forth, M. Lacordaire rose from his chair—such being his -constant practice when she left the table; but on this occasion he -accompanied her to the door.</p> - -<p>“And has madame decided,” he asked, “whether she will permit me to -accompany her to the château?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I really don’t know,” said Mrs. Thompson.</p> - -<p>“Mees Meemy,” continued M. Lacordaire, “is very anxious to see the rock, -and I may perhaps hope that Mees Lilian would be pleased with such a -little excursion. As for myself——” and then M. Lacordaire put his hand -upon his heart in a manner that seemed to speak more plainly than he had -ever spoken.</p> - -<p>“Well, if the children would really like it, and—as you are so very -kind,” said Mrs. Thompson; and so the matter was conceded.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow afternoon?” suggested M. Lacordaire. But Mrs. Thompson fixed -on Saturday, thereby showing that she herself was in no hurry for the -expedition.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I am so glad!” said Mimmy, when they had re-entered their own room. -“Mamma, do let me tell Lilian myself when I go up to the school -to-morrow!”</p> - -<p>But mamma was in no humour to say much to her child on this subject at -the present moment. She threw herself back on her sofa in perfect -silence, and began to reflect whether she would like to sign her name in -future as Fanny Lacordaire, instead of Fanny Thompson. It certainly -seemed as though things were verging towards such a necessity. A -marchand! But a marchand of what? She had an instinctive feeling that -the people in the hotel were talking about her and M. Lacordaire, and -was therefore more than ever averse to asking any one a question.</p> - -<p>As she went up to the school the next afternoon, she walked through more -of the streets of Le Puy than was necessary, and in every street she -looked at the names which she saw over the doors of the more respectable -houses of business. But she looked in vain. It might be that M. -Lacordaire was a marchand of so specially high a quality as to be under -no necessity to put up his name at all. Sir Hommajee Bommajee’s name did -not appear over any door in Bombay;—at least, she thought not.</p> - -<p>And then came the Saturday morning. “We shall be ready at two,” she -said, as she left the breakfast-table; “and perhaps you would not mind -calling for Lilian on the way.”</p> - -<p>M. Lacordaire would be delighted to call anywhere for anybody on behalf -of Mrs. Thompson; and then, as he got to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> door of the salon, he -offered her his hand. He did so with so much French courtesy that she -could not refuse it, and then she felt that his purpose was more tender -than ever it had been. And why not, if this was the destiny which Fate -had prepared for her?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson would rather have got into the carriage at any other spot -in Le Puy than at that at which she was forced to do so—the chief -entrance, namely, of the Hôtel des Ambassadeurs. And what made it worse -was this, that an appearance of a special fête was given to the -occasion. M. Lacordaire was dressed in more than his Sunday best. He had -on new yellow kid gloves. His coat, if not new, was newer than any Mrs. -Thompson had yet observed, and was lined with silk up to the very -collar. He had on patent leather boots, which glittered, as Mrs. -Thompson thought, much too conspicuously. And as for his hat, it was -quite evident that it was fresh that morning from the maker’s block.</p> - -<p>In this costume, with his hat in his hand, he stood under the great -gateway of the hotel, ready to hand Mrs. Thompson into the carriage. -This would have been nothing if the landlord and landlady had not been -there also, as well as the man-cook, and the four waiters, and the fille -de chambre. Two or three other pair of eyes Mrs. Thompson also saw, as -she glanced round, and then Mimmy walked across the yard in her best -clothes with a fête-day air about her for which her mother would have -liked to have whipped her.</p> - -<p>But what did it matter? If it was written in the book that she should -become Madame Lacordaire, of course the world would know that there must -have been some preparatory love-making. Let them have their laugh; a -good husband would not be dearly purchased at so trifling an expense. -And so they sallied forth with already half the ceremony of a wedding.</p> - -<p>Mimmy seated herself opposite to her mother, and M. Lacordaire also sat -with his back to the horses, leaving the second place of honour for -Lilian. “Pray make yourself comfortable, M. Lacordaire, and don’t mind -her,” said Mrs. Thompson. But he was firm in his purpose of civility, -perhaps making up his mind that when he should in truth stand in the -place of papa to the young lady, then would be his time for having the -back seat in the carriage.</p> - -<p>Lilian, also in her best frock, came down the school-steps, and three of -the school teachers came with her. It would have added to Mrs. -Thompson’s happiness at that moment if M. Lacordaire<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span> would have kept -his polished boots out of sight, and put his yellow gloves into his -pocket.</p> - -<p>And then they started. The road from Le Puy to Polignac is nearly all up -hill; and a very steep bill it is, so that there was plenty of time for -conversation. But the girls had it nearly all to themselves. Mimmy -thought that she had never found. M. Lacordaire so stupid; and Lilian -told her sister on the first safe opportunity that occurred, that it -seemed very much as though they were all going to church.</p> - -<p>“And do any of the Polignac people ever live at this place?” asked Mrs. -Thompson, by way of making conversation; in answer to which M. -Lacordaire informed madame that the place was at present only a ruin; -and then there was again silence till they found themselves under the -rock, and were informed by the driver that the rest of the ascent must -be made on foot.</p> - -<p>The rock now stood abrupt and precipitous above their heads. It was -larger in its circumference and with much larger space on its summit -than those other volcanic rocks in and close to the town; but then at -the same time it was higher from the ground, and quite as inaccessible, -except by the single path which led up to the château.</p> - -<p>M. Lacordaire, with conspicuous gallantry, first assisted Mrs. Thompson -from the carriage, and then handed down the two young ladies. No lady -could have been so difficult to please as to complain of him, and yet -Mrs. Thompson thought that he was not as agreeable as usual. Those -horrid boots and those horrid gloves gave him such an air of holiday -finery that neither could he be at his ease wearing them, nor could she, -in seeing them worn.</p> - -<p>They were soon taken in hand by the poor woman whose privilege it was to -show the ruins. For a little distance they walked up the path in single -file; not that it was too narrow to accommodate two, but M. Lacordaire’s -courage had not yet been screwed to a point which admitted of his -offering his arm to the widow. For in France, it must be remembered, -that this means more than it does in some other countries.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson felt that all this was silly and useless. If they were not -to be dear friends this coming out fêting together, those boots and -gloves and new hat were all very foolish; and if they were, the sooner -they understood each other the better. So Mrs. Thompson, finding that -the path was steep and the weather warm, stood still for a while leaning -against the wall, with a look of considerable fatigue in her face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span></p> - -<p>“Will madame permit me the honour of offering her my arm?” said M. -Lacordaire. “The road is so extraordinarily steep for madame to climb.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson did permit him the honour, and so they went on till they -reached the top.</p> - -<p>The view from the summit was both extensive and grand, but neither -Lilian nor Mimmy were much pleased with the place. The elder sister, who -had talked over the matter with her school companions, expected a fine -castle with turrets, battlements, and romance; and the other expected a -pretty smiling house, such as princes, in her mind, ought to inhabit.</p> - -<p>Instead of this they found an old turret, with steps so broken that M. -Lacordaire did not care to ascend them, and the ruined walls of a -mansion, in which nothing was to be seen but the remains of an enormous -kitchen chimney.</p> - -<p>“It was the kitchen of the family,” said the guide.</p> - -<p>“Oh,” said Mrs. Thompson.</p> - -<p>“And this,” said the woman, taking them into the next ruined -compartment, “was the kitchen of monsieur et madame.”</p> - -<p>“What! two kitchens?” exclaimed Lilian, upon which M. Lacordaire -explained that the ancestors of the Prince de Polignac had been very -great people, and had therefore required culinary performances on a -great scale.</p> - -<p>And then the woman began to chatter something about an oracle of Apollo. -There was, she said, a hole in the rock, from which in past times, -perhaps more than a hundred years ago, the oracle used to speak forth -mysterious words.</p> - -<p>“There,” she said, pointing to a part of the rock at some distance, “was -the hole. And if the ladies would follow her to a little outhouse which -was just beyond, she would show them the huge stone mouth out of which -the oracle used to speak.”</p> - -<p>Lilian and Mimmy both declared at once for seeing the oracle, but Mrs. -Thompson expressed her determination to remain sitting where she was -upon the turf. So the guide started off with the young ladies; and will -it be thought surprising that M. Lacordaire should have remained alone -by the side of Mrs. Thompson?</p> - -<p>It must be now or never, Mrs. Thompson felt; and as regarded M. -Lacordaire, he probably entertained some idea of the same kind. Mrs. -Thompson’s inclinations, though they had never been very strong in the -matter, were certainly in favour of the “now.” M. Lacordaire’s -inclinations were stronger. He had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> fully and firmly made up his mind in -favour of matrimony; but then he was not so absolutely in favour of the -“now.” Mrs. Thompson’s mind, if one could have read it, would have shown -a great objection to shilly-shallying, as she was accustomed to call it. -But M. Lacordaire, were it not for the danger which might thence arise, -would have seen no objection to some slight further procrastination. His -courage was beginning, perhaps, to ooze out from his fingers’ ends.</p> - -<p>“I declare that those girls have scampered away ever so far,” said Mrs. -Thompson.</p> - -<p>“Would madame wish that I should call them back?” said M. Lacordaire, -innocently.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, dear children! let them enjoy themselves; it will be a pleasure -to them to run about the rock, and I suppose they will be safe with that -woman?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, quite safe,” said M. Lacordaire; and then there was another -little pause.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson was sitting on a broken fragment of a stone just outside -the entrance to the old family kitchen, and M. Lacordaire was standing -immediately before her. He had in his hand a little cane with which he -sometimes slapped his boots and sometimes poked about among the rubbish. -His hat was not quite straight on his head, having a little jaunty twist -to one side, with reference to which, by-the-bye, Mrs. Thompson then -resolved that she would make a change, should ever the gentleman become -her own property. He still wore his gloves, and was very smart; but it -was clear to see that he was not at his ease.</p> - -<p>“I hope the heat does not incommode you,” he said after a few moments’ -silence. Mrs. Thompson declared that it did not, that she liked a good -deal of heat, and that, on the whole, she was very well where she was. -She was afraid, however, that she was detaining M. Lacordaire, who might -probably wish to be moving about upon the rock. In answer to which M. -Lacordaire declared that he never could be so happy anywhere as in her -close vicinity.</p> - -<p>“You are too good to me,” said Mrs. Thompson, almost sighing. “I don’t -know what my stay here would have been without your great kindness.”</p> - -<p>“It is madame that has been kind to me,” said M. Lacordaire, pressing -the handle of his cane against his heart.</p> - -<p>There was then another pause, after which Mrs. Thompson said that that -was all his French politeness; that she knew that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span> she had been very -troublesome to him, but that she would now soon be gone; and that then, -in her own country, she would never forget his great goodness.</p> - -<p>“Ah, madame!” said M. Lacordaire; and, as he said it, much more was -expressed in his face than in his words. But, then, you can neither -accept nor reject a gentleman by what he says in his face. He blushed, -too, up to his grizzled hair, and, turning round, walked a step or two -away from the widow’s seat, and back again.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson the while sat quite still. The displaced fragment, lying, -as it did, near a corner of the building, made not an uncomfortable -chair. She had only to be careful that she did not injure her hat or -crush her clothes, and throw in a word here and there to assist the -gentleman, should occasion permit it.</p> - -<p>“Madame!” said M. Lacordaire, on his return from a second little walk.</p> - -<p>“Monsieur!” replied Mrs. Thompson, perceiving that M. Lacordaire paused -in his speech.</p> - -<p>“Madame,” he began again, and then, as he again paused, Mrs. Thompson -looked up to him very sweetly; “madame, what I am going to say will, I -am afraid, seem to evince by far too great audacity on my part.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson may, perhaps, have thought that, at the present moment, -audacity was not his fault. She replied, however, that she was quite -sure that monsieur would say nothing that was in any way unbecoming -either for him to speak or for her to hear.</p> - -<p>“Madame, may I have ground to hope that such may be your sentiments -after I have spoken! Madame”—and now he went down, absolutely on his -knees, on the hard stones; and Mrs. Thompson, looking about into the -distance, almost thought that she saw the top of the guide’s -cap—“Madame, I have looked forward to this opportunity as one in which -I may declare for you the greatest passion that I have ever yet felt. -Madame, with all my heart and soul I love you. Madame, I offer to you -the homage of my heart, my hand, the happiness of my life, and all that -I possess in this world;” and then, taking her hand gracefully between -his gloves, he pressed his lips against the tips of her fingers.</p> - -<p>If the thing was to be done, this way of doing it was, perhaps, as good -as any other. It was one, at any rate, which left no doubt whatever as -to the gentleman’s intentions. Mrs. Thompson,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> could she have had her -own way, would not have allowed her lover of fifty to go down upon his -knees, and would have spared him much of the romance of his declaration. -So also would she have spared him his yellow gloves and his polished -boots. But these were a part of the necessity of the situation, and -therefore she wisely took them as matters to be passed over with -indifference. Seeing, however, that M. Lacordaire still remained on his -knees, it was necessary that she should take some step toward raising -him, especially as her two children and the guide would infallibly he -upon them before long.</p> - -<p>“M. Lacordaire,” she said, “you surprise me greatly; but pray get up.”</p> - -<p>“But will madame vouchsafe to give me some small ground for hope?”</p> - -<p>“The girls will be here directly, M. Lacordaire; pray get up. I can talk -to you much better if you will stand up, or sit down on one of these -stones.”</p> - -<p>M. Lacordaire did as he was bid; he got up, wiped the knees of his -pantaloons with his handkerchief, sat down beside her, and then pressed -the handle of his cane to his heart.</p> - -<p>“You really have so surprised me that I hardly know how to answer you,” -said Mrs. Thompson. “Indeed, I cannot bring myself to imagine that you -are in earnest.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, madame, do not be so cruel! How can I have lived with you so long, -sat beside you for so many days, without having received your image into -my heart? I am in earnest! Alas! I fear too much in earnest!” And then -he looked at her with all his eyes, and sighed with all his strength.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson’s prudence told her that it would be well to settle the -matter, in one way or the other, as soon as possible. Long periods of -love-making were fit for younger people than herself and her future -possible husband. Her object would be to make him comfortable if she -could, and that he should do the same for her, if that also were -possible. As for lookings and sighings and pressings of the hand, she -had gone through all that some twenty years since in India, when -Thompson had been young, and she was still in her teens.</p> - -<p>“But, M. Lacordaire, there are so many things to be considered. There! I -hear the children coming! Let us walk this way for a minute.” And they -turned behind a wall which placed them out of sight, and walked on a few -paces till they reached a parapet, which stood on the uttermost edge of -the high rock. Leaning upon this they continued their conversation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span></p> - -<p>“There are so many things to be considered,” said Mrs. Thompson again.</p> - -<p>“Yes, of course,” said M. Lacordaire. “But my one great consideration is -this;—that I love madame to distraction.”</p> - -<p>“I am very much flattered; of course, any lady would so feel. But, M. -Lacordaire——”</p> - -<p>“Madame, I am all attention. But, if you would deign to make me happy, -say that one word, ‘I love you!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> M. Lacordaire, as he uttered these -words, did not look, as the saying is, at his best. But Mrs. Thompson -forgave him. She knew that elderly gentlemen under such circumstances do -not look at their best.</p> - -<p>“But if I consented to—to—to such an arrangement, I could only do so -on seeing that it would be beneficial—or, at any rate, not -injurious—to my children; and that it would offer to ourselves a fair -promise of future happiness.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, madame; it would be the dearest wish of my heart to be a second -father to those two young ladies; except, indeed——” and then M. -Lacordaire stopped the flow of his speech.</p> - -<p>“In such matters it is so much the best to be explicit at once,” said -Mrs. Thompson.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; certainly! Nothing can be more wise that madame.”</p> - -<p>“And the happiness of a household depends so much on money.”</p> - -<p>“Madame!”</p> - -<p>“Let me say a word or two, Monsieur Lacordaire. I have enough for myself -and my children; and, should I every marry again, I should not, I hope, -be felt as a burden by my husband; but it would, of course, be my duty -to know what were his circumstances before I accepted him. Of yourself, -personally, I have seen nothing that I do not like.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, madame!”</p> - -<p>“But as yet I know nothing of your circumstances.”</p> - -<p>M. Lacordaire, perhaps, did feel that Mrs. Thompson’s prudence was of a -strong, masculine description; but he hardly liked her the less on this -account. To give him his due he was not desirous of marrying her solely -for her money’s sake. He also wished for a comfortable home, and -proposed to give as much as he got; only he had been anxious to wrap up -the solid cake of this business in a casing of sugar of romance. Mrs. -Thompson would not have the sugar; but the cake might not be the worse -on that account.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span></p> - -<p>“No, madame, not as yet; but they shall all be made open and at your -disposal,” said M. Lacordaire; and Mrs. Thompson bowed approvingly.</p> - -<p>“I am in business,” continued M. Lacordaire; “and my business gives me -eight thousand francs a year.”</p> - -<p>“Four times eight are thirty-two,” said Mrs. Thompson to herself; -putting the francs into pounds sterling, in the manner that she had -always found to be the readiest. Well, so far the statement was -satisfactory. An income of three hundred and twenty pounds a year from -business, joined to her own, might do very well. She did not in the -least suspect M. Lacordaire of being false, and so far the matter -sounded well.</p> - -<p>“And what is the business?” she asked, in a tone of voice intended to be -indifferent, but which nevertheless showed that she listened anxiously -for an answer to her question.</p> - -<p>They were both standing with their arms upon the wall, looking down upon -the town of Le Puy; but they had so stood that each could see the -other’s countenance as they talked. Mrs. Thompson could now perceive -that M. Lacordaire became red in the face, as he paused before answering -her. She was near to him, and seeing his emotion gently touched his arm -with her hand. This she did to reassure him, for she saw that he was -ashamed of having to declare that he was a tradesman. As for herself, -she had made up her mind to bear with this, if she found, as she felt -sure she would find, that the trade was one which would not degrade -either him or her. Hitherto, indeed,—in her early days,—she had looked -down on trade; but of what benefit had her grand ideas been to her when -she had returned to England? She had tried her hand at English genteel -society, and no one had seemed to care for her. Therefore, she touched -his arm lightly with her fingers that she might encourage him.</p> - -<p>He paused for a moment, as I have said, and became red; and then feeling -that he had shown some symptoms of shame—and feeling also, probably, -that it was unmanly in him to do so, he shook himself slightly, raised -his head up somewhat more proudly than was his wont, looked her full in -the face with more strength of character than she had yet seen him -assume; and then, declared his business.</p> - -<p>“Madame,” he said, in a very audible, but not in a loud voice, -“madame—je suis tailleur.” And having so spoken, he turned slightly -from her and looked down over the valley towards Le Puy.</p> - -<p class="c">* * * * * * * * </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span></p> - -<p>There was nothing more said upon the subject as they drove down from the -rock of Polignac back to the town. Immediately on receiving the -announcement, Mrs. Thompson found that she had no answer to make. She -withdrew her hand—and felt at once that she had received a blow. It was -not that she was angry with M. Lacordaire for being a tailor; nor was -she angry with him in that, being a tailor, he had so addressed her. But -she was surprised, disappointed, and altogether put beyond her ease. She -had, at any rate, not expected this. She had dreamed of his being a -banker; thought that, perhaps, he might have been a wine merchant; but -her idea had never gone below a jeweller or watchmaker. When those words -broke upon her ear, “Madame, je suis tailleur,” she had felt herself to -be speechless.</p> - -<p>But the words had not been a minute spoken when Lilian and Mimmy ran up -to their mother. “Oh, mamma,” said Lilian, “we thought you were lost; we -have searched for you all over the château.”</p> - -<p>“We have been sitting very quietly here, my dear, looking at the view,” -said Mrs. Thompson.</p> - -<p>“But, mamma, I do wish you’d see the mouth of the oracle. It is so -large, and so round, and so ugly. I put my arm into it all the way,” -said Mimmy.</p> - -<p>But at the present moment her mamma felt no interest in the mouth of the -oracle; and so they all walked down together to the carriage. And, -though the way was steep, Mrs. Thompson managed to pick her steps -without the assistance of an arm; nor did M. Lacordaire presume to offer -it.</p> - -<p>The drive back to town was very silent. Mrs. Thompson did make one or -two attempts at conversation, but they were not effectual. M. Lacordaire -could not speak at his ease till this matter was settled, and he already -had begun to perceive that his business was against him. Why is it that -the trade of a tailor should be less honourable than that of a -haberdasher, or even a grocer?</p> - -<p>They sat next each other at dinner, as usual; and here, as all eyes were -upon them, they both made a great struggle to behave in their accustomed -way. But even in this they failed. All the world of the Hôtel des -Ambassadeurs knew that M. Lacordaire had gone forth to make an offer to -Mrs. Thompson, and all that world, therefore, was full of speculation. -But all the world could make nothing of it. M. Lacordaire did look like -a rejected man, but Mrs. Thompson did not look like the woman who had -rejected him. That the offer had been made—in that everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> agreed, -from the senior habitué of the house who always sat at the head of the -table, down to the junior assistant garçon. But as to reading the -riddle, there was no accord among them.</p> - -<p>When the dessert was done, Mrs. Thompson, as usual, withdrew, and M. -Lacordaire, as usual, bowed as he stood behind his own chair. He did -not, however, attempt to follow her.</p> - -<p>But when she reached the door she called him. He was at her side in a -moment, and then she whispered in his ear—</p> - -<p>“And I, also—I will be of the same business.”</p> - -<p>When M. Lacordaire regained the table the senior habitué, the junior -garçon, and all the intermediate ranks of men at the Hôtel des -Ambassadeurs knew that they might congratulate him.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Thompson had made a great struggle; but, speaking for myself, I am -inclined to think that she arrived at last at a wise decision.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="AARON_TROW" id="AARON_TROW"></a>AARON TROW.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I would</span> wish to declare, at the beginning of this story, that I shall -never regard that cluster of islets which we call Bermuda as the -Fortunate Islands of the ancients. Do not let professional geographers -take me up, and say that no one has so accounted them, and that the -ancients have never been supposed to have gotten themselves so far -westwards. What I mean to assert is this—that, had any ancient been -carried thither by enterprise or stress of weather, he would not have -given those islands so good a name. That the Neapolitan sailors of King -Alonzo should have been wrecked here, I consider to be more likely. The -vexed Bermoothes is a good name for them. There is no getting in or out -of them without the greatest difficulty, and a patient, slow navigation, -which is very heart-rending. That Caliban should have lived here I can -imagine; that Ariel would have been sick of the place is certain; and -that Governor Prospero should have been willing to abandon his -governorship, I conceive to have been only natural. When one regards the -present state of the place, one is tempted to doubt whether any of the -governors have been conjurors since his days.</p> - -<p>Bermuda, as all the world knows, is a British colony at which we -maintain a convict establishment. Most of our outlying convict -establishments have been sent back upon our hands from our colonies, but -here one is still maintained. There is also in the islands a strong -military fortress, though not a fortress looking magnificent to the eyes -of civilians, as do Malta and Gibraltar. There are also here some six -thousand white people and some six thousand black people, eating, -drinking, sleeping, and dying.</p> - -<p>The convict establishment is the most notable feature of Bermuda to a -stranger, but it does not seem to attract much attention from the -regular inhabitants of the place. There is no intercourse between the -prisoners and the Bermudians. The convicts are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> rarely seen by them, and -the convict islands are rarely visited. As to the prisoners themselves, -of course it is not open to them—or should not be open to them—to have -intercourse with any but the prison authorities.</p> - -<p>There have, however, been instances in which convicts have escaped from -their confinement, and made their way out among the islands. Poor -wretches! As a rule, there is but little chance for any that can so -escape. The whole length of the cluster is but twenty miles, and the -breadth is under four. The prisoners are, of course, white men, and the -lower orders of Bermuda, among whom alone could a runagate have any -chance of hiding himself, are all negroes; so that such a one would be -known at once. Their clothes are all marked. Their only chance of a -permanent escape would be in the hold of an American ship; but what -captain of an American or other ship would willingly encumber himself -with an escaped convict? But, nevertheless, men have escaped; and in one -instance, I believe, a convict got away, so that of him no further -tidings were ever heard.</p> - -<p>For the truth of the following tale I will not by any means vouch. If -one were to inquire on the spot one might probably find that the ladies -all believe it, and the old men; that all the young men know exactly how -much of it is false and how much true; and that the steady, middle-aged, -well-to-do islanders are quite convinced that it is romance from -beginning to end. My readers may range themselves with the ladies, the -young men, or the steady, well-to-do, middle-aged islanders, as they -please.</p> - -<p>Some years ago, soon after the prison was first established on its -present footing, three men did escape from it, and among them a certain -notorious prisoner named Aaron Trow. Trow’s antecedents in England had -not been so villanously bad as those of many of his fellow-convicts, -though the one offence for which he was punished had been of a deep dye: -he had shed man’s blood. At a period of great distress in a -manufacturing town he had led men on to riot, and with his own hand had -slain the first constable who had endeavoured to do his duty against -him. There had been courage in the doing of the deed, and probably no -malice; but the deed, let its moral blackness have been what it might, -had sent him to Bermuda, with a sentence against him of penal servitude -for life. Had he been then amenable to prison discipline,—even then, -with such a sentence against him as that,—he might have won his way -back, after the lapse of years, to the children, and perhaps, to the -wife, that he had left behind him; but he was amenable to no rules—to -no discipline. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> heart was sore to death with an idea of injury, and -he lashed himself against the bars of his cage with a feeling that it -would be well if he could so lash himself till he might perish in his -fury.</p> - -<p>And then a day came in which an attempt was made by a large body of -convicts, under his leadership, to get the better of the officers of the -prison. It is hardly necessary to say that the attempt failed. Such -attempts always fail. It failed on this occasion signally, and Trow, -with two other men, were condemned to be scourged terribly, and then -kept in solitary confinement for some lengthened term of months. Before, -however, the day of scourging came, Trow and his two associates had -escaped.</p> - -<p>I have not the space to tell how this was effected, nor the power to -describe the manner. They did escape from the establishment into the -islands, and though two of them were taken after a single day’s run at -liberty, Aaron Trow had not been yet retaken even when a week was over. -When a month was over he had not been retaken, and the officers of the -prison began to say that he had got away from them in a vessel to the -States. It was impossible, they said, that he should have remained in -the islands and not been discovered. It was not impossible that he might -have destroyed himself, leaving his body where it had not yet been -found. But he could not have lived on in Bermuda during that month’s -search. So, at least, said the officers of the prison. There was, -however, a report through the islands that he had been seen from time to -time; that he had gotten bread from the negroes at night, threatening -them with death if they told of his whereabouts; and that all the -clothes of the mate of a vessel had been stolen while the man was -bathing, including a suit of dark blue cloth, in which suit of clothes, -or in one of such a nature, a stranger had been seen skulking about the -rocks near St. George. All this the governor of the prison affected to -disbelieve, but the opinion was becoming very rife in the islands that -Aaron Trow was still there.</p> - -<p>A vigilant search, however, is a task of great labour, and cannot be -kept up for ever. By degrees it was relaxed. The warders and gaolers -ceased to patrol the island roads by night, and it was agreed that Aaron -Trow was gone, or that he would be starved to death, or that he would in -time be driven to leave such traces of his whereabouts as must lead to -his discovery; and this at last did turn out to be the fact.</p> - -<p>There is a sort of prettiness about these islands which, though it never -rises to the loveliness of romantic scenery, is nevertheless attractive -in its way. The land breaks itself into little knolls,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span> and the sea runs -up, hither and thither, in a thousand creeks and inlets; and then, too, -when the oleanders are in bloom, they give a wonderfully bright colour -to the landscape. Oleanders seem to be the roses of Bermuda, and are -cultivated round all the villages of the better class through the -islands. There are two towns, St. George and Hamilton, and one main -high-road, which connects them; but even this high-road is broken by a -ferry, over which every vehicle going from St. George to Hamilton must -be conveyed. Most of the locomotion in these parts is done by boats, and -the residents look to the sea, with its narrow creeks, as their best -highway from their farms to their best market. In those days—and those -days were not very long since—the building of small ships was their -chief trade, and they valued their land mostly for the small scrubby -cedar-trees with which this trade was carried on.</p> - -<p>As one goes from St. George to Hamilton the road runs between two seas; -that to the right is the ocean; that on the left is an inland creek, -which runs up through a large portion of the islands, so that the land -on the other side of it is near to the traveller. For a considerable -portion of the way there are no houses lying near the road, and there is -one residence, some way from the road, so secluded that no other house -lies within a mile of it by land. By water it might probably be reached -within half a mile. This place was called Crump Island, and here lived, -and had lived for many years, an old gentleman, a native of Bermuda, -whose business it had been to buy up cedar wood and sell it to the -ship-builders at Hamilton. In our story we shall not have very much to -do with old Mr. Bergen, but it will be necessary to say a word or two -about his house.</p> - -<p>It stood upon what would have been an island in the creek, had not a -narrow causeway, barely broad enough for a road, joined it to that -larger island on which stands the town of St. George. As the main road -approaches the ferry it runs through some rough, hilly, open ground, -which on the right side towards the ocean has never been cultivated. The -distance from the ocean here may, perhaps, be a quarter of a mile, and -the ground is for the most part covered with low furze. On the left of -the road the land is cultivated in patches, and here, some half mile or -more from the ferry, a path turns away to Crump Island. The house cannot -be seen from the road, and, indeed, can hardly be seen at all, except -from the sea. It lies, perhaps, three furlongs from the high road, and -the path to it is but little used, as the passage to and from it is -chiefly made by water.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span></p> - -<p>Here, at the time of our story, lived Mr. Bergen, and here lived Mr. -Bergen’s daughter. Miss Bergen was well known at St. George’s as a -steady, good girl, who spent her time in looking after her father’s -household matters, in managing his two black maid-servants and the black -gardener, and who did her duty in that sphere of life to which she had -been called. She was a comely, well-shaped young woman, with a sweet -countenance, rather large in size, and very quiet in demeanour. In her -earlier years, when young girls usually first bud forth into womanly -beauty, the neighbours had not thought much of Anastasia Bergen, nor had -the young men of St. George been wont to stay their boats under the -window of Crump Cottage in order that they might listen to her voice or -feel the light of her eye; but slowly, as years went by, Anastasia -Bergen became a woman that a man might well love; and a man learned to -love her who was well worthy of a woman’s heart. This was Caleb Morton, -the Presbyterian, minister of St. George; and Caleb Morton had been -engaged to marry Miss Bergen for the last two years past, at the period -of Aaron Trow’s escape from prison.</p> - -<p>Caleb Morton was not a native of Bermuda, but had been sent thither by -the synod of his church from Nova Scotia. He was a tall, handsome man, -at this time of some thirty years of age, of a presence which might -almost have been called commanding. He was very strong, but of a -temperament which did not often give him opportunity to put forth his -strength; and his life had been such that neither he nor others knew of -what nature might be his courage. The greater part of his life was spent -in preaching to some few of the white people around him, and in teaching -as many of the blacks as he could get to hear him. His days were very -quiet, and had been altogether without excitement until he had met with -Anastasia Bergen. It will suffice for us to say that he did meet her, -and that now, for two years past, they had been engaged as man and wife.</p> - -<p>Old Mr. Bergen, when he heard of the engagement, was not well pleased at -the information. In the first place, his daughter was very necessary to -him, and the idea of her marrying and going away had hardly as yet -occurred to him; and then he was by no means inclined to part with any -of his money. It must not be presumed that he had amassed a fortune by -his trade in cedar wood. Few tradesmen in Bermuda do, as I imagine, -amass fortunes. Of some few hundred pounds he was possessed, and these, -in the course of nature, would go to his daughter when he died; but he -had no inclination to hand any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> portion of them over to his daughter -before they did go to her in the course of nature. Now, the income which -Caleb Morton earned as a Presbyterian clergyman was not large, and, -therefore, no day had been fixed as yet for his marriage with Anastasia.</p> - -<p>But, though the old man had been from the first averse to the match, his -hostility had not been active. He had not forbidden Mr. Morton his -house, or affected to be in any degree angry because his daughter had a -lover. He had merely grumbled forth an intimation that those who marry -in haste repent at leisure,—that love kept nobody warm if the pot did -not boil; and that, as for him, it was as much as he could do to keep -his own pot boiling at Crump Cottage. In answer to this Anastasia said -nothing. She asked him for no money, but still kept his accounts, -managed his household, and looked patiently forward for better days.</p> - -<p>Old Mr. Bergen himself spent much of his time at Hamilton, where he had -a woodyard with a couple of rooms attached to it. It was his custom to -remain here three nights of the week, during which Anastasia was left -alone at the cottage; and it happened by no means seldom that she was -altogether alone, for the negro whom they called the gardener would go -to her father’s place at Hamilton, and the two black girls would crawl -away up to the road, tired with the monotony of the sea at the cottage. -Caleb had more than once told her that she was too much alone, but she -had laughed at him, saying that solitude in Bermuda was not dangerous. -Nor, indeed, was it; for the people are quiet and well-mannered, lacking -much energy, but being, in the same degree, free from any propensity to -violence.</p> - -<p>“So you are going,” she said to her lover, one evening, as he rose from -the chair on which he had been swinging himself at the door of the -cottage which looks down over the creek of the sea. He had sat there for -an hour talking to her as she worked, or watching her as she moved about -the place. It was a beautiful evening, and the sun had been falling to -rest with almost tropical glory before his feet. The bright oleanders -were red with their blossoms all around him, and he had thoroughly -enjoyed his hour of easy rest. “So you are going,” she said to him, not -putting her work out of her hand as he rose to depart.</p> - -<p>“Yes; and it is time for me to go. I have still work to do before I can -get to bed. Ah, well; I suppose the day will come at last when I need -not leave you as soon as my hour of rest is over.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span></p> - -<p>“Come; of course it will come. That is, if your reverence should choose -to wait for it another ten years or so.”</p> - -<p>“I believe you would not mind waiting twenty years.”</p> - -<p>“Not if a certain friend of mine would come down and see me of evenings -when I’m alone after the day. It seems to me that I shouldn’t mind -waiting as long as I had that to look for.”</p> - -<p>“You are right not to be impatient,” he said to her, after a pause, as -he held her hand before he went. “Quite right. I only wish I could -school myself to be as easy about it.”</p> - -<p>“I did not say I was easy,” said Anastasia. “People are seldom easy in -this world, I take it. I said I could be patient. Do not look in that -way, as though you pretended that you were dissatisfied with me. You -know that I am true to you, and you ought to be very proud of me.”</p> - -<p>“I am proud of you, Anastasia——” on hearing which she got up and -courtesied to him. “I am proud of you; so proud of you that I feel you -should not be left here all alone, with no one to help you if you were -in trouble.”</p> - -<p>“Women don’t get into trouble as men do, and do not want any one to help -them. If you were alone in the house you would have to go to bed without -your supper, because you could not make a basin of boiled milk ready for -your own meal. Now, when your reverence has gone, I shall go to work and -have my tea comfortably.” And then he did go, bidding God bless her as -he left her. Three hours after that he was disturbed in his own lodgings -by one of the negro girls from the cottage rushing to his door, and -begging him in Heaven’s name to come down to the assistance of her -mistress.</p> - -<p>When Morton left her, Anastasia did not proceed to do as she had said, -and seemed to have forgotten her evening meal. She had been working -sedulously with her needle during all that last conversation; but when -her lover was gone, she allowed the work to fall from her hands, and sat -motionless for awhile, gazing at the last streak of colour left by the -setting sun; but there was no longer a sign of its glory to be traced in -the heavens around her. The twilight in Bermuda is not long and enduring -as it is with us, though the daylight does not depart suddenly, leaving -the darkness of night behind it without any intermediate time of -warning, as is the case farther south, down among the islands of the -tropics. But the soft, sweet light of the evening had waned and gone, -and night had absolutely come upon her, while Anastasia was still seated -before the cottage with her eyes fixed upon the white streak of -motionless sea<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> which was still visible through the gloom. She was -thinking of him, of his ways of life, of his happiness, and of her duty -towards him. She had told him, with her pretty feminine falseness, that -she could wait without impatience; but now she said to herself that it -would not be good for him to wait longer. He lived alone and without -comfort, working very hard for his poor pittance, and she could see, and -feel, and understand that a companion in his life was to him almost a -necessity. She would tell her father that all this must be brought to an -end. She would not ask him for money, but she would make him understand -that her services must, at any rate in part, be transferred. Why should -not she and Morton still live at the cottage when they were married? And -so thinking, and at last resolving, she sat there till the dark night -fell upon her.</p> - -<p>She was at last disturbed by feeling a man’s hand upon her shoulder. She -jumped from her chair and faced him,—not screaming, for it was -especially within her power to control herself, and to make no utterance -except with forethought. Perhaps it might have been better for her had -she screamed, and sent a shrill shriek down the shore of that inland -sea. She was silent, however, and with awe-struck face and outstretched -hands gazed into the face of him who still held her by the shoulder. The -night was dark; but her eyes were now accustomed to the darkness, and -she could see indistinctly something of his features. He was a low-sized -man, dressed in a suit of sailor’s blue clothing, with a rough cap of -hair on his head, and a beard that had not been clipped for many weeks. -His eyes were large, and hollow, and frightfully bright, so that she -seemed to see nothing else of him; but she felt the strength of his -fingers as he grasped her tighter and more tightly by the arm.</p> - -<p>“Who are you?” she said, after a moment’s pause.</p> - -<p>“Do you know me?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Know you! No.” But the words were hardly out of her mouth before it -struck her that the man was Aaron Trow, of whom every one in Bermuda had -been talking.</p> - -<p>“Come into the house,” he said, “and give me food.” And he still held -her with his hand as though he would compel her to follow him.</p> - -<p>She stood for a moment thinking what she would say to him; for even -then, with that terrible man standing close to her in the darkness, her -presence of mind did not desert her. “Surely,” she said, “I will give -you food if you are hungry. But take your hand from me. No man would lay -his hands on a woman.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span></p> - -<p>“A woman!” said the stranger. “What does the starved wolf care for that? -A woman’s blood is as sweet to him as that of a man. Come into the -house, I tell you.” And then she preceded him through the open door into -the narrow passage, and thence to the kitchen. There she saw that the -back door, leading out on the other side of the house, was open, and she -knew that he had come down from the road and entered on that side. She -threw her eyes around, looking for the negro girls; but they were away, -and she remembered that there was no human being within sound of her -voice but this man who had told her that he was as a wolf thirsty after -her blood!</p> - -<p>“Give me food at once,” he said.</p> - -<p>“And will you go if I give it you?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“I will knock out your brains if you do not,” he replied, lifting from -the grate a short, thick poker which lay there. “Do as I bid you at -once. You also would be like a tiger if you had fasted for two days, as -I have done.”</p> - -<p>She could see, as she moved across the kitchen, that he had already -searched there for something that he might eat, but that he had searched -in vain. With the close economy common among his class in the islands, -all comestibles were kept under close lock and key in the house of Mr. -Bergen. Their daily allowance was given day by day to the negro -servants, and even the fragments were then gathered up and locked away -in safety. She moved across the kitchen to the accustomed cupboard, -taking the keys from her pocket, and he followed close upon her. There -was a small oil lamp hanging from the low ceiling which just gave them -light to see each other. She lifted her hand to this to take it from its -hook, but he prevented her. “No, by Heaven!” he said, “you don’t touch -that till I’ve done with it. There’s light enough for you to drag out -your scraps.”</p> - -<p>She did drag out her scraps and a bowl of milk, which might hold perhaps -a quart. There was a fragment of bread, a morsel of cold potato-cake, -and the bone of a leg of kid. “And is that all?” said he. But as he -spoke he fleshed his teeth against the bone as a dog would have done.</p> - -<p>“It is the best I have,” she said; “I wish it were better, and you -should have had it without violence, as you have suffered so long from -hunger.”</p> - -<p>“Bah! Better; yes! You would give the best no doubt, and set the hell -hounds on my track the moment I am gone. I know how much I might expect -from your charity.”</p> - -<p>“I would have fed you for pity’s sake,” she answered.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span></p> - -<p>“Pity! Who are you, that you should dare to pity me! By ——, my young -woman, it is I that pity you. I must cut your throat unless you give me -money. Do you know that?”</p> - -<p>“Money! I have got no money.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll make you have some before I go. Come; don’t move till I have -done.” And as he spoke to her he went on tugging at the bone, and -swallowing the lumps of stale bread. He had already finished the bowl of -milk, “And, now,” said he, “tell me who I am.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you are Aaron Trow,” she answered, very slowly.</p> - -<p>He said nothing on hearing this, but continued his meal, standing close -to her so that she might not possibly escape from him out into the -darkness. Twice or thrice in those few minutes she made up her mind to -make such an attempt, feeling that it would be better to leave him in -possession of the house, and make sure, if possible, of her own life. -There was no money there; not a dollar! What money her father kept in -his possession was locked up in his safe at Hamilton. And might he not -keep to his threat, and murder her, when he found that she could give -him nothing? She did not tremble outwardly, as she stood there watching -him as he ate, but she thought how probable it might be that her last -moments were very near. And yet she could scrutinise his features, form, -and garments, so as to carry away in her mind a perfect picture of them. -Aaron Trow—for of course it was the escaped convict—was not a man of -frightful, hideous aspect. Had the world used him well, giving him when -he was young ample wages and separating him from turbulent spirits, he -also might have used the world well; and then women would have praised -the brightness of his eye and the manly vigour of his brow. But things -had not gone well with him. He had been separated from the wife he had -loved, and the children who had been raised at his knee,—separated by -his own violence; and now, as he had said of himself, he was a wolf -rather than a man. As he stood there satisfying the craving of his -appetite, breaking up the large morsels of food, he was an object very -sad to be seen. Hunger had made him gaunt and yellow, he was squalid -with the dirt of his hidden lair, and he had the look of a beast;—that -look to which men fall when they live like the brutes of prey, as -outcasts from their brethren. But still there was that about his brow -which might have redeemed him,—which might have turned her horror into -pity, had he been willing that it should be so.</p> - -<p>“And now give me some brandy,” he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span></p> - -<p>There was brandy in the house,—in the sitting-room which was close at -their hand, and the key of the little press which held it was in her -pocket. It was useless, she thought, to refuse him; and so she told him -that there was a bottle partly full, but that she must go to the next -room to fetch it him.</p> - -<p>“We’ll go together, my darling,” he said. “There’s nothing like good -company.” And he again put his hand upon her arm as they passed into the -family sitting-room.</p> - -<p>“I must take the light,” she said. But he unhooked it himself, and -carried it in his own hand.</p> - -<p>Again she went to work without trembling. She found the key of the side -cupboard, and unlocking the door, handed him a bottle which might -contain about half-a-pint of spirits. “And is that all?” he said.</p> - -<p>“There is a full bottle here,” she answered, handing him another; “but -if you drink it, you will be drunk, and they will catch you.”</p> - -<p>“By Heavens, yes; and you would be the first to help them; would you -not?”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” she answered. “If you will go now, I will not say a word to -any one of your coming, nor set them on your track to follow you. There, -take the full bottle with you. If you will go, you shall be safe from -me.”</p> - -<p>“What, and go without money!”</p> - -<p>“I have none to give you. You may believe me when I say so. I have not a -dollar in the house.”</p> - -<p>Before he spoke again he raised the half empty bottle to his mouth, and -drank as long as there was a drop to drink. “There,” said he, putting -the bottle down, “I am better after that. As to the other, you are -right, and I will take it with me. And now, young woman, about the -money?”</p> - -<p>“I tell you that I have not a dollar.”</p> - -<p>“Look here,” said he, and he spoke now in a softer voice, as though he -would be on friendly terms with her. “Give me ten sovereigns, and I will -go. I know you have it, and with ten sovereigns it is possible that I -may save my life. You are good, and would not wish that a man should die -so horrid a death. I know you are good. Come, give me the money.” And he -put his hands up, beseeching her, and looked into her face with -imploring eyes.</p> - -<p>“On the word of a Christian woman I have not got money to give you,” she -replied.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense?” And as he spoke he took her by the arm and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span> shook her. He -shook her violently so that he hurt her, and her breath for a moment was -all but gone from her. “I tell you you must make dollars before I leave -you, or I will so handle you that it would have been better for you to -coin your very blood.”</p> - -<p>“May God help me at my need,” she said, “as I have not above a few penny -pieces in the house.”</p> - -<p>“And you expect me to believe that! Look here! I will shake the teeth -out of your head, but I will have it from you.” And he did shake her -again, using both his hands and striking her against the wall.</p> - -<p>“Would you—murder me?” she said, hardly able now to utter the words.</p> - -<p>“Murder you, yes; why not? I cannot be worse than I am, were I to murder -you ten times over. But with money I may possibly be better.”</p> - -<p>“I have it not.”</p> - -<p>“Then I will do worse than murder you. I will make you such an object -that all the world shall loathe to look on you.” And so saying he took -her by the arm and dragged her forth from the wall against which she had -stood.</p> - -<p>Then there came from her a shriek that was heard far down the shore of -that silent sea, and away across to the solitary houses of those living -on the other side,—a shriek, very sad, sharp, and prolonged,—which -told plainly to those who heard it of woman’s woe when in her extremest -peril. That sound was spoken of in Bermuda for many a day after that, as -something which had been terrible to hear. But then, at that moment, as -it came wailing through the dark, it sounded as though it were not -human. Of those who heard it, not one guessed from whence it came, nor -was the hand of any brother put forward to help that woman at her need.</p> - -<p>“Did you hear that?” said the young wife to her husband, from the far -side of the arm of the sea.</p> - -<p>“Hear it! Oh Heaven, yes! Whence did it come?” The young wife could not -say from whence it came, but clung close to her husband’s breast, -comforting herself with the knowledge that that terrible sorrow was not -hers.</p> - -<p>But aid did come at last, or rather that which seemed as aid. Long and -terrible was the fight between that human beast of prey and the poor -victim which had fallen into his talons. Anastasia Bergen was a strong, -well-built woman, and now that the time had come to her when a struggle -was necessary, a struggle for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> life, for honour, for the happiness of -him who was more to her than herself, she fought like a tigress attacked -in her own lair. At such a moment as this she also could become wild and -savage as the beast of the forest. When he pinioned her arms with one of -his, as he pressed her down upon the floor, she caught the first joint -of the forefinger of his other hand between her teeth till he yelled in -agony, and another sound was heard across the silent water. And then, -when one hand was loosed in the struggle, she twisted it through his -long hair, and dragged back his head till his eyes were nearly starting -from their sockets. Anastasia Bergen had hitherto been a sheer woman, -all feminine in her nature. But now the foam came to her mouth, and fire -sprang from her eyes, and the muscles of her body worked as though she -had been trained to deeds of violence. Of violence, Aaron Trow had known -much in his rough life, but never had he combated with harder antagonist -than her whom he now held beneath his breast.</p> - -<p>“By —— I will put an end to you,” he exclaimed, in his wrath, as he -struck her violently across the face with his elbow. His hand was -occupied, and he could not use it for a blow, but, nevertheless, the -violence was so great that the blood gushed from her nostrils, while the -back of her head was driven with violence against the floor. But she did -not lose her hold of him. Her hand was still twined closely through his -thick hair, and in every move he made she clung to him with all her -might. “Leave go my hair,” he shouted at her, but she still kept her -hold, though he again dashed her head against the floor.</p> - -<p>There was still light in the room, for when he first grasped her with -both his hands, he had put the lamp down on a small table. Now they were -rolling on the floor together, and twice he had essayed to kneel on her -that he might thus crush the breath from her body, and deprive her -altogether of her strength; but she had been too active for him, moving -herself along the ground, though in doing so she dragged him with her. -But by degrees he got one hand at liberty, and with that he pulled a -clasp knife out of his pocket and opened it. “I will cut your head off -if you do not let go my hair,” he said. But still she held fast by him. -He then stabbed at her arm, using his left hand and making short, -ineffectual blows. Her dress partly saved her, and partly also the -continual movement of all her limbs; but, nevertheless, the knife -wounded her. It wounded her in several places about the arm, covering -them both with blood;—but still she hung on. So close was her grasp in -her agony, that, as she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> afterwards found, she cut the skin of her own -hands with her own nails. Had the man’s hair been less thick or strong, -or her own tenacity less steadfast, he would have murdered her before -any interruption could have saved her.</p> - -<p>And yet he had not purposed to murder her, or even, in the first -instance, to inflict on her any bodily harm. But he had been determined -to get money. With such a sum of money as he had named, it might, he -thought, be possible for him to win his way across to America. He might -bribe men to hide him in the hold of a ship, and thus there might be for -him, at any rate, a possibility of escape. That there must be money in -the house he had still thought when first he laid hands on the poor -woman; and then, when the struggle had once begun, when he had felt her -muscles contending with his, the passion of the beast was aroused within -him, and he strove against her as he would have striven against a dog. -But yet, when the knife was in his hand, he had not driven it against -her heart.</p> - -<p>Then suddenly, while they were yet rolling on the floor, there was a -sound of footsteps in the passage. Aaron Trow instantly leaped to his -feet, leaving his victim on the ground, with huge lumps of his thick -clotted hair in her hand. Thus, and thus only, could he have liberated -himself from her grasp. He rushed at the door, and there he came against -the two negro servant-girls who had returned down to their kitchen from -the road on which they had been straying. Trow, as he half saw them in -the dark, not knowing how many there might be, or whether there was a -man among them, rushed through them, upsetting one scared girl in his -passage. With the instinct and with the timidity of a beast, his impulse -now was to escape, and he hurried away back to the road and to his lair, -leaving the three women together in the cottage. Poor wretch! As he -crossed the road, not skulking in his impotent haste, but running at his -best, another pair of eyes saw him, and when the search became hot after -him, it was known that his hiding-place was not distant.</p> - -<p>It was some time before any of the women were able to act, and when some -step was taken, Anastasia was the first to take it. She had not -absolutely swooned, but the reaction, after the violence of her efforts, -was so great, that for some minutes she had been unable to speak. She -had risen from the floor when Trow left her, and had even followed him -to the door; but since that she had fallen back into her father’s old -arm-chair, and there sat gasping not only for words, but for breath -also.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> At last she bade one of the girls to run into St. George, and beg -Mr. Morton to come to her aid. The girl would not stir without her -companion; and even then, Anastasia, covered as she was with blood, with -dishevelled hair, and her clothes half torn from her body, accompanied -them as far as the road. There they found a negro lad still hanging -about the place, and he told them that he had seen the man cross the -road, and run down over the open ground towards the rocks of the -sea-coast. “He must be there,” said the lad, pointing in the direction -of a corner of the rocks; “unless he swim across the mouth of the -ferry.” But the mouth of that ferry is an arm of the sea, and it was not -probable that a man would do that when he might have taken the narrow -water by keeping on the other side of the road.</p> - -<p>At about one that night Caleb Morton reached the cottage breathless with -running, and before a word was spoken between them, Anastasia had fallen -on his shoulder and had fainted. As soon as she was in the arms of her -lover, all her power had gone from her. The spirit and passion of the -tiger had gone, and she was again a weak woman shuddering at the thought -of what she had suffered. She remembered that she had had the man’s hand -between her teeth, and by degrees she found his hair still clinging to -her fingers; but even then she could hardly call to mind the nature of -the struggle she had undergone. His hot breath close to her own cheek -she did remember, and his glaring eyes, and even the roughness of his -beard as he pressed his face against her own; but she could not say -whence had come the blood, nor till her arm became stiff and motionless -did she know that she had been wounded.</p> - -<p>It was all joy with her now, as she sat motionless without speaking, -while he administered to her wants and spoke words of love into her -ears. She remembered the man’s horrid threat, and knew that by God’s -mercy she had been saved. And <i>he</i> was there caressing her, loving her, -comforting her! As she thought of the fate that had threatened her, of -the evil that had been so imminent, she fell forward on her knees, and -with incoherent sobs uttered her thanksgivings, while her head was still -supported on his arms.</p> - -<p>It was almost morning before she could induce herself to leave him and -lie down. With him she seemed to be so perfectly safe; but the moment he -was away she could see Aaron Trow’s eyes gleaming at her across the -room. At last, however, she slept; and when he saw that she was at rest, -he told himself that his work must then begin. Hitherto Caleb Morton had -lived in all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span> respects the life of a man of peace; but now, asking -himself no questions as to the propriety of what he would do, using no -inward arguments as to this or that line of conduct, he girded the sword -on his loins, and prepared himself, for war. The wretch who had thus -treated the woman whom he loved should be hunted down like a wild beast, -as long as he had arms and legs with which to carry on the hunt. He -would pursue the miscreant with any weapons that might come to his -hands; and might Heaven help him at his need as he dealt forth -punishment to that man, if he caught him within his grasp. Those who had -hitherto known Morton in the island, could not recognise the man as he -came forth on that day, thirsty after blood, and desirous to thrust -himself into personal conflict with the wild ruffian who had injured -him. The meek Presbyterian minister had been a preacher, preaching ways -of peace, and living in accordance with his own doctrines. The world had -been very quiet for him, and he had walked quietly in his appointed -path. But now the world was quiet no longer, nor was there any preaching -of peace. His cry was for blood; for the blood of the untamed savage -brute who had come upon his young doe in her solitude, and striven with -such brutal violence to tear her heart from her bosom.</p> - -<p>He got to his assistance early in the morning some of the constables -from St. George, and before the day was over, he was joined by two or -three of the warders from the convict establishment. There was with him -also a friend or two, and thus a party was formed, numbering together -ten or twelve persons. They were of course all armed, and therefore it -might be thought that there would be but small chance for the wretched -man if they should come upon his track. At first they all searched -together, thinking from the tidings which had reached them that he must -be near to them; but gradually they spread themselves along the rocks -between St. George and the ferry, keeping watchmen on the road, so that -he should not escape unnoticed into the island.</p> - -<p>Ten times during the day did Anastasia send from the cottage up to -Morton, begging him to leave the search to others, and come down to her. -But not for a moment would he lose the scent of his prey. What! should -it be said that she had been so treated, and that others had avenged -her? He sent back to say that her father was with her now, and that he -would come when his work was over. And in that job of work the -life-blood of Aaron Trow was counted up.</p> - -<p>Towards evening they were all congregated on the road near<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> to the spot -at which the path turns off towards the cottage, when a voice was heard -hallooing to them from the summit of a little hill which lies between -the road and the sea on the side towards the ferry, and presently a boy -came running down to them full of news. “Danny Lund has seen him,” said -the boy, “he has seen him plainly in among the rocks.” And then came -Danny Lund himself, a small negro lad about fourteen years of age, who -was known in those parts as the idlest, most dishonest, and most useless -of his race. On this occasion, however, Danny Lund became important, and -every one listened to him. He had seen, he said, a pair of eyes moving -down in a cave of the rocks which he well knew. He had been in the cave -often, he said, and could get there again. But not now; not while that -pair of eyes was moving at the bottom of it. And so they all went up -over the hill, Morton leading the way with hot haste. In his waistband -he held a pistol, and his hand grasped a short iron bar with which he -had armed himself. They ascended the top of the hill, and when there, -the open sea was before them on two sides, and on the third was the -narrow creek over which the ferry passed. Immediately beneath their feet -were the broken rocks; for on that side, towards the sea, the earth and -grass of the hill descended but a little way towards the water. Down -among the rocks they all went, silently, Caleb Morton leading the way, -and Danny Lund directing him from behind.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Morton,” said an elderly man from St. George, “had you not better -let the warders of the gaol go first; he is a desperate man, and they -will best understand his ways?”</p> - -<p>In answer to this Morton said nothing, but he would let no one put a -foot before him. He still pressed forward among the rocks, and at last -came to a spot from whence he might have sprung at one leap into the -ocean. It was a broken cranny on the sea-shore into which the sea beat, -and surrounded on every side but the one by huge broken fragments of -stone, which at first sight seemed as though they would have admitted of -a path down among them to the water’s edge; but which, when scanned more -closely, were seen to be so large in size, that no man could climb from -one to another. It was a singularly romantic spot, but now well known to -them all there, for they had visited it over and over again that -morning.</p> - -<p>“In there,” said Danny Lund, keeping well behind Morton’s body, and -pointing at the same time to a cavern high up among the rocks, but quite -on the opposite side of the little inlet of the sea. The mouth of the -cavern was not twenty yards from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> where they stood, but at the first -sight it seemed as though it must be impossible to reach it. The -precipice on the brink of which they all now stood, ran down sheer into -the sea, and the fall from the mouth of the cavern on the other side was -as steep. But Danny solved the mystery by pointing upwards, and showing -them how he had been used to climb to a projecting rock over their -heads, and from thence creep round by certain vantages of the stone till -he was able to let himself down into the aperture. But now, at the -present moment, he was unwilling to make essay of his prowess as a -cragsman. He had, he said, been up on that projecting rock thrice, and -there had seen the eyes moving in the cavern. He was quite sure of that -fact of the pair of eyes, and declined to ascend the rock again.</p> - -<p>Traces soon became visible to them by which they knew that some one had -passed in and out of the cavern recently. The stone, when examined, bore -those marks of friction which passage and repassage over it will always -give. At the spot from whence the climber left the platform and -commenced his ascent, the side of the stone had been rubbed by the close -friction of a man’s body. A light boy like Danny Lund might find his way -in and out without leaving such marks behind him, but no heavy man could -do so. Thus before long they all were satisfied that Aaron Trow was in -the cavern before them.</p> - -<p>Then there was a long consultation as to what they would do to carry on -the hunt, and how they would drive the tiger from his lair. That he -should not again come out, except to fall into their hands, was to all -of them a matter of course. They would keep watch and ward there, though -it might be for days and nights. But that was a process which did not -satisfy Morton, and did not indeed well satisfy any of them. It was not -only that they desired to inflict punishment on the miscreant in -accordance with the law, but also that they did not desire that the -miserable man should die in a hole like a starved dog, and that then -they should go after him to take out his wretched skeleton. There was -something in that idea so horrid in every way, that all agreed that -active steps must be taken. The warders of the prison felt that they -would all be disgraced if they could not take their prisoner alive. Yet -who would get round that perilous ledge in the face of such an -adversary? A touch to any man while climbing there would send him -headlong down among the waves! And then his fancy told to each what -might be the nature of an embrace with such an animal as that, driven to -despair, hopeless of life, armed, as they knew, at any rate, with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> a -knife! If the first adventurous spirit should succeed in crawling round -that ledge, what would be the reception which he might expect in the -terrible depth of that cavern?</p> - -<p>They called to their prisoner, bidding him come out, and telling him -that they would fire in upon him if he did not show himself; but not a -sound was heard. It was indeed possible that they should send their -bullets to, perhaps, every corner of the cavern; and if so, in that way -they might slaughter him; but even of this they were not sure. Who could -tell that there might not be some protected nook in which he could lay -secure? And who could tell when the man was struck, or whether he were -wounded?</p> - -<p>“I will get to him,” said Morton, speaking with a low dogged voice, and -so saying he clambered up to the rock to which Danny Lund had pointed. -Many voices at once attempted to restrain him, and one or two put their -hands upon him to keep him back, but he was too quick for them, and now -stood upon the ledge of rock. “Can you see him?” they asked below.</p> - -<p>“I can see nothing within the cavern,” said Morton.</p> - -<p>“Look down very hard, Massa,” said Danny, “very hard indeed, down in -deep dark hole, and then see him big eyes moving!”</p> - -<p>Morton now crept along the ledge, or rather he was beginning to do so, -having put forward his shoulders and arms to make a first step in -advance from the spot on which he was resting, when a hand was put forth -from one corner of the cavern’s mouth,—a hand armed with a pistol;—and -a shot was fired. There could be no doubt now but that Danny Lund was -right, and no doubt now as to the whereabouts of Aaron Trow.</p> - -<p>A hand was put forth, a pistol was fired, and Caleb Morton still -clinging to a corner of the rock with both his arms was seen to falter. -“He is wounded,” said one of the voices from below; and then they all -expected to see him fall into the sea. But he did not fall, and after a -moment or two, he proceeded carefully to pick his steps along the ledge. -The ball had touched him, grazing his cheek, and cutting through the -light whiskers that he wore; but he had not felt it, though the blow had -nearly knocked him from his perch. And then four or five shots were -fired from the rocks into the mouth of the cavern. The man’s arm had -been seen, and indeed one or two declared that they had traced the dim -outline of his figure. But no sound was heard to come from the cavern, -except the sharp crack of the bullets against the rock,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> and the echo of -the gunpowder. There had been no groan as of a man wounded, no sound of -a body falling, no voice wailing in despair. For a few seconds all was -dark with the smoke of the gunpowder, and then the empty mouth of the -cave was again yawning before their eyes. Morton was now near it, still -cautiously creeping. The first danger to which he was exposed was this; -that his enemy within the recess might push him down from the rocks with -a touch. But on the other hand, there were three or four men ready to -fire, the moment that a hand should be put forth; and then Morton could -swim,—was known to be a strong swimmer;—whereas of Aaron Trow it was -already declared by the prison gaolers that he could not swim. Two of -the warders had now followed Morton on the rocks, so that in the event -of his making good his entrance into the cavern, and holding his enemy -at bay for a minute, he would be joined by aid.</p> - -<p>It was strange to see how those different men conducted themselves as -they stood on the opposite platform watching the attack. The officers -from the prison had no other thought but of their prisoner, and were -intent on taking him alive or dead. To them it was little or nothing -what became of Morton. It was their business to encounter peril, and -they were ready to do so;—feeling, however, by no means sorry to have -such a man as Morton in advance of them. Very little was said by them. -They had their wits about them, and remembered that every word spoken -for the guidance of their ally would be heard also by the escaped -convict. Their prey was sure, sooner or later, and had not Morton been -so eager in his pursuit, they would have waited till some plan had been -devised of trapping him without danger. But the townsmen from St. -George, of whom some dozen were now standing there, were quick and eager -and loud in their counsels. “Stay where you are, Mr. Morton,—stay -awhile for the love of God—or he’ll have you down.” “Now’s your time, -Caleb; in on him now, and you’ll have him.” “Close with him, Morton, -close with him at once; it’s your only chance.” “There’s four of us -here; we’ll fire on him if he as much as shows a limb.” All of which -words as they were heard by that poor wretch within, must have sounded -to him as the barking of a pack of hounds thirsting for his blood. For -him at any rate there was no longer any hope in this world.</p> - -<p>My reader, when chance has taken you into the hunting-field, has it ever -been your lot to sit by on horseback, and watch the digging out of a -fox? The operation is not an uncommon one,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> and in some countries it is -held to be in accordance with the rules of fair sport. For myself, I -think that when the brute has so far saved himself, he should be -entitled to the benefit of his cunning; but I will not now discuss the -propriety or impropriety of that practice in venery. I can never, -however, watch the doing of that work without thinking much of the -agonising struggles of the poor beast whose last refuge is being torn -from over his head. There he lies within a few yards of his arch enemy, -the huntsman. The thick breath of the hounds make hot the air within his -hole. The sound of their voices is close upon his ears. His breast is -nearly bursting with the violence of that effort which at last has -brought him to his retreat. And then pickaxe and mattock are plied above -his head, and nearer and more near to him press his foes,—his double -foes, human and canine,—till at last a huge hand grasps him, and he is -dragged forth among his enemies. Almost as soon as his eyes have seen -the light the eager noses of a dozen hounds have moistened themselves in -his entrails. Ah me! I know that he is vermin, the vermin after whom I -have been risking my neck, with a bold ambition that I might ultimately -witness his death-struggles; but, nevertheless, I would fain have saved -him that last half hour of gradually diminished hope.</p> - -<p>And Aaron Trow was now like a hunted fox, doomed to be dug out from his -last refuge, with this addition to his misery, that these hounds when -they caught their prey, would not put him at once out of his misery. -When first he saw that throng of men coming down from the hill top and -resting on the platform, he knew that his fate was come. When they -called to him to surrender himself he was silent, but he knew that his -silence was of no avail. To them who were so eager to be his captors the -matter seemed to be still one of considerable difficulty; but, to his -thinking, there was no difficulty. There were there some score of men, -fully armed, within twenty yards of him. If he but showed a trace of his -limbs he would become a mark for their bullets. And then if he were -wounded, and no one would come to him! If they allowed him to lie there -without food till he perished! Would it not be well for him to yield -himself? Then they called again and he was still silent. That idea of -yielding is very terrible to the heart of a man. And when the worst had -come to the worst, did not the ocean run deep beneath his cavern’s -mouth?</p> - -<p>But as they yelled at him and hallooed, making their preparations for -his death, his presence of mind deserted the poor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> wretch. He had stolen -an old pistol on one of his marauding expeditions, of which one barrel -had been loaded. That in his mad despair he had fired; and now, as he -lay near the mouth of the cavern, under the cover of the projecting -stone, he had no weapon with him but his hands. He had had a knife, but -that had dropped from him during the struggle on the floor of the -cottage. He had now nothing but his hands, and was considering how he -might best use them in ridding himself of the first of his pursuers. The -man was near him, armed, with all the power and majesty of right on his -side; whereas on his side, Aaron Trow had nothing,—not a hope. He -raised his head that he might look forth, and a dozen voices shouted as -his face appeared above the aperture. A dozen weapons were levelled at -him, and he could see the gleaming of the muzzles of the guns. And then -the foot of his pursuer was already on the corner stone at the cavern’s -mouth. “Now, Caleb, on him at once!” shouted a voice. Ah me! it was a -moment in which to pity even such a man as Aaron Trow.</p> - -<p>“Now, Caleb, at him at once!” shouted the voice. No, by heavens; not so, -even yet! The sound of triumph in those words raised the last burst of -energy in the breast of that wretched man; and he sprang forth, head -foremost, from his prison house. Forth he came, manifest enough before -the eyes of them all, and with head well down, and hands outstretched, -but with his wide glaring eyes still turned towards his pursuers as he -fell, he plunged down into the waves beneath him. Two of those who stood -by, almost unconscious of what they did, fired at his body as it made -its rapid way to the water; but, as they afterwards found, neither of -the bullets struck him. Morton, when his prey thus leaped forth, -escaping him for awhile, was already on the verge of the cavern,—had -even then prepared his foot for that onward spring which should bring -him to the throat of his foe. But he arrested himself, and for a moment -stood there watching the body as it struck the water, and hid itself at -once beneath the ripple. He stood there for a moment watching the deed -and its effect, and then leaving his hold upon the rock, he once again -followed his quarry. Down he went, head foremost, right on to the track -in the waves which the other had made; and when the two rose to the -surface together, each was struggling in the grasp of the other.</p> - -<p>It was a foolish, nay, a mad deed to do. The poor wretch who had first -fallen could not have escaped. He could not even swim, and had therefore -flung himself to certain destruction<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> when he took that leap from out of -the cavern’s mouth. It would have been sad to see him perish beneath the -waves,—to watch him as he rose, gasping for breath, and then to see him -sinking again, to rise again, and then to go for ever. But his life had -been fairly forfeit,—and why should one so much more precious have been -flung after it? It was surely with no view of saving that pitiful life -that Caleb Morton had leaped after his enemy. But the hound, hot with -the chase, will follow the stag over the precipice and dash himself to -pieces against the rocks. The beast thirsting for blood will rush in -even among the weapons of men. Morton in his fury had felt but one -desire, burned with but one passion. If the Fates would but grant him to -fix his clutches in the throat of the man who had ill-used his love; for -the rest it might all go as it would.</p> - -<p>In the earlier part of the morning, while they were all searching for -their victim, they had brought a boat up into this very inlet among the -rocks; and the same boat had been at hand during the whole day. -Unluckily, before they had come hither, it had been taken round the -headland to a place among the rocks at which a government skiff is -always moored. The sea was still so quiet that there was hardly a ripple -on it, and the boat had been again sent for when first it was supposed -that they had at last traced Aaron Trow to his hiding-place. Anxiously -now were all eyes turned to the headland, but as yet no boat was there.</p> - -<p>The two men rose to the surface, each struggling in the arms of the -other. Trow, though he was in an element to which he was not used, -though he had sprung thither as another suicide might spring to certain -death beneath a railway engine, did not altogether lose his presence of -mind. Prompted by a double instinct, he had clutched hold of Morton’s -body when he encountered it beneath the waters. He held on to it, as to -his only protection, and he held on to him also as to his only enemy. If -there was a chance for a life struggle, they would share that chance -together; and if not, then together would they meet that other fate.</p> - -<p>Caleb Morton was a very strong man, and though one of his arms was -altogether encumbered by his antagonist, his other arm and his legs were -free. With these he seemed to succeed in keeping his head above the -water, weighted as he was with the body of his foe. But Trow’s efforts -were also used with the view of keeping himself above the water. Though -he had purposed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> to destroy himself in taking that leap, and now hoped -for nothing better than that they might both perish together, he yet -struggled to keep his head above the waves. Bodily power he had none -left to him, except that of holding on to Morton’s arm and plunging with -his legs; but he did hold on, and thus both their heads remained above -the surface.</p> - -<p>But this could not last long. It was easy to see that Trow’s strength -was nearly spent, and that when he went down Morton must go with him. If -indeed they could be separated,—if Morton could once make himself free -from that embrace into which he had been so anxious to leap,—then -indeed there might be a hope. All round that little inlet the rock fell -sheer down into the deep sea, so that there was no resting-place for a -foot; but round the headlands on either side, even within forty or fifty -yards of that spot, Morton might rest on the rocks, till a boat should -come to his assistance. To him that distance would have been nothing, if -only his limbs had been at liberty.</p> - -<p>Upon the platform of rocks they were all at their wits’ ends. Many were -anxious to fire at Trow; but even if they hit him, would Morton’s -position have been better? Would not the wounded man have still clung to -him who was not wounded? And then there could be no certainty that any -one of them would hit the right man. The ripple of the waves, though it -was very slight, nevertheless sufficed to keep the bodies in motion; and -then, too, there was not among them any marksman peculiar for his skill.</p> - -<p>Morton’s efforts in the water were too severe to admit of his speaking, -but he could hear and understand the words which were addressed to him. -“Shake him off, Caleb.” “Strike him from you with your foot.” “Swim to -the right shore; swim for it, even if you take him with you.” Yes; he -could hear them all; but hearing and obeying were very different. It was -not easy to shake off that dying man; and as for swimming with him, that -was clearly impossible. It was as much as he could do to keep his head -above water, let alone any attempt to move in one settled direction.</p> - -<p>For some four or five minutes they lay thus battling on the waves before -the head of either of them went down. Trow had been twice below the -surface, but it was before he had succeeded in supporting himself by -Morton’s arm. Now it seemed as though he must sink again,—as though -both must sink. His mouth was barely kept above the water, and as Morton -shook him with his arm, the tide would pass over him. It was horrid<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> to -watch, from the shore the glaring upturned eyes of the dying wretch, as -his long streaming hair lay back upon the wave. “Now, Caleb, hold him -down. Hold him under,” was shouted in the voice of some eager friend. -Rising up on the water, Morton made a last effort to do as he was bid. -He did press the man’s head down,—well down below the surface,—but -still the hand clung to him, and as he struck out against the water, he -was powerless against that grasp.</p> - -<p>Then there came a loud shout along the shore, and all those on the -platform, whose eyes had been fixed so closely on that terrible struggle -beneath them, rushed towards the rocks on the other coast. The sound of -oars was heard close to them,—an eager pressing stroke, as of men who -knew well that they were rowing for the salvation of a life. On they -came, close under the rocks, obeying with every muscle of their bodies -the behests of those who called to them from the shore. The boat came -with such rapidity,—was so recklessly urged, that it was driven -somewhat beyond the inlet; but in passing, a blow was struck which made -Caleb Morton once more the master of his own life. The two men had been -carried out in their struggle towards the open sea; and as the boat -curved in, so as to be as close as the rocks would allow, the bodies of -the men were brought within the sweep of the oars. He in the bow—for -there were four pulling in the boat—had raised his oar as he neared the -rocks,—had raised it high above the water; and now, as they passed -close by the struggling men, he let it fall with all its force on the -upturned face of the wretched convict. It was a terrible, frightful -thing to do,—thus striking one who was so stricken; but who shall say -that the blow was not good and just? Methinks, however, that the eyes -and face of that dying man will haunt for ever the dreams of him who -carried that oar!</p> - -<p>Trow never rose again to the surface. Three days afterwards his body was -found at the ferry, and then they carried him to the convict island and -buried him. Morton was picked up and taken into the boat. His life was -saved; but it may be a question how the battle might have gone had not -that friendly oar been raised in his behalf. As it was, he lay at the -cottage for days before he was able to be moved, so as to receive the -congratulations of those who had watched that terrible conflict from the -shore. Nor did he feel that there had been anything in that day’s work -of which he could be proud;—much rather of which it behoved him to be -thoroughly ashamed. Some six months after that he obtained the hand of -Anastasia Bergen, but they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> did not remain long in Bermuda. “He went -away, back to his own country,” my informant told me; “because he could -not endure to meet the ghost of Aaron Trow, at that point of the road -which passes near the cottage.” That the ghost of Aaron Trow may be seen -there and round the little rocky inlet of the sea, is part of the creed -of every young woman in Bermuda.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="MRS_GENERAL_TALBOYS" id="MRS_GENERAL_TALBOYS"></a>MRS. GENERAL TALBOYS.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Why</span> Mrs. General Talboys first made up her mind to pass the winter of -1859 at Rome I never clearly understood. To myself she explained her -purposes, soon after her arrival at the Eternal City, by declaring, in -her own enthusiastic manner, that she was inspired by a burning desire -to drink fresh at the still living fountains of classical poetry and -sentiment. But I always thought that there was something more than this -in it. Classical poetry and sentiment were doubtless very dear to her; -but so also, I imagine, were the substantial comforts of Hardover Lodge, -the General’s house in Berkshire; and I do not think that she would have -emigrated for the winter had there not been some slight domestic -misunderstanding. Let this, however, be fully made clear,—that such -misunderstanding, if it existed, must have been simply an affair of -temper. No impropriety of conduct has, I am very sure, ever been imputed -to the lady. The General, as all the world knows, is hot; and Mrs. -Talboys, when the sweet rivers of her enthusiasm are unfed by congenial -waters, can, I believe, make herself disagreeable.</p> - -<p>But be this as it may, in November, 1859, Mrs. Talboys came among us -English at Rome, and soon succeeded in obtaining for herself a -comfortable footing in our society. We all thought her more remarkable -for her mental attributes than for physical perfection; but, -nevertheless, she was, in her own way, a sightly woman. She had no -special brilliance, either of eye or complexion, such as would produce -sudden flames in susceptible hearts; nor did she seem to demand instant -homage by the form and step of a goddess; but we found her to be a -good-looking woman of some thirty or thirty-three years of age, with -soft, peach-like cheeks,—rather too like those of a cherub, with -sparkling eyes which were hardly large enough, with good teeth, a white -forehead, a dimpled chin and a full bust. Such, outwardly,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> was Mrs. -General Talboys. The description of the inward woman is the purport to -which these few pages will be devoted.</p> - -<p>There are two qualities to which the best of mankind are much subject, -which are nearly related to each other, and as to which the world has -not yet decided whether they are to be classed among the good or evil -attributes of our nature. Men and women are under the influence of them -both, but men oftenest undergo the former, and women the latter. They -are ambition and enthusiasm. Now Mrs. Talboys was an enthusiastic woman.</p> - -<p>As to ambition, generally as the world agrees with Mark Antony in -stigmatising it as a grievous fault, I am myself clear that it is a -virtue; but with ambition at present we have no concern. Enthusiasm -also, as I think, leans to virtue’s side; or, at least, if it be a -fault, of all faults it is the prettiest. But then, to partake at all of -virtue, or even to be in any degree pretty, the enthusiasm must be true.</p> - -<p>Bad coin is known from good by the ring of it; and so is bad enthusiasm. -Let the coiner be ever so clever at his art, in the coining of -enthusiasm the sound of true gold can never be imparted to the fake -metal. And I doubt whether the cleverest she in the world can make false -enthusiasm palatable to the taste of man. To the taste of any woman the -enthusiasm of another woman is never very palatable.</p> - -<p>We understood at Rome that Mrs. Talboys had a considerable family,—four -or five children, we were told; but she brought with her only one -daughter, a little girl about twelve years of age. She had torn herself -asunder, as she told me, from the younger nurslings of her heart, and -had left them to the care of a devoted female attendant, whose love was -all but maternal. And then she said a word or two about the General, in -terms which made me almost think that this quasi-maternal love extended -itself beyond the children. The idea, however, was a mistaken one, -arising from the strength of her language, to which I was then -unaccustomed. I have since become aware that nothing can be more -decorous than old Mrs. Upton, the excellent headnurse at Hardover Lodge; -and no gentleman more discreet in his conduct than General Talboys.</p> - -<p>And I may as well here declare, also, that there could be no more -virtuous woman than the General’s wife. Her marriage vow was to her -paramount to all other vows and bonds whatever. The General’s honour was -quite safe when he sent her off to Rome by herself; and he no doubt knew -that it was so. Illi robur et æs triplex, of which I believe no weapons -of any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span> assailant could get the better. But, nevertheless, we used to -fancy that she had no repugnance to impropriety in other women,—to what -the world generally calls impropriety. Invincibly attached herself to -the marriage tie, she would constantly speak of it as by no means -necessarily binding on others; and, virtuous herself as any griffin of -propriety, she constantly patronised, at any rate, the theory of -infidelity in her neighbours. She was very eager in denouncing the -prejudices of the English world, declaring that she had found existence -among them to be no longer possible for herself. She was hot against the -stern unforgiveness of British matrons, and equally eager in reprobating -the stiff conventionalities of a religion in which she said that none of -its votaries had faith, though they all allowed themselves to be -enslaved.</p> - -<p>We had at that time a small set at Rome, consisting chiefly of English -and Americans, who habitually met at each other’s rooms, and spent many -of our evening hours in discussing Italian politics. We were, most of -us, painters, poets, novelists, or sculptors;—perhaps I should say -would-be painters, poets, novelists, and sculptors,—aspirants hoping to -become some day recognised; and among us Mrs. Talboys took her place, -naturally enough, on account of a very pretty taste she had for -painting. I do not know that she ever originated anything that was -grand; but she made some nice copies, and was fond, at any rate, of art -conversation. She wrote essays, too, which she showed in confidence to -various gentlemen, and had some idea of taking lessons in modelling.</p> - -<p>In all our circle Conrad Mackinnon, an American, was, perhaps, the -person most qualified to be styled its leader. He was one who absolutely -did gain his living, and an ample living too, by his pen, and was -regarded on all sides as a literary lion, justified by success in -roaring at any tone he might please. His usual roar was not exactly that -of a sucking-dove or a nightingale; but it was a good-humoured roar, not -very offensive to any man, and apparently acceptable enough to some -ladies. He was a big burly man, near to fifty as I suppose, somewhat -awkward in his gait, and somewhat loud in his laugh. But though nigh to -fifty, and thus ungainly, he liked to be smiled on by pretty women, and -liked, as some said, to be flattered by them also. If so, he should have -been happy, for the ladies at Rome at that time made much of Conrad -Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>Of Mrs. Mackinnon no one did make very much, and yet she was one of the -sweetest, dearest, quietest, little creatures that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span> ever made glad a -man’s fireside. She was exquisitely pretty, always in good humour, never -stupid, self-denying to a fault, and yet she was generally in the -background. She would seldom come forward of her own will, but was -contented to sit behind her teapot and hear Mackinnon do his roaring. He -was certainly much given to what the world at Rome called flirting, but -this did not in the least annoy her. She was twenty years his junior, -and yet she never flirted with any one. Women would tell -her—good-natured friends—how Mackinnon went on; but she received such -tidings as an excellent joke, observing that he had always done the -same, and no doubt always would until he was ninety. I do believe that -she was a happy woman; and yet I used to think that she should have been -happier. There is, however, no knowing the inside of another man’s -house, or reading the riddles of another man’s joy and sorrow.</p> - -<p>We had also there another lion,—a lion cub,—entitled to roar a little, -and of him also I must say something. Charles O’Brien was a young man, -about twenty-five years of age, who had sent out from his studio in the -preceding year a certain bust, supposed by his admirers to be -unsurpassed by any effort of ancient or modern genius. I am no judge of -sculpture, and will not, therefore, pronounce an opinion; but many who -considered themselves to be judges, declared that it was a “goodish head -and shoulders,” and nothing more. I merely mention the fact, as it was -on the strength of that head and shoulders that O’Brien separated -himself from a throng of others such as himself in Rome, walked solitary -during the days, and threw himself at the feet of various ladies when -the days were over. He had ridden on the shoulders of his bust into a -prominent place in our circle, and there encountered much feminine -admiration—from Mrs. General Talboys and others.</p> - -<p>Some eighteen or twenty of us used to meet every Sunday evening in Mrs. -Mackinnon’s drawing-room. Many of us, indeed, were in the habit of -seeing each other daily, and of visiting together the haunts in Rome -which are best loved by art-loving strangers; but here, in this -drawing-room, we were sure to come together, and here before the end of -November, Mrs. Talboys might always be found, not in any accustomed -seat, but moving about the room as the different male mental attractions -of our society might chance to move themselves. She was at first greatly -taken by Mackinnon,—who also was, I think, a little stirred by her -admiration, though he stoutly denied the charge. She became, however, -very dear to us all before she left us, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> certainly we owed to her -our love, for she added infinitely to the joys of our winter.</p> - -<p>“I have come here to refresh myself,” she said to Mackinnon one -evening—to Mackinnon and myself, for we were standing together.</p> - -<p>“Shall I get you tea?” said I.</p> - -<p>“And will you have something to eat?” Mackinnon asked.</p> - -<p>“No, no, no;” she answered. “Tea, yes; but for Heaven’s sake let nothing -solid dispel the associations of such a meeting as this!”</p> - -<p>“I thought you might have dined early,” said Mackinnon. Now Mackinnon -was a man whose own dinner was very dear to him. I have seen him become -hasty and unpleasant, even under the pillars of the Forum, when he -thought that the party were placing his fish in jeopardy by their desire -to linger there too long.</p> - -<p>“Early! Yes. No; I know not when it was. One dines and sleeps in -obedience to that dull clay which weighs down so generally the particle -of our spirit. But the clay may sometimes be forgotten. Here I can -always forget it.”</p> - -<p>“I thought you asked for refreshment,” I said. She only looked at me, -whose small attempts at prose composition had, up to that time, been -altogether unsuccessful, and then addressed herself in reply to -Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“It is the air which we breathe that fills our lungs and gives us life -and light. It is that which refreshes us if pure, or sinks us into -stagnation if it be foul. Let me for awhile inhale the breath of an -invigorating literature. Sit down, Mr. Mackinnon; I have a question that -I must put to you.” And then she succeeded in carrying him off into a -corner. As far as I could see he went willingly enough at that time, -though he soon became averse to any long retirement in company with Mrs. -Talboys.</p> - -<p>We none of us quite understood what were her exact ideas on the subject -of revealed religion. Somebody, I think, had told her that there were -among us one or two whose opinions were not exactly orthodox according -to the doctrines of the established English church. If so, she was -determined to show us that she also was advanced beyond the prejudices -of an old and dry school of theology. “I have thrown down all the -barriers of religion,” she said to poor Mrs. Mackinnon, “and am looking -for the sentiments of a pure Christianity.”</p> - -<p>“Thrown down all the barriers of religion!” said Mrs. Mackinnon, in a -tone of horror which was not appreciated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span></p> - -<p>“Indeed, yes,” said Mrs. Talboys, with an exulting voice. “Are not the -days for such trammels gone by?”</p> - -<p>“But yet you hold by Christianity?”</p> - -<p>“A pure Christianity, unstained by blood and perjury, by hypocrisy and -verbose genuflection. Can I not worship and say my prayers among the -clouds?” And she pointed to the lofty ceiling and the handsome -chandelier.</p> - -<p>“But Ida goes to church,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. Ida Talboys was her -daughter. Now, it may be observed, that many who throw down the barriers -of religion, so far as those barriers may affect themselves, still -maintain them on behalf of their children. “Yes,” said Mrs. Talboys; -“dear Ida! her soft spirit is not yet adapted to receive the perfect -truth. We are obliged to govern children by the strength of their -prejudices.” And then she moved away, for it was seldom that Mrs. -Talboys remained long in conversation with any lady.</p> - -<p>Mackinnon, I believe, soon became tired of her. He liked her flattery, -and at first declared that she was clever and nice; but her niceness was -too purely celestial to satisfy his mundane tastes. Mackinnon himself -can revel among the clouds in his own writings, and can leave us -sometimes in doubt whether he ever means to come back to earth; but when -his foot is on terra firma, he loves to feel the earthly substratum -which supports his weight. With women he likes a hand that can remain an -unnecessary moment within his own, an eye that can glisten with the -sparkle of champagne, a heart weak enough to make its owner’s arm -tremble within his own beneath the moonlight gloom of the Coliseum -arches. A dash of sentiment the while makes all these things the -sweeter; but the sentiment alone will not suffice for him. Mrs. Talboys -did, I believe, drink her glass of champagne, as do other ladies; but -with her it had no such pleasing effect. It loosened only her tongue, -but never her eye. Her arm, I think, never trembled, and her hand never -lingered. The General was always safe, and happy, perhaps, in his -solitary safety.</p> - -<p>It so happened that we had unfortunately among us two artists who had -quarrelled with their wives. O’Brien, whom I have before mentioned, was -one of them. In his case, I believe him to have been almost as free from -blame as a man can be whose marriage was in itself a fault. However, he -had a wife in Ireland some ten years older than himself; and though he -might sometimes almost forget the fact, his friends and neighbours were -well aware of it. In the other case the whole fault probably was with -the husband. He was an ill-tempered, bad-hearted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> man, clever enough, -but without principle; and he was continually guilty of the great sin of -speaking evil of the woman whose name he should have been anxious to -protect. In both cases our friend Mrs. Talboys took a warm interest, and -in each of them she sympathised with the present husband against the -absent wife.</p> - -<p>Of the consolation which she offered in the latter instance we used to -hear something from Mackinnon. He would repeat to his wife, and to me -and my wife, the conversations which she had with him. “Poor Brown;” she -would say, “I pity him, with my very heart’s blood.”</p> - -<p>“You are aware that he has comforted himself in his desolation,” -Mackinnon replied.</p> - -<p>“I know very well to what you allude. I think I may say that I am -conversant with all the circumstances of this heart-blighting -sacrifice.” Mrs. Talboys was apt to boast of the thorough confidence -reposed in her by all those in whom she took an interest. “Yes, he has -sought such comfort in another love as the hard cruel world would allow -him.”</p> - -<p>“Or perhaps something more than that,” said Mackinnon. “He has a family -here in Rome, you know; two little babies.”</p> - -<p>“I know it, I know it,” she said. “Cherub angels!” and as she spoke she -looked up into the ugly face of Marcus Aurelius; for they, were standing -at the moment under the figure of the great horseman on the Campidoglio. -“I have seen them, and they are the children of innocence. If all the -blood of all the Howards ran in their veins it could not make their -birth more noble!”</p> - -<p>“Not if the father and mother of all the Howards had never been -married,” said Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“What; that from you, Mr. Mackinnon!” said Mrs. Talboys, turning her -back with energy upon the equestrian statue, and looking up into the -faces, first of Pollux and then of Castor, as though from them she might -gain some inspiration on the subject which Marcus Aurelius in his -coldness had denied to her. “From you, who have so nobly claimed for -mankind the divine attributes of free action! From you, who have taught -my mind to soar above the petty bonds which one man in his littleness -contrives for the subjection of his brother. Mackinnon! you who are so -great!” And she now looked up into his face. “Mackinnon, unsay those -words.”</p> - -<p>“They <i>are</i> illegitimate,” said he; “and if there was any landed -property—<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Landed property! and that from an American!”</p> - -<p>“The children are English, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Landed property! The time will shortly come—ay, and I see it -coming—when that hateful word shall be expunged from the calendar; when -landed property shall be no more. What! shall the free soul of a -God-born man submit itself for ever to such trammels as that? Shall we -never escape from the clay which so long has manacled the subtler -particles of the divine spirit? Ay, yes, Mackinnon;” and then she took -him by the arm, and led him to the top of the huge steps which lead down -from the Campidoglio into the streets of modern Rome. “Look down upon -that countless multitude.” Mackinnon looked down, and saw three groups -of French soldiers, with three or four little men in each group; he saw, -also, a couple of dirty friars, and three priests very slowly beginning -the side ascent to the church of the Ara Cœli. “Look down upon that -countless multitude,” said Mrs. Talboys, and she stretched her arms out -over the half-deserted city. “They are escaping now from these -trammels,—now, now,—now that I am speaking.”</p> - -<p>“They have escaped long ago from all such trammels as that of landed -property,” said Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“Ay, and from all terrestrial bonds,” she continued, not exactly -remarking the pith of his last observation; “from bonds -quasi-terrestrial and quasi-celestial. The full-formed limbs of the -present age, running with quick streams of generous blood, will no -longer bear the ligatures which past times have woven for the decrepit. -Look down upon that multitude, Mackinnon; they shall all be free.” And -then, still clutching him by the arm, and still standing at the top of -those stairs, she gave forth her prophecy with the fury of a Sybil.</p> - -<p>“They shall all be free. Oh, Rome, thou eternal one! thou who hast bowed -thy neck to imperial pride and priestly craft; thou who hast suffered -sorely, even to this hour, from Nero down to Pio Nono,—the days of -thine oppression are over. Gone from thy enfranchised ways for ever is -the clang of the Prætorian cohorts, and the more odious drone of -meddling monks!” And yet, as Mackinnon observed, there still stood the -dirty friars and the small French soldiers; and there still toiled the -slow priests, wending their tedious way up to the church of the Ara -Cœli. But that was the mundane view of the matter,—a view not -regarded by Mrs. Talboys in her ecstasy. “O Italia,” she continued, “O -Italia una, one and indivisible in thy rights, and indivisible also in -thy wrongs! to us is it given to see the accomplishment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span> of thy glory. A -people shall arise around thine altars greater in the annals of the -world than thy Scipios, thy Gracchi, or thy Cæsars. Not in torrents of -blood, or with screams of bereaved mothers, shall thy new triumphs be -stained. But mind shall dominate over matter; and doomed, together with -Popes and Bourbons, with cardinals, diplomatists, and police spies, -ignorance and prejudice shall be driven from thy smiling terraces. And -then Rome shall again become the fair capital of the fairest region of -Europe. Hither shall flock the artisans of the world, crowding into thy -marts all that God and man can give. Wealth, beauty, and innocence shall -meet in thy streets——”</p> - -<p>“There will be a considerable change before that takes place,” said -Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“There shall be a considerable change,” she answered. “Mackinnon, to -thee it is given to read the signs of the time; and hast thou not read? -Why have the fields of Magenta and Solferino been piled with the corpses -of dying heroes? Why have the waters of the Mincio ran red with the -blood of martyrs? That Italy might be united and Rome immortal. Here, -standing on the Capitolium of the ancient city, I say that it shall be -so; and thou, Mackinnon, who hearest me, knowest that my words are -true.”</p> - -<p>There was not then in Rome,—I may almost say there was not in Italy, an -Englishman or an American who did not wish well to the cause for which -Italy was and is still contending; as also there is hardly one who does -not now regard that cause as well-nigh triumphant; but, nevertheless, it -was almost impossible to sympathise with Mrs. Talboys. As Mackinnon -said, she flew so high that there was no comfort in flying with her.</p> - -<p>“Well,” said he, “Brown and the rest of them are down below. Shall we go -and join them?”</p> - -<p>“Poor Brown! How was it that, in speaking of his troubles, we were led -on to this heart-stirring theme? Yes, I have seen them, the sweet -angels; and I tell you also that I have seen their mother. I insisted on -going to her when I heard her history from him.”</p> - -<p>“And what is she like, Mrs. Talboys?”</p> - -<p>“Well; education has done more for some of us than for others; and there -are those from whose morals and sentiments we might thankfully draw a -lesson, whose manners and outward gestures are not such as custom has -made agreeable to us. You, I know, can understand that. I have seen her, -and feel sure that she is pure in heart and high in principle. Has she -not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span> sacrificed herself and is not self-sacrifice the surest guarantee -for true nobility of character? Would Mrs. Mackinnon object to my -bringing them together?”</p> - -<p>Mackinnon was obliged to declare that he thought his wife would object; -and from that time forth he and Mrs. Talboys ceased to be very close in -their friendship. She still came to the house every Sunday evening, -still refreshed herself at the fountains of his literary rills; but her -special prophecies from henceforth were poured into other ears. And it -so happened that O’Brien now became her chief ally. I do not remember -that she troubled herself much further with the cherub angels or with -their mother; and I am inclined to think that, taking up warmly, as she -did, the story of O’Brien’s matrimonial wrongs, she forgot the little -history of the Browns. Be that as it may, Mrs. Talboys and O’Brien now -became strictly confidential, and she would enlarge by the half-hour -together on the miseries of her friend’s position, to any one whom she -could get to hear her.</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what, Fanny,” Mackinnon said to his wife one day,—to his -wife and to mine, for we were all together; “we shall have a row in the -house if we don’t take care. O’Brien will be making love to Mrs. -Talboys.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. “You are always thinking that somebody -is going to make love to some one.”</p> - -<p>“Somebody always is,” said he.</p> - -<p>“She’s old enough to be his mother,” said Mrs. Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“What does that matter to an Irishman?” said Mackinnon. “Besides, I -doubt if there is more than five years’ difference between them.”</p> - -<p>“There, must be more than that,” said my wife. “Ida Talboys is twelve, I -know, and I am not quite sure that Ida is the eldest.”</p> - -<p>“If she had a son in the Guards it would make no difference,” said -Mackinnon. “There are men who consider themselves bound to make love to -a woman under certain circumstances, let the age of the lady be what it -may. O’Brien is such a one; and if she sympathises with him much -oftener, he will mistake the matter, and go down on his knees. You ought -to put him on his guard,” he said, addressing himself to his wife.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I shall do no such thing,” said she; “if they are two fools, -they must, like other fools, pay the price of their folly.” As a rule -there could be no softer creature than Mrs. Mackinnon; but it seemed to -me that her tenderness never extended itself in the direction of Mrs. -Talboys.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span></p> - -<p>Just at this time, towards the end, that is, of November, we made a -party to visit the tombs which lie along the Appian Way, beyond that -most beautiful of all sepulchres, the tomb of Cecilia Metella. It was a -delicious day, and we had driven along this road for a couple of miles -beyond the walls of the city, enjoying the most lovely view which the -neighbourhood of Rome affords,—looking over the wondrous ruins of the -old aqueducts, up towards Tivoli and Palestrina. Of all the environs of -Rome this is, on a fair clear day, the most enchanting; and here -perhaps, among a world of tombs, thoughts and almost memories of the -old, old days come upon one with the greatest force. The grandeur of -Rome is best seen and understood from beneath the walls of the Coliseum, -and its beauty among the pillars of the Forum and the arches of the -Sacred Way; but its history and fall become more palpable to the mind, -and more clearly realised, out here among the tombs, where the eyes rest -upon the mountains whose shades were cool to the old Romans as to -us,—than anywhere within the walls of the city. Here we look out at the -same Tivoli and the same Præneste, glittering in the sunshine, embowered -among the far-off valleys, which were dear to them; and the blue -mountains have not crumbled away into ruins. Within Rome itself we can -see nothing as they saw it.</p> - -<p>Our party consisted of some dozen or fifteen persons, and as a hamper -with luncheon in it had been left on the grassy slope at the base of the -tomb of Cecilia Metella, the expedition had in it something of the -nature of a picnic. Mrs. Talboys was of course with us, and Ida Talboys. -O’Brien also was there. The hamper had been prepared in Mrs. Mackinnon’s -room, under the immediate eye of Mackinnon himself, and they therefore -were regarded as the dominant spirits of the party. My wife was leagued -with Mrs. Mackinnon, as was usually the case; and there seemed to be a -general opinion among those who were closely in confidence together, -that something would happen in the O’Brien-Talboys matter. The two had -been inseparable on the previous evening, for Mrs. Talboys had been -urging on the young Irishman her counsels respecting his domestic -troubles. Sir Cresswell Cresswell, she had told him, was his refuge. -“Why should his soul submit to bonds which the world had now declared to -be intolerable? Divorce was not now the privilege of the dissolute rich. -Spirits which were incompatible need no longer be compelled to fret -beneath the same couples.” In short, she had recommended him to go to -England and get rid of his wife, as she would, with a little -encouragement, have recommended<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> any man to get rid of anything. I am -sure that, had she been skilfully brought on to the subject, she might -have been induced to pronounce a verdict against such ligatures for the -body as coats, waistcoats, and trowsers. Her aspirations for freedom -ignored all bounds, and, in theory, there were no barriers which she was -not willing to demolish.</p> - -<p>Poor O’Brien, as we all now began to see, had taken the matter amiss. He -had offered to make a bust of Mrs. Talboys, and she had consented, -expressing a wish that it might find a place among those who had devoted -themselves to the enfranchisement of their fellow-creatures. I really -think she had but little of a woman’s customary personal vanity. I know -she had an idea that her eye was lighted up in her warmer moments by -some special fire, that sparks of liberty shone round her brow, and that -her bosom heaved with glorious aspirations; but all these feelings had -reference to her inner genius, not to any outward beauty. But O’Brien -misunderstood the woman, and thought it necessary to gaze into her face, -and sigh as though his heart were breaking. Indeed he declared to a -young friend that Mrs. Talboys was perfect in her style of beauty, and -began the bust with this idea. It was gradually becoming clear to us all -that he would bring himself to grief; but in such a matter who can -caution a man?</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mackinnon had contrived to separate them in making the carriage -arrangements on this day, but this only added fuel to the fire which was -now burning within O’Brien’s bosom. I believe that he really did love -her, in his easy, eager, susceptible Irish way. That he would get over -the little episode without any serious injury to his heart no one -doubted; but then, what would occur when the declaration was made? How -would Mrs. Talboys bear it?</p> - -<p>“She deserves it,” said Mrs. Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“And twice as much,” my wife added. Why is it that women are so spiteful -to each other?</p> - -<p>Early in the day Mrs. Talboys clambered up to the top of a tomb, and -made a little speech, holding a parasol over her head. Beneath her feet, -she said, reposed the ashes of some bloated senator, some glutton of the -empire, who had swallowed into his maw the provision necessary for a -tribe. Old Rome had fallen through such selfishness as that; but new -Rome would not forget the lesson. All this was very well, and then -O’Brien helped her down; but after this there was no separating them. -For her own part she would sooner have had Mackinnon at her elbow. But -Mackinnon now had found some other elbow.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> “Enough of that was as good -as a feast,” he had said to his wife. And therefore Mrs. Talboys, quite -unconscious of evil, allowed herself to be engrossed by O’Brien.</p> - -<p>And then, about three o’clock, we returned to the hamper. Luncheon under -such circumstances always means dinner, and we arranged ourselves for a -very comfortable meal. To those who know the tomb of Cecilia Metella no -description of the scene is necessary, and to those who do not, no -description will convey a fair idea of its reality. It is itself a large -low tower of great diameter, but of beautiful proportion, standing far -outside the city, close on to the side of the old Roman way. It has been -embattled on the top by some latter-day baron, in order that it might be -used for protection to the castle, which has been built on and attached -to it. If I remember rightly, this was done by one of the Frangipani, -and a very lovely ruin he has made of it. I know no castellated old -tumble-down residence in Italy more picturesque than this baronial -adjunct to the old Roman tomb, or which better tallies with the ideas -engendered within our minds by Mrs. Radcliffe and the Mysteries of -Udolpho. It lies along the road, protected on, the side of the city by -the proud sepulchre of the Roman matron, and up to the long ruined walls -of the back of the building stretches a grassy slope, at the bottom of -which are the remains of an old Roman, circus. Beyond that is the long, -thin, graceful line of the Claudian aqueduct, with Soracte in the -distance to the left, and Tivoli, Palestine, and Frascati lying among -the hills which bound the view. That Frangipani baron was in the right -of it, and I hope he got the value of his money out of the residence -which he built for himself. I doubt, however, that he did but little -good to those who lived in his close neighbourhood.</p> - -<p>We had a very comfortable little banquet seated on the broken lumps of -stone which lie about under the walls of the tomb. I wonder whether the -shade of Cecilia Metella was looking down upon us. We have heard much of -her in these latter days, and yet we know nothing about her, nor can -conceive why she was honoured with a bigger tomb than any other Roman -matron. There were those then among our party who believed that she -might still come back among us, and with due assistance from some -cognate susceptible spirit, explain to us the cause of her widowed -husband’s liberality. Alas, alas! if we may judge of the Romans by -ourselves, the true reason for such sepulchral grandeur would redound -little to the credit of the lady Cecilia Metella herself, or to that of -Crassus, her bereaved and desolate lord.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span></p> - -<p>She did not come among us on the occasion of this banquet, possibly -because we had no tables there to turn in preparation for her presence; -but, had she done so, she could not have been more eloquent of things of -the other world than was Mrs. Talboys. I have said that Mrs. Talboys’ -eye never glanced more brightly after a glass of champagne, but I am -inclined to think that on this occasion it may have done so. O’Brien -enacted Ganymede, and was, perhaps, more liberal than other latter-day -Ganymedes, to whose services Mrs. Talboys had been accustomed. Let it -not, however, be suspected by any one that she exceeded the limits of a -discreet joyousness. By no means! The generous wine penetrated, perhaps, -to some inner cells of her heart, and brought forth thoughts in -sparkling words, which otherwise might have remained concealed; but -there was nothing in what she thought or spoke calculated to give -umbrage either to an anchorite or to a vestal. A word or two she said or -sung about the flowing bowl, and once she called for Falernian; but -beyond this her converse was chiefly of the rights of man and the -weakness of women; of the iron ages that were past, and of the golden -time that was to come.</p> - -<p>She called a toast and drank to the hopes of the latter historians of -the nineteenth century. Then it was that she bade O’Brien “Fill high the -bowl with Samian wine.” The Irishman took her at her word, and she -raised the bumper, and waved it over her head before she put it to her -lips. I am bound to declare that she did not spill a drop. “The true -‘Falernian grape,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> she said, as she deposited the empty beaker on the -grass beneath her elbow. Viler champagne I do not think I ever -swallowed; but it was the theory of the wine, not its palpable body -present there, as it were, in the flesh, which inspired her. There was -really something grand about her on that occasion, and her enthusiasm -almost amounted to reality.</p> - -<p>Mackinnon was amused, and encouraged her, as, I must confess, did I -also. Mrs. Mackinnon made useless little signs to her husband, really -fearing that the Falernian would do its good offices too thoroughly. My -wife, getting me apart as I walked round the circle distributing viands, -remarked that “the woman was a fool, and would disgrace herself.” But I -observed that after the disposal of that bumper she worshipped the rosy -god in theory only, and therefore saw no occasion to interfere. “Come, -Bacchus,” she said; “and come, Silenus, if thou wilt; I know that ye are -hovering round the graves of your departed favourites. And ye, too, -nymphs of Egeria,” and she pointed to the classic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> grove which was all -but close to us as we sat there. “In olden days ye did not always -despise the abodes of men. But why should we invoke the presence of the -gods,—we, who can become godlike ourselves! We ourselves are the -deities of the present age. For us shall the tables be spread with -ambrosia; for us shall the nectar flow.”</p> - -<p>Upon the whole it was very good fooling,—for awhile; and as soon as we -were tired of it we arose from our seats, and began to stroll about the -place. It was beginning to be a little dusk, and somewhat cool, but the -evening air was pleasant, and the ladies, putting on their shawls, did -not seem inclined at once to get into the carriages. At any rate, Mrs. -Talboys was not so inclined, for she started down the hill towards the -long low wall of the old Roman circus at the bottom; and O’Brien, close -at her elbow, started with her.</p> - -<p>“Ida, my dear, you had better remain here,” she said to her daughter; -“you will be tired if you come as far as we are going.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, mamma, I shall not,” said Ida. “You get tired much quicker than -I do.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, you will; besides I do not wish you to come.” There was an end -of it for Ida, and Mrs. Talboys and O’Brien walked off together, while -we all looked into each other’s faces.</p> - -<p>“It would be a charity to go with them,” said Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“Do you be charitable, then,” said his wife.</p> - -<p>“It should be a lady,” said he.</p> - -<p>“It is a pity that the mother of the spotless cherubim is not here for -the occasion,” said she. “I hardly think that any one less gifted will -undertake such a self sacrifice.” Any attempt of the kind would, -however, now have been too late, for they were already at the bottom of -the hill. O’Brien had certainly drunk freely of the pernicious contents -of those long-necked bottles; and though no one could fairly accuse him -of being tipsy, nevertheless that which might have made others drunk had -made him bold, and he dared to do—perhaps more than might become a man. -If under any circumstances he could be fool enough to make an avowal of -love to Mrs. Talboys, he might be expected, as we all thought, to do it -now.</p> - -<p>We watched them as they made for a gap in the wall which led through -into the large enclosed space of the old circus. It had been an arena -for chariot games, and they had gone down with the avowed purpose of -searching where might have been the meta, and ascertaining how the -drivers could have turned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> when at their full speed. For awhile we had -heard their voices,—or rather her voice especially. “The heart of a -man, O’Brien, should suffice for all emergencies,” we had heard her say. -She had assumed a strange habit of calling men by their simple names, as -men address each other. When she did this to Mackinnon, who was much -older than herself, we had been all amused by it, and other ladies of -our party had taken to call him “Mackinnon” when Mrs. Talboys was not -by; but we had felt the comedy to be less safe with O’Brien, especially -when, on one occasion, we heard him address her as Arabella. She did not -seem to be in any way struck by his doing so, and we supposed, -therefore, that it had become frequent between them. What reply he made -at the moment about the heart of a man I do not know;—and then in a few -minutes they disappeared through the gap in the wall.</p> - -<p>None of us followed them, though it would have seemed the most natural -thing in the world to do so had nothing out of the way been expected. As -it was we remained there round the tomb quizzing the little foibles of -our dear friend, and hoping that O’Brien would be quick in what he was -doing. That he would undoubtedly get a slap in the -face—metaphorically—we all felt certain, for none of us doubted the -rigid propriety of the lady’s intentions. Some of us strolled into the -buildings, and some of us got out on to the road; but we all of us were -thinking that O’Brien was very slow a considerable time before we saw -Mrs. Talboys reappear through the gap.</p> - -<p>At last, however, she was there, and we at once saw that she was alone. -She came on, breasting the hill with quick steps, and when she drew near -we could see that there was a frown as of injured majesty on her brow. -Mackinnon and his wife went forward to meet her. If she were really in -trouble it would be fitting in some way to assist her; and of all women -Mrs. Mackinnon was the last to see another woman suffer from ill-usage -without attempting to aid her. “I certainly never liked her,” Mrs. -Mackinnon said afterwards; “but I was bound to go and hear her tale, -when she really had a tale to tell.”</p> - -<p>And Mrs. Talboys now had a tale to tell,—if she chose to tell it. The -ladies of our party declared afterwards that she would have acted more -wisely had she kept to herself both O’Brien’s words to her and her -answer. “She was well able to take care of herself,” Mrs. Mackinnon -said; “and, after all, the silly man had taken an answer when he got -it.” Not, however, that O’Brien had taken his answer quite immediately, -as far as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span> could understand from what we heard of the matter -afterwards.</p> - -<p>At the present moment Mrs. Talboys came up the rising ground all alone, -and at a quick pace. “The man has insulted me,” she said aloud, as well -as her panting breath would allow her, and as soon as she was near -enough to Mrs. Mackinnon to speak to her.</p> - -<p>“I am sorry for that,” said Mrs. Mackinnon. “I suppose he has taken a -little too much wine.”</p> - -<p>“No; it was a premeditated insult. The base-hearted churl has failed to -understand the meaning of true, honest sympathy.”</p> - -<p>“He will forget all about it when he is sober,” said Mackinnon, meaning -to comfort her.</p> - -<p>“What care I what he remembers or what he forgets!” she said, turning -upon poor Mackinnon indignantly. “You men grovel so in your ideas——” -“And yet,” as Mackinnon said afterwards, “she had been telling me that I -was a fool for the last three weeks.”—“You men grovel so in your ideas, -that you cannot understand the feelings of a true-hearted woman. What -can his forgetfulness or his remembrance be to me? Must not I remember -this insult? Is it possible that I should forget it?”</p> - -<p>Mr. and Mrs. Mackinnon only had gone forward to meet her; but, -nevertheless, she spoke so loud that all heard her who were still -clustered round the spot on which we had dined.</p> - -<p>“What has become of Mr. O’Brien?” a lady whispered to me.</p> - -<p>I had a field-glass with me, and, looking round, I saw his hat as he was -walking inside the walls of the circus in the direction towards the -city. “And very foolish he must feel,” said the lady.</p> - -<p>“No doubt he is used to it,” said another.</p> - -<p>“But considering her age, you know,” said the first, who might have been -perhaps three years younger than Mrs. Talboys, and who was not herself -averse to the excitement of a moderate flirtation. But then why should -she have been averse, seeing that she had not as yet become subject to -the will of any imperial lord?</p> - -<p>“He would have felt much more foolish,” said the third, “if she had -listened to what he said to her.”</p> - -<p>“Well I don’t know,” said the second; “nobody would have known anything -about it then, and in a few weeks they would have gradually become tired -of each other in the ordinary way.”</p> - -<p>But in the meantime Mrs. Talboys was among us. There had been no attempt -at secresy, and she was still loudly inveighing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> against the grovelling -propensities of men. “That’s quite true, Mrs. Talboys,” said one of the -elder ladies; “but then women are not always so careful as they should -be. Of course I do not mean to say that there has been any fault on your -part.”</p> - -<p>“Fault on my part! Of course there has been fault on my part. No one can -make any mistake without fault to some extent. I took him to be a man of -sense, and he is a fool. Go to Naples indeed!”</p> - -<p>“Did he want you to go to Naples?” asked Mrs. Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“Yes; that was what he suggested. We were to leave by the train for -Civita Vecchia at six to-morrow morning, and catch the steamer which -leaves Leghorn to-night. Don’t tell me of wine. He was prepared for it!” -And she looked round about on us with an air of injured majesty in her -face which was almost insupportable.</p> - -<p>“I wonder whether he took the tickets over-night,” said Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“Naples!” she said, as though now speaking exclusively to herself, “the -only ground in Italy which has as yet made no struggle on behalf of -freedom;—a fitting residence for such a dastard!”</p> - -<p>“You would have found it very pleasant at this season,” said the -unmarried lady, who was three years her junior.</p> - -<p>My wife had taken Ida out of the way when the first complaining note -from Mrs. Talboys had been heard ascending the hill. But now, when -matters began gradually to become quiescent, she brought her back, -suggesting, as she did so, that they might begin to think of returning.</p> - -<p>“It is getting very cold, Ida, dear, is it not?” said she.</p> - -<p>“But where is Mr. O’Brien?” said Ida.</p> - -<p>“He has fled,—as poltroons always fly,” said Mrs. Talboys. I believe in -my heart that she would have been glad to have had him there in the -middle of the circle, and to have triumphed over him publicly among us -all. No feeling of shame would have kept her silent for a moment.</p> - -<p>“Fled!” said Ida, looking up into her mother’s face.</p> - -<p>“Yes, fled, my child.” And she seized her daughter in her arms, and -pressed her closely to her bosom. “Cowards always fly.”</p> - -<p>“Is Mr. O’Brien a coward?” Ida asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes, a coward, a very coward! And he has fled before the glance of an -honest woman’s eye. Come, Mrs. Mackinnon, shall we go back to the city? -I am sorry that the amusement of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> day should have received this -check.” And she walked forward to the carriage and took her place in it -with an air that showed that she was proud of the way in which she had -conducted herself.</p> - -<p>“She is a little conceited about it after all,” said that unmarried -lady. “If poor Mr. O’Brien had not shown so much premature anxiety with -reference to that little journey to Naples, things might have gone -quietly after all.”</p> - -<p>But the unmarried lady was wrong in her judgment. Mrs. Talboys was proud -and conceited in the matter,—but not proud of having excited the -admiration of her Irish lover. She was proud of her own subsequent -conduct, and gave herself credit for coming out strongly as a -noble-minded matron. “I believe she thinks,” said Mrs. Mackinnon, “that -her virtue is quite Spartan and unique; and if she remains in Rome -she’ll boast of it through the whole winter.”</p> - -<p>“If she does, she may be certain that O’Brien will do the same,” said -Mackinnon. “And in spite of his having fled from the field, it is upon -the cards that he may get the best of it. Mrs. Talboys is a very -excellent woman. She has proved her excellence beyond a doubt. But, -nevertheless, she is susceptible of ridicule.”</p> - -<p>We all felt a little anxiety to hear O’Brien’s account of the matter, -and after having deposited the ladies at their homes, Mackinnon and I -went off to his lodgings. At first he was denied to us, but after awhile -we got his servant to acknowledge that he was at home, and then we made -our way up to his studio. We found him seated behind a half-formed -model, or rather a mere lump of clay punched into something resembling -the shape of a head, with a pipe in his mouth and a bit of stick in his -hand. He was pretending to work, though we both knew that it was out of -the question that he should do anything in his present frame of mind.</p> - -<p>“I think I heard my servant tell you that I was not at home,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he did,” said Mackinnon, “and would have sworn to it too if we -would have let him. Come, don’t pretend to be surly.”</p> - -<p>“I am very busy, Mr. Mackinnon.”</p> - -<p>“Completing your head of Mrs. Talboys, I suppose, before you start for -Naples.”</p> - -<p>“You don’t mean to say that she has told you all about it,” and he -turned away from his work, and looked up into our faces with a comical -expression, half of fun and half of despair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span></p> - -<p>“Every word of it,” said I. “When you want a lady to travel with you, -never ask her to get up so early in winter.”</p> - -<p>“But, O’Brien, how could you be such an ass?” said Mackinnon. “As it has -turned out, there is no very great harm done. You have insulted a -respectable middle-aged woman, the mother of a family, and the wife of a -general officer, and there is an end of it;—unless, indeed, the general -officer should come out from England to call you to account.”</p> - -<p>“He is welcome,” said O’Brien, haughtily.</p> - -<p>“No doubt, my dear fellow,” said Mackinnon; “that would be a dignified -and pleasant ending to the affair. But what I want to know is -this;—what would you have done if she had agreed to go?”</p> - -<p>“He never calculated on the possibility of such a contingency,” said I.</p> - -<p>“By heavens, then, I thought she would like it,” said he.</p> - -<p>“And to oblige her you were content to sacrifice yourself,” said -Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“Well, that was just it. What the deuce is a fellow to do when a woman -goes on in that way. She told me down there, upon the old race course -you know, that matrimonial bonds were made for fools and slaves. What -was I to suppose that she meant by that? But to make all sure, I asked -her what sort of a fellow the General was. ‘Dear old man,’ she said, -clasping her hands together. ‘He might, you know, have been my father.’ -‘I wish he were,’ said I, ‘because then you’d be free.’ ‘I am free,’ -said she, stamping on the ground, and looking up at me as much as to say -that she cared for no one. ‘Then,’ said I, ‘accept all that is left of -the heart of Wenceslaus O’Brien,’ and I threw myself before her in her -path. ‘Hand,’ said I, ‘I have none to give, but the blood which runs red -through my veins is descended from a double line of kings.’ I said that -because she is always fond of riding a high horse. I had gotten close -under the wall, so that none of you should see me from the tower.”</p> - -<p>“And what answer did she make?” said Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“Why she was pleased as Punch;—gave me both her hands, and declared -that we would be friends for ever. It is my belief, Mackinnon, that that -woman never heard anything of the kind before. The General, no doubt, -did it by letter.”</p> - -<p>“And how was it that she changed her mind?”</p> - -<p>“Why; I got up, put my arm round her waist, and told her that we would -be off to Naples. I’m blest if she didn’t give me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> a knock in the ribs -that nearly sent me backwards. She took my breath away, so that I -couldn’t speak to her.”</p> - -<p>“And then——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, there was nothing more. Of course I saw how it was. So she walked -off one way and I the other. On the whole I consider that I am well out -of it.”</p> - -<p>“And so do I,” said Mackinnon, very gravely. “But if you will allow me -to give you my advice, I would suggest that it would be well to avoid -such mistakes in future.”</p> - -<p>“Upon my word,” said O’Brien, excusing himself, “I don’t know what a man -is to do under such circumstances. I give you my honour that I did it -all to oblige her.”</p> - -<p>We then decided that Mackinnon should convey to the injured lady the -humble apology of her late admirer. It was settled that no detailed -excuses should be made. It should be left to her to consider whether the -deed which had been done might have been occasioned by wine, or by the -folly of a moment,—or by her own indiscreet enthusiasm. No one but the -two were present when the message was given, and therefore we were -obliged to trust to Mackinnon’s accuracy for an account of it.</p> - -<p>She stood on very high ground indeed, he said, at first refusing to hear -anything that he had to say on the matter. “The foolish young man,” she -declared, “was below her anger and below her contempt.”</p> - -<p>“He is not the first Irishman that has been made indiscreet by beauty,” -said Mackinnon.</p> - -<p>“A truce to that,” she replied, waving her hand with an air of assumed -majesty. “The incident, contemptible as it is, has been unpleasant to -me. It will necessitate my withdrawal from Rome.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, Mrs. Talboys; that will be making too much of him.”</p> - -<p>“The greatest hero that lives,” she answered, “may have his house made -uninhabitable by a very small insect.” Mackinnon swore that those were -her own words. Consequently a sobriquet was attached to O’Brien of which -he by no means approved. And from that day we always called Mrs. Talboys -“the hero.”</p> - -<p>Mackinnon prevailed at last with her, and she did not leave Rome. She -was even induced to send a message to O’Brien, conveying her -forgiveness. They shook hands together with great éclat in Mrs. -Mackinnon’s drawing-room; but I do not suppose that she ever again -offered to him sympathy on the score of his matrimonial troubles.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_PARSONS_DAUGHTER_OF_OXNEY_COLNE" id="THE_PARSONS_DAUGHTER_OF_OXNEY_COLNE"></a>THE PARSON’S DAUGHTER OF OXNEY COLNE.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> prettiest scenery in all England—and if I am contradicted in that -assertion, I will say in all Europe—is in Devonshire, on the southern -and south-eastern skirts of Dartmoor, where the rivers Dart, and Avon, -and Teign form themselves, and where the broken moor is half cultivated, -and the wild-looking upland fields are half moor. In making this -assertion I am often met with much doubt, but it is by persons who do -not really know the locality. Men and women talk to me on the matter, -who have travelled down the line of railway from Exeter to Plymouth, who -have spent a fortnight at Torquay, and perhaps made an excursion from -Tavistock to the convict prison on Dartmoor. But who knows the glories -of Chagford? Who has walked through the parish of Manaton? Who is -conversant with Lustleigh Cleeves and Withycombe in the moor? Who has -explored Holne Chase? Gentle reader, believe me that you will be rash in -contradicting me, unless you have done these things.</p> - -<p>There or thereabouts—I will not say by the waters of which little river -it is washed—is the parish of Oxney Colne. And for those who wish to -see all the beauties of this lovely country, a sojourn in Oxney Colne -would be most desirable, seeing that the sojourner would then be brought -nearer to all that he would wish to visit, than, at any other spot in -the country. But there is an objection to any such arrangement. There -are only two decent houses in the whole parish, and these are—or were -when I knew the locality—small and fully occupied by their possessors. -The larger and better is the parsonage, in which lived the parson and -his daughter; and the smaller is a freehold residence of a certain Miss -Le Smyrger, who owned a farm of a hundred acres, which was rented by one -Farmer Cloysey, and who also possessed some thirty acres round her own -house,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> which she managed herself, regarding herself to be quite as -great in cream, as Mr. Cloysey, and altogether superior to him in the -article of cyder. “But yeu has to pay no rent, Miss,” Farmer Cloysey -would say, when Miss Le Smyrger expressed this opinion of her art in a -manner too defiant. “Yeu pays no rent, or yeu couldn’t do it.” Miss Le -Smyrger was an old maid, with a pedigree and blood of her own, a hundred -and thirty acres of fee-simple land on the borders of Dartmoor, fifty -years of age, a constitution of iron, and an opinion of her own on every -subject under the sun.</p> - -<p>And now for the parson and his daughter. The parson’s name was -Woolsworthy—or Woolathy, as it was pronounced by all those who lived -around him—the Rev. Saul Woolsworthy; and his daughter was Patience -Woolsworthy, or Miss Patty, as she was known to the Devonshire world of -those parts. That name of Patience had not been well chosen for her, for -she was a hot-tempered damsel, warm in her convictions, and inclined to -express them freely. She had but two closely intimate friends in the -world, and by both of them this freedom of expression had now been fully -permitted to her since she was a child. Miss Le Smyrger and her father -were well accustomed to her ways, and on the whole well satisfied with -them. The former was equally free and equally warm-tempered as herself, -and as Mr. Woolsworthy was allowed by his daughter to be quite paramount -on his own subject—for he had a subject—he did not object to his -daughter being paramount on all others. A pretty girl was Patience -Woolsworthy at the time of which I am writing, and one who possessed -much that was worthy of remark and admiration, had she lived where -beauty meets with admiration, or where force of character is remarked. -But at Oxney Colne, on the borders of Dartmoor, there were few to -appreciate her, and it seemed as though she herself had but little idea -of carrying her talent further afield, so that it might not remain for -ever wrapped in a blanket.</p> - -<p>She was a pretty girl, tall and slender, with dark eyes and black hair. -Her eyes were perhaps too round for regular beauty, and her hair was -perhaps too crisp; her mouth was large and expressive; her nose was -finely formed, though a critic in female form might have declared it to -be somewhat broad. But her countenance altogether was wonderfully -attractive—if only it might be seen without that resolution for -dominion which occasionally marred it, though sometimes it even added to -her attractions.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span></p> - -<p>It must be confessed on behalf of Patience Woolsworthy, that the -circumstances of her life had peremptorily called upon her to exercise -dominion. She had lost her mother when she was sixteen, and had had -neither brother nor sister. She had no neighbours near her fit either -from education or rank to interfere in the conduct of her life, -excepting always Miss Le Smyrger. Miss Le Smyrger would have done -anything for her, including the whole management of her morals and of -the parsonage household, had Patience been content with such an -arrangement. But much as Patience had ever loved Miss Le Smyrger, she -was not content with this, and therefore she had been called on to put -forth a strong hand of her own. She had put forth this strong hand -early, and hence had come the character which I am attempting to -describe. But I must say on behalf of this girl, that it was not only -over others that she thus exercised dominion. In acquiring that power -she had also acquired the much greater power of exercising rule over -herself.</p> - -<p>But why should her father have been ignored in these family -arrangements? Perhaps it may almost suffice to say, that of all living -men her father was the man best conversant with the antiquities of the -county in which he lived. He was the Jonathan Oldbuck of Devonshire, and -especially of Dartmoor, without that decision of character which enabled -Oldbuck to keep his womenkind in some kind of subjection, and probably -enabled him also to see that his weekly bills did not pass their proper -limits. Our Mr. Oldbuck, of Oxney Colne, was sadly deficient in these. A -a parish pastor with but a small cure, he did his duty with sufficient -energy, to keep him, at any rate, from reproach. He was kind and -charitable to the poor, punctual in his services, forbearing with the -farmers around him, mild with his brother clergymen, and indifferent to -aught that bishop or archdeacon might think or say of him. I do not name -this latter attribute as a virtue, but as a fact. But all these points -were as nothing in the known character of Mr. Woolsworthy, of Oxney -Colne. He was the antiquarian of Dartmoor. That was his line of life. It -was in that capacity that he was known to the Devonshire world; it was -as such that he journeyed about with his humble carpet-bag, staying away -from his parsonage a night or two at a time; it was in that character -that he received now and again stray visitors in the single spare -bedroom—not friends asked to see him and his girl because of their -friendship—but men who knew something as to this buried stone, or that -old land-mark. In all these things his daughter let him have his own -way,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> assisting and encouraging him. That was his line of life, and -therefore she respected it. But in all other matters she chose to be -paramount at the parsonage.</p> - -<p>Mr. Woolsworthy was a little man, who always wore, except on Sundays, -grey clothes—clothes of so light a grey that they would hardly have -been regarded as clerical in a district less remote. He had now reached -a goodly age, being full seventy years old; but still he was wiry and -active, and showed but few symptoms of decay. His head was bald, and the -few remaining locks that surrounded it were nearly white. But there was -a look of energy about his mouth, and a humour in his light grey eye, -which forbade those who knew him to regard him altogether as an old man. -As it was, he could walk from Oxney Colne to Priestown, fifteen long -Devonshire miles across the moor; and he who could do that could hardly -be regarded as too old for work.</p> - -<p>But our present story will have more to do with his daughter than with -him. A pretty girl, I have said, was Patience Woolsworthy; and one, too, -in many ways remarkable. She had taken her outlook into life, weighing -the things which she had and those which she had not, in a manner very -unusual, and, as a rule, not always desirable for a young lady. The -things which she had not were very many. She had not society; she had -not a fortune; she had not any assurance of future means of livelihood; -she had not high hope of procuring for herself a position in life by -marriage; she had not that excitement and pleasure in life which she -read of in such books as found their way down to Oxney Colne Parsonage. -It would be easy to add to the list of the things which she had not; and -this list against herself she made out with the utmost vigour. The -things which she had, or those rather which she assured herself of -having, were much more easily counted. She had the birth and education -of a lady, the strength of a healthy woman, and a will of her own. Such -was the list as she made it out for herself, and I protest that I assert -no more than the truth in saying that she never added to it either -beauty, wit, or talent.</p> - -<p>I began these descriptions by saying that Oxney Colne would, of all -places, be the best spot from which a tourist could visit those parts of -Devonshire, but for the fact that he could obtain there none of the -accommodation which tourists require. A brother antiquarian might, -perhaps, in those days have done so, seeing that there was, as I have -said, a spare bedroom at the parsonage. Any intimate friend of Miss Le -Smyrger’s might be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> as fortunate, for she was equally well provided at -Oxney Combe, by which name her house was known. But Miss Le Smyrger was -not given to extensive hospitality, and it was only to those who were -bound to her, either by ties of blood or of very old friendship, that -she delighted to open her doors. As her old friends were very few in -number, as those few lived at a distance, and as her nearest relations -were higher in the world than she was, and were said by herself to look -down upon her, the visits made to Oxney Combe were few and far between.</p> - -<p>But now, at the period of which I am writing, such a visit was about to -be made. Miss Le Smyrger had a younger sister, who had inherited a -property in the parish of Oxney Colne equal to that of the lady who now -lived there; but this the younger sister had inherited beauty also, and -she therefore, in early life, had found sundry lovers, one of whom -became her husband. She had married a man even then well to do in the -world, but now rich and almost mighty; a Member of Parliament, a lord of -this and that board, a man who had a house in Eaton Square, and a park -in the north of England; and in this way her course of life had been -very much divided from that of our Miss Le Smyrger. But the Lord of the -Government Board had been blessed with various children; and perhaps it -was now thought expedient to look after Aunt Penelope’s Devonshire -acres. Aunt Penelope was empowered to leave them to whom she pleased; -and though it was thought in Eaton Square that she must, as a matter of -course, leave them to one of the family, nevertheless a little cousinly -intercourse might make the thing more certain. I will not say that this -was the sole cause of such a visit, but in these days a visit was to be -made by Captain Broughton to his aunt. Now Captain John Broughton was -the second son of Alfonso Broughton, of Clapham Park and Eaton Square, -Member of Parliament, and Lord of the aforesaid Government Board.</p> - -<p>“And what do you mean to do with him?” Patience Woolsworthy asked of -Miss Le Smyrger when that lady walked over from the Combe to say that -her nephew John was to arrive on the following morning.</p> - -<p>“Do with him? Why I shall bring him over here to talk to your father.”</p> - -<p>“He’ll be too fashionable for that; and papa won’t trouble his head -about him if he finds that he doesn’t care for Dartmoor.”</p> - -<p>“Then he may fall in love with you, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“Well, yes; there’s that resource at any rate, and for your sake I dare -say I should be more civil to him than papa. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> he’ll soon get tired -of making love, and what you’ll do then I cannot imagine.”</p> - -<p>That Miss Woolsworthy felt no interest in the coming of the Captain I -will not pretend to say. The advent of any stranger with whom she would -be called on to associate must be matter of interest to her in that -secluded place; and she was not so absolutely unlike other young ladies -that the arrival of an unmarried young man would be the same to her as -the advent of some patriarchal paterfamilias. In taking that outlook -into life of which I have spoken, she had never said to herself that she -despised those things from which other girls received the excitement, -the joys, and the disappointment of their lives. She had simply given -herself to understand that very little of such things would come her -way, and that it behoved her to live—to live happily if such might be -possible—without experiencing the need of them. She had heard, when -there was no thought of any such visit to Oxney Colne, that John -Broughton was a handsome, clever man—one who thought much of himself, -and was thought much of by others—that there had been some talk of his -marrying a great heiress, which marriage, however, had not taken place -through unwillingness on his part, and that he was on the whole a man of -more mark in the world than the ordinary captain of ordinary regiments.</p> - -<p>Captain Broughton came to Oxney Combe, stayed there a fortnight,—the -intended period for his projected visit having been fixed at three or -four days,—and then went his way. He went his way back to his London -haunts, the time of the year then being the close of the Easter -holidays; but as he did so he told his aunt that he should assuredly -return to her in the autumn.</p> - -<p>“And assuredly I shall be happy to see you, John—if you come with a -certain purpose. If you have no such purpose, you had better remain -away.”</p> - -<p>“I shall assuredly come,” the Captain had replied, and then he had gone -on his journey.</p> - -<p>The summer passed rapidly by, and very little was said between Miss Le -Smyrger and Miss Woolsworthy about Captain Broughton. In many -respects—nay, I may say, as to all ordinary matters, no two women could -well be more intimate with each other than they were,—and more than -that, they had the courage each to talk to the other with absolute truth -as to things concerning themselves—a courage in which dear friends -often fail. But nevertheless, very little was said between them about -Captain John Broughton. All that was said may be here repeated.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span></p> - -<p>“John says that he shall return here in August,” Miss Le Smyrger said, -as Patience was sitting with her in the parlour at Oxney Combe, on the -morning after that gentleman’s departure.</p> - -<p>“He told me so himself,” said Patience; and as she spoke her round dark -eyes assumed a look of more than ordinary self-will. If Miss Le Smyrger -had intended to carry the conversation any further, she changed her mind -as she looked at her companion. Then, as I said, the summer ran by, and -towards the close of the warm days of July, Miss Le Smyrger, sitting in -the same chair in the same room, again took up the conversation.</p> - -<p>“I got a letter from John this morning. He says that he shall be here on -the third.”</p> - -<p>“Does he?”</p> - -<p>“He is very punctual to the time he named.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I fancy that he is a punctual man,” said Patience.</p> - -<p>“I hope that you will be glad to see him,” said Miss Le Smyrger.</p> - -<p>“Very glad to see him,” said Patience, with a bold clear voice; and then -the conversation was again dropped, and nothing further was said till -after Captain Broughton’s second arrival in the parish.</p> - -<p>Four months had then passed since his departure, and during that time -Miss Woolsworthy had performed all her usual daily duties in their -accustomed course. No one could discover that she had been less careful -in her household matters than had been her wont, less willing to go -among her poor neighbours, or less assiduous in her attentions to her -father. But not the less was there a feeling in the minds of those -around her that some great change had come upon her. She would sit -during the long summer evenings on a certain spot outside the parsonage -orchard, at the top of a small sloping field in which their solitary cow -was always pastured, with a book on her knees before her, but rarely -reading. There she would sit, with the beautiful view down to the -winding river below her, watching the setting sun, and thinking, -thinking, thinking—thinking of something of which she had never spoken. -Often would Miss Le Smyrger come upon her there, and sometimes would -pass by her even without a word; but never—never once did she dare to -ask her of the matter of her thoughts. But she knew the matter well -enough. No confession was necessary to inform her that Patience -Woolsworthy was in love with John Broughton—ay, in love, to the full -and entire loss of her whole heart.</p> - -<p>On one evening she was so sitting till the July sun had fallen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> and -hidden himself for the night, when her father came upon her as he -returned from one of his rambles on the moor. “Patty,” he said, “you are -always sitting there now. Is it not late? Will you not be cold?”</p> - -<p>“No, papa,” said she, “I shall not be cold.”</p> - -<p>“But won’t you come to the house? I miss you when you come in so late -that there’s no time to say a word before we go to bed.”</p> - -<p>She got up and followed him into the parsonage, and when they were in -the sitting-room together, and the door was closed, she came up to him -and kissed him. “Papa,” she said, “would it make you very unhappy if I -were to leave you?”</p> - -<p>“Leave me!” he said, startled by the serious and almost solemn tone of -her voice. “Do you mean for always?”</p> - -<p>“If I were to marry, papa?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, marry! No; that would not make me unhappy. It would make me very -happy, Patty, to see you married to a man you would love—very, very -happy; though my days would be desolate without you.”</p> - -<p>“That is it, papa. What would you do if I went from you?”</p> - -<p>“What would it matter, Patty? I should be free, at any rate, from a load -which often presses heavy on me now. What will you do when I shall leave -you? A few more years and all will be over with me. But who is it, love? -Has anybody said anything to you?”</p> - -<p>“It was only an idea, papa. I don’t often think of such a thing; but I -did think of it then.” And so the subject was allowed to pass by. This -had happened before the day of the second arrival had been absolutely -fixed and made known to Miss Woolsworthy.</p> - -<p>And then that second arrival took place. The reader may have understood -from the words with which Miss Le Smyrger authorised her nephew to make -his second visit to Oxney Combe that Miss Woolsworthy’s passion was not -altogether unauthorised. Captain Broughton had been told that he was not -to come unless he came with a certain purpose; and having been so told, -he still persisted in coming. There can be no doubt but that he well -understood the purport to which his aunt alluded. “I shall assuredly -come,” he had said. And true to his word, he was now there.</p> - -<p>Patience knew exactly the hour at which he must arrive at the station at -Newton Abbot, and the time also which it would take to travel over those -twelve uphill miles from the station to Oxney. It need hardly be said -that she paid no visit to Miss Le Smyrger’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> house on that afternoon; -but she might have known something of Captain Broughton’s approach -without going thither. His road to the Combe passed by the -parsonage-gate, and had Patience sat even at her bedroom window she must -have seen him. But on such a morning she would not sit at her bedroom -window—she would do nothing which would force her to accuse herself of -a restless longing for her lover’s coming. It was for him to seek her. -If he chose to do so, he knew the way to the parsonage.</p> - -<p>Miss Le Smyrger—good, dear, honest, hearty Miss Le Smyrger, was in a -fever of anxiety on behalf of her friend. It was not that she wished her -nephew to marry Patience—or rather that she had entertained any such -wish when he first came among them. She was not given to match-making, -and moreover thought, or had thought within herself, that they of Oxney -Colne could do very well without any admixture from Eaton Square. Her -plan of life had been that, when old Mr. Woolsworthy was taken away from -Dartmoor, Patience should live with her; and that when she also shuffled -off her coil, then Patience Woolsworthy should be the maiden mistress of -Oxney Combe—of Oxney Combe and Mr. Cloysey’s farm—to the utter -detriment of all the Broughtons. Such had been her plan before nephew -John had come among them—a plan not to be spoken of till the coming of -that dark day which should make Patience an orphan. But now her nephew -had been there, and all was to be altered. Miss Le Smyrger’s plan would -have provided a companion for her old age; but that had not been her -chief object. She had thought more of Patience than of herself, and now -it seemed that a prospect of a higher happiness was opening for her -friend.</p> - -<p>“John,” she said, as soon as the first greetings were over, “do you -remember the last words that I said to you before you went away?” Now, -for myself, I much admire Miss Le Smyrger’s heartiness, but I do not -think much of her discretion. It would have been better, perhaps, had -she allowed things to take their course.</p> - -<p>“I can’t say that I do,” said the Captain. At the same time the Captain -did remember very well what those last words had been.</p> - -<p>“I am so glad to see you, so delighted to see you, if—if—if—,” and -then she paused, for with all her courage she hardly dared to ask her -nephew whether he had come there with the express purpose of asking Miss -Woolsworthy to marry him.</p> - -<p>To tell the truth, for there is no room for mystery within<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> the limits -of this short story,—to tell, I say, at a word the plain and simple -truth, Captain Broughton had already asked that question. On the day -before he left Oxney Colne, he had in set terms proposed to the parson’s -daughter, and indeed the words, the hot and frequent words, which -previously to that had fallen like sweetest honey into the ears of -Patience Woolsworthy, had made it imperative on him to do so. When a man -in such a place as that has talked to a girl of love day after day, must -not he talk of it to some definite purpose on the day on which he leaves -her? Or if he do not, must he not submit to be regarded as false, -selfish, and almost fraudulent? Captain Broughton, however, had asked -the question honestly and truly. He had done so honestly and truly, but -in words, or, perhaps, simply with a tone, that had hardly sufficed to -satisfy the proud spirit of the girl he loved. She by that time had -confessed to herself that she loved him with all her heart; but she had -made no such confession to him. To him she had spoken no word, granted -no favour, that any lover might rightfully regard as a token of love -returned. She had listened to him as he spoke, and bade him keep such -sayings for the drawing-rooms of his fashionable friends. Then he had -spoken out and had asked for that hand,—not, perhaps, as a suitor -tremulous with hope,—but as a rich man who knows that he can command -that which he desires to purchase.</p> - -<p>“You should think more of this,” she had said to him at last. “If you -would really have me for your wife, it will not be much to you to return -here again when time for thinking of it shall have passed by.” With -these words she had dismissed him, and now he had again come back to -Oxney Colne. But still she would not place herself at the window to look -for him, nor dress herself in other than her simple morning country -dress, nor omit one item of her daily work. If he wished to take her at -all, he should wish to take her as she really was, in her plain country -life, but he should take her also with full observance of all those -privileges which maidens are allowed to claim from their lovers. He -should contract no ceremonious observance because she was the daughter -of a poor country parson who would come to him without a shilling, -whereas he stood high in the world’s books. He had asked her to give him -all that she had, and that all she was ready to give, without stint. But -the gift must be valued before it could be given or received. He also -was to give her as much, and she would accept it as beyond all price. -But she would not allow that that which was offered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> to her was in any -degree the more precious because of his outward worldly standing.</p> - -<p>She would not pretend to herself that she thought he would come to her -that day, and therefore she busied herself in the kitchen and about the -house, giving directions to her two maids as though the afternoon would -pass as all other days did pass in that household. They usually dined at -four, and she rarely in these summer months went far from the house -before that hour. At four precisely she sat down with her father, and -then said that she was going up as far as Helpholme after dinner. -Helpholme was a solitary farmhouse in another parish, on the border of -the moor, and Mr. Woolsworthy asked her whether he should accompany her.</p> - -<p>“Do, papa,” she said, “if you are not too tired.” And yet she had -thought how probable it might be that she should meet John Broughton on -her walk. And so it was arranged; but just as dinner was over, Mr. -Woolsworthy remembered himself. “Gracious me,” he said, “how my memory -is going. Gribbles, from Ivybridge, and old John Poulter, from Bovey, -are coming to meet here by appointment. You can’t put Helpholme off till -to-morrow?”</p> - -<p>Patience, however, never put off anything, and therefore at six o’clock, -when her father had finished his slender modicum of toddy, she tied on -her hat and went on her walk. She started with a quick step, and left no -word to say by which route she would go. As she passed up along the -little lane which led towards Oxney Combe, she would not even look to -see if he was coming towards her; and when she left the road, passing -over a stone stile into a little path which ran first through the upland -fields, and then across the moor ground towards Helpholme, she did not -look back once, or listen for his coming step.</p> - -<p>She paid her visit, remaining upwards of an hour with the old bedridden -mother of the tenant of Helpholme. “God bless you, my darling!” said the -old woman as she left her; “and send you some one to make your own path -bright and happy through the world.” These words were still ringing in -her ears with all their significance as she saw John Broughton waiting -for her at the first stile which she had to pass after leaving the -farmer’s haggard.</p> - -<p>“Patty,” he said, as he took her hand, and held it close within both his -own, “what a chase I have had after you!”</p> - -<p>“And who asked you, Captain Broughton?” she answered, smiling. “If the -journey was too much for your poor London<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> strength, could you not have -waited till to-morrow morning, when you would have found me at the -parsonage?” But she did not draw her hand away from him, or in any way -pretend that he had not a right to accost her as a lover.</p> - -<p>“No, I could not wait. I am more eager to see those I love than you seem -to be.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know whom I love, or how eager I might be to see them? There -is an old woman there whom I love, and I have thought nothing of this -walk with the object of seeing her.” And now, slowly drawing her hand -away from him, she pointed to the farmhouse which she had left.</p> - -<p>“Patty,” he said, after a minute’s pause, during which she had looked -full into his face with all the force of her bright eyes; “I have come -from London to-day, straight down here to Oxney, and from my aunt’s -house close upon your footsteps after you, to ask you that one -question—Do you love me?”</p> - -<p>“What a Hercules!” she said, again laughing. “Do you really mean that -you left London only this morning? Why, you must have been five hours in -a railway carriage and two in a postchaise, not to talk of the walk -afterwards. You ought to take more care of yourself, Captain Broughton!”</p> - -<p>He would have been angry with her—for he did not like to be -quizzed—had she not put her hand on his arm as she spoke, and the -softness of her touch had redeemed the offence of her words.</p> - -<p>“All that I have done,” said he, “that I may hear one word from you.”</p> - -<p>“That any word of mine should have such potency! But let us walk on, or -my father will take us for some of the standing stones of the moor. How -have you found your aunt? If you only knew the cares that have sat on -her dear shoulders for the last week past, in order that your high -mightiness might have a sufficiency to eat and drink in these desolate -half-starved regions!”</p> - -<p>“She might have saved herself such anxiety. No one can care less for -such things than I do.”</p> - -<p>“And yet I think I have heard you boast of the cook of your club.” And -then again there was silence for a minute or two.</p> - -<p>“Patty,” said he, stopping again in the path; “answer my question. I -have a right to demand an answer. Do you love me?”</p> - -<p>“And what if I do? What if I have been so silly as to allow your -perfections to be too many for my weak heart? What then, Captain -Broughton?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span></p> - -<p>“It cannot be that you love me, or you would not joke now.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not, indeed,” she said. It seemed as though she were resolved -not to yield an inch in her own humour. And then again they walked on.</p> - -<p>“Patty,” he said once more, “I shall get an answer from you -to-night,—this evening; now, during this walk, or I shall return -to-morrow, and never revisit this spot again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Captain Broughton, how should we ever manage to live without you?”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” he said; “up to the end of this walk I can bear it -all;—and one word spoken then will mend it all.”</p> - -<p>During the whole of this time she felt that she was ill-using him. She -knew that she loved him with all her heart; that it would nearly kill -her to part with him; that she had heard his renewed offer with an -ecstacy of joy. She acknowledged to herself that he was giving proof of -his devotion as strong as any which a girl could receive from her lover. -And yet she could hardly bring herself to say the word he longed to -hear. That word once said, and then she knew that she must succumb to -her love for ever! That word once said, and there would be nothing for -her but to spoil him with her idolatry! That word once said, and she -must continue to repeat it into his ears, till perhaps he might be tired -of hearing it! And now he had threatened her, and how could she speak -after that? She certainly would not speak it unless he asked her again -without such threat. And so they walked on in silence.</p> - -<p>“Patty,” he said at last. “By the heavens above us you shall answer me. -Do you love me?”</p> - -<p>She now stood still, and almost trembled as she looked up into his face. -She stood opposite to him for a moment, and then placing her two hands -on his shoulders, she answered him. “I do, I do, I do,” she said, “with -all my heart; with all my heart—with all my heart and strength.” And -then her head fell upon his breast.</p> - -<p class="c">———</p> - -<p>Captain Broughton was almost as much surprised as delighted by the -warmth of the acknowledgment made by the eager-hearted passionate girl -whom he now held within his arms. She had said it now; the words had -been spoken; and there was nothing for her but to swear to him over and -over again with her sweetest oaths, that those words were true—true as -her soul. And very sweet was the walk down from thence to the parsonage -gate. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length of -his day’s journey. But he stopped her at every turn that he might press -her arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness of -her eyes, and prolong his hour of delight. There were no more gibes now -on her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments on -his coming and going. With downright honesty she told him everything: -how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion; -how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise to -take him at his first word, and had thought it better that he should -return to London, and then think over it; how she had almost repented of -her courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, that he -would forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her old -friend had told her that he was coming.</p> - -<p>“And yet,” said he, “you were not glad to see me!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, was I not glad? You cannot understand the feelings of a girl who -has lived secluded as I have done. Glad is no word for the joy I felt. -But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much. It was the knowledge -that you were near me once again. I almost wish now that I had not seen -you till to-morrow.” But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and this -caress gave the lie to her last words.</p> - -<p>“No, do not come in to-night,” she said, when she reached the little -wicket that led up to the parsonage. “Indeed, you shall not. I could not -behave myself properly if you did.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t want you to behave properly.”</p> - -<p>“Oh! I am to keep that for London, am I? But, nevertheless, Captain -Broughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Surely I may shake hands with your father.”</p> - -<p>“Not to-night—not till—— John, I may tell him, may I not? I must tell -him at once.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” said he.</p> - -<p>“And then you shall see him to-morrow. Let me see—at what hour shall I -bid you come?”</p> - -<p>“To breakfast.”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed. What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkey -and the cold pie? I have got no cold pie for you.”</p> - -<p>“I hate cold pie.”</p> - -<p>“What a pity! But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly after -breakfast. Come down—come down at two, or three; and then I will go -back with you to Aunt Penelope. I must see her to-morrow;” and so at -last the matter was settled,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> and the happy Captain, as he left her, was -hardly resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own.</p> - -<p>When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, there -still were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devon -lore. So Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting till -they should go. For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles and -Poulter did go. But it was not in such matters as this that Patience -Woolsworthy was impatient. She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbing -herself for weeks and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyes -good; but she could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words when -things came to be discussed which she did not think to be good.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” she said, when Gribbles’ long-drawn last word had been spoken at -the door. “Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you would -say if I were to leave you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, surely,” he replied, looking up at her in astonishment.</p> - -<p>“I am going to leave you now,” she said. “Dear, dearest father, how am I -to go from you?”</p> - -<p>“Going to leave me,” said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, and -thinking of nothing else.</p> - -<p>Now, there had been a story about Helpholme. That bedridden old lady -there had a stalwart son, who was now the owner of the Helpholme -pastures. But though owner in fee of all those wild acres, and of the -cattle which they supported, he was not much above the farmers around -him, either in manners or education. He had his merits, however; for he -was honest, well-to-do in the world, and modest withal. How strong love -had grown up, springing from neighbourly kindness, between our Patience -and his mother, it needs not here to tell; but rising from it had come -another love—or an ambition which might have grown to love. The young -man, after much thought, had not dared to speak to Miss Woolsworthy, but -he had sent a message by Miss Le Smyrger. If there could be any hope for -him, he would present himself as a suitor—on trial. He did not owe a -shilling in the world, and had money by him—saved. He wouldn’t ask the -parson for a shilling of fortune. Such had been the tenor of his -message, and Miss Le Smyrger had delivered it faithfully, “He does not -mean it,” Patience had said with her stern voice “Indeed he does, my -dear. You may be sure he is in earnest,” Miss Le Smyrger had replied; -“and there is not an honester man in these parts.”</p> - -<p>“Tell him,” said Patience, not attending to the latter portion of her -friend’s last speech, “that it cannot be—make him understand,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> you -know—and tell him also that the matter shall be thought of no more.” -The matter had, at any rate, been spoken of no more, but the young -farmer still remained a bachelor, and Helpholme still wanted a mistress. -But all this came back upon the parson’s mind when his daughter told him -that she was about to leave him.</p> - -<p>“Yes, dearest,” she said; and as she spoke she now knelt at his knees. -“I have been, asked in marriage, and I have given myself away.”</p> - -<p>“Well, my love, if you will be happy——”</p> - -<p>“I hope I shall; I think I shall. But you, papa?”</p> - -<p>“You will not be far from us.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes; in London.”</p> - -<p>“In London?”</p> - -<p>“Captain Broughton lives in London generally.”</p> - -<p>“And has Captain Broughton asked you to marry him?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, papa—who else? Is he not good? Will you not love him? Oh, papa, -do not say that I am wrong to love him?”</p> - -<p>He never told her his mistake, or explained to her that he had not -thought it possible that the high-placed son of the London great man -should have fallen in love with his undowered daughter; but he embraced -her, and told her, with all his enthusiasm, that he rejoiced in her joy, -and would be happy in her happiness. “My own Patty,” he said, “I have -ever known that you were too good for this life of ours here.” And then -the evening wore away into the night, with many tears, but still with -much happiness.</p> - -<p>Captain Broughton, as he walked back to Oxney Combe, made up his mind -that he would say nothing on the matter to his aunt till the next -morning. He wanted to think over it all, and to think it over, if -possible, by himself. He had taken a step in life, the most important -that a man is ever called on to take, and he had to reflect whether or -no he had taken it with wisdom.</p> - -<p>“Have you seen her?” said Miss Le Smyrger, very anxiously, when he came -into the drawing-room.</p> - -<p>“Miss Woolsworthy you mean,” said he. “Yes, I’ve seen her. As I found -her out, I took a long walk, and happened to meet her. Do you know, -aunt, I think I’ll go to bed; I was up at five this morning, and have -been on the move ever since.”</p> - -<p>Miss Le Smyrger perceived that she was to hear nothing that evening, so -she handed him his candlestick and allowed him to go to his room.</p> - -<p>But Captain Broughton did not immediately retire to bed, nor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> when he -did so was he able to sleep at once. Had this step that he had taken -been a wise one? He was not a man who, in worldly matters, had allowed -things to arrange themselves for him, as is the case with so many men. -He had formed views for himself, and had a theory of life. Money for -money’s sake he had declared to himself to be bad. Money, as a -concomitant to things which were in themselves good, he had declared to -himself to be good also. That concomitant in this affair of his -marriage, he had now missed. Well; he had made up his mind to that, and -would put up with the loss. He had means of living of his own, the means -not so extensive as might have been desirable. That it would be well for -him to become a married man, looking merely to the state of life as -opposed to his present state, he had fully resolved. On that point, -therefore, there was nothing to repent. That Patty Woolsworthy was good, -affectionate, clever, and beautiful, he was sufficiently satisfied. It -would be odd indeed if he were not so satisfied now, seeing that for the -last four months he had so declared to himself daily with many inward -asseverations. And yet though he repeated, now again, that he was -satisfied, I do not think that he was so fully satisfied of it as he had -been throughout the whole of those four months. It is sad to say so, but -I fear—I fear that such was the case. When you have your plaything, how -much of the anticipated pleasure vanishes, especially if it be won -easily.</p> - -<p>He had told none of his family what were his intentions in this second -visit to Devonshire, and now he had to bethink himself whether they -would be satisfied. What would his sister say, she who had married the -Honourable Augustus Gumbleton, gold-stick-in-waiting to Her Majesty’s -Privy Council? Would she receive Patience with open arms, and make much -of her about London? And then how far would London suit Patience, or -would Patience suit London? There would be much for him to do in -teaching her, and it would be well for him to set about the lesson -without loss of time. So far he got that night, but when the morning -came he went a step further, and began mentally to criticise her manner -to himself. It had been very sweet, that warm, that full, that ready -declaration of love. Yes; it had been very sweet; but—but—; when, -after her little jokes, she did confess her love, had she not been a -little too free for feminine excellence? A man likes to be told that he -is loved, but he hardly wishes that the girl he is to marry should fling -herself at his head!</p> - -<p>Ah me! yes; it was thus he argued to himself as on that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> morning he went -through, the arrangements of his toilet. “Then he was a brute,” you say, -my pretty reader. I have never said that he was not a brute. But this I -remark, that many such brutes are to be met with in the beaten paths of -the world’s highway. When Patience Woolsworthy had answered him coldly, -bidding him go back to London and think over his love; while it seemed -from her manner that at any rate as yet she did not care for him; while -he was absent from her, and, therefore, longing for her, the possession -of her charms, her talent and bright honesty of purpose had seemed to -him a thing most desirable. Now they were his own. They had, in fact, -been his own from the first. The heart of this country-bred girl had -fallen at the first word from his mouth. Had she not so confessed to -him? She was very nice—very nice indeed. He loved her dearly. But had -he not sold himself too cheaply?</p> - -<p>I by no means say that he was not a brute. But whether brute or no, he -was an honest man, and had no remotest dream, either then, on that -morning, or during the following days on which such thoughts pressed -more quickly on his mind—of breaking away from his pledged word. At -breakfast on that morning he told all to Miss Le Smyrger, and that lady, -with warm and gracious intentions, confided to him her purpose regarding -her property. “I have always regarded Patience as my heir,” she said, -“and shall do so still.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, indeed,” said Captain Broughton.</p> - -<p>“But it is a great, great pleasure to me to think that she will give -back the little property to my sister’s child. You will have your -mother’s, and thus it will all come together again.”</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said Captain Broughton. He had his own ideas about property, and -did not, even under existing circumstances, like to hear that his aunt -considered herself at liberty to leave the acres away to one who was by -blood quite a stranger to the family.</p> - -<p>“Does Patience know of this?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“Not a word,” said Miss Le Smyrger. And then nothing more was said upon -the subject.</p> - -<p>On that afternoon he went down and received the parson’s benediction and -congratulations with a good grace. Patience said very little on the -occasion, and indeed was absent during the greater part of the -interview. The two lovers then walked up to Oxney Combe, and there were -more benedictions and more congratulations. “All went merry as a -marriage bell,” at any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span> rate as far as Patience was concerned. Not a -word had yet fallen from that dear mouth, not a look had yet come over -that handsome face, which tended in any way to mar her bliss. Her first -day of acknowledged love was a day altogether happy, and when she prayed -for him as she knelt beside her bed there was no feeling in her mind -that any fear need disturb her joy.</p> - -<p>I will pass over the next three or four days very quickly, merely saying -that Patience did not find them so pleasant as that first day after her -engagement. There was something in her lover’s manner—something which -at first she could not define—which by degrees seemed to grate against -her feelings. He was sufficiently affectionate, that being a matter on -which she did not require much demonstration; but joined to his -affection there seemed to be——; she hardly liked to suggest to herself -a harsh word, but could it be possible that he was beginning to think -that she was not good enough for him? And then she asked herself the -question—was she good enough for him? If there were doubt about that, -the match should be broken off, though she tore her own heart out in the -struggle. The truth, however, was this—that he had begun that teaching -which he had already found to be so necessary. Now, had any one essayed -to teach Patience German or mathematics, with that young lady’s free -consent, I believe that she would have been found a meek scholar. But it -was not probable that she would be meek when she found a self-appointed -tutor teaching her manners and conduct without her consent.</p> - -<p>So matters went on for four or five days, and on the evening of the -fifth day Captain Broughton and his aunt drank tea at the parsonage. -Nothing very especial occurred; but as the parson and Miss Le Smyrger -insisted on playing backgammon with devoted perseverance during the -whole evening, Broughton had a good opportunity of saying a word or two -about those changes in his lady-love which a life in London would -require—and some word he said also—some single slight word as to the -higher station in life to which he would exalt his bride. Patience bore -it—for her father and Miss Le Smyrger were in the room—she bore it -well, speaking no syllable of anger, and enduring, for the moment, the -implied scorn of the old parsonage. Then the evening broke up, and -Captain Broughton walked back to Oxney Combe with his aunt. “Patty,” her -father said to her before they went to bed, “he seems to me to be a most -excellent young man.” “Dear papa,” she answered, kissing him. “And -terribly deep in love,” said Mr. Woolsworthy. “Oh, I don’t know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> about -that,” she answered, as she left him with her sweetest smile. But though -she could thus smile at her father’s joke, she had already made up her -mind that there was still something to be learned as to her promised -husband before she could place herself altogether in his hands. She -would ask him whether he thought himself liable to injury from this -proposed marriage; and though he should deny any such thought, she would -know from the manner of his denial what his true feelings were.</p> - -<p>And he, too, on that night, during his silent walk with Miss Le Smyrger, -had entertained some similar thoughts. “I fear she is obstinate,” he -said to himself, and then he had half accused her of being sullen also. -“If that be her temper, what a life of misery I have before me!”</p> - -<p>“Have you fixed a day yet?” his aunt asked him as they came near to her -house.</p> - -<p>“No, not yet; I don’t know whether it will suit me to fix it before I -leave.”</p> - -<p>“Why, it was but the other day you were in such a hurry.”</p> - -<p>“Ah—yes—I have thought more about it since then.”</p> - -<p>“I should have imagined that this would depend on what Patty thinks,” -said Miss Le Smyrger, standing up for the privileges of her sex. “It is -presumed that the gentleman is always ready as soon as the lady will -consent.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, in ordinary cases it is so; but when a girl is taken out of her -own sphere——”</p> - -<p>“Her own sphere! Let me caution you, Master John, not to talk to Patty -about her own sphere.”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Penelope, as Patience is to be my wife and not yours, I must claim -permission to speak to her on such subjects as may seem suitable to me.” -And then they parted—not in the best humour with each other.</p> - -<p>On the following day Captain Broughton and Miss Woolsworthy did not meet -till the evening. She had said, before those few ill-omened words had -passed her lover’s lips, that she would probably be at Miss Le Smyrger’s -house on the following morning. Those ill-omened words did pass her -lover’s lips, and then she remained at home. This did not come from -sullenness, nor even from anger, but from a conviction that it would be -well that she should think much before she met him again. Nor was he -anxious to hurry a meeting. His thought—his base thought—was this; -that she would be sure to come up to the Combe after him; but she did -not come, and therefore in the evening he went down to her, and asked -her to walk with him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span></p> - -<p>They went away by the path that led to Helpholme, and little was said -between them till they had walked some mile together. Patience, as she -went along the path, remembered almost to the letter the sweet words -which had greeted her ears as she came down that way with him on the -night of his arrival; but he remembered nothing of that sweetness then. -Had he not made an ass of himself during these last six months? That was -the thought which very much had possession of his mind.</p> - -<p>“Patience,” he said at last, having hitherto spoken only an indifferent -word now and again since they had left the parsonage, “Patience, I hope -you realise the importance of the step which you and I are about to -take?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I do,” she answered. “What an odd question that is for you to -ask!”</p> - -<p>“Because,” said he, “sometimes I almost doubt it. It seems to me as -though you thought you could remove yourself from here to your new home -with no more trouble than when you go from home up to the Combe.”</p> - -<p>“Is that meant for a reproach, John?”</p> - -<p>“No, not for a reproach, but for advice. Certainly not for a reproach.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad of that.”</p> - -<p>“But I should wish to make you think how great is the leap in the world -which you are about to take.” Then again they walked on for many steps -before she answered him.</p> - -<p>“Tell me, then, John,” she said, when she had sufficiently considered -what words she should speak; and as she spoke a bright colour suffused -her face, and her eyes flashed almost with anger. “What leap do you -mean? Do you mean a leap upwards?”</p> - -<p>“Well, yes; I hope it will be so.”</p> - -<p>“In one sense, certainly, it would be a leap upwards. To be the wife of -the man I loved; to have the privilege of holding his happiness in my -hand; to know that I was his own—the companion whom he had chosen out -of all the world—that would, indeed, be a leap upwards; a leap almost -to heaven, it all that were so. But if you mean upwards in any other -sense——”</p> - -<p>“I was thinking of the social scale.”</p> - -<p>“Then, Captain Broughton, your thoughts were doing me dishonour.”</p> - -<p>“Doing you dishonour!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, doing me dishonour. That your father is, in the world’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> esteem, a -greater man than mine is doubtless true enough. That you, as a man, are -richer than I am as a woman, is doubtless also true. But you dishonour -me, and yourself also, if these things can weigh with you now.”</p> - -<p>“Patience,—I think you can hardly know what words you are saying to -me.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, but I think I do. Nothing that you can give me—no gifts of -that description—can weigh aught against that which I am giving you. If -you had all the wealth and rank of the greatest lord in the land, it -would count as nothing in such a scale. If—as I have not doubted—if in -return for my heart you have given me yours, then—then—then you have -paid me fully. But when gifts such as those are going, nothing else can -count even as a make-weight.”</p> - -<p>“I do not quite understand you,” he answered, after a pause. “I fear you -are a little high-flown.” And then, while the evening was still early, -they walked back to the parsonage almost without another word.</p> - -<p>Captain Broughton at this time had only one full day more to remain at -Oxney Colne. On the afternoon following that he was to go as far as -Exeter, and thence return to London. Of course, it was to be expected -that the wedding day would be fixed before he went, and much had been -said about it during the first day or two of his engagement. Then he had -pressed for an early time, and Patience, with a girl’s usual diffidence, -had asked for some little delay. But now nothing was said on the -subject; and how was it probable that such a matter could be settled -after such a conversation as that which I have related? That evening, -Miss Le Smyrger asked whether the day had been fixed. “No,” said Captain -Broughton, harshly; “nothing has been fixed.” “But it will be arranged -before you go?” “Probably not,” he said; and then the subject was -dropped for the time.</p> - -<p>“John,” she said, just before she went to bed, “if there be anything -wrong between you and Patience, I conjure you to tell me.”</p> - -<p>“You had better ask her,” he replied. “I can tell you nothing.”</p> - -<p>On the following morning he was much surprised by seeing Patience on the -gravel path before Miss Le Smyrger’s gate immediately after breakfast. -He went to the door to open it for her, and she, as she gave him her -hand, told him that she came up to speak to him. There was no hesitation -in her manner, nor any look of anger in her face. But there was in her -gait and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> form, in her voice and countenance, a fixedness of purpose -which he had never seen before, or at any rate had never acknowledged.</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” said he. “Shall I come out with you, or will you come up -stairs?”</p> - -<p>“We can sit down in the summer-house,” she said; and thither they both -went.</p> - -<p>“Captain Broughton,” she said—and she began her task the moment that -they were both seated—“you and I have engaged ourselves as man and -wife, but perhaps we have been over rash.”</p> - -<p>“How so?” said he.</p> - -<p>“It may be—and indeed I will say more—it is the case that we have made -this engagement without knowing enough of each other’s character.”</p> - -<p>“I have not thought so.”</p> - -<p>“The time will perhaps come when you will so think, but for the sake of -all that we most value, let it come before it is too late. What would be -our fate—how terrible would be our misery—if such a thought should -come to either of us after we have linked our lots together.”</p> - -<p>There was a solemnity about her as she thus spoke which almost repressed -him,—which for a time did prevent him from taking that tone of -authority which on such a subject he would choose to adopt. But he -recovered himself. “I hardly think that this comes well from you,” he -said.</p> - -<p>“From whom else should it come? Who else can fight my battle for me; -and, John, who else can fight that same battle on your behalf? I tell -you this, that with your mind standing towards me as it does stand at -present, you could not give me your hand at the altar with true words -and a happy conscience. Am I not true? You have half repented of your -bargain already. Is it not so?”</p> - -<p>He did not answer her; but getting up from his seat walked to the front -of the summer-house, and stood there with his back turned upon her. It -was not that he meant to be ungracious, but in truth he did not know how -to answer her. He had half repented of his bargain.</p> - -<p>“John,” she said, getting up and following him, so that she could put -her hand upon his arm, “I have been very angry with you.”</p> - -<p>“Angry with me!” he said, turning sharp upon her.</p> - -<p>“Yes, angry with you. You would have treated me like a child. But that -feeling has gone now. I am not angry now. There is my hand;—the hand of -a friend. Let the words that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> have been spoken between us be as though -they had not been spoken. Let us both be free.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean it?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I mean it.” As she spoke these words her eyes filled with -tears, in spite of all the efforts she could make; but he was not -looking at her, and her efforts had sufficed to prevent any sob from -being audible.</p> - -<p>“With all my heart,” he said; and it was manifest from his tone that he -had no thought of her happiness as he spoke. It was true that she had -been angry with him—angry, as she had herself declared; but -nevertheless, in what she had said and what she had done, she had -thought more of his happiness than of her own. Now she was angry once -again.</p> - -<p>“With all your heart, Captain Broughton! Well, so be it. If with all -your heart, then is the necessity so much the greater. You go to-morrow. -Shall we say farewell now?”</p> - -<p>“Patience, I am not going to be lectured.”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not by me. Shall we say farewell now?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, if you are determined.”</p> - -<p>“I am determined. Farewell, Captain Broughton. You have all my wishes -for your happiness.” And she held out her hand to him.</p> - -<p>“Patience!” he said. And he looked at her with a dark frown, as though -he would strive to frighten her into submission. If so, he might have -saved himself any such attempt.</p> - -<p>“Farewell, Captain Broughton. Give me your hand, for I cannot stay.” He -gave her his hand, hardly knowing why he did so. She lifted it to her -lips and kissed it, and then, leaving him, passed from the summer-house -down through the wicket-gate, and straight home to the parsonage.</p> - -<p>During the whole of that day she said no word to any one of what had -occurred. When she was once more at home she went about her household -affairs as she had done on that day of his arrival. When she sat down to -dinner with her father he observed nothing to make him think that she -was unhappy; nor during the evening was there any expression in her -face, or any tone in her voice, which excited his attention. On the -following morning Captain Broughton called at the parsonage, and the -servant-girl brought word to her mistress that he was in the parlour. -But she would not see him. “Laws, miss, you ain’t a quarrelled with your -beau?” the poor girl said. “No, not quarrelled,” she said; “but give him -that.” It was a scrap of paper, containing a word or two in pencil. “It -is better that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> we should not meet again. God bless you.” And from that -day to this, now more than ten years, they never have met.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” she said to her father that afternoon, “dear papa, do not be -angry with me. It is all over between me and John Broughton. Dearest, -you and I will not be separated.”</p> - -<p>It would be useless here to tell how great was the old man’s surprise -and how true his sorrow. As the tale was told to him no cause was given -for anger with any one. Not a word was spoken against the suitor who had -on that day returned to London with a full conviction that now at least -he was relieved from his engagement. “Patty, my darling child,” he said, -“may God grant that it be for the best!”</p> - -<p>“It is for the best,” she answered stoutly. “For this place I am fit; -and I much doubt whether I am fit for any other.”</p> - -<p>On that day she did not see Miss Le Smyrger, but on the following -morning, knowing that Captain Broughton had gone off, having heard the -wheels of the carriage as they passed by the parsonage gate on his way -to the station,—she walked up to the Combe.</p> - -<p>“He has told you, I suppose?” said she.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said Miss Le Smyrger. “And I will never see him again unless he -asks your pardon on his knees. I have told him so. I would not even give -him my hand as he went.”</p> - -<p>“But why so, thou kindest one? The fault was mine more than his.”</p> - -<p>“I understand. I have eyes in my head,” said the old maid. “I have -watched him for the last four or five days. If you could have kept the -truth to yourself and bade him keep off from you, he would have been at -your feet now, licking the dust from your shoes.”</p> - -<p>“But, dear friend, I do not want a man to lick dust from my shoes.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you are a fool. You do not know the value of your own wealth.”</p> - -<p>“True; I have been a fool. I was a fool to think that one coming from -such a life as he has led could be happy with such as I am. I know the -truth now. I have bought the lesson dearly,—but perhaps not too dearly, -seeing that it will never be forgotten.”</p> - -<p>There was but little more said about the matter between our three -friends at Oxney Colne. What, indeed, could be said? Miss Le Smyrger for -a year or two still expected that her nephew would return and claim his -bride; but he has never done so,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> nor has there been any correspondence -between them. Patience Woolsworthy had learned her lesson dearly. She -had given her whole heart to the man; and, though she so bore herself -that no one was aware of the violence of the struggle, nevertheless the -struggle within her bosom was very violent. She never told herself that -she had done wrong; she never regretted her loss; but yet—yet—the loss -was very hard to bear. He also had loved her, but he was not capable of -a love which could much injure his daily peace. Her daily peace was gone -for many a day to come.</p> - -<p>Her father is still living; but there is a curate now in the parish. In -conjunction with him and with Miss Le Smyrger she spends her time in the -concerns of the parish. In her own eyes she is a confirmed old maid; and -such is my opinion also. The romance of her life was played out in that -summer. She never sits now lonely on the hill-side thinking how much she -might do for one whom she really loved. But with a large heart she loves -many, and, with no romance, she works hard to lighten the burdens of -those she loves.</p> - -<p>As for Captain Broughton, all the world know that he did marry that -great heiress with whom his name was once before connected, and that he -is now a useful member of Parliament, working on committees three or -four days a week with a zeal that is indefatigable. Sometimes, not -often, as he thinks of Patience Woolsworthy, a gratified smile comes -across his face.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="GEORGE_WALKER_AT_SUEZ" id="GEORGE_WALKER_AT_SUEZ"></a>GEORGE WALKER AT SUEZ.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Of</span> all the spots on the world’s surface that I, George Walker, of Friday -Street, London, have ever visited, Suez in Egypt, at the head of the Red -Sea, is by far the vilest, the most unpleasant, and the least -interesting. There are no women there, no water, and no vegetation. It -is surrounded, and indeed often filled, by a world of sand. A scorching -sun is always overhead; and one is domiciled in a huge cavernous hotel, -which seems to have been made purposely destitute of all the comforts of -civilised life. Nevertheless, in looking back upon the week of my life -which I spent there I always enjoy a certain sort of triumph;—or -rather, upon one day of that week, which lends a sort of halo not only -to my sojourn at Suez, but to the whole period of my residence in Egypt.</p> - -<p>I am free to confess that I am not a great man, and that, at any rate in -the earlier part of my career, I had a hankering after the homage which -is paid to greatness. I would fain have been a popular orator, feeding -myself on the incense tendered to me by thousands; or failing that, a -man born to power, whom those around him were compelled to respect, and -perhaps to fear. I am not ashamed to acknowledge this, and I believe -that most of my neighbours in Friday Street would own as much were they -as candid and open-hearted as myself.</p> - -<p>It is now some time since I was recommended to pass the first four -months of the year in Cairo because I had a sore-throat. The doctor may -have been right, but I shall never divest myself of the idea that my -partners wished to be rid of me while they made certain changes in the -management of the firm. They would not otherwise have shown such -interest every time I blew my nose or relieved my huskiness by a slight -cough;—they would not have been so intimate with that surgeon from St. -Bartholomew’s who dined with them twice at the Albion;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span> nor would they -have gone to work directly that my back was turned, and have done those -very things which they could not have done had I remained at home. Be -that as it may, I was frightened and went to Cairo, and while there I -made a trip to Suez for a week.</p> - -<p>I was not happy at Cairo, for I knew nobody there, and the people at the -hotel were, as I thought, uncivil. It seemed to me as though I were -allowed to go in and out merely by sufferance; and yet I paid my bill -regularly every week. The house was full of company, but the company was -made up of parties of twos and threes, and they all seemed to have their -own friends. I did make attempts to overcome that terrible British -exclusiveness, that noli me tangere with which an Englishman arms -himself, and in which he thinks it necessary to envelop his wife; but it -was in vain, and I found myself sitting down to breakfast and dinner, -day after day, as much alone as I should do if I called for a chop at a -separate table in the Cathedral Coffee-house. And yet at breakfast and -dinner I made one of an assemblage of thirty or forty people. That I -thought dull.</p> - -<p>But as I stood one morning on the steps before the hotel, bethinking -myself that my throat was as well as ever I remembered it to be, I was -suddenly slapped on the back. Never in my life did I feel a more -pleasant sensation, or turn round with more unaffected delight to return -a friend’s greeting. It was as though a cup of water had been handed to -me in the desert. I knew that a cargo of passengers for Australia had -reached Cairo that morning, and were to be passed on to Suez as soon as -the railway would take them, and did not therefore expect that the -greeting had come from any sojourner in Egypt. I should perhaps have -explained that the even tenor of our life at the hotel was disturbed -some four times a month by a flight through Cairo of a flock of -travellers, who like locusts eat up all that there was eatable at the -Inn for the day. They sat down at the same tables with us, never mixing -with us, having their separate interests and hopes, and being often, as -I thought, somewhat loud and almost selfish in the expression of them. -These flocks consisted of passengers passing and repassing by the -overland route to and from India and Australia; and had I nothing else -to tell, I should delight to describe all that I watched of their habits -and manners—the outward bound being so different in their traits from -their brethren on their return. But I have to tell of my own triumph at -Suez, and must therefore<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span> hasten on to say that on turning round quickly -with my outstretched hand, I found it clasped by John Robinson.</p> - -<p>“Well, Robinson, is this you?” “Holloa, Walker, what are you doing -here?” That of course was the style of greeting. Elsewhere I should not -have cared much to meet John Robinson, for he was a man who had never -done well in the world. He had been in business and connected with a -fairly good house in Sise Lane, but he had married early, and things had -not exactly gone well with him. I don’t think the house broke, but he -did; and so he was driven to take himself and five children off to -Australia. Elsewhere I should not have cared to come across him, but I -was positively glad to be slapped on the back by anybody on that -landing-place in front of Shepheard’s Hotel at Cairo.</p> - -<p>I soon learned that Robinson with his wife and children, and indeed with -all the rest of the Australian cargo, were to be passed on to Suez that -afternoon, and after a while I agreed to accompany their party. I had -made up my mind, on coming out from England, that I would see all the -wonders of Egypt, and hitherto I had seen nothing. I did ride on one day -some fifteen miles on a donkey to see the petrified forest; but the -guide, who called himself a dragoman, took me wrong or cheated me in -some way. We rode half the day over a stony, sandy plain, seeing -nothing, with a terrible wind that filled my mouth with grit, and at -last the dragoman got off. “Dere,” said he, picking up a small bit of -stone, “Dis is de forest made of stone. Carry that home.” Then we turned -round and rode back to Cairo. My chief observation as to the country was -this—that whichever way we went, the wind blew into our teeth. The -day’s work cost me five-and-twenty shillings, and since that I had not -as yet made any other expedition. I was therefore glad of an opportunity -of going to Suez, and of making the journey in company with an -acquaintance.</p> - -<p>At that time the railway was open, as far as I remember, nearly half the -way from Cairo to Suez. It did not run four or five times a day, as -railways do in other countries, but four or five times a month. In fact, -it only carried passengers on the arrival of these flocks passing -between England and her Eastern possessions. There were trains passing -backwards and forwards constantly, as I perceived in walking to and from -the station; but, as I learned, they carried nothing but the labourers -working on the line, and the water sent into the Desert for their use. -It struck me forcibly at the time that I should not have liked to have -money in that investment.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span></p> - -<p>Well; I went with Robinson to Suez. The journey, like everything else in -Egypt, was sandy, hot, and unpleasant. The railway carriages were pretty -fair, and we had room enough; but even in them the dust was a great -nuisance. We travelled about ten miles an hour, and stopped about an -hour at every ten miles. This was tedious, but we had cigars with us and -a trifle of brandy and water; and in this manner the railway journey -wore itself away. In the middle of the night, however, we were moved -from the railway carriages into omnibuses, as they were called, and then -I was not comfortable. These omnibuses were wooden boxes, placed each -upon a pair of wheels, and supposed to be capable of carrying six -passengers. I was thrust into one with Robinson, his wife and five -children, and immediately began to repent of my good-nature in -accompanying them. To each vehicle were attached four horses or mules, -and I must acknowledge that as on the railway they went as slow as -possible, so now in these conveyances, dragged through the sand, they -went as fast as the beasts could be made to gallop. I remember the Fox -Tally-ho coach on the Birmingham road when Boyce drove it, but as -regards pace the Fox Tally-ho was nothing to these machines in Egypt. On -the first going off I was jolted right on to Mrs. R. and her infant; and -for a long time that lady thought that the child had been squeezed out -of its proper shape; but at last we arrived at Suez, and the baby seemed -to me to be all right when it was handed down into the boat at Suez.</p> - -<p>The Robinsons were allowed time to breakfast at that cavernous -hotel—which looked to me like a scheme to save the expense of the -passengers’ meal on board the ship—and then they were off. I shook -hands with him heartily as I parted with him at the quay, and wished him -well through all his troubles. A man who takes a wife and five young -children out into a colony, and that with his pockets but indifferently -lined, certainly has his trouble before him. So he has at home, no -doubt; but, judging for myself, I should always prefer sticking to the -old ship as long as there is a bag of biscuits in the locker. Poor -Robinson! I have never heard a word of him or his since that day, and -sincerely trust that the baby was none the worse for the little accident -in the box.</p> - -<p>And now I had the prospect of a week before me at Suez, and the -Robinsons had not been gone half an hour before I began to feel that I -should have been better off even at Cairo. I secured a bedroom at the -hotel—I might have secured sixty bedrooms had I wanted them—and then -went out and stood at the front<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> door, or gate. It is a large house, -built round a quadrangle, looking with one front towards the head of the -Red Sea, and with the other into and on a sandy, dead-looking, open -square. There I stood for ten minutes, and finding that it was too hot -to go forth, returned to the long cavernous room in which we had -breakfasted. In that long cavernous room I was destined to eat all my -meals for the next six days. Now at Cairo I could, at any rate, see my -fellow-creatures at their food. So I lit a cigar, and began to wonder -whether I could survive the week. It was now clear to me that I had done -a very rash thing in coming to Suez with the Robinsons.</p> - -<p>Somebody about the place had asked me my name, and I had told it -plainly—George Walker. I never was ashamed of my name yet, and never -had cause to be. I believe at this day it will go as far in Friday -Street as any other. A man may be popular, or he may not. That depends -mostly on circumstances which are in themselves trifling. But the value -of his name depends on the way in which he is known at his bank. I have -never dealt in tea spoons or gravy spoons, but my name will go as far as -another name. “George Walker,” I answered, therefore, in a tone of some -little authority, to the man who asked me, and who sat inside the gate -of the hotel in an old dressing-gown and slippers.</p> - -<p>That was a melancholy day with me, and twenty times before dinner did I -wish myself back at Cairo. I had been travelling all night, and -therefore hoped that I might get through some little time in sleeping, -but the mosquitoes attacked me the moment I laid myself down. In other -places mosquitoes torment you only at night, but at Suez they buzz -around you, without ceasing, at all hours. A scorching sun was blazing -overhead, and absolutely forbade me to leave the house. I stood for a -while in the verandah, looking down at the few small vessels which were -moored to the quay, but there was no life in them; not a sail was set, -not a boatman or a sailor was to be seen, and the very water looked as -though, it were hot. I could fancy the glare of the sun was cracking the -paint on the gunwales of the boats. I was the only visitor in the house, -and during all the long hours of the morning it seemed as though the -servants had deserted it.</p> - -<p>I dined at four; not that I chose that hour, but because no choice was -given to me. At the hotels in Egypt one has to dine at an hour fixed by -the landlord, and no entreaties will suffice to obtain a meal at any -other. So at four I dined, and after dinner was again reduced to -despair.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span></p> - -<p>I was sitting in the cavernous chamber almost mad at the prospect of the -week before me, when I heard a noise as of various feet in the passage -leading from the quadrangle. Was it possible that other human beings -were coming into the hotel—Christian human beings at whom I could look, -whose voices I could hear, whose words I could understand, and with whom -I might possibly associate? I did not move, however, for I was still -hot, and I knew that my chances might be better if I did not show myself -over eager for companionship at the first moment. The door, however, was -soon opened, and I saw that at least in one respect I was destined to be -disappointed. The strangers who were entering the room were not -Christians—if I might judge by the nature of the garments in which they -were clothed.</p> - -<p>The door had been opened by the man in an old dressing-gown and -slippers, whom I had seen sitting inside the gate. He was the Arab -porter of the hotel, and as he marshalled the new visitors into the -room, I heard him pronounce some sound similar to my own name, and -perceived that he pointed me out to the most prominent person of those -who then entered the apartment. This was a stout, portly man, dressed -from head to foot in Eastern costume of the brightest colours. He wore, -not only the red fez cap which everybody wears—even I had accustomed -myself to a fez cap—but a turban round it, of which the voluminous -folds were snowy white. His face was fat, but not the less grave, and -the lower part of it was enveloped in a magnificent beard, which -projected round it on all sides, and touched his breast as he walked. It -was a grand grizzled beard, and I acknowledged at a moment that it added -a singular dignity to the appearance of the stranger. His flowing robe -was of bright colours, and the under garment which fitted close round -his breast, and then descended, becoming beneath his sash a pair of the -loosest pantaloons—I might, perhaps, better describe them as bags—was -a rich tawny silk. These loose pantaloons were tied close round his -legs, above the ankle, and over a pair of scrupulously white stockings, -and on his feet he wore a pair of yellow slippers. It was manifest to me -at a glance that the Arab gentleman was got up in his best raiment, and -that no expense had been spared on his suit.</p> - -<p>And here I cannot but make a remark on the personal bearing of these -Arabs. Whether they be Arabs or Turks, or Copts, it is always the same. -They are a mean, false, cowardly race, I believe. They will bear blows, -and respect the man who gives them. Fear goes further with them than -love, and between<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> man and man they understand nothing of forbearance. -He who does not exact from them all that he can exact is simply a fool -in their estimation, to the extent of that which he loses. In all this, -they are immeasurably inferior to us who have had Christian teaching. -But in one thing they beat us. They always know how to maintain their -personal dignity.</p> - -<p>Look at my friend and partner Judkins, as he stands with his hands in -his trousers pockets at the door of our house in Friday Street. What can -be meaner than his appearance? He is a stumpy, short, podgy man; but -then so also was my Arab friend at Suez. Judkins is always dressed from -head to foot in a decent black cloth suit; his coat is ever a dress -coat, and is neither old nor shabby. On his head he carries a shining -new silk hat, such as fashion in our metropolis demands. Judkins is -rather a dandy than otherwise, piquing himself somewhat on his apparel. -And yet how mean is his appearance, as compared with the appearance of -that Arab;—how mean also is his gait, how ignoble his step! Judkins -could buy that Arab out four times over, and hardly feel the loss; and -yet were they to enter a room together, Judkins would know and -acknowledge by his look that he was the inferior personage. Not the -less, should a personal quarrel arise between them, would Judkins punch -the Arab’s head; ay, and reduce him to utter ignominy at his feet. -Judkins would break his heart in despair rather than not return a blow; -whereas the Arab would put up with any indignity of that sort. -Nevertheless Judkins is altogether deficient in personal dignity. I -often thought, as the hours hung in Egypt, whether it might not be -practicable to introduce an oriental costume in Friday Street.</p> - -<p>At this moment, as the Arab gentleman entered the cavernous coffee-room, -I felt that I was greatly the inferior personage. He was followed by -four or five others, dressed somewhat as himself, though by no means in -such magnificent colours, and by one gentleman in a coat and trousers. -The gentleman in the coat and trousers came last, and I could see that -he was one of the least of the number. As for myself, I felt almost -overawed by the dignity of the stout party in the turban, and seeing -that he came directly across the room to the place where I was seated, I -got upon my legs and made him some sign of Christian obeisance. I am a -little man, and not podgy, as is Judkins, and I flatter myself that I -showed more deportment, at any rate, than he would have exhibited.</p> - -<p>I made, as I have said, some Christian obeisance. I bobbed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span> my head, -that is, rubbing my hands together the while, and expressed an opinion -that it was a fine day. But if I was civil, as I hope I was, the Arab -was much more so. He advanced till he was about six paces from me, then -placed his right hand open upon his silken breast, and inclining forward -with his whole body, made to me a bow which Judkins never could -accomplish. The turban and the flowing robe might be possible in Friday -Street, but of what avail would be the outer garments and mere symbols, -if the inner sentiment of personal dignity were wanting? I have often -since tried it when alone, but I could never accomplish anything like -that bow. The Arab with the flowing robe bowed, and the other Arabs all -bowed also; and after that the Christian gentleman with the coat and -trousers made a leg. I made a leg also, rubbing my hands again, and -added to my former remarks that it was rather hot.</p> - -<p>“Dat berry true,” said the porter in the dirty dressing-gown, who stood -by. I could see at a glance that the manner of that porter towards me -was greatly altered, and I began to feel comforted in my wretchedness. -Perhaps a Christian from Friday Street, with plenty of money in his -pockets, would stand in higher esteem at Suez than at Cairo. If so, that -alone would go far to atone for the apparent wretchedness of the place. -At Cairo I had not received that attention which had certainly been due -to me as the second partner in the flourishing Manchester house of -Grimes, Walker, and Judkins.</p> - -<p>But now, as my friend with the beard again bowed to me, I felt that this -deficiency was to be made up. It was clear, however, that this new -acquaintance, though I liked the manner of it, would be attended with -considerable inconvenience, for the Arab gentleman commenced an address -to me in French. It has always been to me a source of sorrow that my -parents did not teach me the French language, and this deficiency on my -part has given rise to an incredible amount of supercilious overbearing -pretension on the part of Judkins—who after all can hardly do more than -translate a correspondent’s letter. I do not believe that he could have -understood that Arab’s oration, but at any rate I did not. He went on to -the end, however, speaking for some three or four minutes, and then -again he bowed. If I could only have learned that bow, I might still -have been greater than Judkins with all his French.</p> - -<p>“I am very sorry,” said I, “but I don’t exactly follow the French -language when it is spoken.”</p> - -<p>“Ah! no French!” said the Arab in very broken English,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> “dat is one -sorrow.” How is it that these fellows learn all languages under the sun? -I afterwards found that this man could talk Italian, and Turkish, and -Armenian fluently, and say a few words in German, as he could also in -English. I could not ask for my dinner in any other language than -English, if it were to save me from starvation. Then he called to the -Christian gentleman in the pantaloons, and, as far as I could -understand, made over to him the duty of interpreting between us. There -seemed, however, to be one difficulty in the way of this being carried -on with efficiency. The Christian gentleman could not speak English -himself. He knew of it perhaps something more than did the Arab, but by -no means enough to enable us to have a fluent conversation.</p> - -<p>And had the interpreter—who turned out to be an Italian from Trieste, -attached to the Austrian Consulate at Alexandria—had the interpreter -spoken English with the greatest ease, I should have had considerable -difficulty in understanding and digesting in all its bearings, the -proposition made to me. But before I proceed to the proposition, I must -describe a ceremony which took place previous to its discussion. I had -hardly observed, when first the procession entered the room, that one of -my friend’s followers—my friend’s name, as I learned afterwards, was -Mahmoud al Ackbar, and I will therefore call him Mahmoud—that one of -Mahmoud’s followers bore in his arms a bundle of long sticks, and that -another carried an iron pot and a tray. Such was the case, and these two -followers came forward to perform their services, while I, having been -literally pressed down on to the sofa by Mahmoud, watched them in their -progress. Mahmoud also sat down, and not a word was spoken while the -ceremony went on. The man with the sticks first placed on the ground two -little pans—one at my feet, and then one at the feet of his master. -After that he loosed an ornamented bag which he carried round his neck, -and producing from it tobacco, proceeded to fill two pipes. This he did -with the utmost gravity, and apparently with very peculiar care. The -pipes had been already fixed at one end of the stick, and to the other -end the man had fastened two large yellow balls. These, as I afterwards -perceived, were mouth-pieces made of amber. Then he lit the pipes, -drawing up the difficult smoke by long painful suckings at the -mouthpiece, and then, when the work had become apparently easy, he -handed one pipe to me, and the other to his master. The bowls he had -first placed in the little pans on the ground.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span></p> - -<p>During all this time no word was spoken, and I was left altogether in -the dark as to the cause which had produced this extraordinary courtesy. -There was a stationary sofa—they called it there a divan—which was -fixed into the corner of the room, and on one side of the angle sat -Mahmoud al Ackbar, with his feet tucked under him, while I sat on the -other. The remainder of the party stood around, and I felt so little -master of the occasion, that I did not know whether it would become me -to bid them be seated. I was not master of the entertainment. They were -not my pipes. Nor was it my coffee, which I saw one of the followers -preparing in a distant part of the room. And, indeed, I was much -confused as to the management of the stick and amber mouth-piece with -which I had been presented. With a cigar I am as much at home as any man -in the City. I can nibble off the end of it, and smoke it to the last -ash, when I am three parts asleep. But I had never before been invited -to regale myself with such an instrument as this. What was I to do with -that huge yellow ball? So I watched my new friend closely.</p> - -<p>It had manifestly been a part of his urbanity not to commence till I had -done so, but seeing my difficulty he at last raised the ball to his -mouth and sucked at it. I looked at him and envied the gravity of his -countenance, and the dignity of his demeanour. I sucked also, but I made -a sputtering noise, and must confess that I did not enjoy it. The smoke -curled gracefully from his mouth and nostrils as he sat there in mute -composure. I was mute as regarded speech, but I coughed as the smoke -came from me in convulsive puffs. And then the attendant brought us -coffee in little tin cups—black coffee, without sugar and full of grit, -of which the berries had been only bruised, not ground. I took the cup -and swallowed the mixture, for I could not refuse, but I wish that I -might have asked for some milk and sugar. Nevertheless there was -something very pleasing in the whole ceremony, and at last I began to -find myself more at home with my pipe.</p> - -<p>When Mahmoud had exhausted his tobacco, and perceived that I also had -ceased to puff forth smoke, he spoke in Italian to the interpreter, and -the interpreter forthwith proceeded to explain to me the purport of this -visit. This was done with much difficulty, for the interpreter’s stock -of English was very scanty—but after awhile I understood, or thought I -understood, as follows:—At some previous period of my existence I had -done some deed which had given infinite satisfaction to Mahmoud al -Ackbar. Whether,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> however, I had done it myself, or whether my father -had done it, was not quite clear to me. My father, then some time -deceased, had been a wharfinger at Liverpool, and it was quite possible -that Mahmoud might have found himself at that port. Mahmoud had heard of -my arrival in Egypt, and had been given to understand that I was coming -to Suez—to carry myself away in the ship, as the interpreter phrased -it. This I could not understand, but I let it pass. Having heard these -agreeable tidings—and Mahmoud, sitting in the corner, bowed low to me -as this was said—he had prepared for my acceptance a slight refection -for the morrow, hoping that I would not carry myself away in the ship -till this had been eaten. On this subject I soon made him quite at ease, -and he then proceeded to explain that as there was a point of interest -at Suez, Mahmoud was anxious that I should partake of the refection -somewhat in the guise of a picnic, at the Well of Moses, over in Asia, -on the other side of the head of the Red Sea. Mahmoud would provide a -boat to take across the party in the morning, and camels on which we -would return after sunset. Or else we would go and return on camels, or -go on camels and return in the boat. Indeed any arrangement would be -made that I preferred. If I was afraid of the heat, and disliked the -open boat, I could be carried round in a litter. The provisions had -already been sent over to the Well of Moses in the anticipation that I -would not refuse this little request.</p> - -<p>I did not refuse it. Nothing could have been more agreeable to me than -this plan of seeing something of the sights and wonders of this -land,—and of this seeing them in good company. I had not heard of the -Well of Moses before, but now that I learned that it was in Asia,—in -another quarter of the globe, to be reached by a transit of the Red Sea, -to be returned from by a journey on camels’ backs,—I burned with -anxiety to visit its waters. What a story would this be for Judkins! -This was, no doubt, the point at which the Israelites had passed. Of -those waters had they drunk. I almost felt that I had already found one -of Pharaoh’s chariot wheels. I readily gave my assent, and then, with -much ceremony and many low salaams, Mahmoud and his attendant left me. -“I am very glad that I came to Suez,” said I to myself.</p> - -<p>I did not sleep much that night, for the mosquitoes of Suez are very -persevering; but I was saved from the agonising despair which these -animals so frequently produce, by my agreeable thoughts as to Mahmoud al -Ackbar. I will put it to any of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> my readers who have travelled, whether -it is not a painful thing to find one’s-self regarded among strangers -without any kindness or ceremonious courtesy. I had on this account been -wretched at Cairo, but all this was to be made up to me at Suez. Nothing -could be more pleasant than the whole conduct of Mahmoud al Ackbar, and -I determined to take full advantage of it, not caring overmuch what -might be the nature of those previous favours to which he had alluded. -That was his look-out, and if he was satisfied, why should not I be so -also?</p> - -<p>On the following morning I was dressed at six, and, looking out of my -bed-room, I saw the boat in which we were to be wafted into Asia being -brought up to the quay close under my window. It had been arranged that -we should start early, so as to avoid the mid-day sun, breakfast in the -boat,—Mahmoud in this way engaged to provide me with two -refections,—take our rest at noon in a pavilion which had been built -close upon the well of the patriarch, and then eat our dinner, and -return riding upon camels in the cool of the evening. Nothing could -sound more pleasant than such a plan; and knowing as I did that the -hampers of provisions had already been sent over, I did not doubt that -the table arrangements would be excellent. Even now, standing at my -window, I could see a basket laden with long-necked bottles going into -the boat, and became aware that we should not depend altogether for our -morning repast on that gritty coffee which my friend Mahmoud’s followers -prepared.</p> - -<p>I had promised to be ready at six, and having carefully completed my -toilet, and put a clean collar and comb into my pocket ready for dinner, -I descended to the great gateway and walked slowly round to the quay. As -I passed out, the porter greeted me with a low obeisance, and walking -on, I felt that I stepped the ground with a sort of dignity of which I -had before been ignorant. It is not, as a rule, the man who gives grace -and honour to the position, but the position which confers the grace and -honour upon the man. I have often envied the solemn gravity and grand -demeanour of the Lord Chancellor, as I have seen him on the bench; but I -almost think that even Judkins would look grave and dignified under such -a wig. Mahmoud al Ackbar had called upon me and done me honour, and I -felt myself personally capable of sustaining before the people of Suez -the honour which he had done me.</p> - -<p>As I walked forth with a proud step from beneath the portal, I -perceived, looking down from the square along the street, that there was -already some commotion in the town. I saw the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span> flowing robes of many -Arabs, with their backs turned towards me, and I thought that I observed -the identical gown and turban of my friend Mahmoud on the back and head -of a stout short man, who was hurrying round a corner in the distance. I -felt sure that it was Mahmoud. Some of his servants had failed in their -preparations, I said to myself, as I made my way round to the water’s -edge. This was only another testimony how anxious he was to do me -honour.</p> - -<p>I stood for a while on the edge of the quay looking into the boat, and -admiring the comfortable cushions which were luxuriously arranged around -the seats. The men who were at work did not know me, and I was -unnoticed, but I should soon take my place upon the softest of those -cushions. I walked slowly backwards and forwards on the quay, listening -to a hum of voices that came to me from a distance. There was clearly -something stirring in the town, and I felt certain that all the movement -and all those distant voices were connected in some way with my -expedition to the Well of Moses. At last there came a lad upon the walk -dressed in Frank costume, and I asked him what was in the wind. He was a -clerk attached to an English warehouse, and he told me that there had -been an arrival from Cairo. He knew no more than that, but he had heard -that the omnibuses had just come in. Could it be possible that Mahmoud -al Ackbar had heard of another old acquaintance, and had gone to welcome -him also?</p> - -<p>At first my ideas on the subject were altogether pleasant. I by no means -wished to monopolise the delights of all those cushions, nor would it be -to me a cause of sorrow that there should be some one to share with me -the conversational powers of that interpreter. Should another guest be -found, he might also be an Englishman, and I might thus form an -acquaintance which would be desirable. Thinking of these things, I -walked the quay for some minutes in a happy state of mind; but by -degrees I became impatient, and by degrees also disturbed in my spirit. -I observed that one of the Arab boatmen walked round from the vessel to -the front of the hotel, and that on his return he looked at me—as I -thought, not with courteous eyes. Then also I saw, or rather heard, some -one in the verandah of the hotel above me, and was conscious that I was -being viewed from thence. I walked and walked, and nobody came to me, -and I perceived by my watch that it was seven o’clock. The noise, too, -had come nearer and nearer, and I was now aware that wheels had been -drawn up before the front door of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> hotel, and that many voices were -speaking there. It might be that Mahmoud should wait for some other -friend, but why did he not send some one to inform me? And then, as I -made a sudden turn at the end of the quay, I caught sight of the -retreating legs of the Austrian interpreter, and I became aware that he -had been sent down, and had gone away, afraid to speak to me. “What can -I do?” said I to myself, “I can but keep my ground.” I owned that I -feared to go round to the front of the hotel. So I still walked slowly -up and down the length of the quay, and began to whistle to show that I -was not uneasy. The Arab sailors looked at me uncomfortably, and from -time to time some one peered at me round the corner. It was now fully -half-past seven, and the sun was becoming hot in the heavens. Why did we -not hasten to place ourselves beneath the awning in that boat.</p> - -<p>I had just made up my mind that I would go round to the front and -penetrate this mystery, when, on turning, I saw approaching to me a man -dressed at any rate like an English gentleman. As he came near to me, he -raised his hat, and accosted me in our own language. “Mr. George Walker, -I believe?” said he.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, with some little attempt at a high demeanour, “of the -firm of Grimes, Walker, and Judkins, Friday Street, London.”</p> - -<p>“A most respectable house, I am sure,” said he. “I am afraid there has -been a little mistake here.”</p> - -<p>“No mistake as to the respectability of that house,” said I. I felt that -I was again alone in the world, and that it was necessary that I should -support myself. Mahmoud al Ackbar had separated himself from me for -ever. Of that I had no longer a doubt.</p> - -<p>“Oh, none at all,” said he. “But about this little expedition over the -water;” and he pointed contemptuously to the boat. “There has been a -mistake about that, Mr. Walker; I happen to be the English Vice-Consul -here.”</p> - -<p>I took off my hat and bowed. It was the first time I had ever been -addressed civilly by any English consular authority.</p> - -<p>“And they have made me get out of bed to come down here and explain all -this to you.”</p> - -<p>“All what?” said I.</p> - -<p>“You are a man of the world, I know, and I’ll just tell it you plainly. -My old friend, Mahmoud al Ackbar, has mistaken you for Sir George -Walker, the new Lieutenant-Governor of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span> Pegu. Sir George Walker is here -now; he has come this morning and Mahmoud is ashamed to face you after -what has occurred. If you won’t object to withdraw with me into the -hotel, I’ll explain it all.”</p> - -<p>I felt as though a thunderbolt had fallen; and I must say, that even up -to this day I think that the Consul might have been a little less -abrupt. “We can get in here,” said he, evidently in a hurry, and -pointing to a small door which opened out from one corner of the house -to the quay. What could I do but follow him? I did follow him, and in a -few words learned the remainder of the story. When he had once withdrawn -me from the public walk he seemed but little anxious about the rest, and -soon left me again alone. The facts, as far as I could learn them, were -simply these.</p> - -<p>Sir George Walker, who was now going out to Pegu as Governor, had been -in India before, commanding an army there. I had never heard of him -before, and had made no attempt to pass myself off as his relative. -Nobody could have been more innocent than I was—or have received worse -usage. I have as much right to the name as he has. Well; when he was in -India before, he had taken the city of Begum after a terrible -siege—Begum, I think the Consul called it; and Mahmoud had been there, -having been, it seems, a great man at Begum, and Sir George had spared -him and his money; and in this way the whole thing had come to pass. -There was no further explanation than that. The rest of it was all -transparent. Mahmoud, having heard my name from the porter, had hurried -down to invite me to his party. So far so good. But why had he been -afraid to face me in the morning? And, seeing that the fault had all -been his, why had he not asked me to join the expedition? Sir George and -I may, after all, be cousins. But, coward as he was, he had been afraid -of me. When they found that I was on the quay, they had been afraid of -me, not knowing how to get rid of me. I wish that I had kept the quay -all day, and stared them down one by one as they entered the boat. But I -was down in the mouth, and when the Consul left me, I crept wearily back -to my bed-room.</p> - -<p>And the Consul did leave me almost immediately. A faint hope had at one -time, come upon me that he would have asked me to breakfast. Had he done -so, I should have felt it as a full compensation for all that I had -suffered. I am not an exacting man, but I own that I like civility. In -Friday Street I can command it, and in Friday Street for the rest of my -life will I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> remain. From this Consul I received no civility. As soon as -he had got me out of the way and spoken the few words which he had to -say, he again raised his hat and left me. I also again raised mine, and -then crept up to my bed-room.</p> - -<p>From my window, standing a little behind the white curtain, I could see -the whole embarkation. There was Mahmoud al Ackbar, looking indeed a -little hot, but still going through his work with all that excellence of -deportment which had graced him on the preceding evening. Had his foot -slipped, and had he fallen backwards into that shallow water, my spirit -would, I confess, have been relieved. But, on the contrary, everything -went well with him. There was the real Sir George, my namesake and -perhaps my cousin, as fresh as paint, cool from the bath which he had -been taking while I had been walking on that terrace. How is it that -these governors and commanders-in-chief go through such a deal of work -without fagging? It was not yet two hours since he was jolting about in -that omnibus-box, and there he had been all night. I could not have gone -off to the Well of Moses immediately on my arrival. It’s the dignity of -the position that does it. I have long known that the head of a firm -must never count on a mere clerk to get through as much work as he could -do himself. It’s the interest in the matter that supports the man.</p> - -<p>They went, and Sir George, as I was well assured, had never heard a word -about me. Had he done so, is it probable that he would have requested my -attendance?</p> - -<p>But Mahmoud and his followers no doubt kept their own counsel as to that -little mistake. There they went, and the gentle rippling breeze filled -their sail pleasantly, as the boat moved away into the bay. I felt no -spite against any of them but Mahmoud. Why had he avoided me with such -cowardice? I could still see them when the morning tchibouk was handed -to Sir George; and, though I wished him no harm, I did envy him as he -lay there reclining luxuriously upon the cushions.</p> - -<p>A more wretched day than that I never spent in my life. As I went in and -out, the porter at the gate absolutely scoffed at me. Once I made up my -mind to complain within the house. But what could I have said of the -dirty Arab? They would have told me that it was his religion, or a -national observance, or meant for a courtesy. What can a man do, in a -strange country, when he is told that a native spits in his face by way -of civility? I bore it, I bore it—like a man; and sighed for the -comforts of Friday Street.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span></p> - -<p>As to one matter, I made up my mind on that day, and I fully carried out -my purpose on the next: I would go across to the Well of Moses in a -boat. I would visit the coasts of Asia. And I would ride back into -Africa on a camel. Though I did it alone, I would have my day’s -pleasuring. I had money in my pocket, and, though it might cost me £20, -I would see all that my namesake had seen. It did cost me the best part -of £20; and as for the pleasuring, I cannot say much for it.</p> - -<p>I went to bed early that night, having concluded my bargain for the -morrow with a rapacious Arab who spoke English. I went to bed early in -order to escape the returning party, and was again on the quay at six -the next morning. On this occasion, I stepped boldly into the boat the -very moment that I came along the shore. There is nothing in the world -like paying for what you use. I saw myself to the bottle of brandy and -the cold meat, and acknowledged that a cigar out of my own case would -suit me better than that long stick. The long stick might do very well -for a Governor of Pegu, but would be highly inconvenient in Friday -Street.</p> - -<p>Well, I am not going to give an account of my day’s journey here, though -perhaps I may do so some day. I did go to the Well of Moses—if a small -dirty pool of salt water, lying high above the sands, can be called a -well; I did eat my dinner in the miserable ruined cottage which they -graced by the name of a pavilion; and, alas for my poor bones! I did -ride home upon a camel. If Sir George did so early, and started for Pegu -the next morning—and I was informed such was the fact—he must have -been made of iron. I laid in bed the whole day suffering greviously; but -I was told that on such a journey I should have slakened my throat with -oranges, and not with brandy.</p> - -<p>I survived those four terrible days which remained to me at Suez, and -after another month was once again in Friday Street. I suffered greatly -on the occasion; but it is some consolation to me to reflect that I -smoked a pipe of peace with Mahmoud al Ackbar; that I saw the hero of -Begum while journeying out to new triumphs at Pegu; that I sailed into -Asia in my own yacht—hired for the occasion; and that I rode back into -Africa, on a camel. Nor can Judkins, with all his ill-nature, rob me of -these remembrances.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_MISTLETOE_BOUGH" id="THE_MISTLETOE_BOUGH"></a>THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.</h2> - -<p>“Let the boys have it if they like it,” said Mrs. Garrow, pleading to -her only daughter on behalf of her two sons.</p> - -<p>“Pray don’t, mamma,” said Elizabeth Garrow. “It only means romping. To -me all that is detestable, and I am sure it is not the sort of thing -that Miss Holmes would like.”</p> - -<p>“We always had it at Christmas when we were young.”</p> - -<p>“But, mamma, the world is so changed.”</p> - -<p>The point in dispute was one very delicate in its nature, hardly to be -discussed in all its bearings, even in fiction, and the very mention of -which between mother and daughter showed a great amount of close -confidence between them. It was no less than this. Should that branch of -mistletoe which Frank Garrow had brought home with him out of the -Lowther woods be hung up on Christmas Eve in the dining-room at Thwaite -Hall, according to his wishes; or should permission for such hanging be -positively refused? It was clearly a thing not to be done after such a -discussion, and therefore the decision given by Mrs. Garrow was against -it.</p> - -<p>I am inclined to think that Miss Garrow was right in saying that the -world is changed as touching misletoe boughs. Kissing, I fear, is less -innocent now than it used to be when our grand-mothers were alive, and -we have become more fastidious in our amusements. Nevertheless, I think -that she made herself fairly open to the raillery with which her -brothers attacked her.</p> - -<p>“Honi soit qui mal y pense,” said Frank, who was eighteen.</p> - -<p>“Nobody will want to kiss you, my lady Fineairs,” said Harry, who was -just a year younger.</p> - -<p>“Because you choose to be a Puritan, there are to be no more cakes and -ale in the house,” said Frank.</p> - -<p>“Still waters run deep; we all know that,” said Harry.</p> - -<p>The boys had not been present when the matter was decided<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> between Mrs. -Garrow and her daughter, nor had the mother been present when these -little amenities had passed between the brothers and sister.</p> - -<p>“Only that mamma has said it, and I wouldn’t seem to go against her,” -said Frank, “I’d ask my father. He wouldn’t give way to such nonsense, I -know.”</p> - -<p>Elizabeth turned away without answering, and left the room. Her eyes -were full of tears, but she would not let them see that they had vexed -her. They were only two days home from school, and for the last week -before their coming, all her thoughts had been to prepare for their -Christmas pleasures. She had arranged their rooms, making everything -warm and pretty. Out of her own pocket she had bought a shot-belt for -one, and skates for the other. She had told the old groom that her pony -was to belong exclusively to Master Harry for the holidays, and now -Harry told her that still waters ran deep. She had been driven to the -use of all her eloquence in inducing her father to purchase that gun for -Frank, and now Frank called her a Puritan. And why? She did not choose -that a mistletoe bough should be hung in her father’s hall, when Godfrey -Holmes was coming to visit him. She could not explain this to Frank, but -Frank might have had the wit to understand it. But Frank was thinking -only of Patty Coverdale, a blue-eyed little romp of sixteen, who, with -her sister Kate, was coming from Penrith to spend the Christmas at -Thwaite Hall. Elizabeth left the room with her slow, graceful step, -hiding her tears,—hiding all emotion, as latterly she had taught -herself that it was feminine to do. “There goes my lady Fineairs,” said -Harry, sending his shrill voice after her.</p> - -<p>Thwaite Hall was not a place of much pretension. It was a moderate-sized -house, surrounded by pretty gardens and shrubberies, close down upon the -river Eamont, on the Westmoreland side of the river, looking over to a -lovely wooded bank in Cumberland. All the world knows that the Eamont -runs out of Ulleswater, dividing the two counties, passing under Penrith -Bridge and by the old ruins of Brougham Castle, below which it joins the -Eden. Thwaite Hall nestled down close upon the clear rocky stream about -half way between Ulleswater and Penrith, and had been built just at a -bend of the river. The windows of the dining-parlour and of the -drawing-room stood at right angles to each other, and yet each commanded -a reach of the stream. Immediately from a side of the house steps were -cut down through the red rock to the water’s edge, and here a small boat -was always moored to a chain. The chain was stretched across the river,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> -fixed to the staples driven into the rock on either side, and the boat -was pulled backwards and forwards over the stream, without aid from oars -or paddles. From the opposite side a path led through the woods and -across the fields to Penrith, and this was the route commonly used -between Thwaite Hall and the town.</p> - -<p>Major Garrow was a retired officer of Engineers, who had seen service in -all parts of the world, and who was now spending the evening of his days -on a small property which had come to him from his father. He held in -his own hands about twenty acres of land, and he was the owner of one -small farm close by, which was let to a tenant. That, together with his -half-pay, and the interest of his wife’s thousand pounds, sufficed to -educate his children and keep the wolf at a comfortable distance from -his door. He himself was a spare thin man, with quiet, lazy, literary -habits. He had done the work of life, but had so done it as to permit of -his enjoying that which was left to him. His sole remaining care was the -establishment of his children; and, as far as he could see, he had no -ground for anticipating disappointment. They were clever, good-looking, -well-disposed young people, and upon the whole it may be said that the -sun shone brightly on Thwaite Hall. Of Mrs. Garrow it may suffice to say -that she always deserved such sunshine.</p> - -<p>For years past it had been the practice of the family to have some sort -of gathering at Thwaite Hall during Christmas. Godfrey Holmes had been -left under the guardianship of Major Garrow, and, as he had always spent -his Christmas holidays with his guardian, this, perhaps, had given rise -to the practice. Then the Coverdales were cousins of the Garrows, and -they had usually been there as children. At the Christmas last past the -custom had been broken, for young Holmes had been abroad. Previous to -that, they had all been children, excepting him. But now that they were -to meet again, they were no longer children. Elizabeth, at any rate, was -not so, for she had already counted nineteen winters. And Isabella -Holmes was coming. Now Isabella was two years older than Elizabeth, and -had been educated in Brussels; moreover she was comparatively a stranger -at Thwaite Hall, never having been at those early Christmas meetings.</p> - -<p>And now I must take permission to begin my story by telling a lady’s -secret. Elizabeth Garrow had already been in love with Godfrey Holmes, -or perhaps it might be more becoming to say that Godfrey Holmes had -already been in love with her. They had already been engaged; and, alas! -they had already agreed that that engagement should be broken off!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span></p> - -<p>Young Holmes was now twenty-seven years of age, and was employed in a -bank at Liverpool, not as a clerk, but as assistant-manager, with a -large salary. He was a man well to do in the world, who had money also -of his own, and who might well afford to marry. Some two years since, on -the eve of leaving Thwaite Hall, he had with low doubting whisper told -Elizabeth that he loved her, and she had flown trembling to her mother. -“Godfrey, my boy,” the father said to him, as he parted with him the -next morning, “Bessy is only a child, and too young to think of this -yet.” At the next Christmas Godfrey was in Italy, and the thing was gone -by,—so at least the father and mother said to each other. But the young -people had met in the summer, and one joyful letter had come from the -girl home to her mother. “I have accepted him. Dearest, dearest mamma, I -do love him. But don’t tell papa yet, for I have not quite accepted him. -I think I am sure, but I am not quite sure. I am not quite sure about -him.”</p> - -<p>And then, two days after that, there had come a letter that was not at -all joyful. “Dearest Mamma,—It is not to be. It is not written in the -book. We have both agreed that it will not do. I am so glad that you -have not told dear papa, for I could never make him understand. You will -understand, for I shall tell you everything, down to his very words. But -we have agreed that there shall be no quarrel. It shall be exactly as it -was, and he will come at Christmas all the same. It would never do that -he and papa should be separated, nor could we now put off Isabella. It -is better so in every way, for there is and need be no quarrel. We still -like each other. I am sure I like him, but I know that I should not make -him happy as his wife. He says it is my fault. I, at any rate, have -never told him that I thought it his.” From all which it will be seen -that the confidence between the mother and daughter was very close.</p> - -<p>Elizabeth Garrow was a very good girl, but it might almost be a question -whether she was not too good. She had learned, or thought that she had -learned, that most girls are vapid, silly, and useless,—given chiefly -to pleasure-seeking and a hankering after lovers; and she had resolved -that she would not be such a one. Industry, self-denial, and a religious -purpose in life, were the tasks which she set herself; and she went -about the performance of them with much courage. But such tasks, though -they are excellently well adapted to fit a young lady for the work of -living, may also be carried too far, and thus have the effect of -unfitting her for that work. When Elizabeth Garrow made up<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> her mind -that the finding of a husband was not the only purpose of life, she did -very well. It is very well that a young lady should feel herself capable -of going through the world happily without one. But in teaching herself -this she also taught herself to think that there was a certain merit in -refusing herself the natural delight of a lover, even though the -possession of the lover were compatible with all her duties to herself, -her father and mother, and the world at large. It was not that she had -determined to have no lover. She made no such resolve, and when the -proper lover came he was admitted to her heart. But she declared to -herself unconsciously that she must put a guard upon herself, lest she -should be betrayed into weakness by her own happiness. She had resolved -that in loving her lord she would not worship him, and that in giving -her heart she would only so give it as it should be given to a human -creature like herself. She had acted on these high resolves, and hence -it had come to pass,—not unnaturally,—that Mr. Godfrey Holmes had told -her that it was “her fault.”</p> - -<p>She was a pretty, fair girl, with soft dark-brown hair, and soft long -dark eyelashes. Her grey eyes, though quiet in their tone, were tender -and lustrous. Her face was oval, and the lines of her cheek and chin -perfect in their symmetry. She was generally quiet in her demeanour, but -when moved she could rouse herself to great energy, and speak with -feeling and almost with fire. Her fault was a reverence for martyrdom in -general, and a feeling, of which she was unconscious, that it became a -young woman to be unhappy in secret;—that it became a young woman, I -might rather say, to have a source of unhappiness hidden from the world -in general, and endured without any detriment to her outward -cheerfulness. We know the story of the Spartan boy who held the fox -under his tunic. The fox was biting into him,—into the very entrails; -but the young hero spake never a word. Now Bessy Garrow was inclined to -think that it was a good thing to have a fox always biting, so that the -torment caused no ruining to her outward smiles. Now at this moment the -fox within her bosom was biting her sore enough, but she bore it without -flinching.</p> - -<p>“If you would rather that he should not come I will have it arranged,” -her mother had said to her.</p> - -<p>“Not for worlds,” she had answered. “I should never think well of myself -again.”</p> - -<p>Her mother had changed her own mind more than once as to the conduct in -this matter which might be best for her to follow,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> thinking solely of -her daughter’s welfare. “If he comes they will be reconciled, and she -will be happy,” had been her first idea. But then there was a stern -fixedness of purpose in Bessy’s words when she spoke of Mr. Holmes, -which had expelled this hope, and Mrs. Garrow had for a while thought it -better that the young man should not come. But Bessy would not permit -this. It would vex her father, put out of course the arrangements of -other people, and display weakness on her own part. He should come, and -she would endure without flinching while the fox gnawed at her.</p> - -<p>That battle of the mistletoe had been fought on the morning before -Christmas-day, and the Holmeses came on Christmas-eve. Isabella was -comparatively a stranger, and therefore received at first the greater -share of attention. She and Elizabeth had once seen each other, and for -the last year or two had corresponded, but personally they had never -been intimate. Unfortunately for the latter, that story of Godfrey’s -offer and acceptance had been communicated to Isabella, as had of course -the immediately subsequent story of their separation. But now it would -be almost impossible to avoid the subject in conversation. “Dearest -Isabella, let it be as though it had never been,” she had said in one of -her letters. But sometimes it is very difficult to let things be as -though they had never been.</p> - -<p>The first evening passed over very well. The two Coverdale girls were -there, and there had been much talking and merry laughter, rather -juvenile in its nature, but on the whole none the worse for that. -Isabella Holmes was a fine, tall, handsome girl; good-humoured, and well -disposed to be pleased; rather Frenchified in her manners, and quite -able to take care of herself. But she was not above round games, and did -not turn up her nose at the boys. Godfrey behaved himself excellently, -talking much to the Major, but by no means avoiding Miss Garrow. Mrs. -Garrow, though she had known him since he was a boy, had taken an -aversion to him since he had quarrelled with her daughter; but there was -no room on this first night for showing such aversion, and everything -went off well.</p> - -<p>“Godfrey is very much improved,” the Major said to his wife that night.</p> - -<p>“Do you think so?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed I do. He has filled out and become a fine man.”</p> - -<p>“In personal appearance, you mean. Yes, he is well-looking enough.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span></p> - -<p>“And in his manner, too. He is doing uncommonly well in Liverpool, I can -tell you; and if he should think of Bessy—”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing of that sort,” said Mrs. Garrow.</p> - -<p>“He did speak to me, you know,—two years ago. Bessy was too young then, -and so indeed was he. But if she likes him—”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think she does.”</p> - -<p>“Then there’s an end of it.” And so they went to bed.</p> - -<p>“Frank,” said the sister to her elder brother, knocking at his door when -they had all gone up stairs, “may I come in,—if you are not in bed?”</p> - -<p>“In bed,” said he, looking up with some little pride from his Greek -book; “I’ve one hundred and fifty lines to do before I can get to bed. -It’ll be two, I suppose. I’ve got to mug uncommon hard these holidays. I -have only one more half, you know, and then——”</p> - -<p>“Don’t overdo it, Frank.”</p> - -<p>“No; I won’t overdo it. I mean to take one day a week, and work eight -hours a day on the other five. That will be forty hours a week, and will -give me just two hundred hours for the holidays. I have got it all down -here on a table. That will be a hundred and five for Greek play, forty -for Algebra—” and so he explained to her the exact destiny of all his -long hours of proposed labour. He had as yet been home a day and a half, -and had succeeded in drawing out with red lines and blue figures the -table which he showed her. “If I can do that, it will be pretty well; -won’t it?”</p> - -<p>“But, Frank, you have come home for your holidays,—to enjoy yourself?”</p> - -<p>“But a fellow must work now-a-days.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t overdo it, dear; that’s all. But, Frank, I could not rest if I -went to bed without speaking to you. You made me unhappy to-day.”</p> - -<p>“Did I, Bessy?”</p> - -<p>“You called me a Puritan, and then you quoted that ill-natured French -proverb at me. Do you really believe your sister thinks evil, Frank?” -and as she spoke she put her arm caressingly round his neck.</p> - -<p>“Of course I don’t.”</p> - -<p>“Then why say so? Harry is so much younger and so thoughtless that I can -bear what he says without so much suffering. But if you and I are not -friends I shall be very wretched. If you knew how I have looked forward -to your coming home!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span></p> - -<p>“I did not mean to vex you, and I won’t say such things again.”</p> - -<p>“That’s my own Frank. What I said to mamma, I said because I thought it -right; but you must not say that I am a Puritan. I would do anything in -my power to make your holidays bright and pleasant. I know that boys -require so much more to amuse them than girls do. Good night, dearest; -pray don’t overdo yourself with work, and do take care of your eyes.” So -saying she kissed him and went her way. In twenty minutes after that, he -had gone to sleep over his book; and when he woke up to find the candle -guttering down, he resolved that he would not begin his measured hours -till Christmas-day was fairly over.</p> - -<p>The morning of Christmas-day passed very quietly. They all went to -church, and then sat round the fire chatting until the four o’clock -dinner was ready. The Coverdale girls thought it was rather more dull -than former Thwaite Hall festivities, and Frank was seen to yawn. But -then everybody knows that the real fun of Christmas never begins till -the day itself be passed. The beef and pudding are ponderous, and unless -there be absolute children in the party, there is a difficulty in -grafting any special afternoon amusements on the Sunday pursuits of the -morning. In the evening they were to have a dance; that had been -distinctly promised to Patty Coverdale; but the dance would not commence -till eight. The beef and pudding were ponderous, but with due efforts -they were overcome and disappeared. The glass of port was sipped, the -almonds and raisins were nibbled, and then the ladies left the room. Ten -minutes after that Elizabeth found herself seated with Isabella Holmes -over the fire in her father’s little book-room. It was not by her that -this meeting was arranged, for she dreaded such a constrained -confidence; but of course it could not be avoided, and perhaps it might -be as well now as hereafter.</p> - -<p>“Bessy,” said the elder girl, “I am dying to be alone with you for a -moment.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you shall not die; that is, if being alone with me will save -you.”</p> - -<p>“I have so much to say to you. And if you have any true friendship in -you, you also will have so much to say to me.” Miss Garrow perhaps had -no true friendship in her at that moment, for she would gladly have -avoided saying anything, had that been possible. But in order to prove -that she was not deficient in friendship, she gave her friend her hand.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span></p> - -<p>“And now tell me everything about Godfrey,” said Isabella.</p> - -<p>“Dear Bella, I have nothing to tell;—literally nothing.”</p> - -<p>“That is nonsense. Stop a moment, dear, and understand that I do not -mean to offend you. It cannot be that you have nothing to tell, if you -choose to tell it. You are not the girl to have accepted Godfrey without -loving him, nor is he the man to have asked you without loving you. When -you write me word that you have changed your mind, as you might about a -dress, of course I know you have not told me all. Now I insist upon -knowing it,—that is, if we are to be friends. I would not speak a word -to Godfrey till I had seen you, in order that I might hear your story -first.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, Bella, there is no story to tell.”</p> - -<p>“Then I must ask him.”</p> - -<p>“If you wish to play the part of a true friend to me, you will let the -matter pass by and say nothing. You must understand that, circumstanced -as we are, your brother’s visit here,—what I mean is, that it is very -difficult for me to act and speak exactly as I should do, and a few -unfortunate words spoken may make my position unendurable.”</p> - -<p>“Will you answer me one question?”</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell. I think I will.”</p> - -<p>“Do you love him?” For a moment or two Bessy remained silent, striving -to arrange her words so that they should contain no falsehood, and yet -betray no truth. “Ah, I see you do,” continued Miss Holmes. “But of -course you do. Why else did you accept him?”</p> - -<p>“I fancied that I did, as young ladies do sometimes fancy.”</p> - -<p>“And will you say that you do not, now?” Again Bessy was silent, and -then her friend rose from her seat. “I see it all,” she said. “What a -pity it was that you both had not some friend like me by you at the -time! But perhaps it may not be too late.”</p> - -<p>I need not repeat at length all the protestations which upon this were -poured forth with hot energy by poor Bessy. She endeavoured to explain -how great had been the difficulty of her position. This Christmas visit -had been arranged before that unhappy affair at Liverpool had occurred. -Isabella’s visit had been partly one of business, it being necessary -that certain money affairs should be arranged between her, her brother, -and the Major. “I determined,” said Bessy, “not to let my feelings stand -in the way; and hoped that things might settle down to their former -friendly footing. I already fear that I have been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> wrong, but it will be -ungenerous in you to punish me.” Then she went on to say that if anybody -attempted to interfere with her, she should at once go away to her -mother’s sister, who lived at Hexham, in Northumberland.</p> - -<p>Then came the dance, and the hearts of Kate and Patty Coverdale were at -last happy. But here again poor Bessy was made to understand how -terribly difficult was this experiment of entertaining on a footing of -friendship a lover with whom she had quarrelled only a month or two -before. That she must as a necessity become the partner of Godfrey -Holmes she had already calculated, and so much she was prepared to -endure. Her brothers would of course dance with the Coverdale girls, and -her father would of course stand up with Isabella. There was no other -possible arrangement, at any rate as a beginning. She had schooled -herself, too, as to the way in which she would speak to him on the -occasion, and how she would remain mistress of herself and of her -thoughts. But when the time came the difficulty was almost too much for -her.</p> - -<p>“You do not care much for dancing, if I remember?” said he.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I do. Not as Patty Coverdale does. It’s a passion with her. But -then I am older than Patty Coverdale.” After that he was silent for a -minute or two.</p> - -<p>“It seems so odd to me to be here again,” he said. It was odd;—she felt -that it was odd. But he ought not to have said so.</p> - -<p>“Two years make a great difference. The boys have grown so much.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and there are other things,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Bella was never here before; at least not with you.”</p> - -<p>“No. But I did not exactly mean that. All that would not make the place -so strange. But your mother seems altered to me. She used to be almost -like my own mother.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose she finds that you are a more formidable person as you grow -older. It was all very well scolding you when you were a clerk in the -bank, but it does not do to scold the manager. These are the penalties -men pay for becoming great.”</p> - -<p>“It is not my greatness that stands in my way, but—”</p> - -<p>“Then I’m sure I cannot say what it is. But Patty will scold you if you -do not mind the figure, though you were the whole Board of Directors -packed into one. She won’t respect you if you neglect your present -work.”</p> - -<p>When Bessy went to bed that night she began to feel that she had -attempted too much. “Mamma,” she said, “could I not make some excuse and -go away to Aunt Mary?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span></p> - -<p>“What now?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, mamma; now; to-morrow. I need not say that it will make me very -unhappy to be away at such a time, but I begin to think that it will be -better.”</p> - -<p>“What will papa say?”</p> - -<p>“You must tell him all.”</p> - -<p>“And Aunt Mary must be told also. You would not like that. Has he said -anything?”</p> - -<p>“No, nothing;—very little, that is. But Bella has spoken to me. Oh, -mamma, I think we have been very wrong in this. That is, I have been -wrong. I feel as though I should disgrace myself, and turn the whole -party here into a misfortune.”</p> - -<p>It would be dreadful, that telling of the story to her father and to her -aunt, and such a necessity must, if possible, be avoided. Should such a -necessity actually come, the former task would, no doubt, be done by her -mother, but that would not lighten the load materially. After a -fortnight she would again meet her father, and would be forced to -discuss it. “I will remain if it be possible,” she said; “but, mamma, if -I wish to go, you will not stop me?” Her mother promised that she would -not stop her, but strongly advised her to stand her ground.</p> - -<p>On the following morning, when she came down stairs before breakfast, -she found Frank standing in the hall with his gun, of which he was -trying the lock. “It is not loaded, is it, Frank?” said she.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear, no; no one thinks of loading now-a-days till he has got out of -the house. Directly after breakfast I am going across with Godfrey to -the back of Greystock, to see after some moor-fowl. He asked me to go, -and I couldn’t well refuse.”</p> - -<p>“Of course not. Why should you?”</p> - -<p>“It will be deuced hard work to make up the time. I was to have been up -at four this morning, but that alarum went off and never woke me. -However, I shall be able to do something to-night.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t make a slavery of your holidays, Frank. What’s the good of having -a new gun if you’re not to use it?”</p> - -<p>“It’s not the new gun. I’m not such a child as that comes to. But, you -see, Godfrey is here, and one ought to be civil to him. I’ll tell you -what I want you girls to do, Bessy. You must come and meet us on our way -home. Come over in the boat and along the path to the Patterdale road. -We’ll be there under the hill about five.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span></p> - -<p>“And if you are not, we are to wait in the snow?”</p> - -<p>“Don’t make difficulties, Bessy. I tell you we will be there, We are to -go in the cart, and so shall have plenty of time.”</p> - -<p>“And how do you know the other girls will go?”</p> - -<p>“Why, to tell you the truth, Patty Coverdale has promised. As for Miss -Holmes, if she won’t, why you must leave her at home with mamma. But -Kate and Patty can’t come without you.”</p> - -<p>“Your discretion has found that out, has it?”</p> - -<p>“They say so. But you will come; won’t you, Bessy? As for waiting, it’s -all nonsense. Of course you can walk on. But we’ll be at the stile by -five. I’ve got my watch, you know.” And then Bessy promised him. What -would she not have done for him that was in her power to do?</p> - -<p>“Go! Of course I’ll go,” said Miss Holmes. “I’m up to anything. I’d have -gone with them this morning, and have taken a gun if they’d asked me. -But, by-the-bye, I’d better not.”</p> - -<p>“Why not?” said Patty, who was hardly yet without fear lest something -should mar the expedition.</p> - -<p>“What will three gentlemen do with four ladies?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I forgot,” said Patty innocently.</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I don’t care,” said Kate; “you may have Harry if you like.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you for nothing,” said Miss Holmes. “I want one for myself. It’s -all very well for you to make the offer, but what should I do if Harry -wouldn’t have me? There are two sides, you know, to every bargain.”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure he isn’t anything to me,” said Kate. “Why, he’s not quite -seventeen years old yet!”</p> - -<p>“Poor boy! What a shame to dispose of him so soon. We’ll let him off for -a year or two; won’t we, Miss Coverdale? But as there seems by -acknowledgment to be one beau with unappropriated services——”</p> - -<p>“I’m sure I have appropriated nobody,” said Patty; “and didn’t intend.”</p> - -<p>“Godfrey, then, is the only knight whose services are claimed,” said -Miss Holmes, looking at Bessy. Bessy made no immediate answer with -either her eyes or tongue; but when the Coverdales were gone, she took -her new friend to task.</p> - -<p>“How can you fill those young girls heads with such nonsense?”</p> - -<p>“Nature has done that, my dear.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span></p> - -<p>“But nature should be trained; should it not? You will make them think -that those foolish boys are in love with them.”</p> - -<p>“The foolish boys, as you call them, will look after that themselves. It -seems to me that the foolish boys know what they are about better than -some of their elders.” And then, after a moment’s pause, she added, “As -for my brother, I have no patience with him.”</p> - -<p>“Pray do not discuss your brother,” said Bessy. “And, Bella, unless you -wish to drive me away, pray do not speak of him and me together as you -did just now.”</p> - -<p>“Are you so bad as that,—that the slightest commonplace joke upsets -you? Would not his services be due to you as a matter of course? If you -are so sore about it, you will betray your own secret.”</p> - -<p>“I have no secret,—none at least from you, or from mamma; and, indeed, -none from him. We were both very foolish, thinking that we knew each -other and our own hearts, when we knew neither.”</p> - -<p>“I hate to hear people talk of knowing their hearts. My idea is, that if -you like a young man, and he asks you to marry him, you ought to have -him. That is, if there is enough to live on. I don’t know what more is -wanted. But girls are getting to talk and think as though they were to -send their hearts through some fiery furnace of trial before they may -give them up to a husband’s keeping. I am not at all sure that the -French fashion is not the best, and that these things shouldn’t be -managed by the fathers and mothers, or perhaps by the family lawyers. -Girls who are so intent upon knowing their own hearts generally end by -knowing nobody’s heart but their own; and then they die old maids.”</p> - -<p>“Better that than give themselves to the keeping of those they don’t -know and cannot esteem.”</p> - -<p>“That’s a matter of taste. I mean to take the first that comes, so long -as he looks like a gentleman, and has not less than eight hundred a -year. Now Godfrey does look like a gentleman, and has double that. If I -had such a chance I shouldn’t think twice about it.”</p> - -<p>“But I have no such chance.”</p> - -<p>“That’s the way the wind blows; is it?”</p> - -<p>“No, no. Oh, Bella, pray, pray leave me alone. Pray do not interfere. -There is no wind blowing in any way. All that I want is your silence and -your sympathy.”</p> - -<p>“Very well. I will be silent and sympathetic as the grave.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> Only don’t -imagine that I am cold as the grave also. I don’t exactly appreciate -your ideas; but if I can do no good, I will at any rate endeavour to do -no harm.”</p> - -<p>After lunch, at about three, they started on their walk, and managed to -ferry themselves over the river. “Oh, do let me, Bessy,” said Kate -Coverdale. “I understand all about it. Look here, Miss Holmes. You pull -the chain through your hands——”</p> - -<p>“And inevitably tear your gloves to pieces,” said Miss Holmes. Kate -certainly had done so, and did not seem to be particularly well pleased -with the accident. “There’s a nasty nail in the chain,” she said. “I -wonder those stupid boys did not tell us.”</p> - -<p>Of course they reached the trysting-place much too soon, and were very -tired of walking up and down, to keep their feet warm, before the -sportsmen came up. But this was their own fault, seeing that they had -reached the stile half an hour before the time fixed.</p> - -<p>“I never will go anywhere to meet gentlemen again,” said Miss Holmes. -“It is most preposterous that ladies should be left in the snow for an -hour. Well, young men, what sport have you had?”</p> - -<p>“I shot the big black cock,” said Harry.</p> - -<p>“Did you indeed?” said Kate Coverdale.</p> - -<p>“And here are the feathers out of his tail for you. He dropped them in -the water, and I had to go in after them up to my middle. But I told you -that I would, so I was determined to get them.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you silly, silly boy,” said Kate. “But I’ll keep them for ever. I -will indeed.” This was said a little apart, for Harry had managed to -draw the young lady aside before he presented the feathers.</p> - -<p>Frank had also his trophies for Patty, and the tale to tell of his own -prowess. In that he was a year older than his brother, he was by a -year’s growth less ready to tender his present to his lady-love, openly -in the presence of them all. But he found his opportunity, and then he -and Patty went on a little in advance. Kate also was deep in her -consolations to Harry for his ducking; and therefore the four disposed -of themselves in the manner previously suggested by Miss Holmes. Miss -Holmes, therefore, and her brother, and Bessy Garrow, were left together -in the path, and discussed the performances of the day in a manner that -elicited no very ecstatic interest. So they walked for a mile, and by -degrees the conversation between them dwindled down almost to nothing.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span></p> - -<p>“There is nothing I dislike so much as coming out with people younger -than myself,” said Miss Holmes. “One always feels so old and dull. -Listen to those children there; they make me feel as though I were an -old maiden aunt, brought out with them to do propriety.”</p> - -<p>“Patty won’t at all approve if she hears you call her a child.”</p> - -<p>“Nor shall I approve, if she treats me like an old woman,” and then she -stepped on and joined the children. “I wouldn’t spoil even their sport -if I could help it,” she said to herself. “But with them I shall only be -a temporary nuisance; if I remain behind I shall become a permanent -evil.” And thus Bessy and her old lover were left by themselves.</p> - -<p>“I hope you will get on well with Bella,” said Godfrey, when they had -remained silent for a minute or two.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes. She is so good-natured and light-spirited that everybody must -like her. She has been used to so much amusement and active life, that I -know she must find it very dull here.”</p> - -<p>“She is never dull anywhere,—even at Liverpool, which, for a young -lady, I sometimes think the dullest place on earth. I know it is for a -man.”</p> - -<p>“A man who has work to do can never be dull; can he?”</p> - -<p>“Indeed he can; as dull as death. I am so often enough. I have never -been very bright there, Bessy, since you left us.” There was nothing in -his calling her Bessy, for it had become a habit with him since they -were children; and they had formerly agreed that everything between them -should be as it had been before that foolish whisper of love had been -spoken and received. Indeed, provision had been made by them specially -on this point, so that there need be no awkwardness in this mode of -addressing each other. Such provision had seemed to be very prudent, but -it hardly had the desired effect on the present occasion.</p> - -<p>“I hardly know what you mean by brightness,” she said, after a pause. -“Perhaps it is not intended that people’s lives should be what you call -bright.”</p> - -<p>“Life ought to be as bright as we can make it.”</p> - -<p>“It all depends on the meaning of the word. I suppose we are not very -bright here at Thwaite Hall, but yet we think ourselves very happy.”</p> - -<p>“I am sure you are,” said Godfrey. “I very often think of you here.”</p> - -<p>“We always think of places where we have been when we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> were young,” said -Bessy; and then again they walked on for some way in silence, and Bessy -began to increase her pace with the view of catching the children. The -present walk to her was anything but bright, and she bethought herself -with dismay that there were still two miles before she reached the -Ferry.</p> - -<p>“Bessy,” Godfrey said at last. And then he stopped as though he were -doubtful how to proceed. She, however, did not say a word, but walked on -quickly, as though her only hope was in catching the party before her. -But they also were walking quickly, for Bella was determined that she -would not be caught.</p> - -<p>“Bessy, I must speak to you once of what passed between us at -Liverpool.”</p> - -<p>“Must you?” said she.</p> - -<p>“Unless you positively forbid it.”</p> - -<p>“Stop, Godfrey,” she said. And they did stop in the path, for now she no -longer thought of putting an end to her embarrassment by overtaking her -companions. “If any such words are necessary for your comfort, it would -hardly become me to forbid them. Were I to speak so harshly you would -accuse me afterwards in your own heart. It must be for you to judge -whether it is well to reopen a wound that is nearly healed.”</p> - -<p>“But with me it is not nearly healed. The wound is open always.”</p> - -<p>“There are some hurts,” she said, “which do not admit of an absolute and -perfect cure, unless after long years.” As she said so, she could not -but think how much better was his chance of such perfect cure than her -own. With her,—so she said to herself,—such curing was all but -impossible; whereas with him, it was as impossible that the injury -should last.</p> - -<p>“Bessy,” he said, and he again stopped her on the narrow path, standing -immediately before her on the way, “you remember all the circumstances -that made us part?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I think I remember them.”</p> - -<p>“And you still think that we were right to part?”</p> - -<p>She paused for a moment before she answered him; but it was only for a -moment, and then she spoke quite firmly. “Yes, Godfrey, I do; I have -thought about it much since then. I have thought, I fear, to no good -purpose about aught else. But I have never thought that we had been -unwise in that.”</p> - -<p>“And yet I think you loved me.”</p> - -<p>“I am bound to confess I did so, as otherwise I must confess myself a -liar. I told you at the time that I loved you, and I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span> told you so truly. -But it is better, ten times better, that those who love should part, -even though they still should love, than that two should be joined -together who are incapable of making each other happy. Remember what you -told me.”</p> - -<p>“I do remember.”</p> - -<p>“You found yourself unhappy in your engagement, and you said it was my -fault.”</p> - -<p>“Bessy, there is my hand. If you have ceased to love me, there is an end -of it. But if you love me still, let all that be forgotten.”</p> - -<p>“Forgotten, Godfrey! How can it be forgotten? You were unhappy, and it -was my fault. My fault, as it would be if I tried to solace a sick child -with arithmetic, or feed a dog with grass. I had no right to love you, -knowing you as I did; and knowing also that my ways would not be your -ways. My punishment I understand, and it is not more than I can bear; -but I had hoped that your punishment would have been soon over.”</p> - -<p>“You are too proud, Bessy.”</p> - -<p>“That is very likely. Frank says that I am a Puritan, and pride was the -worst of their sins.”</p> - -<p>“Too proud and unbending. In marriage should not the man and woman adapt -themselves to each other?”</p> - -<p>“When they are married, yes. And every girl who thinks of marrying -should know that in very much she must adapt herself to her husband. But -I do not think that a woman should be the ivy, to take the direction of -every branch of the tree to which she clings. If she does so, what can -be her own character? But we must go on, or we shall be too late.”</p> - -<p>“And you will give me no other answer?”</p> - -<p>“None other, Godfrey. Have you not just now, at this very moment, told -me that I was too proud? Can it be possible that you should wish to tie -yourself for life to female pride? And if you tell me that now, at such -a moment as this, what would you tell me in the close intimacy of -married life, when the trifles of every day would have worn away the -courtesies of guest and lover?”</p> - -<p>There was a sharpness of rebuke in this which Godfrey Holmes could not -at the moment overcome. Nevertheless he knew the girl, and understood -the workings of her heart and mind. Now, in her present state, she could -be unbending, proud, and almost rough. In that she had much to lose in -declining the renewed offer which he made her, she would, as it were, -continually<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span> prompt herself to be harsh and inflexible. Had he been -poor, had she not loved him, had not all good things seemed to have -attended the promise of such a marriage, she would have been less -suspicious of herself in receiving the offer, and more gracious in -replying to it. Had he lost all his money before he came back to her, -she would have taken him at once; or had he been deprived of an eye, or -become crippled in his legs, she would have done so. But, circumstanced -as he was, she had no motive to tenderness. There was an organic defect -in her character, which no doubt was plainly marked by its own bump in -her cranium,—the bump of philomartyrdom, it might properly be called. -She had shipwrecked her own happiness in rejecting Godfrey Holmes; but -it seemed to her to be the proper thing that a well-behaved young lady -should shipwreck her own happiness. For the last month or two she had -been tossed about by the waters and was nearly drowned. Now there was -beautiful land again close to her, and a strong pleasant hand stretched -out to save her. But though she had suffered terribly among the waves, -she still thought it wrong to be saved. It would be so pleasant to take -that hand, so sweet, so joyous, that it surely must be wrong. That was -her doctrine; and Godfrey Holmes, though he hardly analysed the matter, -partly understood that it was so. And yet, if once she were landed on -that green island, she would be so happy. She spoke with scorn of a -woman clinging to a tree like ivy; and yet, were she once married, no -woman would cling to her husband with sweeter feminine tenacity than -Bessy Garrow. He spoke no further word to her as he walked home, but in -handing her down to the ferry-boat he pressed her hand. For a second it -seemed as though she had returned this pressure. If so, the action was -involuntary, and her hand instantly resumed its stiffness to his touch.</p> - -<p>It was late that night when Major Garrow went to his bed-room, but his -wife was still up, waiting for him. “Well,” said she, “what has he said -to you? He has been with you above an hour.”</p> - -<p>“Such stories are not very quickly told; and in this case it was -necessary to understand him very accurately. At length I think I do -understand him.”</p> - -<p>It is not necessary to repeat at length all that was said on that night -between Major and Mrs. Garrow, as to the offer which had now for a third -time been made to their daughter. On that evening, after the ladies had -gone, and when the two boys had taken themselves off, Godfrey Holmes -told his tale to his host, and had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> honestly explained to him what he -believed to be the state of his daughter’s feelings. “Now you know all,” -said he. “I do believe that she loves me, and if she does, perhaps she -may still listen to you.” Major Garrow did not feel sure that he “knew -it all.” But when he had fully discussed the matter that night with his -wife, then he thought that perhaps he had arrived at that knowledge.</p> - -<p>On the following morning Bessy learned from the maid, at an early hour, -that Godfrey Holmes had left Thwaite Hall and gone back to Liverpool. To -the girl she said nothing on the subject, but she felt obliged to say a -word or two to Bella. “It is his coming that I regret,” she said;—“that -he should have had the trouble and annoyance for nothing. I acknowledge -that it was my fault, and I am very sorry.”</p> - -<p>“It cannot be helped,” said Miss Holmes, somewhat gravely. “As to his -misfortunes, I presume that his journeys between here and Liverpool are -not the worst of them.”</p> - -<p>After breakfast on that day Bessy was summoned into her father’s -book-room, and found him there, and her mother also. “Bessy,” said he, -“sit down, my dear. You know why Godfrey has left us this morning?”</p> - -<p>Bessy walked round the room, so that in sitting she might be close to -her mother and take her mother’s hand in her own. “I suppose I do, -papa,” she said.</p> - -<p>“He was with me late last night, Bessy; and when he told me what had -passed between you I agreed with him that he had better go.”</p> - -<p>“It was better that he should go, papa.”</p> - -<p>“But he has left a message for you.”</p> - -<p>“A message, papa?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Bessy. And your mother agrees with me that it had better be given -to you. It is this,—that if you will send him word to come again, he -will be here by Twelfth-night. He came before on my invitation, but if -he returns it must be on yours.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, papa, I cannot.”</p> - -<p>“I do not say that you can, but think of it calmly before you altogether -refuse. You shall give me your answer on New Year’s morning.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma knows that it would be impossible,” said Bessy.</p> - -<p>“Not impossible, dearest.</p> - -<p>“In such a matter you should do what you believe to be right,” said her -father.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span></p> - -<p>“If I were to ask him here again, it would be telling him that I -would——”</p> - -<p>“Exactly, Bessy. It would be telling him that you would be his wife. He -would understand it so, and so would your mother and I. It must be so -understood altogether.”</p> - -<p>“But, papa, when we were at Liverpool——”</p> - -<p>“I have told him everything, dearest,” said Mrs. Garrow.</p> - -<p>“I think I understand the whole,” said the Major; “and in such a matter -as this I will not give you counsel on either side. But you must -remember that in making up your mind, you must think of him as well as -of yourself. If you do not love him;—if you feel that as his wife you -should not love him, there is not another word to be said. I need not -explain to my daughter that under such circumstances she would be wrong -to encourage the visits of a suitor. But your mother says you do love -him.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma!”</p> - -<p>“I will not ask you. But if you do;—if you have so told him, and -allowed him to build up an idea of his life-happiness on such telling, -you will, I think, sin greatly against him by allowing a false feminine -pride to mar his happiness. When once a girl has confessed to a man that -she loves him, the confession and the love together put upon her the -burden of a duty towards him, which she cannot with impunity throw -aside.” Then he kissed her, and bidding her give him a reply on the -morning of the new year, left her with her mother.</p> - -<p>She had four days for consideration, and they went past her by no means -easily. Could she have been alone with her mother, the struggle would -not have been so painful; but there was the necessity that she should -talk to Isabella Holmes, and the necessity also that she should not -neglect the Coverdales. Nothing could have been kinder than Bella. She -did not speak on the subject till the morning of the last day, and then -only in a very few words. “Bessy,” she said, “as you are great, be -merciful.”</p> - -<p>“But I am not great, and it would not be mercy.”</p> - -<p>“As to that,” said Bella, “he has surely a right to his own opinion.”</p> - -<p>On that evening she was sitting alone in her room when her mother came -to her, and her eyes were red with weeping. Pen and paper were before -her, as though she were resolved to write, but hitherto no word had been -written.</p> - -<p>“Well, Bessy,” said her mother, sitting down close beside her; “is the -deed done?”</p> - -<p>“What deed, mamma? Who says that I am to do it?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span></p> - -<p>“The deed is not the writing, but the resolution to write. Five words -will be sufficient,—if only those five words may be written.”</p> - -<p>“It is for one’s whole life, mamma. For his life, as well as my own.”</p> - -<p>“True, Bessy;—that is quite true. But equally true whether you bid him -come or allow him to remain away. That task of making up one’s mind for -life, must at last be done in some special moment of that life.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, mamma; tell me what I should do.”</p> - -<p>But this Mrs. Garrow would not do. “I will write the words for you if -you like,” she said, “but it is you who must resolve that they shall be -written. I cannot bid my darling go away and leave me for another -home;—I can only say that in my heart I do believe that home would be a -happy one.”</p> - -<p>It was morning before the note was written, but when the morning came -Bessy had written it and brought it to her mother.</p> - -<p>“You must take it to papa,” she said. Then she went and hid herself from -all eyes till the noon had passed. “Dear Godfrey,” the letter ran, “Papa -says that you will return on Wednesday if I write to ask you. Do come -back to us,—if you wish it. Yours always, <span style="margin-left: 4em;"> <span class="smcap">Bessy</span>.”</span></p> - -<p>“It is as good as though she had filled the sheet,” said the Major. But -in sending it to Godfrey Holmes, he did not omit a few accompanying -remarks of his own.</p> - -<p>An answer came from Godfrey by return of post; and on the afternoon of -the sixth of January, Frank Garrow drove over to the station at Penrith -to meet him. On their way back to Thwaite Hall there grew up a very -close confidence between the two future brothers-in-law, and Frank -explained with great perspicuity a little plan which he had arranged -himself. “As soon as it is dark, so that she won’t see it, Harry will -hang it up in the dining-room,” he said, “and mind you go in there -before you go anywhere else.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad you have come back, Godfrey,” said the Major, meeting -him in the hall.</p> - -<p>“God bless you, dear Godfrey,” said Mrs. Garrow, “you will find Bessy in -the dining-room,” she whispered; but in so whispering she was quite -unconscious of the mistletoe bough.</p> - -<p>And so also was Bessy, nor do I think that she was much more conscious -when that introduction was over. Godfrey had made all manner of promises -to Frank, but when the moment arrived, he had found the moment too -important for any special<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> reference to the little bough above his head. -Not so, however, Patty Coverdale. “It’s a shame,” said she, bursting out -of the room, “and if I’d known what you had done, nothing on earth -should have induced me to go in. I won’t enter the room till I know that -you have taken it out.” Nevertheless her sister Kate was bold enough to -solve the mystery before the evening was over.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="RETURNING_HOME" id="RETURNING_HOME"></a>RETURNING HOME.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is generally supposed that people who live at home,—good domestic -people, who love tea and their arm-chairs, and who keep the parlour -hearth-rug ever warm,—it is generally supposed that these are the -people who value home the most, and best appreciate all the comforts of -that cherished institution. I am inclined to doubt this. It is, I think, -to those who live farthest away from home, to those who find the -greatest difficulty in visiting home, that the word conveys the sweetest -idea. In some distant parts of the world it may be that an Englishman -acknowledges his permanent resting place; but there are many others in -which he will not call his daily house, his home. He would, in his own -idea, desecrate the word by doing so. His home is across the blue -waters, in the little northern island, which perhaps he may visit no -more; which he has left, at any rate, for half his life; from which -circumstances, and the necessity of living, have banished him. His home -is still in England, and when he speaks of home his thoughts are there.</p> - -<p>No one can understand the intensity of this feeling who has not seen or -felt the absence of interest in life which falls to the lot of many who -have to eat their bread on distant soils. We are all apt to think that a -life in strange countries will be a life of excitement, of stirring -enterprise, and varied scenes;—that in abandoning the comforts of home, -we shall receive in exchange more of movement and of adventure than -would come in our way in our own tame country; and this feeling has, I -am sure, sent many a young man roaming. Take any spirited fellow of -twenty, and ask him whether he would like to go to Mexico for the next -ten years! Prudence and his father may ultimately save him from such -banishment, but he will not refuse without a pang of regret.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span></p> - -<p>Alas! it is a mistake. Bread may be earned, and fortunes, perhaps, made -in such countries; and as it is the destiny of our race to spread itself -over the wide face of the globe, it is well that there should be -something to gild and paint the outward face of that lot which so many -are called upon to choose. But for a life of daily excitement, there is -no life like life in England; and the farther that one goes from England -the more stagnant, I think, do the waters of existence become.</p> - -<p>But if it be so for men, it is ten times more so for women. An -Englishman, if he be at Guatemala or Belize, must work for his bread, -and that work will find him in thought and excitement. But what of his -wife? Where will she find excitement? By what pursuit will she repay -herself for all that she has left behind her at her mother’s fireside? -She will love her husband. Yes; that at least! If there be not that, -there will be a hell, indeed. Then she will nurse her children, and talk -of her—home. When the time shall come that her promised return thither -is within a year or two of its accomplishment, her thoughts will all be -fixed on that coming pleasure, as are the thoughts of a young girl on -her first ball for the fortnight before that event comes off.</p> - -<p>On the central plain of that portion of Central America which is called -Costa Rica stands the city of San José. It is the capital of the -Republic,—for Costa Rica is a Republic,—and, for Central America, is a -town of some importance. It is in the middle of the coffee district, -surrounded by rich soil on which the sugar-cane is produced, is blessed -with a climate only moderately hot, and the native inhabitants are -neither cut-throats nor cannibals. It may be said, therefore, that by -comparison with some other spots to which Englishmen and others are -congregated for the gathering together of money, San José may be -considered as a happy region; but, nevertheless, a life there is not in -every way desirable. It is a dull place, with little to interest either -the eye or the ear. Although the heat of the tropics is but little felt -there on account of its altitude, men and women become too lifeless for -much enterprise. There is no society. There are a few Germans and a few -Englishmen in the place, who see each other on matters of business -during the day; but, sombre as life generally is, they seem to care -little for each other’s company on any other footing. I know not to what -point the aspirations of the Germans may stretch themselves, but to the -English the one idea that gives salt to life is the idea of home. On -some day, however distant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span> it may be, they will once more turn their -faces towards the little northern island, and then all will be well with -them.</p> - -<p>To a certain Englishman there, and to his dear little wife, this -prospect came some few years since somewhat suddenly. Events and -tidings, it matters not which or what, brought it about that they -resolved between themselves that they would start immediately;—almost -immediately. They would pack up and leave San José within four months of -the day on which their purpose was first formed. At San José a period of -only four months for such a purpose was immediately. It creates a -feeling of instant excitement, a necessity for instant doing, a -consciousness that there was in those few weeks ample work both for the -hands and thoughts,—work almost more than ample. The dear little wife, -who for the last two years had been so listless, felt herself flurried.</p> - -<p>“Harry,” she said to her husband, “how shall we ever be ready?” And her -pretty face was lighted up with unusual brightness at the happy thought -of so much haste with such an object. “And baby’s things too,” she said, -as she thought of all the various little articles of dress that would be -needed. A journey from San José to Southampton cannot in truth be made -as easily as one from London to Liverpool. Let us think of a month to be -passed without any aid from the washerwoman, and the greatest part of -that month amidst the sweltering heats of the West Indian tropics!</p> - -<p>In the first month of her hurry and flurry Mrs. Arkwright was a happy -woman. She would see her mother again and her sisters. It was now four -years since she had left them on the quay at Southampton, while all -their hearts were broken at the parting. She was a young bride then, -going forth with her new lord to meet the stern world. He had then been -home to look for a wife, and he had found what he looked for in the -younger sister of his partner. For he, Henry Arkwright, and his wife’s -brother, Abel Ring, had established themselves together in San José. And -now, she thought, how there would be another meeting on those quays at -which there should be no broken hearts; at which there should be love -without sorrow, and kisses, sweet with the sweetness of welcome, not -bitter with the bitterness of parting. And people told her,—the few -neighbours around her,—how happy, how fortunate she was to get home -thus early in her life. They had been out some ten,—some twenty years, -and still the day of their return was distant. And then she pressed her -living baby to her breast, and wiped away<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> a tear as she thought of the -other darling whom she would leave beneath that distant sod.</p> - -<p>And then came the question as to the route home. San José stands in the -middle of the high plain of Costa Rica, half way between the Pacific and -the Atlantic. The journey thence down to the Pacific is, by comparison, -easy. There is a road, and the mules on which the travellers must ride -go steadily and easily down to Punta Arenas, the port on that ocean. -There are inns, too, on the way,—places of public entertainment at -which refreshment may be obtained, and beds, or fair substitutes for -beds. But then by this route the traveller must take a long additional -sea voyage. He must convey himself and his weary baggage down to that -wretched place on the Pacific, there wait for a steamer to take him to -Panamá, cross the isthmus, and reship himself in the other waters for -his long journey home. That terrible unshipping and reshipping is a sore -burden to the unaccustomed traveller. When it is absolutely -necessary,—then indeed it is done without much thought; but in the case -of the Arkwrights it was not absolutely necessary. And there was another -reason which turned Mrs. Arkwright’s heart against that journey by Punt’ -Arenas. The place is unhealthy, having at certain seasons a very bad -name;—and here on their outward journey her husband had been taken ill. -She had never ceased to think of the fortnight she had spent there among -uncouth strangers, during a portion of which his life had trembled in -the balance. Early, therefore, in those four months she begged that she -might not be taken round by Punt’ Arenas. There was another route. -“Harry, if you love me, let me go by the Serapiqui.” As to Harry’s -loving her, there was no doubt about that, as she well knew.</p> - -<p>There was this other route by the Serapiqui river, and by Greytown. -Greytown, it is true, is quite as unhealthy as Punt’ Arenas, and by that -route one’s baggage must be shipped and unshipped into small boats. -There are all manner of difficulties attached to it. Perhaps no direct -road to and from any city on the world’s surface is subject to sharper -fatigue while it lasts. Journeying by this route also, the traveller -leaves San José mounted on his mule, and so mounted he makes his way -through the vast primeval forests down to the banks of the Serapiqui -river. That there is a track for him is of course true; but it is simply -a track, and during nine months of the twelve is so deep in mud that the -mules sink in it to their bellies. Then, when the river has been -reached, the traveller seats him in his canoe, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> for two days is -paddled down,—down along the Serapiqui, into the San Juan River, and -down along the San Juan till he reaches Greytown, passing one night at -some hut on the river side. At Greytown he waits for the steamer which -will carry him his first stage on his road towards Southampton. He must -be a connoisseur in disagreeables of every kind who can say with any -precision whether Greytown or Punt’ Arenas is the better place for a -week’s sojourn.</p> - -<p>For a full month Mr. Arkwright would not give way to his wife. At first -he all but conquered her by declaring that the Serapiqui journey would -be dangerous for the baby; but she heard from some one that it could be -made less fatiguing for the baby than the other route. A baby had been -carried down in a litter strapped on to a mule’s back. A guide at the -mule’s head would be necessary, and that was all. When once in her boat -the baby would be as well as in her cradle. What purpose cannot a woman -gain by perseverance? Her purpose in this instance Mrs. Arkwright did at -last gain by persevering.</p> - -<p>And then their preparations for the journey went on with much flurrying -and hot haste. To us at home, who live and feel our life every day, the -manufacture of endless baby-linen and the packing of mountains of -clothes does not give an idea of much pleasurable excitement; but at San -José, where there was scarcely motion enough in existence to prevent its -waters from becoming foul with stagnation, this packing of baby-linen -was delightful, and for a month or so the days went by with happy wings.</p> - -<p>But by degrees reports began to reach both Arkwright and his wife as to -this new route, which made them uneasy. The wet season had been -prolonged, and even though they might not be deluged by rain themselves, -the path would be in such a state of mud as to render the labour -incessant. One or two people declared that the road was unfit at any -time for a woman,—and then the river would be much swollen. These -tidings did not reach Arkwright and his wife together, or at any rate -not till late amidst their preparations, or a change might still have -been made. As it was, after all her entreaties, Mrs. Arkwright did not -like to ask him again to alter his plans; and he, having altered them -once, was averse to change them again. So things went on till the mules -and the boats had been hired, and things had gone so far that no change -could then be made without much cost and trouble.</p> - -<p>During the last ten days of their sojourn at San José, Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span> Arkwright -had lost all that appearance of joy which had cheered up her sweet face -during the last few months. Terror at that terrible journey obliterated -in her mind all the happiness which had arisen from the hope of being -soon at home. She was thoroughly cowed by the danger to be encountered, -and would gladly have gone down to Punt’ Arenas, had it been now -possible that she could so arrange it. It rained, and rained, and still -rained, when there was now only a week from the time they started. Oh! -if they could only wait for another month! But this she said to no one. -After what had passed between her and her husband, she had not the heart -to say such words to him. Arkwright himself was a man not given to much -talking, a silent thoughtful man, stern withal in his outward bearing, -but tender-hearted and loving in his nature. The sweet young wife who -had left all, and come with him out to that dull distant place, was very -dear to him,—dearer than she herself was aware, and in these days he -was thinking much of her coming troubles. Why had he given way to her -foolish prayers? Ah, why indeed?</p> - -<p>And thus the last few days of their sojourn in San José passed away from -them. Once or twice during these days she did speak out, expressing her -fears. Her feelings were too much for her, and she could not restrain -herself. “Poor mamma,” she said, “I shall never see her!” And then -again, “Harry, I know I shall never reach home alive.”</p> - -<p>“Fanny, my darling, that is nonsense.” But in order that his spoken word -might not sound stern to her, he took her in his arms and kissed her.</p> - -<p>“You must behave well, Fanny,” he said to her the day before they -started. Though her heart was then very low within her, she promised him -that she would do her best, and then she made a great resolution. Though -she should be dying on the road, she would not complain beyond the -absolute necessity of her nature. She fully recognised his thoughtful -tender kindness, for though he thus cautioned her, he never told her -that the dangers which she feared were the result of her own choice. He -never threw in her teeth those prayers which she had made, in yielding -to which he knew that he had been weak.</p> - -<p>Then came the morning of their departure. The party of travellers -consisted of four besides the baby. There was Mr. Arkwright, his wife, -and an English nurse, who was going to England with them, and her -brother, Abel King, who was to accompany them as far as the Serapiqui -River. When they had reached that, the real labour of the journey would -be over.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span> They had eight mules; four for the four travellers, one for -the baby, a spare mule laden simply with blankets, so that Mrs. -Arkwright might change in order that she should not be fatigued by the -fatigue of her beast, and two for their luggage. The heavier portion of -their baggage had already been sent off by Punt’ Arenas, and would meet -them at the other side of the Isthmus of Panamá.</p> - -<p>For the last four days the rain had ceased,—had ceased at any rate at -San José. Those who knew the country well, would know that it might -still be raining over those vast forests; but now as the matter was -settled, they would hope for the best. On that morning on which they -started the sun shone fairly, and they accepted this as an omen of good. -Baby seemed to lay comfortably on her pile of blankets on the mule’s -back, and the face of the tall Indian guide who took his place at that -mule’s head pleased the anxious mother.</p> - -<p>“Not leave him ever,” he said in Spanish, laying his hand on the cord -which was fastened to the beast’s head; and not for one moment did he -leave his charge, though the labour of sticking close to him was very -great.</p> - -<p>They had four attendants or guides, all of whom made the journey on -foot. That they were all men of mixed race was probable; but three of -them would have been called Spaniards, Spaniards, that is, of Costa -Rica, and the other would be called an Indian. One of the Spaniards was -the leader, or chief man of the party, but the others seemed to stand on -an equal footing with each other; and indeed the place of greatest care -had been given to the Indian.</p> - -<p>For the first four or five miles their route lay along the high road -which leads from San José to Punt’ Arenas, and so far a group of -acquaintances followed them, all mounted on mules. Here, where the ways -forked, their road leading through the great forests to the Atlantic, -they separated, and many tears were shed on each side. What might be the -future life of the Arkwrights had not been absolutely fixed, but there -was a strong hope on their part that they might never be forced to -return to Costa Rica. Those from whom they now parted had not seemed to -be dear to them in any especial degree while they all lived together in -the same small town, seeing each other day by day; but now,—now that -they might never meet again, a certain love sprang up for the old -familiar faces, and women kissed each other who hitherto had hardly -cared to enter each other’s houses.</p> - -<p>And then the party of the Arkwrights again started, and its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> steady work -began. In the whole of the first day the way beneath their feet was -tolerably good, and the weather continued fine. It was one long gradual -ascent from the plain where the roads parted, but there was no real -labour in travelling. Mrs. Arkwright rode beside her baby’s mule, at the -head of which the Indian always walked, and the two men went together in -front. The husband had found that his wife would prefer this, as long as -the road allowed of such an arrangement. Her heart was too full to admit -of much speaking, and so they went on in silence.</p> - -<p>The first night was passed in a hut by the roadside, which seemed to be -deserted,—a hut or rancho as it is called in that country. Their food -they had, of course, brought with them; and here, by common consent, -they endeavoured in some sort to make themselves merry.</p> - -<p>“Fanny,” Arkwright said to her, “it is not so bad after all; eh, my -darling?”</p> - -<p>“No,” she answered; “only that the mule tires one so. Will all the days -be as long as that?”</p> - -<p>He had not the heart to tell her that as regarded hours of work, that -first day must of necessity be the shortest. They had risen to a -considerable altitude, and the night was very cold; but baby was -enveloped among a pile of coloured blankets, and things did not go very -badly with them; only this, that when Fanny Arkwright rose from her hard -bed, her limbs were more weary and much more stiff than they had been -when Arkwright had lifted her from her mule.</p> - -<p>On the second morning they mounted before the day had quite broken, in -order that they might breakfast on the summit of the ridge which -separates the two oceans. At this spot the good road comes to an end, -and the forest track begins; and here also, they would, in truth, enter -the forest, though their path had for some time been among straggling -trees and bushes. And now, again, they rode two and two, up to this -place of halting, Arkwright and Ring well knowing that from hence their -labours would in truth commence.</p> - -<p>Poor Mrs. Arkwright, when she reached this resting-place, would fain -have remained there for the rest of the day. One word, in her low, -plaintive voice, she said, asking whether they might not sleep in the -large shed which stands there. But this was manifestly impossible. At -such a pace they would never reach Greytown; and she spoke no further -word when he told her that they must go on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span></p> - -<p>At about noon that day the file of travellers formed itself into the -line which it afterwards kept during the whole of the journey, and then -started by the narrow-path into the forest. First walked the leader of -the guides, then another man following him; Abel Ring came next, and -behind him the maid-servant; then the baby’s mule, with the Indian ever -at its head; close at his heels followed Mrs. Arkwright, so that the -mother’s eye might be always on her child; and after her her husband; -then another guide on foot completed the number of the travellers. In -this way they went on and on, day after day, till they reached the banks -of the Serapiqui, never once varying their places in the procession. As -they started in the morning, so they went on, till their noon-day’s -rest, and so again they made their evening march. In that journey there -was no idea of variety, no searching after the pleasures of scenery, no -attempts at conversation with any object of interest or amusement. What -words were spoken were those simply needful, or produced by sympathy for -suffering. So they journeyed, always in the same places, with one -exception. They began their work with two guides leading them, but -before the first day was over one of them had fallen back to the side of -Mrs. Arkwright, for she was unable to sit on her mule without support.</p> - -<p>Their daily work was divided into two stages, so as to give some hours -for rest in the middle of the day. It had been arranged that the -distance for each day should not be long,—should be very short as was -thought by them all when they talked it over at San José; but now the -hours which they passed in the saddle seemed to be endless. Their -descent began from that ridge of which I have spoken, and they had no -sooner turned their faces down upon the mountain slopes looking towards -the Atlantic, than that passage of mud began to which there was no -cessation till they found themselves on the banks of the Serapiqui -river. I doubt whether it be possible to convey in words an adequate -idea of the labour of riding over such a path. It is not that any active -exertion is necessary,—that there is anything which requires doing. The -traveller has before him the simple task of sitting on his mule from -hour to hour, and of seeing that his knees do not get themselves jammed -against the trees; but at every step the beast he rides has to drag his -legs out from the deep clinging mud, and the body of the rider never -knows one moment of ease. Why the mules do not die on the road, I cannot -say. They live through it, and do not appear to suffer. They have their -own way in everything, for no exertion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> on the rider’s part will make -them walk either faster or slower than is their wont.</p> - -<p>On the day on which they entered the forest,—that being the second of -their journey,—Mrs. Arkwright had asked for mercy, for permission to -escape that second stage. On the next she allowed herself to be lifted -into her saddle after her mid-day rest without a word. She had tried to -sleep, but in vain; and had sat within a little hut, looking out upon -the desolate scene before her, with her baby in her lap. She had this -one comfort, that of all the travellers, she, the baby, suffered the -least. They had now left the high grounds, and the heat was becoming -great, though not as yet intense. And then, the Indian guide, looking -out slowly over the forest, saw that the rain was not yet over. He spoke -a word or two to one of his companions in a low voice and in a patois -which Mrs. Arkwright did not understand, and then going after the -husband, told him that the heavens were threatening.</p> - -<p>“We have only two leagues,” said Arkwright, “and it may perhaps hold -up.”</p> - -<p>“It will begin in an hour,” said the Indian, “and the two leagues are -four hours.”</p> - -<p>“And to-morrow,” asked Arkwright.</p> - -<p>“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow it will still rain,” said the -guide, looking as he spoke up over the huge primeval forest.</p> - -<p>“Then we had better start at once,” said Arkwright, “before the first -falling drops frighten the women.” So the mules were brought out, and he -lifted his uncomplaining wife on to the blankets which formed her -pillion. The file again formed itself, and slowly they wound their way -out from the small enclosure by which the hut was surrounded;—out from -the enclosure on to a rough scrap of undrained pasture ground from which -the trees had been cleared. In a few minutes they were once more -struggling through the mud.</p> - -<p>The name of the spot which our travellers had just left is Carablanco. -There they found a woman living all alone. Her husband was away, she -told them, at San José, but would be back to her when the dry weather -came, to look up the young cattle which were straying in the forest. -What a life for a woman! Nevertheless, in talking with Mrs. Arkwright -she made no complaint of her own lot, but had done what little she could -to comfort the poor lady who was so little able to bear the fatigues of -her journey.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span></p> - -<p>“Is the road very bad?” Mrs. Arkwright asked her in a whisper.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes; it is a bad road.”</p> - -<p>“And when shall we be at the river?”</p> - -<p>“It took me four days,” said the woman.</p> - -<p>“Then I shall never see my mother again,” and as she spoke Mrs. -Arkwright pressed her baby to her bosom. Immediately after that her -husband came in, and they started.</p> - -<p>Their path now led away across the slope of a mountain which seemed to -fall from the very top of that central ridge in an unbroken descent down -to the valley at its foot. Hitherto, since they had entered the forest, -they had had nothing before their eyes but the trees and bushes which -grew close around them. But now a prospect of unrivalled grandeur was -opened before them, if only had they been able to enjoy it. At the -bottom of the valley ran a river, which, so great was the depth, looked -like a moving silver cord; and on the other side of this there arose -another mountain, steep but unbroken like that which they were -passing,—unbroken, so that the eye could stretch from the river up to -the very summit. Not a spot on that mountain side or on their side -either was left uncovered by thick forest, which had stood there -untouched by man since nature first produced it.</p> - -<p>But all this was nothing to our travellers, nor was the clang of the -macaws anything, or the roaring of the little congo ape. Nothing was -gained by them from beautiful scenery, nor was there any fear from the -beasts of prey. The immediate pain of each step of the journey drove all -other feelings from them, and their thoughts were bounded by an intense -desire for the evening halt.</p> - -<p>And then, as the guide had prophesied, the rain began. At first it came -in such small soft drops that it was found to be refreshing, but the -clouds soon gathered and poured forth their collected waters as though -it had not rained for months among those mountains. Not that it came in -big drops, or with the violence which wind can give it, beating hither -and thither, breaking branches from the trees, and rising up again as it -pattered against the ground. There was no violence in the rain. It fell -softly in a long, continuous, noiseless stream, sinking into everything -that it touched, converting the deep rich earth on all sides into mud.</p> - -<p>Not a word was said by any of them as it came on. The Indian covered the -baby with her blanket, closer than she was covered before, and the guide -who walked by Mrs. Arkwright’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> side drew her cloak around her knees. -But such efforts were in vain. There is a rain that will penetrate -everything, and such was the rain which fell upon them now. -Nevertheless, as I have said, hardly a word was spoken. The poor woman, -finding that the heat of her cloak increased her sufferings, threw it -open again.</p> - -<p>“Fanny,” said her husband, “you had better let him protect you as well -as he can.”</p> - -<p>She answered him merely by an impatient wave of her hand, intending to -signify that she could not speak, but that in this matter she must have -her way.</p> - -<p>After that her husband made no further attempt to control her. He could -see, however, that ever and again she would have slipped forward from -her mule, and fallen, had not the man by her side steadied her with his -hand. At every tree he protected her knees and feet, though there was -hardly room for him to move between the beast and the bank against which -he was thrust.</p> - -<p>And then, at last, that day’s work was also over, and Fanny Arkwright -slipped from her pillion down into her husband’s arms at the door of -another rancho in the forest. Here there lived a large family adding -from year to year to the patch of ground which they had rescued from the -wood, and valiantly doing their part in the extension of civilisation. -Our party was but a few steps from the door when they left their mules, -but Mrs. Arkwright did not now as heretofore hasten to receive her baby -in her arms. When placed upon the ground, she still leaned against the -mule, and her husband saw that he must carry her into the hut. This he -did, and then, wet, mud-laden, dishevelled as she was, she laid herself -down upon the planks that were to form her bed, and there stretched out -her arms for her infant. On that evening they undressed and tended her -like a child; and then when she was alone with her husband, she repeated -to him her sad foreboding.</p> - -<p>“Harry,” she said, “I shall never see my mother again.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, Fanny, you will see her and talk over all these troubles with -pleasure. It is very bad, I know; but we shall live through it yet.”</p> - -<p>“You will, of course; and you will take baby home to her.”</p> - -<p>“And face her without you! No, my darling. Three more days’ riding, or -rather two and a half, will bring us to the river, and then your trouble -will be over. All will be easy after that.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span></p> - -<p>“Ah, Harry, you do not know.”</p> - -<p>“I do know that it is very bad, my girl, but you must cheer up. We shall -be laughing at all this in a month’s time.”</p> - -<p>On the following morning she allowed herself to be lifted up, speaking -no word of remonstrance. Indeed she was like a child in their hands, -having dropped all the dignity and authority of a woman’s demeanour. It -rained again during the whole of this day, and the heat was becoming -oppressive as every hour they were descending nearer and nearer to the -sea level. During this first stage hardly a word was spoken by any one; -but when she was again taken from her mule she was in tears. The poor -servant-girl, too, was almost prostrate with fatigue, and absolutely -unable to wait upon her mistress, or even to do anything for herself. -Nevertheless they did make the second stage, seeing that their mid-day -resting place had been under the trees of the forest. Had there been any -hut there, they would have remained for the night.</p> - -<p>On the following day they rested altogether, though the place at which -they remained had but few attractions. It was another forest hut -inhabited by an old Spanish couple who were by no means willing to give -them room, although they paid for their accommodation at exorbitant -rates. It is one singularity of places strange and out of the way like -such forest tracks as these, that money in small sums is hardly valued. -Dollars there were not appreciated as sixpences are in this rich -country. But there they stayed for a day, and the guides employed -themselves in making a litter with long poles so that they might carry -Mrs. Arkwright over a portion of the ground. Poor fellows! When once she -had thus changed her mode of conveyance, she never again was lifted on -to the mule.</p> - -<p>There was strong reason against this day’s delay. They were to go down -the Serapiqui along with the post, which would overtake them on its -banks. But if the post should pass them before they got there, it could -not wait; and then they would be deprived of the best canoe on the -water. Then also it was possible, if they encountered further delay, -that the steamer might sail from Greytown without them, and a month’s -residence at that frightful place be thus made necessary.</p> - -<p>The day’s rest apparently did little to relieve Mrs. Arkwright’s -sufferings. On the following day she allowed herself to be put upon the -mule, but after the first hour the beasts were stopped and she was taken -off it. During that hour they had travelled hardly over half a league. -At that time she so sobbed and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> moaned that Arkwright absolutely feared -that she would perish in the forest, and he implored the guides to use -the poles which they had prepared. She had declared to him over and over -again that she felt sure that she should die, and, half-delirious with -weariness and suffering, had begged him to leave her at the last hut. -They had not yet come to the flat ground over which a litter might be -carried with comparative ease; but nevertheless the men yielded, and she -was placed in a recumbent position upon blankets, supported by boughs of -trees. In this way she went through that day with somewhat less of -suffering than before, and without that necessity for self-exertion -which had been worse to her than any suffering.</p> - -<p>There were places between that and the river at which one would have -said that it was impossible that a litter should be carried, or even -impossible that a mule should walk with a load on his back. But still -they went on, and the men carried their burden without complaining. Not -a word was said about money, or extra pay;—not a word, at least by -them; and when Arkwright was profuse in his offer, their leader told him -that they would not have done it for money. But for the poor suffering -Señora they would make exertions which no money would have bought from -them.</p> - -<p>On the next day about noon the post did pass them, consisting of three -strong men carrying great weights on their backs, suspended by bands -from their foreheads. They travelled much quicker than our friends, and -would reach the banks of the river that evening. In their ordinary -course they would start down the river close upon daybreak on the -following day; but, after some consultation with the guides, they agreed -to wait till noon. Poor Mrs. Arkwright knew nothing of hours or of any -such arrangements now, but her husband greatly doubted their power of -catching this mail despatch. However, it did not much depend on their -exertions that afternoon. Their resting-place was marked out for them, -and they could not go beyond it, unless indeed they could make the whole -journey, which was impossible.</p> - -<p>But towards evening matters seemed to improve with them. They had now -got on to ground which was more open, and the men who carried the litter -could walk with greater ease. Mrs. Arkwright also complained less, and -when they reached their resting-place on that night, said nothing of a -wish to be left there to her fate. This was a place called Padregal, a -cacao plantation, which had been cleared in the forest with much labour. -There<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span> was a house here containing three rooms, and some forty or fifty -acres round it had been stripped of the forest trees. But nevertheless -the adventure had not been a prosperous one, for the place was at that -time deserted. There were the cacao plants, but there was no one to pick -the cacao. There was a certain melancholy beauty about the place. A few -grand trees had been left standing near the house, and the grass around -was rich and park-like. But it was deserted, and nothing was heard but -the roaring of the congos. Ah me! Indeed it was a melancholy place as it -was seen by some of that party afterwards.</p> - -<p>On the following morning they were astir very early, and Mrs. Arkwright -was so much better that she offered to sit again upon her mule. The men, -however, declared that they would finish their task, and she was placed -again upon the litter. And then with slow and weary step they did make -their way to the river bank. It was not yet noon when they saw the mud -fort which stands there, and as they drew into the enclosure round a -small house which stands close by the river side, they saw the three -postmen still busy about their packages.</p> - -<p>“Thank God!” said Arkwright.</p> - -<p>“Thank God, indeed!” said his brother. “All will be right with you now.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Fanny,” said her husband, as he took her very gently from the -litter and seated her on a bench which stood outside the door. “It is -all over now,—is it not?”</p> - -<p>She answered him by a shower of tears, but they were tears which brought -her relief. He was aware of this, and therefore stood by her, still -holding her by both her hands while her head rested against his side. -“You will find the motion of the boat very gentle,” he said “indeed -there will be no motion, and you and baby will sleep all the way down to -Greytown.” She did not answer him in words, but she looked up into his -face, and he could see that her spirit was recovering itself.</p> - -<p>There was almost a crowd of people collected on the spot, preparatory to -the departure of the canoes. In the first place there was the commandant -of the fort, to whom the small house belonged. He was looking to the -passports of our friends, and with due diligence endeavouring to make -something of the occasion, by discovering fatal legal impediments to the -further prosecution of their voyage, which impediments would disappear -on the payment of certain dollars. And then there were half a dozen -Costa Rican soldiers, men with coloured caps and old muskets, ready to -support the dignity and authority of the commandant. There were the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> -guides taking payment from Abel Ring for their past work, and the -postmen preparing their boats for the further journey. And then there -was a certain German there, with a German servant, to whom the boats -belonged. He also was very busy preparing for the river voyage. He was -not going down with them, but it was his business to see them well -started. A singular looking man was he, with a huge shaggy beard, and -shaggy uncombed hair, but with bright blue eyes, which gave to his face -a remarkable look of sweetness. He was an uncouth man to the eye, and -yet a child would have trusted herself with him in a forest.</p> - -<p>At this place they remained some two hours. Coffee was prepared here, -and Mrs. Arkwright refreshed herself and her child. They washed and -arranged their clothes, and when she stepped down the steep bank, -clinging to her husband’s arm as she made her way towards the boat, she -smiled upon him as he looked at her.</p> - -<p>“It is all over now,—is it not, my girl?”—he said, encouraging her.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Harry, do not talk about it,” she answered, shuddering.</p> - -<p>“But I want you to say a word to me to let me know that you are better.”</p> - -<p>“I am better,—much better.”</p> - -<p>“And you will see your mother again; will you not; and give baby to her -yourself?”</p> - -<p>To this she made no immediate answer, for she was on a level with the -river, and the canoe was close at her feet. And then she had to bid -farewell to her brother. He was now the unfortunate one of the party, -for his destiny required that he should go back to San José alone,—go -back and remain there perhaps some ten years longer before he might look -for the happiness of home.</p> - -<p>“God bless you, dearest Abel,” she said, kissing him and sobbing as she -spoke.</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, Fanny,” he said, “and do not let them forget me in England. -It is a great comfort to think that the worst of your troubles are -over.”</p> - -<p>“Oh,—she’s all right now,” said Arkwright. “Good-bye, old boy,”—and -the two brothers-in-law grasped each other’s hands heartily. “Keep up -your spirits, and we’ll have you home before long.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m all right,” said the other. But from the tone of the voices, it -was clear that poor Ring was despondent at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> thoughts of his coming -solitude, and that Arkwright was already triumphing in his emancipation.</p> - -<p>And then, with much care, Fanny Arkwright was stowed away in the boat. -There was a great contest about the baby, but at last it was arranged, -that at any rate for the first few hours she should be placed in the -boat with the servant. The mother was told that by this plan she would -feel herself at liberty to sleep during the heat of the day, and then -she might hope to have strength to look to the child when they should be -on shore during the night. In this way therefore they prepared to start, -while Abel Ring stood on the bank looking at them with wishful eyes. In -the first boat were two Indians paddling, and a third man steering with -another paddle. In the middle there was much luggage, and near the -luggage so as to be under shade, was the baby’s soft bed. If nothing -evil happened to the boat, the child could not be more safe in the best -cradle that was ever rocked. With her was the maid-servant and some -stranger who was also going down to Greytown.</p> - -<p>In the second boat were the same number of men to paddle, the Indian -guide being one of them, and there were the mails placed. Then there was -a seat arranged with blankets, cloaks, and cushions, for Mrs. Arkwright, -so that she might lean back and sleep without fatigue, and immediately -opposite to her her husband placed himself. “You all look very -comfortable,” said poor Abel from the bank.</p> - -<p>“We shall do very well now,” said Arkwright.</p> - -<p>“And I do think I shall see mamma again,” said his wife.</p> - -<p>“That’s right, old girl;—of course you will see her. Now then,—we are -all ready.” And with some little assistance from the German on the bank, -the first boat was pushed off into the stream.</p> - -<p>The river in this place is rapid, because the full course of the water -is somewhat impeded by a bank of earth jutting out from the opposite -side of the river into the stream; but it is not so rapid as to make any -recognised danger in the embarkation. Below this bank, which is opposite -to the spot at which the boats were entered, there were four or five -broken trees in the water, some of the shattered boughs of which showed -themselves above the surface. These are called snags, and are very -dangerous if they are met with in the course of the stream; but in this -instance no danger was apprehended from them, as they lay considerably -to the left of the passage which the boats would take. The first canoe -was pushed off by the German, and went rapidly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span> away. The waters were -strong with rain, and it was pretty to see with what velocity the boat -was carried on some hundred of yards in advance of the other by the -force of the first effort of the paddle. The German, however, from the -bank holloaed to the first men in Spanish, bidding them relax their -efforts for a while; and then he said a word or two of caution to those -who were now on the point of starting.</p> - -<p>The boat then was pushed steadily forward, the man at the stern keeping -it with his paddle a little farther away from the bank at which they had -embarked. It was close under the land that the stream ran the fastest, -and in obedience to the directions given to him he made his course -somewhat nearer to the sunken trees. It was but one turn of his hand -that gave the light boat its direction, but that turn of the hand was -too strong. Had the anxious master of the canoes been but a thought less -anxious, all might have been well; but, as it was, the prow of the boat -was caught by some slight hidden branch which impeded its course and -turned it round in the rapid river. The whole length of the canoe was -thus brought against the sunken tree, and in half a minute the five -occupants of the boat were struggling in the stream.</p> - -<p>Abel Ring and the German were both standing on the bank close to the -water when this happened, and each for a moment looked into the other’s -face. “Stand where you are,” shouted the German, “so that you may assist -them from the shore. I will go in.” And then, throwing from him his -boots and coat, he plunged into the river.</p> - -<p>The canoe had been swept round so as to be brought by the force of the -waters absolutely in among the upturned roots and broken stumps of the -trees which impeded the river, and thus, when the party was upset, they -were at first to be seen scrambling among the branches. But -unfortunately there was much more wood below the water than above it, -and the force of the stream was so great, that those who caught hold of -the timber were not able to support themselves by it above the surface. -Arkwright was soon to be seen some forty yards down, having been carried -clear of the trees, and here he got out of the river on the further -bank. The distance to him was not above forty yards, but from the nature -of the ground he could not get up towards his wife, unless he could have -forced his way against the stream.</p> - -<p>The Indian who had had charge of the baby rose quickly to the surface, -was carried once round in the eddy, with his head<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> high above the water, -and then was seen to throw himself among the broken wood. He had seen -the dress of the poor woman, and made his effort to save her. The other -two men were so caught by the fragments of the boughs, that they could -not extricate themselves so as to make any exertions; ultimately, -however, they also got out on the further bank.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Arkwright had sunk at once on being precipitated into the water, -but the buoyancy of her clothes had brought her for a moment again to -the surface. She had risen for a moment, and then had again gone down, -immediately below the forked trunk of a huge tree;—had gone down, alas, -alas! never to rise again with life within her bosom. The poor Indian -made two attempts to save her, and then came up himself, incapable of -further effort.</p> - -<p>It was then that the German, the owner of the canoes, who had fought his -way with great efforts across the violence of the waters, and indeed up -against the stream for some few yards, made his effort to save the life -of that poor frail creature. He had watched the spot at which she had -gone down, and even while struggling across the river, had seen how the -Indian had followed her and had failed. It was now his turn. His life -was in his hand, and he was prepared to throw it away in that attempt. -Having succeeded in placing himself a little above the large tree, he -turned his face towards the bottom of the river, and dived down among -the branches. And he also, after that, was never again seen with the -life-blood flowing round his heart.</p> - -<p>When the sun set that night, the two swollen corpses were lying in the -Commandant’s hut, and Abel Ring and Arkwright were sitting beside them. -Arkwright had his baby sleeping in his arms, but he sat there for -hours,—into the middle of the long night,—without speaking a word to -any one.</p> - -<p>“Harry,” said his brother at last, “come away and lay down. It will be -good for you to sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Nothing ever will be good again for me,” said he.</p> - -<p>“You must bear up against your sorrow as other men do,” said Ring.</p> - -<p>“Why am I not sleeping with her as the poor German sleeps? Why did I let -another man take my place in dying for her?” And then he walked away -that the other might not see the tears on his face.</p> - -<p>It was a sad night,—that at the Commandant’s hut, and a sad morning -followed upon it. It must be remembered that they had there none of -those appurtenances which are so necessary to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> make woe decent and -misfortune comfortable. They sat through the night in the small hut, and -in the morning they came forth with their clothes still wet and dirty, -with their haggard faces, and weary stiff limbs, encumbered with the -horrid task of burying that loved body among the forest trees. And then, -to keep life in them till it was done, the brandy flask passed from hand -to hand; and after that, with slow but resolute efforts, they reformed -the litter on which the living woman had been carried thither, and took -her body back to the wild plantation at Padregal. There they dug for her -her grave, and repeating over her some portion of the service for the -dead, left her to sleep the sleep of death. But before they left her, -they erected a pallisade of timber round the grave, so that the beasts -of the forest should not tear the body from its resting-place.</p> - -<p>When that was done Arkwright and his brother made their slow journey -back to San José. The widowed husband could not face his darling’s -mother with such a tale upon his tongue as that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="A_RIDE_ACROSS_PALESTINE" id="A_RIDE_ACROSS_PALESTINE"></a>A RIDE ACROSS PALESTINE.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Circumstances</span> took me to the Holy Land without a companion, and -compelled me to visit Bethany, the Mount of Olives, and the Church of -the Sepulchre alone. I acknowledge myself to be a gregarious animal, or, -perhaps, rather one of those which nature has intended to go in pairs. -At any rate I dislike solitude, and especially travelling solitude, and -was, therefore, rather sad at heart as I sat one night at Z——’s -hotel, in Jerusalem, thinking over my proposed wanderings for the next -few days. Early on the following morning I intended to start, of course -on horseback, for the Dead Sea, the banks of Jordan, Jericho, and those -mountains of the wilderness through which it is supposed that Our -Saviour wandered for the forty days when the devil tempted him. I would -then return to the Holy City, and remaining only long enough to refresh -my horse and wipe the dust from my hands and feet, I would start again -for Jaffa, and there catch a certain Austrian steamer which would take -me to Egypt. Such was my programme, and I confess that I was but ill -contented with it, seeing that I was to be alone during the time.</p> - -<p>I had already made all my arrangements, and though I had no reason for -any doubt as to my personal security during the trip, I did not feel -altogether satisfied with them. I intended to take a French guide, or -dragoman, who had been with me for some days, and to put myself under -the peculiar guardianship of two Bedouin Arabs, who were to accompany me -as long as I should remain east of Jerusalem. This travelling through -the desert under the protection of Bedouins was, in idea, pleasant -enough; and I must here declare that I did not at all begrudge the forty -shillings which I was told by our British consul that I must pay them -for their trouble, in accordance with the established tariff. But I did -begrudge the fact of the tariff. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> would rather have fallen in with my -friendly Arabs, as it were by chance, and have rewarded their fidelity -at the end of our joint journeyings by a donation of piastres to be -settled by myself, and which, under such circumstances, would certainly -have been as agreeable to them as the stipulated sum. In the same way I -dislike having waiters put down in my bill. I find that I pay them twice -over, and thus lose money; and as they do not expect to be so treated, I -never have the advantage of their civility. The world, I fear, is -becoming too fond of tariffs.</p> - -<p>“A tariff!” said I to the consul, feeling that the whole romance of my -expedition would be dissipated by such an arrangement. “Then I’ll go -alone; I’ll take a revolver with me.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t do it, sir,” said the consul, in a dry and somewhat angry -tone. “You have no more right to ride through that country without -paying the regular price for protection, than you have to stop in Z—— -’s hotel without settling the bill.”</p> - -<p>I could not contest the point, so I ordered my Bedouins for the -appointed day, exactly as I would send for a ticket-porter at home, and -determined to make the best of it. The wild unlimited sands, the -desolation of the Dead Sea, the rushing waters of Jordan, the outlines -of the mountains of Moab;—those things the consular tariff could not -alter, nor deprive them of the glories of their association.</p> - -<p>I had submitted, and the arrangements had been made. Joseph, my -dragoman, was to come to me with the horses and an Arab groom at five in -the morning, and we were to encounter our Bedouins outside the gate of -St. Stephen, down the hill, where the road turns, close to the tomb of -the Virgin.</p> - -<p>I was sitting alone in the public room at the hotel, filling my flask -with brandy,—for matters of primary importance I never leave to -servant, dragoman, or guide,—when the waiter entered, and said that a -gentleman wished to speak with me. The gentleman had not sent in his -card or name; but any gentleman was welcome to me in my solitude, and I -requested that the gentleman might enter. In appearance the gentleman -certainly was a gentleman, for I thought that I had never before seen a -young man whose looks were more in his favour, or whose face and gait -and outward bearing seemed to betoken better breeding. He might be some -twenty or twenty-one years of age, was slight and well made, with very -black hair, which he wore rather long, very dark long bright eyes, a -straight nose, and teeth that were perfectly white. He was dressed -throughout in grey tweed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span> clothing, having coat, waistcoat, and trousers -of the same; and in his hand he carried a very broad-brimmed straw hat.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Jones, I believe,” he said, as he bowed to me. Jones is a good -travelling name, and, if the reader will allow me, I will call myself -Jones on the present occasion.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” I said, pausing with the brandy-bottle in one hand, and the flask -in the other. “That’s my name; I’m Jones. Can I do anything for you, -sir?”</p> - -<p>“Why, yes, you can,” said he. “My name is Smith,—John Smith.”</p> - -<p>“Pray sit down, Mr. Smith,” I said, pointing to a chair. “Will you do -anything in this way?” and I proposed to hand the bottle to him. “As far -as I can judge from a short stay, you won’t find much like that in -Jerusalem.”</p> - -<p>He declined the Cognac, however, and immediately began his story. “I -hear, Mr. Jones,” said he, “that you are going to Moab to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” I replied, “I don’t know whether I shall cross the water. It’s -not very easy, I take it, at all times; but I shall certainly get as far -as Jordan. Can I do anything for you in those parts?”</p> - -<p>And then he explained to me what was the object of his visit. He was -quite alone in Jerusalem, as I was myself, and was staying at H——’s -hotel. He had heard that I was starting for the Dead Sea, and had called -to ask if I objected to his joining me. He had found himself, he said, -very lonely; and as he had heard that I also was alone, he had ventured -to call and make his proposition. He seemed to be very bashful, and half -ashamed of what he was doing; and when he had done speaking he declared -himself conscious that he was intruding, and expressed a hope that I -would not hesitate to say so if his suggestion were from any cause -disagreeable to me.</p> - -<p>As a rule I am rather shy of chance travelling English friends. It has -so frequently happened to me that I have had to blush for the -acquaintances whom I have selected, that I seldom indulge in any close -intimacies of this kind. But, nevertheless, I was taken with John Smith, -in spite of his name. There was so much about him that was pleasant, -both to the eye and to the understanding! One meets constantly with men -from contact with whom one revolts without knowing the cause of such -dislike. The cut of their beard is displeasing, or the mode in which -they walk or speak. But, on the other hand, there are men who are -attractive, and I must confess that I was attracted by John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> Smith at -first sight. I hesitated, however, for a minute; for there are sundry -things of which it behoves a traveller to think before he can join a -companion for such a journey as that which I was about to make. Could -the young man rise early, and remain in the saddle for ten hours -together? Could he live upon hard-boiled eggs and brandy-and-water? -Could he take his chance of a tent under which to sleep, and make -himself happy with the bare fact of being in the desert? He saw my -hesitation, and attributed it to a cause which was not present in my -mind at the moment, though the subject was one of the greatest -importance when strangers consent to join themselves together for a -time, and agree to become no strangers on the spur of the moment.</p> - -<p>“Of course I will take half the expense,” said he, absolutely blushing -as he mentioned the matter.</p> - -<p>“As to that there will be very little. You have your own horse, of -course?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> - -<p>“My dragoman and groom-boy will do for both. But you’ll have to pay -forty shillings to the Arabs! There’s no getting over that. The consul -won’t even look after your dead body, if you get murdered, without going -through that ceremony.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Smith immediately produced his purse, which he tendered to me. “If -you will manage it all,” said he, “it will make it so much the easier, -and I shall be infinitely obliged to you.” This of course I declined to -do. I had no business with his purse, and explained to him that if we -went together we could settle that on our return to Jerusalem. “But -could he go through really hard work?” I asked. He answered me with an -assurance that he would and could do anything in that way that it was -possible for man to perform. As for eating and drinking he cared nothing -about it, and would undertake to be astir at any hour of the morning -that might be named. As for sleeping accommodation, he did not care if -he kept his clothes on for a week together. He looked slight and weak; -but he spoke so well, and that without boasting, that I ultimately -agreed to his proposal, and in a few minutes he took his leave of me, -promising to be at Z——’s door with his horse at five o’clock on the -following morning.</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d allow me to leave my purse with you,” he said again.</p> - -<p>“I cannot think of it. There is no possible occasion for it,” I said -again. “If there is anything to pay, I’ll ask you for it when the -journey is over. That forty shillings you must fork out. It’s a law of -the Medes and Persians.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span></p> - -<p>“I’d better give it you at once,” he said again, offering me money. But -I would not have it. It would be quite time enough for that when the -Arabs were leaving us.</p> - -<p>“Because,” he added, “strangers, I know, are sometimes suspicious about -money; and I would not, for worlds, have you think that I would put you -to expense.” I assured him that I did not think so, and then the subject -was dropped.</p> - -<p>He was, at any rate, up to his time, for when I came down on the -following morning I found him in the narrow street, the first on -horseback. Joseph, the Frenchman, was strapping on to a rough pony our -belongings, and was staring at Mr. Smith. My new friend, unfortunately, -could not speak a word of French, and therefore I had to explain to the -dragoman how it had come to pass that our party was to be enlarged.</p> - -<p>“But the Bedouins will expect full pay for both,” said he, alarmed. Men -in that class, and especially Orientals, always think that every -arrangement of life, let it be made in what way it will, is made with -the intention of saving some expense, or cheating somebody out of some -money. They do not understand that men can have any other object, and -are ever on their guard lest the saving should be made at their cost, or -lest they should be the victims of the fraud.</p> - -<p>“All right,” said I.</p> - -<p>“I shall be responsible, Monsieur,” said the dragoman, piteously.</p> - -<p>“It shall be all right,” said I, again. “If that does not satisfy you, -you may remain behind.”</p> - -<p>“If Monsieur says it is all right, of course it is so;” and then he -completed his strapping. We took blankets with us, of which I had to -borrow two out of the hotel for my friend Smith, a small hamper of -provisions, a sack containing forage for the horses, and a large empty -jar, so that we might supply ourselves with water when leaving the -neighbourhood of wells for any considerable time.</p> - -<p>“I ought to have brought these things for myself,” said Smith, quite -unhappy at finding that he had thrown on me the necessity of catering -for him. But I laughed at him, saying that it was nothing; he should do -as much for me another time. I am prepared to own that I do not -willingly rush up-stairs and load myself with blankets out of strange -rooms for men whom I do not know; nor, as a rule, do I make all the -Smiths of the world free of my canteen. But, with reference to this -fellow I did feel more than ordinarily good-natured and unselfish. There -was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> something in the tone of his voice which was satisfactory; and I -should really have felt vexed had anything occurred at the last moment -to prevent his going with me.</p> - -<p>Let it be a rule with every man to carry an English saddle with him when -travelling in the East. Of what material is formed the nether man of a -Turk I have never been informed, but I am sure that it is not flesh and -blood. No flesh and blood,—simply flesh and blood,—could withstand the -wear and tear of a Turkish saddle. This being the case, and the -consequences being well known to me, I was grieved to find that Smith -was not properly provided. He was seated on one of those hard, red, -high-pointed machines, in which the shovels intended to act as stirrups -are attached in such a manner, and hang at such an angle, as to be -absolutely destructive to the leg of a Christian. There is no part of -the Christian body with which the Turkish saddle comes in contact that -does not become more or less macerated. I have sat in one for days, but -I left it a flayed man; and, therefore, I was sorry for Smith.</p> - -<p>I explained this to him, taking hold of his leg by the calf to show how -the leather would chafe him; but it seemed to me that he did not quite -like my interference. “Never mind,” said he, twitching his leg away, “I -have ridden in this way before.”</p> - -<p>“Then you must have suffered the very mischief?”</p> - -<p>“Only a little, and I shall be used to it now. You will not hear me -complain.”</p> - -<p>“By heavens, you might have heard me complain a mile off when I came to -the end of a journey I once took. I roared like a bull when I began to -cool. Joseph, could you not get a European saddle for Mr. Smith?” But -Joseph did not seem to like Mr. Smith, and declared such a thing to be -impossible. No European in Jerusalem would think of lending so precious -an article, except to a very dear friend. Joseph himself was on an -English saddle, and I made up my mind that after the first stage, we -would bribe him to make an exchange. And then we started. The Bedouins -were not with us, but we were to meet them, as I have said before, -outside St. Stephen’s gate. “And if they are not there,” said Joseph, -“we shall be sure to come across them on the road.”</p> - -<p>“Not there!” said I. “How about the consul’s tariff, if they don’t keep -their part of the engagement?” But Joseph explained to me that their -part of the engagement really amounted to this,—that we should ride -into their country without molestation, provided that such and such -payments were made.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span></p> - -<p>It was the period of Easter, and Jerusalem was full of pilgrims. Even at -that early hour of the morning we could hardly make our way through the -narrow streets. It must be understood that there is no accommodation in -the town for the fourteen or fifteen thousand strangers who flock to the -Holy Sepulchre at this period of the year. Many of them sleep out in the -open air, lying on low benches which run along the outside walls of the -houses, or even on the ground, wrapped in their thick hoods and cloaks. -Slumberers such as these are easily disturbed, nor are they detained -long at their toilets. They shake themselves like dogs, and growl and -stretch themselves, and then they are ready for the day.</p> - -<p>We rode out of the town in a long file. First went the groom-boy; I -forget his proper Syrian appellation, but we used to call him Mucherry, -that sound being in some sort like the name. Then followed the horse -with the forage and blankets, and next to him my friend Smith in the -Turkish saddle. I was behind him, and Joseph brought up the rear. We -moved slowly down the Via Dolorosa, noting the spot at which our Saviour -is said to have fallen while bearing his cross; we passed by Pilate’s -house, and paused at the gate of the Temple,—the gate which once was -beautiful,—looking down into the hole of the pool in which the maimed -and halt were healed whenever the waters moved. What names they are! And -yet there at Jerusalem they are bandied to and fro with as little -reverence as are the fanciful appellations given by guides to rocks and -stones and little lakes in all countries overrun by tourists.</p> - -<p>“For those who would still fain believe,—let them stay at home,” said -my friend Smith.</p> - -<p>“For those who cannot divide the wheat from the chaff, let <i>them</i> stay -at home,” I answered. And then we rode out through St. Stephen’s gate, -having the mountain of the men of Galileo directly before us, and the -Mount of Olives a little to our right, and the Valley of Jehoshaphat -lying between us and it. “Of course you know all these places now?” said -Smith. I answered that I did know them well.</p> - -<p>“And was it not better for you when you knew them only in Holy Writ?” he -asked.</p> - -<p>“No, by Jove,” said I. “The mountains stand where they ever stood. The -same valleys are still green with the morning dew, and the water-courses -are unchanged. The children of Mahomet may build their tawdry temple on -the threshing-floor which David bought that there might stand the Lord’s -house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span> Man may undo what man did, even though the doer was Solomon. But -here we have God’s handiwork and His own evidences.”</p> - -<p>At the bottom of the steep descent from the city gate we came to the -tomb of the Virgin; and by special agreement made with Joseph we left -our horses here for a few moments, in order that we might descend into -the subterranean chapel under the tomb, in which mass was at this moment -being said. There is something awful in that chapel, when, as at the -present moment, it is crowded with Eastern worshippers from the very -altar up to the top of the dark steps by which the descent is made. It -must be remembered that Eastern worshippers are not like the churchgoers -of London, or even of Rome or Cologne. They are wild men of various -nations and races,—Maronites from Lebanon, Roumelians, Candiotes, Copts -from Upper Egypt, Russians from the Crimea, Armenians and Abyssinians. -They savour strongly of Oriental life and of Oriental dirt. They are -clad in skins or hairy cloaks with huge hoods. Their heads are shaved, -and their faces covered with short, grisly, fierce beards. They are -silent mostly, looking out of their eyes ferociously, as though murder -were in their thoughts, and rapine. But they never slouch, or cringe in -their bodies, or shuffle in their gait. Dirty, fierce-looking, uncouth, -repellent as they are, there is always about them a something of -personal dignity which is not compatible with an Englishman’s ordinary -hat and pantaloons.</p> - -<p>As we were about to descend, preparing to make our way through the -crowd, Smith took hold of my arm. “That will never do, my dear fellow,” -said I, “the job will be tough enough for a single file, but we should -never cut our way two and two. I’m broad-shouldered and will go first.” -So I did, and gradually we worked our way into the body of the chapel. -How is it that Englishmen can push themselves anywhere? These men were -fierce-looking, and had murder and rapine, as I have said, almost in -their eyes. One would have supposed that they were not lambs or doves, -capable of being thrust here or there without anger on their part; and -they, too, were all anxious to descend and approach the altar. Yet we -did win our way through them, and apparently no man was angry with us. I -doubt, after all, whether a ferocious eye and a strong smell and dirt -are so efficacious in creating awe and obedience in others, as an open -brow and traces of soap and water. I know this, at least,—that a dirty -Maronite would make very little progress, if he attempted to shove his -way unfairly through a crowd of Englishmen at the door of a London -theatre. We did shove unfairly, and we did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> make progress, till we found -ourselves in the centre of the dense crowd collected in the body of the -chapel.</p> - -<p>Having got so far, our next object was to get out again. The place was -dark, mysterious, and full of strange odours; but darkness, mystery, and -strange odours soon lose their charms when men have much work before -them. Joseph had made a point of being allowed to attend mass before the -altar of the Virgin, but a very few minutes sufficed for his prayers. So -we again turned round and pushed our way back again, Smith still -following in my wake. The men who had let us pass once let us pass again -without opposition or show of anger. To them the occasion was very holy. -They were stretching out their hands in every direction, with long -tapers, in order that they might obtain a spark of the sacred fire which -was burning on one of the altars. As we made our way out we passed many -who, with dumb motions, begged us to assist them in their object. And we -did assist them, getting lights for their tapers, handing them to and -fro, and using the authority with which we seemed to be invested. But -Smith, I observed, was much more courteous in this way to the women than -to the men, as I did not forget to remind him when we were afterwards on -our road together.</p> - -<p>Remounting our horses we rode slowly up the winding ascent of the Mount -of Olives, turning round at the brow of the hill to look back over -Jerusalem. Sometimes I think that of all spots in the world this one -should be the spot most cherished in the memory of Christians. It was -there that He stood when He wept over the city. So much we do know, -though we are ignorant, and ever shall be so, of the site of His cross -and of the tomb. And then we descended on the eastern side of the hill, -passing through Bethany, the town of Lazarus and his sisters, and turned -our faces steadily towards the mountains of Moab.</p> - -<p>Hitherto we had met no Bedouins, and I interrogated my dragoman about -them more than once; but he always told me that it did not signify; we -should meet them, he said, before any danger could arise. “As for -danger,” said I, “I think more of this than I do of the Arabs,” and I -put my hand on my revolver. “But as they agreed to be here, here they -ought to be. Don’t you carry a revolver, Smith?”</p> - -<p>Smith said that he never had done so, but that he would take the charge -of mine if I liked. To this, however, I demurred. “I never part with my -pistol to any one,” I said, rather drily. But he explained that he only -intended to signify that if there were danger to be encountered, he -would be glad to encounter it; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> I fully believed him. “We shan’t -have much, fighting,” I replied; “but if there be any, the tool will -come readiest to the hand of its master. But if you mean to remain here -long I would advise you to get one. These Orientals are a people with -whom appearances go a long way, and, as a rule, fear and respect mean -the same thing with them. A pistol hanging over your loins is no great -trouble to you, and looks as though you could bite. Many a dog goes -through the world well by merely showing his teeth.”</p> - -<p>And then my companion began to talk of himself. “He did not,” he said, -“mean to remain in Syria very long.”</p> - -<p>“Nor I either,” said I. “I have done with this part of the world for the -present, and shall take the next steamer from Jaffa for Alexandria. I -shall only have one night in Jerusalem on my return.”</p> - -<p>After this he remained silent for a few moments and then declared that -that also had been his intention. He was almost ashamed to say so, -however, because it looked as though he had resolved to hook himself on -to me. So he answered, expressing almost regret at the circumstance.</p> - -<p>“Don’t let that trouble you,” said I; “I shall be delighted to have your -company. When you know me better, as I hope you will do, you will find -that if such were not the case I should tell you so as frankly. I shall -remain in Cairo some little time; so that beyond our arrival in Egypt, I -can answer for nothing.”</p> - -<p>He said that he expected letters at Alexandria which would govern his -future movements. I thought he seemed sad as he said so, and imagined, -from his manner, that he did not expect very happy tidings. Indeed I had -made up my mind that he was by no means free from care or sorrow. He had -not the air of a man who could say of himself that he was “totus teres -atque rotundus.” But I had no wish to inquire, and the matter would have -dropped had he not himself added—“I fear that I shall meet -acquaintances in Egypt whom it will give me no pleasure to see.”</p> - -<p>“Then,” said I, “if I were you, I would go to Constantinople -instead;—indeed, anywhere rather than fall among friends who are not -friendly. And the nearer the friend is, the more one feels that sort of -thing. To my way of thinking, there is nothing on earth so pleasant as a -pleasant wife; but then, what is there so damnable as one that is -unpleasant?”</p> - -<p>“Are you a married man?” he inquired. All his questions were put in a -low tone of voice which seemed to give to them an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> air of special -interest, and made one almost feel that they were asked with some -special view to one’s individual welfare. Now the fact is, that I am a -married man with a family; but I am not much given to talk to strangers -about my domestic concerns, and, therefore, though I had no particular -object in view, I denied my obligations in this respect. “No,” said I; -“I have not come to that promotion yet. I am too frequently on the move -to write myself down as Paterfamilias.”</p> - -<p>“Then you know nothing about that pleasantness of which you spoke just -now?”</p> - -<p>“Nor of the unpleasantness, thank God; my personal experiences are all -to come,—as also are yours, I presume?”</p> - -<p>It was possible that he had hampered himself with some woman, and that -she was to meet him at Alexandria. Poor fellow! thought I. But his -unhappiness was not of that kind. “No,” said he; “I am not married; I am -all alone in the world.”</p> - -<p>“Then I certainly would not allow myself to be troubled by unpleasant -acquaintances.”</p> - -<p>It was now four hours since we had left Jerusalem, and we had arrived at -the place at which it was proposed that we should breakfast. There was a -large well there, and shade afforded by a rock under which the water -sprung; and the Arabs had constructed a tank out of which the horses -could drink, so that the place was ordinarily known as the first stage -out of Jerusalem.</p> - -<p>Smith had said not a word about his saddle, or complained in any way of -discomfort, so that I had in truth forgotten the subject. Other matters -had continually presented themselves, and I had never even asked him how -he had fared. I now jumped from my horse, but I perceived at once that -he was unable to do so. He smiled faintly, as his eye caught mine, but I -knew that he wanted assistance. “Ah,” said I, “that confounded Turkish -saddle has already galled your skin. I see how it is; I shall have to -doctor you with a little brandy,—externally applied, my friend.” But I -lent him my shoulder, and with that assistance he got down, very gently -and slowly.</p> - -<p>“We ate our breakfast with a good will; bread and cold fowl and -brandy-and-water, with a hard-boiled egg by way of a final delicacy; and -then I began to bargain with Joseph for the loan of his English saddle. -I saw that Smith could not get through the journey with that monstrous -Turkish affair, and that he would go on without complaining till he -fainted or came to some other signal grief. But the Frenchman, seeing -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> plight in which we were, was disposed to drive a very hard bargain. -He wanted forty shillings, the price of a pair of live Bedouins, for the -accommodation, and declared that, even then, he should make the -sacrifice only out of consideration to me.</p> - -<p>“Very well,” said I. “I’m tolerably tough myself, and I’ll change with -the gentleman. The chances are that I shall not be in a very liberal -humour when I reach Jaffa with stiff limbs and a sore skin. I have a -very good memory, Joseph.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll take thirty shillings, Mr. Jones; though I shall have to groan all -the way like a condemned devil.”</p> - -<p>I struck a bargain with him at last for five-and-twenty, and set him to -work to make the necessary change on the horses. “It will be just the -same thing to him,” I said to Smith. “I find that he is as much used to -one as to the other.</p> - -<p>“But how much money are you to pay him?” he asked. “Oh, nothing,” I -replied. “Give him a few piastres when you part with him at Jaffa.” I do -not know why I should have felt thus inclined to pay money out of my -pocket for this Smith,—a man whom I had only seen for the first time on -the preceding evening, and whose temperament was so essentially -different from my own; but so I did. I would have done almost anything -in reason for his comfort; and yet he was a melancholy fellow, with good -inward pluck as I believed, but without that outward show of dash and -hardihood which I confess I love to see. “Pray tell him that I’ll pay -him for it,” said he. “We’ll make that all right,” I answered; and then -we remounted,—not without some difficulty on his part. “You should have -let me rub in that brandy,” I said. “You can’t conceive how -efficaciously I would have done it.” But he made me no answer.</p> - -<p>At noon we met a caravan of pilgrims coming up from Jordan. There might -be some three or four hundred, but the number seemed to be treble that, -from the loose and straggling line in which they journeyed. It was a -very singular sight, as they moved slowly along the narrow path through -the sand, coming out of a defile among the hills, which was perhaps a -quarter of a mile in front of us, passing us as we stood still by the -wayside, and then winding again out of sight on the track over which we -had come. Some rode on camels,—a whole family, in many cases, being -perched on the same animal. I observed a very old man and a very old -woman slung in panniers over a camel’s back,—not such panniers as might -be befitting such a purpose, but square baskets, so that the heads and -heels of each of the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span> couple hung out of the rear and front. “Surely -the journey will be their death,” I said to Joseph. “Yes it will,” he -replied, quite coolly; “but what matter how soon they die now that they -have bathed in Jordan?” Very many rode on donkeys; two, generally, on -each donkey; others, who had command of money, on horses; but the -greater number walked, toiling painfully from Jerusalem to Jericho on -the first day, sleeping there in tents and going to bathe on the second -day, and then returning from Jericho to Jerusalem on the third. The -pilgrimage is made throughout in accordance with fixed rules, and there -is a tariff for the tent accommodation at Jericho,—so much per head per -night, including the use of hot water.</p> - -<p>Standing there, close by the wayside, we could see not only the garments -and faces of these strange people, but we could watch their gestures and -form some opinion of what was going on within their thoughts. They were -much quieter,—tamer, as it were,—than Englishmen would be under such -circumstances. Those who were carried seemed to sit on their beasts in -passive tranquillity, neither enjoying nor suffering anything. Their -object had been to wash in Jordan,—to do that once in their lives;—and -they had washed in Jordan. The benefit expected was not to be -immediately spiritual. No earnest prayerfulness was considered necessary -after the ceremony. To these members of the Greek Christian Church it -had been handed down from father to son that washing in Jordan once -during life was efficacious towards salvation. And therefore the journey -had been made at terrible cost and terrible risk; for these people had -come from afar, and were from their habits but little capable of long -journeys. Many die under the toil; but this matters not if they do not -die before they have reached Jordan. Some few there are, undoubtedly, -more ecstatic in this great deed of their religion. One man I especially -noticed on this day. He had bound himself to make the pilgrimage from -Jerusalem to the river with one foot bare. He was of a better class, and -was even nobly dressed, as though it were a part of his vow to show to -all men that he did this deed, wealthy and great though he was. He was a -fine man, perhaps thirty years of age, with a well-grown beard -descending on his breast, and at his girdle he carried a brace of -pistols. But never in my life had I seen bodily pain so plainly written -in a man’s face. The sweat was falling from his brow, and his eyes were -strained and bloodshot with agony. He had no stick, his vow, I presume, -debarring him from such assistance, and he limped along, putting to the -ground the heel of the unprotected<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span> foot. I could see it, and it was a -mass of blood, and sores, and broken skin. An Irish girl would walk from -Jerusalem to Jericho without shoes, and be not a penny the worse for it. -This poor fellow clearly suffered so much that I was almost inclined to -think that in the performance of his penance he had done something to -aggravate his pain. Those around him paid no attention to him, and the -dragoman seemed to think nothing of the affair whatever. “Those fools of -Greeks do not understand the Christian religion,” he said, being himself -a Latin or Roman Catholic.</p> - -<p>At the tail of the line we encountered two Bedouins, who were in charge -of the caravan, and Joseph at once addressed them. The men were mounted, -one on a very sorry-looking jade, but the other on a good stout Arab -barb. They had guns slung behind their backs, coloured handkerchiefs on -their heads, and they wore the striped bernouse. The parley went on for -about ten minutes, during which the procession of pilgrims wound out of -sight; and it ended in our being accompanied by the two Arabs, who thus -left their greater charge to take care of itself back to the city. I -understood afterwards that they had endeavoured to persuade Joseph that -we might just as well go on alone, merely satisfying the demand of the -tariff. But he had pointed out that I was a particular man, and that -under such circumstances the final settlement might be doubtful. So they -turned and accompanied us; but, as a matter of fact, we should have been -as well without them.</p> - -<p>The sun was beginning to fall in the heavens when we reached the actual -margin of the Dead Sea. We had seen the glitter of its still waters for -a long time previously, shining under the sun as though it were not -real. We have often heard, and some of us have seen, how effects of -light and shade together will produce so vivid an appearance of water -where there is no water, as to deceive the most experienced. But the -reverse was the case here. There was the lake, and there it had been -before our eyes for the last two hours; and yet it looked, then and now, -as though it were an image of a lake, and not real water. I had long -since made up my mind to bathe in it, feeling well convinced that I -could do so without harm to myself, and I had been endeavouring to -persuade Smith to accompany me; but he positively refused. He would -bathe, he said, neither in the Dead Sea nor in the river Jordan. He did -not like bathing, and preferred to do his washing in his own room. Of -course I had nothing further to say, and begged that, under these -circumstances,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> he would take charge of my purse and pistols while I was -in the water. This he agreed to do; but even in this he was strange and -almost uncivil. I was to bathe from the farthest point of a little -island, into which there was a rough causeway from the land made of -stones and broken pieces of wood, and I exhorted him to go with me -thither; but he insisted on remaining with his horse on the mainland at -some little distance from the island. He did not feel inclined to go -down to the water’s edge, he said.</p> - -<p>I confess that at this moment I almost suspected that he was going to -play me foul, and I hesitated. He saw in an instant what was passing -through my mind. “You had better take your pistol and money with you; -they will be quite safe on your clothes.” But to have kept the things -now would have shown suspicion too plainly, and as I could not bring -myself to do that, I gave them up. I have sometimes thought that I was a -fool to do so.</p> - -<p>I went away by myself to the end of the island, and then I did bathe. It -is impossible to conceive anything more desolate than the appearance of -the place. The land shelves very gradually away to the water, and the -whole margin, to the breadth of some twenty or thirty feet, is strewn -with the débris of rushes, bits of timber, and old white withered reeds. -Whence these bits of timber have come it seems difficult to say. The -appearance is as though the water had receded and left them there. I -have heard it said that there is no vegetation near the Dead Sea; but -such is not the case, for these rushes do grow on the bank. I found it -difficult enough to get into the water, for the ground shelves down very -slowly, and is rough with stones and large pieces of half-rotten wood; -moreover, when I was in nearly up to my hips the water knocked me down; -indeed, it did so when I had gone as far as my knees, but I recovered -myself, and by perseverance did proceed somewhat farther. It must not be -imagined that this knocking down was effected by the movement of the -water. There is no such movement. Everything is perfectly still, and the -fluid seems hardly to be displaced by the entrance of the body; but the -effect is that one’s feet are tripped up, and that one falls prostrate -on to the surface. The water is so strong and buoyant, that, when above -a few feet in depth has to be encountered, the strength and weight of -the bather are not sufficient to keep down his feet and legs. I then -essayed to swim; but I could not do this in the ordinary way, as I was -unable to keep enough of my body below the surface; so that my head and -face seemed to be propelled down upon it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span> I turned round and floated, -but the glare of the sun was so powerful that I could not remain long in -that position. However, I had bathed in the Dead Sea, and was so far -satisfied.</p> - -<p>Anything more abominable to the palate than this water, if it be water, -I never had inside my mouth. I expected it to be extremely salt, and no -doubt, if it were analysed, such would be the result; but there is a -flavour in it which kills the salt. No attempt can be made at describing -this taste. It may be imagined that I did not drink heartily, merely -taking up a drop or two with my tongue from the palm of my hand; but it -seemed to me as though I had been drenched with it. Even brandy would -not relieve me from it. And then my whole body was in a mess, and I felt -as though I had been rubbed with pitch. Looking at my limbs, I saw no -sign on them of the fluid. They seemed to dry from this as they usually -do from any other water; but still the feeling remained. However, I was -to ride from hence to a spot on the banks of Jordan, which I should -reach in an hour, and at which I would wash; so I clothed myself, and -prepared for my departure.</p> - -<p>Seated in my position in the island I was unable to see what was going -on among the remainder of the party, and therefore could not tell -whether my pistols and money was safe. I dressed, therefore, rather -hurriedly, and on getting again to the shore, found that Mr. John Smith -had not levanted. He was seated on his horse at some distance from -Joseph and the Arabs, and had no appearance of being in league with -those, no doubt, worthy guides. I certainly had suspected a ruse, and -now was angry with myself that I had done so; and yet, in London, one -would not trust one’s money to a stranger whom one had met twenty-four -hours since in a coffee-room! Why, then, do it with a stranger whom one -chanced to meet in a desert?</p> - -<p>“Thanks,” I said, as he handed me my belongings. “I wish I could have -induced you to come in also. The Dead Sea is now at your elbow, and, -therefore, you think nothing of it; but in ten or fifteen years’ time, -you would be glad to be able to tell your children that you had bathed -in it.”</p> - -<p>“I shall never have any children to care for such tidings,” he replied.</p> - -<p>The river Jordan, for some miles above the point at which it joins the -Dead Sea, runs through very steep banks,—banks which are almost -precipitous,—and is, as it were, guarded by the thick trees and bushes -which grow upon its sides. This is so much the case, that one may ride, -as we did, for a considerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> distance along the margin, and not be -able even to approach the water. I had a fancy for bathing in some spot -of my own selection, instead of going to the open shore frequented by -all the pilgrims; but I was baffled in this. When I did force my way -down to the river side, I found that the water ran so rapidly, and that -the bushes and boughs of trees grew so far over and into the stream, as -to make it impossible for me to bathe. I could not have got in without -my clothes, and having got in, I could not have got out again. I was, -therefore obliged to put up with the open muddy shore to which the -bathers descend, and at which we may presume that Joshua passed when he -came over as one of the twelve spies to spy out the land. And even here -I could not go full into the stream as I would fain have done, lest I -should be carried down, and so have assisted to whiten the shores of the -Dead Sea with my bones. As to getting over to the Moabitish side of the -river, that was plainly impossible; and, indeed, it seemed to be the -prevailing opinion that the passage of the river was not practicable -without going up as far as Samaria. And yet we know that there, or -thereabouts, the Israelites did cross it.</p> - -<p>I jumped from my horse the moment I got to the place, and once more gave -my purse and pistols to my friend. “You are going to bathe again?” he -said. “Certainly,” said I; “you don’t suppose that I would come to -Jordan and not wash there, even if I were not foul with the foulness of -the Dead Sea!” “You’ll kill yourself, in your present state of heat;” he -said, remonstrating just as one’s mother or wife might do. But even had -it been my mother or wife I could not have attended to such remonstrance -then; and before he had done looking at me with those big eyes of his, -my coat and waistcoat and cravat were on the ground, and I was at work -at my braces; whereupon he turned from me slowly, and strolled away into -the wood. On this occasion I had no base fears about my money.</p> - -<p>And then I did bathe,—very uncomfortably. The shore was muddy with the -feet of the pilgrims, and the river so rapid that I hardly dared to get -beyond the mud. I did manage to take a plunge in, head-foremost, but I -was forced to wade out through the dirt and slush, so that I found it -difficult to make my feet and legs clean enough for my shoes and -stockings; and then, moreover, the flies plagued me most unmercifully. I -should have thought that the filthy flavour from the Dead Sea would have -saved me from that nuisance; but the mosquitoes thereabouts are probably -used to it. Finding this process of bathing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span> to be so difficult, I -inquired as to the practice of the pilgrims. I found that with them, -bathing in Jordan has come to be much the same as baptism has with us. -It does not mean immersion. No doubt they do take off their shoes and -stockings; but they do not strip, and go bodily into the water.</p> - -<p>As soon as I was dressed I found that Smith was again at my side with -purse and pistols. We then went up a little above the wood, and sat down -together on the long sandy grass. It was now quite evening, so that the -short Syrian twilight had commenced, and the sun was no longer hot in -the heavens. It would be night as we rode on to the tents at Jericho; -but there was no difficulty as to the way, and therefore we did not -hurry the horses, who were feeding on the grass. We sat down together on -a spot from which we could see the stream,—close together, so that when -I stretched myself out in my weariness, as I did before we started, my -head rested on his legs. Ah, me! one does not take such liberties with -new friends in England. It was a place which led one on to some special -thoughts. The mountains of Moab were before us, very plain in their -outline. “Moab is my wash-pot, and over Edom will I cast out my shoe!” -There they were before us, very visible to the eye, and we began -naturally to ask questions of each other. Why was Moab the wash-pot, and -Edom thus cursed with indignity? Why had the right bank of the river -been selected for such great purposes, whereas the left was thus -condemned? Was there, at that time, any special fertility in this land -of promise which has since departed from it? We are told of a bunch of -grapes which took two men to carry it; but now there is not a vine in -the whole country side. Now-a-days the sandy plain round Jericho is as -dry and arid as are any of the valleys of Moab. The Jordan was running -beneath our feet,—the Jordan in which the leprous king had washed, -though the bright rivers of his own Damascus were so much nearer to his -hand. It was but a humble stream to which he was sent; but the spot -probably was higher up, above the Sea of Galilee, where the river is -narrow. But another also had come down to this river, perhaps to this -very spot on its shores, and submitted Himself to its waters;—as to -whom, perhaps, it will be better that I should not speak much in this -light story.</p> - -<p>The Dead Sea was on our right, still glittering in the distance, and -behind us lay the plains of Jericho and the wretched collection of huts -which still bears the name of the ancient city. Beyond that, but still -seemingly within easy distance of us, were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span> the mountains of the -wilderness. The wilderness! In truth, the spot was one which did lead to -many thoughts.</p> - -<p>We talked of these things, as to many of which I found that my friend -was much more free in his doubts and questionings than myself; and then -our words came back to ourselves, the natural centre of all men’s -thoughts and words. “From what you say,” I said, “I gather that you have -had enough of this land?”</p> - -<p>“Quite enough,” he said. “Why seek such spots as these, if they only -dispel the associations and veneration of one’s childhood?”</p> - -<p>“But with me such associations and veneration are riveted the stronger -by seeing the places, and putting my hand upon the spots. I do not speak -of that fictitious marble slab up there; but here, among the sandhills -by this river, and at the Mount of Olives over which we passed, I do -believe.”</p> - -<p>He paused a moment, and then replied: “To me it is all -nothing,—absolutely nothing. But then do we not know that our thoughts -are formed, and our beliefs modelled, not on the outward signs or -intrinsic evidences of things,—as would be the case were we always -rational,—but by the inner workings of the mind itself? At the present -turn of my life I can believe in nothing that is gracious.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you mean that you are unhappy. You have come to grief in some of -your doings or belongings, and therefore find that all things are bitter -to the taste. I have had my palate out of order too; but the proper -appreciation of flavours has come back to me. Bah,—how noisome was that -Dead Sea water!”</p> - -<p>“The Dead Sea waters are noisome,” he said; “and I have been drinking of -them by long draughts.”</p> - -<p>“Long draughts!” I answered, thinking to console him. “Draughts have not -been long which can have been swallowed in your years. Your disease may -be acute, but it cannot yet have become chronic. A man always thinks at -the moment of each misfortune that that special misery will last his -lifetime; but God is too good for that. I do not know what ails you; but -this day twelvemonth will see you again as sound as a roach.”</p> - -<p>“We then sat silent for a while, during which I was puffing at a cigar. -Smith, among his accomplishments, did not reckon that of smoking,—which -was a grief to me; for a man enjoys the tobacco doubly when another is -enjoying it with him.</p> - -<p>“No, you do not know what ails me,” he said at last, “and, therefore, -cannot judge.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not, my dear fellow. But my experience tells me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span> that early -wounds are generally capable of cure; and, therefore, I surmise that -yours may be so. The heart at your time of life is not worn out, and has -strength and soundness left wherewith to throw off its maladies. I hope -it may be so with you.”</p> - -<p>“God knows. I do not mean to say that there are none more to be pitied -than I am; but at the present moment, I am not—not light-hearted.”</p> - -<p>“I wish I could ease your burden, my dear fellow.”</p> - -<p>“It is most preposterous in me thus to force myself upon you, and then -trouble you with my cares. But I had been alone so long, and I was so -weary of it!”</p> - -<p>“By Jove, and so had I. Make no apology. And let me tell you -this,—though perhaps you will not credit me,—that I would sooner laugh -with a comrade than cry with him is true enough; but, if occasion -demands, I can do the latter also.”</p> - -<p>He then put out his hand to me, and I pressed it in token of my -friendship. My own hand was hot and rough with the heat and sand; but -his was soft and cool almost as a woman’s. I thoroughly hate an -effeminate man; but, in spite of a certain womanly softness about this -fellow, I could not hate him. “Yes,” I continued, “though somewhat -unused to the melting mood, I also sometimes give forth my medicinal -gums. I don’t want to ask you any questions, and, as a rule, I hate to -be told secrets, but if I can be of any service to you in any matter I -will do my best. I don’t say this with reference to the present moment, -but think of it before we part.”</p> - -<p>I looked round at him and saw that he was in tears. “I know that you -will think that I am a weak fool,” he said, pressing his handkerchief to -his eyes.</p> - -<p>“By no means. There are moments in a man’s life when it becomes him to -weep like a woman; but the older he grows the more seldom those moments -come to him. As far as I can see of men, they never cry at that which -disgraces them.”</p> - -<p>“It is left for women to do that,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Oh, women! A woman cries for everything and for nothing. It is the -sharpest arrow she has in her quiver,—the best card in her hand. When a -woman cries, what can you do but give her all she asks for?”</p> - -<p>“Do you—dislike women?”</p> - -<p>“No, by Jove! I am never really happy unless one is near me, or more -than one. A man, as a rule, has an amount of energy within him which he -cannot turn to profit on himself alone. It is good for him to have a -woman by him that he may<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span> work for her, and thus have exercise for his -limbs and faculties. I am very fond of women. But I always like those -best who are most helpless.”</p> - -<p>We were silent again for a while, and it was during this time that I -found myself lying with my head in his lap. I had slept, but it could -have been but for a few minutes, and when I woke I found his hand upon -my brow. As I started up he said that the flies had been annoying me, -and that he had not chosen to waken me as I seemed weary. “It has been -that double bathing,” I said, apologetically; for I always feel ashamed -when I am detected sleeping in the day. “In hot weather the water does -make one drowsy. By Jove, it’s getting dark; we had better have the -horses.”</p> - -<p>“Stay half a moment,” he said, speaking very softly, and laying his hand -upon my arm, “I will not detain you a minute.”</p> - -<p>“There is no hurry in life,” I said.</p> - -<p>“You promised me just now you would assist me.”</p> - -<p>“If it be in my power, I will.”</p> - -<p>“Before we part at Alexandria I will endeavour to tell you you the story -of my troubles, and then if you can aid me——” It struck me as he -paused that I had made a rash promise, but nevertheless I must stand by -it now—with one or two provisoes. The chances were that the young man -was short of money, or else that he had got into a scrape about a girl. -In either case I might give him some slight assistance; but, then, it -behoved me to make him understand that I would not consent to become a -participator in mischief. I was too old to get my head willingly into a -scrape, and this I must endeavour to make him understand.</p> - -<p>“I will, if it be in my power,” I said. “I will ask no questions now; -but if your trouble be about some lady——”</p> - -<p>“It is not,” said he.</p> - -<p>“Well; so be it. Of all troubles those are the most troublesome. If you -are short of cash——”</p> - -<p>“No, I am not short of cash.”</p> - -<p>“You are not. That’s well too; for want of money is a sore trouble -also.” And then I paused before I came to the point. “I do not suspect -anything bad of you, Smith. Had I done so, I should not have spoken as I -have done. And if there be nothing bad——”</p> - -<p>“There is nothing disgraceful,” he said.</p> - -<p>“That is just what I mean; and in that case I will do anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span> for you -that may be within my power. Now let us look for Joseph and the -mucherry-boy, for it is time that we were at Jericho.”</p> - -<p>I cannot describe at length the whole of our journey from thence to our -tents at Jericho, nor back to Jerusalem, nor even from Jerusalem to -Jaffa. At Jericho we did sleep in tents, paying so much per night, -according to the tariff. We wandered out at night, and drank coffee with -a family of Arabs in the desert, sitting in a ring round their -coffee-kettle. And we saw a Turkish soldier punished with the -bastinado,—a sight which did not do me any good, and which made Smith -very sick. Indeed after the first blow he walked away. Jericho is a -remarkable spot in that pilgrim week, and I wish I had space to describe -it. But I have not, for I must hurry on, back to Jerusalem and thence to -Jaffa. I had much to tell also of those Bedouins; how they were -essentially true to us, but teased us almost to frenzy by their -continual begging. They begged for our food and our drink, for our -cigars and our gunpowder, for the clothes off our backs, and the -handkerchiefs out of our pockets. As to gunpowder I had none to give -them, for my charges were all made up in cartridges; and I learned that -the guns behind their backs were a mere pretence, for they had not a -grain of powder among them.</p> - -<p>We slept one night in Jerusalem, and started early on the following -morning. Smith came to my hotel so that we might be ready together for -the move. We still carried with us Joseph and the mucherry-boy; but for -our Bedouins, who had duly received their forty shillings a piece, we -had no further use. On our road down to Jerusalem we had much chat -together, but only one adventure. Those pilgrims, of whom I have spoken, -journey to Jerusalem in the greatest number by the route which we were -now taking from it, and they come in long droves, reaching Jaffa in -crowds by the French and Austrian steamers from Smyrna, Damascus, and -Constantinople. As their number confers security in that somewhat -insecure country, many travellers from the west of Europe make -arrangements to travel with them. On our way down we met the last of -these caravans for the year, and we were passing it for more than two -hours. On this occasion I rode first, and Smith was immediately behind -me; but of a sudden I observed him to wheel his horse round, and to -clamber downwards among bushes and stones towards a river that ran below -us. “Hallo, Smith,” I cried, “you will destroy your horse, and yourself -too.” But he would not answer<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span> me, and all I could do was to draw up in -the path and wait. My confusion was made the worse, as at that moment a -long string of pilgrims was passing by. “Good morning, sir,” said an old -man to me in good English. I looked up as I answered him, and saw a -grey-haired gentleman, of very solemn and sad aspect. He might be -seventy years of age, and I could see that he was attended by three or -four servants. I shall never forget the severe and sorrowful expression -of his eyes, over which his heavy eyebrows hung low. “Are there many -English in Jerusalem?” he asked. “A good many,” I replied; “there always -are at Easter.” “Can you tell me anything of any of them?” he asked. -“Not a word,” said I, for I knew no one; “but our consul can.” And then -we bowed to each other and he passed on.</p> - -<p>I got off my horse and scrambled down on foot after Smith. I found him -gathering berries and bushes as though his very soul were mad with -botany; but as I had seen nothing of this in him before, I asked what -strange freak had taken him.</p> - -<p>“You were talking to that old man,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Well, yes, I was.”</p> - -<p>“That is the relation of whom I have spoken to you.”</p> - -<p>“The d—— he is!”</p> - -<p>“And I would avoid him, if it be possible.”</p> - -<p>I then learned that the old gentleman was his uncle. He had no living -father or mother, and he now supposed that his relative was going to -Jerusalem in quest of him. “If so,” said I, “you will undoubtedly give -him leg bail, unless the Austrian boat is more than ordinarily late. It -is as much as we shall do to catch it, and you may be half over Africa, -or far gone on your way to India, before he can be on your track again.”</p> - -<p>“I will tell you all about it at Alexandria,” he replied; and then he -scrambled up again with his horse, and we went on. That night we slept -at the Armenian convent at Ramlath, or Ramath. This place is supposed to -stand on the site of Arimathea, and is marked as such in many of the -maps. The monks at this time of the year are very busy, as the pilgrims -all stay here for one night on their routes backwards and forwards, and -the place on such occasions is terribly crowded. On the night of our -visit it was nearly empty, as a caravan had left it that morning; and -thus we were indulged with separate cells, a point on which my companion -seemed to lay considerable stress.</p> - -<p>On the following day, at about noon, we entered Jaffa, and put up at an -inn there which is kept by a Pole. The boat from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a>{343}</span> Beyrout, which, -touches at Jaffa on its way to Alexandria, was not yet in, nor even -sighted; we were therefore amply in time. “Shall we sail to-night?” I -asked of the agent. “Yes, in all probability,” he replied. “If the -signal be seen before three we shall do so. If not, then not;” and so I -returned to the hotel.</p> - -<p>Smith had involuntarily shown signs of fatigue during the journey, but -yet he had borne up well against it. I had never felt called on to grant -any extra indulgence as to time because the work was too much for him. -But now he was a good deal knocked up, and I was a little frightened, -fearing that I had over-driven him under the heat of the sun. I was -alarmed lest he should have fever, and proposed to send for the Jaffa -doctor. But this he utterly refused. He would shut himself for an hour -or two in his room, he said, and by that time he trusted the boat would -be in sight. It was clear to me that he was very anxious on the subject, -fearing that his uncle would be back upon his heels before he had -started.</p> - -<p>I ordered a serious breakfast for myself, for with me, on such -occasions, my appetite demands more immediate attention than my limbs. I -also acknowledge that I become fatigued, and can lay myself at length -during such idle days and sleep from hour to hour; but the desire to do -so never comes till I have well eaten and drunken. A bottle of French -wine, three or four cutlets of goats’ flesh, an omelet made out of the -freshest eggs, and an enormous dish of oranges, was the banquet set -before me; and though I might have found fault with it in Paris or -London, I thought that it did well enough in Jaffa. My poor friend could -not join me, but had a cup of coffee in his room. “At any rate take a -little brandy in it,” I said to him, as I stood over his bed. “I could -not swallow it,” said he, looking at me with almost beseeching eyes. -“Beshrew the fellow,” I said to myself as I left him, carefully closing -the door, so that the sound should not shake him; “he is little better -than a woman, and yet I have become as fond of him as though he were my -brother.”</p> - -<p>I went out at three, but up to that time the boat had not been -signalled. “And we shall not get out to-night?” “No, not to-night,” said -the agent. “And what time to-morrow?” “If she comes in this evening, you -will start by daylight. But they so manage her departure from Beyrout, -that she seldom is here in the evening.” “It will be noon to-morrow -then?” “Yes,” the man said, “noon to-morrow.” I calculated, however,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a>{344}</span> -that the old gentleman could not possibly be on our track by that time. -He would not have reached Jerusalem till late in the day on which we saw -him, and it would take him some time to obtain tidings of his nephew. -But it might be possible that messengers sent by him should reach Jaffa -by four or five on the day after his arrival. That would be this very -day which we were now wasting at Jaffa. Having thus made my -calculations, I returned to Smith to give him such consolation as it -might be in my power to afford.</p> - -<p>He seemed to be dreadfully afflicted by all this. “He will have traced -me to Jerusalem, and then again away; and will follow me immediately.”</p> - -<p>“That is all very well,” I said; “but let even a young man do the best -he can, and he will not get from Jerusalem to Jaffa in less than twelve -hours. Your uncle is not a young man, and could not possibly do the -journey under two days.”</p> - -<p>“But he will send. He will not mind what money he spends.”</p> - -<p>“And if he does send, take off your hat to his messengers, and bid them -carry your complaints back. You are not a felon whom he can arrest.”</p> - -<p>“No, he cannot arrest me; but, ah! you do not understand;” and then he -sat up on the bed, and seemed as though he were going to wring his hands -in despair.</p> - -<p>I waited for some half hour in his room, thinking that he would tell me -this story of his. If he required that I should give him my aid in the -presence either of his uncle or of his uncle’s myrmidons, I must at any -rate know what was likely to be the dispute between them. But as he said -nothing I suggested that he should stroll out with me among the -orange-groves by which the town is surrounded. In answer to this he -looked up piteously into my face as though begging me to be merciful to -him. “You are strong,” said he, “and cannot understand what it is to -feel fatigue as I do.” And yet he had declared on commencing his journey -that he would not be found to complain? Nor had he complained by a -single word till after that encounter with his uncle. Nay, he had borne -up well till this news had reached us of the boat being late. I felt -convinced that if the boat were at this moment lying in the harbour all -that appearance of excessive weakness would soon vanish. What it was -that he feared I could not guess; but it was manifest to me that some -great terror almost overwhelmed him.</p> - -<p>“My idea is,” said I,—and I suppose that I spoke with something<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a>{345}</span> less -of good-nature in my tone than I had assumed for the last day or two, -“that no man should, under any circumstances, be so afraid of another -man, as to tremble at his presence,—either at his presence or his -expected presence.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, now you are angry with me; now you despise me!”</p> - -<p>“Neither the one nor the other. But if I may take the liberty of a -friend with you, I should advise you to combat this feeling of horror. -If you do not, it will unman you. After all, what can your uncle do to -you? He cannot rob you of your heart and soul. He cannot touch your -inner self.”</p> - -<p>“You do not know,” he said.</p> - -<p>“Ah but, Smith, I do know that. Whatever may be this quarrel between you -and him, you should not tremble at the thought of him; unless -indeed——”</p> - -<p>“Unless what?”</p> - -<p>“Unless you had done aught that should make you tremble before every -honest man.” I own I had begun to have my doubts of him, and to fear -that he had absolutely disgraced himself. Even in such case I,—I -individually,—did not wish to be severe on him; but I should be annoyed -to find that I had opened my heart to a swindler or a practised knave.</p> - -<p>“I will tell you all to-morrow,” said he; “but I have been guilty of -nothing of that sort.”</p> - -<p>In the evening he did come out, and sat with me as I smoked my cigar. -The boat, he was told, would almost undoubtedly come in by daybreak on -the following morning, and be off at nine; whereas it was very -improbable that any arrival from Jerusalem would be so early as that. -“Beside,” I reminded him, “your uncle will hardly hurry down to Jaffa, -because he will have no reason to think but what you have already -started. There are no telegraphs here, you know.”</p> - -<p>In the evening he was still very sad, though the paroxysm of his terror -seemed to have passed away. I would not bother him, as he had himself -chosen the following morning for the telling of his story. So I sat and -smoked, and talked to him about our past journey, and by degrees the -power of speech came back to him, and I again felt that I loved him! -Yes, loved him! I have not taken many such fancies into my head, at so -short a notice; but I did love him, as though he were a younger brother. -I felt a delight in serving him, and though I was almost old enough to -be his father, I ministered to him as though he had been an old man, or -a woman.</p> - -<p>On the following morning we were stirring at daybreak, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a>{346}</span> found that -the vessel was in sight. She would be in the roads off the town in two -hours’ time, they said, and would start at eleven or twelve. And then we -walked round by the gate of the town, and sauntered a quarter of a mile -or so along the way that leads towards Jerusalem. I could see that his -eye was anxiously turned down the road, but he said nothing. We saw no -cloud of dust, and then we returned to breakfast.</p> - -<p>“The steamer has come to anchor,” said our dirty Polish host to us in -execrable English. “And we may be off on board,” said Smith. “Not yet,” -he said; “they must put their cargo out first.” I saw, however, that -Smith was uneasy, and I made up my mind to go off to the vessel at once. -When they should see an English portmanteau making an offer to come up -the gangway, the Austrian sailors would not stop it. So I called for the -bill, and ordered that the things should be taken down to the wretched -broken heap of rotten timber which they called a quay. Smith had not -told me his story, but no doubt he would as soon as he was on board.</p> - -<p>I was in the act of squabbling with the Pole over the last demand for -piastres, when we heard a noise in the gateway of the inn, and I saw -Smith’s countenance become pale. It was an Englishman’s voice asking if -there were any strangers there; so I went into the courtyard, closing -the door behind me, and turning the key upon the landlord and Smith. -“Smith,” said I to myself, “will keep the Pole quiet if he have any wit -left.”</p> - -<p>The man who had asked the question had the air of an upper English -servant, and I thought that I recognised one of those whom I had seen -with the old gentleman on the road; but the matter was soon put at rest -by the appearance of that gentleman himself. He walked up into the -courtyard, looked hard at me from under those bushy eyebrows, just -raised his hat, and then said, “I believe I am speaking to Mr. Jones.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” said I, “I am Mr. Jones. Can I have the honour of serving you?”</p> - -<p>There was something peculiarly unpleasant about this man’s face. At the -present moment I examined it closely, and could understand the great -aversion which his nephew felt towards him. He looked like a gentleman -and like a man of talent, nor was there anything of meanness in his -face; neither was he ill-looking, in the usual acceptation of the word; -but one could see that he was solemn, austere, and overbearing; that he -would be incapable of any light enjoyment, and unforgiving towards all -offences. I took him to be a man who, being old himself, could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a>{347}</span> never -remember that he had been young, and who, therefore, hated the levities -of youth. To me such a character is specially odious; for I would fain, -if it be possible, be young even to my grave. Smith, if he were clever, -might escape from the window of the room, which opened out upon a -terrace, and still get down to the steamer. I would keep the old man in -play for some time; and, even though I lost my passage, would be true to -my friend. There lay our joint luggage at my feet in the yard. If Smith -would venture away without his portion of it, all might yet be right.</p> - -<p>“My name, sir, is Sir William Weston,” he began. I had heard of the name -before, and knew him to be a man of wealth, and family, and note. I took -off my hat, and said that I had much honour in meeting Sir William -Weston.</p> - -<p>“And I presume you know the object with which I am now here,” he -continued.</p> - -<p>“Not exactly,” said I. “Nor do I understand how I possibly should know -it, seeing that, up to this moment, I did not even know your name, and -have heard nothing concerning either your movements or your affairs.”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said he, “I have hitherto believed that I might at any rate -expect from you the truth.”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said I, “I am bold to think that you will not dare to tell me, -either now, or at any other time, that you have received, or expect to -receive, from me anything that is not true.”</p> - -<p>He then stood still, looking at me for a moment or two, and I beg to -assert that I looked as fully at him. There was, at any rate, no cause -why I should tremble before him. I was not his nephew, nor was I -responsible for his nephew’s doings towards him. Two of his servants -were behind him, and on my side there stood a boy and girl belonging to -the inn. They, however, could not understand a word of English. I saw -that he was hesitating, but at last he spoke out. I confess, now, that -his words, when they were spoken, did, at the first moment, make me -tremble.</p> - -<p>“I have to charge you,” said he, “with eloping with my niece, and I -demand of you to inform me where she is. You are perfectly aware that I -am her guardian by law.”</p> - -<p>I did tremble;—not that I cared much for Sir William’s guardianship, -but I saw before me so terrible an embarrassment! And then I felt so -thoroughly abashed in that I had allowed myself to be so deceived! It -all came back upon me in a moment, and covered me with a shame that even -made me blush.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a>{348}</span> I had travelled through the desert with a woman for -days, and had not discovered her, though she had given me a thousand -signs. All those signs I remembered now, and I blushed painfully. When -her hand was on my forehead I still thought that she was a man! I -declare that at this moment I felt a stronger disinclination to face my -late companion than I did to encounter her angry uncle.</p> - -<p>“Your niece!” I said, speaking with a sheepish bewilderment which should -have convinced him at once of my innocence. She had asked me, too, -whether I was a married man, and I had denied it. How was I to escape -from such a mess of misfortunes? I declare that I began to forget her -troubles in my own.</p> - -<p>“Yes, my niece,—Miss Julia Weston. The disgrace which you have brought -upon me must be wiped out; but my first duty is to save that unfortunate -young woman from further misery.”</p> - -<p>“If it be as you say,” I exclaimed, “by the honour of a gentleman——”</p> - -<p>“I care nothing for the honour of a gentleman till I see it proved. Be -good enough to inform me, sir, whether Miss Weston is in this house.”</p> - -<p>For a moment I hesitated; but I saw at once that I should make myself -responsible for certain mischief, of which I was at any rate hitherto in -truth innocent, if I allowed myself to become a party to concealing a -young lady. Up to this period I could at any rate defend myself, whether -my defence were believed or not believed. I still had a hope that the -charming Julia might have escaped through the window, and a feeling that -if she had done so I was not responsible. When I turned the lock I -turned it on Smith.</p> - -<p>For a moment I hesitated, and then walked slowly across the yard and -opened the door. “Sir William,” I said, as I did so, “I travelled here -with a companion dressed as a man; and I believed him to be what he -seemed till this minute.”</p> - -<p>“Sir!” said Sir William, with a look of scorn in his face which gave me -the lie in my teeth as plainly as any words could do. And then he -entered the room. The Pole was standing in one corner, apparently amazed -at what was going on, and Smith,—I may as well call her Miss Weston at -once, for the baronet’s statement was true,—was sitting on a sort of -divan in the corner of the chamber hiding her face in her hands. She had -made no attempt at an escape, and a full explanation was therefore -indispensable. For myself I own that I felt ashamed of my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a>{349}</span> part in the -play,—ashamed even of my own innocency. Had I been less innocent I -should certainly have contrived to appear much less guilty. Had it -occurred to me on the banks of the Jordan that Smith was a lady, I -should not have travelled with her in her gentleman’s habiliments from -Jerusalem to Jaffa. Had she consented to remain under my protection, she -must have done so without a masquerade.</p> - -<p>The uncle stood still and looked at his niece. He probably understood -how thoroughly stern and disagreeable was his own face, and considered -that he could punish the crime of his relative in no severer way than by -looking at her. In this I think he was right. But at last there was a -necessity for speaking. “Unfortunate young woman!” he said, and then -paused.</p> - -<p>“We had better get rid of the landlord,” I said, “before we come to any -explanation.” And I motioned to the man to leave the room. This he did -very unwillingly, but at last he was gone.</p> - -<p>“I fear that it is needless to care on her account who may hear the -story of her shame,” said Sir William. I looked at Miss Weston, but she -still sat hiding her face. However, if she did not defend herself, it -was necessary that I should defend both her and me.</p> - -<p>“I do not know how far I may be at liberty to speak with reference to -the private matters of yourself or of your—your niece, Sir William -Weston. I would not willingly interfere——”</p> - -<p>“Sir,” said he, “your interference has already taken place. Will you -have the goodness to explain to me what are your intentions with regard -to that lady?”</p> - -<p>My intentions! Heaven help me! My intentions, of course, were to leave -her in her uncle’s hands. Indeed, I could hardly be said to have formed -any intention since I had learned that I had been honoured by a lady’s -presence. At this moment I deeply regretted that I had thoughtlessly -stated to her that I was an unmarried man. In doing so I had had no -object. But at that time “Smith” had been quite a stranger to me, and I -had not thought it necessary to declare my own private concerns. Since -that I had talked so little of myself that the fact of my family at home -had not been mentioned. “Will you have the goodness to explain what are -your intentions with regard to that lady?” said the baronet.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Uncle William!” exclaimed Miss Weston, now at length raising her -head from her hands.</p> - -<p>“Hold your peace, madam,” said he. “When called upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a>{350}</span> to speak, you will -find your words with difficulty enough. Sir, I am waiting for an answer -from you.”</p> - -<p>“But, uncle, he is nothing to me;—the gentleman is nothing to me!”</p> - -<p>“By the heavens above us, he shall be something, or I will know the -reason why! What! he has gone off with you; he has travelled through the -country with you, hiding you from your only natural friend; he has been -your companion for weeks——”</p> - -<p>“Six days, sir,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Sir!” said the baronet, again giving me the lie. “And now,” he -continued, addressing his niece, “you tell me that he is nothing to you. -He shall give me his promise that he will make you his wife at the -consulate at Alexandria, or I will destroy him. I know who he is.”</p> - -<p>“If you know who I am,” said I, “you must know——”</p> - -<p>But he would not listen to me. “And as for you, madam, unless he makes -me that promise——” And then he paused in his threat, and, turning -round, looked me in the face. I saw that she also was looking at me, -though not openly as he did; and some flattering devil that was at work -round my heart, would have persuaded that she also would have heard a -certain answer given without dismay,—would even have received comfort -in her agony from such an answer. But the reader knows how completely -that answer was out of my power.</p> - -<p>“I have not the slightest ground for supposing,” said I, “that the lady -would accede to such an arrangement,—if it were possible. My -acquaintance with her has been altogether confined to——. To tell the -truth, I have not been in Miss Weston’s confidence, and have only taken -her for that which she has seemed to be.”</p> - -<p>“Sir!” said the baronet, again looking at me as though he would wither -me on the spot for my falsehood.</p> - -<p>“It is true!” said Julia, getting up from her seat, and appealing with -clasped hands to her uncle—“as true as Heaven.”</p> - -<p>“Madam!” said he, “do you both take me for a fool?”</p> - -<p>“That you should take me for one,” said I, “would be very natural. The -facts are as we state to you. Miss Weston,—as I now learn that she -is,—did me the honour of calling at my hotel, having heard——” And -then it seemed to me as though I were attempting to screen myself by -telling the story against her, so I was again silent. Never in my life -had I been in a position of such extraordinary difficulty. The duty -which I owed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a>{351}</span> to Julia as a woman, and to Sir William as a guardian, and -to myself as the father of a family, all clashed with each other. I was -anxious to be generous, honest, and prudent, but it was impossible; so I -made up my mind to say nothing further.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Jones,” said the baronet, “I have explained to you the only -arrangement which under the present circumstances I can permit to pass -without open exposure and condign punishment. That you are a gentleman -by birth, education, and position I am aware,”—whereupon I raised my -hat, and then he continued: “That lady has three hundred a year of her -own——”</p> - -<p>“And attractions, personal and mental, which are worth ten times the -money,” said I, and I bowed to my fair friend, who looked at me the -while with sad beseeching eyes. I confess that the mistress of my bosom, -had she known my thoughts at that one moment, might have had cause for -anger.</p> - -<p>“Very well,” continued he. “Then the proposal which I name, cannot, I -imagine, but be satisfactory. If you will make to her and to me the only -amends which it is in your power as a gentleman to afford, I will -forgive all. Tell me that you will make her your wife on your arrival in -Egypt.”</p> - -<p>I would have given anything not to have looked at Miss Weston at this -moment, but I could not help it. I did turn my face half round to her -before I answered, and then felt that I had been cruel in doing so. “Sir -William,” said I, “I have at home already a wife and family of my own.”</p> - -<p>“It is not true!” said he, retreating a step, and staring at me with -amazement.</p> - -<p>“There is something, sir,” I replied, “in the unprecedented -circumstances of this meeting, and in your position with regard to that -lady, which, joined to your advanced age, will enable me to regard that -useless insult as unspoken. I am a married man. There is the signature -of my wife’s last letter,” and I handed him one which I had received as -I was leaving Jerusalem.</p> - -<p>But the coarse violent contradiction which Sir William had given me was -nothing compared with the reproach conveyed in Miss Weston’s -countenance. She looked at me as though all her anger were now turned -against me. And yet, methought, there was more of sorrow than of -resentment in her countenance. But what cause was there for either? Why -should I be reproached, even by her look? She did not remember at the -moment that when I answered her chance question as to my domestic -affairs, I had answered it as to a man who was a stranger to me, and not -as to a beautiful woman, with whom I was about to pass<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a>{352}</span> certain days in -close and intimate society. To her, at the moment, it seemed as though I -had cruelly deceived her. In truth, the one person really deceived had -been myself.</p> - -<p>And here I must explain, on behalf of the lady, that when she first -joined me she had no other view than that of seeing the banks of the -Jordan in that guise which she had chosen to assume, in order to escape -from the solemnity and austerity of a disagreeable relative. She had -been very foolish, and that was all. I take it that she had first left -her uncle at Constantinople, but on this point I never got certain -information. Afterwards, while we were travelling together, the idea had -come upon her, that she might go on as far as Alexandria with me. And -then——. I know nothing further of the lady’s intentions, but I am -certain that her wishes were good and pure. Her uncle had been -intolerable to her, and she had fled from him. Such had been her -offence, and no more.</p> - -<p>“Then, sir,” said the baronet, giving me back my letter, “you must be a -double-dyed villain.”</p> - -<p>“And you, sir,” said I—— But here Julia Weston interrupted me.</p> - -<p>“Uncle, you altogether wrong this gentleman,” she said. “He has been -kind to me beyond my power of words to express; but, till told by you, -he knew nothing of my secret. Nor would he have known it,” she added, -looking down upon the ground. As to that latter assertion, I was at -liberty to believe as much as I pleased.</p> - -<p>The Pole now came to the door, informing us that any who wished to start -by the packet must go on board, and therefore, as the unreasonable old -gentleman perceived, it was necessary that we should all make our -arrangements. I cannot say that they were such as enable me to look back -on them with satisfaction. He did seem now at last to believe that I had -been an unconscious agent in his niece’s stratagem, but he hardly on -that account became civil to me. “It was absolutely necessary,” he said, -“that he and that unfortunate young woman,” as he would call her, -“should depart at once,—by this ship now going.” To this proposition of -course I made no opposition. “And you, Mr. Jones,” he continued, “will -at once perceive that you, as a gentleman, should allow us to proceed on -our journey without the honour of your company.”</p> - -<p>This was very dreadful, but what could I say; or, indeed, what could I -do? My most earnest desire in the matter was to save Miss Weston from -annoyance; and under existing circumstances<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a>{353}</span> my presence on board could -not but be a burden to her. And then, if I went,—if I did go, in -opposition to the wishes of the baronet, could I trust my own prudence? -It was better for all parties that I should remain.</p> - -<p>“Sir William,” said I, after a minute’s consideration, “if you will -apologise to me for the gross insults you have offered me, it shall be -as you say.”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Jones,” said Sir William, “I do apologise for the words which I -used to you while I was labouring under a very natural misconception of -the circumstances.” I do not know that I was much the better for the -apology, but at the moment I regarded it sufficient.</p> - -<p>Their things were then hurried down to the strand, and I accompanied -them to the ruined quay. I took off my hat to Sir William as he was -first let down into the boat. He descended first, so that he might -receive his niece,—for all Jaffa now knew that it was a lady,—and then -I gave her my hand for the last time. “God bless you, Miss Weston,” I -said, pressing it closely. “God bless you, Mr. Jones,” she replied. And -from that day to this I have neither spoken to her nor seen her.</p> - -<p>I waited a fortnight at Jaffa for the French boat, eating cutlets of -goat’s flesh, and wandering among the orange groves. I certainly look -back on that fortnight as the most miserable period of my life. I had -been deceived, and had failed to discover the deceit, even though the -deceiver had perhaps wished that I should do so. For that blindness I -have never forgiven myself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a>{354}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_HOUSE_OF_HEINE_BROTHERS_IN_MUNICH" id="THE_HOUSE_OF_HEINE_BROTHERS_IN_MUNICH"></a>THE HOUSE OF HEINE BROTHERS, IN MUNICH.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> house of Heine Brothers, in Munich, was of good repute at the time -of which I am about to tell,—a time not long ago; and is so still, I -trust. It was of good repute in its own way, seeing that no man doubted -the word or solvency of Heine Brothers; but they did not possess, as -bankers, what would in England be considered a large or profitable -business. The operations of English bankers are bewildering in their -magnitude. Legions of clerks are employed. The senior book-keepers, -though only salaried servants, are themselves great men; while the real -partners are inscrutable, mysterious, opulent beyond measure, and -altogether unknown to their customers. Take any firm at random,—Brown, -Jones, and Cox, let us say,—the probability is that Jones has been dead -these fifty years, that Brown is a Cabinet Minister, and that Cox is -master of a pack of hounds in Leicestershire. But it was by no means so -with the house of Heine Brothers, of Munich. There they were, the two -elderly men, daily to be seen at their dingy office in the Schrannen -Platz; and if any business was to be transacted requiring the -interchange of more than a word or two, it was the younger brother with -whom the customer was, as a matter of course, brought into contact. -There were three clerks in the establishment; an old man, namely, who -sat with the elder brother and had no personal dealings with the public; -a young Englishman, of whom we shall anon hear more; and a boy who ran -messages, put the wood on to the stoves, and swept out the bank. Truly -the house of Heine Brothers was of no great importance; but nevertheless -it was of good repute.</p> - -<p>The office, I have said, was in the Schrannen Platz, or old -Market-place. Munich, as every one knows, is chiefly to be noted as a -new town,—so new that many of the streets and most<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a>{355}</span> of the palaces look -as though they had been sent home last night from the builders, and had -only just been taken out of their bandboxes. It is angular, methodical, -unfinished, and palatial. But there is an old town; and, though the old -town be not of surpassing interest, it is as dingy, crooked, intricate, -and dark as other old towns in Germany. Here, in the old Market-place, -up one long broad staircase, were situated the two rooms in which was -held the bank of Heine Brothers.</p> - -<p>Of the elder member of the firm we shall have something to say before -this story be completed. He was an old bachelor, and was possessed of a -bachelor’s dwelling somewhere out in the suburbs of the city. The junior -brother was a married man, with a wife some twenty years younger than -himself, with two daughters, the elder of whom was now one-and-twenty, -and one son. His name was Ernest Heine, whereas the senior brother was -known as Uncle Hatto. Ernest Heine and his wife inhabited a portion of -one of those new palatial residences at the further end of the Ludwigs -Strasse; but not because they thus lived must it be considered that they -were palatial people. By no means let it be so thought, as such an idea -would altogether militate against whatever truth of character painting -there may be in this tale. They were not palatial people, but the very -reverse, living in homely guise, pursuing homely duties, and satisfied -with homely pleasures. Up two pairs of stairs, however, in that street -of palaces, they lived, having there a commodious suite of large rooms, -furnished, after the manner of the Germans, somewhat gaudily as regarded -their best salon, and with somewhat meagre comfort as regarded their -other rooms. But, whether in respect of that which was meagre, or -whether in respect of that which was gaudy, they were as well off as -their neighbours; and this, as I take it, is the point of excellence -which is desirable.</p> - -<p>Ernest Heine was at this time over sixty; his wife was past forty; and -his eldest daughter, as I have said, was twenty-one years of age. His -second child, also a girl, was six years younger; and their third child, -a boy, had not been born till another similar interval had elapsed. He -was named Hatto after his uncle, and the two girls had been christened -Isa and Agnes. Such, in number and mode of life, was the family of the -Heines.</p> - -<p>We English folk are apt to imagine that we are nearer akin to Germans -than to our other continental neighbours. This may be so in blood, but, -nevertheless, the difference in manners is so striking, that it could -hardly be enhanced. An Englishman moving himself off to a city in the -middle of Central America<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a>{356}</span> will find the customs to which he must adapt -himself less strange to him there, than he would in many a German town. -But in no degree of life is the difference more remarkable than among -unmarried but marriageable young women. It is not my purpose at the -present moment to attribute a superiority in this matter to either -nationality. Each has its own charm, its own excellence, its own -Heaven-given grace, whereby men are led up to purer thoughts and sweet -desires; and each may possibly have its own defect. I will not here -describe the excellence or defect of either; but will, if it be in my -power, say a word as to this difference. The German girl of -one-and-twenty,—our Isa’s age,—is more sedate, more womanly, more -meditative than her English sister. The world’s work is more in her -thoughts, and the world’s amusements less so. She probably knows less of -those things which women learn than the English girl, but that which she -does know is nearer to her hand for use. She is not so much accustomed -to society, but nevertheless she is more mistress of her own manner. She -is not taught to think so much of those things which flurry and disturb -the mind, and therefore she is seldom flurried and disturbed. To both of -them, love,—the idea of love,—must be the thought of all the most -absorbing; for is it not fated for them that the joys and sorrows of -their future life must depend upon it? But the idea of the German girl -is the more realistic, and the less romantic. Poetry and fiction she may -have read, though of the latter sparingly; but they will not have imbued -her with that hope for some transcendental paradise of affection which -so often fills and exalts the hearts of our daughters here at home. She -is moderate in her aspirations, requiring less excitement than an -English girl; and never forgetting the solid necessities of life,—as -they are so often forgotten here in England. In associating with young -men, an English girl will always remember that in each one she so meets -she may find an admirer whom she may possibly love, or an admirer whom -she may probably be called on to repel. She is ever conscious of the -fact of this position; and a romance is thus engendered which, if it may -at times be dangerous, is at any rate always charming. But the German -girl, in her simplicity, has no such consciousness. As you and I, my -reader, might probably become dear friends were we to meet and know each -other, so may the German girl learn to love the fair-haired youth with -whom chance has for a time associated her; but to her mind there occurs -no suggestive reason why it should be so,—no probability that the youth -may regard her in such light, because<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a>{357}</span> that chance has come to pass. She -can therefore give him her hand without trepidation, and talk with him -for half an hour, when called on to do so, as calmly as she might do -with his sister.</p> - -<p>Such a one was Isa Heine at the time of which I am writing. We English, -in our passion for daily excitement, might call her phlegmatic, but we -should call her so unjustly. Life to her was a serious matter, of which -the daily duties and daily wants were sufficient to occupy her thoughts. -She was her mother’s companion, the instructress of both her brother and -her sister, and the charm of her father’s vacant hours. With such calls -upon her time, and so many realities around her, her imagination did not -teach her to look for joys beyond those of her present life and home. -When love and marriage should come to her, as come they probably might, -she would endeavour to attune herself to a new happiness and a new -sphere of duties. In the meantime she was contented to keep her mother’s -accounts, and look after her brother and sister up two pair of stairs in -the Ludwigs Strasse. But change would certainly come, we may prophesy; -for Isa Heine was a beautiful girl, tall and graceful, comely to the -eye, and fit in every way to be loved and cherished as the partner of a -man’s home.</p> - -<p>I have said that an English clerk made a part of that small -establishment in the dingy banking-office in the Schrannen Platz, and I -must say a word or two of Herbert Onslow. In his early career he had not -been fortunate. His father, with means sufficiently moderate, and with a -family more than sufficiently large, had sent him to a public school at -which he had been very idle, and then to one of the universities, at -which he had run into debt, and had therefore left without a degree. -When this occurred, a family council of war had been held among the -Onslows, and it was decided that Herbert should be sent off to the -banking-house of Heines, at Munich, there being a cousinship between the -families, and some existing connections of business. It was, therefore, -so settled; and Herbert, willing enough to see the world,—as he -considered he should do by going to Munich,—started for his German -home, with injunctions, very tender from his mother, and very solemn -from his aggrieved father. But there was nothing bad at the heart about -young Onslow, and if the solemn father had well considered it, he might -perhaps have felt that those debts at Cambridge reflected more fault on -him than on his son. When Herbert arrived at Munich, his cousins, the -Heines,—far-away cousins though they were,—behaved<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a>{358}</span> kindly to him. -They established him at first in lodgings, where he was boarded with -many others, having heard somewhat of his early youth. But when Madame -Heine, at the end of twelve months, perceived that he was punctual at -the bank, and that his allowances, which, though moderate in England, -were handsome in Munich, carried him on without debt, she opened her -motherly arms and suggested to his mother and to himself, that he should -live with them. In this way he also was domiciled up two pairs of stairs -in the palatial residence in the Ludwigs Strasse.</p> - -<p>But all this happened long ago. Isa Heine had been only seventeen when -her cousin had first come to Munich, and had made acquaintance with him -rather as a child than as a woman. And when, as she ripened into -womanhood, this young man came more closely among them, it did not -strike her that the change would affect her more powerfully than it -would the others. Her uncle and father, she knew, had approved of -Herbert at the bank; and Herbert had shown that he could be steady; -therefore he was to be taken into their family, paying his annual -subsidy, instead of being left with strangers at the boarding-house. All -this was very simple to her. She assisted in mending his linen, as she -did her father’s; she visited his room daily, as she visited all the -others; she took notice of his likings and dislikings as touching their -table arrangements,—but by no means such notice as she did of her -father’s; and without any flutter, inwardly in her imagination or -outwardly as regarded the world, she made him one of the family. So -things went on for a year,—nay, so things went on for two years with -her, after Herbert Onslow had come to the Ludwigs Strasse.</p> - -<p>But the matter had been regarded in a very different light by Herbert -himself. When the proposition had been made to him, his first idea had -been that so close a connection with a girl so very pretty would be -delightful. He had blushed as he had given in his adhesion; but Madame -Heine, when she saw the blush, had attributed it to anything but the -true cause. When Isa had asked him as to his wants and wishes, he had -blushed again, but she had been as ignorant as her mother. The father -had merely stipulated that, as the young Englishman paid for his board, -he should have the full value of his money, so that Isa and Agnes gave -up their pretty front room, going into one that was inferior, and Hatto -was put to sleep in the little closet that had been papa’s own peculiar -property. But nobody complained of this, for it was understood that the -money was of service.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a>{359}</span></p> - -<p>For the first year Herbert found that nothing especial happened. He -always fancied that he was in love with Isa, and wrote some poetry about -her. But the poetry was in English, and Isa could not read it, even had -he dared to show it to her. During the second year he went home to -England for three months, and by confessing a passion to one of his -sisters, really brought himself to feel one. He returned to Munich -resolved to tell Isa that the possibility of his remaining there -depended upon her acceptance of his heart; but for months he did not -find himself able to put his resolution in force. She was so sedate, so -womanly, so attentive as regarded cousinly friendship, and so cold as -regarded everything else, that he did not know how to speak to her. With -an English girl whom he had met three times at a ball, he might have -been much more able to make progress. He was alone with Isa frequently, -for neither father, mother, nor Isa herself objected to such communion; -but yet things so went between them that he could not take her by the -hand and tell her that he loved her. And thus the third year of his life -in Munich, and the second of his residence in the Ludwigs Strasse, went -by him. So the years went by, and Isa was now past twenty. To Herbert, -in his reveries, it seemed as though life, and the joys of life, were -slipping away from him. But no such feeling disturbed any of the Heines. -Life, of course, was slipping away; but then is it not the destiny of -man that life should slip away? Their wants were all satisfied, and for -them, that, together with their close family affection, was happiness -enough.</p> - -<p>At last, however, Herbert so spoke, or so looked, that both Isa and her -mother that his heart was touched. He still declared to himself that he -had made no sign, and that he was an oaf, an ass, a coward, in that he -had not done so. But he had made some sign, and the sign had been read. -There was no secret,—no necessity for a secret on the subject between -the mother and daughter, but yet it was not spoken of all at once. There -was some little increase of caution between them as Herbert’s name was -mentioned, so that gradually each knew what the other thought; but for -weeks, that was all. Then at last the mother spoke out.</p> - -<p>“Isa,” she said, “I think that Herbert Onslow is becoming attached to -you.”</p> - -<p>“He has never said so, mamma.”</p> - -<p>“No; I am sure he has not. Had he done so, you would have told me. -Nevertheless, is it not true?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a>{360}</span></p> - -<p>“Well, mamma, I cannot say. It may be so. Such an idea has occurred to -me, but I have abandoned it as needless. If he has anything to say he -will say it.”</p> - -<p>“And if he were to speak, how should you answer him?”</p> - -<p>“I should take time to think. I do not at all know what means he has for -a separate establishment.” Then the subject was dropped between them for -that time, and Isa, in her communications with her cousin, was somewhat -more reserved than she had been.</p> - -<p>“Isa, are you in love with Herbert?” Agnes asked her, as they were -together in their room one night.</p> - -<p>“In love with him? No; why should I be in love with him?”</p> - -<p>“I think he is in love with you,” said Agnes.</p> - -<p>“That is quite another thing,” said Isa, laughing. “But if so, he has -not taken me into his confidence. Perhaps he has you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh no. He would not do that, I think. Not but what we are great -friends, and I love him dearly. Would it not be nice for you and him to -be betrothed?”</p> - -<p>“That depends on many things, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, I know. Perhaps he has not got money enough. But you could live -here, you know, and he has got some money, because he so often rides on -horseback.” And then the matter was dropped between the two sisters.</p> - -<p>Herbert had given English lessons to the two girls, but the lessons had -been found tedious, and had dwindled away. Isa, nevertheless, had kept -up her exercises, duly translating German into English, and English into -German; and occasionally she had shown them to her cousin. Now, however, -she altogether gave over such showing of them, but, nevertheless, worked -at the task with more energy than before.</p> - -<p>“Isa,” he said to her one day,—having with some difficulty found her -alone in the parlour, “Isa, why should not we go on with our English?”</p> - -<p>“Because it is troublesome,—to you I mean.”</p> - -<p>“Troublesome. Well; yes; it is troublesome. Nothing good is to be had -without trouble. But I should like it if you would not mind.”</p> - -<p>“You know how sick you were of it before;—besides, I shall never be -able to speak it.”</p> - -<p>“I shall not get sick of it now, Isa.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes you would;—in two days.”</p> - -<p>“And I want you to speak it. I desire it especially.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a>{361}</span></p> - -<p>“Why especially?” asked Isa. And even she, with all her tranquillity of -demeanour, could hardly preserve her even tone and quiet look, as she -asked the necessary question.</p> - -<p>“I will tell you why,” said Herbert; and as he spoke, he got up from his -seat, and took a step or two over towards her, where she was sitting -near the window. Isa, as she saw him, still continued her work, and -strove hard to give to the stitches all that attention which they -required. “I will tell you why I would wish you to talk my language. -Because I love you, Isa, and would have you for my wife,—if that be -possible.”</p> - -<p>She still continued her work, and the stitches, if not quite as perfect -as usual, sufficed for their purpose.</p> - -<p>“That is why I wish it. Now will you consent to learn from me again?”</p> - -<p>“If I did, Herbert, that consent would include another.”</p> - -<p>“Yes; certainly it would. That is what I intend. And now will you learn -from me again?”</p> - -<p>“That is,—you mean to ask, will I marry you?”</p> - -<p>“Will you love me? Can you learn to love me? Oh, Isa, I have thought of -this so long! But you have seemed so cold that I have not dared to -speak. Isa, can you love me?” And he sat himself close beside her. Now -that the ice was broken, he was quite prepared to become an ardent -lover,—if she would allow of such ardour. But as he sat down she rose.</p> - -<p>“I cannot answer such a question on the sudden,” she said. “Give me till -to-morrow, Herbert, and then I will make you a reply;” whereupon she -left him, and he stood alone in the room, having done the deed on which -he had been meditating for the last two years. About half an hour -afterwards he met her on the stairs as he was going to his chamber. “May -I speak to your father about this,” he said, hardly stopping her as he -asked the question. “Oh yes; surely,” she answered; and then again they -parted. To him this last-accorded permission sounded as though it -carried with it more weight than it in truth possessed. In his own -country a reference to the lady’s father is taken as indicating a full -consent on the lady’s part, should the stern paterfamilias raise no -objection. But Isa had no such meaning. She had told him that she could -not give her answer till the morrow. If, however, he chose to consult -her father on the subject, she had no objection. It would probably be -necessary that she should discuss the whole matter in family conclave, -before she could bring herself to give any reply.</p> - -<p>On that night, before he went to bed, he did speak to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a>{362}</span> father; and -Isa also, before she went to rest, spoke to her mother. It was singular -to him that there should appear to be so little privacy on the subject; -that there should be held to be so little necessity for a secret. Had he -made a suggestion that an extra room should be allotted to him at so -much per annum, the proposition could not have been discussed with -simpler ease. At last, after a three days’ debate, the matter ended -thus,—with by no means a sufficiency of romance for his taste. Isa had -agreed to become his betrothed if certain pecuniary conditions should or -could be fulfilled. It appeared now that Herbert’s father had promised -that some small modicum of capital should be forthcoming after a term of -years, and that Heine Brothers had agreed that the Englishman should -have a proportionate share in the bank when that promise should be -brought to bear. Let it not be supposed that Herbert would thus become a -millionaire. If all went well, the best would be that some three hundred -a year would accrue to him from the bank, instead of the quarter of that -income which he at present received. But three hundred a year goes a -long way at Munich, and Isa’s parents were willing that she should be -Herbert’s wife if such an income should be forthcoming.</p> - -<p>But even of this there was much doubt. Application to Herbert’s father -could not be judiciously made for some months. The earliest period at -which, in accordance with old Hatto Heine’s agreement, young Onslow -might be admitted to the bank, was still distant by four years; and the -present moment was thought to be inopportune for applying to him for any -act of grace. Let them wait, said papa and mamma Heine,—at any rate -till New Year’s Day, then ten months distant. Isa quietly said that she -would wait till New Year’s Day. Herbert fretted, fumed, and declared -that he was ill-treated. But in the end he also agreed to wait. What -else could he do?</p> - -<p>“But we shall see each other daily, and be close to each other,” he said -to Isa, looking tenderly into her eyes. “Yes,” she replied, “we shall -see each other daily—of course. But, Herbert——”</p> - -<p>Herbert looked up at her and paused for her to go on.</p> - -<p>“I have promised mamma that there shall be no change between us,—in our -manner to each other, I mean. We are not betrothed as yet, you know, and -perhaps we may never be so.”</p> - -<p>“Isa!”</p> - -<p>“It may not be possible, you know. And therefore we will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a>{363}</span> go on as -before. Of course we shall see each other, and of course we shall be -friends.”</p> - -<p>Herbert Onslow again fretted and again fumed, but he did not have his -way. He had looked forward to the ecstasies of a lover’s life, but very -few of those ecstasies were awarded to him. He rarely found himself -alone with Isa, and when he did do so, her coldness overawed him. He -could dare to scold her, and sometimes did do so, but he could not dare -to take the slightest liberty. Once, on that night when the qualified -consent of papa and mamma Heine had first been given, he had been -allowed to touch her lips with his own; but since that day there had -been for him no such delight as that. She would not even allow her hand -to remain in his. When they all passed their evenings together in the -beer-garden, she would studiously manage that his chair should not be -close to her own. Occasionally she would walk with him, but not more -frequently now than of yore. Very few, indeed, of a lover’s privileges -did he enjoy. And in this way the long year wore itself out, and Isa -Heine was one-and-twenty.</p> - -<p>All those family details which had made it inexpedient to apply either -to old Hatto or to Herbert’s father before the end of the year need not -be specially explained. Old Hatto, who had by far the greater share in -the business, was a tyrant somewhat feared both by his brother and -sister-in-law; and the elder Onslow, as was known to them all, was a man -straitened in circumstances. But soon after New Year’s Day the -proposition was made in the Schrannen Platz, and the letter was written. -On this occasion Madame Heine went down to the bank, and together with -her husband, was closeted for an hour with old Hatto. Uncle Hatto’s -verdict was not favourable. As to the young people’s marriage, that was -his brother’s affair, not his. But as to the partnership, that was a -serious matter. Who ever heard of a partnership being given away merely -because a man wanted to marry? He would keep to his promise, and if the -stipulated moneys were forthcoming, Herbert Onslow should become a -partner,—in four years. Nor was the reply from England more favourable. -The alliance was regarded by all the Onslows very favourably. Nothing -could be nicer than such a marriage! They already knew dear Isa so well -by description! But as for the money,—that could not in any way be -forthcoming till the end of the stipulated period.</p> - -<p>“And what shall we do?” said Herbert to Papa Heine.</p> - -<p>“You must wait,” said he.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a>{364}</span></p> - -<p>“For four years?” asked Herbert.</p> - -<p>“You must wait,—as I did,” said Papa Heine. “I was forty before I could -marry.” Papa Heine, however, should not have forgotten to say that his -bride was only twenty, and that if he had waited, she had not.</p> - -<p>“Isa,” Herbert said to her, when all this had been fully explained to -her, “what do you say now?”</p> - -<p>“Of course it is all over,” said she, very calmly.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Isa, is that your love?”</p> - -<p>“No, Herbert, that is not my love; that is my discretion;” and she even -laughed with her mild low laughter, as she answered him. “You know you -are too impatient to wait four years, and what else therefore can I -say?”</p> - -<p>“I wonder whether you love me?” said Herbert, with a grand look of -injured sentiment.</p> - -<p>“Well; in your sense of the word I do not think I do. I do not love you -so that I need make every one around us unhappy because circumstances -forbid me to marry you. That sort of love would be baneful.”</p> - -<p>“Ah no, you do not know what love means!”</p> - -<p>“Not your boisterous, heartbreaking English love, Herbert. And, Herbert, -sometimes I think you had better go home and look for a bride there. -Though you fancy that you love me, in your heart you hardly approve of -me.”</p> - -<p>“Fancy that I love you! Do you think, Isa, that a man can carry his -heart round to one customer after another as the huckster carries his -wares?”</p> - -<p>“Yes; I think he can. I know that men do. What did your hero Waverley do -with his heart in that grand English novel which you gave me to read? I -am not Flora Mac Ivor, but you may find a Rose Bradwardine.”</p> - -<p>“And you really wish me to do so?”</p> - -<p>“Look here, Herbert. It is bad to boast, but I will make this boast. I -am so little selfish, that I desire above all that you should do that -which may make you most happy and contented. I will be quite frank with -you. I love you well enough to wait these four years with the hope of -becoming your wife when they are over. But you will think but little of -my love when I tell you that this waiting would not make me unhappy. I -should go on as I do now, and be contented.”</p> - -<p>“Oh heavens!” sighed Herbert.</p> - -<p>“But as I know that this would not suit you,—as I feel sure that such -delay would gall you every day, as I doubt whether it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a>{365}</span> would not make -you sick of me long before the four years be over,—my advice is, that -we should let this matter drop.”</p> - -<p>He now walked up to her and took her hand, and as he did so there was -something in his gait and look and tone of voice that stirred her heart -more sharply than it had yet been stirred. “And even that would not make -you unhappy,” he said.</p> - -<p>She paused before she replied, leaving her hand in his, for he was -contented to hold it without peculiar pressure. “I will not say so,” she -replied. “But, Herbert, I think that you press me too hard. Is it not -enough that I leave you to be the arbiter of my destiny?”</p> - -<p>“I would learn the very truth of your heart,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell you that truth more plainly. Methinks I have told it too -plainly already. If you wish it, I will hold myself as engaged to -you,—to be married to you when those four years are past. But, -remember, I do not advise it. If you wish it, you shall have back your -troth. And that I think will be the wiser course.”</p> - -<p>But neither alternative contented Herbert Onslow, and at the time he did -not resolve on either. He had some little present income from home, some -fifty pounds a year or so, and he would be satisfied to marry on that -and on his salary as a clerk; but to this papa and mamma Heine would not -consent;—neither would Isa.</p> - -<p>“You are not a saving, close man,” she said to him when he boasted of -his economies. “No Englishmen are. You could not live comfortably in two -small rooms, and with bad dinners.”</p> - -<p>“I do not care a straw about my dinners.”</p> - -<p>“Not now that you are a lover, but you would do when you were a husband. -And you change your linen almost every day.”</p> - -<p>“Bah!”</p> - -<p>“Yes; bah, if you please. But I know what these things cost. You had -better go to England and fetch a rich wife. Then you will become a -partner at once, and Uncle Hatto won’t snub you. And you will be a grand -man, and have a horse to ride on.” Whereupon Herbert went away in -disgust. Nothing in all this made him so unhappy as the feeling that -Isa, under all their joint privations, would not be unhappy herself. As -far as he could see, all this made no difference in Isa.</p> - -<p>But, in truth, he had not yet read Isa’s character very thoroughly. She -had spoken truly in saying that she knew nothing of that boisterous love -which was now tormenting him and making him gloomy; but nevertheless she -loved him. She,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a>{366}</span> in her short life, had learnt many lessons of -self-denial; and now with reference to this half-promised husband she -would again have practised such a lesson. Had he agreed at once to go -from her, she would have balanced her own account within her own breast, -and have kept to herself all her sufferings. There would have been no -outward show of baffled love,—none even in the colour of her cheeks; -for such was the nature of her temperament. But she did suffer for him. -Day by day she began to think that his love, though boisterous as she -had at first called it, was more deep-seated than she had believed. He -made no slightest sign that he would accept any of those proffers which -she had made him of release. Though he said so loudly that this waiting -for four years was an impossibility, he spoke of no course that would be -more possible,—except that evidently impossible course of an early -marriage. And thus, while he with redoubled vehemence charged her with -coldness and want of love, her love waxed warmer and warmer, and his -happiness became the chief object of her thoughts. What could she do -that he might no longer suffer?</p> - -<p>And then he took a step which was very strange to them all. He banished -himself altogether from the house, going away again into lodgings, “No,” -he said, on the morning of his departure, “I do not release you. I will -never release you. You are mine, and I have a right so to call you. If -you choose to release yourself, I cannot help it; but in doing so you -will be forsworn.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, but, Herbert, I have sworn to nothing,” said she, meaning that she -had not been formally betrothed to him.</p> - -<p>“You can do as you please; it is a matter of conscience; but I tell you -what are my feelings. Here I cannot stay, for I should go mad; but I -shall see you occasionally;—perhaps on Sundays.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Herbert!”</p> - -<p>“Well, what would you have? If you really care to see me it would not be -thus. All I ask of you now is this, that if you decide,—absolutely -decide on throwing me over, you will tell me at once. Then I shall leave -Munich.”</p> - -<p>“Herbert, I will never throw you over.” So they parted, and Onslow went -forth to his new lodgings.</p> - -<p>Her promise that she would never throw him over was the warmest word of -love that she had ever spoken, but even that was said in her own quiet, -unimpassioned way. There was in it but very little show of love, though -there might be an assurance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367"></a>{367}</span> of constancy. But her constancy he did not, -in truth, much doubt. Four years,—fourteen,—or twenty-four, would be -the same to her, he said, as he seated himself in the dull, cold room -which he had chosen. While living in the Ludwigs Strasse he did not know -how much had been daily done for his comfort by that hand which he had -been so seldom allowed to press; but he knew that he was now cold and -comfortless, and he wished himself back in the Ludwigs Strasse.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Isa, when they were alone. “Is not Uncle Hatto rather hard -on us? Papa said that he would ask this as a favour from his brother.”</p> - -<p>“So he did, my dear; and offered to give up more of his own time. But -your Uncle Hatto is hard.”</p> - -<p>“He is rich, is he not?”</p> - -<p>“Well; your father says not. Your father says that he spends all his -income. Though he is hard and obstinate, he is not selfish. He is very -good to the poor, but I believe he thinks that early marriages are very -foolish.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” said Isa again, when they had sat for some minutes in silence -over their work.</p> - -<p>“Well, my love?”</p> - -<p>“Have you spoken to Uncle Hatto about this?”</p> - -<p>“No, dear; not since that day when your papa and I first went to him. To -tell the truth, I am almost afraid to speak to him; but, if you wish it, -I will do so.”</p> - -<p>“I do wish it, mamma. But you must not think that I am discontented or -impatient. I do not know that I have any right to ask my uncle for his -money;—for it comes to that.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose it does, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“And as for myself, I am happy here with you and papa. I do not think so -much of these four years.”</p> - -<p>“You would still be young, Isa;—quite young enough.”</p> - -<p>“And what if I were not young? What does it matter? But, mamma, there -has been that between Herbert and me which makes me feel myself bound to -think of him. As you and papa have sanctioned it, you are bound to think -of him also. I know that he is unhappy, living there all alone.”</p> - -<p>“But why did he go, dear?”</p> - -<p>“I think he was right to go. I could understand his doing that. He is -not like us, and would have been fretful here, wanting that which I -could not give him. He became worse from day to day, and was silent and -morose. I am glad he went. But, mamma, for his sake I wish that this -could be shortened.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368"></a>{368}</span></p> - -<p>Madame Heine told her daughter that she would, if Isa wished it, herself -go to the Schrannen Platz, and see what could be done by talking to -Uncle Hatto. “But,” she added, “I fear that no good will come of it.”</p> - -<p>“Can harm come, mamma?”</p> - -<p>“No, I do not think harm can come.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll tell you what, mamma, I will go to Uncle Hatto myself, if you will -let me. He is cross I know; but I shall not be afraid of him. I feel -that I ought to do something.” And so the matter was settled, Madame -Heine being by no means averse to escape a further personal visit to the -Head of the banking establishment.</p> - -<p>Madame Heine well understood what her daughter meant, when she said she -ought to do something, though Isa feared that she had imperfectly -expressed her meaning. When he, Herbert, was willing to do so much to -prove his love,—when he was ready to sacrifice all the little comforts -of comparative wealth to which he had been accustomed, in order that she -might be his companion and wife,—did it not behove her to give some -proof of her love also? She could not be demonstrative as he was. Such -exhibition of feeling would be quite contrary to her ideas of female -delicacy, and to her very nature. But if called on to work for him, that -she could do as long as strength remained to her. But there was no -sacrifice which would be of service, nor any work which would avail. -Therefore she was driven to think what she might do on his behalf, and -at last she resolved to make her personal appeal to Uncle Hatto.</p> - -<p>“Shall I tell papa?” Isa asked of her mother.</p> - -<p>“I will do so,” said Madame Heine. And then the younger member of the -firm was informed as to the step which was to be taken; and he, though -he said nothing to forbid the attempt, held out no hope that it would be -successful.</p> - -<p>Uncle Hatto was a little snuffy man, now full seventy years of age, who -passed seven hours of every week-day of his life in the dark back -chamber behind the banking-room of the firm, and he had so passed every -week-day of his life for more years than any of the family could now -remember. He had made the house what it was, and had taken his brother -into partnership when that brother married. All the family were somewhat -afraid of him, including even his partner. He rarely came to the -apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse, as he himself lived in one of the -older and shabbier suburbs on the other side of the town. Thither he -always walked, starting punctually from the bank at four o’clock,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369"></a>{369}</span> and -from thence he always walked in the morning, reaching the bank -punctually at nine. His two nieces knew him well; for on certain stated -days they were wont to attend on him at his lodgings, where they would -be regaled with cakes, and afterwards go with him to some old-fashioned -beer-garden in his neighbourhood. But these festivities were of a sombre -kind; and if, on any occasion, circumstances prevented the fulfilment of -the ceremony, neither of the girls would be loud in their lamentations.</p> - -<p>In London, a visit paid by a niece to her uncle would, in all -probability, be made at the uncle’s private residence; but at Munich -private and public matters were not so effectually divided. Isa -therefore, having put on her hat and shawl, walked off by herself to the -Schrannen Platz.</p> - -<p>“Is Uncle Hatto inside?” she asked; and the answer was given to her by -her own lover. Yes, he was within; but the old clerk was with him. Isa, -however, signified her wish to see her uncle alone, and in a few minutes -the ancient grey-haired servant of the house came out into the larger -room.</p> - -<p>“You can go in now, Miss Isa,” he said. And Isa found herself in the -presence of her uncle before she had been two minutes under the roof. In -the mean time Ernest Heine, her father, had said not a word, and Herbert -knew that something very special must be about to occur.</p> - -<p>“Well, my bonny bird,” said Uncle Hatto, “and what do you want at the -bank?” Cheery words, such as these, were by no means uncommon with Uncle -Hatto; but Isa knew very well that no presage could be drawn from them -of any special good nature or temporary weakness on his part.</p> - -<p>“Uncle Hatto,” she began, rushing at once into the middle of her affair, -“you know, I believe, that I am engaged to marry Herbert Onslow?”</p> - -<p>“I know no such thing,” said he. “I thought I understood your father -specially to say that there had been no betrothal.”</p> - -<p>“No, Uncle Hatto, there has been no betrothal; that certainly is true; -but, nevertheless, we are engaged to each other.”</p> - -<p>“Well,” said Uncle Hatto, very sourly; and now there was no longer any -cheery tone, or any calling of pretty names.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps you may think all this very foolish,” said Isa, who, in spite -of her resolves to do so, was hardly able to look up gallantly into her -uncle’s face as she thus talked of her own love affairs.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I do,” said Uncle Hatto. “I do think it foolish for young people -to hold themselves betrothed before they have got<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370"></a>{370}</span> anything to live on, -and so I have told your father. He answered me by saying that you were -not betrothed.”</p> - -<p>“Nor are we. Papa is quite right in that.”</p> - -<p>“Then, my dear, I would advise you to tell the young man that, as -neither of you have means of your own, the thing must be at an end. It -is the only step for you to take. If you agreed to wait, one of you -might die, or his money might never be forthcoming, or you might see -somebody else that you liked better.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I shall do that.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t tell. And if you don’t, the chances are ten to one that he -will.”</p> - -<p>This little blow, which was intended to be severe, did not hit Isa at -all hard. That plan of a Rose Bradwardine she herself had proposed in -good faith, thinking that she could endure such a termination to the -affair without flinching. She was probably wrong in this estimate of her -power; but, nevertheless, her present object was his release from -unhappiness and doubt, not her own.</p> - -<p>“It might be so,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Take my word for it, it would. Look all around. There was Adelaide -Schropner,—but that was before your time, and you would not remember.” -Considering that Adelaide Schropner had been for many years a -grandmother, it was probable that Isa would not remember.</p> - -<p>“But, Uncle Hatto, you have not heard me. I want to say something to -you, if it will not take too much of your time.” In answer to which, -Uncle Hatto muttered something which was unheeded, to signify that Isa -might speak.</p> - -<p>“I also think that a long engagement is a foolish thing, and so does -Herbert.”</p> - -<p>“But he wants to marry at once.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he wants to marry—perhaps not at once, but soon.”</p> - -<p>“And I suppose you have come to say that you want the same thing.”</p> - -<p>Isa blushed ever so faintly as she commenced her answer. “Yes, uncle, I -do wish the same thing. What he wishes, I wish.”</p> - -<p>“Very likely,—very likely.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be scornful to me, uncle. When two people love each other, it is -natural that each should wish that which the other earnestly desires.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, very natural, my dear, that you should wish to get married!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371"></a>{371}</span></p> - -<p>“Uncle Hatto, I did not think that you would be unkind to me, though I -knew that you would be stern.”</p> - -<p>“Well, go on. What have you to say? I am not stern; but I have no doubt -you will think me unkind. People are always unkind who do not do what -they are asked.”</p> - -<p>“Papa says that Herbert Onslow is some day to become a partner in the -bank.”</p> - -<p>“That depends on certain circumstances. Neither I nor your papa can say -whether he will or no.”</p> - -<p>But Isa went on as though she had not heard the last reply. “I have come -to ask you to admit him as a partner at once.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I supposed so;—just as you might ask me to give you a new ribbon.”</p> - -<p>“But uncle, I never did ask you to give me a new ribbon. I never asked -you to give me anything for myself; nor do I ask this for myself.”</p> - -<p>“Do you think that if I could do it,—which of course I can’t,—I would -not sooner do it for you, who are my own flesh and blood, than for him, -who is a stranger?”</p> - -<p>“Nay; he is no stranger. He has sat at your desk and obeyed your orders -for nearly four years. Papa says that he has done well in the bank.”</p> - -<p>“Humph! If every clerk that does well,—pretty well, that is,—wanted a -partnership, where should we be, my dear? No, my dear, go home and tell -him when you see him in the evening that all this must be at an end. -Men’s places in the world are not given away so easily as that. They -must either be earned or purchased. Herbert Onslow has as yet done -neither, and therefore he is not entitled to take a wife. I should have -been glad to have had a wife at his age,—at least I suppose I should, -but at any rate I could not afford it.”</p> - -<p>But Isa had by no means as yet done. So far the interview had progressed -exactly as she had anticipated. She had never supposed it possible that -her uncle would grant her so important a request as soon as she opened -her mouth to ask it. She had not for a moment expected that things would -go so easily with her. Indeed she had never expected that any success -would attend her efforts; but, if any success were possible, the work -which must achieve that success must now commence. It was necessary that -she should first state her request plainly before she began to urge it -with such eloquence as she had at her command.</p> - -<p>“I can understand what you say, Uncle Hatto.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad of that, at any rate.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372"></a>{372}</span></p> - -<p>“And I know that I have no right to ask you for anything.”</p> - -<p>“I do not say that. Anything in reason, that a girl like you should ask -of her old uncle, I would give you.”</p> - -<p>“I have no such reasonable request to make, uncle. I have never wanted -new ribbons from you or gay toys. Even from my own mother I have not -wanted them;—not wanted them faster than they seemed to come without -any asking.”</p> - -<p>“No, no; you have been a good girl.”</p> - -<p>“I have been a happy girl; and quite happy with those I loved, and with -what Providence had given me. I had nothing to ask for. But now I am no -longer happy, nor can I be unless you do for me this which I ask of you. -I have wanted nothing till now, and now in my need I come to you.”</p> - -<p>“And now you want a husband with a fortune!”</p> - -<p>“No!” and that single word she spoke, not loudly, for her voice was low -and soft, but with an accent which carried it sharply to his ear and to -his brain. And then she rose from her seat as she went on. “Your scorn, -uncle, is unjust,—unjust and untrue. I have ever acted maidenly, as has -become my mother’s daughter.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, yes, yes;—I believe that.”</p> - -<p>“And I can say more than that for myself. My thoughts have been the -same, nor have my wishes even, ever gone beyond them. And when this -young man came to me, telling me of his feelings, I gave him no answer -till I had consulted my mother.”</p> - -<p>“She should have bade you not to think of him.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, you are not a mother, and cannot know. Why should I not think of -him when he was good and kind, honest and hard-working? And then he had -thought of me first. Why should I not think of him? Did not mamma listen -to my father when he came to her?”</p> - -<p>“But your father was forty years old, and had a business.”</p> - -<p>“You gave it him, Uncle Hatto. I have heard him say so.”</p> - -<p>“And therefore I am to do as much for you. And then next year Agnes will -come to me; and so before I die I shall see you all in want, with large -families. No, Isa; I will not scorn you, but this thing I cannot do.”</p> - -<p>“But I have not told you all yet. You say that I want a husband.”</p> - -<p>“Well, well; I did not mean to say it harshly.”</p> - -<p>“I do want—to be married.” And here her courage failed her a little, -and for a moment her eye fell to the ground. “It is true, uncle. He has -asked me whether I could love him, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373"></a>{373}</span> I have told him I could. He has -asked me whether I would be his wife, and I have given him a promise. -After that, must not his happiness be my happiness, and his misery my -misery? Am I not his wife already before God?”</p> - -<p>“No, no,” said Uncle Hatto, loudly.</p> - -<p>“Ah, but I am. None feel the strength of the bonds but those who are -themselves bound. I know my duty to my father and mother, and with God’s -help I will do it, but I am not the less bound to him. Without their -approval I will not stand with him at the altar; but not the less is my -lot joined to his for this world. Nothing could release me from that but -his wish.”</p> - -<p>“And he will wish it in a month or two.”</p> - -<p>“Excuse me, Uncle Hatto, but in that I can only judge for myself as best -I may. He has loved me now for two years——”</p> - -<p>“Psha!”</p> - -<p>“And whether it be wise or foolish, I have sanctioned it. I cannot now -go back with honour, even if my own heart would let me. His welfare must -be my welfare, and his sorrow my sorrow. Therefore I am bound to do for -him anything that a girl may do for the man she loves; and, as I knew of -no other resource, I come to you to help me.”</p> - -<p>“And he, sitting out there, knows what you are saying.”</p> - -<p>“Most certainly not. He knows no more than that he has seen me enter -this room.”</p> - -<p>“I am glad of that, because I would not wish that he should be -disappointed. In this matter, my dear, I cannot do anything for you.”</p> - -<p>“And that is your last answer, uncle?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, indeed. When you come to think over this some twenty years hence, -you will know then that I am right, and that your request was -unreasonable.”</p> - -<p>“It may be so,” she replied, “but I do not think it.”</p> - -<p>“It will be so. Such favours as you now ask are not granted in this -world for light reasons.”</p> - -<p>“Light reasons! Well, uncle, I have had my say, and will not take up -your time longer.”</p> - -<p>“Good-bye, my dear. I am sorry that I cannot oblige you;—that it is -quite out of my power to oblige you.”</p> - -<p>Then she went, giving him her hand as she parted from him; and he, as -she left the room looked anxiously at her, watching her countenance and -her gait, and listening to the very fall of her footstep. “Ah,” he said -to himself, when he was alone, “the young people have the best of it. -The sun shines for them; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374"></a>{374}</span> why should they have all? Poor as he is, -he is a happy dog,—a happy dog. But she is twice too good for him. Why -did she not take to one of her own country?”</p> - -<p>Isa, as she passed through the bank, smiled sweetly on her father, and -then smiled sweetly at her lover, nodding to him with a pleasant kindly -nod. If he could have heard all that had passed at that interview, how -much more he would have known of her than he now knew, and how proud he -would have been of her love. No word was spoken as she went out, and -then she walked home with even step, as she had walked thither. It can -hardly be said that she was disappointed, as she had expected nothing. -But people hope who do not expect, and though her step was even and her -face calm, yet her heart was sad.</p> - -<p>“Mamma,” she said, “there is no hope from Uncle Hatto.”</p> - -<p>“So I feared, my dear.”</p> - -<p>“But I thought it right to try—for Herbert’s sake.”</p> - -<p>“I hope it will not do him an injury in the bank.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, mamma, do not put that into my head. If that were added to it all, -I should indeed be wretched.”</p> - -<p>“No; he is too just for that. Poor young man! Sometimes I almost think -it would be better that he should go back to England.”</p> - -<p>“Mamma, if he did, I should—break my heart.”</p> - -<p>“Isa!”</p> - -<p>“Well, mamma! But do not suppose that I mean to complain, whatever -happens.”</p> - -<p>“But I had been so sure that you had constrained your feelings!”</p> - -<p>“So I had,—till I knew myself. Mamma, I could wait for years, if he -were contented to wait by my side. If I could see him happy, I could -watch him and love him, and be happy also. I do not want to have him -kneeling to me, and making sweet speeches; but it has gone too far -now,—and I could not bear to lose him.” And thus to her mother she -confessed the truth.</p> - -<p>There was nothing more said between Isa and her mother on the subject, -and for two days the matter remained as it then stood. Madame Heine had -been deeply grieved at hearing those last words which her daughter had -spoken. To her also that state of quiescence which Isa had so long -affected seemed to be the proper state at which a maiden’s heart should -stand till after her marriage vows had been pronounced. She had watched -her Isa, and had approved of everything,—of everything till this last -avowal had been made. But now, though she could not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375"></a>{375}</span> approve, she -expressed no disapproval in words. She pressed her daughter’s hand and -sighed, and then the two said no more upon the matter. In this way, for -two days, there was silence in the apartments in the Ludwigs Strasse; -for even when the father returned from his work, the whole circle felt -that their old family mirth was for the present necessarily laid aside.</p> - -<p>On the morning of the third day, about noon, Madame Heine returned home -from the market with Isa, and as they reached the landing, Agnes met -them with a packet. “Fritz brought it from the bank,” said Agnes. Now -Fritz was the boy who ran messages and swept out the office, and Madame -Heine put out her hand for the parcel, thinking, not unnaturally, that -it was for her. But Agnes would not give it to her mother. “It is for -you, Isa,” she said. Then Isa, looking at the address, recognised the -handwriting of her uncle. “Mamma,” she said, “I will come to you -directly;” and then she passed quickly away into her own room.</p> - -<p>The parcel was soon opened, and contained a note from her uncle, and a -stiff, large document, looking as though it had come from the hands of a -lawyer. Isa glanced at the document, and read some few of the words on -the outer fold, but they did not carry home to her mind any clear -perception of their meaning. She was flurried at the moment, and the -words, perhaps, were not very plain. Then she took up her note, and that -was plain enough. It was very short, and ran as follows:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p> -“My dear Niece,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="indd">“You told me on Monday that I was stern, and harsh, and unjust. -Perhaps I was. If so, I hope the enclosed will make amends, and -that you will not think me such an old fool as I think myself.</p> - -<p class="r"> -<span style="margin-right: 6em;">“Your affectionate uncle,</span><br /> - -“<span class="smcap">Hatto Heine</span>.<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>“I have told nobody yet, and the enclosed will require my brother’s -signature; but I suppose he will not object.”</p> - -<p class="c">* * * * * * * * </p> - -<p>“But he does not know it, mamma,” said Isa. “Who is to tell him? Oh, -mamma, you must tell him.”</p> - -<p>“Nay, my dear; but it must be your own present to him.”</p> - -<p>“I could not give it him. It is Uncle Hatto’s present Mamma, when I left -him I thought that his eye was kind to me.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376"></a>{376}</span></p> - -<p>“His heart, at any rate, has been very kind.” And then again they looked -over the document, and talked of the wedding which must now be near at -hand. But still they had not as yet decided how Herbert should be -informed.</p> - -<p>At last Isa resolved that she herself would write to him. She did write, -and this was her letter:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p> -“Dear Herbert,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="indd">“Mamma and I wish to see you, and beg that you will come up to us -this evening. We have tidings for you which I hope you will receive -with joy. I may as well tell you at once, as I do not wish to -flurry you. Uncle Hatto has sent to us a document which admits you -as a partner into the bank. If, therefore, you wish to go on with -our engagement, I suppose there is nothing now to cause any very -great delay.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“<span class="smcap">Isa.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>The letter was very simple, and Isa, when she had written it, subsided -into all her customary quiescence. Indeed, when Herbert came to the -Ludwigs Strasse, not in the evening as he was bidden to do, but -instantly, leaving his own dinner uneaten, and coming upon the Heines in -the midst of their dinner, she was more than usually tranquil. But his -love was, as she had told him, boisterous. He could not contain himself, -and embraced them all, and then scolded Isa because she was so calm.</p> - -<p>“Why should I not be calm,” said she, “now that I know you are happy?”</p> - -<p>The house in the Schrannen Platz still goes by the name of Heine -Brothers, but the mercantile world in Bavaria, and in some cities out of -Bavaria, is well aware that the real pith and marrow of the business is -derived from the energy of the young English partner.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377"></a>{377}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="THE_MAN_WHO_KEPT_HIS_MONEY_IN_A_BOX" id="THE_MAN_WHO_KEPT_HIS_MONEY_IN_A_BOX"></a>THE MAN WHO KEPT HIS MONEY IN A BOX.</h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">I first</span> saw the man who kept his money in a box in the midst of the -ravine of the Via Mala. I interchanged a few words with him or with his -wife at the hospice, at the top of the Splugen; and I became acquainted -with him in the courtyard of Conradi’s hotel at Chiavenna. It was, -however, afterwards at Bellaggio, on the lake of Como, that that -acquaintance ripened into intimacy. A good many years have rolled by -since then, and I believe this little episode in his life may be told -without pain to the feelings of any one.</p> - -<p>His name was ——; let us for the present say that his name was Greene. -How he learned that my name was Robinson I do not know, but I remember -well that he addressed me by my name at Chiavenna. To go back, however, -for a moment to the Via Mala;—I had been staying for a few days at the -Golden Eagle at Tusis,—which, by-the-bye, I hold to be the best small -inn in all Switzerland, and its hostess to be, or to have been, -certainly the prettiest landlady,—and on the day of my departure -southwards, I had walked on, into the Via Mala, so that the diligence -might pick me up in the gorge. This pass I regard as one of the grandest -spots to which my wandering steps have ever carried me, and though I had -already lingered about it for many hours, I now walked thither again to -take my last farewell of its dark towering rocks, its narrow causeway -and roaring river, trusting to my friend the landlady to see that my -luggage was duly packed upon the diligence. I need hardly say that my -friend did not betray her trust.</p> - -<p>As one goes out from Switzerland towards Italy, the road through the Via -Mala ascends somewhat steeply, and passengers by the diligence may walk -from the inn at Tusis into the gorge, and make their way through the -greater part of the ravine before the vehicle will overtake them. This, -however, Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378"></a>{378}</span> Greene with his wife and daughter had omitted to do. When -the diligence passed me in the defile, the horses trotting for a few -yards over some level portion of the road, I saw a man’s nose pressed -close against the glass of the coupé window. I saw more of his nose than -of any other part of his face, but yet I could perceive that his neck -was twisted and his eye upturned, and that he was making a painful -effort to look upwards to the summit of the rocks from his position -inside the carriage.</p> - -<p>There was such a roar of wind and waters at the spot that it was not -practicable to speak to him, but I beckoned with my finger and then -pointed to the road, indicating that he should have walked. He -understood me, though I did not at the moment understand his answering -gesture. It was subsequently, when I knew somewhat of his habits, that -he explained to me that on pointing to his open mouth, he had intended -to signify that he would be afraid of sore throat in exposing himself to -the air of that damp and narrow passage.</p> - -<p>I got up into the conductor’s covered seat at the back of the diligence, -and in this position encountered the drifting snow of the Splugen. I -think it is coldest of all the passes. Near the top of the pass the -diligence stops for awhile, and it is here, if I remember, that the -Austrian officials demand the travellers’ passports. At least in those -days they did so. These officials have now retreated behind the -Quadrilatère,—soon, as we hope, to make a further retreat,—and the -district belongs to the kingdom of United Italy. There is a place of -refreshment or hospice here, into which we all went for a few moments, -and I then saw that my friend with the weak throat was accompanied by -two ladies.</p> - -<p>“You should not have missed the Via Mala,” I said to him, as he stood -warming his toes at the huge covered stove.</p> - -<p>“We miss everything,” said the elder of the two ladies, who, however, -was very much younger than the gentleman, and not very much older than -her companion.</p> - -<p>“I saw it beautifully, mamma,” said the younger one; whereupon mamma -gave her head a toss, and made up her mind, as I thought, to take some -little vengeance before long upon her step-daughter. I observed that -Miss Greene always called her step-mother mamma on the first approach of -any stranger, so that the nature of the connection between them might be -understood. And I observed also that the elder lady always gave her head -a toss when she was so addressed.</p> - -<p>“We don’t mean to enjoy ourselves till we get down to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379"></a>{379}</span> lake of -Como,” said Mr. Greene. As I looked at him cowering over the stove, and -saw how oppressed he was with great coats and warm wrappings for his -throat, I quite agreed with him that he had not begun to enjoy himself -as yet. Then we all got into our places again, and I saw no more of the -Greenes till we were standing huddled together in the large courtyard of -Conradi’s hotel at Chiavenna.</p> - -<p>Chiavenna is the first Italian town which the tourist reaches by this -route, and I know no town in the North of Italy which is so closely -surrounded by beautiful scenery. The traveller as he falls down to it -from the Splugen road is bewildered by the loveliness of the -valleys,—that is to say, if he so arranges that he can see them without -pressing his nose against the glass of a coach window. And then from the -town itself there are walks of two, three, and four hours, which I think -are unsurpassed for wild and sometimes startling beauties. One gets into -little valleys, green as emeralds, and surrounded on all sides by grey -broken rocks, in which Italian Rasselases might have lived in perfect -bliss; and then again one comes upon distant views up the river courses, -bounded far away by the spurs of the Alps, which are perfect,—to which -the fancy can add no additional charm. Conradi’s hotel also is by no -means bad; or was not in those days. For my part I am inclined to think -that Italian hotels have received a worse name than they deserve; and I -must profess that, looking merely to creature comforts, I would much -sooner stay a week at the Golden Key at Chiavenna, than with mine host -of the King’s Head in the thriving commercial town of Muddleboro, on the -borders of Yorkshire and Lancashire.</p> - -<p>I am always rather keen about my room in travelling, and having secured -a chamber looking out upon the mountains, had returned to the court-yard -to collect my baggage before Mr. Greene had succeeded in realising his -position, or understanding that he had to take upon himself the duties -of settling his family for the night in the hotel by which he was -surrounded. When I descended he was stripping off the outermost of three -great coats, and four waiters around him were beseeching him to tell -them what accommodation he would require. Mr. Greene was giving sundry -very urgent instructions to the conductor respecting his boxes; but as -these were given in English, I was not surprised to find that they were -not accurately followed. The man, however, was much too courteous to say -in any language that he did not understand every word that was said to -him. Miss Greene was standing apart, doing nothing. As she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380"></a>{380}</span> was only -eighteen years of age, it was of course her business to do nothing; and -a very pretty little girl she was, by no means ignorant of her own -beauty, and possessed of quite sufficient wit to enable her to make the -most of it.</p> - -<p>Mr. Greene was very leisurely in his proceedings, and the four waiters -were almost reduced to despair.</p> - -<p>“I want two bed-rooms, a dressing-room, and some dinner,” he said at -last, speaking very slowly, and in his own vernacular. I could not in -the least assist him by translating it into Italian, for I did not speak -a word of the language myself; but I suggested that the man would -understand French. The waiter, however, had understood English. Waiters -do understand all languages with a facility that is marvellous; and this -one now suggested that Mrs. Greene should follow him up-stairs. Mrs. -Greene, however, would not move till she had seen that her boxes were -all right; and as Mrs. Greene was also a pretty woman, I found myself -bound to apply myself to her assistance.</p> - -<p>“Oh, thank you,” said she. “The people are so stupid that one can really -do nothing with them. And as for Mr. Greene, he is of no use at all. You -see that box, the smaller one. I have four hundred pounds’ worth of -jewellery in that, and therefore I am obliged to look after it.”</p> - -<p>“Indeed,” said I, rather startled at this amount of confidence on rather -a short acquaintance. “In that case I do not wonder at your being -careful. But is it not rather rash, perhaps——”</p> - -<p>“I know what you are going to say. Well, perhaps it is rash. But when -you are going to foreign courts, what are you to do? If you have got -those sort of things you must wear them.”</p> - -<p>As I was not myself possessed of anything of that sort, and had no -intention of going to any foreign court, I could not argue the matter -with her. But I assisted her in getting together an enormous pile of -luggage, among which there were seven large boxes covered with canvas, -such as ladies not uncommonly carry with them when travelling. That one -which she represented as being smaller than the others, and as holding -jewellery, might be about a yard long by a foot and a half deep. Being -ignorant in those matters, I should have thought it sufficient to carry -all a lady’s wardrobe for twelve months. When the boxes were collected -together, she sat down upon the jewel-case and looked up into my face. -She was a pretty woman, perhaps thirty years of age, with long light -yellow hair, which she allowed to escape from her bonnet, knowing, -perhaps, that it was not unbecoming to her when thus dishevelled. Her -skin was very delicate, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381"></a>{381}</span> her complexion good. Indeed her face would -have been altogether prepossessing had there not been a want of -gentleness in her eyes. Her hands, too, were soft and small, and on the -whole she may be said to have been possessed of a strong battery of -feminine attractions. She also well knew how to use them.</p> - -<p>“Whisper,” she said to me, with a peculiar but very proper aspiration on -the h—“Wh-hisper,” and both by the aspiration and the use of the word I -knew at once from what island she had come. “Mr. Greene keeps all his -money in this box also; so I never let it go out of my sight for a -moment. But whatever you do, don’t tell him that I told you so.”</p> - -<p>I laid my hand on my heart, and made a solemn asseveration that I would -not divulge her secret. I need not, however, have troubled myself much -on that head, for as I walked up stairs, keeping my eye upon the -precious trunk, Mr. Greene addressed me.</p> - -<p>“You are an Englishman, Mr. Robinson,” said he. I acknowledged that I -was.</p> - -<p>“I am another. My wife, however, is Irish. My daughter,—by a former -marriage,—is English also. You see that box there.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” said I, “I see it.” I began to be so fascinated by the box -that I could not keep my eyes off it.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know whether or no it is prudent, but I keep all my money -there; my money for travelling, I mean.”</p> - -<p>“If I were you, then,” I answered, “I would not say anything about it to -any one.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, of course not,” said he; “I should not think of mentioning it. -But those brigands in Italy always take away what you have about your -person, but they don’t meddle with the heavy luggage.”</p> - -<p>“Bills of exchange, or circular notes,” I suggested.</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes; and if you can’t identify yourself, or happen to have a -headache, you can’t get them changed. I asked an old friend of mine, who -has been connected with the Bank of England for the last fifty years, -and he assured me that there was nothing like sovereigns.”</p> - -<p>“But you never get the value for them.”</p> - -<p>“Well, not quite. One loses a franc, or a franc and a half. But still, -there’s the certainty, and that’s the great matter. An English sovereign -will go anywhere,” and he spoke these words with considerable triumph.</p> - -<p>“Undoubtedly, if you consent to lose a shilling on each sovereign.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382"></a>{382}</span></p> - -<p>“At any rate, I have got three hundred and fifty in that box,” he said. -“I have them done up in rolls of twenty-five pounds each.”</p> - -<p>I again recommended him to keep this arrangement of his as private as -possible,—a piece of counsel which I confess seemed to me to be much -needed,—and then I went away to my own room, having first accepted an -invitation from Mrs. Greene to join their party at dinner. “Do,” said -she; “we have been so dull, and it will be so pleasant.”</p> - -<p>I did not require to be much pressed to join myself to a party in which -there was so pretty a girl as Miss Greene, and so attractive a woman as -Mrs. Greene. I therefore accepted the invitation readily, and went away -to make my toilet. As I did so I passed the door of Mr. Greene’s room, -and saw the long file of boxes being borne into the centre of it.</p> - -<p>I spent a pleasant evening, with, however, one or two slight drawbacks. -As to old Greene himself, he was all that was amiable; but then he was -nervous, full of cares, and somewhat apt to be a bore. He wanted -information on a thousand points, and did not seem to understand that a -young man might prefer the conversation of his daughter to his own. Not -that he showed any solicitude to prevent conversation on the part of his -daughter. I should have been perfectly at liberty to talk to either of -the ladies had he not wished to engross all my attention to himself. He -also had found it dull to be alone with his wife and daughter for the -last six weeks.</p> - -<p>He was a small spare man, probably over fifty years of age, who gave me -to understand that he had lived in London all his life, and had made his -own fortune in the city. What he had done in the city to make his -fortune he did not say. Had I come across him there I should no doubt -have found him to be a sharp man of business, quite competent to teach -me many a useful lesson of which I was as ignorant as an infant. Had he -caught me on the Exchange, or at Lloyd’s, or in the big room of the Bank -of England, I should have been compelled to ask him everything. Now, in -this little town under the Alps, he was as much lost as I should have -been in Lombard Street, and was ready enough to look to me for -information. I was by no means chary in giving him my counsel, and -imparting to him my ideas on things in general in that part of the -world;—only I should have preferred to be allowed to make myself civil -to his daughter.</p> - -<p>In the course of conversation it was mentioned by him that they intended -to stay a few days at Bellaggio, which, as all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383"></a>{383}</span> world knows, is a -central spot on the lake of Como, and a favourite resting-place for -travellers. There are three lakes which all meet here, and to all of -which we give the name of Como. They are properly called the lakes of -Como, Colico, and Lecco; and Bellaggio is the spot at which their waters -join each other. I had half made up my mind to sleep there one night on -my road into Italy, and now, on hearing their purpose, I declared that -such was my intention.</p> - -<p>“How very pleasant,” said Mrs. Greene. “It will be quite delightful to -have some one to show us how to settle ourselves, for really——”</p> - -<p>“My dear, I’m sure you can’t say that you ever have much trouble.”</p> - -<p>“And who does then, Mr. Greene? I am sure Sophonisba does not do much to -help me.”</p> - -<p>“You won’t let me,” said Sophonisba, whose name I had not before heard. -Her papa had called her Sophy in the yard of the inn. Sophonisba Greene! -Sophonisba Robinson did not sound so badly in my ears, and I confess -that I had tried the names together. Her papa had mentioned to me that -he had no other child, and had mentioned also that he had made his -fortune.</p> - -<p>And then there was a little family contest as to the amount of -travelling labour which fell to the lot of each of the party, during -which I retired to one of the windows of the big front room in which we -were sitting. And how much of this labour there is incidental to a -tourist’s pursuits! And how often these little contests do arise upon a -journey! Who has ever travelled and not known them? I had taken up such -a position at the window as might, I thought, have removed me out of -hearing; but nevertheless from time to time a word would catch my ear -about that precious box. “I have never taken my eyes off it since I left -England,” said Mrs. Greene, speaking quick, and with a considerable -brogue superinduced by her energy.</p> - -<p>“Where would it have been at Basle if I had not been looking afther it?” -“Quite safe,” said Sophonisba; “those large things always are safe.” -“Are they, Miss? That’s all you know about it. I suppose your bonnet-box -was quite safe when I found it on the platform at—at—I forget the name -of the place?”</p> - -<p>“Freidrichshafen,” said Sophonisba, with almost an unnecessary amount of -Teutonic skill in her pronunciation. “Well, mamma, you have told me of -that at least twenty times.” Soon after that, the ladies took them to -their own rooms, weary with the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384"></a>{384}</span> travelling of two days and a night, and -Mr. Greene went fast asleep in the very comfortless chair in which he -was seated.</p> - -<p>At four o’clock on the next morning we started on our journey.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">“Early to bed, and early to rise,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">Is the way to be healthy, and wealthy, and wise.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">We all know that lesson, and many of us believe in it; but if the lesson -be true, the Italians ought to be the healthiest and wealthiest and -wisest of all men and women. Three or four o’clock seems to them quite a -natural hour for commencing the day’s work. Why we should have started -from Chiavenna at four o’clock in order that we might be kept waiting -for the boat an hour and a half on the little quay at Colico, I don’t -know; but such was our destiny. There we remained an hour and a half, -Mrs. Greene sitting pertinaciously on the one important box. She had -designated it as being smaller than the others, and, as all the seven -were now ranged in a row, I had an opportunity of comparing them. It was -something smaller,—perhaps an inch less high, and an inch and a half -shorter. She was a sharp woman, and observed my scrutiny.</p> - -<p>“I always know it,” she said in a loud whisper, “by this little hole in -the canvas,” and she put her finger on a slight rent on one of the ends. -“As for Greene, if one of those Italian brigands were to walk off with -it on his shoulders, before his eyes, he wouldn’t be the wiser. How -helpless you men are, Mr. Robinson!”</p> - -<p>“It is well for us that we have women to look after us.”</p> - -<p>“But you have got no one to look after you;—or perhaps you have left -her behind?”</p> - -<p>“No, indeed. I’m all alone in the world as yet. But it’s not my own -fault. I have asked half a dozen.”</p> - -<p>“Now, Mr. Robinson!” And in this way the time passed on the quay at -Colico, till the boat came and took us away. I should have preferred to -pass my time in making myself agreeable to the younger lady; but the -younger lady stood aloof, turning up her nose, as I thought, at her -mamma.</p> - -<p>I will not attempt to describe the scenery about Colico. The little town -itself is one of the vilest places under the sun, having no -accommodation for travellers, and being excessively unhealthy; but there -is very little either north or south of the Alps,—and, perhaps, I may -add, very little elsewhere,—to beat the beauty of the mountains which -cluster round the head of the lake. When we had sat upon those boxes -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385"></a>{385}</span> hour and a half, we were taken on board the steamer, which had -been lying off a little way from the shore, and then we commenced our -journey. Of course there was a good deal of exertion and care necessary -in getting the packages off from the shore on to the boat, and I -observed that any one with half an eye in his head might have seen that -the mental anxiety expended on that one box which was marked by the -small hole in the canvas far exceeded that which was extended to all the -other six boxes. “They deserve that it should be stolen,” I said to -myself, “for being such fools.” And then we went down to breakfast in -the cabin.</p> - -<p>“I suppose it must be safe,” said Mrs. Greene to me, ignoring the fact -that the cabin waiter understood English, although she had just ordered -some veal cutlets in that language.</p> - -<p>“As safe as a church,” I replied, not wishing to give much apparent -importance to the subject.</p> - -<p>“They can’t carry it off here,” said Mr. Greene. But he was innocent of -any attempt at a joke, and was looking at me with all his eyes.</p> - -<p>“They might throw it overboard,” said Sophonisba. I at once made up my -mind that she could not be a good-natured girl. The moment that -breakfast was over, Mrs. Greene returned again up-stairs, and I found -her seated on one of the benches near the funnel, from which she could -keep her eyes fixed upon the box. “When one is obliged to carry about -one’s jewels with one, one must be careful, Mr. Robinson,” she said to -me apologetically. But I was becoming tired of the box, and the funnel -was hot and unpleasant, therefore I left her.</p> - -<p>I had made up my mind that Sophonisba was ill-natured; but, -nevertheless, she was pretty, and I now went through some little -manœuvres with the object of getting into conversation with her. This -I soon did, and was surprised by her frankness. “How tired you must be -of mamma and her box,” she said to me. To this I made some answer, -declaring that I was rather interested than otherwise in the safety of -the precious trunk. “It makes me sick,” said Sophonisba, “to hear her go -on in that way to a perfect stranger. I heard what she said about her -jewellery.”</p> - -<p>“It is natural she should be anxious,” I said, “seeing that it contains -so much that is valuable.”</p> - -<p>“Why did she bring them?” said Sophonisba. “She managed to live very -well without jewels till papa married her, about a year since; and now -she can’t travel about for a month without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386"></a>{386}</span> lugging them with her -everywhere. I should be so glad if some one would steal them.”</p> - -<p>“But all Mr. Greene’s money is there also.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t want papa to be bothered, but I declare I wish the box might be -lost for a day or so. She is such a fool; don’t you think so, Mr. -Robinson?”</p> - -<p>At this time it was just fourteen hours since I first had made their -acquaintance in the yard of Conradi’s hotel, and of those fourteen hours -more than half had been passed in bed. I must confess that I looked upon -Sophonisba as being almost more indiscreet than her mother-in-law. -Nevertheless, she was not stupid, and I continued my conversation with -her the greatest part of the way down the lake towards Bellaggio.</p> - -<p>These steamers which run up and down the lake of Como and the Lago -Maggiore, put out their passengers at the towns on the banks of the -water by means of small rowing-boats, and the persons who are about to -disembark generally have their own articles ready to their hands when -their turn comes for leaving the steamer. As we came near to Bellaggio, -I looked up my own portmanteau, and, pointing to the beautiful -wood-covered hill that stands at the fork of the waters, told my friend -Greene that he was near his destination. “I am very glad to hear it,” -said he, complacently, but he did not at the moment busy himself about -the boxes. Then the small boat ran up alongside the steamer, and the -passengers for Como and Milan crowded up the side.</p> - -<p>“We have to go in that boat,” I said to Greene.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but we have.”</p> - -<p>“What! put our boxes into that boat,” said Mrs. Greene. “Oh dear! Here, -boatman! there are seven of these boxes, all in white like this,” and -she pointed to the one that had the hole in the canvas. “Make haste. And -there are two bags, and my dressing case, and Mr. Greene’s portmanteau. -Mr. Greene, where is your portmanteau?”</p> - -<p>The boatman whom she addressed, no doubt did not understand a word of -English, but nevertheless he knew what she meant, and, being well -accustomed to the work, got all the luggage together in an incredibly -small number of moments.</p> - -<p>“If you will get down into the boat,” I said, “I will see that the -luggage follows you before I leave the deck.”</p> - -<p>“I won’t stir,” she said, “till I see that box lifted down. Take care; -you’ll let it fall into the lake. I know you will.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387"></a>{387}</span></p> - -<p>“I wish they would,” Sophonisba whispered into my ear.</p> - -<p>Mr. Greene said nothing, but I could see that his eyes were as anxiously -fixed on what was going on as were those of his wife. At last, however, -the three Greenes were in the boat, as also were all the packages. Then -I followed them, my portmanteau having gone down before me, and we -pushed off for Bellaggio. Up to this period most of the attendants -around us had understood a word or two of English, but now it would be -well if we could find some one to whose ears French would not be -unfamiliar. As regarded Mr. Greene and his wife, they, I found, must -give up all conversation, as they knew nothing of any language but their -own. Sophonisba could make herself understood in French, and was quite -at home, as she assured me, in German. And then the boat was beached on -the shore at Bellaggio, and we all had to go again to work with the -object of getting ourselves lodged at the hotel which overlooks the -water.</p> - -<p>I had learned before that the Greenes were quite free from any trouble -in this respect, for their rooms had been taken for them before they -left England. Trusting to this, Mrs. Greene gave herself no -inconsiderable airs the moment her foot was on the shore, and ordered -the people about as though she were the Lady Paramount of Bellaggio. -Italians, however, are used to this from travellers of a certain -description. They never resent such conduct, but simply put it down in -the bill with the other articles. Mrs. Greene’s words on this occasion -were innocent enough, seeing that they were English; but had I been that -head waiter who came down to the beach with his nice black shiny hair, -and his napkin under his arm, I should have thought her manner very -insolent.</p> - -<p>Indeed, as it was, I did think so, and was inclined to be angry with -her. She was to remain for some time at Bellaggio, and therefore it -behoved her, as she thought, to assume the character of the grand lady -at once. Hitherto she had been willing enough to do the work, but now -she began to order about Mr. Greene and Sophonisba; and, as it appeared -to me, to order me about also. I did not quite enjoy this; so leaving -her still among her luggage and satellites, I walked up to the hotel to -see about my own bed-room. I had some seltzer water, stood at the window -for three or four minutes, and then walked up and down the room. But -still the Greenes were not there. As I had put in at Bellaggio solely -with the object of seeing something more of Sophonisba, it would not do -for me to quarrel with them, or to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388"></a>{388}</span> allow them so to settle themselves -in their private sitting-room, that I should be excluded. Therefore I -returned again to the road by which they must come up, and met the -procession near the house.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Greene was leading it with great majesty, the waiter with the shiny -hair walking by her side to point out to her the way. Then came all the -luggage,—each porter carrying a white canvas-covered box. That which -was so valuable no doubt was carried next to Mrs. Greene, so that she -might at a moment’s notice put her eye upon the well-known valuable -rent. I confess that I did not observe the hole as the train passed by -me, nor did I count the number of the boxes. Seven boxes, all alike, are -very many; and then they were followed by three other men with the -inferior articles,—Mr. Greene’s portmanteau, the carpet-bag, &c., &c. -At the tail of the line, I found Mr. Greene, and behind him Sophonisba. -“All your fatigues will be over now,” I said to the gentleman, thinking -it well not to be too particular in my attentions to his daughter. He -was panting beneath a terrible great-coat, having forgotten that the -shores of an Italian lake are not so cold as the summits of the Alps, -and did not answer me. “I’m sure I hope so,” said Sophonisba. “And I -shall advise papa not to go any farther unless he can persuade Mrs. -Greene to send her jewels home.” “Sophy, my dear,” he said, “for -Heaven’s sake let us have a little peace since we are here.” From all -which I gathered that Mr. Green had not been fortunate in his second -matrimonial adventure. We then made our way slowly up to the hotel, -having been altogether distanced by the porters, and when we reached the -house we found that the different packages were already being carried -away through the house, some this way and some that. Mrs. Green, the -meanwhile, was talking loudly at the door of her own sitting-room.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Greene,” she said, as soon as she saw her heavily oppressed -spouse,—for the noonday sun was up,—“Mr. Greene, where are you?”</p> - -<p>“Here, my dear,” and Mr. Greene threw himself panting into the corner of -a sofa.</p> - -<p>“A little seltzer water and brandy,” I suggested. Mr. Greene’s inmost -heart leaped at the hint, and nothing that his remonstrant wife could -say would induce him to move, until he had enjoyed the delicious -draught. In the mean time the box with the hole in the canvas had been -lost.</p> - -<p>Yes; when we came to look into matters, to count the packages, and to -find out where we were, the box with the hole in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389"></a>{389}</span> the canvas was not -there. Or, at any rate, Mrs. Greene said it was not there. I worked hard -to look it up, and even went into Sophonisba’s bed-room in my search. In -Sophonisba’s bed-room there was but one canvas-covered box. “That is my -own,” said she, “and it is all that I have, except this bag.”</p> - -<p>“Where on earth can it be?” said I, sitting down on the trunk in -question. At the moment I almost thought that she had been instrumental -in hiding it.</p> - -<p>“How am I to know?” she answered; and I fancied that even she was -dismayed. “What a fool that woman is!”</p> - -<p>“The box must be in the house,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Do find it, for papa’s sake; there’s a good fellow. He will be so -wretched without his money. I heard him say that he had only two pounds -in his purse.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I can let him have money to go on with,” I answered grandly. And -then I went off to prove that I was a good fellow, and searched -throughout the house. Two white boxes had by order been left downstairs, -as they would not be needed; and these two were in a large cupboard of -the hall, which was used expressly for stowing away luggage. And then -there were three in Mrs. Greene’s bed-room, which had been taken there -as containing the wardrobe which she would require while remaining at -Bellaggio. I searched every one of these myself to see if I could find -the hole in the canvas. But the hole in the canvas was not there. And, -let me count as I would, I could make out only six. Now there certainly -had been seven on board the steamer, though I could not swear that I had -seen the seven put into the small boat.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Greene,” said the lady standing in the middle of her remaining -treasures, all of which were now open, “you are worth nothing when -travelling. Were you not behind?” But Mr. Greene’s mind was full, and he -did not answer.</p> - -<p>“It has been stolen before your very eyes,” she continued.</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, mamma,” said Sophonisba. “If ever it came out of the steamer -it certainly came into the house.”</p> - -<p>“I saw it out of the steamer,” said Mrs. Greene, “and it certainly is -not in the house. Mr. Robinson, may I trouble you to send for the -police?—at once, if you please, sir.”</p> - -<p>I had been at Bellaggio twice before, but nevertheless I was ignorant of -their system of police. And then, again, I did not know what was the -Italian for the word.</p> - -<p>“I will speak to the landlord,” I said.</p> - -<p>“If you will have the goodness to send for the police at once,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390"></a>{390}</span> I will -be obliged to you.” And as she thus reiterated her command, she stamped -with her foot upon the floor.</p> - -<p>“There are no police at Bellaggio,” said Sophonisba.</p> - -<p>“What on earth shall I do for money to go on with?” said Mr. Greene, -looking piteously up to the ceiling, and shaking both his hands.</p> - -<p>And now the whole house was in an uproar, including not only the -landlord, his wife and daughters, and all the servants, but also every -other visitor at the hotel. Mrs. Greene was not a lady who hid either -her glories or her griefs under a bushel, and, though she spoke only in -English, she soon made her protestations sufficiently audible. She -protested loudly that she had been robbed, and that she had been robbed -since she left the steamer. The box had come on shore; of that she was -quite certain. If the landlord had any regard either for his own -character or for that of his house, he would ascertain before an hour -was over where it was, and who had been the thief. She would give him an -hour. And then she sat herself down; but in two minutes she was up -again, vociferating her wrongs as loudly as ever. All this was filtered -through me and Sophonisba to the waiter in French, and from the waiter -to the landlord; but the lady’s gestures required no translation to make -them intelligible, and the state of her mind on the matter was, I -believe, perfectly well understood.</p> - -<p>Mr. Greene I really did pity. His feelings of dismay seemed to be quite -as deep, but his sorrow and solicitude were repressed into more decorum. -“What am I to do for money?” he said. “I have not a shilling to go on -with!” And he still looked up at the ceiling.</p> - -<p>“You must send to England,” said Sophonisba.</p> - -<p>“It will take a month,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Robinson will let you have what you want at present,” added -Sophonisba. Now I certainly had said so, and had meant it at the time. -But my whole travelling store did not exceed forty or fifty pounds, with -which I was going on to Venice, and then back to England through the -Tyrol. Waiting a month for Mr. Greene’s money from England might be even -more inconvenient to me than to him. Then it occurred to me that the -wants of the Greene family would be numerous and expensive, and that my -small stock would go but a little way among so many. And what also if -there had been no money and no jewels in that accursed box! I confess -that at the moment such an idea did strike my mind. One hears of -sharpers on every side committing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391"></a>{391}</span> depredations by means of most -singular intrigues and contrivances. Might it not be possible that the -whole batch of Greenes belonged to this order of society. It was a base -idea, I own; but I confess that I entertained it for a moment.</p> - -<p>I retired to my own room for a while that I might think over all the -circumstances. There certainly had been seven boxes, and one had had a -hole in the canvas. All the seven had certainly been on board the -steamer. To so much I felt that I might safely swear. I had not counted -the seven into the small boat, but on leaving the larger vessel I had -looked about the deck to see that none of the Greene trappings were -forgotten. If left on the steamer, it had been so left through an intent -on the part of some one there employed. It was quite possible that the -contents of the box had been ascertained through the imprudence of Mrs. -Greene, and that it had been conveyed away so that it might be rifled at -Como. As to Mrs. Greene’s assertion that all the boxes had been put into -the small boat, I thought nothing of it. The people at Bellaggio could -not have known which box to steal, nor had there been time to concoct -the plan in carrying the boxes up to the hotel. I came at last to this -conclusion, that the missing trunk had either been purloined and carried -on to Como,—in which case it would be necessary to lose no time in -going after it; or that it had been put out of sight in some uncommonly -clever way, by the Greenes themselves, as an excuse for borrowing as -much money as they could raise and living without payment of their -bills. With reference to the latter hypothesis, I declared to myself -that Greene did not look like a swindler; but as to Mrs. Greene—! I -confess that I did not feel so confident in regard to her.</p> - -<p>Charity begins at home, so I proceeded to make myself comfortable in my -room, feeling almost certain that I should not be able to leave -Bellaggio on the following morning. I had opened my portmanteau when I -first arrived, leaving it open on the floor as is my wont. Some people -are always being robbed, and are always locking up everything; while -others wander safe over the world and never lock up anything. For -myself, I never turn a key anywhere, and no one ever purloins from me -even a handkerchief. Cantabit vacuus—, and I am always sufficiently -vacuus. Perhaps it is that I have not a handkerchief worth the stealing. -It is your heavy-laden, suspicious, mal-adroit Greenes that the thieves -attack. I now found out that the accommodating Boots, who already knew -my ways, had taken my travelling gear into a dark recess which was -intended to do for a dressing-room<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392"></a>{392}</span>, and had there spread my portmanteau -open upon some table or stool in the corner. It was a convenient -arrangement, and there I left it during the whole period of my sojourn.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Greene had given the landlord an hour to find the box, and during -that time the landlord, the landlady, their three daughters, and all the -servants in the house certainly did exert themselves to the utmost. Half -a dozen times they came to my door, but I was luxuriating in a -washing-tub, making up for that four-o’clock start from Chiavenna. I -assured them, however, that the box was not there, and so the search -passed by. At the end of the hour I went back to the Greenes according -to promise, having resolved that some one must be sent on to Como to -look after the missing article.</p> - -<p>There was no necessity to knock at their sitting-room door, for it was -wide open. I walked in, and found Mrs. Greene still engaged in attacking -the landlord, while all the porters who had carried the luggage up to -the house were standing round. Her voice was loud above the others, but, -luckily for them all, she was speaking English. The landlord, I saw, was -becoming sulky. He spoke in Italian, and we none of us understood him, -but I gathered that he was declining to do anything further. The box, he -was certain, had never come out of the steamer. The Boots stood by -interpreting into French, and, acting as second interpreter, I put it -into English.</p> - -<p>Mr. Greene, who was seated on the sofa, groaned audibly, but said -nothing. Sophonisba, who was sitting by him, beat upon the floor with -both her feet.</p> - -<p>“Do you hear, Mr. Greene?” said she, turning to him. “Do you mean to -allow that vast amount of property to be lost without an effort? Are you -prepared to replace my jewels?”</p> - -<p>“Her jewels!” said Sophonisba, looking up into my face. “Papa had to pay -the bill for every stitch she had when he married her.” These last words -were so spoken as to be audible only by me, but her first exclamation -was loud enough. Were they people for whom it would be worth my while to -delay my journey, and put myself to serious inconvenience with reference -to money?</p> - -<p>A few minutes afterwards I found myself with Greene on the terrace -before the house. “What ought I to do?” said he.</p> - -<p>“Go to Como,” said I, “and look after your box. I will remain here and -go on board the return steamer. It may perhaps be there.”</p> - -<p>“But I can’t speak a word of Italian,” said he.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393"></a>{393}</span></p> - -<p>“Take the Boots,” said I.</p> - -<p>“But I can’t speak a word of French.” And then it ended in my -undertaking to go to Como. I swear that the thought struck me that I -might as well take my portmanteau with me, and cut and run when I got -there. The Greenes were nothing to me.</p> - -<p>I did not, however, do this. I made the poor man a promise, and I kept -it. I took merely a dressing-bag, for I knew that I must sleep at Como; -and, thus resolving to disarrange all my plans, I started. I was in the -midst of beautiful scenery, but I found it quite impossible to draw any -enjoyment from it;—from that or from anything around me. My whole mind -was given up to anathemas against this odious box, as to which I had -undoubtedly heavy cause of complaint. What was the box to me? I went to -Como by the afternoon steamer, and spent a long dreary evening down on -the steamboat quays searching everywhere, and searching in vain. The -boat by which we had left Colico had gone back to Colico, but the people -swore that nothing had been left on board it. It was just possible that -such a box might have gone on to Milan with the luggage of other -passengers.</p> - -<p>I slept at Como, and on the following morning I went on to Milan. There -was no trace of the box to be found in that city. I went round to every -hotel and travelling office, but could hear nothing of it. Parties had -gone to Venice, and Florence, and Bologna, and any of them might have -taken the box. No one, however, remembered it; and I returned back to -Como, and thence to Bellaggio, reaching the latter place at nine in the -evening, disappointed, weary, and cross.</p> - -<p>“Has Monsieur found the accursed trunk?” said the Bellaggio Boots, -meeting me on the quay.</p> - -<p>“In the name of the ——, no. Has it not turned up here?”</p> - -<p>“Monsieur,” said the Boots, “we shall all be mad soon. The poor master, -he is mad already.” And then I went up to the house.</p> - -<p>“My jewels!” shouted Mrs. Greene, rushing to me with her arms stretched -out as soon as she heard my step in the corridor. I am sure that she -would have embraced me had I found the box. I had not, however, earned -any such reward. “I can hear nothing of the box either at Como or -Milan,” I said.</p> - -<p>“Then what on earth am I to do for my money?” said Mr. Greene.</p> - -<p>I had had neither dinner nor supper, but the elder Greenes did not care -for that. Mr. Greene sat silent in despair, and Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394"></a>{394}</span> Greene stormed -about the room in her anger. “I am afraid you are very tired,” said -Sophonisba.</p> - -<p>“I am tired, and hungry, and thirsty,” said I. I was beginning to get -angry, and to think myself ill used. And that idea as to a family of -swindlers became strong again. Greene had borrowed ten napoleons from me -before I started for Como, and I had spent above four in my fruitless -journey to that place and Milan. I was beginning to fear that my whole -purpose as to Venice and the Tyrol would be destroyed; and I had -promised to meet friends at Innspruck, who,—who were very much -preferable to the Greenes. As events turned out, I did meet them. Had I -failed in this, the present Mrs. Robinson would not have been sitting -opposite to me.</p> - -<p>I went to my room and dressed myself, and then Sophonisba presided over -the tea-table for me. “What are we to do?” she asked me in a -confidential whisper.</p> - -<p>“Wait for money from England.”</p> - -<p>“But they will think we are all sharpers,” she said; “and upon my word I -do not wonder at it from the way in which that woman goes on.” She then -leaned forward, resting her elbow on the table and her face on her hand, -and told me a long history of all their family discomforts. Her papa was -a very good sort of man, only he had been made a fool of by that -intriguing woman, who had been left without a sixpence with which to -bless herself. And now they had nothing but quarrels and misery. Papa -did not always got the worst of it;—papa could rouse himself sometimes; -only now he was beaten down and cowed by the loss of his money. This -whispering confidence was very nice in its way, seeing that Sophonisba -was a pretty girl; but the whole matter seemed to be full of suspicion.</p> - -<p>“If they did not want to take you in in one way, they did in another,” -said the present Mrs. Robinson, when I told the story to her at -Innspruck. I beg that it may be understood that at the time of my -meeting the Greenes I was not engaged to the present Mrs. Robinson, and -was open to make any matrimonial engagement that might have been -pleasing to me.</p> - -<p>On the next morning, after breakfast, we held a council of war. I had -been informed that Mr. Greene had made a fortune, and was justified in -presuming him to be a rich man. It seemed to me, therefore, that his -course was easy. Let him wait at Bellaggio for more money, and when he -returned home, let him buy Mrs. Greene more jewels. A poor man always -presumes that a rich man is indifferent about his money. But in truth a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395"></a>{395}</span> -rich man never is indifferent about his money, and poor Greene looked -very blank at my proposition.</p> - -<p>“Do you mean to say that it’s gone for ever?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“I’ll not leave the country without knowing more about it,” said Mrs. -Greene.</p> - -<p>“It certainly is very odd,” said Sophonisba. Even Sophonisba seemed to -think that I was too off-hand.</p> - -<p>“It will be a month before I can get money, and my bill here will be -something tremendous,” said Greene.</p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t pay them a farthing till I got my box,” said Mrs. Greene.</p> - -<p>“That’s nonsense,” said Sophonisba. And so it was.</p> - -<p>“Hold your tongue, Miss!” said the step-mother.</p> - -<p>“Indeed, I shall not hold my tongue,” said the step-daughter.</p> - -<p>Poor Greene! He had lost more than his box within the last twelve -months; for, as I had learned in that whispered conversation over the -tea-table with Sophonisba, this was in reality her papa’s marriage trip.</p> - -<p>Another day was now gone, and we all went to bed. Had I not been very -foolish I should have had myself called at five in the morning, and have -gone away by the early boat, leaving my ten napoleons behind me. But, -unfortunately, Sophonisba had exacted a promise from me that I would not -do this, and thus all chance of spending a day or two in Venice was lost -to me. Moreover, I was thoroughly fatigued, and almost glad of any -excuse which would allow me to lie in bed on the following morning. I -did lie in bed till nine o’clock, and then found the Greenes at -breakfast.</p> - -<p>“Let us go and look at the Serbelloni Gardens,” said I, as soon as the -silent meal was over; “or take a boat over to the Sommariva Villa.”</p> - -<p>“I should like it so much,” said Sophonisba.</p> - -<p>“We will do nothing of the kind till I have found my property,” said -Mrs. Greene. “Mr. Robinson, what arrangement did you make yesterday with -the police at Como?”</p> - -<p>“The police at Como?” I said. “I did not go to the police.”</p> - -<p>“Not go to the police? And do you mean to say that I am to be robbed of -my jewels and no efforts made for redress? Is there no such thing as a -constable in this wretched country? Mr. Greene, I do insist upon it that -you at once go to the nearest British consul.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose I had better write home for money,” said he.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396"></a>{396}</span></p> - -<p>“And do you mean to say that you haven’t written yet?” said I, probably -with some acrimony in my voice.</p> - -<p>“You needn’t scold papa,” said Sophonisba.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know what I am to do,” said Mr. Greene, and he began walking up -and down the room; but still he did not call for pen and ink, and I -began again to feel that he was a swindler. Was it possible that a man -of business, who had made his fortune in London, should allow his wife -to keep all her jewels in a box, and carry about his own money in the -same?</p> - -<p>“I don’t see why you need be so very unhappy, papa,” said Sophonisba. -“Mr. Robinson, I’m sure, will let you have whatever money you may want -at present.” This was pleasant!</p> - -<p>“And will Mr. Robinson return me my jewels which were lost, I must say, -in a great measure, through his carelessness,” said Mrs. Greene. This -was pleasanter!</p> - -<p>“Upon my word, Mrs. Greene, I must deny that,” said I, jumping up. “What -on earth could I have done more than I did do? I have been to Milan and -nearly fagged myself to death.”</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you bring a policeman back with you?”</p> - -<p>“You would tell everybody on board the boat what there was in it,” said -I.</p> - -<p>“I told nobody but you,” she answered.</p> - -<p>“I suppose you mean to imply that I’ve taken the box,” I rejoined. So -that on this, the third or fourth day of our acquaintance, we did not go -on together quite pleasantly.</p> - -<p>But what annoyed me, perhaps, the most, was the confidence with which it -seemed to be Mr. Greene’s intention to lean upon my resources. He -certainly had not written home yet, and had taken my ten napoleons, as -one friend may take a few shillings from another when he finds that he -has left his own silver on his dressing-table. What could he have wanted -of ten napoleons? He had alleged the necessity of paying the porters, -but the few francs he had had in his pocket would have been enough for -that. And now Sophonisba was ever and again prompt in her assurances -that he need not annoy himself about money, because I was at his right -hand. I went upstairs into my own room, and counting all my treasures, -found that thirty-six pounds and some odd silver was the extent of my -wealth. With that I had to go, at any rate, as far as Innspruck, and -from thence back to London. It was quite impossible that I should make -myself responsible for the Greenes’ bill at Bellaggio.</p> - -<p>We dined early, and after dinner, according to a promise made in the -morning, Sophonisba ascended with me into the Serbelloni<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397"></a>{397}</span> Gardens, and -walked round the terraces on that beautiful hill which commands the view -of the three lakes. When we started I confess that I would sooner have -gone alone, for I was sick of the Greenes in my very soul. We had had a -terrible day. The landlord had been sent for so often, that he refused -to show himself again. The landlady—though Italians of that class are -always courteous—had been so driven that she snapped her fingers in -Mrs. Greene’s face. The three girls would not show themselves. The -waiters kept out of the way as much as possible; and the Boots, in -confidence, abused them to me behind their back. “Monsieur,” said the -Boots, “do you think there ever was such a box?” “Perhaps not,” said I; -and yet I knew that I had seen it.</p> - -<p>I would, therefore, have preferred to walk without Sophonisba; but that -now was impossible. So I determined that I would utilise the occasion by -telling her of my present purpose. I had resolved to start on the -following day, and it was now necessary to make my friends understand -that it was not in my power to extend to them any further pecuniary -assistance.</p> - -<p>Sophonisba, when we were on the hill, seemed to have forgotten the box, -and to be willing that I should forget it also. But this was impossible. -When, therefore, she told me how sweet it was to escape from that -terrible woman, and leaned on my arm with all the freedom of old -acquaintance, I was obliged to cut short the pleasure of the moment.</p> - -<p>“I hope your father has written that letter,” said I.</p> - -<p>“He means to write it from Milan. We know you want to get on, so we -purpose to leave here the day after to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Oh!” said I, thinking of the bill immediately, and remembering that -Mrs. Greene had insisted on having champagne for dinner.</p> - -<p>“And if anything more is to be done about the nasty box, it may be done -there,” continued Sophonisba.</p> - -<p>“But I must go to-morrow,” said I, “at 5 <small>A.M.</small>”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense,” said Sophonisba. “Go to-morrow, when I,—I mean we,—are -going on the next day!”</p> - -<p>“And I might as well explain,” said I, gently dropping the hand that was -on my arm, “that I find,—I find it will be impossible for -me—to—to——”</p> - -<p>“To what?”</p> - -<p>“To advance Mr. Greene any more money just at present.” Then -Sophonisba’s arm dropped all at once, and she exclaimed, “Oh, Mr. -Robinson!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398"></a>{398}</span></p> - -<p>After all, there was a certain hard good sense about Miss Greene which -would have protected her from my evil thoughts had I known all the -truth. I found out afterwards that she was a considerable heiress, and, -in spite of the opinion expressed by the present Mrs. Robinson when Miss -Walker, I do not for a moment think she would have accepted me had I -offered to her.</p> - -<p>“You are quite right not to embarrass yourself,” she said, when I -explained to her my immediate circumstances; “but why did you make papa -an offer which you cannot perform? He must remain here now till he hears -from England. Had you explained it all at first, the ten napoleons would -have carried us to Milan.” This was all true, and yet I thought it hard -upon me.</p> - -<p>It was evident to me now, that Sophonisba was prepared to join her -step-mother in thinking that I had ill-treated them, and I had not much -doubt that I should find Mr. Greene to be of the same opinion. There was -very little more said between us during the walk, and when we reached -the hotel at seven or half-past seven o’clock, I merely remarked that I -would go in and wish her father and mother good-bye. “I suppose you will -drink tea with us,” said Sophonisba, and to this I assented.</p> - -<p>I went into my own room, and put all my things into my portmanteau, for -according to the custom, which is invariable in Italy when an early -start is premeditated, the Boots was imperative in his demand that the -luggage should be ready over night. I then went to the Greene’s -sitting-room, and found that the whole party was now aware of my -intentions.</p> - -<p>“So you are going to desert us,” said Mrs. Greene.</p> - -<p>“I must go on upon my journey,” I pleaded in a weak apologetic voice.</p> - -<p>“Go on upon your journey, sir!” said Mrs. Greene. “I would not for a -moment have you put yourself to inconvenience on our account.” And yet I -had already lost fourteen napoleons, and given up all prospect of going -to Venice!</p> - -<p>“Mr. Robinson is certainly right not to break his engagement with Miss -Walker,” said Sophonisba. Now I had said not a word about an engagement -with Miss Walker, having only mentioned incidentally that she would be -one of the party at Innspruck. “But,” continued she, “I think he should -not have misled us.” And in this way we enjoyed our evening meal.</p> - -<p>I was just about to shake hands with them all, previous to my final -departure from their presence, when the Boots came into the room.</p> - -<p>“I’ll leave the portmanteau till to-morrow morning,” said he.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399"></a>{399}</span></p> - -<p>“All right,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Because,” said he, “there will be such a crowd of things in the hall. -The big trunk I will take away now.”</p> - -<p>“Big trunk,—what big trunk?”</p> - -<p>“The trunk with your rug over it, on which your portmanteau stood.”</p> - -<p>I looked round at Mr., Mrs., and Miss Greene, and saw that they were all -looking at me. I looked round at them, and as their eyes met mine I felt -that I turned as red as fire. I immediately jumped up and rushed away to -my own room, hearing as I went that all their steps were following me. I -rushed to the inner recess, pulled down the portmanteau, which still -remained in its old place, tore away my own carpet rug which covered the -support beneath it, and there saw——a white canvas-covered box, with a -hole in the canvas on the side next to me!</p> - -<p>“It is my box,” said Mrs. Greene, pushing me away, as she hurried up and -put her finger within the rent.</p> - -<p>“It certainly does look like it,” said Mr. Greene, peering over his -wife’s shoulder.</p> - -<p>“There’s no doubt about the box,” said Sophonisba.</p> - -<p>“Not the least in life,” said I, trying to assume an indifferent look.</p> - -<p>“Mon Dieu!” said the Boots.</p> - -<p>“Corpo di Baccho!” exclaimed the landlord, who had now joined the party.</p> - -<p>“Oh—h—h—h—!” screamed Mrs. Greene, and then she threw herself back -on to my bed, and shrieked hysterically.</p> - -<p>There was no doubt whatsoever about the fact. There was the lost box, -and there it had been during all those tedious hours of unavailing -search. While I was suffering all that fatigue in Milan, spending my -precious zwanzigers in driving about from one hotel to another, the box -had been safe, standing in my own room at Bellaggio, hidden by my own -rug. And now that it was found everybody looked at me as though it were -all my fault. Mrs. Greene’s eyes, when she had done being hysterical, -were terrible, and Sophonisba looked at me as though I were a convicted -thief.</p> - -<p>“Who put the box here?” I said, turning fiercely upon the Boots.</p> - -<p>“I did,” said the Boots, “by Monsieur’s express order.”</p> - -<p>“By my order?” I exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” said the Boots.</p> - -<p>“Corpo di Baccho!” said the landlord, and he also looked at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400"></a>{400}</span> me as -though I were a thief. In the mean time the landlady and the three -daughters had clustered round Mrs. Greene, administering to her all -manner of Italian consolation. The box, and the money, and the jewels -were after all a reality; and much incivility can be forgiven to a lady -who has really lost her jewels, and has really found them again.</p> - -<p>There and then there arose a hurly-burly among us as to the manner in -which the odious trunk found its way into my room. Had anybody been just -enough to consider the matter coolly, it must have been quite clear that -I could not have ordered it there. When I entered the hotel, the boxes -were already being lugged about, and I had spoken a word to no one -concerning them. That traitorous Boots had done it,—no doubt without -malice prepense; but he had done it; and now that the Greenes were once -more known as moneyed people, he turned upon me, and told me to my face, -that I had desired that box to be taken to my own room as part of my own -luggage!</p> - -<p>“My dear,” said Mr. Greene, turning to his wife, “you should never -mention the contents of your luggage to any one.”</p> - -<p>“I never will again,” said Mrs. Greene, with a mock repentant air, “but -I really thought——”</p> - -<p>“One never can be sure of sharpers,” said Mr. Greene.</p> - -<p>“That’s true,” said Mrs. Greene.</p> - -<p>“After all, it may have been accidental,” said Sophonisba, on hearing -which good-natured surmise both papa and mamma Greene shook their -suspicious heads.</p> - -<p>I was resolved to say nothing then. It was all but impossible that they -should really think that I had intended to steal their box; nor, if they -did think so, would it have become me to vindicate myself before the -landlord and all his servants. I stood by therefore in silence, while -two of the men raised the trunk, and joined the procession which -followed it as it was carried out of my room into that of the legitimate -owner. Everybody in the house was there by that time, and Mrs. Greene, -enjoying the triumph, by no means grudged them the entrance into her -sitting-room. She had felt that she was suspected, and now she was -determined that the world of Bellaggio should know how much she was -above suspicion. The box was put down upon two chairs, the supporters -who had borne it retiring a pace each. Mrs. Greene then advanced proudly -with the selected key, and Mr. Greene stood by at her right shoulder, -ready to receive his portion of the hidden treasure. Sophonisba was now -indifferent, and threw herself on the sofa, while I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401"></a>{401}</span> walked up and down -the room thoughtfully,—meditating what words I should say when I took -my last farewell of the Greenes.</p> - -<p>But as I walked I could see what occurred. Mrs. Greene opened the box, -and displayed to view the ample folds of a huge yellow woollen -dressing-gown. I could fancy that she would not willingly have exhibited -this article of her toilet, had she not felt that its existence would -speedily be merged in the presence of the glories which were to follow. -This had merely been the padding at the top of the box. Under that lay a -long papier-maché case, and in that were all her treasures. “Ah, they -are safe,” she said, opening the lid and looking upon her tawdry pearls -and carbuncles.</p> - -<p>Mr. Greene, in the mean time, well knowing the passage for his hand, had -dived down to the very bottom of the box, and seized hold of a small -canvas bag. “It is here,” said he, dragging it up, “and as far as I can -tell, as yet, the knot has not been untied.” Whereupon he sat himself -down by Sophonisba, and employing her to assist him in holding them, -began to count his rolls. “They are all right,” said he; and he wiped -the perspiration from his brow.</p> - -<p>I had not yet made up my mind in what manner I might best utter my last -words among them so as to maintain the dignity of my character, and now -I was standing over against Mr. Greene with my arms folded on my breast. -I had on my face a frown of displeasure, which I am able to assume upon -occasions, but I had not yet determined what words I would use. After -all, perhaps, it might be as well that I should leave them without any -last words.</p> - -<p>“Greene, my dear,” said the lady, “pay the gentleman his ten napoleons.”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, certainly;” whereupon Mr. Greene undid one of the rolls and -extracted eight sovereigns. “I believe that will make it right, sir,” -said he, handing them to me.</p> - -<p>I took the gold, slipped it with an indifferent air into my waistcoat -pocket, and then refolded my arms across my breast.</p> - -<p>“Papa,” said Sophonisba, in a very audible whisper, “Mr. Robinson went -for you to Como. Indeed, I believe he says he went to Milan.”</p> - -<p>“Do not let that be mentioned,” said I.</p> - -<p>“By all means pay him his expenses,” said Mrs. Greene; “I would not owe -him anything for worlds.”</p> - -<p>“He should be paid,” said Sophonisba.</p> - -<p>“Oh, certainly,” said Mr. Greene. And he at once extracted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402"></a>{402}</span> another -sovereign, and tendered it to me in the face of the assembled multitude.</p> - -<p>This was too much! “Mr. Greene,” said I, “I intended to be of service to -you when I went to Milan, and you are very welcome to the benefit of my -intentions. The expense of that journey, whatever may be its amount, is -my own affair.” And I remained standing with my closed arms.</p> - -<p>“We will be under no obligation to him,” said Mrs. Greene; “and I shall -insist on his taking the money.”</p> - -<p>“The servant will put it on his dressing-table,” said Sophonisba. And -she handed the sovereign to the Boots, giving him instructions.</p> - -<p>“Keep it yourself, Antonio,” I said. Whereupon the man chucked it to the -ceiling with his thumb, caught it as it fell, and with a well-satisfied -air, dropped it into the recesses of his pocket. The air of the Greenes -was also well satisfied, for they felt that they had paid me in full for -all my services.</p> - -<p>And now, with many obsequious bows and assurances of deep respect, the -landlord and his family withdrew from the room. “Was there anything else -they could do for Mrs. Greene?” Mrs. Greene was all affability. She had -shown her jewels to the girls, and allowed them to express their -admiration in pretty Italian superlatives. There was nothing else she -wanted to-night. She was very happy and liked Bellaggio. She would stay -yet a week, and would make herself quite happy. And, though none of them -understood a word that the other said, each understood that things were -now rose-coloured, and so with scrapings, bows, and grinning smiles, the -landlord and all his myrmidons withdrew. Mr. Greene was still counting -his money, sovereign by sovereign, and I was still standing with my -folded arms upon my bosom.</p> - -<p>“I believe I may now go,” said I.</p> - -<p>“Good night,” said Mrs. Greene.</p> - -<p>“Adieu,” said Sophonisba.</p> - -<p>“I have the pleasure of wishing you good-bye,” said Mr. Greene.</p> - -<p>And then I walked out of the room. After all, what was the use of saying -anything? And what could I say that would have done me any service? If -they were capable of thinking me a thief,—which they certainly -did,—nothing that I could say would remove the impression. Nor, as I -thought, was it suitable that I should defend myself from such an -imputation. What were the Greenes to me? So I walked slowly out of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403"></a>{403}</span> the -room, and never again saw one of the family from that day to this.</p> - -<p>As I stood upon the beach the next morning, while my portmanteau was -being handed into the boat, I gave the Boots five zwanzigers. I was -determined to show him that I did not condescend to feel anger against -him.</p> - -<p>He took the money, looked into my face, and then whispered to me, “Why -did you not give me a word of notice beforehand?” he said, and winked -his eye. He was evidently a thief, and took me to be another;—but what -did it matter?</p> - -<p>I went thence to Milan, in which city I had no heart to look at -anything; thence to Verona, and so over the pass of the Brenner to -Innspruck. When I once found myself near to my dear friends the Walkers -I was again a happy man; and I may safely declare that, though a portion -of my journey was so troublesome and unfortunate, I look back upon that -tour as the happiest and the luckiest epoch of my life.</p> - -<p class="c">THE END.</p> - -<p class="c"><small><span class="smcap">LONDON: W. H. SMITH AND SON, PRINTERS, 186, STRAND.</span></small></p> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Tales of All Countries, by Anthony Trollope - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES OF ALL COUNTRIES *** - -***** This file should be named 55147-h.htm or 55147-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/1/4/55147/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at Google Books) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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