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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/76886-0.txt b/76886-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2227db2 --- /dev/null +++ b/76886-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,5926 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76886 *** + + + + + + DEAD-SEA FRUIT + + + A Novel + + + + + BY THE AUTHOR OF + “LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET,” + ETC., ETC., ETC. + + + IN THREE VOLUMES. + + + VOL. II. + + + + + LONDON + WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER + WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW + 1868. + + [_All rights reserved_] + + + + + LONDON: + PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO., + 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + +CHAP. PAGE + + I. ALPHA AND OMEGA 1 + + II. MISS ST. ALBANS BREAKS HER ENGAGEMENT 52 + + III. MR. DESMOND TO THE RESCUE 78 + + IV. A PERILOUS PROTEGEE 105 + + V. OUT OF THE WORLD 132 + + VI. MRS. JERNINGHAM IS PHILANTHROPIC 146 + + VII. DECEITFUL ABOVE ALL THINGS 173 + + VIII. DANIEL MAYFIELD’S COUNSEL 189 + + IX. BETWEEN EDEN AND EXILE 210 + + X. “L’OISEAU FUIT COMME LE BONHEUR” 233 + + XI. “THE DISAPPOINTMENTS OF DION” 250 + + XII. “INFINITE RICHES IN A LITTLE ROOM” 285 + + + + + DEAD-SEA FRUIT. + + + + + CHAPTER I. + + ALPHA AND OMEGA. + + +THERE were some days on which M. de Bergerac had no work for his +secretary, and on such occasions the young man was free to dispose of +himself as he pleased. These days Eustace Thorburn devoted partly to +reading and meditation, partly to the delightful duty of ministering to +Helen’s caprices--if, indeed, the word “caprice” can fairly be used in +relation to any one so entirely amiable as Mademoiselle de Bergerac. + +Happily for the ambitious hopes of the student, there were some days on +which Helen asked no service from her willing slave, and when the slave +could find no excuse for intruding on the privacy of his mistress as +she read, or practised, or worked in her pretty drawing-room. + +On these leisure days Eustace made good progress with his own studies. +He cherished the ideas of the ancients as to the requirements of a +poet, and thought that whatever was learnt by Virgil should be at least +attempted by every student who would fain sacrifice at the shrine of +the Muses. On dull days he was wont to spend the morning in his own +room, working his hardest, but in fine weather he preferred a solitary +ramble in the park, or on the banks of the river, with his own thoughts +and a volume of classic prose or poetry for company. + +He set out for a day’s ramble, one fine, sharp morning in December, at +the same hour in which a gentleman arrived at Windsor by the morning +express from town. + +This gentleman left his luggage and his servant at the station, and +set out to walk from Windsor to Greenlands, as Eustace had done about +four months before. He was a man of middle size and of middle age, with +a slender but muscular form, and a fair patrician face--a face with +an aquiline nose and cold, bright-blue eyes that might have belonged +to some Danish Viking, but a face in which the rugged grandeur of +the old warrior-blood was tempered by the effeminacy of half a dozen +generations of courtiers. + +There was an inexpressible languor in the droop of the eyelids, an +extreme hauteur in the carriage of the head. The mouth was perfect in +its modelling, but the lips had the sensuous beauty of a Greek statue, +too feminine in their soft harmonious line, and out of character with +the rest of the face. + +Such was Harold Jerningham, owner of Greenlands, in Berkshire, and of +the bijou house in Park Lane. Fifty-two years of an existence that may +be fairly termed exhaustive had left their impress upon him. There were +traces of the crow’s-foot at the corners of the clear, full blue eyes, +and sharp lines across the fair, proud brow. The waving auburn hair was +sprinkled ever so lightly with the first snow-flakes of life’s winter, +and the auburn moustache and beard owed something of their tint to the +care of an assiduous valet; but Mr. Jerningham was the kind of man who +looks his handsomest at fifty years of age; and there were few faces in +foreign Court or ball-room that won more notice than his on those rare +occasions on which the _blasé_ English traveller condescended to +appear in public. + +The lively Celts amongst whom Mr. Jerningham made a languid endeavour +to get rid of his existence regarded that gentleman as a striking +example of the English “spleen,” and were prepared to hear at any +moment that Sir Jerningham had made an unusually careful toilet that +morning, and had then proceeded, with insular frigidity, to cut himself +the throat _à la manière Anglaise_. + +For the last seven or eight years the world had found no subject +for scandal in the life of Harold Jerningham. It seemed as if those +wild-oats which he had been sowing, more or less industriously, ever +since he left the University must needs be at last exhausted, so +quiet, and even studious, was the existence of the gentleman, who +appeared now in London, anon in Vienna, to-day in Paris, next week in +Norway; and who seemed always to support the burden of his being with +the same heroic endurance, and to combine the cold creed of the Stoic +with the agreeable practice of the Epicurean. + +He had lived for himself alone, and had sinned for his own pleasure; +and if his life within the last decade had been comparatively pure and +harmless, it was because the bitter apples of the Dead Sea could tempt +him no longer by their outward beauty. He was unutterably weary of the +inner bitterness, and even the outward beauty had lost its charm. If he +had ceased to be a sinner, it was that he was tired of sinning, rather +than that he lamented his past offences. + +A sudden fancy, engendered out of the very emptiness and weariness of +his brain, had brought him to England, and the same fancy brought him +to Greenlands. He wanted to see the old, abandoned place, which had +echoed with his childish laughter in the days when he could still be +amused; the woods that had been peopled by his dreams, in the days when +he had not yet lost the power to dream. He wanted to see these things; +and, more than these things, he wanted to see the one friend whose +society was pleasant, whose friendship was in some wise precious to him. + +“I have rather gloried in outraging the prejudices of my fellow-men,” +he had said to himself sometimes, when anatomizing his own character, +in that critical and meditative mood which was habitual to him; “but I +believe I should scarcely like Theodore de Bergerac to think ill of me. +It is not in me to play the hypocrite, and yet I fancy I have always +contrived to keep the darker side of my nature hidden from him.” + +The master of Greenlands happened to be in an unusually reflective +mood, and his reflections of to-day were tinged with a certain +despondency. This nineteenth of December was his birthday, the +fifty-second anniversary of his first appearance upon the stage of +life; and the reflections which the day brought with it were far +from pleasant. For the first time in his existence Mr. Jerningham +had this morning been struck by the notion that it was a dreary +thing to eat a solitary breakfast on the anniversary of his birth, +uncheered by the voice of kinsman or friend invoking blessings on his +head. The luxurious little dining-room in Park Lane glowed in the +ruddy fire-light, and glittered with all the chaste splendour of Mr. +Jerningham’s art-treasures, as he trifled with his tea and toast, far +too tired of all the delicacies of this earth to care for the bloated +livers of Strasbourg geese or the savoury flesh of Bayonne pigs. +The room in which he had breakfasted, and the table that had been +spread for him, formed a picture which a painter of still-life might +have dreamed of; but it had seemed very blank and dismal to Harold +Jerningham on this particular occasion, when an accidental glance at +the date of his _Times_ reminded him that his fifty-second year +had come to an end. + +He resolved forthwith upon a visit to the only friend whose sincerity +he believed in, and the only living creature from whose lips good +wishes would seem other than a conventionality. + +“I suppose it is because I am getting old that such gloomy fancies +come into my head,” he said to himself, as he walked from the station +to Greenlands. “It never struck me before that a childless man’s +latter days must needs be blank and empty. Must it be so? Which is the +lesser of the two evils--to be the father of an heir who languishes +for his heritage, or to know that one’s lands and houses must pass +to a stranger, when the door of the last narrow dwelling has been +sealed upon its silent inhabitant? Who knows? Is not existence at +best a choice of evils--and the negative misery is always the lesser. +Better to suffer the dull sense of loneliness than the sharp agony of +ingratitude. Better to be Timon than Lear.” + +This is how the philosopher argued with himself on his fifty-third +birthday, as he walked the lonely road between Windsor and Greenlands. + +“Dear old Theodore!” he said to himself; “it is nine years since I have +seen him--three or four since I have heard from him. God grant I may +find him well--and happy!” + +Mr. Jerningham had walked this road often in his boyhood and +youth--very often in the days when he had been an Eton boy, and had +boldly levanted from his tutor’s house, and crossed that purely +imaginary boundary, the Thames, for an afternoon’s holiday at home, +where the horses and dogs and servants seemed alike rejoiced by the +presence of the young heir. He had walked the same road at many +different periods of his existence, in every one of which his own +pleasure had been the chief desire of his heart; not always to be +achieved, at any cost, and rarely achieved with ultimate satisfaction +to himself. + +He had travelled this road in a barouche, one bright summer afternoon, +with his handsome young wife by his side, and the bells of three +parish-churches ringing their joy-peal in honour of his coming. He +remembered what a folly and a mockery the joy-bells had seemed; and how +very little nearer and dearer his wife’s beauty had been to him than +the beauty of a picture seen and admired in one hour, to be forgotten +in the next. + +“I think I was once in love,” he said to himself, when he meditated +on the mistakes and follies of his past life. “Yes, I believe that I +was once in love--fondly, foolishly, deeply in love. But it came to an +end--too soon, perhaps. In his youth a man has so many dreams, and the +newest always seems the brightest. Well, they are all over--dreams and +follies; the end has come at last, and it is rather dreary. I suppose I +have no right to complain. I have lived my life. There are men who seem +in the very heyday of existence at fifty years of age; but those are +not men who have taken life as I have taken it. It is the old story of +the candle burnt at both ends. The illumination is very grand, but the +candle suffers.” + +Mr. Jerningham entered the park by that small gate through which +Eustace Thorburn had passed six months before. Greenlands was very +beautiful, even in this bleak winter weather, but there was a +desolation and wildness in its aspect eminently calculated to foster +melancholy thoughts. It was by the express wish of the master that +the park had been permitted to assume this aspect of wildness and +decay. “My good man,” he had said to his bailiff, “I assure you all +this trimness and primness, which you make so much fuss about, is to +the last degree unnecessary, so far as I am concerned. I shall never +again come here to live for any length of time; and when I do come, +it pleases me best to come and go as a stranger. Let those poor old +dawdling men in the grounds take matters as quietly as they like. You +will pay them their wages on Saturday just the same as if they did +wonders in the way of sweeping, and pruning, and clipping. I don’t want +Greenlands to look like a Dutchman’s garden; and I am glad to think +that there is some kind of use in the world for poor dawdling old men +who only excel in the art of not doing things.” + +The bailiff stared, but he obeyed his master, whose reputation for +eccentricity had long been established at Greenlands. + +In the chill wintry morning the desolation of the place was more than +usually apparent, and Mr. Jerningham, being on this particular occasion +inclined to contemplate every object on the darker side, was strongly +impressed by the dreariness of the long avenue, where the bare, black +branches of the elms swayed to and fro against the winter sky, and +where the withered leaves drifted before him with every gust of biting +winter wind. + +It was in the avenue that had been the grand approach to the mansion in +the days when the great world visited Greenlands, that Mr. Jerningham +came upon a young man, sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, reading. +To see any one seated on so cold a morning was in itself a fact for +remark; but this hardy young student had the air of a man who takes his +ease on a sofa in his own snug study, so absorbed was his manner, so +comfortable his attitude. Approaching nearer, the _blasé_ wanderer +in many lands perceived that the young student’s face was flushed as if +with recent exercise, and, while perceiving this, he could not fail to +observe that the face was one of the handsomest, and at the same time +the noblest, he had ever looked upon. As an artist, Harold Jerningham +was impressed by the perfect outline of that grand fair face; as an +observer of mankind, he was conscious that the stamp of high thoughts +had been set upon the countenance, and that the light of a pure young +soul shone out of the eyes that were slowly raised to look at him as he +drew near the log on which the student reclined. He went near enough to +see the title of the book the young man was reading. It was one of the +Platonic Dialogues, in Greek. + +“Ho, ho!” thought Mr. Jerningham; “I took my young gentleman for a +gamekeeper, or the son of my bailiff; but even in this levelling age I +doubt if gamekeepers or embryo bailiffs are so far advanced in Greek. I +suppose he is a friend of De Bergerac’s.” + +Having arrived at this conclusion, Mr. Jerningham proceeded to accost +the young dreamer, for whom that leafless avenue was peopled day by +day with the images of all that was greatest and most beautiful in +the golden age of this earth, and to whom the romantic desolation of +Greenlands had become far dearer within the last four months than it +had ever been to the lord of mansion and park, forest and upland. + +“Do you not find it rather cold for that kind of reading?” asked the +proprietor of the avenue. + +The frank young face was turned to him with a smile. + +“Not at all; I have been walking for the last hour, and feel as warm as +if it were midsummer.” + +He looked just a little wonderingly at Mr. Jerningham as he spoke. He +knew all the visitors to the Grange, and assuredly this gentleman in a +fur-lined overcoat was not one of them. Some stranger, perhaps, who had +found the gate open, and had strayed into the park out of curiosity. + +“You seem accustomed to this kind of open-air study,” said the +traveller, seating himself on one end of the fallen log, in order to +get a better view of the student’s face. It was only the listless +curiosity of an idler that beguiled him into loitering thus. He had +for the latter years of his life been at best only a loiterer upon +the highways and byways of this world, and the interest which he felt +in this young student of Plato was the same kind of interest he might +have felt in a solitary little Savoyard with white mice, or some +semi-idiotic old reaper, toiling under a southern sun; an interest by +no means so warm as that which a picture or a statue inspired in this +jaded wanderer. + +“Yes,” replied the young man; “I spend all my leisure mornings in the +park, reading and thinking. I fancy one thinks better when one walks +in such a place as this.” + +“If by ‘one’ you speak of _yourself_, I have no doubt you are +right; but if your ‘one’ means mankind in general, I am sure you are +wrong. My dreariest thoughts have come to me under these trees this +morning.” + +The young man’s face was quick to express sympathy, in a look that was +half wonder, half pity. + +“How quick a man’s sympathies are at his age!” thought Harold +Jerningham, “and how soon they wear out!” + +And then, after a pause, he added, aloud, “You live somewhere near at +hand, I suppose?” + +“I live very near at hand; I live in the park.” + +“At the great house!” exclaimed Mr. Jerningham. “After all, my handsome +young student will turn out to be the self-educated son or nephew of my +housekeeper,” he thought, not without some slight sense of vexation; +for he had been studying the young man’s profile, and had given him +credit for patrician blood on the strength of the delicate modelling of +nose and chin. + +“No; not at the great house. I live with M. de Bergerac, at the Grange.” + +“You live with De Bergerac! You are not his--no, he has no son.” + +“I have the honour to be his secretary.” + +“Indeed! and an Englishman! Has De Bergerac turned political agitator, +or Orleanist conspirator, that he must needs have a secretary?” + +“No; it is my privilege to assist M. de Bergerac in the preparation of +a great literary work.” + +“I am pleased to hear you speak as if you valued that privilege, my +young friend,” said Mr. Jerningham, with more warmth than was usual to +him. + +“I do indeed prize it more highly than anything on earth,” answered the +young man; and as he said this, his face flushed crimson to the roots +of his hair. + +“Why the deuce does he blush like a girl when I say something commonly +civil to him?” thought Mr. Jerningham. + +“You speak as if you knew M. de Bergerac,” said the student, presently. + +“I do know him. He is the best friend I have in the world.” + +“Ah, then, I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Jerningham, +the owner of this place?” + +“You do enjoy that supreme bliss; I am Mr. Jerningham; and now, as you +have guessed my name, perhaps you will tell me yours.” + +“My name is Eustace Thorburn.” + +“And why the deuce does he blush like a girl when he tells me his +name?” thought Mr. Jerningham, taking note of a second crimson flush +that came and went upon the brow and cheek of the student. + +“And my good friend is well and happy?” he asked, presently. + +“Very well, very cheerful. Shall I hurry back to the Grange, and tell +him you have arrived, Mr. Jerningham? I have heard him speak of you +so much, and I know what a pleasure it will be to him to hear of your +coming.” + +“And it will be a pleasure to me to announce it with my own lips. You +must not come between me and my pleasures, Mr.--Mr. Thorburn; they are +very few.” + +“Believe me, I should be sorry to do so,” replied Eustace, as the two +men bowed and parted; Mr. Jerningham to walk on towards the house, +Eustace to resume his lonely ramble. + +“You would be sorry? Not you!” mused the owner of Greenlands, as he +walked slowly along the pathway that was so thickly strewn with dead +leaves. “What does youth care how it tramples on the hopes of the old? +When I refused the young bride my father and mother had chosen for me, +and the alliance that had been the fairest dream they had woven for my +future, what heed had I for the bitterness of their disappointment? The +girl was pretty, and true and innocent, the daughter of a nobler house +than mine, and the beloved of my kindred; but she was not----. Well; +she was not Ægeria; she was not the mystic nymph of an enchanted grot; +she was only an amiable young lady whom I had known from childhood, +and about whom some mischievous demon had whispered into my ear the +hateful fact that she was intended for me. I met my Ægeria after; and +what came of it? Ah, me! that our brightest dreams must end so coldly! +Numa’s nymph came to him only in the evening; and perhaps there are +few men who could retain the fervour of their devotion for an Ægeria +of all day long, and to-morrow, and the day after, and the day after +that again. And then your mortal Ægeria has such a capacity for tears. +A cold look, a hasty word, an accidental reference to the past, a hint +of the uncertainty of the future--and the nymph is transformed into a +waterfall. It is the fable of Hippocrene over again; but the fount is +not so revivifying as that classic spring.” + +From thinking of his own past, Mr. Jerningham fell to musing upon +Eustace Thorburn’s future. + +“He has that which all the lands of the Jerninghams could not buy for +me, were I free to barter them,” he said to himself, bitterly: “youth +and hope, youth and hope! Will he waste both treasures as I wasted +them, I wonder? I think not. He has a thoughtfulness and gravity +of expression that promise well for his future. And how his face +brightens when he smiles! Was I ever so handsome as that, I wonder, +in the days when the world called me--dangerous? No, never! At its +best, my face wanted the earnestness that is the highest charm of +his. Why do I compare myself with him? Because I have ended life just +as he is beginning it, I suppose. The Alpha and the Omega meet, and +Omega is jealous of his fair young rival. How little the landscape +has changed since I was like that youngster yonder, newly returned +from Oxford, with my head crammed with the big talk of Greek orators +and the teaching of Greek sophists, eager to exhaust the delights of +the universe in the shortest period possible; eager to gather all the +flowers of youth and manhood, so as to leave the great Sahara of middle +age without a blossom! And the flowers have been gathered and have +faded, and have been thrown away, and the great Sahara remains entirely +barren. No, not entirely; there is at least one solitary leaflet--one +poor little pale blossom--my friendship for De Bergerac.” + +Musing thus, the owner of Greenlands turned aside from that solemn +avenue, at the end of which there frowned upon him the noble red-brick +dwelling-house of England’s Augustine era. He had no desire to reënter +that stately abode, where the plump goddesses and nymphs of Kneller +disported themselves upon the domed ceilings, and where the twelve +Cæsars in black marble scowled upon him from their niches in the +circular entrance-hall. Solomon himself could have been no more weary +of the vineyards he had planted--and vines of one’s own planting are +at best but poor creatures--than was Mr. Jerningham of Sir Godfrey’s +nymphs and the scowling Cæsars. + +“And Cleopatra once tolerated one of _ces messieurs_,” he had said +to himself sometimes, as he looked round the grand, gloomy chamber. +“Cleopatra, the _espiègle_, the despotic, the Semiramis of Egypt, +the Mary Stuart of the Nile, the Ninon of the ancient world.” + +Between the great avenue and the Queen Anne mansion there stretched +the stiff walks of an Italian garden, and across this Mr. Jerningham +went to a gate, which opened into the woodiest part of the park. A +narrow path across this woody region brought him to the boundary of +M. de Bergerac’s territory, protected by a six-foot holly-hedge, more +formidable than any wall ever fashioned by mortal builder. + +A gate cut in this hedge opened into the quaint old flower-garden, and +through this gate Mr. Jerningham went to visit his friend, after having +passed unknown and unnoticed beneath the shadow of the house in which +he had been born. + +“‘’Tis sweet to hear the watchdog’s honest bark bay deep-mouthed +welcome--as we draw near home,’” Mr. Jerningham said to himself; “but +it is not quite so sweet when the watchdog rushes out of his kennel, +possessed with an evident thirst for one’s blood, as that old mastiff +yonder rushed at me just now. Every traveller is not a Belisarius. +Ah, here we are! there is the pretty old-fashioned lawn, with its +flower-beds and evergreens, and there the low rambling cottage in which +Jack Fermor, the bailiff, used to live when I was a boy. I remember +going to him one summer morning to get my fishing-tackle mended, when +I was a lad at Eton. Yes, this looks like a home! Dear old Theodore! I +shall be content if he is only half as glad to see me as I shall be to +see him.” + +The returning traveller found the door under the thatched porch +unsecured by bolt or bar. In the heart of Greenlands Park no one ever +thought of bolting a door. But the inmates of the Grange were not +without their guardians. An enormous black dog sprang forth to meet the +stranger as he approached the threshold, formidable as the dragon whose +fiery eyes glared upon the luckless companions of Cadmus. + +Happily for Mr. Jerningham, the faithful animal was under admirable +control. After giving utterance to one low growl, that sounded a +warning rather than a threat, he surveyed the intruder with a critical +eye, and sniffed at him with a suspicious sniff; and then, being +satisfied that the master of Greenlands was not a member of the +dangerous classes, he drew politely aside and permitted the visitor to +enter. + +The door of the drawing-room was wide open, and a cheerful fire burning +in the low grate lighted the pleasant picture of a young lady seated at +a table reading, with books and writing materials scattered about her. + +It was nine years since Harold Jerningham had seen his friend, and it +was rather difficult for him to realize the fact that this young lady +could by any possibility be the same individual he remembered in the +shape of a pretty, fair-haired child, roaming about the gardens with an +ugly mongrel-puppy in her arms, and to whom he had promised the finest +dog that Newfoundland could produce. + +He had remembered his promise, though he had forgotten the fair young +damsel to whom the pledge was given. Hephæstus was the animal imported +at the command of Mr. Jerningham. He had been brought to Greenlands a +puppy, with big clumsy head and paws, and an all-pervading sleepiness +of aspect, and he had flourished and waxed strong under the loving care +of Helen, who was fondly attached to him. + +The visitor’s light footstep scarcely sounded on the carpeted floor, +but a warning “yap” from Hephæstus proclaimed the advent of a stranger. +Helen rose to receive her father’s guest, and welcomed him with a smile +and a blush. + +“How these Berkshire people blush!” thought Mr. Jerningham; “it is the +veritable Arcadia. The inhabitants of Ardennes were not more primitive. +Indeed, Rosalind was the most _rusée_ of coquettes compared to +this young lady.” + +“What a delightful surprise, Mr. Jerningham!” said Helen, with a frank +smile; “papa will be so pleased to see you.” + +“Then you remember me, Mademoiselle de Bergerac, after so long an +interval--an interval that has changed you so much that I could +scarcely believe my little playfellow of the garden had grown into this +tall young lady?” + +“Oh, yes, indeed; I remember you perfectly. The time has changed you +very little. And I should have been most ungrateful if I had forgotten +you after your kindness.” + +“My kindness----?” + +“In sending me Hephæstus--the Newfoundland puppy, you know. Papa +christened him Hephæstus on account of his blackness. He has grown +such a noble, faithful creature, and we all love him so dearly.” + +“You all love him? Has your dog so many friends as that emphatic ‘all’ +implies?” asked Mr. Jerningham, wonderingly. + +“I mean myself and papa, and papa’s secretary, Mr. Thorburn.” + +The girl stopped suddenly, and this time it was a very vivid blush +which dyed her fair young face, for it seemed to her that the eyes of +her father’s friend were fixed upon her with a pitiless scrutiny. + +“Oh, now,” thought the master of Greenlands, “I begin to understand why +that young man blushed when he spoke of the privilege involved in his +position here.” + +He glanced at the open book which lay under Mademoiselle de Bergerac’s +hand, and was surprised to perceive that it was a duplicate of the +volume he had seen in the hands of the student in the park. + +“You read Greek, Mdlle. de Bergerac?” + +“Yes, papa taught me a little Greek ever so long ago. Will you not +call me Helen, please? I should like it so much better.” + +“I shall be much honoured if you will permit me to do so. And you are +reading Plato, I see. Is he not rather a difficult author for a young +student in Greek?” + +“Yes, he seems rather difficult, but I get a great deal of help. I am +reading the Phædo with Mr. Thorburn, who is working very hard at the +classics. I believe he means to try for his degree by and by, when he +leaves papa. He has a German degree already, but he seems to think that +worth very little. I think he is rather ambitious.” + +“He seems to be altogether a wonderful person, this Mr. Thorburn.” + +“Yes, he is very clever--at least, papa says so, and you know papa is +very well able to form a judgment on that point. And papa likes him +exceedingly.” + +“Indeed! and has he been long established here--domiciled with you, in +his post of secretary?” + +“He has been with us about four months.” + +“May I ask where your father picked him up--by whose recommendation he +came here?” + +“It was Mr. Desmond who introduced him to papa,--Mr. Desmond, the +editor of the _Areopagus_.” + +“Ah! that Mr. Desmond has a knack of obliging one.” + +“Papa has considered himself very fortunate in finding any one able +to take the warm interest which Mr. Thorburn takes in his book. It is +rather dry work, you know, Mr. Jerningham, verifying quotations in half +a dozen languages, and hunting out dates, and names, and all those +petty details which used to absorb so much of papa’s time when he was +without a secretary. Do you know that Mr. Thorburn has often travelled +to London and back in the same day, in order to consult some book or +manuscript in the British Museum; and he has taught himself Sanscrit +since he has been with us, in the hope of making himself still more +useful to papa.” + +The young lady’s face glowed with enthusiasm as she said this. To do +service for her father was to win the highest claim upon her gratitude. +Mr. Jerningham looked at her with a half-smile of amusement, which was +not without some shade of bitterness. + +“I have no doubt Mr. Thorburn is an inestimable treasure,” he said, +coldly. “I know a little humpbacked German who is a perfect prodigy of +learning--a man who is master of all the dialects of India, and has the +Râmâyana at his fingers’ ends. I am sure he would have been very glad +to perform Mr. Thorburn’s duties for half the money my friend gives +that ambitious young student; but my German is a perfect Quasimodo in +the matter of ugliness, and your papa might object to that.” + +“I will run to tell papa that you have arrived,” said Helen. “I know +what real pleasure the news will give him.” + +She left the room, and Mr. Jerningham remained for some minutes +standing by the table, with the volume of Platonic Dialogues open in +his hand, in the very attitude in which she had left him, profoundly +meditative of aspect. + +“How lovely she is!” he said to himself. “Has this Berkshire air the +property of making youth beautiful? That young Thorburn is a model for +a Greek sculptor, and she--she is as lovely as Phrynè, when Praxiteles +saw her returning from her sea-bath. And Mademoiselle and the secretary +are in love with each other. I arrive, like the _seigneur du +village_ in a French operetta, just in time to assist in a little +Arcadian romance. I wonder that De Bergerac should be so absurdly +imprudent as to admit this man into his household. He is, no doubt, a +nameless adventurer, with nothing but his good looks and some amount of +education to recommend him. And he, perhaps, labours under the delusion +that our dear recluse is rich. I will take the opportunity of talking +to him to-morrow, and opening his eyes on that point. And I must take +Theodore to task for his folly. He is as proud as Lucifer, after his +own fashion, and would be the last of men to sanction the alliance of +his only child with an English adventurer.” + +It seemed as if Mr. Jerningham took somewhat kindly to his part of +_seigneur du village_, and was by no means inclined to the policy +of non-intervention in the affairs of these two young people. It may be +that, having so long been an actor in the great drama of human passion, +he could not resign himself all at once to the passive share of the +spectator, who applauds and delights in the youth and beauty, the joy +and the hope in which he has no longer an active interest. He knew that +it was time for him to fall back into the ranks, and see a new hero +lead the great procession; but he could not retire with the perfect +grace of a man who has played his part, and is content to know that the +part has been well played, and has come to a decent finish. The art +of growing old is the one accomplishment which the _beau garçon_ +never acquires. + +For his own part, Harold Jerningham believed that he had retired with +a very decent grace from that field in which his victories had been +so many. Prone though he was to anatomize the follies of himself and +other men, he had not learned the mystery of that vague sentiment of +bitterness and disappointment which had tinged his mind during the +later years of his life. + +He had taken existence lightly, and had taught himself to believe +that the ills of life which press most heavily on other men had left +him unscathed; but there were times in which the tide that carried +him along so pleasantly seemed all at once to come to a dead stop. +The rapid river was transformed into a dreary patch of stagnant +water, black with foul weeds, and poisonous with fatal miasmas; and +Mr. Jerningham was compelled to acknowledge that no man, of his own +election, can resign his share in the sorrows of humanity. + +He told himself very often that he had done with emotion, and that +life henceforth must be for him an affair of sensation only; his peace +of mind depended on the perfect adjustment of his _ménage_ when +he was at home, and on the tact of his courier when he travelled. +But there were moments in which the subtle voice of his conscience +whispered that this was only one more among the many delusions of +his life. Thus, when circumstances transpired to prove that his +young wife’s heart had been given to another, even while her honour +was yet unsullied, he had arranged an immediate separation, with +the nonchalance of a man who settles the most trivial affair in the +business of life, fancying that he should escape thereby all those slow +agonies and bitter throes that are wont to rack the breasts of men who +find themselves compelled to part from their wives. But in this, as in +all other transactions of his existence, he had been the dupe of his +own selfish philosophy. The sting of his wife’s ingratitude was none +the less keen because he thrust her from him with a careless hand. +The sense of his own desolation was none the less intense because he +had not suffered himself to love the woman to whom he had given his +name. Even considered from a selfish man’s point of view, his Horatian +philosophy of indifference had been a failure. The fact that it had +been so, and that he might have lived a better life for himself in +living a little for other people, was just beginning to dawn upon him. + +One pure pleasure he was to taste on this day--the pleasure that +springs from real friendship. That one unselfish impulse which had +prompted him to provide a pleasant home for an old friend, won him an +ample return. Theodore de Bergerac’s welcome touched him to the heart. +It was so warm, so real, so different from the polished flatteries +he had been of late accustomed to receive, with a conventional smile +upon his lips and the bitterness of unspeakable scorn in his heart. To +this man, so courted, so flattered, it was a new thing to know himself +honestly loved. + +De Bergerac was delighted by his friend’s return. + +“I thought we were never to see you again, Jerningham,” he said, after +the first welcomes had been spoken, the first inquiries made; “and this +little girl here, has been so anxious to behold her benefactor. I think +she is more grateful to you for her big black dog than for the home +that has sheltered her since her birth.” + +And hereupon Helen blushed, and looked shyly downward to her friend +and worshipper, the Newfoundland. Mr. Jerningham began to think that +those maidenly blushes which he had observed while talking to the young +lady about her father’s secretary, were only the result of a certain +youthful bashfulness, very charming in a pretty girl, rather than an +indication of that tender secret which he had at first suspected. + +Helen looked first at the dog and then at her father, just a little +reproachfully. + +“As if I could ever be sufficiently grateful for my home, papa!” she +said; and then raising those innocent blue eyes to the visitor’s +face, she added, gently, “You can never imagine how papa and I love +Greenlands, Mr. Jerningham, or how grateful we are to you for our +beautiful home. I think it is the loveliest place in the whole world.” + +“And from such a traveller that opinion should stand for something,” +added her father, laughing at the girl’s enthusiasm. + +“I am almost inclined to agree with Miss De Bergerac--with Helen, since +she has given me permission to call her Helen,” said Harold, with some +slight significance of tone; “I am inclined to think Greenlands the +loveliest place in the world.” + +“And yet you so rarely come to it, Mr. Jerningham!” cried Helen. + +“I did not know the power of its charm until to-day. A returning +wanderer is very sensitive to such impressions, you see, Helen.” + +“Yes, I can fancy that. But you have been in very beautiful places. You +wrote to papa from Switzerland last year. Ah, how I envied you then!” + +“Indeed! you wish to see Switzerland?” + +“Oh! yes. Switzerland and Italy are just the two countries that I do +really languish to behold; the first for its beauty, the second for +its associations.” + +“Your father must contrive to take you to both countries.” + +“I think he would do so, perhaps, if it were not for his book. I could +not be so selfish as to take him away from that.” + +“But the book is near completion, is it not, De Bergerac?” + +The student shook his head rather despondently. + +“It is a subject that grows upon one,” he said, doubtfully; “my +material is all prepared, and the extent of it is something enormous. I +find the work of classification very laborious. Indeed, there have been +times when I should have well-nigh abandoned myself to despair, if it +had not been for my young coadjutor.” + +“Ah! yes; your secretary, the young fellow I met in the park--something +of a pedant and prig, is he not?” + +“Not the least in the world. He is a born poet.” + +“Indeed!” cried Mr. Jerningham, with a sneer; “your pedant is a +nuisance, and your prig is a bore; but of all the insufferable +creatures in this world, your born poet is the worst.” + +“I don’t think you will dislike Eustace Thorburn when you come to +know him,” answered De Bergerac; “and I shall be very glad if you can +interest yourself in his career. He is highly gifted, and I believe +quite friendless.” + +Mr. Jerningham looked at Helen, curious to see how she was affected +by this conversation; but this time her face betrayed no emotion, and +in the next minute she quickly left the room, “on hospitable thoughts +intent,” and eager to hold counsel with the powers of the household. +Mr. Jerningham would, in all probability, dine at the cottage, and +weighty questions, involving a choice of fish and poultry, for the time +banished all other thoughts from the young lady’s mind. + +“Let me congratulate you upon being the father of that lovely girl,” +said Harold, when she was gone. + +“Yes, I suppose she is very pretty. Like a Madonna, by Raphael, is she +not? the _belle jardinière_, or the _Madone de la chaise_. +And she is as good as she is beautiful. Yes, I thank God for having +given me that dear child. Without her I should be only a bookish +abstraction; with her I am a happy man.” + +“Unluckily for you, the day must come when she will make the happiness +of some other man.” + +“Why unluckily? I do not suppose my daughter’s husband will refuse me a +corner by his fireside.” + +“That depends upon the kind of man he may be.” + +“She would scarcely choose the kind of man who would deny her father’s +right to take his place in her home; not as a dependant, but in the +simple Continental fashion, as a member of the household, with a due +share in all its responsibilities.” + +“You will, perhaps, arrange your daughter’s marriage in the Continental +fashion, and choose her husband for her when the fitting time comes?” + +“By no means. I have scarcely ever contemplated the question. My dear +child is all in all to me; and it is just possible I may be a little +jealous of the man who shall divide her heart with me. But I will not +tamper with the ways of Providence in so solemn a question as her +happiness. She shall marry the man of her choice, be he rich or poor, +noble or simple.” + +“And if she should make a foolish choice?” + +“She will not make a foolish choice. She is the child of my own +teaching, and I will answer for her wisdom. She will be the dupe +of no falsehood, the victim of no artifice. She will never mistake +_clinquant_ for gold.” + +“You are very bold, my dear De Bergerac. Certainly the young lady seems +the first remove from an angel; and I suppose the angels see all things +clearly. And now let us talk about your secretary. How did you pick him +up?” + +“He was recommended to me by Mr. Desmond, of the _Areopagus_. +I think you know Mr. Desmond?” added the simple scholar, who lived +remote from those regions in which the Platonic attachment of the lady +and the editor was current gossip. + +“Yes,” said Mr. Jerningham, briefly, “I know him. And he recommended +this young man--Thorburn? And now you must not be angry with me if I +seem impertinent. Do you think it was quite wise to admit this protégé +of Mr. Desmond’s to such very intimate association with your household?” + +“Why not?” + +“I suppose you happened to forget that you have a daughter?” + +Theodore de Bergerac flushed crimson to the temples. + +“Do you imagine that this young man would repay my confidence by a +clandestine courtship of my daughter, or that she would receive his +addresses?” he cried, indignantly. + +“My dear De Bergerac, far be it from me to imagine anything. I only +wish to suggest that it is rather foolish to bring a handsome young +man, with a taste for poetry and a love for learning, and a very lovely +girl, more or less affected by the same tastes, into such intimate +association, unless you wish them to fall in love with each other.” + +“Yes, I dare say you are right; I dare say I have acted foolishly,” +replied the student, thoughtfully. “But I really never looked at the +affair in that light; and then I have such perfect confidence in +Helen’s purity of mind, and in the soundness of her judgment. I am so +fully assured that no such thing as secresy could ever exist where +she is concerned. And then, again, as for this young Thorburn, I have +watched him closely, and I believe him to be all that is honourable and +excellent.” + +“You have not watched him with the eyes of worldly experience.” + +“Perhaps not; but I fancy there is an inner light better than a worldly +man’s wisdom. I would pledge myself for that young man’s honour and +honesty.” + +“The fact that he is such a paragon will not prevent your daughter +from falling in love with him.” + +“No; it is just possible that she might become attached to him. I know +she likes and admires him; but I fancy she only does so on account of +his usefulness to me. However, the danger is incurred. I cannot dismiss +a faithful coadjutor hurriedly or abruptly; and I am really very much +interested in Eustace Thorburn. I believe there is the fire of real +genius in all he does; and to my mind real genius must secure ultimate +success.” + +“Surely Chatterton’s was genius?” + +“Undoubtedly; and Chatterton must have succeeded if he had been +patient; but genius without patience is the flame without the oil. I +believe there is a bright career before Eustace Thorburn; and if I knew +that my daughter and he loved each other, earnestly and truly, I would +not be the man to stand between them and say, ‘It shall not be.’” + +“How much do you know of Mr. Thorburn’s antecedents?” + +“Not very much. I know that he was educated at a great public school +in Belgium, and for the last few years was a tutor in the same school. +His mother seems to have been a widow from an early period. She died a +few weeks before he came to me. He speaks of her very rarely, but with +extreme tenderness. Of his father he never speaks.” + +“He has no doubt excellent reasons for such reticence. In plain +English, my dear De Bergerac, I take it that your young favourite is an +adventurer.” + +“He is an adventurer who has earned his bread by the exercise of his +intellect since he was seventeen years of age,” answered De Bergerac. +“I have seen his testimonials, signed by the powers of the Parthenée +at Villebrumeuse, and I need no man’s attestation of his honour and +honesty. You are prejudiced against him, my dear Harold.” + +“I am prejudiced against all the world except you, Theodore,” replied +the master of Greenlands, with some touch of feeling. + +There was a certain amount of truth in this sweeping assertion. This +man, to whom fortune had been so liberal, had of late abandoned himself +to a spirit of bitterness that involved all men and all things. But +of all things hateful to this weary sybarite, the most hateful was +the insolence of youth and hope, the glory of that morning sunshine +which must shine on him no more. It may be that in his jaundiced eyes +Eustace had seemed to wear his bright young manhood with a certain air +of insolence, to blazon the freshness and sunlight of life’s morning +before the jaded traveller hastening down the westward-sloping hill +that leads to the realms of night. However this was, Mr. Jerningham +was evidently disposed to be captious and argumentative on the subject +of his friend’s secretary. Theodore de Bergerac, perceiving this, +contrived to change the drift o the conversation. He talked of his +book; and Mr. Jerningham, who was faintly interested in all literary +questions, expressed a really warm interest in this one labour. He +talked of old acquaintances, old associations; and the smile of the +wanderer brightened with unwonted animation. + +It was four o’clock when dinner was announced. The two men had +been talking so pleasantly, that it was only by the deepening of +the afternoon shadows they knew the progress of time. The little +dining-room was bright with the light of moderator-lamps on table and +sideboard, when Mr. Jerningham and his host entered. + +Helen stood waiting for them in the soft lamplight, with Eustace +Thorburn by her side. + +“Neither Mr. Thorburn nor I would come into the drawing-room to disturb +your talk, papa,” she said. “He has been giving me my Greek lesson by +the fire in here, while Sarah laid the cloth. You should see how she +stares when we come to the sonorous words. I am sure she thinks we are +a little out of our minds. You are to sit opposite papa, if you please, +Mr. Jerningham. I hope you won’t dislike dining at this early hour. We +generally dine at three; and a really late dinner would have frightened +our cook.” + +“My dear Helen, I have eaten nothing to-day, and am as hungry as a +hunter. If you are going to make excuses, it must be for not having +given us our dinner at three. How pretty your table looks, with that +old Indian bowl of cream-coloured china asters and scarlet geraniums!” + +“They are from one of the greenhouses at the great house. The gardeners +are very good to me, and allow me as many flowers as a like, when our +own dear little garden is exhausted.” + +“They should be no gardeners of mine if they were otherwise than good +to you.--How do you do, once more, Mr. Thorburn?” added the master of +Greenlands, looking across the table at the secretary, who had quietly +seated himself in his accustomed place. “I did not think we should dine +together when I came upon you this morning in the park.” + +This was an extreme concession on the part of Mr. Jerningham. As the +two men faced each other in the lamplight, Theodore de Bergerac looked +at them with an expression of surprise. + +“Did nothing strike you this morning, Jerningham, when you first saw +Mr. Thorburn?” he asked, smiling. + +“A great many things struck me. But what especial thing should have +struck me, that you know of, my dear De Bergerac?” + +“The likeness of your own youth. It really seems to me that there is +something of a resemblance between you and Thorburn.” + +“I did not perceive it,” said Mr. Jerningham, with a coolness of tone +that was not flattering to the younger man. + +“Nor did I,” added the secretary, promptly. + +This was a kind of preliminary passage-at-arms between the two men, who +seemed foredoomed to be enemies in the great conflict of life. + +“Well, I suppose every one sees these things with a different eye,” +said De Bergerac; “but really I fancy there is some likeness between +you two.” + + + + + CHAPTER II. + + MISS ST. ALBANS BREAKS HER ENGAGEMENT. + + +AMID the many distractions of an editorial life, Mr. Desmond contrived +to remember the promise made to his old tutor. He proved the warmth of +his interest in Miss Alford’s dramatic career by an immediate appeal +to the genial manager of the Theatre Royal, Pall Mall, and received +in reply Mr. Hartstone’s assurance that the first vacancy in the +young-lady department should be placed at Miss St. Albans’ disposal. + +“Bovisbrook has just sent me a charming little adaptation of +_Côtelettes sautées chez Vefour_,” wrote Mr. Hartstone, in +conclusion; “and as I find there are six young ladies in the +caste--_ces dames_ of the Quartier Breda, I believe, in the +original, but very cleverly transmogrified by Bovisbrook into +school-girls from a Peckham academy, who go to dine with an old +West-Indian uncle at Verey’s--I think I could manage to find an +engagement for Miss St. Albans as early as March, when my Christmas +burlesque will have had its run.” + +“As early as March!” said Mr. Desmond, as he read this letter; “and +what is to become of that poor stage-struck little girl between this +and March? Well, I suppose she can go back to Market Deeping, and shine +as Pauline and Juliet, until the _côtelettes sautées_ piece is +produced.” + +Having received a favourable reply from the lessee of the Pall Mall, +Mr. Desmond’s next duty was to communicate its contents to the +expectant father and daughter. At first, he thought of enclosing +Hartstone’s friendly epistle, with a few lines from himself; but, on +reflection, he decided against this plan of action. + +“Lucy might form exaggerated expectations from Hartstone’s letter,” he +said to himself. “I think I had better see her.” + +There were no parties in Mr. Desmond’s world just now. Every one +worthy of a fashionable editor’s consideration was out of town, and +the gentleman had his evenings to himself. It was over his solitary +dinner-table that Mr. Desmond arrived at this conclusion; and it was to +the Oxford Road Theatre that he bent his steps after dinner, knowing +that he was most likely to find Lucy Alford there. + +The play was “The Stranger.” He went into the dingy dress-circle for +half an hour, and saw Mrs. Haller play her penitent scene with the +Countess. Miss St. Albans looked very pretty as she grovelled at the +feet of her kindly patroness, dressed in white muslin which was in the +last stage of limpness, and with a penitential white-lace cap upon her +girlish head. He waited patiently through the rest of the play, and +went to the green-room after the last dismal scene, impressed with the +conviction that Lucy Alford was one of the dearest and prettiest of +girls, but not yet on the high-road to becoming a Siddons. + +He found poor little Mrs. Haller alone in the green-room, with a book +in her hand, and with a very plaintive expression of countenance. She +brightened a little on recognizing the visitor; but while shaking hands +with her, Mr. Desmond perceived that her eyes were red, as with much +weeping. + +“I did not think you felt the character so deeply,” he said; “those +real tears are a very good sign for a young actress.” + +Lucy shook her head, despondently. + +“It isn’t that,” she said; “I-I-was c-c-crying bec-c-cause I am n-not +to play J-J-J-Julia!” + +Hereupon she fairly broke down and sobbed aloud, to the consternation +of Mr. Desmond, who did not know how to console this poor weeping +maiden. The sight of a woman’s tears was always very painful to +him; and for this young childlike creature he felt a pity that was +especially tender. + +“My dear little girl,” he said, “pray don’t cry. Tell me all about this +business. Who is Julia?--what is Julia?--and why are you not to play +Julia?” + +“It’s Julia in the “Hunchback”--Sheridan Knowles’s “Hunchback,” +you know,” replied Miss St. Albans, conquering her emotion with a +stupendous effort, and telling her story with a most piteous air. “I +was looking forward so to playing that very part. I played Juliet at +Market Deeping, you know, and the _Deeping Advertiser_ said the +kindest things about me,--that I reminded him of Miss O’Neill--though +I can’t exactly imagine how the critic on the _Advertiser_ could +remember Miss O’Neill’s acting, as he is not yet nineteen years of age. +And I have such pretty dresses for Julia--a silver-gray silk, that was +poor mamma’s wedding-dress, and is not so _very_ scanty, as I wear +it looped up over a white muslin petticoat, in the King Charles style, +you know. And just when I was so pleased at the idea that the piece +was going to be done, Mr. de Mortemar came to me and told me, quite +cruelly, that I am not to play Julia. And there is a young lady coming +to play the part--at least, she is not very young--an amateur lady, who +comes in a brougham with two horses, and whose dresses, they say, cost +hundreds of pounds.” + +“An amateur lady! That is rather curious. And why does Mr. de Mortemar +wish that she should play Julia?” + +“Mr. Johnson says she will pay him a great deal of money for the +privilege. The houses have been, oh, so bad, and Mr. de Mortemar is +very angry to find he doesn’t draw. He says there’s a cabal against +him.” + +“Indeed! And this amateur lady comes to his relief, with her dresses +that cost hundreds of pounds! I should have thought that an amateur +lady, who keeps her brougham and pair, would scarcely care to make her +_début_ at the Oxford Road Theatre. Have you seen this lady?” + +“Yes. She has been to rehearsal; and she has been here in the evening +to see the call for the next day. I dare say she will come this +evening. She is very haughty, and takes no more notice of me than if +I were the ground under her feet; and, oh, you should see the heels of +her boots!” + +“She must be a vulgar, presuming person, in spite of her boots and her +brougham. But if I were you, I should not trouble myself at all about +her or the character she is to play. It will only be one leaf stolen +from your laurels.” + +He said this with a smile, in which there was some shade of sadness. +There was something very sad to his eyes in the spectacle of this +girlish struggler in the great battle of life, and in the thought of +that frail foundation whereon her hopes rested. + +“She never can be a great actress, with such poor opportunities as +she can have,” he said to himself; “and she will go on from year to +year hoping against hope, patiently enduring the same drudgery, living +down perpetual disappointments, until some day, when she is sixty +years of age, she will break her heart all at once because some petty +provincial manager refuses her the _rôle_ of Juliet, after she +has played it for forty years, like the actress in the old story. Poor +little Lucy! She is not the kind of woman before whose indomitable +courage all obstacles must succumb. She was made to be happy in a +bright home.” + +“Hark!” cried the young lady of whom he was thinking, “there is Miss +Ida Courtenay talking to Mr. de Mortemar.” + +“Miss Ida Courtenay?” + +“Yes; the amateur lady who is to play Julia.” + +“Oh, indeed! her name is Ida Courtenay; and she comes to the theatre +in her brougham, and wears unimaginable heels to her boots. I think a +Cuvier of social science might describe the species of the lady from +those particulars.” + +Lucy only stared on hearing this remark, which was not intended for her +comprehension. + +“At eleven!” cried a loud, coarse voice without; “quite impossible. I +shall be engaged till one. You must call the “Hunchback” at half-past +one.” + +“It will be rather inconvenient,” murmured the brilliant De Mortemar, +in a respectful, nay even obsequious tone of voice. + +“Oh, bother your inconvenience! The piece must be rehearsed at +half-past one, or not at all, as far as I am concerned. _I_ don’t +want a rehearsal. It’s for your people the rehearsal is wanted. I’m +sure your Helen is such an abominable stick that I expect to be cut up +in my scenes with her, if I don’t take care.” + +“Oh!” cried Miss Alford, with a little gasp. + +“Who is the lady that plays Helen so badly?” asked Mr. Desmond. + +“It’s--it’s I who am to play Helen,” exclaimed poor Lucy. “Isn’t it +shameful of her to say that? I was letter-perfect yesterday when we +rehearsed--I was, indeed, Mr. Desmond. And Miss Courtenay read her part +all through the piece. And now she says--oh, it’s really too bad--” + +A mighty rushing sound, as of a Niagara of moire antique, heralded the +approach of the lady in question, who bounced into the green-room, +and swept past Mr. Desmond with the air of a Semiramis in high-heeled +boots. She was a tall stalwart personage of about thirty-five years +of age, and she was as handsome as rouge, pearl-powder, painted lips, +painted nostrils, painted eyelids, painted eyebrows, and a liberal +supply of false hair could make her. The share that nature had in her +beauty was limited to a pair of fierce black eyes, which might have +been sufficiently large and lustrous without the aid of Indian ink or +belladonna; and the outline of a figure which the masculine critic +usually denominates “fine.” Mauve moire antique, a white-lace burnous, +and a bonnet from the Burlington Arcade, did the rest; and the general +result was a very resplendent creature, of a type which has become +too familiar to the eyes of English citizens and citizenesses in this +latter half of the nineteenth century. + +Towards this lady Mr. de Mortemar’s manner exhibited a deference which +was somewhat surprising, and not a little displeasing, to the editor +of the _Areopagus_. + +“Good evening, sir,” said the provincial Roscius, on perceiving +Laurence. “I am gratified to find you again a witness of our +performance. You will have observed a wide difference of style between +my Claude and my Stranger. Those two characters mark, if I may be +permitted the expression, the opposite poles of my dramatic sphere. +Claude, the lover, belongs to my torrid zone; Steinforth, the outraged +husband, locked in the icy armour of his pride--snow-bound, as I may +say, by the bitter drift of woe--is my polar region. I venture to hope +that you were struck by the different phases of passion in my silent +recognition of Mrs. Haller. My provincial critics have been good enough +to assure me that the whole gamut of emotional feeling is run by me in +that situation.” + +“I fear that I am scarcely qualified to form a judgment upon your +acting, Mr. de Mortemar,” the editor replied, very coldly; “I was +not very attentive to the performance this evening. I came to the +theatre only to see Miss Al--Miss St. Albans--whose father is one of my +earliest friends. I am sorry to find that she has reason to consider +herself somewhat ill-used by your stage-manager in the matter of a +certain caste of the _Hunchback_.” + +The attention of Miss Ida Courtenay had, until this moment, been +occupied by some official documents stuck against a little board upon +the mantelpiece; but on hearing these words pronounced in a very +audible manner by Mr. Desmond, she turned abruptly, and glared at that +gentleman with all the ferocity of which her fine eyes were capable. +She lived among people with whom this kind of glare generally proved +effective, and she expected to subjugate Mr. Desmond as easily as it +was her wont to subjugate the weak-minded individuals with whom she +consorted. + +She found, to her mortification, that in this case she had glared in +vain. The editor of the _Areopagus_ did not flinch before the +angry glances of this Semiramis of Lodge Road, but calmly awaited Mr. +de Mortemar’s explanation. + +“I am my own stage-manager,” replied that gentleman, with offended +majesty; “and I have yet to learn by what right Miss St. Albans +considers herself ill-treated in this theatre. This is not the return +which I expected from a young lady for whom my influence alone could +have secured a hearing from a London audience.” + +“Pray do not let us have any high-flown talk of that kind, Mr. de +Mortemar,” said Laurence, with some slight impatience of tone. “I +am quite sure that you would not have engaged Miss St. Albans if it +had not suited you to do so. I believe you engaged her for what is +technically called leading business--the whole of the leading business.” + +“There was no written engagement. I offered to engage Miss St. Albans, +and she was only too glad to accept my offer. Until this time she has +played the complete range of leading characters.” + +“Indeed! Then, as there is no formal engagement, and as you have found +a lady who wishes to supersede Miss St. Albans, I suppose there can be +no objection to this young lady’s withdrawal from your company?” + +Lucy looked terribly alarmed by this speech. + +“I--I wouldn’t inconvenience Mr. de Mortemar for the world,” she +faltered; but Laurence would not allow her to say more. + +“You must let me act for you in this matter, Miss Alford,” he said. +“As I am your father’s friend, and as I am rather more experienced in +theatrical matters than he is, I shall venture to take this affair +into my own hands. You may consider yourself free to cast your pieces +without reference to this young lady, Mr. de Mortemar; she will not +again act in your theatre.” + +“But she must act in my theatre!” cried the infuriated tragedian. “Do +you suppose you are to come here interfering with my arrangements, and +taking away my actresses, in this manner? You ignore me in your paper, +and then you come and insult me in my green-room. Really, this is a +little too bad!” + +“I think some of your arrangements are a little too bad, Mr. de +Mortemar. I will be answerable for any legal penalty you may be able +to inflict upon Miss St. Albans, whose engagement I hold to be no +engagement at all. For the rest, you have Miss Courtenay, who will, no +doubt, be delighted to play a round of characters.” + +“Oh, indeed!” cried that lady, with ironical politeness; “you’re +monstrously wise about other people’s business, upon my word, sir. But, +though I’ve seen a good deal of cool impudence in my life, I never +witnessed cooler impudence than I’ve seen in this room to-night. If +you knew what you were talking about, you’d know that I play Julia in +the _Hunchback_, and Constance in the _Love-Chase_, and play +nothing else. My dresses for those two characters were made for me by +Madame Carabine Nourrisson, of Paris, and I should be sorry to tell you +what they cost.” + +“I should be very sorry to hear it. I am too much of a political +economist not to regret that money should be spent in that way. +However, as you like the cream of the drama so much, Miss Courtenay, +would it not be as well to try a little of the skim-milk? If you really +want to be an actress, you cannot do better than extend your experience +by some of the drudgery that Miss St. Albans has so industriously gone +through.” + +“If I want to be an actress!” cried the outraged lady. “And pray who +may have told you that I want to be an actress?” + +“If that is not your design, _que diable venez-vous faire dans cette +galère_?” + +“I don’t understand Latin, and I don’t want to,” replied the fair Ida, +with a venemous look at Mr. Desmond; “but I beg to tell you that I am a +lady of independent means, and that I act for my own amusement, and the +amusement of my friends.” + +“I have no doubt of the latter fact,” murmured Laurence, politely. + +“And I have no intention whatever of sinking to a poor, weak, +trodden-down drudge, in limp white muslin, like some actresses I could +mention.” + +“Indeed, Miss Courtenay! And are you aware that it is you, and ladies +of your class, who bring discredit upon the profession which you +condescend to take up for the amusement of your idle evenings? It +is this--amateur--element which contaminates the atmosphere of our +theatres, and the manager who fosters it is an enemy to the interests +he is bound to protect.” + +“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Miss Courtenay, who was very weak in a +conversational tussle, where neither fierce looks nor strong language +were admissible. And then, finding herself powerless against her +unknown assailant, she turned with Medea-like ferocity upon the injured +and innocent Manager. “I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. de Mortemar,” she +cried; “since you are so mean-spirited as to let me be insulted in this +manner, I beg you to understand that I shall never enter your theatre +again--no, Mr. de Mortemar, not if you were to go down on your knees to +me. And you may find some one else to play Julia, and you may let your +private boxes yourself, if you can, which I know you can’t; and I have +the honour to wish you good evening.” + +Hereupon Miss Courtenay swept out of the room. And thus it happened +that at one fell swoop Mr. de Mortemar was deprived of both his +heroines, much to his discomfiture; but not to his entire annihilation. +The unconquerable force of conscious genius supported him in this +extremity. + +“I can send on my walking-lady and second-chambermaid for Julia and +Helen,” he said to himself. “After all, what does it matter how the +women’s parts are played? The feature of the play is my Master Walter; +and I don’t suppose the audience would care what sticks I put in the +other characters.” + +This is how he consoled himself in the seclusion of his dressing-room, +whither he retired, after bestowing upon Mr. Desmond a scathing look, +but no words of reproach. The editor of the _Areopagus_ was a +person whom an embryo Kean could hardly afford to offend. + +Lucy Alford departed to change the penitential white muslin of Mrs. +Haller for the well-worn merino dress and dark shawl and bonnet in +which she came to the theatre. Before doing so, she told Mr. Desmond +that it was her father’s habit to wait for her every evening at +the close of the performance in the immediate neighbourhood of the +stage-door. + +“Then I will go and wait there with him,” said Mr. Desmond. “I must +excuse myself to him for the liberty I have taken in breaking your +engagement, and explain my motive for taking that liberty. I’m sure +your father will approve my reasons for acting as I did.” + +“I’m sure of that,” answered Lucy; and then she blushed, as she added, +falteringly, “I scarcely think you would like to go to the place where +papa waits for me; it is a kind of public-house, two doors from the +theatre. The gentlemen of the company go there a good deal, and as papa +finds it so very dull in the dress-circle when the play is over, he is +obliged to go there.” + +“I am not at all afraid of going there in search of him. I shall not +say good-night until I have seen you comfortably seated in your cab.” + +“You are very kind; but on fine nights we generally walk home. Papa +likes the walk.” + +She blushed as she said this; and the blush smote the very heart of +Laurence Desmond. It was not the first time that he had seen those +fair young cheeks crimsoned by that shame of the sinless--the sense of +poverty; and the thought of those trials and humiliations which this +gentle, innocent, tender creature had to bear touched him deeply. + +He thought of the women he met in his own world--women who would have +uttered a shriek of horror at the idea of walking in the streets of +London at any hour of the day, to say nothing of the night; and here +was this poor child walking every night from one end of London to the +other, after mental and physical fatigue which would have prostrated +those other women for a week. He thought of the extravagance, the +exaction, the egotism, which he had seen in the women he met in +society; and he asked himself how many among the brightest and best of +those he knew were as pure and true as this girl, for whom the present +was so hard a slavery, the future so dark an enigma. + +He left the theatre, and found that the establishment of which she +had spoken as “a kind of public-house,” was an actual public-house, +and nothing else. He went in at that quieter and more aristocratic +portal on which the mystic phrase “Jugs and Bottles” was inscribed; +but even here he found a select circle engaged in the consumption of +gin-and-bitters. He inquired for Mr. St. Albans--concluding that the +gentleman would be best known by his daughter’s professional alias--and +the old man speedily emerged from a parlour where some noisy gentlemen +were playing bagatelle. + +The old tutor was not a little disconcerted on beholding Laurence +Desmond, and faltered a feeble apology as the two men went out into the +street together. + +“I am obliged to wait somewhere, you see, Desmond,” he said. “I +can’t stand Harry Bestow in the farces; and I can’t hang about the +green-room; Mortemar doesn’t like it. So I take a glass of bitter ale +in there. The Prince of Wales is a regular theatrical house, and one +hears all sorts of news about the West-end theatres.” + +Mr. Desmond wondered that the bitter ale dispensed at the Prince of +Wales should perfume the breath of the consumer with so powerful an +odour of gin. He gave no expression to this wonder, however, but +proceeded to relate what he had done in the green-room. + +“Yes, very right, very right, Desmond,” said Tristram Alford, rather +despondently, when he had heard all. “My little Lucy ought not to act +with such a woman as that; and she can go back to Market Deeping for +the new year. The journey will be expensive--but----” + +“You must let me arrange that little matter in my own way,” Laurence +said, kindly. “I can promise Miss Alford an engagement at the Pall +Mall, in March; and in the meantime you must let me be your banker.” + +“My dear friend, you are too generous--you are the soul of nobility. +But how can I ever repay----” + +“It is I who am under obligation to you. Can I forget that if +you hadn’t made me work up my Thucydides to the highest point of +perfection, those stony-hearted examiners would have inevitably +ploughed me? And now let us go to the stage-door. Lucy--Miss +Alford--must be ready by this time.” + +The young lady was waiting for them in the shadow of the dingy portal. +The night was bright and clear, and for some little distance Mr. +Desmond walked by his old tutor’s side, with Lucy’s little hand on his +arm. He wondered to find himself walking the obscure streets, through +which Mr. Alford had mapped out a short-cut between the Oxford Road +and Islington; he wondered still more to find Lucy’s hand resting so +lightly, and yet so confidingly, on his coat-sleeve; and, above all, he +wondered that it should seem so pleasant to him to be quite out of his +own world. + +He walked about a mile, and then hailed a passing cab, and placed the +young lady by her father’s side. He had made one very painful discovery +during the walk, and that was the fact that Tristram Alford had been +drinking, and bore upon him the stamp of habitual drunkenness. This, +then, was the cause of that gradual decadence which had attended the +tutor’s fortunes since the days at Henley. What a man to hold the +fate of a daughter in his hand! What a helpless guardian for innocent +girlhood! Mr. Desmond’s heart ached as he thought of this. + +“I may help them a little for the moment,” he said, to himself, “but +if this man is what I believe him to be, there can be no such thing as +permanent help for him or for his daughter.” + +“I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness to-night,” Lucy said, +as she shook hands with the editor. + +“Indeed, you owe me no thanks. I only acted on the impulse of the +moment. I was enraged by that woman’s impertinence, and that man’s +sycophantic manner of treating her. Let me know if he makes any attempt +to enforce your engagement. I don’t think he will. When are you likely +to go to Market Deeping?” + +“On the thirtieth, I suppose. The theatre reopens on New-Year’s day. +Shall we--will papa--see you again before we go, Mr. Desmond?” + +“Well, no; I fear my time--or--yes, you can breakfast with me some +morning, can’t you, Alford? Say the morning after Christmas Day. Come +to my chambers at nine, if that is not too early for you, and we can +talk over Miss Alford’s future.” + +Tristram Alford accepted this invitation with evident pleasure; but +Laurence, whose hearing was very acute, heard the faintest sigh of +disappointment escape the lips of Lucy, as he released her hand. + +“Good-night,” he said, cheerily; “and all success at Market Deeping! I +shall hope to see you when you come back to town for your engagement at +the Pall Mall.” + +And so they parted--Mr. Alford and his daughter to enjoy the novel +luxury of a cab-ride; Laurence to walk all the way to the Temple, in an +unusually thoughtful mood. + + + + + CHAPTER III. + + MR. DESMOND TO THE RESCUE. + + +LAURENCE DESMOND had received a whole packet of invitations to +country-houses, where Christmas was to be kept with something of the +traditional warmth and joviality, and with ample entertainment in the +way of carpet-dances, and amateur concerts, and impromptu comedies +in the style popular at that Italian theatre which was so dangerous +a rival to the house of Molière. But to all such invitations Mr. +Desmond had returned the same kind of answer. The laborious duties of +the _Areopagus_ kept him prisoner in town, and would so keep him +throughout the winter. + +This was what the editor told his friends, but the fact was that +Mr. Desmond dared not indulge any natural yearnings for jovial +hunting-breakfasts, or private theatricals, or country gatherings of +pretty girls and hard-riding young men. He was bound to devote all +Christmas leisure to the society of Mrs. Jerningham. The lady received +her share of invitations from the chiefs of those very houses to which +Mr. Desmond was bidden, but elected to refuse all. + +“I do not care to be stared at and gossiped about, as if I were some +kind of natural curiosity,” she said, when she discussed the subject +with her friend. “The men watch you with malicious grins whenever you +are decently civil to me, and the women watch me with more intense +malice whenever you talk to other women. There are times when we are +compelled to walk upon red-hot ploughshares, and then, of course, +_noblesse oblige_, we must tread the iron with a good grace. But I +don’t see why we should go out of our way to find the ploughshares.” + +“My dear Emily, you insist on looking at everything in this bitter +spirit.” + +“I know the world in which I live.” + +“I think the world has been extremely gracious to you.” + +“Perhaps so; but the world has taken care to let me know that I +am accepted on sufferance. Your position in literature, and Mr. +Jerningham’s fortune, sustain a platform for me, but it is a slippery +platform at best. I am happier in my own house than anywhere else.” + +“But unhappily you are not happy in your own house.” + +“At any rate, I am less miserable.” + +Mr. Desmond shrugged his shoulders. He felt that his burden was growing +heavier day by day, but he could not find it in his heart to be hard +upon this beautiful woman, whose worst error was to love him with a +jealous, suspicious love that made her own torment and his. + +And by and by, when the demon of discontent had been exorcised, Mrs. +Jerningham grew animated and gracious, and put on her sweetest smiles +for the man she loved. + +“You will spend Christmas Day with me, Laurence, will you not?” she +pleaded. “I suppose I shall be honoured by your society on that day +_at least_?” + +The little, piteous air with which she uttered the last words, was +scarcely justified by circumstances; since Mr. Desmond spent always one +day, and sometimes two days a week at the Hampton villa. + +So all the invitations were refused, and Laurence ate his Christmas +dinner at Eiver Lawn, where he met a second-rate literary celebrity +and his wife, and an elderly magnate of the War Office, who had been +a bosom-friend of Mrs. Jerningham’s father. They were people whom he +met very frequently at Hampton. He knew the literary gentleman’s good +stories by heart, and loathed them; he knew the bad stories of the War +Office magnate, and loathed them with a still deeper aversion; indeed, +there were different series of Castlereaghiana and Wellingtoniana, +which inspired him with a wild desire to throw claret-jugs and other +instruments of warfare at the head of the narrator. Mrs. Jerningham’s +circle grew narrower every day. The green-eyed monster held her in +his fatal grip, and one by one she struck the best names from her +visiting-list. She did not care to invite very pretty women or very +charming women; for every word or look of Laurence Desmond’s was a +sufficient cause for doubt and terror in her diseased imagination. She +was jealous even of very agreeable men, if they absorbed too much of +the editor’s attention. She condemned him to dulness, and yet upbraided +him because he was not gay. + +“I fear you have not enjoyed your evening, Laurence,” she said, as he +lingered for a few minutes’ confidential talk before hurrying off to +catch the last train for London. + +“I have enjoyed my little snatches of talk with you,” he answered, +mildly; “but I am getting rather tired of Stapleton, and your old +friend’s Wellington stories are almost too much for human endurance.” + +“How do you like Mrs. Stapleton?” + +“I have told you at least a dozen times. She is neither particularly +pretty nor particularly amusing. She gave me some very interesting +details about her elder boy’s experiences in the way of +whooping-cough, and the trouble she has with her cook. How is it I +never see your friends the Westcombes? He is a very nice fellow, and +Mrs. Westcombe a most delightful little woman.” + +“You think her pretty?” + +“Amazingly pretty, in the soubrette style. You used to admire her so +much.” + +“I think it was you who admired her so much,” answered Mrs. Jerningham, +with suppressed acrimony. + +“I only echoed your sentiments. Have you quarrelled with her?” + +“I am not in the habit of quarrelling with my acquaintance.” + +“No; but you have a knack of dropping them. Your house used to be the +pleasantest in England.” + +“And it has ceased to be so because Mrs. Westcombe has ceased to visit +me? If I cannot make my house pleasant to you myself, I will not ask +you to come to it.” + +“Your house is always pleasant to me when I find you and Mrs. Colton +alone; but even you cannot make dull people agreeable. If you invite +people for my pleasure, you should choose those I like.” + +“Very well, Monsieur le Soudain, in future I will send you my +visiting-list.” + +“You are always unjust, Emily. You cross-question me, and then object +to my candour.” + + +Although Mr. Desmond was accustomed to relate almost all the details of +his existence for the amusement of Mrs. Jerningham, he had refrained +from telling her his experiences at the Oxford Road Theatre, or his +renewal of an old friendship with Tristram Alford. Experience was fast +teaching him a reticence that was the next thing to hypocrisy. It would +have been very pleasant to him to tell the lady of River Lawn the story +of Lucy Alford’s trials and aspirations; but he had an ever-present +terror of awakening that slumbering monster, always lurking in the +deeps of Emily Jerningham’s mind. He knew that to speak of Lucy would +bring upon him a sharp interrogation; and he shrunk from the idea of a +possible scene which might arise out of the mention of that damsel’s +name. + +He expected Mr. Alford to breakfast on the morning after that +uncongenial evening at Hampton, and had taken care that a tempting meal +should be prepared for the dweller on the heights of Ball’s Pond. He +waited breakfast for more than an hour, and only gave his visitor up +when his own engagements obliged him to drink his tea and eat his dry +toast with business-like haste, while the kippered salmon and devilled +kidneys remained neglected in their hot-water dishes on a stand by the +fire. + +“I suppose poor old Tristram has forgotten our engagement,” he said to +himself, as he began his morning’s work; “I should like to have seen +him, in order to have some talk with him about that poor little girl’s +prospects; and yet what good can I hope to achieve for her, if the +father is a drunkard? Nothing else could have brought him so low: for +he had an excellent position when I knew him twelve years ago. Even +then Waldon and I suspected his attachment to the brandy-bottle. He +was so fond of recommending brandy and cold water as the remedy for +every disease common to mortality. And now it has come from brandy +to gin--which indicates a decadence of a hundred per cent. in his +social status. Poor girl! she is such a pretty, winning, childlike +creature, and of that sympathetic nature which is so susceptible to all +suffering.” + +Neither letter nor message of apology or explanation came from Mr. +Alford during that day, but very late at night came a mysterious boy, +with a damp and dirty-looking missive from the learned Tristram. Mr. +Alford was one of those people whose letters usually arrive late at +night; so Laurence was in nowise disconcerted when his man informed him +that a boy had brought this damp epistle, and was waiting for an answer. + +“Has the letter come from Islington by hand?” asked Laurence, +surprised that the needy tutor should have preferred to employ +the expensive luxury of a messenger to the cheap convenience of a +postage-stamp. + +The major-domo departed to question the boy, and returned to tell his +master that the letter had not come from Islington, but from Whitecross +Street. + +That fatal name explained all. Mr. Desmond tore open the flabby +envelope, and read the following epistle, in the penmanship whereof was +ample evidence of the flurry and distraction of mind incident upon a +first night in bondage. + + “MY DEAR DESMOND,--The sword of Damocles has been long + suspended above my unhappy head. This morning the hair snapped, and + a writ issued by a butcher at Henley, who enjoyed my custom for many + years, but whose later accounts I have been unable to discharge, has + brought me to this place. The necessity for the step which I am about + to take has long been obvious; but I have hoped against hope, and + struggled on bravely, with the idea of making some kind of compromise + with my old Henley creditors. I now feel that this desire is vain: + + ‘Longa via est, nec tempora longa supersunt.’ + + “I am too old to accomplish the Sisyphean labour of paying debts + which seem to spring from the very earth, like the armed antagonists + of Cadmus. I have resolved, therefore, to endure that shame which + worthier men than I have suffered. I must avail myself of the + protection which the law affords to honest poverty; and with this view + I have sent for a solicitor versed in this kind of practice, and have + made arrangements for placing my petition on the file. + + “I am told by one of my fellow-prisoners that the small amount of + my debts will in all likelihood be a hindrance to my release. If my + liabilities were of a colossal character, their extinction would be + a mere affair of accountancy, and I might enjoy the mildness of a + winter in the south of France while my lawyers arranged an agreeable + settlement in Walbrook, and might return in the spring to make my + bow before the commissioner, and to be complimented on the excellence + of my bookkeeping. But for the man who owes a few paltry hundreds are + reserved the extreme rigours of the law; and I am advised to prepare + myself for much harassing delay before I obtain my protection and can + once more walk at liberty among my fellow-men. + + “This, for myself, I could bear with stoical fortitude; but what is + my child to do while I am detained in this wretched place? The old + Queen’s Bench gave a hospitable shelter to the prisoner, and afforded + a comfortable home for his family; but here stern warders refuse me + the privilege of my daughter’s company, nor could I bring her even for + an hour into a common ward where she would be, in all probability, + the subject of rude remark or insolent observation. The poor child + is yet in ignorance of my incarceration. I left her upon a pretence + of business in the City, intending to inform her by letter of my + whereabouts; but now the night has come, I have not courage to write + that letter; and in my dilemma I venture to appeal to you, the only + friend on whose goodness I can count. + + “Will you, my dear Desmond, call at Paul’s Terrace early to-morrow + morning, and tell my poor Lucy the reason of my non-appearance? If + you will, at the same time, generously advance her a small sum for + the payment of the account owing to Mrs. Wilkins, the landlady, and + for the expenses of Lucy’s journey to Market Deeping--which she must + now take alone--you will confer a boon upon one who to his last hour + will cherish the memory of your goodness. The cessation of even Mr. de + Mortemar’s pitiful stipend has been felt by us. + + “Pardon this long epistle from your distracted friend, + + “T. A. + + “_White X Street Prison, nine o’clock._” + +“Alone, and her father in prison! Poor, ill-used girl!” exclaimed +Laurence, as he finished this letter. He had been thinking of her, +with regret and compassion, more than once that day; but he had little +known the utter misery of her position. She was quite alone, this girl, +who was of an age to need all the protecting influences of home--alone +in a shabby lodging; perhaps with vulgar, sordid people, who would use +her harshly because of those unpaid bills alluded to so lightly by the +captive of Whitecross Street. + +“What a father!” mused Mr. Desmond. “He leaves his daughter, in +ignorance of his fate, to suffer the tortures of suspense all day, +and at night writes to ask me, a single man of something less than +five-and-thirty years of age, to befriend and protect the poor, +helpless girl. I am the only friend he has; and he can trust me, he +says. How does he know that he can trust me? and what guarantee has he +for my honour? Only the fact that I read with him twelve years ago, +and have lent him money since that time. And on the strength of this +he asks me to befriend his daughter in her loneliness! If I were a +scoundrel, he would have done the same. Indeed, how does he know that I +am not a scoundrel? And this poor little girl must go through life with +no better guardian; and the world is full of scoundrels.” + +Mr. Desmond looked at the dial on the low Belgian marble mantelpiece, +where a lank and grim Mephistopheles, with peaked beard and pointed +shoes, kept watch and ward over an ivy-mantled clock-tower. It was +nearly eleven o’clock. + +“I dare say she is sitting up, waiting for him, at this moment,” +Laurence said to himself. “Why should she be kept in suspense till +to-morrow morning? It will be no more trouble to me to go up there +to-night than to-morrow; and I can much better spare the time now. +It would be actual cruelty to let that poor girl suffer twelve hours +more of uncertainty and apprehension; for I dare say she loves this +reprobate father of hers as fondly as it is the luck of such reprobates +to be loved. He is the kind of father who ruins himself and his +children with the most affectionate intentions, and would perish +rather than speak an unkind word to the child whose prospects he is +destroying.” + +Upon this Mr. Desmond threw down his book, and went in quest of his hat +and overcoat. + +The streets were clear at this time, and a hansom carried Laurence +Desmond to Paul’s Terrace in half an hour. He saw the feeble light +burning in the parlour-window as he stepped from the cab, and before he +could knock, the door was opened, and a tremulous voice cried, “Papa, +papa! Oh, thank God you have come!” + +It was Lucy. She recognized Laurence in the next moment, and recoiled +from him, with a faint shriek of horror. + +“Something has happened to papa!” she cried, and then began to tremble +violently. + +“My dear Lucy--my dear girl, your father is well--quite well,” Laurence +exclaimed, eager to relieve the terrified girl, whose chattering +teeth revealed her agony of fear. He took her by the arm with gentle +firmness, and led her into the parlour. + +“It has been very wrong of your father to leave you ignorant of his +whereabouts,” he said; “but I am sure you will forgive him when you +know the cause. He is quite well; but he is a prisoner in Whitecross +Street, and is likely to remain there for a week or two. He had not +courage to write to you the tidings of his troubles, and so sent me to +tell you his misfortune.” + +“Poor, dear papa! Thank heaven he is well! You--you are not deceiving +me, Mr. Desmond?” she said, suddenly, with the look of terror coming +back to her pale, sad face; “my father is really well? The only trouble +is the prison?” + +“That is the only trouble.” + +“Then I can bear it very patiently,” answered Lucy, with a plaintive +resignation that seemed inexpressibly touching to Laurence. “We have +long known that trouble of that kind was inevitable. Poor, dear papa! +It is a very uncomfortable place, is it not? He was in a prison on the +other side of the Thames once, when I was a little girl, and poor mamma +and I used to go and see him; and it seemed quite a pleasant place, +like a large hotel. But even the prisons are wretched now, papa says. I +may go and see him, may I not?” + +“Yes; I believe you can be allowed to see him. But it is not a nice +place for you to visit.” + +“I do not mind that in the least, if I may only see him. Can I go very +early to-morrow? Papa will want linen, and razors, and things. Oh, why +did he not send a messenger for a portmanteau? It would have been so +much more comfortable for him to have his things ready for the morning.” + +“And he would have spared you many hours of anxiety,” said Mr. +Desmond, touched by the unselfishness of the girl, who in this hour of +trouble had not one thought for herself. He could not avoid making +a comparison, as he reflected how Emily Jerningham, under the same +circumstances, would have bewailed her own misery, and the horror and +degradation of her position. + +“She could suffer slow death at the stake, with a smile upon her +splendid face, for pride’s sake,” that impertinent inward voice, which +he was always trying to stifle, remarked, obtrusively; “but she has no +idea of enduring patiently, as this girl endures, unconscious of her +own suffering in her thoughtfulness for others. With Emily the virtues +are different phases of egotism.” + +“Yes; I have been very wretched since two o’clock, when I expected papa +to dinner,” said Lucy; “but I feel almost happy now that I know he is +well. Do you think the prison is a _very_ uncomfortable place?” + +“Well, I dare say it is rather a rough kind of lodging; but no doubt +your father will contrive to make himself tolerably comfortable. +It will not be for long, you know. He is almost sure to get his +protection in a week or two.” + +“Whose protection did you say,” Lucy faltered, at a loss to understand +this phrase. + +“His own protection--an immunity from arrest--his liberty, in point of +fact. It is only a technical term. But what will you do in the mean +time? That is the question.” + +“I fear I shall have to leave town before poor papa gets his release. +The Market Deeping theatre opens on New-Year’s night; and I think I +must go on the 28th at latest. They are going to do the burlesque of +_Lucrezia Borgia_, and I am to play Gennaro.” + +“Gennaro?” + +“Yes. The son, you know. I believe he gets poisoned, or something, at +the end. I have to sing parodies on ‘Sam Hall,’ and the ‘Cat’s-meat +Man;’ and I have to dance a--a--cellar-flap breakdown, I believe they +call it. It is a very good part.” + +“Indeed! The ‘cellar-flap breakdown,’ and ‘Sam Hall,’ and the +‘Cat’s-meat Man,’ constitute a very good part. I am sorry for the +legitimate drama.” + +“Oh, of course it is not like Pauline or Julia,” cried Lucy; “but as +a burlesque part it is very good. And in the country one has to play +burlesque, and farce, and everything.” + +“And for that I suppose your salary is only four or five pounds a week?” + +“My salary at Market Deeping will be twenty-five shillings,” Lucy +answered, blushing. + +Four or five pounds!--it was a salary which she had thought of +sometimes in her dreams. She knew that there were people in London +who actually had such salaries; but to her the sum seemed fabulous as +the golden treasure of Raleigh’s unknown lands may have seemed to his +mutinous crew. + +Mr. Desmond made no remark upon the smallness of this pitiful stipend, +though the thought of it smote his heart with actual pain. + +“Your father sent you some money,” he said, not without embarrassment, +“to carry on the housekeeping, and so on.” + +“Papa sent me money! You have seen him, then?” Lucy asked, eagerly. + +“No--a messenger brought me his letter.” + +“And the money. Where could papa get money? I know he had none when +he left home this morning; and he has no friend in the world but you. +Ah, I understand, Mr. Desmond. It is your own money you are giving me; +and you are so kind, so thoughtful, that you fear I should be pained +by knowing how much we owe you. I am used to feel the weight of such +obligations, and I have sometimes felt the burden very heavy; but +with you it is different. Your kindness takes the sting out of the +obligation; and--and it does not seem so deep a humiliation to accept +your charity----” + +Here the sweet, low voice trembled and broke down, and the tutor’s +daughter burst into tears. + +“Lucy, my dear girl--my dearest Lucy--for God’s sake don’t do that,” +cried Laurence, overcome in a moment by the aspect of that half-averted +face, which the girl vainly strove to cover with her hands. The +water-drops trickled through those slender fingers. All day her heart +had been well-nigh bursting with grief, and unhappily her fortitude +must needs give way at this very inconvenient crisis. + +Truly a pleasant situation for the editor of the _Areopagus_. +Called upon, at a moment’s notice, to play the part of comforter and +benefactor to a pretty, sensitive girl of eighteen, whose father was in +prison! + +“If Emily Jerningham could see me now!” Mr. Desmond said to himself, +involuntarily. + +He had called Miss Alford his dear--nay, indeed, his dearest--Lucy; but +it was in the same spirit of compassion that would have prompted him +to address endearing epithets to the charwoman who cleaned his rooms, +had he found that honest creature in bitter need of consolation. His +conscience whispered no word of reproof to him on that score; but he +felt somehow that his position was a perilous one, though he wondered +what the peril could be. + +“Am I a fool or a reprobate, that I cannot befriend an innocent girl +without some kind of danger to her or myself?” the inward voice +demanded, angrily. + +Miss Alford had recovered her composure by this time. + +“I have been so unhappy all day, that your kindness quite overcame me,” +she said, quietly. “I hope you will forgive me for being so silly.” + +“Do not talk of my kindness,” answered the editor, who seemed now +the more embarrassed of the two. “It is a great pleasure to me to +serve--your father. You must go to Lincolnshire on the 28th, the day +after to-morrow. Shall you be obliged to travel alone?” + +“Yes; but I am not at all afraid of travelling alone.” + +“Una was not afraid of the lion,” Mr. Desmond murmured to himself, +softly; and then he added, aloud, “If you really wish to see your +father to-morrow, I will take you to him.” + +“You are too kind; but I cannot consent to give you so much trouble. I +don’t at all mind going to the prison alone.” + +“No, no; you shall not do that. There might be all kinds of difficulty +about getting admitted, and so on. I shall call for you at twelve +o’clock to-morrow. You must let me play the part of your elder brother +upon this occasion, or your father. I am almost old enough to stand in +the latter position, you know.” + +At this Lucy blushed crimson; and the sight of that shy, blushing face +sent a strange thrill to the heart of the editor. He bade her a hasty +good-night and went back to his cab. The interview had only lasted +ten minutes--though the cabman mulcted him of sixpence by and by on +account of the delay--and the grim-visaged landlady, who stood lurking +at the head of the kitchen-stairs, had no ground for complaint that the +proprieties had been outraged. + +He stopped to say a word or two to this grim-visaged individual. + +“Mr. Alford is unavoidably detained out of town for a few days,” he +said. “I hope you will take care of his daughter during his absence.” + +“I hope my little account will be paid before Miss St. Halbings goes +to Lincolnshire,” answered the woman, sternly. “I’ve had a many +theatricals from the ‘Wells’ in my parlours; though theatricals in +general are parties I avides taking; but I never had any theatrical +backward in his rent till Mr. St. Halbings came to me.” + +“Miss St. Albans can pay you to-night, if you please,” replied the +editor; “her father has sent her money for that purpose.” + +“Ho, indeed,” cried the landlady, with a tone of satisfaction that was +not without a shade of irony; “circumstances alters cases. I am glad to +find that Miss St. Halbings has got so rich all of a suddent.” + +“She is rich enough to find new lodgings, if you make these +disagreeable to her,” answered Laurence, angrily. There was an +insolence about the woman’s tone which made his blood boil. + +Yet what could he do? It would have been very pleasant to him to +horsewhip this grim-visaged landlady; but one of the perplexities +of social existence lies in the fact that the opposite sexes cannot +horsewhip each other. Mr. Desmond ground his teeth, and departed with +a sentiment of anger against a universe in which such a girl as Lucy +Alford was subject to the insolence of grim-visaged landladies. + + + + + CHAPTER IV. + + A PERILOUS PROTEGEE. + + +EVEN the icy December blast, which buffeted Mr. Desmond, as his hansom +descended the Islingtonian Mont Blanc, could not blow away his sense +of impotent indignation against the Nemesis who had presided over +the youth of Miss Alford. His slumbers were rendered restless by the +thought of her wrongs; and the picture of a desolate girl, travelling +alone through a bleak wintry landscape, was the first image that +presented itself to his mind when he awoke. + +He disposed of his breakfast in about ten minutes, and from nine to +half-past eleven worked at his desk as even he rarely worked. For +scarcely any one but a helpless girl, whose sorrows had enlisted all +his sympathy, would the editor of the _Areopagus_ have sacrificed +the noon of a business day. He glanced with a guilty look at a pile of +proofs that lay unread amongst his chaos of papers, and then departed +to keep his appointment with Lucy. + +He took her to the prison, and was present during the interview between +father and daughter. Lucy’s tenderness and sweetness touched him to +the heart. Never before had he seen such patience, such unselfish +affection; never had he imagined so perfect a type of womanhood. + +“And she will go to that country theatre, utterly friendless and alone, +to sing the ‘Cat’s-meat Man,’ and to dance a cellar-flap breakdown,” +Mr. Desmond said to himself, as he stood in the background, watching +this Grecian Daughter of Ball’s Pond, who would have given her heart’s +best blood for the captive father, upon whose neck she hung so fondly. + +“I would rather see her under the wheels of Juggernaut than dancing a +cellar-flap breakdown,” thought Mr. Desmond. And at this moment there +arose in Laurence Desmond’s mind a desperate resolution. He would do +something--he knew not what, but something--to prevent any further +dancing of cellar-flap breakdowns on the part of Miss Alford. During +that brief interview of the preceding night his quick eye had noted +a mysterious rose-coloured satin garment of the tunic family lying +on a table beside a shabby little workbox and a paper of spangles, +whereby he opined that Miss Alford had been sewing spangles upon +this rose-coloured garment, and that it was to be worn by her in the +character of Gennaro, together with a pair of little rose-coloured +silk boots, very much the worse for wear, but laboriously darned, and +renovated by spangles. + +“She might surely be a nursery-governess--a companion to some kind +elderly lady; anything would be better than the ‘Cat’s-meat Man,’” +he said to himself; and, being prone to act with promptitude and +decision in all the affairs of life, he broke ground with Miss +Alford immediately after leaving the prison. They had travelled from +Islington in a cab; but as it was a fine clear day, and as Lucy seemed +to consider walking no hardship, he offered her his arm, and began +the homeward journey on foot. He wanted to talk seriously to her, +undistracted by the rattle of a cab. + +“Are you very fond of acting?” he began. + +“Oh yes, Mr. Desmond; I love it dearly, when I play my own +parts--Pauline and Julia--Juliet and Ophelia, you know.” + +“Yes; but there is so much hardship, so many discouragements.” + +“I do not mind either hardship or discouragement,” the girl answered, +bravely. + +“Not now perhaps, while you are very young and very hopeful; but the +day must come when----” + +“Oh don’t, please don’t!” cried Lucy, piteously. “You are talking +like Mrs. M’Grudder. ‘Wait till you’ve been in the profession as long +as I have, my dear,’ she says, ‘and then you’ll know what it is to +be an actress. Look at me, and see where I am, after five-and-twenty +years’ slavery; and _I_ had talent, when _I_ began;’ and she +lays such an insulting emphasis on the ‘I’ and makes me feel utterly +wretched for the rest of the evening, unless I get a little more +applause than usual to give me courage. There is a chimney-sweep, a +regular playgoer, at Market Deeping, who is said to be quite the king +of the gallery--all the other gallery people form their opinion by his, +you know; and I believe he likes me. He always gives me a reception.” + +“A reception?” + +“Yes; he applauds me when I first come on;--that is a reception, you +know; and a good reception puts one in spirits for the whole evening. +The sweep cries ‘Bravo,’ or ‘Brayvo’ as _he_ calls it, poor +fellow; and then they all applaud.” + +Her face quite softened as she thought of the chimney-sweep, and +Laurence Desmond watched her with a smile, half pitying, half +amused--she seemed such a childish creature, in her ignorant +hopefulness, and dependence on the approbation of chimney-sweeps. + +“I should be very sorry to seem as disagreeable to you, as Mrs. +M’Grudder does,” he said, presently; “but I am very deeply interested +in your career--for auld lang syne, you know--and I want to discuss +your prospects seriously. I do not think the stage, as it is at present +constituted, offers a brilliant prospect for any woman. Of course there +are exceptional circumstances, and there is exceptional talent; but, +unhappily, exceptional talent does not always win its reward unless +favoured by exceptional circumstances. Your surroundings are against +you, my dear Miss Alford. Your father’s ignorance of the dramatic +world, your own inexperience of any world except the world of books, +must tell against you when you fight for precedence with people who +have been born and bred at the side-scenes of a theatre. The prizes +in the dramatic profession are very few, and the blanks are the most +worthless of all ciphers. And for the chance of winning one of these +rare prizes you must stake so much. Even in these enlightened days, +there are prejudiced people who hold in abhorrence the profession +of Garrick and the Kembles, of Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs. Kean; and by +and by, when you have failed, perhaps, to realize one of the bright +hopes that sustain you now, and have entered upon some other career, +malicious people will reproach you with your dramatic associations, and +discredit the truth and purity of your nature, because you tried to +support your father by the patient exercise of your talents and your +industry. You see _I_ know what the world is, Lucy, and know that +it can be a very hard and bitter world; above all things, bitter for a +woman whose youth is unguarded by any natural protector.” + +Miss Alford looked at him wonderingly. “I have papa,” she said. “What +other protector can I want?” + +“Your papa loves you very fondly, I have no doubt; but his +circumstances do not enable him to----” + +“You mean that he is poor?” Lucy interposed, a little wounded. + +“No, it is not of his poverty I am thinking, but of his inexperience. +In all matters relating to the profession you have chosen, your father +is as inexperienced as yourself. He cannot help you, as other girls who +aspire for dramatic success are helped by those about them.” + +“Yes, that is quite true,” answered the girl, rather sadly; “but I +hope to succeed in spite of that. And by and by, when I get a London +engagement, and have a salary of three or four pounds a week, papa and +I can live in nice lodgings, and be very happy.” + +“And you really like your theatrical life, with all its difficulties; +even with its Mrs. M’Grudders?” + +“I like it so much, that neither Mrs. M’Grudder nor you can discourage +me,” answered Lucy. “I know that you speak very kindly, and that you +are the best and most generous of friends; but I cannot tell you how it +pains me to hear you run down the profession.” + +This was a difficulty which Mr. Desmond had never contemplated. In a +moment of generous feeling, he had resolved to rescue this fair young +flower from the foul atmosphere in which her freshness was fading, +and, behold! the fair young flower rejoiced in that unwholesome +atmosphere, and refused to be restored to loftier and purer regions. +He would have snatched this brand from the burning, but the brand +preferred to remain in Tophet. For the first time in his life, Mr. +Desmond understood the nature of that midsummer madness which affects +the ignorant aspirant for dramatic fame; for the first time he beheld +what it was to be “stage-struck.” If he had been talking to a young +actress, familiar from the cradle with the mysteries of her art, she +would have heartily coincided with his abuse of “the profession;” but +Lucy Alford was fresh from the little parlour at Henley, where she +had rehearsed Shakspeare, Sheridan Knowles, and Bulwer Lytton, before +the looking-glass, in a fever of poetic feeling, and she had all the +amateur’s fond, ignorant love of her art. + +She knew that Mr. Desmond meant kindly by her, but she was cruelly +affected by the tenor of his advice. “_Et tu, Brute_,” she said to +herself, sadly. So many people had tortured and tormented her by their +dismal croakings about the career she had chosen; and now he, even he, +the friend who had promised to help her, went over to the enemy, and +spoke to her in the accents of M’Grudder. She had been very happy that +morning as they drove to Whitecross Street--yes, actually happy--though +the father she loved was languishing in captivity; but her heart sank +with a new despondency as she walked by Mr. Desmond’s side after this +serious conversation. + +Was it all true that people had told her? she asked herself; was there +no such thing as success possible for her, let her study never so +diligently, and labour never so industriously? And then she thought of +Mrs. Siddons, who appeared in London, young, beautiful, gifted, only +to fail ignominiously, and then went quietly back to her provincial +drudgery, and plodded on with inimitable patience, to return in due +time and take the town by storm. It was from the consideration of this +little history she was wont to obtain consolation when depressed by the +advice of her acquaintance; but even this failed to console her to-day. +Discouragement from Laurence Desmond seemed more depressing than from +any one else. Was he not her kindest--nay, indeed, her only--friend, +and could she doubt the sincerity of his counsel? + +The tears gathered slowly in her downcast eyes as she walked silently +by his side, thinking thus; but she contrived to brush those unbidden +tears away, almost unseen by her companion. Almost, but not quite +unseen. Laurence saw that she was depressed, and he had a faint +suspicion that she had been crying; and immediately his heart smote +him, and he was angry with himself for the recklessness with which his +rude hand had smitten down her airy castle. + +“Poor little girl!” he said to himself, very sadly; “and she really +thinks that she will be a great actress some day, and win her reward +for all the patient drudgery of the present. Well, she must keep her +day-dream, since it is so dear. Mine shall not be the hand to let in +the common light of reason on her dream-world. But I am very sorry for +her, notwithstanding.” + +And hereupon Mr. Desmond tried to cheer his companion with much +pleasant and hopeful talk; and the innocent young face brightened, and +the shy, blue eyes glanced up at him with a grateful look which went +straight to his heart, whither, indeed, all this girl’s unsophisticated +words and looks seemed to go. + +“She is born to melt the hearts of men,” he said to himself; “a tender, +Wordsworthian creature--plaintive, and grateful, and confiding. She +will make a very sweet Juliet, if she ever acquire dramatic tact and +power; but I cannot endure the preliminary ordeal of the ‘Cat’s-meat +Man.’ Free-trade in the drama is no doubt a supreme good, but there are +times when one sighs for the days of the patent theatres, when every +provincial manager kept a Shakspearian school, and would have shrunk +appalled from the idea of street-boy dances and street-boy songs.” + +Mr. Desmond and the young actress walked all the way from Whitecross +Street to Paul’s Terrace, and it seemed to Laurence quite a natural +occurrence to be walking with the girl’s shabby little glove upon his +arm. He was quite conscious that she was poorly dressed, that her shawl +would have been despised by the tawdry factory-girls they met near the +Old Street Road; but he knew that she looked like a lady, in spite of +her well-worn shawl, and he had no sense of shame in the companionship. +He had never felt a more unselfish regard than he felt for this girl; +and during the visit to the prison he had decided upon taking a step, +the desperation whereof he was by no means inclined to underrate. He +had determined to obtain Emily Jerningham’s friendship for Lucy Alford, +if sympathy for any human creature could be awakened in that lady’s +heart and mind. + +“I have never yet asked her a favour,” he said to himself. “I will +ask her to interest herself in this poor girl’s fate. My friendship +can serve Lucy Alford very little; but the friendship of a woman, an +accomplished woman like Emily, who is in every way independent, may +help to shape her future, and rescue her at once from ‘cellar-flap +breakdowns’ and ‘cat’s-meat men.’ Emily is always bewailing the +emptiness of her life. It might be at once an amusement and a +consolation to her to befriend this girl. I know it is a generous heart +to which I shall make my appeal. The only question is, whether I can +contrive to touch that heart with Lucy Alford’s story.” + +Mr. Desmond only apprehended one difficulty in the matter, but that was +rather a serious one. Might not Mrs. Jerningham--of late the victim +of such morbid fancies, such frivolous suspicions--take it into her +head to be jealous of this girl? and in that case there was an end to +all hope for Lucy. Let the green-eyed monster show but the tip of his +forked tail, and friendship between Mrs. Jerningham and Miss Alford +would be an impossibility. + +Reasoning upon the matter within himself, as he walked by Lucy’s side, +Laurence Desmond decided that jealousy in this case must needs be out +of the question. + +“No, no; she has been foolish and absurd enough in her fancies, Heaven +knows; but here it is impossible. The girl is nearly twenty years +younger than I am, and has nothing in common with me, or the world I +live in.” + +After arguing with himself thus, Mr. Desmond decided that there was no +possibility of any such feeling as jealousy upon Emily Jerningham’s +part; and yet it seemed to him that it would be a desperate and awful +thing to address the lady of River Lawn on the subject of Lucy Alford. + +They arrived at Paul’s Terrace while the editor was still meditating +upon the young lady’s future, and, indeed, before he had altogether +decided upon what was best to be done on her behalf. An unexpected +difficulty had arisen, in the girl’s enthusiastic regard for her +profession. It was quite out of the question that Mr. Desmond should +introduce Lucy to Mrs. Jerningham while the girl still hankered +after the triumphs of Market Deeping. All thought of “cellar-flap +breakdowns,” and “cat’s-meat men,” must be put away before Lucy could +approach the wife of Harold Jerningham. + +In this perplexity of mind, Mr. Desmond could not bring himself to bid +Lucy Alford good-bye upon the threshold of No. 20, Paul’s Terrace, as +she evidently expected him to do. He lingered doubtfully for a minute +or two, and then went into the parlour with her. + +“I should like to have a few minutes’ chat before I bid you good-bye,” +he said. “I suppose you really must go to-morrow?” + +“Yes, to-morrow is the latest. It seems very dreadful to leave papa in +that horrible dingy place; but he says it will be only for a few days. +I ought to have been at Market Deeping on Monday, for the rehearsals. +Mr. Bungrave is very particular.” + +“What time do you start?” + +“At a quarter-past five.” + +“In the afternoon, I suppose?” + +“Oh no, in the morning.” + +“At a quarter-past five on a December morning!” cried Laurence, with a +shudder. “Isn’t that a very inconvenient hour?” + +“Yes, it is rather disagreeable to start before it is light, because +cabmen are always so ill-tempered at that time in the morning. But the +train goes at a quarter past five, and I must contrive to be at the +station at five.” + +“_The_ train?” repeated Laurence. “There must be several trains +for Lincolnshire in the course of the day.” + +“Oh yes, there are other trains; but, you see, that is the +parliamentary train, and in the profession, people generally travel +by the parliamentary train, because it is so much cheaper, you know, +and it comes to the same thing in the end. One meets most respectable +people, generally with large families of children and canary-birds; +and sometimes people even play cards, if one can get something flat--a +tea-tray, or a picture--to play on. One has to hide the cards, of +course, when the guard comes round, unless he happens to be a very +good-natured guard, who pretends not to see them. Oh, I assure you, it +is not at all disagreeable to travel by the parliamentary train.” + +“Well, I can fancy there _might_ be a combination of circumstances +under which a journey to--say the Land’s End--in the slowest of +parliamentaries would be delightful,” said the editor, looking at the +girl’s innocent, animated face with a very tender smile. “But I think +I could willingly forego the children and the canaries, and even the +card-playing on a tea-tray. Suppose you go by the mid-day express, +Lucy, upon this occasion, as the weather is cold, and you will he +travelling alone? I will meet you at the station, and see to your +ticket, and all that sort of thing; and then, when I have placed you in +the care of the most indulgent guard who ever ignored card-playing on a +tea-tray, I can go to Whitecross Street, and assure your father of your +comfortable departure.” + +“You are too kind. I cannot accept so much kindness,” murmured Lucy, to +whom it was a very new thing to receive such evidence of disinterested +friendship. + +As she faltered her grateful acknowledgments, with a confusion of +manner that was not without its charm, her eyes wandered to the +chimney-piece, where there was a letter, directed in a sprawling, +masculine hand. + +“It is from the manager,” she said, as she took the letter. “Perhaps to +scold me for not being at the theatre last Monday. Will you excuse me +if I read it, Mr. Desmond?” + +“I would excuse you if you read all the epistles of Pliny,” said +Laurence; and in the next moment would have cut his tongue out. + +Lucy tore open her letter with nervous haste. The change in her +countenance as she read, told Mr. Desmond that the missive brought her +no good tidings. + +“Is there anything amiss?” he asked. + +“Oh, it is cruel, it is shameful!” cried the girl, indignantly. “Mr. +Bungrave has given Gennaro to another lady, because I was not there for +the rehearsal yesterday. Papa wrote to him to say when we were coming; +and if he had telegraphed to say I must positively be there, I should +have gone. And now I have lost my engagement, after studying my part so +carefully, and altering my dress, and----” + +Here the young lady stopped abruptly, and Laurence saw that it cost her +no small effort to keep back her tears. She was very young, and the +fever of the amateur, the devotee of a beloved art, was strong upon +her. Laurence perceived also her regretful glance in the direction of +a little old-fashioned sofa, on which there lay, neatly folded, the +rose-coloured satin garment he had seen the night before; and he felt +that to be disappointed of the glory of appearing in this costume was a +grief to her. + +“I must confess that I am not sorry for this, Lucy,” he said, +earnestly. “I do not think there could have been any lasting triumph +won by the ‘Cat’s-meat Man.’” + +Miss St. Albans could not be brought all at once to see that the +‘Cat’s-meat Man’ was an abomination. + +“Gennaro is a beau-beau-tiful part,” she said, struggling with her +emotion; “it is full of good puns, and the parodies are splendid, +and----. If I had a regular written engagement, Mr. Bungrave couldn’t +treat me so; but there was only a verbal understanding between him +and papa. I dare say it is all Mr. de Mortemar’s doing, because of my +leaving the Oxford Road Theatre. Mr. de Mortemar can do anything at +Market Deeping; he is such an immense favourite.” + +“Indeed!” said Laurence, on whose editorial ear the “immense favourite” +grated unpleasantly; “and it is my fault that you offended Mr. de +Mortemar--my fault, my very great fault. But do you know, Lucy, that +I cannot bring myself to be sufficiently sorry for what I have done. +You see I feel a very real interest in your career; and I do not think +your Market Deeping experience could be of any actual benefit to you. +I admit that you must arrive at Drury Lane and Juliet by easy stages; +but I cannot see why you should begin by dancing silly dances, and +singing still more silly songs. In March Mr. Hartstone will give you an +engagement at the Pall Mall; and in the meantime your father will get +through his difficulties, and you will have leisure for the study of +your beloved art.” + +“Yes,” answered Lucy, consoled but not elated, “I shall study with all +my might. Oh, Mr. Desmond, what would become of us if your kindness +had not secured me a London engagement!” + +She was thinking sadly enough of the bitter shifts to which she and +her father must needs be driven for want of the pittance that would +have rewarded her labours at the little country theatre; and then, at +Market Deeping lodgings and provisions were very cheap, and in London +everything was so dear. The kindness and generosity of Mr. Desmond +seemed boundless; but there must be some limit to their acceptance of +such help. They could not go on living upon this gentleman’s charity. + +Laurence saw her despondency, and had some idea of the cares that +troubled her. He could find no way of telling her that the dread +spectre Poverty was a shadow she need fear no longer, since he was +ready to place his purse at her disposal until--until when? Well, she +would have a salary from the lessee of the Pall Mall in March; and +then, of course, he need be Tristram Alford’s banker no longer; and, +in the meantime, what would his kindness cost him?--a ten-pound note +now and then--a ten-pound note, which would be better bestowed thus +than lost at a club-house whist-table, or squandered at a sale of books +or bric-à-brac. + +“You must try to make yourself happy while your father is under a +cloud, Lucy,” he said, cheerily. “Rely upon it he will weather the +storm, and right himself speedily. I will answer for that. In the +interim, it will be rather dreary for you in these lodgings, I dare +say; and I should much like to introduce you to a lady, a friend of +mine.” + +“I--I am sure you are very kind,” faltered Lucy; “and I shall be +pleased to know any lady whom you like. Is she a relation of yours, Mr. +Desmond?” + +“No, not a relation, but a friend of many years’ standing. Her father +and my father were very intimate; in fact, I have known her a long +time. I think she was as young as you, Lucy, when I first knew her.” + +His thoughts went back to the little garden at Passy, the white wall, +and scarlet blossoms bright against the deep blue sky, and Emily +Jerningham in all the glory of her girlhood. Well, those days were +gone, and, unhappily, the Emily and Laurence of those days had vanished +with them. + +“She is not young now, then, the lady?” Lucy asked, with an interest +that was a little warmer than the occasion warranted. + +“Well, she is not what you would call young. I believe she is nearly +thirty; and that to a young lady of eighteen seems a venerable +age, no doubt. She is a very agreeable woman, generous-minded, and +refined”--Laurence felt a little twinge of conscience as he remembered +certain occasions upon which the lady in question had not shown herself +so very generous-minded--“and I am sure her friendship would be a +source of happiness for you.” + +“It is very good of you to think of this. It will be a pleasure to me +to know any friend of yours; but--but--I am so unused to society; and +while poor papa is in that dreadful place, I think I would rather not +see any stranger, please, Mr. Desmond.” + +“Very well, we will see about it. If Mrs. Jerningham should call upon +you some morning, you will not refuse to see her?” + +“Mrs. Jerningham!” repeated Lucy; “she is a married lady, then?” + +“Yes, she is married. Her husband is rather an eccentric person--a +great traveller; so she lives by herself, in a very charming house near +Hampton Court.” + +“Indeed!” said Lucy, with a little sigh that sounded rather like a sigh +of relief; and then she repeated her protestations of gratitude, which +this time seemed less constrained. + +After this, Mr. Desmond had nothing more to do than to say good-bye. + +“I should recommend you not to go to Whitecross Street again,” he said, +at parting. “It is an unpleasant place for you to visit alone; and +your father will soon get his release. If my time were less engaged, +I should be happy to take you there again; but I am too busy for +friendship. Good-bye. I dare say you will see Mrs. Jerningham before +long. You can be as frank with her as you are with me; but I am sure +there is no occasion to tell you that, for it is your nature to be +truthful and confiding. Once more, good-bye.” + +He pressed the little hand kindly, and departed. He felt that he had +conducted himself in an eminently paternal manner, and it seemed to +him that the sentiment of paternal regard had a strange sweetness--a +sweetness that was not all sweet. + + + + + CHAPTER V. + + OUT OF THE WORLD. + + +THE arrival of Harold Jerningham disturbed the even tenor of life at +the bailiff’s cottage, albeit he earnestly entreated there might be no +change in his old friend’s existence. Theodore de Bergerac’s notion of +hospitality was Arabian; and he would have slaughtered his daughter’s +favourite Newfoundland if Mr. Jerningham had hinted an eccentric desire +for _pâté de foie de chien_. He altered his dinner-hour from three +o’clock to seven, in accordance with the habits of his guest; and he +took pains to order such refined and delicate repasts as might have +been chosen by a Lucullus in reduced circumstances. His cook was an old +Frenchwoman, who had lived with him ever since he had occupied a house +of his own; and for a _vol-au-vent_, an omelette _aux fines +herbes_, a cup of coffee, or a batch of pistolets, white as snow +and light as thistledown, old Nanon was prepared to enter herself in a +_concours_ of the universe. + +“Ne vous dérangez, donc pas, petite amour,” she said to Helen, when +that young lady expressed some misgiving on the subject of Mr. +Jerningham’s dinners; “nous avons toujours les vaches et les poulets; +avec ça on a de quoi servir un dîner au lor maire. Et puis pour le +café: n’est-ce pas que je l’ai fait pour madame la mère de monsieur +dans le temps? C’était elle qui disait toujours, ‘Il n’y a que Nanon +qui fait le café comme ça;’ et puis elle se meurt, la bonne dame, et +puis il y avait la révolution, et monsieur me dit, ‘Nanon, adieu, je +m’en vais;’ et puis j’ai tant pleuré, et puis----” + +There was no end to Nanon’s “et puis.” + +“C’est une espèce de puits qui n’a point de fond,” said M. de Bergerac, +when his daughter repeated to him some of the old woman’s affectionate +twaddlings. + +It was some years since Mr. Jerningham had been to Greenlands, and in +the past his visits had been of the briefest. + +“Thou art always as one that falls from the heavens,” said M. de +Bergerac. + +This time, however, it seemed as if the restless demon that ruled +Harold Jerningham’s existence was in some manner exorcised. The master +of Greenlands took up his abode in those snug bachelor rooms on the +ground-floor of the mansion, which he preferred to the statelier +apartments above. There had crept upon the old house a silence and +solemnity almost as profound as the mystic silence which reigned in +the palace of the Sleeping Beauty, and not even the coming of the +master could break the awful spell. By night and by day the doors shut +with a clang that might have sounded in the Castle of Udolpho. The +catacombs of subterranean Rome are more cheerful than the great stone +entrance-hall; the chamber in which Frederick Barbarossa sat in a +charmed sleep, awaiting the summons that was to call him once again to +the battle-field, was not more appalling than the great dining-room, +where the shutters were seldom opened, and where the pictured images of +departed Jerninghams looked ghostlike in the gloom. + +It was only natural, therefore, that Mr. Jerningham should prefer the +pleasant, home-like rooms in the bailiff’s cottage. Considered as a +habitation only, the cottage was much more pleasant than the great +house; and at the cottage Mr. Jerningham enjoyed the society that was +of all companionship most agreeable to him. With Theodore de Bergerac +there was always some new subject for discussion; and the theme which +employed the quiet days of the savant had a keen interest for his +friend. The Frenchman might ride his hobby as hard as he pleased +without inflicting weariness upon Mr. Jerningham, who in general +society affected the tone and manner of a gentlemanly martyr. + +He spent all his evenings at the cottage, after contriving to occupy +himself somehow or other during the day; for this most selfish of +men was too well-bred to intrude upon his friend’s studious hours. +It was only between six and seven o’clock that Mr. Jerningham made +his appearance in the little drawing-room, where he generally found +Helen alone with her books and work, with the ponderous limbs of the +Newfoundland stretched luxuriously upon the hearth at her feet. + +The half-hour before dinner was by no means disagreeable to the +master of Greenlands, nor was it unpleasant to Helen. Jerningham the +irresistible had not lost the charm of manner that had won him renown +in that modern Hôtel de Rambouillet, to whose saloons all that was +brightest in the regions of intellect lent its light; and across +whose floors, silent and inscrutable as a shadow, passed that exiled +prince whose voice now rules the Western world. Mr. Jerningham had +acquired the art of conversation amongst the best men of his day, and +he talked well. Subdued in all things, he pleased without effort, and +was instructive without taint of dogmatism. He discussed a subject with +interest, but he never argued. That war of words which some people +call conversation was detestable to him. + +Helen was unversed in the hateful art of argument, and she was the +most delightful, the most sympathetic of listeners. She had read just +enough to make her a good listener. There were few subjects you could +touch of which she did not know something, and about which she did not +languish to know more. She was not unpleasantly demonstrative of her +interest in your discourse, nor did she cut you down in the middle of +a sentence from the desire to prove herself your equal in wisdom; but +every now and then, by some apposite remark or well-timed question, she +demonstrated her interest in your discourse, her perfect appreciation +of your meaning. + +“If my wife had been like this girl, my marriage would have been a +turning-point in my life,” Harold Jerningham said to himself, very +sadly, after one of these pleasant half-hours before dinner. + +After that first interview between the two men, no more was said about +Eustace Thorburn. To the secretary, Mr. Jerningham was unalterably +polite, preserving always that tone of the grand seigneur which marks +difference of rank, and yet is not the assumption of superiority; +a manner that seems to say, “We are born of different races, and, +unhappily, no condescension on my part can bring us any nearer to each +other.” It was the manner of Louis the Great to Molière or Racine. +But a very close observer might have discovered that the master of +Greenlands liked neither the secretary’s presence nor the secretary +himself. He talked to him a little now and then; for he was at his +worst a gentleman, and could not insult a dependant; and he listened +courteously to the young man’s talk. But he rarely pursued any subject +that seemed a favourite with Mr. Thorburn; and on rare occasions when +Eustace warmed with the excitement of some argument between himself and +his employer, and talked with unusual warmth, Mr. Jerningham betrayed +some slight weariness. + +“Do you not find that young man insufferable with his rhapsodies about +Homer and Æschylus?” he said to Helen one evening. But the young lady +declared her sympathies with Mr. Thorburn, and this time without +blushes or confusion whatsoever. + +There is a calm, sweet peace that attends the monotony of a happy life, +in which doubt and bewilderment of mind are unknown. On that first day +of Mr. Jerningham’s return, Helen had been just a little embarrassed +in her conversation with the unexpected guest; hence the blushes and +confusion that had accompanied her mention of Eustace Thorburn. But +now she had no more restraint in talking of the secretary with Mr. +Jerningham than when she talked of him with her father. Harold saw +this, and began to fancy that he had been mistaken. There might be no +love-affair between these young people after all. He was very willing +to think it was so. “I should be sorry to see Helen de Bergerac waste +her regard upon that pedantic young prig,” he said to himself. + +Now most assuredly Eustace Thorburn was neither prig nor pedant; but +in his own tranquil manner Mr. Jerningham was a good hater, and he +had taken it into his head to hate this young man. The prejudice was, +perhaps, not entirely unnatural, since Eustace was in some manner a +protégé of Laurence Desmond’s. + +Happily for the secretary, this unprovoked dislike was yet unknown to +him. He was no sycophant, to languish for a rich man’s friendship; and +he had never studied Mr. Jerningham’s looks or tones so closely as to +discover the state of that gentleman’s feelings. There was, indeed, no +room in his mind for any consideration of Mr. Jerningham’s thoughts or +feelings. He was a poet, and he was in love, and he was happy; happy, +in spite of the lurking consciousness that there might come a sudden +end to his happiness. + +Yes, he was happy--calmly, completely happy; and it is just possible +that this very fact was irritating to Mr. Jerningham, who was a +creature of whims and fancies, capricious and exacting as a woman. +Had he not lived a womanish, self-indulgent life, eminently calculated +to render the best and bravest of men something less than manly? Mr. +Jerningham had chosen his position in life, and had never outstepped +it. In the great opera of existence he had played only one part, and +that was the rôle of the lover--the false, the fickle, the devoted, the +disdainful, the jealous, the exacting--what you will--but always the +same part in the same familiar drama; and now that he was too old for +the character, he felt that he had no further use in life, and that for +him the universe must henceforward be a blank. + +He felt this always, but never with a pang so keen as that which smote +him when Eustace Thorburn’s freshness and enthusiasm marked the depth +of his own gentlemanly hopelessness. For the last fifteen years of his +life he had kept himself carefully aloof from young men, holding the +youth of his generation as an inferior species, something lower than +his dog, infinitely worse than his horse. He saw young men from afar +off at his club, and on those rare occasions when he condescended to +appear in society, and it seemed to him that they were all alike, and +all equally inane. The only clever young men he had ever met were older +in feeling than himself, and more wicked, with the wickedness of the +Orleans regency as distinguished from the wickedness of the Augustan +age, it followed--the decadence from a Lauzun to a Riom, from the +stately saloons of Versailles to the _luxe effréné_ of the Palais +Royal. + +But, behold, here was a young man who was intellectual and not cynical, +learned and not a scoffer, ambitious without conceit, enthusiastic +without pretence. Here was a young man whom Harold Jerningham admired +in spite of himself, and whose virtues and graces inspired in his +breast a feeling that was terribly like envy. + +“Is it his happiness or his youth that I envy him?” Mr. Jerningham +asked himself, when he tried to solve the mystery of his own sentiments +with regard to this matter. “His youth surely; for the other word +is only a synonym for youth. Yes, if I am angry with his obtrusive +brightness and hopefulness, I suppose it is because I see him in full +possession of that universal heritage which I have wasted. He is +young, and life is all before him. How will he spend his ten talents, +I wonder? Will he turn them into small change, and squander them in +fashionable drawing-rooms, as I squandered mine? or will he invest +them in some grand undertaking where they will carry interest till +the end of time? Helen tells me he is to be a poet. I have seen his +lighted window shining between the bare black branches when I have been +restless, and prowled in the park after midnight. Ah, what delight +to be three-and-twenty, with a spotless name, a clear conscience, a +good digestion, and to be able to sit up late on a winter’s night to +scribble verses! I dare say his fire goes out sometimes, and he writes +on, supremely unconscious of the cold, and fancying himself Homer. +Happy youth!” + +A perfectly idle man is naturally the subject of strange whims and +caprices; for that saying of Dr. Watts, about the work that Satan +supplies to the idle, is as true as if it had been composed by Plato +or Seneca. It must surely have been from very _désœuvrement_ that +Mr. Jerningham wasted so much of his life at the cottage, and devoted +so much of his leisure to the study of Eustace Thorburn as a member of +the human family, and Eustace Thorburn in his relation to the student’s +daughter. Certain it is that he bestowed as much of his attention upon +the affairs of these young people as he could well have done had he +been the appointed guardian of Helen de Bergerac’s peace. Closely as +he studied these young persons, he could not arrive at any definite +conclusion about them. Helen’s bright, changeful face told so many +different stories; and the countenance of the secretary was almost as +bright and changeful. + +Sweet though the charms of friendship must always be to the jaded +spirit, Mr. Jerningham was not altogether happy in his intercourse +with the family at the bailiff’s cottage. He found pleasure there, +and he dallied with the brief glimpses of happiness, loth to lose the +brightness of those transient rays; but he found pain far keener than +the pleasure, and every day when he went to his old friend’s house he +told himself this visit should be the last. + +But when the next day came, the outlook over life’s desert seemed more +than ever dark and dreary; so he lingered a little longer by the cool +waters of the green oasis. + + + + + CHAPTER VI. + + MRS. JERNINGHAM IS PHILANTHROPIC. + + +MR. DESMOND took the earliest opportunity of carrying out his +resolution in the matter of Lucy Alford, otherwise Miss St. Albans. He +dined at the Hampton villa within a few days of his visit to Whitecross +Street, and entertained Mrs. Jerningham with the story of his tutor’s +daughter, her hopes and her struggles. He told the simple little story +very pleasantly, and not without a touch of pathos, as he sat by the +pretty fireplace in the Hampton drawing-room, after a New Year’s dinner +_à trois_ with Mrs. Colton and her niece. The dinner had been a +success, the snug circular table crowned with a monster pine of Emily’s +own growing; and the châtelaine herself was in a peculiarly amiable +mood. + +The most delightful of dragons had a habit of dozing after dinner, +which was just a little hazardous for the fruit under her guardianship. + +She always awoke from her slumbers to declare that she had heard +every word of the conversation, and had enjoyed it amazingly; but +this declaration was taken with certain qualifications. Seated in her +comfortable nook by the low Belgian mantelpiece, half in the shadow of +the projecting marble, half in the red light of the fire, she was at +once the image of repose and propriety--a statue of Comfort, draped in +that neutral-tinted silk which is the privilege of middle age. + +“Why do you ever ask stupid people to meet me, Emily?” asked Laurence, +when he had finished Lucy Alford’s story. “See how happy we are alone +together. It is so nice to be able to talk to you _sans gêne_, +with the sense that one is really holding converse with one’s best and +truest friend.” + +Mrs. Jerningham’s flexible lips were slightly contracted as Laurence +said this. His tone was just a little _too_ friendly to be +pleasing to her. + +“You are very good,” she said, rather coldly, “and I am delighted to +find you think my house pleasant this evening. Is your Miss Alford +pretty?” + +“No, ‘my Miss Alford’ is not particularly pretty,” replied the editor, +conscious that the green-eyed monster was not entirely banished from +that comfortable paradise; “at least, I suppose not. She is the sort +of girl who is usually called interesting. I remember a young man +who called all the beauties of the season ‘pleasing.’ His vocabulary +contained no warmer epithet. They were all pleasing. I think, without +going too far, I may venture to call Miss Alford pleasing.” + +“She is young, of course?” + +“A mere child.” + +“Indeed! a mere child, like Göthe’s Mignon or Hugo’s Esmeralda, I +suppose?” + +This was a very palpable pat from the paw of the green-eyed one; but +Mr. Desmond had set his foot upon the ploughshare, and he was not +inclined to withdraw from the ordeal, because the iron proved a little +hotter than he had expected to find it. + +“She is not in the least like Mignon. She is a very sensible, +reasonable young lady, about eighteen years of age. Now, I know that +you are dreadfully at a loss for some object upon which to bestow +your sympathy, and it has struck me that, with very little trouble +to yourself, you might confer much kindness on this friendless girl. +She is of gentle blood, of refined rearing; and she is quite alone in +the world; for I count her broken-down, drunken father as less than +nothing. She is all innocence, gratitude, and affection; and----” + +“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Jerningham. “You appear to have studied her +character with considerable attention.” + +“She is as simple as a child, and reveals her character in half a +dozen sentences. Go and see her, Emily; and if you are not pleased and +interested, let your first visit be your last.” + +“And if I should be pleased and interested, what then?” + +“Your own heart will answer that question. The girl is a lady, exposed +to all the miseries of genteel poverty, disappointed of one theatrical +engagement, and not likely to be professionally employed for some +months. I think your first impulse will be to bring her home with you. +Her youth is fast fading in her miserable home, where there is so much +anxiety, so little happiness. You have lamented the emptiness of your +life, your inability to be of use to your fellow-creatures----” + +“Excuse me, Mr. Desmond, I told you very plainly that I have no taste +for philanthropy.” + +“And I took the liberty to disbelieve you. I am sure you do yourself +injustice when you pretend not to be kind and womanly.” + +“And am I to go about the world adopting casual orphans, or any amiable +young persons who happen to be afflicted with disreputable fathers, +in order to gratify the charitable instincts of Mr. Desmond, whose +last mania is the rescue of pretty actresses from the anxieties and +discomforts of their profession?” + +“You will do just as you please, Emily,” Laurence answered, very +coldly. “I thought the history of this girl’s trials would have +interested you. I might have known that you would receive it in your +usual spirit.” + +“And pray what is my usual spirit?” + +“A very unpleasant one!” + +“Indeed! I am a most objectionable person because I do not rush to the +rescue of Miss Lucy Alford, whom you talk of, by the way, as Lucy, +_tout court_. Shall I order the brougham, and go in search of your +paragon, to-night.” + +Mrs. Jerningham extended her hand, and made as if she would ring the +bell. Mrs. Colton’s slumbers were broken by a faint moaning sound, as +of remonstrance. + +“I shall never again mention the name of my paragon, Mrs. Jerningham,” +said Laurence, rising and planting himself with his back to the +fireplace; “nor will I ever again ask the smallest favour at your +hands. You have a positive genius for aggravation!” + +“Thank you very much. It is not given to every one to be so charming as +Miss Alford.” + +“Good night, Mrs. Colton,” said Laurence, as the image of the +proprieties awoke to life, conscious that the atmosphere had changed +since she sank to her peaceful slumbers. “I have a little work to do +to-night, and must get back to town early.” + +This awful threat brought Mrs. Jerningham’s proud spirit to the dust +immediately. + +“Oh no, you are not going away!” she exclaimed. “Aunt Fanny is just +going to give us some tea--why are those people always so long bringing +the tea?--and after tea you shall have as much music as you like, +or none, if you like that better. I will go and see your tutor’s +daughter to-morrow morning, Laurence; and if Aunt Fanny and I find her +a nice person--nice in the feminine sense of the adjective, _bien +entendu_--we will bring her down to stay with us for a few weeks.” + +After this, there was perfect harmony for the rest of the evening. +No one could be more gentle, more humble, more charming than Mrs. +Jerningham, after she had goaded the man she loved to the verge of +madness; but so to goad him was a delight that she could not forego. + +Early in the next afternoon the simple inhabitants of Paul’s Terrace +were electrified by the apparition of a brougham and pair--a brougham, +on the box whereof sat two servants, clad in subdued and unexceptional +livery--a brougham which even the untutored denizens of Ball’s Pond +recognized as the very archetype of equipages. A tremendous knock at +the door of No. 20 set Lucy’s heart beating; a pompous voice asked +if Miss Alford was at home; and in the next minute the door of the +brougham was opened, and two ladies alighted--ladies whose furs were +alone worth a fortune, as the proprietress of No. 20 informed her +gossips at the first opportunity. + +Lucy’s heart fluttered like some frightened bird, as Mrs. Jerningham +advanced to greet her, with outstretched hand and pleasant smile. It +was long since she had been accustomed to any but the free-and-easy +society of the green-room, where the ladies called her “St. Albans,” +and the gentlemen “my dear,” in no impertinent spirit, but with a +fatherly familiarity which had, at first, rather amazed her. + +Mrs. Jerningham’s carriage, and sables, and elegance, and beauty, +were alike startling to her; and this handsome lady was Mr. Desmond’s +friend! The world in which he lived was inhabited by such people! Oh, +what a vulgar, miserable place Paul’s Terrace must have seemed to +him! what a loathsome den the prison in which her father languished, +broken-down and desolate! The ex-coach was drinking brandy and water, +and maundering about great “wines,” and patrician bear-fights--the +battles of Ursa Major--in the prison-ward, as the girl thought of him, +and was enjoying life very tolerably after his old fashion. + +“Our common friend Mr. Desmond has sent me to call upon you, Miss +Alford,” said the lady in sables, with much cordiality of tone and +manner, and with Lucy’s timid hand in her own. “We are to be excellent +friends, he tells me; and he has given me such an interesting account +of your professional career, and your love for the drama, that I +feel already as if I knew you quite intimately. I hope I do not seem +altogether a stranger to you.” + +“Oh no, indeed,” faltered Lucy. “Mr. Desmond told me how kind you are; +and I am sure----” + +This was all that Miss Alford was capable of saying just yet. Mrs. +Jerningham had noted every detail of her appearance by this time, with +some touch of that fatal spirit whose influence embittered so much of +her life. + +“Yes, she is interesting,” thought the visitor, “and not exactly +pretty; and yet I am not quite convinced of that. Her eyes are large +and blue, and have a tender, earnest look, that is assumed, no doubt, +like the rest of her stage-tricks; and, I declare, the minx has long +black eyelashes. I wonder whether she has dyed them? That rosy little +mouth is painted, no doubt, in order to set off her pale complexion, +which of course is pearl-powder, so artfully put on that one cannot see +it. No doubt these actresses have a hundred secrets of the Rachel kind.” + +Thus whispered jealousy; and then spoke the milder voice of womanly +compassion. + +“That brown merino dress is dreadfully shabby, almost threadbare about +the sleeves; and what a horrible place to live in, with children +playing on the door-step, and fowls--actually fowls!--in the area. Poor +little thing! she really seems like a lady--shy and gentle, and alarmed +by our grandeur.” + +The voice of compassion drowned the green-eyed one’s insidious whisper, +and in a very few minutes Mrs. Jerningham had contrived to set Lucy +at her ease. She made Miss Alford talk of herself, and her hopes and +disappointments, in discoursing whereof Lucy was careful to avoid all +mention of the “Cat’s-meat Man.” + +“I want you to come and stay a few days with me at Hampton, Miss +Alford,” said Emily. “You are not looking at all well, and our nice +country air will revive you after all your worries.--A week at Hampton +would quite set Miss Alford up in the matter of health, wouldn’t it, +Aunt Fanny?” + +On this Mrs. Colton, of course, seconded her niece’s proposal; but Lucy +was evidently at a loss to reply to this flattering invitation. + +“It would be most delightful,” she murmured. “I cannot thank you +sufficiently for your kindness. But I think while papa is--away--I +ought not to----” + +And here she looked down at her threadbare merino dress, and Mrs. +Jerningham divined that there lay the obstacle. + +“I shall take no refusal,” she said; while Lucy was wondering whether +she could enter society in the pink silk she wore for the second act of +the _Lady of Lyons_, or the blue moiré antique--a deceitful and +spurious fabric with a cotton back--which she wore for Julia in the +_Hunchback_. “I have pledged myself to carry you off to Hampton, +and I must keep my word. I will not wait for any preparations in the +way of toilette; you must come in the dress you have on, and my maid +shall run you up two or three dresses to wear while you are with me. I +have a mania for buying bargains, and I have always half a dozen unmade +dresses in my wardrobe. It will be a real charity to take them off my +hands, and leave me free to buy more bargains. I never can resist that +insidious man who assails me, just as I have finished my shopping, with +the remark that if I happen to want anything in the way of silks, he +can call my attention to a most valuable opportunity. And I yield to +the voice of the tempter, and burden myself with things I don’t want.” + +After this, the question was easily settled. Mrs. Jerningham met all +Lucy’s difficulties in the pleasantest manner, while Mrs. Colton put in +a kind word every now and then; and, encouraged by so much kindness, +Lucy yielded. It was agreed that she should write to her father, and +pack her little carpet-bag of indispensables between that hour and five +o’clock, during which interval the two ladies were to pay their visits, +and take their luncheon, while the horses had their two hours’ rest, +and then return, to convey Miss Alford to Hampton in the brougham. + +Lucy felt like a creature in a dream when the archetypal carriage had +driven away, and she was left alone to make her arrangements for the +visit to Hampton. These were not the first refined and well-bred women +she had met, but never before had she been on visiting terms with the +proprietress of such sables, or such an equipage, as those possessed by +Mrs. Jerningham. + +“How good of him to give me such kind friends!” she said to herself. +She felt gratefully disposed towards Mrs. Jerningham, but her deepest +gratitude was given to Laurence, the benefactor and champion who had +sent her these new friends in her hour of difficulty. + +She had many little duties to perform before the return of the +carriage--little bills to pay, a letter to write to her father, and a +post-office order to procure for the same helpless individual. After +paying all debts due to landlady and tradesmen, she reserved for +herself only one sovereign of the money given her by Laurence Desmond. +The rest she sent to the prisoner. + +“Do not think me unkind if I ask you to be very careful, dear papa,” +she wrote. “This money is the last we can expect to receive from Mr. +Desmond. He has been more kind than words can express, and I am sure +you will feel his kindness as deeply as I do.” + +And then came a description of the strange lady, the grand carriage, +and the invitation that she would fain have refused. + +“You must not imagine that I am enjoying myself while you are unhappy, +poor dear papa,” she continued. “I thought that to refuse Mrs. +Jerningham’s invitation would seem ungracious to her, and ungrateful +to Mr. Desmond; so I am going to Hampton. The train will bring me +to town in an hour whenever you wish to see me, and you have only to +write one line to me at River Lawn--isn’t that a pretty name for a +place?--telling me your wish, in order to be immediately obeyed. I +have told Mrs. Wilkins that you may return at any moment, and she has +promised to make you comfortable in my absence. She seemed awestruck +by the sight of Mrs. Jerningham’s carriage, and has adopted quite +a new tone to me within the last hour. You know how disrespectful +she has been lately. I think she suspected that you had been taken +to that dreadful place; but the appearance of the carriage and the +settlement of her account have quite changed her. I hope you do not +sit in draughts, and that you take care to secure a corner near the +fire. It almost breaks my heart to think of you sitting in that long, +dreary room, while I am going away to a pleasant house. It seems almost +heartless in me to go; but, believe me, I only do so to avoid offending +Mr. Desmond. + + “May God bless you, dear papa! and support you in your hour of trouble. + +“You ever loving child, +“LUCY.” + +After this letter to her father, Miss Alford wrote a note to Laurence +Desmond, thanking him for his kindness to herself, and putting in a +timid little plea for the prisoner in Whitecross Street. By the time +these letters were written and posted, and Lucy’s modest carpet-bag +packed, the brougham was again a thing of wonder for the inhabitants of +Paul’s Terrace, more especially wonderful upon this occasion by reason +of two flaming lamps, that flashed like meteors upon the darkness of +Ball’s Pond. Lucy could not help feeling a faint thrill of pride as she +stepped into this vehicle, attended to the very door by the obsequious +Mrs. Wilkins, who insisted on getting in the way-of that grandiose +creature in livery, whose business it was to open and shut the door of +the brougham. + +Mrs. Jerningham’s bays performed the distance between London and +Hampton in about two hours; and during the long drive Lucy told the +two ladies a good deal about herself and her father, and the old +days in which Laurence Desmond had read for “greats” at Henley. All +this she related without egotism, and urged thereto by Emily, who +seemed interested in all Miss Alford had to tell, but most especially +interested in her account of Mr. Desmond’s reading for honours. + +“And was he very industrious?” she asked; “did he work very hard?” + +“Well, yes, I believe he read sometimes at night; but I was only nine +years old, you know,” replied Lucy, “and poor mamma used to send me +to bed very early. Mr. Desmond and his two friends used to be on the +river nearly all day, sometimes training for boat-races, you know, and +sometimes fishing--spinning for jack, I think they used to call it.” + +“But surely it was not by spinning for jack that Mr. Desmond got his +degree?” + +“Oh no! of course he did read, you know, because he came to Henley on +purpose to read. I believe there used to be a great deal of reading +done every night after the shutters were shut and the lamps lighted. +But Mr. Desmond used to say he could never work well until he had used +up his idleness; and he declared that he never felt himself in such +good training for cramming Thicksides as after a long day’s punting.” + +“Cramming Thicksides!” cried Mrs. Jerningham, in amazement; “what, in +mercy’s name, did he mean by that?” + +“Oh, Thicksides is the Oxonian name for Thucydides.” + +“How very charming! And at night, when the lamps were lighted, Mr. +Desmond and your father used to cram Thicksides?” + +“Yes, and Cicero; the Philippics, you know, and that sort of thing; and +all the Greek tragedies, and Demosthenes, and Mill’s Logic, and the +Gospels. I believe Mr. Desmond’s friends were both ploughed. Papa said +that they were not nearly so clever as he.” + +“And your papa thinks him very clever, I suppose?” + +“Papa says he is one of the best Balliol men; and Balliol is a college +where they work very hard, you know.” + +“Indeed! Miss Alford, I know nothing of the kind.” + +“I beg your pardon! I only said ‘you know’ in a general sense, you +know. Papa has often told me what a silly, vulgar habit it is, you +know; but I go on saying it in spite of myself.” + +“It is not such a very grave offence, Lucy. May I call you Lucy, Miss +Alford?” + +“Oh! if you please. I should like it much better than for you to call +me Miss Alford.” + +“In that case it shall always be Lucy,” replied Mrs. Jerningham, +kindly; “Lucy is such a pretty name, and suits you admirably.” + +She was thinking of Wordsworth’s familiar lines:-- + + “A creature not too bright or good + For human nature’s daily food.” + +“I am not fit for ‘human nature’s daily food,’” she said to herself. +“I am what the French call _difficile_; not easily pleased by +others, never quite satisfied with myself. The circumstances of my life +have always been exceptional; but I doubt if I should have been a happy +woman under happier circumstances.” + +The question of how much character may or may not be moulded and +influenced by circumstances, was a psychological problem too difficult +for Mrs. Jerningham’s comprehension. She knew that she was not happy; +and there were times when she was inclined to ascribe her unhappiness +to some radical defect in her own character, rather than to her +exceptional position. + +She found herself pleased and interested by Lucy Alford; but she +was nevertheless bent on measuring the extent of that young lady’s +acquaintance with Laurence Desmond. + +“I am glad to think that your father considers Mr. Desmond so clever,” +she said, presently, returning to the charge. + +“Oh yes, he is very clever, and as good as he is clever,” replied +Lucy, with more enthusiasm than was quite agreeable to her questioner. + +“You have seen a great deal of him in the course of your life?” + +“Oh yes; I used to be with him and papa a great deal at Henley, in the +punt, you know, when I was nine years old. I used to catch flies for +them--blue-bottles, and all sorts of flies. It seemed very cruel to the +flies, you know; but Mr. Desmond was so kind to me, and I was pleased +to be of any use to him.” + +“And have you seen him very often since you were nine years old?” + +“Oh no, very seldom; never until two or three weeks ago, when papa +wrote to ask him for an introduction to a London manager. But in that +short time he has been so kind, so good, so generous, so thoughtful, +that----” + +The rest was expressed by a little choking sob. + +“I am glad to think that he is kind, and generous, and thoughtful,” +said Mrs. Jerningham, very seriously. “He is my friend, Lucy--a very +old and intimate friend; and I am more pleased to hear him praised than +to hear any praise of myself. Your gratitude for his kindness touches +me very deeply.” + +There was a tone of appropriation in this speech which was felt rather +than understood by Lucy. She was conscious that this grand lady of the +irreproachable brougham claimed Laurence Desmond for her own, and she +began to perceive how frail a link was that accidental association +which bound him to herself. + +“Laurence has asked me to be your friend, Lucy,” continued Mrs. +Jerningham, and something that was almost pain smote Lucy’s heart as +the lady uttered his Christian name for the first time in her hearing. +“He has requested me to be your friend and adviser; and it will be +a great pleasure to me to obey his wish. Of course, it will be much +better for you to accept friendship from me than from him, Lucy. That +kind of thing could not go on for ever, you know.” + +“Oh, of course not,” murmured Lucy. She was too innocent to perceive +the real drift of this remark. She thought that Mrs. Jerningham was +considering the business entirely from a pecuniary point of view. “Of +course, I know that Mr. Desmond could not afford to go on helping papa +as he has been helping him,” she said; “it would be very shameful of us +to wish it.” + +“_You_ could not afford to receive money from him any longer, +Lucy,” returned the voice of worldly wisdom from the lips of Mrs. +Jerningham. “It would be a most improper position for you to occupy. +In future you must tell me your troubles, and I shall be always glad +to help you; but all confidences between you and Mr. Desmond had much +better come to an end.” + +“I do not want to confide in him; that is to say, I do not want to +ask favours of him,” replied poor Lucy, much distressed by this stern +dictum. “But my friendship for him cannot come to an end. I cannot so +easily forget his kindness. If I were at the Antipodes, and with no +hope ever to see his face again, I should think of him with the same +regard and gratitude to my dying day. If I live to be an old, old +woman, I shall always think of him as my truest and kindest friend.” + +“Your grateful feelings are very creditable; but I hope you will not +express yourself in that manner to other people, Lucy. You talk in a +way that sounds theatrical, and rather bold. A girl of your age ought +not to be so very enthusiastic about any gentleman.” + +“Not when he has been so good, so generous?” + +“Not under any circumstances. You may be grateful as Androcles, or the +lion--which was it that was grateful, by the bye?--but you need not +indulge in that kind of rhapsody; it is not in very good taste.” + +This was the first time Lucy had heard of taste, in the modern-society +sense of the word. She submitted to Mrs. Jerningham’s sentence. The +voice of a lady, admired and respected by Laurence Desmond, must be +sacred as the voices of Delphos. + +The carriage rolled into the shrubberied drive at River Lawn presently, +and then Lucy beheld flashing lights, and a vestibule with bright +tesselated pavement, and pictures on the walls, and open doors leading +into the brightest, prettiest rooms she had ever seen in her life; and +in the dining-room was set forth that banquet so dear to the heart +of every true woman--a tea-dinner. Quaint old silver tea and coffee +service, turquoise-blue cups and saucers, an antique oval tea-tray, +a pierced cake-basket that would make a collector’s mouth water; +substantial fare in the way of tongue and chicken and game-pie; a +room adorned as only perfect taste, allied with wealth, can adorn a +room, were the things that greeted Lucy Alford’s eyes as she looked +round her for the first time in her new friend’s home. It was scarcely +strange that such a room should seem to her almost like a picture of +fairy-land, as contrasted with those dingy lodgings in Ball’s Pond, +where the last few weeks of her existence had been spent. She thought +of her father in his dreary prison-ward, and she could not quite put +away from her the feeling that she had no right to be amidst such +pleasant surroundings. + + + + + CHAPTER VII. + + DECEITFUL ABOVE ALL THINGS. + + +THE fair river that wound like a broad ribbon of silver through the +lands of Harold Jerningham was not more tranquil than the course of +existence at the bailiff’s cottage. M. de Bergerac’s great book grew +slowly and steadily in bulk, and developed day by day from chaos into +form; while Helen’s simple life went on, eventless and purposeless +perhaps, if measured by the ordinary standard by which the world +measures existence, every hour filled with pleasant occupation, every +morning bringing with it some new delight. Her father, her books, +her dog, her piano, her birds, her dairy, her poultry-yard,--these +were the delights of Helen’s life, and these left her no leisure for +the ordinary aspirations of young-ladyhood. It is not to be supposed +that so charming a damsel was neglected or ignored by neighbouring +families. Helen had to receive an occasional morning visitor, and +was obliged sometimes to withdraw the declaration that she never +visited, in favour of some friendly matron hunting pretty girls for a +garden-party, or presentable pianistes for a musical evening. But she +went out very seldom. Her home-life was inexpressibly dear to her, +and an evening’s absence from the beloved father’s side seemed like a +break in her existence. What could people give her at garden-parties or +musical evenings that was equal to her father’s society? + +“I meet no one who can talk like you, papa,” she said on returning, +blooming and radiant, from a neighbouring mansion, not elated because +she had been enjoying herself especially abroad, but because she was +pleased to come home. “Why should I take the trouble to put on this +white dress, and crush all the little flounces that poor Nanon insists +upon ironing with her own hands, in order to hear people say stupid +things, when I am always so much happier with you in this dear old +room? I am afraid I must be a blue-stocking, papa, for I cannot enjoy +the perpetual talk about operas and morning-concerts, and new curates +and croquet-parties, that I hear whenever I go out.” + +It was very pleasant to Eustace Thorburn to discover that the country +society had so little fascination for his employer’s daughter. It had +been anguish to him to see her borne away to halls of dazzling light, +or paradisaic croquet-grounds, whither he might not follow. He loved +her with a young man’s love--pure, honest, and enthusiastic. The +depth and intensity, the abnegation of self, which constitutes the +religion of love, were as yet only latent in his breast. It was the +summer-morning of life, and the barque that bore the lovers onward +upon the enchanted waters was floating with the stream. The hour of +the turning tide would be the hour to test the strength of Eustace +Thorburn’s devotion. At present all was smooth and bright and happy, +and the affection which these young people felt for one another grew +imperceptibly in the hearts of each. Helen did not know why her life +seemed to her so perfect in its calm happiness. Eustace believed that +he was battling manfully with his own weakness, and that every day +brought him nearer to the hour of victory. + +“I am resigned to the thought that Helen de Bergerac may never be my +wife,” he said to himself; “and yet I am almost happy.” + +He might have said, quite happy; for a happiness more perfect than +any man can hope to experience twice in his life made his new home a +paradise for him. He was happy because, unknown to himself, he still +hoped; he was happy because he was still the friend and companion of +his idol. + +“What is to become of me when my task here is finished?” he asked +himself. But this was a line of thought which he dared not pursue; +beyond that bright home all was darkness. + +M. de Bergerac looked on at the little Arcadian comedy, and wondered. +The scholar was too unskilled in the study of youthful hearts to read +the mysterious cipher in which the secret thoughts of lovers are +written. He saw that the young people were very well pleased with each +other’s society, but he saw no more; nor did he disturb himself by +doubts or apprehensions. Harold Jerningham contemplated the same comedy +with angry feelings in his breast; he envied these young people the +brightness of their morning. The feeling was mean and detestable. Mr. +Jerningham knew this, and hated himself; but the bitter envy of youth +and happiness was not to be banished from his heart. “The heart is +deceitful above all things and desperately wicked,” cries the Prophet; +and if it was even so with the people of God, what must it be with +such a man as Mr. Jerningham, who had never recognized any other god +than himself, and the fancy or the passion of the hour, and who at his +best had known for his only law that vague instinct--half pride, half +shame--which bad men call honour? + +It is quite impossible that a man who performs no duty and cherishes +no ambition can escape that fatal decline which leads to the region +of moral darkness. Harold Jerningham had cherished some faint hope +of distinction at the beginning of his life. He had made his venture +in the lottery, and had drawn, not exactly a blank, but a number so +infinitely beneath his expectation that it seemed to him as worthless. + +There had been a time when the master of Greenlands, fresh from a +successful university career, and steeped to the very lips in Greek +verse, had fancied himself a poet. The dream, which was so sweet to +Eustace Thorburn, had shed its glamour over his pathway. Even the +sweets of fame had come to him in some small measure, but not that +laurel-crown which he had hoped to win; so he shrugged his shoulders, +laughed at his critics, and wandered away to the sunny lands where +life itself is unwritten poetry. Young Jerningham of Brazenose was +a very brilliant young man, but he lacked that divine spark, that +touch of the superhuman, which men call genius. He had not the +fire, the pluck, the energy, the passion of that young lordling who +answered his contemptuous critics, not with _English Bards and +Scotch Reviewers_--that was only the _tour de force_ of a +pamphleteer--but with _Childe Harold_, the inspired verse of a +poet supremely unconscious of public and of critics, under the sway of +a possession no less potent than that which gave prophetic voice to +Cassandra. + +Mr. Jerningham had discovered that a handsome face, a manner eminently +successful in feminine society, an intimate acquaintance with classic +literature, a fine fortune, and some ambition for literary fame, do +not make a Byron; and to be anything less than Byron seemed to Mr. +Jerningham synonymous with failure. “I am like the tiger,” said Byron. +“If I do not succeed with the first spring, I go back growling to my +cave.” Mr. Jerningham was also like the tiger. He went back to his +cave, and remained there. “Cæsar or nothing,” he had said to himself, +when he made his venture. The result was nothing. + +The fact that he had thus aspired and failed, may have had some slight +influence upon his feelings on the subject of Eustace Thorburn. The +young man’s ambitious hopes were never paraded. It was only by the glow +upon his face, and the warmth of his words, when he praised the poets +of the past, that he unconsciously revealed the bent of his mind. For +the rest, Mr. Jerningham heard a great deal about the young poet’s +hopes and dreams from Helen, who was his confidante and adviser. + +“He helps me so kindly with all my studies, that it is the least I +can do to be interested in his poems,” Helen said, as if she felt +herself bound to apologize for the warmth of her interest in this +subject. “He is writing a long poem, something in the style of Mrs. +Browning’s _Aurora Leigh_, only with a much prettier story for the +groundwork; and he has read me little bits--such noble verses! And then +he writes an occasional short poem, just as the fancy strikes him. Some +of the short poems have been published in the magazines. Perhaps you +would like to see them?” + +Helen rose as if to go in search of the magazines, but Mr. Jerningham +stopped her with a hasty gesture of deprecation. + +“Please spare me the short poems, my dear Helen,” he said. “I have +given up reading my Horace and Catullus, since I have passed the poetic +age. Don’t ask me to read magazine verses.” + +Helen looked very much disappointed. + +“I dare say, two thousand years hence, learned men will be disputing +about a false quantity in one of Mr. Thorburn’s poems,” said her +father. “Not every poet can hope to be thought great in his own +century. Do you remember that preface of Webster’s to the _White +Devil_, in which he names all the dramatists of the day, and last +of all, ‘without wrong so to be named, the right happy and copious +industry of master Shakspeare’?” + +“Yes,” answered Mr. Jerningham. “I don’t think either Shakspeare or +Molière had the faintest suspicion that he was to be immortal. It is +only once in a thousand years that a poet drinks the cup of triumph +that Byron drained to the very lees. He tasted the lees, and died +with the bitterness of them on his lips. He might have tasted nothing +but lees had he lived longer. For one man who dies too soon, a hundred +die too late. There is a golden opportunity for effective death in +every man’s career, but few are wise enough to seize it. If the first +Napoleon had fallen at Austerlitz, he would have taken high rank among +the demi-gods; nay, De Quincey suggests that even Commodus might have +made a shred of character for himself by dying immediately after a +triumphant display of his genius as a toxophilite.” + + +Mr. Jerningham’s distaste for his friend’s secretary did not keep him +away from the cottage. He came at all times and seasons, and if his +only possibility of happiness had been found in that house, he could +not have seemed less inclined to leave it, or more eager to return to +it. Weeks, and even months, passed, and he still remained in England, +spending a few days every now and then at the bijou house in Park +Lane, but making Greenlands his headquarters. Capricious in all his +movements, he came when he pleased, and departed when he pleased. +Theodore de Bergerac loved and trusted him, as it was his nature to +love and trust those whom he thought worthy of his friendship. The +welcome that awaited him was always equally cordial. He had never +imagined so calm a haven. + +“If I could spend the rest of my life here, I might die a good +Christian,” he said to himself; until, little by little, he came to +understand that those feelings which made the bailiff’s cottage so +pleasant to him were not altogether Christian like. + +He hated Eustace Thorburn. He envied him his youth, his hopefulness, +his chances of future distinction; above all, he envied him the love +of Helen de Bergerac. Yes, there was the sting. Youth, hope, chances +of future glory, might all have been given to this young man, and +Harold Jerningham would have let him go by with a careless sneer. But +Eustace Thorburn had more than these gifts; he had the love of a pure +and bright young creature, whose purity and brightness had touched the +heart of this middle-aged sybarite as it had never been touched before. +His fancy, his vanity, his pride of conquest, had been the motive power +to sustain him in bygone victories. He had dreamed his dreams, and had +awakened suddenly to see Fancy’s radiant vision vanish before the chill +gray light of Reality’s cheerless dawn. + +But this time the dream was fairer than any of those old, forgotten +visions. This time the heart of the man, and not the poet’s fancy only, +was touched and subjugated. It was many years since the master of +Greenlands had bade a formal farewell to the follies and delusions of +youth, and he had believed the farewell eternal. And now, in a moment, +unbidden, dreams, delusions, and folly returned to hold him with fatal +sway; and in his self-communings he confessed that it was no common +sentiment which made Helen’s presence so delightful, and no common +prejudice that rendered Eustace Thorburn so odious. + +He confessed to himself as much as this; and knowing this, he lingered +at Greenlands, and came day after day to sit beside his friend’s +hearth, or loiter in his friend’s garden. And why should he not snatch +the brief hours of happiness which yet remained for him--the Indian +summer of his life? + +“I am an old man,” he said to himself; “at least, in the eyes of this +girl I must seem an old man. She will never know that I regard her +with any warmer sentiment than a fatherly kind of friendship. She will +dream her own dreams, and think her own thoughts, unconscious of her +influence on mine. And by and by, after a few months of sentimental +flirtation, she will marry this young secretary, or some other man, +young, self-satisfied, good-looking, empty-headed, and utterly unable +to understand how divine a treasure the fates have bestowed upon him.” + +With such philosophy as this did Mr. Jerningham trifle with his +conscience, or rather that vague sense of honour which stood him +instead of conscience. But there were times when philosophy gave poor +comfort to the soul of this unprincipled egotist, who until now had +never known what it was to set a seal upon his lips or a curb upon +his will. There were hours of envious rage, of dark remorse, of vain, +passionate broodings on the things that might have been; there were +hours in which the spirits of evil claimed Harold Jerningham for their +own, and walked about with him, and hovered around his bed as he slept, +and made his dreams hideous with shapeless horrors. He looked back upon +his early dreams, and laughed at their folly. He was like that French +libertine who, in writing of his youthful caprices, said, “My hour for +loving truly and profoundly had not yet come.” That fateful hour, which +comes to every man, had come to this one too late. + +What special charm in this girl enthralled his mind and melted his +heart? He did not know. It could scarcely be her beauty, for his life +had been spent amongst beautiful women, and his heart had long ago +become impervious to the fascination of a fair and noble face. It may +have been her innocence, her youth, her gentleness, that had subdued +this world-weary cynic--the poetic charm of her surroundings, the sweet +repose which seemed a part of the very atmosphere she breathed. + +Yes, in this youthful purity there lurked the potent charm that held +Harold Jerningham. The girl, with her sweet, confiding face and pure +thoughts, the rustic life, the perfume of Arcadia, composed the +subtle charm that had intoxicated Mr. Jerningham’s senses. What is +so delightful as novelty to an idle, _blasé_ creature of the +Jerningham type? The life at Greenlands had all the charm of novelty; +it was fresh, piquant, exhilarating, because of its very innocence; and +as it had never been in Mr. Jerningham’s creed to deny himself any +pleasure, he lingered at the neglected house in which his father and +mother had died. He spent his evenings at the bailiffs cottage, and +left the issue to fate. + +“She will never know how tenderly her father’s old friend loves her,” +he said to himself; “and at the worst I may prevent her throwing +herself away upon an adventurer.” + + + + + CHAPTER VIII. + + DANIEL MAYFIELD’S COUNSEL. + + +THE great book and his own studies afforded Mr. Thorburn ample +occupation for all his days and nights. If his days had been twice as +long as they were, the young man would have found work for every hour. +He was very ambitious, and he had that passionate love of learning +for its own sake which marks the predestined scholar. But with all +a Bentley or a Porson’s delight in the niceties of a Greek verb or +the use of a preposition, he was as free from pedantry as from every +other affectation. In the garden, on the river, by the piano, or on +the croquet lawn, he was a match for the most empty-headed bachelor +in Berkshire; and if he played croquet on mathematical principles, +he was careful to keep that fact to himself. He had a knack of doing +everything well, and even Mr. Jerningham was fain to admit that he +was in tone and manner irreproachable. Never was the boyish candour of +light-hearted youth more pleasantly blended with the self-possession of +accomplished manhood. Grave and earnest, when good taste required that +he should be serious; in his moments of expansion, full of enthusiasm +and vivacity; always deferential to superior age and attainments, yet +entirely without sycophancy; profoundly respectful in his intercourse +with women--Eustace Thorburn was a man who made friends for himself +unconsciously. + +“I am very proud of my daughter,” M. de Bergerac said to Harold +Jerningham one day, when they had been talking of the secretary; “but I +should have been prouder still of such a son as that young man.” + +“I have no passion for pattern young men,” replied Mr. Jerningham. “I +dare say your model secretary is very amiable. You pay him a salary for +being amiable, you see, and he occupies a very pleasant position in +your house. But I cannot quite understand how you could bring yourself +to admit a stranger into the bosom of your family. The arrangement +reminds me a little of those curious advertisements one sees in +the _Times_. A family who occupy a house too large for their +requirements invite a gentleman engaged in the City during the day to +share the delights of their too spacious mansion; and they promise him +cheerful society--imagine the horror implied in pledging yourself to be +cheerful all the year round for a gentleman engaged in the City!--and +the gentleman comes to be welcomed to the arms of the family who know +about as much of his antecedents, or his qualities of head and heart, +as if he were an inhabitant of the planet Mars. Now it seems to me that +you receive Mr. Thorburn very much on the same principle.” + +“Not at all. I had Mr. Desmond’s credentials for my secretary’s +character.” + +“And how much does Mr. Desmond know of your secretary?” + +“I can scarcely tell you that. I know that Desmond’s letter of +recommendation was very satisfactory, and that the result has justified +the letter.” + +“And you do not even know who and what the young man’s father was?” + +“I do not; but I would pledge my life upon the young man’s honesty of +purpose, and I am not inclined to trouble, myself about his father.” + +This conversation was eminently provoking to Mr. Jerningham. He had +of late found himself tormented by an irritating curiosity upon the +subject of Eustace Thorburn. He wanted to know who and what this +man was whom he envied with so iniquitous an envy, whom he hated +with a hatred so utterly unprovoked. Had he good blood in his veins, +this young adventurer, who carried himself with an easy grace that +could scarcely have been given to a plebeian? Mr. Jerningham was a +Conservative in the narrowest sense of the word, and did not believe +in nature’s nobility. He watched Eustace Thorburn with cold, critical +eyes, and was fain to admit that in this young man there were no traces +of vulgar origin. + +“And they say he is like me,” Mr. Jerningham said to himself. “Was I +ever as handsome as that, as bright, as candid in tone and frank in +manner? I think not. Life was too smooth for me when I was a young man, +and prosperity spoiled me.” + +Mr. Jerningham looked back at the days of his youth, and remembered +how prosperous they had been, and was fain to confess to himself that +it might have been better for him if Fortune had been less lavish of +her gifts. Absolute power is a crucial test that few men can stand. +Absolute power makes a Caligula or a Heliogabalus, a Sixtus the Fourth +or an Alexander the Sixth; and do not wealth, and good looks, and +youth, and a decent amount of talent, constitute a power as absolute as +the dominion of imperial papal Rome? + +While Mr. Jerningham lingered--idle, discontented, ill at ease--amidst +that Berkshire landscape which made Eustace Thorburn’s paradise, the +young man’s life crept on, sweet as a summer-day’s dream. It had dawned +upon him of late that he was not liked by the master of Greenlands, +and he endured that affliction with becoming patience. He would have +wished to be liked and trusted by all mankind, since his own heart knew +only kindly feelings, except always against that one man who had to +answer for his mother’s broken life. He wished to be on good terms with +everybody; but if a cynical, middle-aged gentleman chose to dislike +him, he was the last of men to court the cynical gentleman’s liking. + +“I dare say Mr. Jerningham thinks there is a kind of impertinence in +my likeness to him,” Eustace thought, when Harold’s eyes had watched +him with a more than usually disdainful gaze. “He is angry with nature +herself for having made a nameless adventurer somewhat after his image. +Am I like him, I wonder? Yes, I see a look of his face in my own when +I look in my glass. And that woman, Mrs. Willows, told me that I +reminded her of my father; so Mr. Jerningham must be like my father. +I can almost fancy my father that kind of man--cold, and proud, and +selfish; for I know that Mr. Jerningham is selfish, in spite of M. de +Bergerac’s praise of him.” + +The idea that Harold Jerningham must needs bear some faint resemblance +to the father whom Eustace had never seen, quickened the young man’s +interest in him. The two men watched each other, and thought of each +other, and wondered about each other, with ever-increasing interest, +each seeking to fathom the hidden depths of the other’s nature, each +baffled by that conventional external life which raises a kind of +screen between the real and the artificial man. + +Mr. Jerningham was a master of the art of concealing his sentiments, +and Eustace, frank, true, and young as he was, kept his gravest +thoughts locked in his own breast; so, after meeting nearly every day +for some months, the two men knew very little more of each other than +they had known after the first week of their intercourse. + +Early in June, when the garden and park, river and wood-crowned hills +beyond, were looking unspeakably beautiful in the early summer, +Eustace left that arcadian paradise for a week’s hard labour in the +manuscript-room of the British Museum, where there were certain +documents bearing upon the subject of M. de Bergerac’s _magnum +opus_--records of trials for witchcraft; ghastly confessions, wrung +from the white lips of writhing wretches in the torture-chambers of +mediæval England; hideous details of trial and _auto da fé_ in +the days when the great stone scaffold stood at the gates of Seville, +and the smoke and the stench of burning heretics darkened the skies of +Spain. + +Eustace shared his Uncle Dan’s lodgings on this occasion as on the +last, to the delight of both. To Daniel Mayfield his nephew’s presence +was like a glimpse of green fields and cooling waters seen athwart the +arid sands of a desert. + +“You are like a summer wind, blowing the hopes and joys of my youth +back to me,” said Daniel, as the two men dined together on the first +evening. “You are not like your mother, dear boy; but you have a look +of hers in your eyes when you are at your best.” + +“I have been told that I am like my father,” said Eustace, thoughtfully. + +“Told by whom?” + +“By Mrs. Willows--Sarah Kimber--my mother’s friend.” + +“Indeed! Yes; Sarah Kimber must have seen that man.” + +“And you never saw him?” + +“Never. I was in London at the time. If I had been at Bayham, things +might have been----Ah, well, we always think we could have saved our +darlings from ruin or death if we had been at hand. God would not save +her. But who knows if it was not better for her to have sinned, and +suffered, and repented, and lived her pure, unselfish life for twenty +years, to die humble and trusting, as she did, than to have married +some vulgar, prosperous tradesman, and to have grown hard, and bitter, +and worldly? Better for her to be the Publican than the Pharisee. +You know what I am in the matter of religious opinion, Eustace; or, +at any rate, you know as well as I know myself how I take Rabelais’ +Great Perhaps; but since your mother’s death the hope of something +better to come, after all this wear and tear, and drudgery and turmoil, +has seemed nearer to me. The Great Perhaps has grown almost into a +certainty; and sometimes at sunset, when I am walking in the busiest +street in this great clamorous city, I see the sun going down in +crimson glory behind the house-tops, and in the midst of all that roar +and bustle, with the omnibuses rattling past, and the crowd jostling +and pushing me as I tramp along, I think of the golden-paved city, that +has no need of either sun or moon to shine in it, but is lighted with +the glory of God; and I wish that the farce were over and the curtain +dropped.” + +Much more was said about the mild and inoffensive creature whom these +two men had loved so dearly. To Eustace there was supreme comfort in +this quiet talk about the unforgotten dead. After this there came +more cheerful talk. Daniel Mayfield was anxious to ascertain what his +nephew’s life was like at Greenlands. + +“It is not an unprofitable life, at any rate,” he said, with a +proud smile; “for those little poems you send me now and then for +the magazines show a marked growth of mind. It ripens the mind; and +the heart is not absorbed by the brain. That is the point. It is so +difficult to keep heart and brain alive together. Do you remember +what Vasari says of Giotto, ‘_Il renouvela l’art, parce qu’il mit +plus de bonté dans les têtes_’? There is _bonté_ in your +verses, my lad; and if Dan Mayfield is anything of a judge of literary +yearlings, you may safely enter yourself for some of the great events. +Of course, you will not depend upon verse-making for your daily +bread. Verse-making is the Sabbath of a hard-working literary life. +You will find good work to do without descending to such cab-horse +labour as mine has been. And take to heart this one precept throughout +your literary career: you have only one master, and that master is +the British public. For your critics, if they are honest, respect +and honour them with all your heart and mind; accept their blame in +all humility, and be diligent to learn whatever they can teach. But +when the false prophets assail you,--they who come to you in sheep’s +clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves,--the critics who are no +critics, but unsuccessful writers or trade rivals in disguise,--be on +your guard, and take care of your cheese. You know the fable: the fox +flattered the raven until the weak-minded bird dropped her cheese. The +fox goes on another principle now-a-days, and reviles the raven; but +for the same purpose. Remember my warning, Eustace, and don’t drop your +cheese. The public, your master, has a very plain way of expressing +its opinion. If the public like your book, the public will read it; if +not, the public will assuredly let it alone; and all the king’s horses +and all the king’s men, in the way of criticism, cannot set you up or +knock you down, unless the reading public is with them. Accept this +brief sermon, Eustace, from a man who has lived and suffered.” + +Those were pleasant hours which the two men spent together, sitting +late into the night, talking of books and men, of worlds seen and +unseen; metaphysical, practical, poetical, theological, by turns, as +the stream of talk flowed onward in its wandering way--erratic as the +most wayward brook that ever strayed by hill-side and meadow. + +Eustace believed in his Uncle Dan as the greatest of men; and, indeed, +in close companionship, the most stolid of companions could scarcely +refrain from some expression of wonder and delight on beholding so +much unconscious power, such depth of thought, such wealth of fancy, +such grand imaginings,--all scattered as recklessly as Daniel Mayfield +scattered his more substantial possessions in the shape of sovereigns +and half-crowns. A dangerous enemy, a warm friend, a pitiless +assailant, a staunch champion, large of heart and large of brain, more +like Ben Jonson than Shakspeare, nearer to Dryden than to Pope, to +Steele than to Addison,--such was Daniel Mayfield, essayist, reviewer, +historian--what you will; always excellent, and sometimes great; but +never so admirable a creature as when he sat smoking his meerschaum, +dreamily, and looking across the blue mists of tobacco at the nephew he +loved. + +“And you are really and truly happy at Greenlands?” he said, after the +young man had told him a good deal about his life in Berkshire. + +“Happier than I ever was before in a stranger’s house,” answered +Eustace; “though Mr. Jerningham evidently considers me an intruder.” + +“Never mind Mr. Jerningham; you do not exist to please him. M. de +Bergerac likes you; and Mademoiselle--she tolerates you, I suppose?” + +A vivid blush betrayed that secret which Eustace Thorburn was so +incapable of concealing. + +“Ho, ho!” cried Daniel; “that is where we are, is it? We are in love +with our employer’s daughter! Take care, Eustace; that way madness +lies.” + +“I know that,” the young man answered, gravely. “I have kept that in my +mind ever since I first went to Greenlands.” + +“Ever since? Ah, then it is an old story!” + +“I know the chances are against me, and I mean to cure myself, sooner +or later; unless----Well, Uncle Dan, I can’t teach myself to look at +this business as altogether desperate. M. de Bergerac is all goodness, +generosity, simplicity; and as for Helen----Don’t think me a cox-comb +or a fool if I say I believe she loves me. We have been together for +nearly a year, you see, like brother and sister; I teaching her Greek, +she teaching me music. I play the basses of her duets--you remember how +my poor mother taught me, when I was a child--and we have all kinds +of tastes, and predilections, and enthusiasms in common. I cannot +believe we could be so completely happy together if--if there were not +something more than common sympathy between us. Don’t laugh at me, +Uncle Dan.” + +“Shall I laugh at youth, and hope, and love?” cried Daniel Mayfield. +“The next thing would be to laugh at the angels in heaven.--And so she +loves you, this Demoiselle de Bergerac? I wonder how she could help +loving you, forsooth! Has her father any inkling of this pretty little +pastoral comedy that is being enacted under his very nose?” + +“I doubt it. He is simplicity itself.” + +“And don’t you think, Eustace, that, in consideration for that sweet, +childlike simplicity which so often goes with scholarship, you are +bound to tell him the truth? You see, your position in the house is a +privilege which you can scarcely enjoy with the consciousness of this +treasonable secret. Tell M. de Bergerac the whole truth,--your plans, +your chances of future distinction,--and ascertain from his own lips +whether there is any hope for you.” + +“And if he tells me there is no hope?” + +“Well, that will seem a death-blow, of course. But if the girl really +loves you, her heart will be always on your side. In that case, I +should say wait, and put your trust in Time--Time, the father of +Truth, as Mary Stuart called him when she wanted to obtain belief for +a bouncer,--and oh, what an incredible number of royal bouncers were +carried to and fro in the despatches of that period! Wait, Eustace, +and when you have made a hit in the literary world, you can carry your +laurel-crown to M. de Bergerac, and make an appeal against his stern +decision.” + +“And in the meantime, while the laurels are growing for my crown, some +one else will marry Helen.” + +“That is probable, if her love for you is only the caprice of a +boarding-school miss, in which case you will be better off without +her. Don’t look at me so despairingly, dear boy. You cannot get +five-and-forty to regard these things with the eyes of five-and-twenty. +I have had my own dream and my own disappointment, and have gone my +ways, and cannot tell whether I am worse or better for my loss. Do you +remember that tender little essay of Charles Lamb’s, in which he tells +us about the children that might have been--the dear, loving, pretty +creatures, who never lived except in Elia’s dreams? I have my little +family too, Eustace; and of a night, when I sit alone and the candles +burn dim on yonder table, they come out of the dusky corners and stand +at my knee, and I talk to them, and tell them of the things that might +have been if they had ever been born. And yet, how do I know that they +wouldn’t have turned out the veriest little rascals and scoundrels in +Christendom, and the torment of my existence? I have missed the home +that I once dreamt of; but I have my pipe and my rare old books, and +my faithful friends who come sometimes of an evening to play a rubber +with me--as Elia’s friends used to come to him--and I take things +quietly, and say Kismet. Be honest and true, Eustace, and leave the +rest to the destiny that ‘shapes our ends.’ + +“I have thought that it might be my duty to tell M. de Bergerac the +truth,” said Eustace, thoughtfully; “but then, you see, I have set a +watch upon every look and word. I have preserved my own proper position +as a paid secretary with punctilious care. What harm is there in my +presence in that house, where I am so happy, so long as I keep my +secret?” + +“But can you tell how long you may keep it?” asked the incredulous +Daniel, “or how many times you betray it in a single day to every one +except that dreaming student, who has evidently no eyes to see anything +that lies beyond his own desk? Your girlish blush betrayed you to +me--blushes, and looks, and tones, and sighs will betray you to the +demoiselle, and then some day the great discovery will be made all at +once, and you will find yourself in a false position.” + +“Yes, Uncle Dan; I begin to think you are right. I should be a +scoundrel to profit by that dear old man’s simplicity. I will tell him +the truth, and leave Greenlands. Ah, you cannot imagine how happy I +have been there. And then, I am so useful to M. de Bergerac. The great +book will come to a standstill again, or at any rate go on very slowly. +And I am so interested in my work. It seems very hard, Uncle Dan; but I +suppose it must be done.” + +“It had better be done, my dear boy. Besides, you may not lose by your +candour. M. de Bergerac may tell you to remain.” + +“I cannot hope that. But I will take your advice; the truth is always +best.” + +“Always best and wisest.” + +It was thus decided. Eustace wrung his uncle’s hand in silence, and +retired, pale and sorrowful. The elder man felt this keenly; but he +had something of the Spartan’s feelings in his relations with his +beloved nephew. + +“I have kept him away from me because I love him, and now I take him +from this girl because I love him,” he thought, as he smoked his last +pipe in cheerless solitude. “I am more watchful of his honour than ever +I was of my own.” + +There was very little more said about Greenlands during the few +remaining days of Eustace Thorburn’s visit. His face told Daniel that +the die was cast. The young Spartan had determined to do his duty. + + + + + CHAPTER IX. + + BETWEEN EDEN AND EXILE. + + +ON the last night of Eustace Thorburn’s abode in his uncle’s lodgings, +the two men sat very late, talking earnestly, the elder watching the +face of the younger with more than usual tenderness. + +“I dare say the future seems a little dark to you, dear lad,” he began, +softly, after they had talked of all the things except that which was +nearest to the hearts of both. “I won’t try to comfort you with the +usual philosophical truisms about the foolishness of youthful fancies. +I won’t preach the _vanitas vanitatum_ of worn-out middle age +to hoping, dreaming, despairing youth. Keep the dream, boy, even if +there is a bitter flavour of despair mingled with the sweetness of it. +Keep the dream. Such dreams are the guardian angels of youth, the +patron-saints of manhood. I have my patron-saint, and I pray to her +sometimes, and confess my sins to her, and receive absolution, and +am comforted. To my eyes Mademoiselle de Bergerac would most likely +be only a pretty young person, with blue eyes--I think you said blue +eyes--and a white muslin frock. But if she seem an angel to you, +enthrone her in your heart of hearts. A man is all the better for +carrying an angel about with him, even if it be only an angel of his +own making.” + +And then, after a pause, Daniel went on. “About your future career as a +man of letters, I think you need have no misgiving. Those little verses +which you submitted to me in such fear and trembling have made their +mark. They have gone straight to the hearts of the people. The rising +generation always elects its own poet. The students of the Quartier +Latin knew Alfred de Musset’s verses by heart, and spouted and sang +them, before they were reprinted from the magazine where they first +appeared. M. de Lamartine thought very small things of the youngster, +just as Byron thought very small things of Monsieur Lamartine himself. +No, Eustace, I have no fear for your future. When you leave Greenlands, +it shall not be for the smoke and riot of London. You must take a +lodging at some pretty village by the river, and write your book or +your poem as your guardian angel directs; and if your heart is broken, +and you put it into your book, so much the better. Your heart can be +patched up again by and by; and in the meantime the public likes a book +with a genuine broken heart in it. Byron used to break his heart once a +year, and send Murray the pieces.” + +“I could not trade upon my sorrows as Byron did.” + +“Because you are not Byron. He did not trade upon his sorrows. That is +a true saying of Owen Meredith’s, ‘Genius is greater than man. Genius +does what it must, and talent does what it can.’ I quote from memory. +Byron’s was genius--the real fire; the super-natural force that is +given to a man to use, but seldom given him to govern. Byron was the +Ajax of poets,--abused, distraught, roaring like a bull in his mighty +pain,--and a demi-god.” + +After this there came a long and animated discourse upon Byron and his +successors. Of all things, Eustace loved best to talk of poetry and +poets, from Homer to Tennyson. What mortal creature does not like to +talk “shop”? And then, when the two men had wearied themselves with the +pleasant excitement of debate, there was a silence of some minutes, +which was broken abruptly by Daniel Mayfield. + +“I made a discovery the other day, Eustace,” he said. “I have had half +a mind to tell you nothing about it; but perhaps it is as well you +should be told.” + +“What kind of discovery, Uncle Dan?” + +“A discovery about--well--about the author of _Dion_.” + +“What? Have you found out who he is?” + +“No,” replied Daniel, very gravely; “I am no wiser as to his name and +status; but I have found out that he was a villain, and is a villain +still, if he lives, I dare say; for I don’t think so base a wretch as +that would be likely to amend with age. I doubt if it will ever be any +good to you to know more of your father than you knew when your poor +mother died; but you have wished to be wiser, and I have humoured your +wish. Do you remember what I said to you after I read _Dion_? + +“I remember every word.” + +“I told you then that the author of that book must have been the kind +of man to fascinate such a girl as your mother. I have met with another +book written by the same man, and have read it as carefully as I read +the first. Eustace, I believe that man was your father.” + +“You--you believe that?” + +“Yes,” returned Daniel, earnestly. “There is a picture of your mother’s +girlhood in the book I have been reading--a likeness too close to be +accidental.” + +“Let me see it, Uncle Dan! let me see that book! Let me only assure +myself that the man who wrote it was----” + +“What would you do if you were sure of that?” + +“I would find him--or his grave.” + +The young man had risen, and stood before his kinsman, breathless, +eager, ready to confront the universe in his passionate desire to +avenge the wrongs of the dead. Standing thus, he looked like a +sculptor’s ideal image of righteous anger. + +Daniel Mayfield looked up at him with a sad smile. + +“And then,” he said; “and then--what then? If you find a grave, will +you trample or spit upon it? Surely it would be but a sorry vengeance +to insult the dead. And if you find this man in the flesh, what will +you do to him? Your face tells me you would like to kill him. You look +like Orestes newly come from the temple of Loxias Apollo, charged with +his dreadful duty. But Orestes did not seem any the happier for having +killed his mother. The primitive instinct must always be--kill; the +thirst for blood. It is only human nature to want to kill the man who +has offended you, and the modern horse-whipping is a feeble substitute +for the exploded duel. But then Christianity comes in, with its law of +sufferance and submission. No, dear lad, I cannot believe that any good +could come of a meeting between you and your father, unless----” + +“Unless what, Uncle Dan?” asked Eustace, when the other paused. + +“Unless, by his affection for you, he could atone for his desertion of +your mother.” + +“Atone for that!” cried the young man. “Do you think any favours that +man could bestow on me would blot out the remembrance of her wrongs? +Do you think I could be so mean as to sell my heritage of vengeance +for some mess of pottage in the shape of worldly advantage? No, Uncle +Dan; she is dead, and there is no such thing as atonement. It is too +late--too late! While she lived she was ready to forgive; nature made +her to love and pardon. If he had come then, and she had forgiven him, +I could have forgiven for her--with her. But she is gone. That man +permitted her to die alone; and if I could forgive him the wrongs that +blighted her life, I could not forgive him that last wrong--her lonely +death-bed. And do you think he cares for my love or my forgiveness? The +man who could leave my mother to her lonely fate for twenty years is +not likely to be suddenly possessed with affection for her son.” + +“The day may come when you will be a son whom any father would be proud +to claim.” + +“Let him claim me in that day, if he dare,” answered Eustace, with +kindling eyes. “I belong to the dead. And now, Uncle Dan, tell me what +this book is, and how you came by it.” + +“That part of the business is commonplace enough. I told you I knew +a handy scrub of a man, good at picking up any out-of-the-way book I +may happen to want. I commissioned this man to hunt the second-hand +booksellers for a copy of _Dion_--strange that neither you nor +I ever speculated on the author of _Dion_ having written other +books! My man hunted without result as regards _Dion_; but one +morning he came to me with a couple of thin volumes, bound in gray +paper-covered boards, and looking very dingy in comparison with the +gaudy cloth and gilt lettering that obtains now-a-days. He had hunted +in vain for _Dion_, he informed me; but in the course of his +search he had come across this other book by the author of _Dion_. +The book is yonder, in that parcel.--No,” cried Daniel, pushing the +young man gently aside; “you shall not look at the book while you are +with me. _That_ is a subject I do not care to talk about. Carry +the parcel down to Greenlands with you, and read the book quietly--at +night, in your own room. You will know little more of your father after +you have read it than you know now. The book is a study in morbid +anatomy; it is the revelation of an utterly selfish nature, and the +writer is an unconscious moralist. _Vanitas vanitatum_ is the +unwritten refrain of his song.” + +“Was the book a success, like _Dion_?” + +“It was not. I have taken the trouble to refer to the literary journals +for the year in which this second book was published. In some it is +passed over with a few cold words of approval, in others unnoticed; +in one it forms the subject of what French critics call a _sanglant +article_. The book wants all that is best in _Dion_--the +freshness, the youth, the young romance that plays at bo-beep behind +a mask of world-weariness. There is an interval of ten years between +the two books. In the second the writer is really _blasé_. He +is ten times more egotistical, more contemptuous and suspicious of +his fellow-men--more everything that is bad. He has ceased to enjoy +anything in life. He has no enjoyment even in his writing; indeed, he +writes with the air of a man who knows he will only be read by inferior +creatures, and one expects him at every moment to throw down the pen. +One cannot read the book without yawning, for one feels that the man +yawned while he was writing it.” + +“And in this cold epitome of his selfish life he writes of my mother?” + +“Yes.” + +“And throughout the book you believe it is of himself he writes?” + +“Of that I am certain. A man has a tone in writing of himself that he +never has when his subject is only some figment of the brain. There is +a passion, an acrimony, in genuine autobiography not to be mistaken. +I do not say that this book is a plain narration of facts. There is +no doubt considerable dressing-up and disguising of events; but the +under-current of reality is obvious to the least experienced reader. +There is one point that puzzles--I must own perplexes--me beyond +measure. It was perhaps a mistaken delicacy which induced me to respect +your mother’s silence about all things relating to that bad man. If I +had found this book during her life-time, I should have broached this +painful subject, and compelled her to tell me all.” + +“But why--why?” Eustace asked, with breathless eagerness. “What had +you to learn more than those letters tell us--that he was a villain, +without heart or conscience, and that she was young and guileless, and +loved him only too dearly?” + +“There are passages in that book which have made me think that the +relations between this man and my sister were something more than we +have believed.” + +“You think that he married my mother?” + +“I am disposed to think so. But the marriage--if it took place--could +hardly have been an ordinary marriage. His allusions to it are very +vague; but it seems as if, whatever the ceremonial was, its legal +importance was only known to this man himself.” + +“Why do you think this?” + +“From certain faint hints here and there. ‘If she only knew her legal +hold upon me,’ he writes; ‘if she were a woman of the world, and knew +her power.’ There is some hidden meaning in these half-sentences; I +know not what. In a record of mixed reality and fiction, who is to say +where reality ends and fiction begins? But you will read the book, and +then judge for yourself.” + + +Eustace Thorburn went back to Greenlands, depressed, but not utterly +disheartened. He knew that his uncle had urged upon him the only +honourable course open to him in his relations with M. de Bergerac. +It would have been sweet to him to live on for ever in that friendly +companionship with the bright and gentle creature who had welcomed him +to her home with such simple kindness. And now reflection had convinced +him that it was necessary to resign the dear privilege of this innocent +companionship, he felt more keenly than he had felt hitherto all the +sweetness of his life at Greenlands, and the dreariness of any life +that could come after it. His ambition would be left to him; that +wonderful, radiant high-road which every young man believes in--the +_via sacra_ that leads straight across the untrodden wilderness of +the future to the Temple of Fame--would still await the coming of his +eager feet. But even that sacred road would seem dreary and desolate if +the pole-star of hope were darkened; or, in plainer words, it must seem +to him but a poor thing to make his mark in the world of letters, if he +were not to be blest with Helen de Bergerac’s love. + +He returned to Greenlands by the same pathway which he had trodden just +one year before, when he went a stranger to M. de Bergerac’s house. +Ah, how unutterably beautiful the Berkshire landscape seemed to him in +its ripe, rich midsummer loveliness! High tangled hedge, winding lane, +distant hill, and woodland shone before him like a picture too divine +for earth. + +“And I am to leave all this, and to leave her!” he thought. “I am to be +self-banished from a home that Horace might have loved, and from the +tranquil life which is a poet’s best education. If such a sacrifice as +this be duty, it is very hard.” + +For the first time in his life this young man found himself before +the altar on which he was to immolate his happiness. In the existence +of every man there comes the hour in which he must needs sacrifice his +first-born, or live inglorious, with the remorseful consciousness that +he has shrunk from the performance of a duty. The altar is there, and +Isaac, and the knife is given to him. Heaven help the weak wretch if +his courage fail him in that awful moment, and he refuse to complete +the propitiation! + +Eustace Thorburn approached his altar resolute, but very sorrowful, and +the voice of the tempter pleaded with the casuistry of an Escobar. + +“Why not stop, at least, till the book is finished?” said the tempter. +“You will be doing your kind employer a disservice by depriving him +of your labour. Your mighty secret can do no harm so long as it is +securely locked in your own breast, and are you so weak a fool that you +must needs betray yourself?” + +And hereupon the stern voice of Duty took up the argument. + +“What warranty can you give for the preservation of your secret?” +asked the cold, calm matron. “A word, a look from that foolish chit, +Mademoiselle de Bergerac, and the story would be told. As for the +great book, which is, no doubt, foredoomed to be the ruin of some +too-confiding publisher, you may give M. de Bergerac almost as much +assistance in London as you can give him in Berkshire.” + +Eustace heard voices and gay laughter in the garden as he drew near +the gate in the holly-hedge, and amongst other voices the low, +gentlemanlike tones of Harold Jerningham. Hephæstus barked a noisy +welcome as the young man opened the gate. M. de Bergerac and Mr. +Jerningham were sitting by a tea-table under the chestnut-trees, deep +in a learned dispute upon the history of Islamism; while Helen busied +herself with the cups and saucers, and looked up every now and then to +join in the argument, or to laugh at the acrimony of the disputants. + +“So Mr. Jerningham has not left Berkshire, although he talked of +starting for a yachting expedition to Norway last week,” thought +Eustace, not too well pleased to see the master of Greenlands so +completely at home in that dear abode which he was himself so soon to +leave. + +Helen started up from the tea-table with a little exclamation of +delight as the returning traveller came across the lawn. She blushed +as she welcomed him; but blushes at eighteen mean very little. Mr. +Jerningham stopped in the middle of a sentence, and watched the young +lady with attentive eyes as she shook hands with her father’s secretary. + +“We are so pleased to see you back again, Mr. Thorburn,” she said. “We +have missed you so much--haven’t we, papa?” + +“Yes, my dear, I have been very much at a loss for my kind assistant,” +answered M. de Bergerac. “Would you imagine it possible, Thorburn, that +any man can pretend to doubt the original genius and creative power of +Mahomet?” + +And hereupon M. de Bergerac entered upon a long disquisition on the +subject that was dearest to his heart, and Eustace had to listen in +reverential silence, while he was languishing to tell Helen about the +little commissions he had executed for her in town, or to inquire into +the health of her song-birds, or the economy of the poultry-yard to +which she devoted so much care. He wanted some excuse for looking at +her sweet face and hearing her beloved voice, and all the poetry of +Mohammedanism seemed dull and prosaic to him when compared with the +magical charm of the commonest observation this young lady could utter. +It is given to youth and beauty to drop pearls and diamonds from her +lips unconsciously--pearls and diamonds invisible to common eyes, it is +true, but the most precious of all gems for that one person to whom the +speaker seems at once an angel and a goddess. + +For that one evening Eustace Thorburn permitted himself to be +unutterably happy. So magical a light does true love shed on the +scene it illumines, that the lover’s eye is blinded for the moment +to all that lies beyond the region thus glorified. The future +scarcely existed for the mind of Eustace Thorburn that happy midsummer +evening. He lived in the present; and this quaint old garden, these +chestnut-trees, this white-robed maiden seated under the shadow, dim +and ghostlike in the twilight, constituted the world. The great canopy +of heaven, and the young moon, and all the stars, the murmuring river, +and shadowy woods and distant hills, had been created for those two. +She was Eve, and he was Adam, and this was Paradise. The tones of the +two sages disputing about the Sheeahs and the Soonnees might have been +the murmurings of the west wind for any consciousness that Eustace +had of their neighbourhood when once he was released from the duty of +listening to M. de Bergerac, and free to converse with Helen. + +And yet, in the breast of one of the sages there beat a heart from +which the pains and passions of youth had not yet been banished--a +heart that ached with a keen anguish as its owner watched those two +figures seated in the shadow of the chestnut-tree. Mr. Jerningham had +lived in society, and had learned the difficult art of conducting one +argument with skill and judgment while another argument was being +silently debated in his heart. He talked about Islamism, and did battle +for his own convictions, and missed no chance of putting his opponent +in the wrong; and yet all the time the inner voice was debating that +other question. + +“If I had been as free as this young man, could I have won that girl, +with him for my rival?” he asked himself. “What gift has he that I do +not possess--except youth? And is there really a charm in youth more +divine than any grace of mind or polish of manner that belongs to a +riper age? Is it only a physical charm--the charm of a smoother cheek +or brighter eyes--or is it an indefinable freshness of mind and heart +that constitutes the superiority? I do not think Helen de Bergerac +the kind of woman to like a man less because there are a few lines +across his forehead and a few silver threads in his hair; but I know +that there is a sympathy between her and this young man that does not +exist between her and me. And yet I doubt if any ambitious youth of +five-and-twenty can love as devotedly as a man of my age. It is only +when he has proved the hollowness of everything else in life that a man +is free to surrender himself entirely to the woman he loves.” + +Again and again during the six months of his lingering at Greenlands, +Mr. Jerningham had told himself that his case would have been utterly +hopeless, even if he had been free to woo his old friend’s daughter. +And yet he pined for his freedom; and there were times when he felt +somewhat unkindly disposed towards the harmless lady at Hampton. + +“What are we to each other but an incumbrance?” he asked himself. “If +she had been more guilty, we might be free; she to marry Desmond, and +I----” + +And then Mr. Jerningham reflected upon the Continental manner of +marrying and giving in marriage. If he had been at liberty to ask for +Helen’s hand, what more likely than that the priceless boon would have +been granted by the friend who loved him and believed in him? Theodore +de Bergerac was of all men the most likely to bestow his daughter on +a husband of mature age, since he himself had married a woman twenty +years his junior, and had found perfect happiness in that union. + +Mr. Jerningham fancied himself blest with this fair young wife, and +pictured to himself the calm and blameless existence which he might +have led with so sweet a companion. Oh, what a tranquil haven would +this have been, after the storms he had tempted, the lightnings he had +invited and defied! + +“Of thorns men do not gather figs, nor of a bramble-bush gather they +grapes,” said the Divine Teacher. Mr. Jerningham remembered that solemn +sentence. There are some precepts of Holy Writ that a man cannot put +out of his memory, though he may have outlived by a quarter of a +century his faith in the creed they teach. + +“I suppose I had my chance of perfect happiness at some moment of my +life, and forfeited it,” he said to himself. “Destiny is a bitter +schoolmistress, and has no pity on the mistakes of her scholars.” + + + + + CHAPTER X. + + “L’OISEAU FUIT COMME LE BONHEUR.” + + +EUSTACE refrained from opening the parcel given to him by his uncle +until he found himself in his own room, in the solemn quiet of a rural +midnight. Then, and then only, did he feel himself at liberty to enter +upon a task which had a certain sanctity. It was but a mixed record of +truth and fiction, this book which his guilty father had given to the +world; but some part of his mother’s life was interwoven with those +pages; her brief dream of happiness was shut, as it were, between the +leaves of the volumes, like flowers that have once been bright with +colour and rich with perfume, and which one finds pale and scentless in +a long-unopened book. + +The book was called _The Disappointments of Dion: a Sequel to +Dion, a Confession_. By the same Author. This preservation in +the second book of the name that had figured in the first seemed +to indicate the autobiographical nature of both works. The hero of +the _Disappointments_ was the same being as the hero of the +_Confession_--the same being, hardened and degraded by ten years +of selfishness and dissipation. The Dion of the _Confession_ +had the affectation of cynicism, the tone of an Alcibiades who apes +the philosophy of Diogenes. The Dion of the _Disappointments_ +was really cynical, and attempted to disguise his cynicism under an +affectation of _bonhomie_. + +Eustace sat till late into the night, reading--with unspeakable pain, +with sorrow, anger, sympathy, mixed in his mind as he read. Yes, this +book had been written by his father--there could be no doubt of that. +The first volume contained his mother’s story. It fitted into the +record of the letters, and to the story told by Mrs. Willows. Idealized +and poetized by the fancy of the hero, he read the history of a girl’s +day-dream, and recognized in this poetized heroine the woman whose +pensive face had been wont to brighten when it looked upon his. The +story of a young student’s passion for a tradesman’s daughter was told +with a certain grace and poetry. It is but an old story at best. It is +always more or less the legend of Faust and Gretchen, and it needs a +Göthe to elevate so simple a fable from the commonplace to the sublime. + +The author of _Dion_ described his Gretchen very prettily. It was +a portrait by Greuse, with an occasional touch of Raphael. + +To the study of this book Eustace Thorburn applied himself with intense +earnestness of thought and purpose. The Sibylline volumes were not +more precious to the sage who purchased them so dearly than was this +egotistical composition to the man who had found a leaf from his +mother’s life in the heart of the book. + +How much written here was the plain, unvarnished truth? how much the +mere exercise of a romantic fancy? That was the question upon which +depended the whole value of the volumes. + +On the one hand, it would seem scarcely likely that any man would +publish to the world the story of his own wrong-doing, or anatomize +his own heart for the pleasure of a novel-reading public. On the +other hand, there was the fact that men have, in a perverted spirit +of vanity, given to the press revelations of viler sins and more +deliberate baseness than any transgression confessed by the author +of _Dion_. Eustace remembered the Confessions of Jean Jacques +Rousseau; and he told himself that there is no crime which the egotist +does not think interesting when the criminal is himself. But the +strongest evidence in support of the idea that this _Disappointments +of Dion_ was throughout a narration of real events lay in the +fact that those pages which described the author’s courtship of a +tradesman’s daughter formed an exact transcript of his mother’s story, +as Eustace had learned it. The quiet sea-coast town, gayer in those +days than now; the bookseller’s shop; the stretch of yellow sand beyond +the rocks; the dull, commonplace companion of the author’s “divine C.”; +the time of year; the interval that elapsed between the brief courtship +and the elopement--all corresponded exactly with the data of that sad +history whose every detail was written upon Eustace Thorburn’s heart. + +Throughout the book, places and persons were indicated only by +initials; and this alone imparted somewhat of an obsolete and +Minerva-Press appearance to the volumes. This circumstance also gave +further ground for the idea that there was in this book very little of +absolute invention. + +Eustace read the two slender volumes from beginning to end at a +sitting. He began to read before midnight. The broad summer sunlight +shone upon him, and the birds were singing loud in the woodland, when +he closed the second volume. For him every page had an all-absorbing +interest. The reading of this book was like the autopsy of his +father’s mind and heart; and there was something of the surgeon’s +scientific scrutiny in the deliberate care with which he read. + +If there were any good to be found in this book, he was prepared to set +that good as a _per-contra_ in the dread account of debtor and +creditor which he kept against his unknown father. But he wanted to +fathom the depths of evil in the mind of that nameless enemy. He wanted +to ascertain the uttermost wrong this man had done him in the person of +that dearer part of himself, his dead mother. + +He read the book steadily through, pausing only to mark the passages +which seemed to tell Celia Mayfield’s story, and all passages which +bore, however indirectly, upon that story. + +It was half-past six when he read the last page; and half-past seven +was M. de Bergerac’s breakfast-hour. Happily, Mr. Thorburn was at +that privileged age when a man can do without sleep, and find as much +refreshment in a few pails of cold water as ponderous middle age +can derive from a long night’s rest. So he made his toilet, and went +down-stairs to the bright, pretty breakfast-room, little the worse for +the studious occupation of his night. + +Mr. Jerningham had wandered down by the water-side after leaving the +cottage, and had seen the light in the secretary’s window, and wondered +what the young man was doing. + +“In the throes of poetical composition, no doubt,” thought the master +of Greenlands. “How pleased he seemed to come back to these people; +and with what a smile _she_ welcomed him! And to think that if I +were to offer every possession I have in this world, and my heart of +hearts, and my pride, and my life into the bargain, I could not buy +one such smile as that! I could have such smiles once for the asking; +they shone upon me from the fairest faces, spontaneous and liberal as +the sunlight; and I passed on, and did not cherish one of them to light +my old age. Oh, surely there is some world in which we live our lives +again, enlightened by the follies of the past; some Swedenborgian +heaven, in which the shadows of the things we love here are presented +to us, and we move amongst them regenerate and spiritualised, and +redeem the mistakes and errors of our earthly existence!” + +Helen de Bergerac came in from the garden, with an apronful of flowers, +as Eustace Thorburn entered the breakfast-room. And then came the +arrangement of the flowers in old Wedgwood vases and old Worcester +bowls, the clipping of stems, the plucking of stray leaves, the +selections of dewy roses and jasmine, honeysuckle and geranium,--the +most dangerous of all occupations for two people who would fain hide +that secret which these two were trying to conceal from each other. + +These two, however, behaved with supreme discretion. There was a +dull pain in the heart of Eustace which made him more silent than +usual. He could not ask the playful, frivolous questions, about +garden and poultry-yard, aviary and greenhouse, Greek verbs or Latin +verse-making, the asking of which until now had been such an unfailing +source of delight. + +The long night-watching had saddened him; the brooding over his +mother’s history had brought the sense of the irremoveable stigma upon +his name home to his mind with a new bitterness. + +“Would this girl’s father, with his Spanish pride of race and his +pedigree of half a dozen centuries, ever bring himself to excuse that +one shortcoming upon my part?” he asked himself. “If in all other +respects I were the very suitor he would choose for his only child, +could he forgive the bar-sinister which makes my shield unworthy to go +side by side with his?” + +And then the young poet remembered his poverty, and laughed at himself +in very bitterness of heart for the folly which had permitted him to +believe, even for one delusive moment, that Theodore de Bergerac would +accept him for a son-in-law. + +“Uncle Dan sees these things clearly,” he said to himself. “He has +told me my duty, and I will do it.” + +Helen saw the cloud upon his face, and wondered what could have changed +him so suddenly. Only last night he had seemed so gay, so happy. This +morning he was silent and thoughtful; and something told her that his +thoughts were sad. + +“I fear you heard some unpleasant news while you were in town,” she +said, anxiously; “and yet last night you seemed so light-hearted.” + +“Light-headed, perhaps! There is a kind of intoxication in pleasant +talk about the things one loves and believes in; and last night the +very atmosphere was intoxicating. The faint new moon, and the flowers, +and the river,--those things mount to one’s brain. The morning is +sacred to common-sense. Hope, faith, happiness, what are they but +phantoms that vanish at cock-crow? Daylight ushers in the reign of +worldly wisdom, and her rule is apt to seem hard.” + +“Does she seem such a hard mistress to you, Mr. Thorburn?” + +“Yes; she shows me cruel truths in a cold, pitiless way.” + +Helen looked puzzled. She felt that the conversation was in some manner +dangerous, and did not know whither any further question might drift +her. So she wisely desisted from questioning, and fell back upon such +safe subjects as the flowers and the birds. But every now and then she +gave a little furtive look at Eustace Thorburn’s grave face; and those +furtive glances convinced her that he was unhappy. + +M. de Bergerac came from his library before the arrangement of the +vases was quite concluded. He was the earliest riser in his household, +and came to the breakfast-table always refreshed and invigorated by +upwards of an hour’s hard reading. + +“I have been looking over your note-books, Thorburn,” he said; “you +have done wonders--those extracts from the old Venetian manuscripts +will be invaluable to me. You must have worked very closely during your +absence.” + +“I did stick to my desk at the Museum pretty closely. But I am more +than repaid if my extracts are likely to be useful.” + +“They are of the most precious kind. Where should I get such another +secretary? You will be able to finish my book some day.” + +“Papa!” cried Helen, tenderly. + +“Do not look at me so sadly, dear child! If I were to live to the age +of Old Parr, the book would scarcely be finished. Thou knowest not how +such a subject grows upon the writer--how he sees worlds on worlds +opening before his dazzled eyes--ever distant, ever new--widening +into infinity. Everywhere it is the wealth of man’s imagination which +astounds, which terrifies him; and he asks himself with shame and +humiliation, of the most profound, is it this which I have set myself +to catalogue? Is it this that I think can be numbered and summarized +in my short span? In the traditions of the Rabbins what a universe! In +the faith of Zoroaster, what worlds unexplored--unexplorable! What +fond fantastic dreams, what sublime depths of thought, what grandeur +of faith, in the pious mysteries of Brahma and Buddha! Every race +peoples invisible worlds; and in each new voyage into the realms of +untutored fancy the shadow-world stretches wider before our gaze. Gods +and demons, angels of good and of evil, assume shapes more gigantic, +attributes more awful. Hell sinks to depths unfathomable. Heaven +recedes from the weak grasp of mortal intellect. Stricken, distraught, +the weak soul flees aghast before those barbaric wonders, and takes +refuge in the haven of Christian faith. Ah, how simple, how beautiful, +after the gigantic demonology of the East, seems the pure and perfect +Redeemer of the West--beginning with the martyrdom of the magnanimous +Prometheus, the bondage of the mythic Herakles, culminating in the +Atonement of the Divine Christ!” + +And here M. de Bergerac dilated upon one of his favourite theories, +the dual gospel of Western Paganism and Christianity; and fought with +Eustace Thorburn in support of his pet hypothesis, to the effect that +Grecian fable was only a distortion of Bible-history, and the stories +of Prometheus and Herakles mere rude fore-shadowings of the purer and +holier story of man’s Redeemer. + +They fought out the battle of comparative mythology; Eustace was of +the two the more earnest Christian. M. de Bergerac went every Sunday +to a pretty little Roman Catholic chapel, half hidden in a rustic +garden, beyond Windsor; but his faith would scarcely have satisfied +the requirements of an orthodox director. The younger man had passed +dryshod through the boundless ocean of mythic lore to that haven of +which his patron had spoken--that harbour of rest for the wandering +soul, where passionate desire to solve the great enigma is exchanged +for the simple faith of childhood. From his mother’s lips Eustace had +learned that tender religion of the heart which Paganism tries in +vain to match with the hard logic of a Plato, or the moral axioms of +a Confucius. To this faith he had clung even more fondly since his +mother’s death. If not for his own sake, for hers he must needs have +been a believer. Where else could he find hope and comfort in the +thought of her sad pilgrimage? Here her weak feet had travelled by +hard and crooked ways--here the burden laid on her had been cruel and +heavy. As an earthly destiny, with no hope of compensation beyond the +regions of earth, Celia’s life would have seemed all bitterness--the +vengeance decreed by a pitiless Nemesis, rather than the chastisement +of a merciful God. But if beyond the sad end of that sorrowful journey +the traveller found rest and forgiveness in regions unimaginable to the +earth-burdened spirit, the pilgrimage seemed no longer hard, the burden +no longer heavy; the enigma of all earthly sorrows received its answer. + +This was the hope dear to the heart of Celia Mayfield’s son; and +for this faith he fought sturdily in conversational battles with +his patron, refusing to yield one inch of that ground on which +the divinity of his Master’s mission rested. He would accept for +that pure Teacher no first-cousinship with Buddha or Confucius--no +misty resemblance to Zagreus or Dionysus, Prometheus or Herakles--no +intellectual relationship with Zoroaster or Mahomet. For the truth and +the whole truth of the gospel which he had read at his mother’s knee, +he was resolute and unflinching. + +If he had been the most jesuitical of schemers, he could not have +better forwarded his cause with Helen de Bergerac than by this +championship of the true faith. She too had learned her best and +earliest lessons from a mother’s lips, and the philosophical breadth of +view presented to her always in her father’s conversation had in nowise +spoiled the simplicity of those first lessons. She heard her father’s +rationalistic talk with unchanging regret; and hoped always for the +day in which he should come to see these things in the same mysterious +light which made them so sacred and beautiful to her. + +To-day Eustace was more than usually earnest. Was he not about to make +his first great sacrifice in proof of his faith? Not on the shrine of +Pagan honour was he about to lay down his happiness, but on the altar +of Christian duty. + +He determined that there should be little time lost in the completion +of that bitter sacrifice. The knife should be sharpened at once for +the slaughter of Isaac. And in this case, there was, alas! no hope of +Divine interposition. + + + + + CHAPTER XI. + + “THE DISAPPOINTMENTS OF DION.” + + +THE secretary went out into the park, and down to the neglected +shrubbery-walk that wound along the river bank. This was the loneliest +and wildest part of Mr. Jerningham’s domain, and solitude was what +Eustace Thorburn wanted to-day. He had brought with him, not his own +poem, but those two slender volumes which contained the history of his +mother’s youth, and in the composition whereof he beheld the hand of +his unknown father. He wanted to read this book a second time, even +more slowly and thoughtfully than he had read it the first time. He +wanted, if it were possible, to plumb the very depths of his father’s +heart. + +The still summer day and the woodland solitude were well fitted +for meditation. Eustace walked about a mile and a half from M. de +Bergerac’s cottage before he opened his book. The seat which he chose +was a rude rustic bench, in a hollow of the bank, close to the edge of +the river--a seat which at high tide was half covered by the water. The +rugged sloping bank rose behind the rough wooden bench. The young man +leaned lazily against the short burnt grass of the bank as he read. + +The portion of the book most interesting to this one reader was that +which told, in terms half cynical, half playful, of the writer’s brief +delusion--the little Arcadian comedy of rustic life with the girl whose +heart he had broken, and the bitter tragedy in which it ended. + +The scene depicted in this portion of the story was wild and +mountainous; snow-crowned hills formed the background of the landscape. +The sea was close at hand; all was gigantic, rugged, uncivilized. Yet +there was no mention of foreign customs or foreign people. There was a +certain familiarity in everything, that was scarcely compatible with +the idea that this rustic dwelling-place of Dion’s was remote from +England; and Eustace decided that the scene of the story must have lain +within the British dominions. The description of the landscape might +apply to many spots in Scotland, in Wales, or even in Ireland. Clue to +the exact locality there seemed, on first consideration, none; so faint +were the indications, so general the features of the scene. The record +had been evidently written long after the occurrences described. Only +the cold light of memory illumined the pages; after-disappointments +had embittered the spirit of the writer, and lent bitterness even to +memory. It was, in very truth, the confession of a man infinitely worse +than the author of _Dion_. + +The following were the pages which told Eustace how rudely his mother’s +brief dream had been broken: + + “I think we had scarcely been a month at H. H. before I began to + discover how profound was my mistake. Tenderness and affection, + a fond admiration of my mental attributes that approached + idolatry--these my poor C. gave me in liberal measure. But the higher + tribute of self-abnegation she could not give me. Hers was one of + those natures which are not made for sacrifice. The grandeur of heroic + souls was wanting in this gentle breast. In the haven of a domestic + circle, safely sheltered from the storms of fate, to a man whose days + were occupied in that hard struggle for life which the world calls + business, and who asked of the gods nothing brighter than a household + angel, this dear girl would have seemed the sweetest of wives. I + think of her always with supreme tenderness; but I cannot forget the + weariness that crept upon me when I found how little sympathy there + was between us. + + “From all loud reproaches, even from the appearance of grief, she for + a long time refrained. But I could see that she was not happy; and + this fact was in itself a torture to a man of sensitive nature and + irritable nerves. A look, a half-stifled sigh, ever and anon told + me that I had not found a companion, but a victim. The smile whose + angelic sweetness had charmed me in the bookseller’s lovely daughter + had faded, nay almost vanished. It was like some mediæval legend: + the supernal beauty met by the knight in the haunted darkness of an + enchanted forest is transformed into a dull, earthly spouse; and the + foolish knight, who had ridden home to his castle with a divinity, + awakens to find himself mated to a peasant-girl. + + “This was my first and most bitter disappointment. I look back now and + ask myself what it was that I had hoped, and what substantial ground + there had been for my hopes. Because this poor girl had a face like + Guido’s Beatrice Cenci, because she praised my book in her low musical + voice and simple commonplace phrases, I must needs fancy that I had + found the Ægeria of my dreams, the companion-spirit, the inspiring and + elevating influence which every poet seeks in the object of his love! + + “I used to think my own thoughts very grand in those days. There were + moments in which I yearned and hungered for some sharer in my dreams. + I was steeped to the lips in Shelley’s poetry; I wanted to find a + Cynthia,-- + + ‘A second self, far dearer and more fair. + * * * * * + Hers too were all my thoughts: ere yet endowed + With music and with light, their fountains flowed + In poesy; and her still, earnest face, + Pallid with feelings which intensely glowed + Within, was turned on mine with speechless grace + Watching the hopes which there her heart had learned to trace. + + In me, communion with this purest being + Kindled intenser zeal, and made me wise + In knowledge, which in hers mine own mind seeing, + Left in the human world few mysteries: + How without fear of evil or disguise + Was Cynthia! What a spirit, strong and mild, + Which death, or pain, or peril could despise, + Yet melt in tenderness!’ + + This was the bright ideal of my dream; and instead of this, what had + I found? A gentle girl, whose education had scarcely outstepped the + boundary-line of the all-abridging Pinnock, and who consumed hours + in secret weeping because she had offended her father, a small trader + in a small country town, and had forfeited her social position in + that miserably narrow world which was the beginning and end of her + universe. Alas for my fond delusions! Where was the + + ‘spirit strong and mild, + Which death, or pain, or peril could despise?’ + + “There were, indeed, moments in which some pretty poetical thought + slipped between my poor girl’s ‘scarlet-threaded lips;’ but she was + too timid by nature to give voice to her brightest fancies, and I + saw noble thoughts in her deep eyes which her lips never learned to + translate. Sometimes, in the solemn stillness of a moonlight night, + when we had wandered along some rugged mountain-path, and reached a + spot whence we could look down upon the pathless waste of waters, + which of all spectacles in Nature’s great theatre most affected this + untaught girl, I could see that her mind took a kind of inspiration + from the grandeur of the scene, and that the littleness of self was + for the moment put away from her. Are there not, indeed, brief pauses + of mental intoxication, in which the spirit releases itself from its + dull mortal bondage, and floats starward on the wings of inspiration? + + ‘If we could stay here for ever,’ she said to me one night, when we + sat in the little classic temple on D. P., looking down from that + craggy headland upon the barren sea; ‘if this light could shine + always, with those deep, solemn shadows sleeping under the shelter of + the rocks, I think that one might forget all that is hardest in the + world. Here I remember nothing except that you and I are together in + the moonlight. Past, present, and future seem to melt into this hour. + I can almost fancy the rocks and the waves feeling a sort of happiness + like this--a sense of delight when the moon shines upon them. It is + difficult to think that the waves feel _nothing_ when they come + creeping along the sands with that half-stealthy, half-joyous motion, + like the nymphs you talk of, dancing in secret, afraid to awaken the + sea-god.’ + + ‘If you had lived in the days when there were gods upon the earth, C., + I think you would have fallen in love with Poseidon.’ + + “She was looking out across the sea, with a dreamy light in her + eyes, and her lips half parted, as if she had indeed seen a band of + snowy-kirtled nymphs dancing on the broad stretch of sand in the + shadow of the headland. + + ‘Poss--who?’ she asked, wonderingly. + + ‘Poseidon; one of the elder sons of Time and the Great Mother, the + sea-god of whom you spoke just now. I think if you had lived in the + Golden Age, you would have met Tyro’s lover, and loved him, as she + did. I never saw such a passionate fondness for the sea as you betray + in every look and word.’ + + ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘I have always loved the sea with a feeling that I + have been unable to express, as if there were indeed a human heart in + all that wide ocean. When I am--when you have been away longer than + usual, and I feel lonely, I come here, and sit for hours watching the + waves roll slowly in, and thinking.’ + + “And here her voice trembled a little, and I knew that the thoughts + of which she spoke were gloomy ones. Thus it was with us ever. For + a moment she seemed a companion, a kindred spirit; but in the next + we were back again in the old wearisome channel, and I felt myself + stifled by the atmosphere of B. + + “Her utter want of education made a gulf between us which even love + could not span. The fact that she was intelligent, appreciative, was + not sufficient to render companionship possible between us. Those + regions which for me were densely peopled with bright and wondrous + images were for her blank and empty as the desert plains of Central + Africa. Pretty poetical fancies--the wild flowers of the intellectual + world--took quick root in her shallow mind; but the basis for deep + thoughts was wanting. I grew weary of conversation in which my part + was almost a monologue, weary of long _tête-à-têtes_ which left + me no richer by one wise thought or amusing paradox. Day by day I + fell back more completely upon my books for company. The poor child + perceived this with evident distress. One day she asked me, with + tones and looks most piteous, why I no longer talked to her, as I had + once talked, about the books I was reading, the subjects that I had + chosen for future poetic treatment. I told her frankly that it was + tiresome to me to talk to her of things with which she had evidently + no sympathy. + + ‘Indeed,’ she cried, ‘you are mistaken. I sympathize with all your + thoughts. I can picture to myself all your fancies. The worlds which + you tell me of, and the people--the strange, wild worship of those + strange people--I can fancy them and see them. They are a little dim + and shadowy to me; but I _do_ see them. And I so dearly love to + hear you talk. I cannot discuss these things with you as a clever + person would, and I cannot tell you half I think and feel about them; + but to sit by you as you read or write, to watch you till you grow + tired of your books, and look up and talk to me, is perfect happiness + for me--my only happiness now.’ + + “Here her voice grew tremulous, and she broke down in the usual + hopeless manner. + + ‘If you would only teach me to understand the things that interest + you, if you would let me read your books, I should be a fitter + companion for you,’ she said, presently. + + “I groaned aloud at the hopelessness of this idea. I was to teach this + poor child to be my second self, to train her into sympathy--to grow + my own Cynthia! I envied Shelley his happier fate, and that bright + spirit which + + ‘Walked as free as light the clouds among.’ + + But Shelley had made his mistake, and had drained the bitter cup of + disappointment before he found his fair ideal. + + “I know there are men who have educated their wives, but I never + could understand this idea of the lover lined with the pedagogue. C. + asked to read the books I was reading; _id est_, K. O. Müller, + in the original German; the _Orestea_, in the original Greek; + _A Course of Hindoo Tradition_, published by the Society for + the Propagation of Arianism; De Barante’s _Dukes of Burgundy_; + and the _Old Ballads of France_, with an occasional dip into + Catullus, Juvenal, Lucretius, or Horace. These were the books which + I was reading, in a very desultory, unprofitable manner; for the + weakness of my life has been inconstancy, even in the matter of books. + A few pages of one, a random peep between the leaves of another, a + hop, skip, and a jump between Oriental legend and Platonic philosophy, + finding everywhere some point of comparison, some forced resemblance. + I told my poor dear C. that anything like teaching on my part would + be an impossibility. However, by way of satisfying the poor child’s + thirst for knowledge, I sent a list of books to a London bookseller, + including a few simple elementary works and my favourite English + poets; and this little collection I presented to C. I found she had + read all the poets, in her father’s library, and was indeed as + familiar with them as I myself; but she received the books from me + with an appearance of real delight. This was the first present I made + her. It would have been a pleasure to me to lavish costly gifts upon + her; but it was a pleasure more exquisite to withhold them, and to be + sure that no adventitious aid had assisted me in the winning of her + love. + + “I think that most wearisome institution, the honeymoon, must have + been inaugurated by some sworn foe to matrimony, some vile misogamist, + who took to himself a wife in order to discover, by experience, the + best mode of rendering married life a martyrdom. + + “Enlightened by experience, this miserable wretch said to himself, + ‘I will introduce a practice which, in the space of one short month, + shall transform the doating bridegroom into the indifferent husband, + the idolatrous lover into the submissive expiator of a fatal mistake. + For one month I, by my invisible agent, Fashion, will bind together + bride and bridegroom in dread imprisonment. Impalpable shall be their + fetters; fair and luxurious shall be their prison; complacent and + respectful shall be the valet and abigail, the lackeys and grooms who + act as their gaolers; and in that awful bondage they shall have no + worse chastisement than each other’s society. Chained together like + the wretched convicts of Toulon, they shall pace to and fro their + lonely exercise-ground, until the bright sky above and the bright + earth around them shall seem alike hateful. They shall be for ever + plumbing each other’s souls, and for ever finding shallows; for ever + gauging each other’s minds, to be for ever disappointed by the result. + And not till they have learned thoroughly to detest each other shall + the order of release be granted, and the fiat pronounced: You know + each other’s emptiness of mind and shallowness of heart; go forth and + begin your new existence, profoundly wretched in the knowledge that + your miserable lives must be spent together.’ + + “I had planned and plotted this residence at H. H., hoping to find + a glimpse of Eden in this loneliness amid Nature’s splendour, ‘with + one fair spirit for my minister.’ If I had been fond of sport, I + might have found amusement for my days, and might have returned at + night to my nest to meet an all-sufficient welcome in my love’s happy + smile. But I was at this time a student, still suffering from the + effects of over-work at O----, and a little from the disappointments + of my career, hyper-sensitive, _tant soit peu_ irritable; and + C.’s companionship bored me. This was a crisis of my life, in which + I needed the sustaining influence of a stronger mind than my own. + Even her affection became a kind of torment. She was too anxious to + please me, too painfully conscious of my slightest show of weariness, + too apprehensive of losing my regard. I could almost have said with + Bussy Rabutin, “_Je ne pouvais plus souffrir ma maîtresse, tant elle + m’aimait_.” + + “It is needless to dwell upon this story of disappointment, that + was so keen as to verge upon remorse. I hated myself for my folly; + I was angry with this poor girl because she could neither be happy + nor render me so. If there were any breach of honour involved in my + broken promise, I paid dearly for my dishonour. And _that_ kind + of promise is never intended to be believed: it is the easy excuse + which a faithful knight provides for his lady-love. Let me be guilty + of perjury, that you may still be perfect, he says; and the damsel + accepts the chivalrous pretence. + + “With this poor child, unhappily, there was no such thing as reason. + Worldly wisdom, the necessities of position, the ties of family, were + unknown in her vocabulary. + + ‘I have broken my father’s heart,’ she said, in that _larmoyante_ + tone which became almost habitual to her. And thereupon, of course, + I felt myself a wretch. At this period of my life I sometimes + caught myself wondering what would have become of Faust if he and + Gretchen had spent six months in a rustic cottage amongst the Hartz + mountains. Surely he would have languished to return to his books, + to his parchments, to his crucibles and mathematical instruments, his + Nostradamus, and his prosy, insufferable Wagner; anything to escape + that lugubrious maiden. + + “And yet what can be a prettier picture than Gretchen plucking the + petals of her rose, or my poor C., as I first saw her, bending with + rapt countenance over my own book? Oh, fatal book, that brought sorrow + to her, weariness unspeakable to me! + + “If C. had been reasonable, she could have found little cause to + complain of me. I had no intention of breaking the tie so lightly + made. That I was responsible for that step, which must colour the + remainder of _her_ existence, I never for a moment forgot. All + I rebelled against was the notion that my future life was to be + overshadowed by the funereal tint which her melancholy vision imparted + to everything she looked upon. At one time I conceived the idea that + she was disquieted by the uncertainty of the future, and I hastened to + relieve her mind upon this point. + + ‘My darling girl,’ I said, with real earnestness, ‘you cannot surely + doubt that your future will be my first care. Come what may, your + prosperity, your happiness indeed,--so far as mortal man can command + happiness,--shall be assured. I hope you do not doubt this.’ + + “She looked at me with that dull despair which of late I had more than + once remarked in her countenance. + + ‘H.,’ she said, ‘shall I ever be your wife?’ + + “I turned my face away from her in silence, wrung her poor little cold + hands in my own, and left her without a word. This was a question + which I could not answer, a question which she should not have asked. + + “That evening, as I walked alone in the dreary solitude under the + cliffs, a sudden thought flashed into my mind. + + ‘Good heavens,’ I thought, ‘how completely I have put myself into this + girl’s power by my folly; and what a hold she has upon me, if she knew + how to use it, or were base enough to trade upon the advantages of her + position!’ + + “Reflection told me that it was not in C. to make a mean use of power + which I had so unwittingly placed in her hands. But I laughed aloud + when I considered my shortsighted folly in allowing myself to drop + into such a dangerous position. + + “When we next met, C. was pallid as death, and I could see that she + had devoted the interval to tears. I keenly felt her silent woe, and + with my whole heart pitied her childish disappointment. Until this + occasion I had not for a moment supposed that she cherished any hope + of such folly on my part as an utter sacrifice of my liberty. It was + this of which I thought, and not my position in the world. Had I + been inclined for matrimony, I would as willingly have married this + tradesman’s daughter as a countess. It was the hateful tie, the utter + abnegation of man’s divinest gift of freedom, the mortgage of my + future, from which I shrank with abhorrence. + + ‘My dear love,’ I said to C., as I tried to kiss away the traces of + her tears, ‘I mean to love you all my life, if you will let me. And + do you think I shall love you any less because I have not asked the + Archbishop of Canterbury’s permission to adore you? And then I was + guilty of that customary commonplace about ‘a marriage in the sight of + Heaven,’ which has been especially invented for such occasions. + + “After this I tried to indoctrinate her with the philosophy of the + purest of men and most lawless of poets. I entreated her to rend + custom’s mortal chain, + + ‘And walk as free as light the clouds among.’ + + But the exalted mind which can rise superior to the bondage of custom + had not been given to this poor girl. She always went back to the one + inevitable argument, ‘I have broken my father’s heart.’ + + “It was quite in vain that I endeavoured to make her see the ethics of + life from a nobler stand-point. Her thoughts revolved always in the + same narrow circle--B----, that odious watering-place, and the humdrum + set of shopkeepers whom she had known from her childhood. + + ‘You do not know how my father is respected in the town,’ she said, + piteously, when I reminded her of the insignificance of such a place + as B---- when weighed against the rest of the universe, and ventured + to suggest that the esteem and approbation of B---- did not constitute + the greatest sacrifice ever made by woman. + + ‘As for the respect which these good people feel for your father, what + does it amount to, my dear love?’ I asked. ‘A man lives in some sleepy + country town twenty years or so, and pays his debts, and attends the + services of his parish church with unbroken regularity, and dies in + the odour of sanctity; or else suddenly throws the mental powers of + his fellow-townsmen off their balance by forging a bill of exchange, + or murdering his wife and children, or setting his house on fire + with a view to cheating the insurance companies. What is the respect + of such people worth? It is given to the man who pays his tradesmen + and goes to church. He may be the veriest tyrant, or hypocrite, or + fool in the universe, and they respect him all the same. He may have + squared the circle, or solved the problem of perpetual motion, or + invented the steam-engine, or originated the process of vaccination, + and if he fails to pay his butcher and baker, and to attend his + church, they will withhold their respect. Greatness of intellect, or + of conduct, is utterly beyond their comprehension. They would consider + Columbus a doubtful character, and Raleigh a disreputable one.’ + + “Upon this I saw symptoms of tears, and timeously departed. The dear + child took everything _au grand sérieux_. Oh! how I languished + for the graceful badinage of Kensington Gore, the careless talk of my + clubs--anything rather than this too poetical loneliness! + + “I planned my future that night. Some pretty rustic cottage for C. in + the hilly country between Hampstead and Barnet, within an easy ride + of town, where my own headquarters must needs be when not abroad. I + had fancied that C. and I could have travelled together, but I found + her far too _triste_ a companion for Continental wanderings. She + was too ignorant to appreciate scenes which owe their best charm to + association, and thus utterly unable to sympathize with the emotions + which those scenes might excite in the breast of her fellow-traveller; + nor had she the animal spirits which render the ignorance of some + women amusing. She was, in short, the genius of home rather than the + goddess of poetry; and I resolved to establish a home over which she + might preside, a haven from the storms of life, whither I might go to + have oil poured into my wounds, and whence I might return to the world + refreshed and comforted. + + “I pictured to myself this home, as fair as taste and wealth could + make it. No flowers that my hand could lavish would have been wanting + to adorn this poor girl’s pathway. I have no reproach to make against + myself here. There are few lives happier than hers would have been, + if she had been content to entrust herself to my guidance. But my + liberty was a treasure which I could not bring myself to resign. + + “All might, perhaps, have gone well with us but for one unlucky turn + of affairs; an accident in which a fatalist would have recognized + the hand of Destiny, but in which I saw only one of those foolish + _contretemps_ which assist the further entanglement of that + tangled skein called Life. + + “One day, in a sudden fit of disgust with myself, my books, my + companion, and the universe, I left the house, and went on foot in + search of some wandering Mephistopheles with whom to barter my soul + for a fresh sensation. + + “I was five-and-twenty. My _première jeunesse_--the bloom on the + peach, the down on the butterfly’s wing, the fresh dews of morning, + the glory of the sunshine--had been wasted. The world called me a + young man--young because bitter thoughts had not yet set their mark + upon my brow. They were only inscribed upon my heart. I surveyed the + horizon of my life, and saw that the stars had all vanished. There + was only the dull equal gray of a sunless afternoon. It is impossible + to imagine a prospect more completely blank than that on which I + looked. There is no pleasure known to mankind that I had not tasted, + to satiety. The baser, as well as the more refined--I had tried them + all. In the records of Roman dissipation Suetonius or Gibbon could + suggest little--except some darker vices--which I had not tried, and + found wanting. I had slept under the reticulated lilies of Antinöus, + and supped upon beef-steaks and porter with the gladiators of + Commodus, in the modern guise of Tom Spring and Ben Caunt. Love had + been powerless to give me happiness. Friendship I had been too wise to + test. My friends were the friends of the rich Timon. I did not value + them so highly as to put their friendship through the crucible of + pretended poverty. I took them for what they were worth; and my sole + cause of complaint against them was that they failed to amuse me. My + life was one long yawn--and if I still lived, it was only because I + knew not what purgatory of perpetual _ennui_ might await me on + Acheron’s further shore. Could I have been certain of such an Inferno + as Dante’s--all action, passion, fever, excitement--I should gladly + have exchanged the placid wretchedness of life for the stirring + horrors of that dread under-world. + + “On this one particular day, when most of all I felt the utter + weariness of my existence, I wandered purposeless along the + mountain-side--thinking of those rugged steeps of Hellas, which the + scene recalled--and scarcely knew whither my footsteps took me, till + I suddenly found myself in a scene that was very familiar, and on a + spot which, though not by any means remote from my own eyrie, I had + hitherto avoided. + + “I was on the landward slope of the mountain; below me lay a lake, + and between my stand-point and the water rose curling wreaths of blue + smoke from the chimneys of a house which I knew very well. + + “It was the hunting-lodge of E. T., a man who was, if not my friend, + at least one of my oldest acquaintances; a man between whom and myself + there reigned that easy-going familiarity which passes current for + friendship. We had been partners at whist, had been in love with + the same women, _de par le haut monde_ and _de par le bas + monde_. We had bought horses of each other; had cheated each other, + more or less unconsciously, in such dealing; had helped each other + to break the bank at a Palais-Royal gaming-table; had been concerned + together in an opera-ball riot one Easter with the D. of H. and + certain Parisian notabilities of the Boulevard du Gand. If this be not + friendship, I know not what is. + + “The sight of those blue wreaths of smoke; the remembrance of the riot + in the Rue Lepelletier; the little suppers at the Rocher and the Trois + Frères; the wit, the wine, the fever of the blood that for the time + being is almost happiness--stirred my senses with a faint thrill of + pleasure. + + ‘If T. is there, I will ask him to dine with me,’ I thought; ‘C. must + accustom herself to receive my friends, or to let me receive them + without her. I am suffering from the Londoner’s nostalgie; I languish + for the air of the club-houses and the Ring. It will be something + to hear the newest scandals, fresh from the lips of E. T., who is a + notorious gossip and _mauvais diseur_.’ + + “I had some reason for concluding that T. was stopping at his place. + The smoke gave evidence that the house was inhabited, and I knew that + in his absence the place was generally shut up, and left in the charge + of a shepherd, who lived in a wretched shanty further down the valley. + My friend’s finances were as slender as his lineage was noble. He + claimed a direct descent from the Plantagenets, and was never out of + the hands of the Jews. + + ‘They are taking it out of me on account of that nasty knack of my + ancestors, who raised money by the extraction of the teeth of Israel,’ + he said. ‘But we have changed all that. Isaac of York has the best of + it now-a-days, and draws the teeth of the Giaour!’ + + “I turned aside from the narrow path skirting the mountain, and walked + down the slope towards E. T.’s _pied-à-terre_. I was absurdly + pleased at the idea of seeing a man whose character I thoroughly + despised, and whose death I should have heard of without so much as a + passing regret. + + “In my utter weariness of myself and my own thoughts, I cared not in + what cloaca I found a harbour of refuge. The gate of the small domain + swung loosely on its hinges. I pushed it open, and walked across the + small lawn, bordered by shrubberies of fir and laurel. As I neared + the porch, I saw the red glow of a fire shining in one of the lower + windows, and was welcomed by a yapping chorus of lap-dogs, whose bark + sounded shrill through the open door. There was no need for ceremony + in this wild region; and even if I had wished to stand upon punctilio, + there was neither bell nor knocker whereby I might have demanded + admittance. I walked straight into the hall, or lobby--the former + title is too grandiose for so small a chamber--and was immediately + struck by the change which had come over the scene since I had looked + upon it some twelve months before. + + “It was then a rude chaos of gunnery, fishing-tackle, single-sticks, + fencers’ masks, boxing-gloves, plastrons, pipes, greatcoats, leather + gaiters, fishing-boots, mackintoshes, and horse-cloths; nauseous with + the odour of stale tobacco, and dangerous by the occupation of savage + dogs. It was now dainty as a lady’s boudoir: the floor bright with + scarlet sheepskins, the walls gay with French prints. A velvet curtain + half-shrouded the door of my friend’s dining-room, just revealing a + peep of the bright picture within--a table spread for luncheon, with + snowy linen and sparkling glass. Half a dozen little yapping dogs + issued from this room, and assailed me with shrill rancour. Not such + specimens of the canine race had I before beheld in this mountain + retreat. My friend T. ever affected the biggest and roughest of + the species. Lancashire-bred mastiffs, Danish wolfhounds--the very + Titans of the canine race from Mount St. Bernard or Newfoundland. + These little creatures were the apoplectic descendants of that royal + race which was cradled on the knees of Castlemain and Portsmouth, + swaddled in the purple of Charles. Among these appeared a couple of + russet-coated pugs, with negro features, swart visages, and short, + bandy legs. + + “Amidst the clamour of these creatures my entrance was unheard. I + stooped down to examine the brutes, and was amused to perceive that + the collar of one of the spaniels was the daintiest toy of filigree + gold and mosaic. + + ‘Has my friend turned _petit maitre_?’ I asked myself. + + “A second glance showed me a name upon the collar--Carlitz. + + “Carlitz! Hast thou not read, oh! gentle reader, Eastern stories that + tell how, by a magician’s wand, a fairy palace has risen suddenly + in the midst of the barren desert, with birds singing, and fountains + dancing in the sunlight; and among the fountains, and flowers, and + birds, and barbarously-splendid colonnades, tripping across the + tesselated floors, there comes something more beautiful than tropical + bird or flower? + + “The princess of the fairy tale--the Orient personified, with all its + languid loveliness, its intoxicating sweetness, its colour and music, + and sunshine and perfume--melted into one divine human creature. + + “This is what the name upon the dog’s collar did for me. It was the + arch-enchanter’s wand, evoking a goddess, in that bleak valley where I + had hoped only to find a commonplace acquaintance. + + “Carlitz! Shall I try to describe her--to describe the indescribable? + Thou knowest her, kind reader; on thee, too, has she shone; for not + to have seen her is to be a slave so dull that I would not think this + book should fall into such unworthy hands. I will say of her what + Lysippus said of Athens: + + ‘Hast not seen Carlitz, then thou art a log; + Hast seen and not been charmed, thou art an ass.’ + + Or if, by reason of absence in far-distant lands, thou hast not seen + her, picture to thyself the fairest princess of thy childish fairy + lore, place her on a mortal stage, the cynosure of a thousand eyes, + the idol of innumerable hearts, the topic of incalculable tongues, + the gossip of uncountable newspapers, or, in one word--THE + FASHION; endow her with a voice of the rarest power and richness; + gift her with smiles that bewitch the fancy and accents that enthrall + the soul; surround her with all the loveliest objects art ever devised + or taste selected--and thou hast some faint image of that supernal + being whom men call Carlitz. + + “She lives still--still walks ‘a form of life and light,’ which, seen, + becomes ‘a part of sight;’ but the first glory of her loveliness has + departed--the rich, ripe voice has lost some touch of its old music. + She is still Carlitz, and to say this is to say that she is fairer + than all the rest of womankind; but she is no longer the Carlitz of + those days when Plancus was consul, and the Bonbonnière Opera-house + was in its glory.” + + + + + CHAPTER XII. + + “INFINITE RICHES IN A LITTLE ROOM.” + + +“I DREW aside the _portière_ and looked into the room. She was +there--Carlitz--nestling in a deep easy-chair, with that perfect +arm--whose rounded line was accentuated by the tight-fitting sleeve of +her violet silk dress--flung above her head in an attitude expressive +of weariness. She was not alone. In a chair almost as comfortable as +her own sat a portly gentleman of middle age, upon whose handsome +countenance good-nature had set a stamp unmistakeable even by the +shallowest observer. This gentleman was happily no stranger to me. I +had met him in London, and knew him as the guide, philosopher, friend, +and financial agent of Madame Carlitz; at once the Talleyrand and the +Fould of that fair despot. + +“The divinity arched her eyebrows in lazy surprise as I crossed the +threshold. + +‘I really believe it is some one we know, H.,’ she said to her friend, +with delightful insolence. + +“Mr. H. received me with more cordiality. I had seen a good deal of him +in London during the previous season. E. T. and he were sworn allies. +H. had been lieutenant in a regiment of the line, and, after wasting +a small patrimony, had sold his commission and turned stage-player. +His intimates called him Captain H. and Gentleman H., and he was a man +who, in the whole of his careless career, had neither lost a friend +nor made an enemy. To Madame Carlitz he was invaluable. The divinity +had of late years taken it into her splendid mind to set up a temple +of her own, whereby the little Sheppard’s Alley Theatre, the most +battered old wooden box that ever held a metropolitan audience, had +been transformed, at the cost of some thousands, into a fairy temple +of cream-coloured panelling, and white-satin hangings, powdered with +golden butterflies; and was now known to the fashionable world, whose +carriages and cabs blocked Sheppard’s Alley and overflowed into Wild’s +Corner, as the Royal Bonbonnière Opera House. + +“Here Carlitz had sung and acted in delicious little operettas, +imported from her native shores, to the delight of the world in +general--always excepting those stupid people, the builders, and +decorators, and upholsterers who had effected the transformation that +made Sheppard’s Alley and Wild’s Corner the haunt of rank and fashion, +and who had not received any pecuniary reward for their labours. To +keep these people at bay, or, it is possible, to reduce their claims to +something like reason, Madame Carlitz employed my friend H., who of all +men was best adapted to pour oil upon the stormy ocean of a creditor’s +mind. He was the enchantress’s _alter ego_, opening and sifting +her letters, arranging her starring engagements, choosing her pieces, +managing her theatre, and receiving, with imperturbable temper, the +torrents of her wrath when she was pleased to be angry. Nor were the +proprieties outraged by an alliance so pure. H. was one of those men +who are by nature fatherly--nay, almost motherly--in their treatment +of women. No scandal had ever tarnished his familiar name. He had that +tender, half-quixotic gallantry which is never allied with vice. He was +the idol of old women and children, the pride of a doting mother, and +the sovereign lord of a commonplace little woman whom he had taken for +his wife. + +“It was to this gentleman that I owed my right to approach Madame +Carlitz. E. T. had obtained my admission to the side-scenes of the +Bonbonnière, and had induced H. to present me to the lovely manageress, +who was unapproachable as royalty. My introduction obtained for me only +some ten minutes’ converse with the presiding genius of the temple; but +so supreme an honour was even this small privilege, that E. T. hastened +to borrow a couple of hundred from me while my gratitude was yet warm. + +“It will be seen, therefore, that I had little justification for +intruding on the lady now, beyond the loneliness of the country in +which I found her, and the primitive habits there obtaining. + +“After I had been a second time presented by H.--the lady having quite +forgotten my presentation in Sheppard’s Alley--madame received me with +more warmth than she had deigned to evince for me in the green-room of +the Bonbonnière. + +‘These hills are so dreadfully dreary, and we are so glad to see any +one who can give us news,’ she said, with agreeable candour. + +“And then H. explained how it fell out that I met them there. Madame +had been knocked-up with the season--six new operettas, the lovely +_prima donna_ singing in two pieces every night, and _never_ +disappointing her public, which master this fair Carlitz served +faithfully and constantly throughout her career--and the doctors had +ordered change of scene and quiet--no Switzerland, no Italy, no German +spa, but a sheltered hermitage, far from the busy haunts of men and the +halting-places of stage-coaches. + +“On hearing this E. T. had offered his mountain-shanty--poor +accommodation, but scenery and air unmatchable in any other spot of +earth. Madame Carlitz had been enraptured by the idea. E. T.’s hut +was the place of places. She felt herself refreshed and invigorated +by the very thought of the mountains and the sea. She would wait for +no preparations, no fuss. She would take her own maid and a couple of +women for the house--servants in those mountain-districts must be such +barbarous creatures--and Parker, her butler, and a page or so, and a +dozen or two trunks, and her favourite dogs, and her own particular +phaeton and ponies, and her piano, and nothing more. Mr. and Mrs. H. +must, of course, go with her, to keep house, and to write to people in +London, and prevent the possibility of her being pursued by bills and +tiresome letters, and so on. + +“H. consented to this, and arranged the journey with infinite patience +and good-humour, suppressing the unnecessary adjuncts of the convoy, +and reducing the luggage to limits that were almost within the bounds +of reason. All this he told me, as we strolled on the lawn before +dinner. + +‘She--well, she very nearly swore at me when I told her she mustn’t +bring her piano,’ said Mr. H.; ‘a concert grand, you know, about +‘seven feet long. And then she stood out for bringing her man Parker, +the greatest thief and scoundrel in Christendom; and the ponies and +a groom, who sits behind her when she drives; but I fought my ground +inch by inch, sir, and here we are. Madame has her own maid, and her +lap-dogs; I have hired a stout country-girl for the kitchen, and we +do the rest of the housework ourselves. And, egad, madame likes it. +She dusts and arranges the rooms, and so forth, with her own hands, +and sings and dances about the house more deliciously than ever she +sang or danced on the boards of the Bonbonnière. She has developed a +genius for cooking: puts on a big holland apron, and tosses an omelet, +or fries a dish of trout, with the art of a Vatel, and the grace of +a Hebe. I never knew half her fascination until we came here; and I +think, if her London admirers could see her, they would be more madly +in love with her than ever.’ + +“They invited me to dine. Mrs. H. made her appearance before dinner--a +most amiable inanity, fat, fair, and thirty, with innocent flaxen +curls, blue ribbons in her cap, and a babyfied, simpering face; the +sort of woman whose presence at a dinner-table, or in a drawing-room, +one can only remember by perpetual mental effort. Happily she did not +demand much attention, but was content to sit still and simper at her +husband’s jokes and madame’s ‘agreeable rattle.’ + +“We talked of everything and everybody. The divine Carlitz, who in +her audience-chamber at the Bonbonnière had received me with such +chilling courtesy, was now cordial and familiar as friendship itself. +Our conversation developed innumerable points of sympathy between us: +mutual likings, mutual antipathies--all of the most frivolous kind; +for the world of Estelle Carlitz was a world of trifles--a universe +of cashmere-shawls, pug-dogs, airy ballads, dainty pony-carriages, +diamonds, and strawberries and cream. I have since heard that beneath +that snowy breast, whereon bright gems seemed to shine with intenser +brightness, there beat a heart full of generous pity for her own sex, +though hard as adamant for ours. + +“To me, upon this particular evening, in this lonely mountain-retreat, +she was delightful. The dinner was excellent--simplicity itself, but +served with a rustic grace that might have charmed Savarin or Alvanly. +In my own eyrie the _cuisine_ had been a lamentable failure; and +the fact that it was so, may have somewhat contributed to the causes +of that ever-increasing weariness of spirit which had been my portion +in these mountain regions. At five-and-twenty a man can endure a +good deal in this way. I was no _gourmet_, though I had lived +amongst men who, in the old Roman days, would have known by the flavour +of their oysters whether they had been brought from the coasts of +barbarous Britain--men who discussed the _menu_ of a dinner with +a solemnity that would have sufficed for the forming of a Cabinet, and +arranged the importation of a truffled turkey or a Strasburg pie with +as much care as might have attended the dismissal of a secret emissary +to the Jacobite court at Rome in the days of the first two Georges. + +“H. dozed after dinner, worn out by a long morning’s fishing; while +Madame Carlitz and I trifled with our modest dessert, and slandered +our London acquaintance. Between us we seemed to know every one. The +lady’s knowledge of the great world was chiefly second-hand, it must +be confessed, but she told me many facts relating to my intimate +acquaintance that were quite new to me, and which might have made my +hair stand on end, had I not happily outlived that period in which the +secret records of our friends’ lives have power either to shock or to +astonish. + +“Nothing could present a more piquant contrast to my poor C.’s +plaintive looks and tones, and ill-concealed unhappiness, than the +elegant vivacity of this most fascinating Carlitz. And to have found +her thus remote from her usual surroundings, sequestered, unexpected, +as mountain sylph, lent a positive enchantment to the whole affair. + +“We went out on to the lawn in the tender moonlight, while Mrs. H. +made tea for us at a pretty lamp-lit table, and that most amiable and +inconsiderately-considerate H. slept on serenely in his comfortable +chintz-covered easy-chair. We went out into that divine, intoxicating +light. The ripple of the waves sounded softly afar. A deep cleft in the +mountain revealed a glimpse of moonlit water, and around and about us +fell the shadows of the mighty hills. + +‘It is like a scene in an opera,’ cried Madame Carlitz. + +“And it was evident the set awakened no higher emotion in her mind. + +‘If such a set were only manageable at the Bonbonnière! But we have +not enough depth for this kind of thing. That is what we want, you +see--depth.’ + +‘Yes,’ I answered, almost sadly, ‘that is what we want--depth.’ + +‘The moonlight effect is only a question of green gauzes, and lamps +at the wing. I think, by the bye, we make our moonlights a little too +green. I wonder whether Mr. Fresko has ever seen the moon. He spends +all his evenings in the theatre, smoking and drinking beer in his +painting-room, or hanging about the side-scenes, smelling intolerably +of stale tobacco. I really doubt if he has ever seen this kind of +thing. But I can’t afford to change him for a better painter. His +interiors are exquisite. He was painting a tapestried drawing-room, +after Boucher, when I left London--a scene that will enchant you next +season. The draperies are to be blue watered-silk--real silk, you +know; and folding-doors at the back will open into a garden of real +exotics, if I can get my florist to supply them; but he is rather an +impracticable sort of person, who is always wanting sums on account.’ + +‘And the piece?’ I asked. + +‘Oh, the piece is a pretty-enough little trifle,’ the lady replied, +with supreme carelessness; ‘_The Marquis of Yesterday_, a +vaudeville of the Pompadour period, adapted from Scribe. Of course I am +to play Pompadour.’ + +“On this I would fain have become more sentimental. The mountain light, +the deep mysterious shadows, the glimpse of ocean--all invited to that +dreamy sentimentality which is of earth’s transient intoxications the +most delightful. But Madame Carlitz was not sentimentally inclined. +To shine, to astonish, to enchant--these to her were but too easy. +The melting mood was out of her line. And though she fooled me by her +charming air of sympathy, I felt, even in the hour of my delusion, a +vague sense that it was all stage-play, and that the looks and tones +which thrilled my senses, and almost touched that finer sense I had +been taught to call my soul, were the same looks and tones which the +dramatic critics praised in the finished actress of the Bonbonnière. + +“Have I any right to be angry with her if she was all falsehood, when +there was so little reality in my own _fade_ sentimentality and +hackneyed flatteries? No; I am not angry. I encountered the enchantress +but a few nights ago in society, and said to myself, wonderingly, ‘Once +I almost loved you.’ + + +“H. awoke, and smiled upon us with his genial smile, as we returned to +the pretty lamp-lit room. + +‘Have you two children been rehearsing the balcony-scene in the +moonlight,’ he cried. And then we went back to our London talk and +London scandal, and H. told us some admirable stories, more or less +embellished by a glowing imagination; and Mrs. H. simpered, placidly, +just as she had simpered at dinner; and madame contradicted her friend, +and laughed at him, and interrupted him by delicious mimicry of his +_dramatis personæ_, and behaved altogether in a most fascinating +manner. + +“I went home slowly in the moonlight, meditating on my evening’s +entertainment. + +‘Have I been happy?’ I asked myself. ‘No. I have been only amused; and +I have come to that period in which little beyond amusement is possible +for me.’ + +“And all my dreams had resolved themselves into this! My Cynthia was +not to be found on earth; and the next best thing to the spirit that +walks as free as air the clouds among, was--an elegant and fashionable +actress. + +“My evening had been very pleasant to me; and I was angry with myself, +disappointed with myself, because it had been so. + +“I thought of Byron. It was not till his star was waning that he found +that one companion-spirit who was to console him for the brilliant +miseries of his career. + +‘Numa was an old man when he met his Ægeria,’ I said, to myself. +‘Perhaps for me too the divine nymph will appear in life’s dreary +twilight.’ + +“I found that my poor C. had been sorely distressed, and even alarmed, +by my unwonted absence; and I had no choice but to burden my conscience +with a falsehood, or to make her unhappy by the confession that I had +been beguiled into the forgetfulness of time in the society of a more +fascinating person than her poor, pretty, sentimental self. + +‘I found my friend T. at his hut beyond D---- H----,’ I said; ‘and the +fellow insisted on my dining with him.’ + +“My simple-minded C. had implicit faith in my word, even after that +_one_ broken promise which had caused this poor child so many +tears. + +‘I am so glad you found an old friend,’ she said; ‘but oh, H., I cannot +tell you what I have suffered in all these long hours! There is no +terrible accident which I have not pictured to myself. I thought how +you might lose your footing in the narrow path at the edge of the +cliff; I thought you might have been tempted to go round by the sands, +and that the tide had risen before you could reach the steps in the +cliff. I sent D. to look for you.” + +“I told her that on another occasion she must disturb herself with +no such fear, and hinted that as E. T. was a very intimate and +affectionate friend, I might find myself compelled to dine with him +occasionally during his stay. + +‘Will he be here long?’ she asked, piteously. + +‘Oh dear, no,’ I replied; ‘depend upon it, he will soon be tired of +these desolate regions.’ + +“I had pointed out the cottage to her in one of our walks, and had +given her some slight account of the owner. + +“After this I was often away from my too sad, too gentle companion. +Carlitz seemed to me every day more delightful. I forgot all that I +had been told about this most volatile of human butterflies, this most +enchanting of the papilionaceous tribe. I, the _blasé_ worldling, +suffered myself to be caught in that airy net. Most completely was +I deluded by her smile of welcome; the sweet, low voice, that grew +lower and sweeter when she talked with me; the tender tones in which +the enchantress confessed her love for these wild, romantic regions; +the unexpected happiness she had found amongst these rugged hills; +the disinclination--nay, indeed, the positive disgust--with which she +contemplated her approaching return to London; all the meretricious +charms of the accomplished coquette had given place to the tender +grace, the almost divine loveliness of the woman who for the first time +discovers that she possesses a heart, and who only becomes aware of +that possession in the hour in which she loses it for ever. + +“It must not be supposed that I yielded to this new influence without +some weak struggle. Every night I went back to my eyrie, determined +to see the divine Carlitz no more. Every morning I found C.’s society +more hopelessly dull, and was fain to take refuge in a mountain ramble. +Unhappily, the ramble always ended at the same spot. + +“To me had been offered some of the sweetest flatteries ever shaped +by woman’s lips; but the lovely proprietress of the Bonbonnière was +past-mistress of the art, and her flatteries were more subtle than +sweetest words. She fooled me to the top of my bent. C. was day by day +more neglected; my books were abandoned; my ambitions, my aspirations, +for the time utterly forgotten. I had found the supreme good of the +Sybarite’s life--amusement. And my vanity was flattered by the idea +that I was beloved by a woman whose name was synonymous with the verb +‘to charm.’ + +“Yes; I was beloved. How else could I account for that gradual +transformation which had changed the most volatile of women into a +creature pensive and poetical as Sappho or Heloise? If there had been +any striking suddenness in this change, I might have considered it a +mere stage-trick; but the transition had been so gradual, and seemed so +unconscious. What motive could she have for deceiving me? Had she been +free to marry, she might have considered me an eligible _parti_, +and this might have been a matrimonial snare; but I had been given +to understand that somewhere, undistinguished and uncared for, there +existed a person answering to the name of Carlitz, and possessing +legal authority over this lovely lady. From matrimonial designs I was +therefore safe; and I told myself that these signs and tokens which I +beheld with such rapture were the evidence of a disinterested affection. + +“I remembered the lady’s elegant insolence in the green-room of the +Bonbonnière; and it pleased me to think that I had humbled so proud a +spirit. + +“Whether the sentiment which this most fascinating woman inspired in my +mind was ever more than gratified vanity, I know not. For the moment +it seemed a deeper feeling; and in thought and word I was already +inconstant to that poor child whom I had loved so fondly, so purely, +so truly, when we walked, hand locked in hand, on that lovely English +shore beyond the little town of B----. + +“I hated myself for my inconstancy, but was still inconstant. This +woman had a thousand arts and witcheries wherewith to beguile me +from my better self. Or were not all her witcheries comprised in one +profound and simple art?--SHE FLATTERED ME. + +“It is needless to dwell long upon this, my second disappointment in +affairs of the heart. The net was spread for me; and, unsuspecting as +Agamemnon, I allowed this fair Clytemnestra to entangle me in her fatal +web before she gave me the _coup de grâce_. + +“Every morning I found some fresh excuse for spending my day in her +society. We went upon all manner of excursions, with Mr. and Mrs. +H. to play propriety. Any fragment of Gothic tower or ruined stone +wall within twenty miles of E. T.’s small domain served as a pretext +for a long drive and an impromptu picnic. We went fishing in a rough +yacht, and brought up monsters in the way of star-fish and dog-fish, +sword-fish and jelly-fish, from the briny deep; but rarely succeeded in +securing any piscatorial prize of an edible nature. + +‘I don’t exactly know what kind of thing we are fishing for,’ H. said, +piteously, ‘but if the boat is to be filled with these savage reptiles, +I should be obliged if you would allow me to be put on shore at the +earliest opportunity.’ + +“In all our rambles, madame’s gaiety and good-humour were the chief +source of our delight. Her animal spirits were inexhaustible; and for +me alone were reserved those occasional touches of sentiment which, in +a creature so gay, possessed an unspeakable charm. Her accomplishments +were of the highest order, but her reading very little. Yet, by her +exquisite tact and _savoir-faire_, she made even her ignorance +bewitching. And then she had the art of seeming so interested in every +subject her companion started, and would listen to my prosiest rhapsody +with eyes of mute eloquence, and parted lips that seemed tremulous with +suppressed emotion. + +“One day, after she had been even more than usually vivacious +and enchanting, during a little open-air repast among the most +uninteresting ruins in A----, I was surprised, and indeed mystified, by +a sudden change in her manner. + +“We had wandered away from the ruins, leaving H. and his placid wife +calmly discussing a bottle of E. T.’s old Madeira. Slowly and silently +we walked along a solitary path, winding through the bosom of a most +romantic glen. I was silent, in sympathy with my companion’s unwonted +thoughtfulness. Of my own feelings I had spoken to Estelle Carlitz in +the vaguest terms. Close and constant as our companionship had been +within these few weeks, we had never passed beyond the boundary-line +of flirtation. Poetical and sentimental we had been, in all conscience; +but our poetry and sentiment had been expressed by eloquent +generalities, which had committed neither of us. Yet I could not doubt +that the lady numbered me among her slaves; and I dared to believe my +bondage was not to be an utterly hopeless captivity. + +‘Can you imagine anything more beautiful than this secluded glen?’ said +Madame Carlitz, suddenly. ‘One can scarcely fancy it a part of the same +world which contains that noisy whirlpool, London. I cannot tell you +how this place has made me hate London. I wish E. T. had never offered +me his house. What good have I done myself by coming here? I shall only +feel the contrast between perfect peace and unceasing care more keenly +when I go back to all my old troubles. It would have been wiser to stay +in town, and go on acting, until I realized the dismal prophecies of my +medical advisers. If I am doomed to die in harness, my life might as +well end one year as another. What does it matter?’ + +“The words were commonplace enough of themselves, but from the lips of +Carlitz the commonest words were magical as the strains of Arion to +kindly Dolphin--musical as the seven-stringed lyre with whose chords +Terpander healed the wounds of civil war. + +‘Do you really mean that you have been happy here among these rugged +mountains and barren valleys--you?’ + +‘Me--I, who speak to you. Happy! Ah, but too happy!’ murmured the +divine Estelle, in tones of profoundest melancholy. ‘My life here has +been like a pleasant dream; but it is over, and to-morrow I must set my +face towards London.’ + +‘To-morrow!’ I exclaimed. ‘Surely this is very sudden.’ + +‘It is sudden!’ answered madame, with a short, impatient sigh; ‘but +it is inevitable, as it seems. H. received letters this morning; all +sorts of bills and lawyers’ threats--horrors which I am incapable +of comprehending. I must return; I must, if I die on the journey, +_quand même_; she cried, becoming less English as she became more +energetic. ‘They will have it, these harpies. I must open my theatre +and begin my season, and have the air to gain money _à flots_. +Then they will tranquillize themselves. H. will talk to them. This must +be. Otherwise they will send their myrmidons here, and put me into +their Clichy--their Bench.’ + +“I expressed my sympathy with all tenderness; but madame shook her head +despairingly, and would not be consoled. I remembered the existence of +the unknown Carlitz, and reflected that his accomplished wife could +scarcely be subject to the horror of imprisonment for debt while +sheltered by the ægis of her coverture. But could I basely remind her +of his obscure and obnoxious existence? Sentiment, chivalry, devotion, +forbade so business-like a suggestion. + +‘My dear Estelle,’ I murmured, ‘remain in these tranquil regions till +you grow weary of nature’s solitude and my society. You need have no +fear of your creditors while I have power to write a cheque.’ + +“I pressed the daintily-gloved hand that rested on my arm. It was the +first time I had uttered her Christian name. Until this moment I had +worshipped on my knees. But the tender down is brushed from the wings +of Cupid when he rubs shoulders with Plutus. + +“The divine Carlitz drew her hand from mine with a movement of outraged +dignity. + +‘Do you think so meanly of me as _that_?’ she asked, proudly. ‘Do +you think I would borrow money from _you_?’ + +“The emphasis on the last word of the first sentence revealed the +nobility of the speaker’s mind; the emphasis on the last word of the +second sentence went straight home to the--vanity--of the hearer. + +‘Estelle!’ I exclaimed, ‘you cannot refuse the poor service of my +fortune! Can there be any question of obligation between you and me? +Have you not taught me what it is to be happy? have you not----’ + +“Idem, idem, idem! Why should I transcribe the milk-and-watery version +of that old story, which is only worth telling when it is written in +the heart’s blood of an honest man? + +“Deep or earnest feeling I had none. By nature I was inconstant. The +love that had glorified the sands of B---- with a light that shone not +from sun or moon, had faded from my life. Like a fair child who dies +in early infancy, the god had vanished, and the memory of his sweet +companionship alone remained to me. I think I had tried to fall in love +with Estelle Carlitz, and had failed. But I was none the less anxious +to win her regard. There is a fashion in these follies; and to have +been beloved by the fair directress of the Bonbonnière would have given +me _kudos_ amongst my acquaintance of the clubs--nay, even in +patrician drawing-rooms, to which the lovely Carlitz herself was yet a +stranger. + +“This was in my mind as I declared myself in a hackneyed strain of +eloquence. + +“The lady heard me to the end in silence, and then turned upon me with +superb indignation. + +‘_Taisez-vous._ Would you offer to lend me money if I were in +your own set--if I were not an actress, a person whom you pay to amuse +your idle evenings? It is not so long since they refused us Christian +burial in my country. Ah! but you are only like the rest. You talk +to me of your heart and your banker’s-book in the same breath!’ she +cried, passionately. ‘It is mean of you to persecute me with offers of +help which you ought to know that I cannot, and will not, accept. But +you are in your right. It was I who betrayed my poverty. You wrung my +secret from me. I beg you to speak of it no more. My affairs are in +very good hands. Mr. H. will arrange everything for me; and--I shall go +to-morrow. And now let us be friends. Forget that I have ever spoken to +you about these things, and forget that I have been angry.’ + +“She turned to me with her most bewitching smile, and held out her +hand. This power of transition was her greatest charm. The gift that +made her most accomplished among stage-players made her also most +delightful among women. Pity that the woman who is playing a part +should always have so supreme an advantage over the woman who is in +earnest. + +“We spoke no more of money-matters. I assured Madame Carlitz that, in +the circle which she was pleased to call my ‘set,’ there was no one +who possessed my respect in greater measure than it was possessed by +herself. And at this juncture we heard the jovial voice of the genial +H. echoing down the glen, announcing that the carriage was ready for +our return. + +‘It is agreed that we are to forget everything,’ said madame, ‘except +that this is to be my last evening in this dear place, and that we are +to spend it together.’ + +“To this I consented with all tender reverence and submission. Our +homeward drive was gaiety itself--our dinner, the banquet of a Horace +and Lydia after that little misunderstanding about Chloe and the +Thurine boy had been settled to the satisfaction of both parties. After +dinner Estelle sang to me, accompanying herself on the guitar, which +she played with a rare perfection. The old, forgotten ballads come back +to me sometimes, and I hear the low sweet voice, and the sound of the +waves washing that rocky headland in A----. + +“After she had sung as many songs as I could in conscience entreat +from her, I asked H. to smoke a cigar with me in the garden. He came +promptly at my call; and I know now, though I was persistently blind at +the moment, that a little look of intelligence passed between him and +my enchantress as he crossed the room to comply with my request. + +“We went out upon the lawn, lighted our cigars, and paced up and down +for some few minutes in silence. Then I plunged into the middle of +things. + +‘H.,’ I said, ‘how much would it take to clear Madame Carlitz of her +pressing pecuniary engagements, and release her from any necessity of +commencing a new season at the Bonbonnière for the next few months?’ + +“H. gave a long whistle. + +‘My dear boy, don’t think of it,’ he exclaimed; ‘it can’t be done. We +must open the theatre, make what money we can; and if we can’t make a +composition, we had better go through the court.’ + +‘But Carlitz!’ I remonstrated. + +‘Carlitz is dying,’ replied H., with supreme carelessness--‘has been +dying for the last four years. It’s very trying for her. She’d have +been driving in her barouche, with strawberry-leaves on the panel, by +this time, if he hadn’t been so long about it. But a man can’t go on +dying for ever, you know; there must be a limit to that sort of thing.’ + +‘You talk of a composition. Would a cheque for a thousand pounds enable +her to satisfy her creditors?’ + +“Mr. H. deliberated. + +‘Fifteen hundred might do,’ he said, presently; “Snoggs and Bangham, +the builders, must have a decent lump of money to stop _their_ +mouths; and there’s Kaliks, the florist, an uncommonly tough customer. +Yes, I think something between fifteen hundred and two thousand would +do it.” + +‘You must contrive to settle matters for fifteen hundred,’ I said. ‘I +know what a clever financier you are, H. Take me to your room, and give +me a pen and ink. I have been sending away money this morning, and +happen to have my cheque-book in my pocket.’ + +‘My dear fellow, this generosity is really something utterly +unprecedented, and completely overpowering,’ exclaimed H., in a fat, +choking voice. ‘But I doubt if madame will be induced to accept a loan +of this nature. If she does avail herself of your generous offer, the +matter must of course be placed on a strictly business-like footing. If +a bill of sale on the wardrobe and musical library of the Bonbonnière +would satisfy your legal adviser as security----’ + +“I assured Mr. H. that nothing could be farther from my thoughts than +the desire to secure myself from loss by means of a bill of sale. + +‘The very name of such an instrument sets my teeth on edge,’ I said; +‘the money will be to all intents and purposes a free gift, but it may +be better to call it a loan.’ + +‘My dear fellow,’ cried H., with a gulp, expressive of generous +emotion, ‘this is noble. But you don’t know madame. Proud, sir, proud +as Lucifer.’ + +“I remembered that little scene in the glen, and could not dispute the +fact of the lady’s haughty and somewhat impracticable mind. + +‘It can’t be done, sir,’ said H., decisively; ‘it’s a pity, but it +can’t be done.’ + +‘Why not? Madame Carlitz knows nothing of business matters. I have +heard her say as much fifty times.’ + +‘A mere child, sir--a baby.’ + +‘In that case there is no difficulty. I will write the cheque; you will +settle with the tradesmen, and tell Madame Carlitz nothing except that +those obnoxious persons are satisfied. You may take as much credit as +you please for your financial powers; I shall not betray the secret of +the affair.’ + +‘Upon my word, my dear friend, you are a prince!’ said H., with +enthusiasm. + +“Nor did he make any further difficulty. We finished our cigars, and +went into the house together, with stealthy footsteps; for the thing we +were about to do was a kind of treason. H. led me into a little room +which he called his den--a room in which he had spent many weary hours +trying to square the circle of madame’s pecuniary embarrassments. + +“I wrote a cheque for 1,500_l._, payable to the order of the +divine Carlitz. + +‘She will endorse it without looking at it, I suppose?’ I said. + +‘My dear sir, she would endorse the bond of a compact with +Mephistopheles. In business matters she is perfectly infantine. I think +she has a vague notion that her creditors can send her to the Tower, +and have her head cut off, if she fails to satisfy their demands.’ + +“On this we went back to the drawing-room, where madame asked me, with +a pretty, half-offended air, why I had been so long absent. Then H. +brewed some Maraschino punch, which was supposed to be an Olympian +beverage, and madame was more charming than ever. If I had been capable +of thinking twice of a sum of money squandered on a pretty woman--which +I was not--I should have been amply rewarded for my generosity. But I +could afford to waste a thousand or two on the caprice of the moment +without fear of remorseful twinges or economical regrets after the deed +was done. + +“It was late when I left the Lodge. Madame and H. followed me to the +gate, and bade me good-night under the soft summer stars. Her gaiety +had left her by one of those sudden changes that made her charming; and +she looked and spoke with a tender sadness as we parted. + +‘If I could believe in her depth of feeling, if I could hope----’ I +said to myself, after that pensive parting; and then I remembered the +sands at B----, and the vows that I had vowed, and the dreams that I +had dreamed. + +‘No,’ I said, ‘if I could trust her, I could not trust myself. With +passion and reality I have finished. Let amusement be the business of +my life. I will love as Horace loved, and my motto shall be, _Vogue +la galère_.’ + +“I had only walked a few yards away from the gate when I remembered +that I had left my light overcoat, with a pocket full of letters and +papers, in the hall. I ran back; the gate was open, the door open too. +I went in, and took my coat from its peg. As I did so, I was surprised +to hear a silvery peal of laughter--long and joyous, nay indeed, +triumphant, from my enchantress. H.’s bass guffaw sustained the sweet +soprano peal; and even placid Mrs. H. assisted with a cheerful second. + +“And but three minutes before Estelle had looked at me with eyes so +tenderly mournful, had spoken with tones so sadly sweet! + +“I lifted the _portière_ and looked into the room.” + +‘I have come back for my coat,’ I said. + +“The laughter ceased with suspicious abruptness.” + +‘Oh, do come in! This absurd H. has been telling us the most ridiculous +story about Fred M. Of course you know Fred M.?’ cried madame, in +nowise disconcerted. + +“She insisted that I should stay to hear the anecdote, which H. told +for my benefit, with sufficient fluency, and a dash of that club-house +mimicry which passes current for faithful imitation. I did not find the +anecdote overpoweringly funny; but the lady sounded her peal of silver +bells again, long and loudly as before, and I was fain to believe that +this frivolous semi-scandalous relation had been the cause of the +laughter that had startled me. + +“I was not altogether convinced; and that nice appreciation of +club-house anecdotes did not appear to me an excellent thing in +woman. My adieux were brief and cold, and I walked homeward somewhat +_désillusionné_.” + + + END OF VOL. II. + + + J. Ogden and Co., Printers, 172, St. John Street, E. C. + + + + + =TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES= + +Simple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced +quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and +otherwise left unbalanced. + +Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a +predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they +were not changed. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76886 *** diff --git a/76886-h/76886-h.htm b/76886-h/76886-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9d4c988 --- /dev/null +++ b/76886-h/76886-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,6333 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Dead-sea Fruit, Vol. II | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +/* General headers */ + +h1 { + text-align: center; + clear: both; +} + +/* General headers */ +h2 { + text-align: center; + font-weight: bold; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; + text-indent: 1.5em; +} + +.nind {text-indent:0;} + +.nindc {text-align:center; text-indent:0;} + +.large {font-size: 125%;} + +.spa1 { + margin-top: 1em + } + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +.space-above2 { margin-top: 2em; } +.space-below2 { margin-bottom: 2em; } + +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; visibility: hidden;} } + +div.chapter {page-break-before: always;} +h2.nobreak {page-break-before: avoid;} + +table { + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; +} +table.autotable { border-collapse: collapse; } +table.autotable td { padding: 0.25em; } + +.tdl {text-align: left;} +.tdr {text-align: right;} +.tdc {text-align: center;} + +.pagenum { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */ + /* visibility: hidden; */ + position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-style: normal; + font-weight: normal; + font-variant: normal; + text-indent: 0; +} /* page numbers */ + +.blockquot { + margin-left: 5%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + +.right {text-align: right;} + +.allsmcap {font-variant: small-caps; text-transform: lowercase;} + + +/* Images */ + +img {max-width: 100%; width: 100%; height: auto;} +.width500 {max-width: 500px;} +.x-ebookmaker .width500 {width: 100%;} + + + +.figcenter { + margin: auto; + text-align: center; + page-break-inside: avoid; + max-width: 100%; +} + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +.poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3em;} +.poetry .indent16 {text-indent: 5em;} +.poetry .indent4 {text-indent: -1em;} +.poetry .indent14 {text-indent: 3em;} + + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76886 ***</div> + + +<figure class="figcenter width500" id="cover" style="width: 1600px;"> +<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="1600" height="2847" alt="In Vol. +2 of Dead-Sea Fruit, Leonard sinks deeper under Carrington’s sway, +torn between love and ambition, as Braddon heightens the tension of +temptation, betrayal, and looming ruin."> +</figure> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h1>DEAD-SEA FRUIT</h1> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">A Novel</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2"> +<span class="allsmcap">BY THE AUTHOR OF</span></p> + +<p class="nindc"><span class="large">“LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET,”</span></p> + +<p class="nindc"><span class="allsmcap">ETC., ETC., ETC.</span></p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">IN THREE VOLUMES.</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">VOL. II.</p> + + +<figure class="figcenter width500" id="i002" style="width: 201px;"> +<img src="images/i002.jpg" width="201" height="200" alt="decorative"> +</figure> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">LONDON<br> +WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER<br> +WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW<br> +1868.</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2"> +[<i>All rights reserved</i>]</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + + +<div class="chapter"> +<p class="nindc"> +<span class="allsmcap">LONDON:<br> +PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO.,<br> +172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.</span><br> +</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS.</h2> + + +<figure class="figcenter width500" id="i001" style="width: 179px;"> + <img src="images/i001.jpg" width="179" height="30" alt="decorative"> +</figure> + + +<table class="autotable"> +<tbody><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">CHAP.</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap">PAGE</span></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">I. ALPHA AND OMEGA</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">II. MISS ST. ALBANS BREAKS HER ENGAGEMENT</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_52">52</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">III. MR. DESMOND TO THE RESCUE</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_78">78</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">IV. A PERILOUS PROTEGEE</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_105">105</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">V. OUT OF THE WORLD</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_132">132</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">VI. MRS. JERNINGHAM IS PHILANTHROPIC</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_146">146</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">VII. DECEITFUL ABOVE ALL THINGS</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_173">173</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">VIII. DANIEL MAYFIELD’S COUNSEL</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_189">189</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">IX. BETWEEN EDEN AND EXILE</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_210">210</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">X. “L’OISEAU FUIT COMME LE BONHEUR”</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">XI. “THE DISAPPOINTMENTS OF DION”</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_250">250</a></td> +</tr><tr> +<td class="tdl"><span class="allsmcap">XII. “INFINITE RICHES IN A LITTLE ROOM”</span></td> +<td class="tdc"></td> +<td class="tdr"><a href="#Page_285">285</a></td> +</tr> +</tbody> +</table> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="DEAD-SEA_FRUIT">DEAD-SEA FRUIT.</h2> + + +<figure class="figcenter width500" id="i003" style="width: 169px;"> + <img src="images/i003.jpg" width="169" height="30" alt="decorative"> +</figure> + + + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I.<br> +ALPHA AND OMEGA.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>THERE were some days on which M. de Bergerac had no work for his +secretary, and on such occasions the young man was free to dispose of +himself as he pleased. These days Eustace Thorburn devoted partly to +reading and meditation, partly to the delightful duty of ministering to +Helen’s caprices—if, indeed, the word “caprice” can fairly be used in +relation to any one so entirely amiable as Mademoiselle de Bergerac.</p> + +<p>Happily for the ambitious hopes of the student, there were some days on +which Helen asked no service from her willing slave, and when the slave +could find no excuse for intruding on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> privacy of his mistress as +she read, or practised, or worked in her pretty drawing-room.</p> + +<p>On these leisure days Eustace made good progress with his own studies. +He cherished the ideas of the ancients as to the requirements of a +poet, and thought that whatever was learnt by Virgil should be at least +attempted by every student who would fain sacrifice at the shrine of +the Muses. On dull days he was wont to spend the morning in his own +room, working his hardest, but in fine weather he preferred a solitary +ramble in the park, or on the banks of the river, with his own thoughts +and a volume of classic prose or poetry for company.</p> + +<p>He set out for a day’s ramble, one fine, sharp morning in December, at +the same hour in which a gentleman arrived at Windsor by the morning +express from town.</p> + +<p>This gentleman left his luggage and his servant at the station, and +set out to walk from Windsor to Greenlands, as Eustace had done about +four months before. He was a man of middle size and of middle age, with +a slender<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> but muscular form, and a fair patrician face—a face with +an aquiline nose and cold, bright-blue eyes that might have belonged +to some Danish Viking, but a face in which the rugged grandeur of +the old warrior-blood was tempered by the effeminacy of half a dozen +generations of courtiers.</p> + +<p>There was an inexpressible languor in the droop of the eyelids, an +extreme hauteur in the carriage of the head. The mouth was perfect in +its modelling, but the lips had the sensuous beauty of a Greek statue, +too feminine in their soft harmonious line, and out of character with +the rest of the face.</p> + +<p>Such was Harold Jerningham, owner of Greenlands, in Berkshire, and of +the bijou house in Park Lane. Fifty-two years of an existence that may +be fairly termed exhaustive had left their impress upon him. There were +traces of the crow’s-foot at the corners of the clear, full blue eyes, +and sharp lines across the fair, proud brow. The waving auburn hair was +sprinkled ever so lightly with the first snow-flakes of life’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> winter, +and the auburn moustache and beard owed something of their tint to the +care of an assiduous valet; but Mr. Jerningham was the kind of man who +looks his handsomest at fifty years of age; and there were few faces in +foreign Court or ball-room that won more notice than his on those rare +occasions on which the <i>blasé</i> English traveller condescended to +appear in public.</p> + +<p>The lively Celts amongst whom Mr. Jerningham made a languid endeavour +to get rid of his existence regarded that gentleman as a striking +example of the English “spleen,” and were prepared to hear at any +moment that Sir Jerningham had made an unusually careful toilet that +morning, and had then proceeded, with insular frigidity, to cut himself +the throat <i>à la manière Anglaise</i>.</p> + +<p>For the last seven or eight years the world had found no subject +for scandal in the life of Harold Jerningham. It seemed as if those +wild-oats which he had been sowing, more or less industriously, ever +since he left the University<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> must needs be at last exhausted, so +quiet, and even studious, was the existence of the gentleman, who +appeared now in London, anon in Vienna, to-day in Paris, next week in +Norway; and who seemed always to support the burden of his being with +the same heroic endurance, and to combine the cold creed of the Stoic +with the agreeable practice of the Epicurean.</p> + +<p>He had lived for himself alone, and had sinned for his own pleasure; +and if his life within the last decade had been comparatively pure and +harmless, it was because the bitter apples of the Dead Sea could tempt +him no longer by their outward beauty. He was unutterably weary of the +inner bitterness, and even the outward beauty had lost its charm. If he +had ceased to be a sinner, it was that he was tired of sinning, rather +than that he lamented his past offences.</p> + +<p>A sudden fancy, engendered out of the very emptiness and weariness of +his brain, had brought him to England, and the same fancy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> brought him +to Greenlands. He wanted to see the old, abandoned place, which had +echoed with his childish laughter in the days when he could still be +amused; the woods that had been peopled by his dreams, in the days when +he had not yet lost the power to dream. He wanted to see these things; +and, more than these things, he wanted to see the one friend whose +society was pleasant, whose friendship was in some wise precious to him.</p> + +<p>“I have rather gloried in outraging the prejudices of my fellow-men,” +he had said to himself sometimes, when anatomizing his own character, +in that critical and meditative mood which was habitual to him; “but I +believe I should scarcely like Theodore de Bergerac to think ill of me. +It is not in me to play the hypocrite, and yet I fancy I have always +contrived to keep the darker side of my nature hidden from him.”</p> + +<p>The master of Greenlands happened to be in an unusually reflective +mood, and his reflections of to-day were tinged with a certain +despondency.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> This nineteenth of December was his birthday, the +fifty-second anniversary of his first appearance upon the stage of +life; and the reflections which the day brought with it were far +from pleasant. For the first time in his existence Mr. Jerningham +had this morning been struck by the notion that it was a dreary +thing to eat a solitary breakfast on the anniversary of his birth, +uncheered by the voice of kinsman or friend invoking blessings on his +head. The luxurious little dining-room in Park Lane glowed in the +ruddy fire-light, and glittered with all the chaste splendour of Mr. +Jerningham’s art-treasures, as he trifled with his tea and toast, far +too tired of all the delicacies of this earth to care for the bloated +livers of Strasbourg geese or the savoury flesh of Bayonne pigs. +The room in which he had breakfasted, and the table that had been +spread for him, formed a picture which a painter of still-life might +have dreamed of; but it had seemed very blank and dismal to Harold +Jerningham on this particular occasion, when an accidental<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> glance at +the date of his <i>Times</i> reminded him that his fifty-second year +had come to an end.</p> + +<p>He resolved forthwith upon a visit to the only friend whose sincerity +he believed in, and the only living creature from whose lips good +wishes would seem other than a conventionality.</p> + +<p>“I suppose it is because I am getting old that such gloomy fancies +come into my head,” he said to himself, as he walked from the station +to Greenlands. “It never struck me before that a childless man’s +latter days must needs be blank and empty. Must it be so? Which is the +lesser of the two evils—to be the father of an heir who languishes +for his heritage, or to know that one’s lands and houses must pass +to a stranger, when the door of the last narrow dwelling has been +sealed upon its silent inhabitant? Who knows? Is not existence at +best a choice of evils—and the negative misery is always the lesser. +Better to suffer the dull sense of loneliness than the sharp agony of +ingratitude. Better to be Timon than Lear.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span></p> + +<p>This is how the philosopher argued with himself on his fifty-third +birthday, as he walked the lonely road between Windsor and Greenlands.</p> + +<p>“Dear old Theodore!” he said to himself; “it is nine years since I have +seen him—three or four since I have heard from him. God grant I may +find him well—and happy!”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham had walked this road often in his boyhood and +youth—very often in the days when he had been an Eton boy, and had +boldly levanted from his tutor’s house, and crossed that purely +imaginary boundary, the Thames, for an afternoon’s holiday at home, +where the horses and dogs and servants seemed alike rejoiced by the +presence of the young heir. He had walked the same road at many +different periods of his existence, in every one of which his own +pleasure had been the chief desire of his heart; not always to be +achieved, at any cost, and rarely achieved with ultimate satisfaction +to himself.</p> + +<p>He had travelled this road in a barouche, one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> bright summer afternoon, +with his handsome young wife by his side, and the bells of three +parish-churches ringing their joy-peal in honour of his coming. He +remembered what a folly and a mockery the joy-bells had seemed; and how +very little nearer and dearer his wife’s beauty had been to him than +the beauty of a picture seen and admired in one hour, to be forgotten +in the next.</p> + +<p>“I think I was once in love,” he said to himself, when he meditated +on the mistakes and follies of his past life. “Yes, I believe that I +was once in love—fondly, foolishly, deeply in love. But it came to an +end—too soon, perhaps. In his youth a man has so many dreams, and the +newest always seems the brightest. Well, they are all over—dreams and +follies; the end has come at last, and it is rather dreary. I suppose I +have no right to complain. I have lived my life. There are men who seem +in the very heyday of existence at fifty years of age; but those are +not men who have taken life as I have taken it. It is the old story of +the candle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> burnt at both ends. The illumination is very grand, but the +candle suffers.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham entered the park by that small gate through which +Eustace Thorburn had passed six months before. Greenlands was very +beautiful, even in this bleak winter weather, but there was a +desolation and wildness in its aspect eminently calculated to foster +melancholy thoughts. It was by the express wish of the master that +the park had been permitted to assume this aspect of wildness and +decay. “My good man,” he had said to his bailiff, “I assure you all +this trimness and primness, which you make so much fuss about, is to +the last degree unnecessary, so far as I am concerned. I shall never +again come here to live for any length of time; and when I do come, +it pleases me best to come and go as a stranger. Let those poor old +dawdling men in the grounds take matters as quietly as they like. You +will pay them their wages on Saturday just the same as if they did +wonders in the way of sweeping, and pruning, and clipping. I don’t want +Greenlands<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> to look like a Dutchman’s garden; and I am glad to think +that there is some kind of use in the world for poor dawdling old men +who only excel in the art of not doing things.”</p> + +<p>The bailiff stared, but he obeyed his master, whose reputation for +eccentricity had long been established at Greenlands.</p> + +<p>In the chill wintry morning the desolation of the place was more than +usually apparent, and Mr. Jerningham, being on this particular occasion +inclined to contemplate every object on the darker side, was strongly +impressed by the dreariness of the long avenue, where the bare, black +branches of the elms swayed to and fro against the winter sky, and +where the withered leaves drifted before him with every gust of biting +winter wind.</p> + +<p>It was in the avenue that had been the grand approach to the mansion in +the days when the great world visited Greenlands, that Mr. Jerningham +came upon a young man, sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, reading. +To see any one seated on so cold a morning was in itself a fact<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> for +remark; but this hardy young student had the air of a man who takes his +ease on a sofa in his own snug study, so absorbed was his manner, so +comfortable his attitude. Approaching nearer, the <i>blasé</i> wanderer +in many lands perceived that the young student’s face was flushed as if +with recent exercise, and, while perceiving this, he could not fail to +observe that the face was one of the handsomest, and at the same time +the noblest, he had ever looked upon. As an artist, Harold Jerningham +was impressed by the perfect outline of that grand fair face; as an +observer of mankind, he was conscious that the stamp of high thoughts +had been set upon the countenance, and that the light of a pure young +soul shone out of the eyes that were slowly raised to look at him as he +drew near the log on which the student reclined. He went near enough to +see the title of the book the young man was reading. It was one of the +Platonic Dialogues, in Greek.</p> + +<p>“Ho, ho!” thought Mr. Jerningham; “I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> took my young gentleman for a +gamekeeper, or the son of my bailiff; but even in this levelling age I +doubt if gamekeepers or embryo bailiffs are so far advanced in Greek. I +suppose he is a friend of De Bergerac’s.”</p> + +<p>Having arrived at this conclusion, Mr. Jerningham proceeded to accost +the young dreamer, for whom that leafless avenue was peopled day by +day with the images of all that was greatest and most beautiful in +the golden age of this earth, and to whom the romantic desolation of +Greenlands had become far dearer within the last four months than it +had ever been to the lord of mansion and park, forest and upland.</p> + +<p>“Do you not find it rather cold for that kind of reading?” asked the +proprietor of the avenue.</p> + +<p>The frank young face was turned to him with a smile.</p> + +<p>“Not at all; I have been walking for the last hour, and feel as warm as +if it were midsummer.”</p> + +<p>He looked just a little wonderingly at Mr.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> Jerningham as he spoke. He +knew all the visitors to the Grange, and assuredly this gentleman in a +fur-lined overcoat was not one of them. Some stranger, perhaps, who had +found the gate open, and had strayed into the park out of curiosity.</p> + +<p>“You seem accustomed to this kind of open-air study,” said the +traveller, seating himself on one end of the fallen log, in order to +get a better view of the student’s face. It was only the listless +curiosity of an idler that beguiled him into loitering thus. He had +for the latter years of his life been at best only a loiterer upon +the highways and byways of this world, and the interest which he felt +in this young student of Plato was the same kind of interest he might +have felt in a solitary little Savoyard with white mice, or some +semi-idiotic old reaper, toiling under a southern sun; an interest by +no means so warm as that which a picture or a statue inspired in this +jaded wanderer.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” replied the young man; “I spend all my leisure mornings in the +park, reading and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> thinking. I fancy one thinks better when one walks +in such a place as this.”</p> + +<p>“If by ‘one’ you speak of <i>yourself</i>, I have no doubt you are +right; but if your ‘one’ means mankind in general, I am sure you are +wrong. My dreariest thoughts have come to me under these trees this +morning.”</p> + +<p>The young man’s face was quick to express sympathy, in a look that was +half wonder, half pity.</p> + +<p>“How quick a man’s sympathies are at his age!” thought Harold +Jerningham, “and how soon they wear out!”</p> + +<p>And then, after a pause, he added, aloud, “You live somewhere near at +hand, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“I live very near at hand; I live in the park.”</p> + +<p>“At the great house!” exclaimed Mr. Jerningham. “After all, my handsome +young student will turn out to be the self-educated son or nephew of my +housekeeper,” he thought, not without some slight sense of vexation; +for he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> had been studying the young man’s profile, and had given him +credit for patrician blood on the strength of the delicate modelling of +nose and chin.</p> + +<p>“No; not at the great house. I live with M. de Bergerac, at the Grange.”</p> + +<p>“You live with De Bergerac! You are not his—no, he has no son.”</p> + +<p>“I have the honour to be his secretary.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! and an Englishman! Has De Bergerac turned political agitator, +or Orleanist conspirator, that he must needs have a secretary?”</p> + +<p>“No; it is my privilege to assist M. de Bergerac in the preparation of +a great literary work.”</p> + +<p>“I am pleased to hear you speak as if you valued that privilege, my +young friend,” said Mr. Jerningham, with more warmth than was usual to +him.</p> + +<p>“I do indeed prize it more highly than anything on earth,” answered the +young man; and as he said this, his face flushed crimson to the roots +of his hair.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span></p> + +<p>“Why the deuce does he blush like a girl when I say something commonly +civil to him?” thought Mr. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“You speak as if you knew M. de Bergerac,” said the student, presently.</p> + +<p>“I do know him. He is the best friend I have in the world.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, then, I believe I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Jerningham, +the owner of this place?”</p> + +<p>“You do enjoy that supreme bliss; I am Mr. Jerningham; and now, as you +have guessed my name, perhaps you will tell me yours.”</p> + +<p>“My name is Eustace Thorburn.”</p> + +<p>“And why the deuce does he blush like a girl when he tells me his +name?” thought Mr. Jerningham, taking note of a second crimson flush +that came and went upon the brow and cheek of the student.</p> + +<p>“And my good friend is well and happy?” he asked, presently.</p> + +<p>“Very well, very cheerful. Shall I hurry back to the Grange, and tell +him you have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> arrived, Mr. Jerningham? I have heard him speak of you +so much, and I know what a pleasure it will be to him to hear of your +coming.”</p> + +<p>“And it will be a pleasure to me to announce it with my own lips. You +must not come between me and my pleasures, Mr.—Mr. Thorburn; they are +very few.”</p> + +<p>“Believe me, I should be sorry to do so,” replied Eustace, as the two +men bowed and parted; Mr. Jerningham to walk on towards the house, +Eustace to resume his lonely ramble.</p> + +<p>“You would be sorry? Not you!” mused the owner of Greenlands, as he +walked slowly along the pathway that was so thickly strewn with dead +leaves. “What does youth care how it tramples on the hopes of the old? +When I refused the young bride my father and mother had chosen for me, +and the alliance that had been the fairest dream they had woven for my +future, what heed had I for the bitterness of their disappointment? The +girl<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> was pretty, and true and innocent, the daughter of a nobler house +than mine, and the beloved of my kindred; but she was not——. Well; +she was not Ægeria; she was not the mystic nymph of an enchanted grot; +she was only an amiable young lady whom I had known from childhood, +and about whom some mischievous demon had whispered into my ear the +hateful fact that she was intended for me. I met my Ægeria after; and +what came of it? Ah, me! that our brightest dreams must end so coldly! +Numa’s nymph came to him only in the evening; and perhaps there are +few men who could retain the fervour of their devotion for an Ægeria +of all day long, and to-morrow, and the day after, and the day after +that again. And then your mortal Ægeria has such a capacity for tears. +A cold look, a hasty word, an accidental reference to the past, a hint +of the uncertainty of the future—and the nymph is transformed into a +waterfall. It is the fable of Hippocrene over again; but the fount is +not so revivifying as that classic spring.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span></p> + +<p>From thinking of his own past, Mr. Jerningham fell to musing upon +Eustace Thorburn’s future.</p> + +<p>“He has that which all the lands of the Jerninghams could not buy for +me, were I free to barter them,” he said to himself, bitterly: “youth +and hope, youth and hope! Will he waste both treasures as I wasted +them, I wonder? I think not. He has a thoughtfulness and gravity +of expression that promise well for his future. And how his face +brightens when he smiles! Was I ever so handsome as that, I wonder, +in the days when the world called me—dangerous? No, never! At its +best, my face wanted the earnestness that is the highest charm of +his. Why do I compare myself with him? Because I have ended life just +as he is beginning it, I suppose. The Alpha and the Omega meet, and +Omega is jealous of his fair young rival. How little the landscape +has changed since I was like that youngster yonder, newly returned +from Oxford, with my head crammed with the big talk of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> Greek orators +and the teaching of Greek sophists, eager to exhaust the delights of +the universe in the shortest period possible; eager to gather all the +flowers of youth and manhood, so as to leave the great Sahara of middle +age without a blossom! And the flowers have been gathered and have +faded, and have been thrown away, and the great Sahara remains entirely +barren. No, not entirely; there is at least one solitary leaflet—one +poor little pale blossom—my friendship for De Bergerac.”</p> + +<p>Musing thus, the owner of Greenlands turned aside from that solemn +avenue, at the end of which there frowned upon him the noble red-brick +dwelling-house of England’s Augustine era. He had no desire to reënter +that stately abode, where the plump goddesses and nymphs of Kneller +disported themselves upon the domed ceilings, and where the twelve +Cæsars in black marble scowled upon him from their niches in the +circular entrance-hall. Solomon himself could have been no more weary +of the vineyards he had planted—and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> vines of one’s own planting are +at best but poor creatures—than was Mr. Jerningham of Sir Godfrey’s +nymphs and the scowling Cæsars.</p> + +<p>“And Cleopatra once tolerated one of <i>ces messieurs</i>,” he had said +to himself sometimes, as he looked round the grand, gloomy chamber. +“Cleopatra, the <i>espiègle</i>, the despotic, the Semiramis of Egypt, +the Mary Stuart of the Nile, the Ninon of the ancient world.”</p> + +<p>Between the great avenue and the Queen Anne mansion there stretched +the stiff walks of an Italian garden, and across this Mr. Jerningham +went to a gate, which opened into the woodiest part of the park. A +narrow path across this woody region brought him to the boundary of +M. de Bergerac’s territory, protected by a six-foot holly-hedge, more +formidable than any wall ever fashioned by mortal builder.</p> + +<p>A gate cut in this hedge opened into the quaint old flower-garden, and +through this gate Mr. Jerningham went to visit his friend, after having +passed unknown and unnoticed beneath<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> the shadow of the house in which +he had been born.</p> + +<p>“‘’Tis sweet to hear the watchdog’s honest bark bay deep-mouthed +welcome—as we draw near home,’” Mr. Jerningham said to himself; “but +it is not quite so sweet when the watchdog rushes out of his kennel, +possessed with an evident thirst for one’s blood, as that old mastiff +yonder rushed at me just now. Every traveller is not a Belisarius. +Ah, here we are! there is the pretty old-fashioned lawn, with its +flower-beds and evergreens, and there the low rambling cottage in which +Jack Fermor, the bailiff, used to live when I was a boy. I remember +going to him one summer morning to get my fishing-tackle mended, when +I was a lad at Eton. Yes, this looks like a home! Dear old Theodore! I +shall be content if he is only half as glad to see me as I shall be to +see him.”</p> + +<p>The returning traveller found the door under the thatched porch +unsecured by bolt or bar. In the heart of Greenlands Park no one ever<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> +thought of bolting a door. But the inmates of the Grange were not +without their guardians. An enormous black dog sprang forth to meet the +stranger as he approached the threshold, formidable as the dragon whose +fiery eyes glared upon the luckless companions of Cadmus.</p> + +<p>Happily for Mr. Jerningham, the faithful animal was under admirable +control. After giving utterance to one low growl, that sounded a +warning rather than a threat, he surveyed the intruder with a critical +eye, and sniffed at him with a suspicious sniff; and then, being +satisfied that the master of Greenlands was not a member of the +dangerous classes, he drew politely aside and permitted the visitor to +enter.</p> + +<p>The door of the drawing-room was wide open, and a cheerful fire burning +in the low grate lighted the pleasant picture of a young lady seated at +a table reading, with books and writing materials scattered about her.</p> + +<p>It was nine years since Harold Jerningham had seen his friend, and it +was rather difficult<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> for him to realize the fact that this young lady +could by any possibility be the same individual he remembered in the +shape of a pretty, fair-haired child, roaming about the gardens with an +ugly mongrel-puppy in her arms, and to whom he had promised the finest +dog that Newfoundland could produce.</p> + +<p>He had remembered his promise, though he had forgotten the fair young +damsel to whom the pledge was given. Hephæstus was the animal imported +at the command of Mr. Jerningham. He had been brought to Greenlands a +puppy, with big clumsy head and paws, and an all-pervading sleepiness +of aspect, and he had flourished and waxed strong under the loving care +of Helen, who was fondly attached to him.</p> + +<p>The visitor’s light footstep scarcely sounded on the carpeted floor, +but a warning “yap” from Hephæstus proclaimed the advent of a stranger. +Helen rose to receive her father’s guest, and welcomed him with a smile +and a blush.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span></p> + +<p>“How these Berkshire people blush!” thought Mr. Jerningham; “it is the +veritable Arcadia. The inhabitants of Ardennes were not more primitive. +Indeed, Rosalind was the most <i>rusée</i> of coquettes compared to +this young lady.”</p> + +<p>“What a delightful surprise, Mr. Jerningham!” said Helen, with a frank +smile; “papa will be so pleased to see you.”</p> + +<p>“Then you remember me, Mademoiselle de Bergerac, after so long an +interval—an interval that has changed you so much that I could +scarcely believe my little playfellow of the garden had grown into this +tall young lady?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, yes, indeed; I remember you perfectly. The time has changed you +very little. And I should have been most ungrateful if I had forgotten +you after your kindness.”</p> + +<p>“My kindness——?”</p> + +<p>“In sending me Hephæstus—the Newfoundland puppy, you know. Papa +christened him Hephæstus on account of his blackness. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> has grown +such a noble, faithful creature, and we all love him so dearly.”</p> + +<p>“You all love him? Has your dog so many friends as that emphatic ‘all’ +implies?” asked Mr. Jerningham, wonderingly.</p> + +<p>“I mean myself and papa, and papa’s secretary, Mr. Thorburn.”</p> + +<p>The girl stopped suddenly, and this time it was a very vivid blush +which dyed her fair young face, for it seemed to her that the eyes of +her father’s friend were fixed upon her with a pitiless scrutiny.</p> + +<p>“Oh, now,” thought the master of Greenlands, “I begin to understand why +that young man blushed when he spoke of the privilege involved in his +position here.”</p> + +<p>He glanced at the open book which lay under Mademoiselle de Bergerac’s +hand, and was surprised to perceive that it was a duplicate of the +volume he had seen in the hands of the student in the park.</p> + +<p>“You read Greek, Mdlle. de Bergerac?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, papa taught me a little Greek ever so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span> long ago. Will you not +call me Helen, please? I should like it so much better.”</p> + +<p>“I shall be much honoured if you will permit me to do so. And you are +reading Plato, I see. Is he not rather a difficult author for a young +student in Greek?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he seems rather difficult, but I get a great deal of help. I am +reading the Phædo with Mr. Thorburn, who is working very hard at the +classics. I believe he means to try for his degree by and by, when he +leaves papa. He has a German degree already, but he seems to think that +worth very little. I think he is rather ambitious.”</p> + +<p>“He seems to be altogether a wonderful person, this Mr. Thorburn.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, he is very clever—at least, papa says so, and you know papa is +very well able to form a judgment on that point. And papa likes him +exceedingly.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! and has he been long established here—domiciled with you, in +his post of secretary?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> + +<p>“He has been with us about four months.”</p> + +<p>“May I ask where your father picked him up—by whose recommendation he +came here?”</p> + +<p>“It was Mr. Desmond who introduced him to papa,—Mr. Desmond, the +editor of the <i>Areopagus</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! that Mr. Desmond has a knack of obliging one.”</p> + +<p>“Papa has considered himself very fortunate in finding any one able +to take the warm interest which Mr. Thorburn takes in his book. It is +rather dry work, you know, Mr. Jerningham, verifying quotations in half +a dozen languages, and hunting out dates, and names, and all those +petty details which used to absorb so much of papa’s time when he was +without a secretary. Do you know that Mr. Thorburn has often travelled +to London and back in the same day, in order to consult some book or +manuscript in the British Museum; and he has taught himself Sanscrit +since he has been with us, in the hope of making himself still more +useful to papa.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span></p> + +<p>The young lady’s face glowed with enthusiasm as she said this. To do +service for her father was to win the highest claim upon her gratitude. +Mr. Jerningham looked at her with a half-smile of amusement, which was +not without some shade of bitterness.</p> + +<p>“I have no doubt Mr. Thorburn is an inestimable treasure,” he said, +coldly. “I know a little humpbacked German who is a perfect prodigy of +learning—a man who is master of all the dialects of India, and has the +Râmâyana at his fingers’ ends. I am sure he would have been very glad +to perform Mr. Thorburn’s duties for half the money my friend gives +that ambitious young student; but my German is a perfect Quasimodo in +the matter of ugliness, and your papa might object to that.”</p> + +<p>“I will run to tell papa that you have arrived,” said Helen. “I know +what real pleasure the news will give him.”</p> + +<p>She left the room, and Mr. Jerningham remained for some minutes +standing by the table, with the volume of Platonic Dialogues open in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> +his hand, in the very attitude in which she had left him, profoundly +meditative of aspect.</p> + +<p>“How lovely she is!” he said to himself. “Has this Berkshire air the +property of making youth beautiful? That young Thorburn is a model for +a Greek sculptor, and she—she is as lovely as Phrynè, when Praxiteles +saw her returning from her sea-bath. And Mademoiselle and the secretary +are in love with each other. I arrive, like the <i>seigneur du +village</i> in a French operetta, just in time to assist in a little +Arcadian romance. I wonder that De Bergerac should be so absurdly +imprudent as to admit this man into his household. He is, no doubt, a +nameless adventurer, with nothing but his good looks and some amount of +education to recommend him. And he, perhaps, labours under the delusion +that our dear recluse is rich. I will take the opportunity of talking +to him to-morrow, and opening his eyes on that point. And I must take +Theodore to task for his folly. He is as proud as Lucifer, after his +own fashion, and would be the last of men to sanction the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> alliance of +his only child with an English adventurer.”</p> + +<p>It seemed as if Mr. Jerningham took somewhat kindly to his part of +<i>seigneur du village</i>, and was by no means inclined to the policy +of non-intervention in the affairs of these two young people. It may be +that, having so long been an actor in the great drama of human passion, +he could not resign himself all at once to the passive share of the +spectator, who applauds and delights in the youth and beauty, the joy +and the hope in which he has no longer an active interest. He knew that +it was time for him to fall back into the ranks, and see a new hero +lead the great procession; but he could not retire with the perfect +grace of a man who has played his part, and is content to know that the +part has been well played, and has come to a decent finish. The art +of growing old is the one accomplishment which the <i>beau garçon</i> +never acquires.</p> + +<p>For his own part, Harold Jerningham believed that he had retired with +a very decent<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> grace from that field in which his victories had been +so many. Prone though he was to anatomize the follies of himself and +other men, he had not learned the mystery of that vague sentiment of +bitterness and disappointment which had tinged his mind during the +later years of his life.</p> + +<p>He had taken existence lightly, and had taught himself to believe +that the ills of life which press most heavily on other men had left +him unscathed; but there were times in which the tide that carried +him along so pleasantly seemed all at once to come to a dead stop. +The rapid river was transformed into a dreary patch of stagnant +water, black with foul weeds, and poisonous with fatal miasmas; and +Mr. Jerningham was compelled to acknowledge that no man, of his own +election, can resign his share in the sorrows of humanity.</p> + +<p>He told himself very often that he had done with emotion, and that +life henceforth must be for him an affair of sensation only; his peace +of mind depended on the perfect adjustment of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> his <i>ménage</i> when +he was at home, and on the tact of his courier when he travelled. +But there were moments in which the subtle voice of his conscience +whispered that this was only one more among the many delusions of +his life. Thus, when circumstances transpired to prove that his +young wife’s heart had been given to another, even while her honour +was yet unsullied, he had arranged an immediate separation, with +the nonchalance of a man who settles the most trivial affair in the +business of life, fancying that he should escape thereby all those slow +agonies and bitter throes that are wont to rack the breasts of men who +find themselves compelled to part from their wives. But in this, as in +all other transactions of his existence, he had been the dupe of his +own selfish philosophy. The sting of his wife’s ingratitude was none +the less keen because he thrust her from him with a careless hand. +The sense of his own desolation was none the less intense because he +had not suffered himself to love the woman to whom he had given his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> +name. Even considered from a selfish man’s point of view, his Horatian +philosophy of indifference had been a failure. The fact that it had +been so, and that he might have lived a better life for himself in +living a little for other people, was just beginning to dawn upon him.</p> + +<p>One pure pleasure he was to taste on this day—the pleasure that +springs from real friendship. That one unselfish impulse which had +prompted him to provide a pleasant home for an old friend, won him an +ample return. Theodore de Bergerac’s welcome touched him to the heart. +It was so warm, so real, so different from the polished flatteries +he had been of late accustomed to receive, with a conventional smile +upon his lips and the bitterness of unspeakable scorn in his heart. To +this man, so courted, so flattered, it was a new thing to know himself +honestly loved.</p> + +<p>De Bergerac was delighted by his friend’s return.</p> + +<p>“I thought we were never to see you again,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> Jerningham,” he said, after +the first welcomes had been spoken, the first inquiries made; “and this +little girl here, has been so anxious to behold her benefactor. I think +she is more grateful to you for her big black dog than for the home +that has sheltered her since her birth.”</p> + +<p>And hereupon Helen blushed, and looked shyly downward to her friend +and worshipper, the Newfoundland. Mr. Jerningham began to think that +those maidenly blushes which he had observed while talking to the young +lady about her father’s secretary, were only the result of a certain +youthful bashfulness, very charming in a pretty girl, rather than an +indication of that tender secret which he had at first suspected.</p> + +<p>Helen looked first at the dog and then at her father, just a little +reproachfully.</p> + +<p>“As if I could ever be sufficiently grateful for my home, papa!” she +said; and then raising those innocent blue eyes to the visitor’s +face, she added, gently, “You can never imagine how papa and I love +Greenlands, Mr. Jerningham, or how grateful we are to you for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> our +beautiful home. I think it is the loveliest place in the whole world.”</p> + +<p>“And from such a traveller that opinion should stand for something,” +added her father, laughing at the girl’s enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“I am almost inclined to agree with Miss De Bergerac—with Helen, since +she has given me permission to call her Helen,” said Harold, with some +slight significance of tone; “I am inclined to think Greenlands the +loveliest place in the world.”</p> + +<p>“And yet you so rarely come to it, Mr. Jerningham!” cried Helen.</p> + +<p>“I did not know the power of its charm until to-day. A returning +wanderer is very sensitive to such impressions, you see, Helen.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I can fancy that. But you have been in very beautiful places. You +wrote to papa from Switzerland last year. Ah, how I envied you then!”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! you wish to see Switzerland?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! yes. Switzerland and Italy are just the two countries that I do +really languish to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> behold; the first for its beauty, the second for +its associations.”</p> + +<p>“Your father must contrive to take you to both countries.”</p> + +<p>“I think he would do so, perhaps, if it were not for his book. I could +not be so selfish as to take him away from that.”</p> + +<p>“But the book is near completion, is it not, De Bergerac?”</p> + +<p>The student shook his head rather despondently.</p> + +<p>“It is a subject that grows upon one,” he said, doubtfully; “my +material is all prepared, and the extent of it is something enormous. I +find the work of classification very laborious. Indeed, there have been +times when I should have well-nigh abandoned myself to despair, if it +had not been for my young coadjutor.”</p> + +<p>“Ah! yes; your secretary, the young fellow I met in the park—something +of a pedant and prig, is he not?”</p> + +<p>“Not the least in the world. He is a born poet.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p> + +<p>“Indeed!” cried Mr. Jerningham, with a sneer; “your pedant is a +nuisance, and your prig is a bore; but of all the insufferable +creatures in this world, your born poet is the worst.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t think you will dislike Eustace Thorburn when you come to +know him,” answered De Bergerac; “and I shall be very glad if you can +interest yourself in his career. He is highly gifted, and I believe +quite friendless.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham looked at Helen, curious to see how she was affected +by this conversation; but this time her face betrayed no emotion, and +in the next minute she quickly left the room, “on hospitable thoughts +intent,” and eager to hold counsel with the powers of the household. +Mr. Jerningham would, in all probability, dine at the cottage, and +weighty questions, involving a choice of fish and poultry, for the time +banished all other thoughts from the young lady’s mind.</p> + +<p>“Let me congratulate you upon being the father of that lovely girl,” +said Harold, when she was gone.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span></p> + +<p>“Yes, I suppose she is very pretty. Like a Madonna, by Raphael, is she +not? the <i>belle jardinière</i>, or the <i>Madone de la chaise</i>. +And she is as good as she is beautiful. Yes, I thank God for having +given me that dear child. Without her I should be only a bookish +abstraction; with her I am a happy man.”</p> + +<p>“Unluckily for you, the day must come when she will make the happiness +of some other man.”</p> + +<p>“Why unluckily? I do not suppose my daughter’s husband will refuse me a +corner by his fireside.”</p> + +<p>“That depends upon the kind of man he may be.”</p> + +<p>“She would scarcely choose the kind of man who would deny her father’s +right to take his place in her home; not as a dependant, but in the +simple Continental fashion, as a member of the household, with a due +share in all its responsibilities.”</p> + +<p>“You will, perhaps, arrange your daughter’s marriage in the Continental +fashion, and choose<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> her husband for her when the fitting time comes?”</p> + +<p>“By no means. I have scarcely ever contemplated the question. My dear +child is all in all to me; and it is just possible I may be a little +jealous of the man who shall divide her heart with me. But I will not +tamper with the ways of Providence in so solemn a question as her +happiness. She shall marry the man of her choice, be he rich or poor, +noble or simple.”</p> + +<p>“And if she should make a foolish choice?”</p> + +<p>“She will not make a foolish choice. She is the child of my own +teaching, and I will answer for her wisdom. She will be the dupe +of no falsehood, the victim of no artifice. She will never mistake +<i>clinquant</i> for gold.”</p> + +<p>“You are very bold, my dear De Bergerac. Certainly the young lady seems +the first remove from an angel; and I suppose the angels see all things +clearly. And now let us talk about your secretary. How did you pick him +up?”</p> + +<p>“He was recommended to me by Mr. Desmond, of the <i>Areopagus</i>. +I think you know<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> Mr. Desmond?” added the simple scholar, who lived +remote from those regions in which the Platonic attachment of the lady +and the editor was current gossip.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said Mr. Jerningham, briefly, “I know him. And he recommended +this young man—Thorburn? And now you must not be angry with me if I +seem impertinent. Do you think it was quite wise to admit this protégé +of Mr. Desmond’s to such very intimate association with your household?”</p> + +<p>“Why not?”</p> + +<p>“I suppose you happened to forget that you have a daughter?”</p> + +<p>Theodore de Bergerac flushed crimson to the temples.</p> + +<p>“Do you imagine that this young man would repay my confidence by a +clandestine courtship of my daughter, or that she would receive his +addresses?” he cried, indignantly.</p> + +<p>“My dear De Bergerac, far be it from me to imagine anything. I only +wish to suggest that it is rather foolish to bring a handsome<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> young +man, with a taste for poetry and a love for learning, and a very lovely +girl, more or less affected by the same tastes, into such intimate +association, unless you wish them to fall in love with each other.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I dare say you are right; I dare say I have acted foolishly,” +replied the student, thoughtfully. “But I really never looked at the +affair in that light; and then I have such perfect confidence in +Helen’s purity of mind, and in the soundness of her judgment. I am so +fully assured that no such thing as secresy could ever exist where +she is concerned. And then, again, as for this young Thorburn, I have +watched him closely, and I believe him to be all that is honourable and +excellent.”</p> + +<p>“You have not watched him with the eyes of worldly experience.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not; but I fancy there is an inner light better than a worldly +man’s wisdom. I would pledge myself for that young man’s honour and +honesty.”</p> + +<p>“The fact that he is such a paragon will<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> not prevent your daughter +from falling in love with him.”</p> + +<p>“No; it is just possible that she might become attached to him. I know +she likes and admires him; but I fancy she only does so on account of +his usefulness to me. However, the danger is incurred. I cannot dismiss +a faithful coadjutor hurriedly or abruptly; and I am really very much +interested in Eustace Thorburn. I believe there is the fire of real +genius in all he does; and to my mind real genius must secure ultimate +success.”</p> + +<p>“Surely Chatterton’s was genius?”</p> + +<p>“Undoubtedly; and Chatterton must have succeeded if he had been +patient; but genius without patience is the flame without the oil. I +believe there is a bright career before Eustace Thorburn; and if I knew +that my daughter and he loved each other, earnestly and truly, I would +not be the man to stand between them and say, ‘It shall not be.’”</p> + +<p>“How much do you know of Mr. Thorburn’s antecedents?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span></p> + +<p>“Not very much. I know that he was educated at a great public school +in Belgium, and for the last few years was a tutor in the same school. +His mother seems to have been a widow from an early period. She died a +few weeks before he came to me. He speaks of her very rarely, but with +extreme tenderness. Of his father he never speaks.”</p> + +<p>“He has no doubt excellent reasons for such reticence. In plain +English, my dear De Bergerac, I take it that your young favourite is an +adventurer.”</p> + +<p>“He is an adventurer who has earned his bread by the exercise of his +intellect since he was seventeen years of age,” answered De Bergerac. +“I have seen his testimonials, signed by the powers of the Parthenée +at Villebrumeuse, and I need no man’s attestation of his honour and +honesty. You are prejudiced against him, my dear Harold.”</p> + +<p>“I am prejudiced against all the world except you, Theodore,” replied +the master of Greenlands, with some touch of feeling.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span></p> + +<p>There was a certain amount of truth in this sweeping assertion. This +man, to whom fortune had been so liberal, had of late abandoned himself +to a spirit of bitterness that involved all men and all things. But +of all things hateful to this weary sybarite, the most hateful was +the insolence of youth and hope, the glory of that morning sunshine +which must shine on him no more. It may be that in his jaundiced eyes +Eustace had seemed to wear his bright young manhood with a certain air +of insolence, to blazon the freshness and sunlight of life’s morning +before the jaded traveller hastening down the westward-sloping hill +that leads to the realms of night. However this was, Mr. Jerningham +was evidently disposed to be captious and argumentative on the subject +of his friend’s secretary. Theodore de Bergerac, perceiving this, +contrived to change the drift o the conversation. He talked of his +book; and Mr. Jerningham, who was faintly interested in all literary +questions, expressed a really warm interest in this one labour. He +talked of old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> acquaintances, old associations; and the smile of the +wanderer brightened with unwonted animation.</p> + +<p>It was four o’clock when dinner was announced. The two men had +been talking so pleasantly, that it was only by the deepening of +the afternoon shadows they knew the progress of time. The little +dining-room was bright with the light of moderator-lamps on table and +sideboard, when Mr. Jerningham and his host entered.</p> + +<p>Helen stood waiting for them in the soft lamplight, with Eustace +Thorburn by her side.</p> + +<p>“Neither Mr. Thorburn nor I would come into the drawing-room to disturb +your talk, papa,” she said. “He has been giving me my Greek lesson by +the fire in here, while Sarah laid the cloth. You should see how she +stares when we come to the sonorous words. I am sure she thinks we are +a little out of our minds. You are to sit opposite papa, if you please, +Mr. Jerningham. I hope you won’t dislike dining at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> this early hour. We +generally dine at three; and a really late dinner would have frightened +our cook.”</p> + +<p>“My dear Helen, I have eaten nothing to-day, and am as hungry as a +hunter. If you are going to make excuses, it must be for not having +given us our dinner at three. How pretty your table looks, with that +old Indian bowl of cream-coloured china asters and scarlet geraniums!”</p> + +<p>“They are from one of the greenhouses at the great house. The gardeners +are very good to me, and allow me as many flowers as a like, when our +own dear little garden is exhausted.”</p> + +<p>“They should be no gardeners of mine if they were otherwise than good +to you.—How do you do, once more, Mr. Thorburn?” added the master of +Greenlands, looking across the table at the secretary, who had quietly +seated himself in his accustomed place. “I did not think we should dine +together when I came upon you this morning in the park.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span></p> + +<p>This was an extreme concession on the part of Mr. Jerningham. As the +two men faced each other in the lamplight, Theodore de Bergerac looked +at them with an expression of surprise.</p> + +<p>“Did nothing strike you this morning, Jerningham, when you first saw +Mr. Thorburn?” he asked, smiling.</p> + +<p>“A great many things struck me. But what especial thing should have +struck me, that you know of, my dear De Bergerac?”</p> + +<p>“The likeness of your own youth. It really seems to me that there is +something of a resemblance between you and Thorburn.”</p> + +<p>“I did not perceive it,” said Mr. Jerningham, with a coolness of tone +that was not flattering to the younger man.</p> + +<p>“Nor did I,” added the secretary, promptly.</p> + +<p>This was a kind of preliminary passage-at-arms between the two men, who +seemed foredoomed to be enemies in the great conflict of life.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p> + +<p>“Well, I suppose every one sees these things with a different eye,” +said De Bergerac; “but really I fancy there is some likeness between +you two.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II.<br> +MISS ST. ALBANS BREAKS HER ENGAGEMENT.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>AMID the many distractions of an editorial life, Mr. Desmond contrived +to remember the promise made to his old tutor. He proved the warmth of +his interest in Miss Alford’s dramatic career by an immediate appeal +to the genial manager of the Theatre Royal, Pall Mall, and received +in reply Mr. Hartstone’s assurance that the first vacancy in the +young-lady department should be placed at Miss St. Albans’ disposal.</p> + +<p>“Bovisbrook has just sent me a charming little adaptation of +<i>Côtelettes sautées chez Vefour</i>,” wrote Mr. Hartstone, in +conclusion; “and as I find there are six young ladies in the +caste—<i>ces dames</i> of the Quartier Breda, I believe, in the +original, but very cleverly transmogrified by Bovisbrook into +school-girls from a Peckham<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> academy, who go to dine with an old +West-Indian uncle at Verey’s—I think I could manage to find an +engagement for Miss St. Albans as early as March, when my Christmas +burlesque will have had its run.”</p> + +<p>“As early as March!” said Mr. Desmond, as he read this letter; “and +what is to become of that poor stage-struck little girl between this +and March? Well, I suppose she can go back to Market Deeping, and shine +as Pauline and Juliet, until the <i>côtelettes sautées</i> piece is +produced.”</p> + +<p>Having received a favourable reply from the lessee of the Pall Mall, +Mr. Desmond’s next duty was to communicate its contents to the +expectant father and daughter. At first, he thought of enclosing +Hartstone’s friendly epistle, with a few lines from himself; but, on +reflection, he decided against this plan of action.</p> + +<p>“Lucy might form exaggerated expectations from Hartstone’s letter,” he +said to himself. “I think I had better see her.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p> + +<p>There were no parties in Mr. Desmond’s world just now. Every one +worthy of a fashionable editor’s consideration was out of town, and +the gentleman had his evenings to himself. It was over his solitary +dinner-table that Mr. Desmond arrived at this conclusion; and it was to +the Oxford Road Theatre that he bent his steps after dinner, knowing +that he was most likely to find Lucy Alford there.</p> + +<p>The play was “The Stranger.” He went into the dingy dress-circle for +half an hour, and saw Mrs. Haller play her penitent scene with the +Countess. Miss St. Albans looked very pretty as she grovelled at the +feet of her kindly patroness, dressed in white muslin which was in the +last stage of limpness, and with a penitential white-lace cap upon her +girlish head. He waited patiently through the rest of the play, and +went to the green-room after the last dismal scene, impressed with the +conviction that Lucy Alford was one of the dearest and prettiest of +girls, but not yet on the high-road to becoming a Siddons.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> + +<p>He found poor little Mrs. Haller alone in the green-room, with a book +in her hand, and with a very plaintive expression of countenance. She +brightened a little on recognizing the visitor; but while shaking hands +with her, Mr. Desmond perceived that her eyes were red, as with much +weeping.</p> + +<p>“I did not think you felt the character so deeply,” he said; “those +real tears are a very good sign for a young actress.”</p> + +<p>Lucy shook her head, despondently.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t that,” she said; “I-I-was c-c-crying bec-c-cause I am n-not +to play J-J-J-Julia!”</p> + +<p>Hereupon she fairly broke down and sobbed aloud, to the consternation +of Mr. Desmond, who did not know how to console this poor weeping +maiden. The sight of a woman’s tears was always very painful to +him; and for this young childlike creature he felt a pity that was +especially tender.</p> + +<p>“My dear little girl,” he said, “pray don’t cry. Tell me all about this +business. Who is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> Julia?—what is Julia?—and why are you not to play +Julia?”</p> + +<p>“It’s Julia in the “Hunchback”—Sheridan Knowles’s “Hunchback,” +you know,” replied Miss St. Albans, conquering her emotion with a +stupendous effort, and telling her story with a most piteous air. “I +was looking forward so to playing that very part. I played Juliet at +Market Deeping, you know, and the <i>Deeping Advertiser</i> said the +kindest things about me,—that I reminded him of Miss O’Neill—though +I can’t exactly imagine how the critic on the <i>Advertiser</i> could +remember Miss O’Neill’s acting, as he is not yet nineteen years of age. +And I have such pretty dresses for Julia—a silver-gray silk, that was +poor mamma’s wedding-dress, and is not so <i>very</i> scanty, as I wear +it looped up over a white muslin petticoat, in the King Charles style, +you know. And just when I was so pleased at the idea that the piece +was going to be done, Mr. de Mortemar came to me and told me, quite +cruelly, that I am not to play Julia. And there is a young lady coming<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> +to play the part—at least, she is not very young—an amateur lady, who +comes in a brougham with two horses, and whose dresses, they say, cost +hundreds of pounds.”</p> + +<p>“An amateur lady! That is rather curious. And why does Mr. de Mortemar +wish that she should play Julia?”</p> + +<p>“Mr. Johnson says she will pay him a great deal of money for the +privilege. The houses have been, oh, so bad, and Mr. de Mortemar is +very angry to find he doesn’t draw. He says there’s a cabal against +him.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! And this amateur lady comes to his relief, with her dresses +that cost hundreds of pounds! I should have thought that an amateur +lady, who keeps her brougham and pair, would scarcely care to make her +<i>début</i> at the Oxford Road Theatre. Have you seen this lady?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. She has been to rehearsal; and she has been here in the evening +to see the call for the next day. I dare say she will come this +evening. She is very haughty, and takes no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> more notice of me than if +I were the ground under her feet; and, oh, you should see the heels of +her boots!”</p> + +<p>“She must be a vulgar, presuming person, in spite of her boots and her +brougham. But if I were you, I should not trouble myself at all about +her or the character she is to play. It will only be one leaf stolen +from your laurels.”</p> + +<p>He said this with a smile, in which there was some shade of sadness. +There was something very sad to his eyes in the spectacle of this +girlish struggler in the great battle of life, and in the thought of +that frail foundation whereon her hopes rested.</p> + +<p>“She never can be a great actress, with such poor opportunities as +she can have,” he said to himself; “and she will go on from year to +year hoping against hope, patiently enduring the same drudgery, living +down perpetual disappointments, until some day, when she is sixty +years of age, she will break her heart all at once because some petty +provincial<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> manager refuses her the <i>rôle</i> of Juliet, after she +has played it for forty years, like the actress in the old story. Poor +little Lucy! She is not the kind of woman before whose indomitable +courage all obstacles must succumb. She was made to be happy in a +bright home.”</p> + +<p>“Hark!” cried the young lady of whom he was thinking, “there is Miss +Ida Courtenay talking to Mr. de Mortemar.”</p> + +<p>“Miss Ida Courtenay?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; the amateur lady who is to play Julia.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, indeed! her name is Ida Courtenay; and she comes to the theatre +in her brougham, and wears unimaginable heels to her boots. I think a +Cuvier of social science might describe the species of the lady from +those particulars.”</p> + +<p>Lucy only stared on hearing this remark, which was not intended for her +comprehension.</p> + +<p>“At eleven!” cried a loud, coarse voice without; “quite impossible. I +shall be engaged till one. You must call the “Hunchback” at half-past +one.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span></p> + +<p>“It will be rather inconvenient,” murmured the brilliant De Mortemar, +in a respectful, nay even obsequious tone of voice.</p> + +<p>“Oh, bother your inconvenience! The piece must be rehearsed at +half-past one, or not at all, as far as I am concerned. <i>I</i> don’t +want a rehearsal. It’s for your people the rehearsal is wanted. I’m +sure your Helen is such an abominable stick that I expect to be cut up +in my scenes with her, if I don’t take care.”</p> + +<p>“Oh!” cried Miss Alford, with a little gasp.</p> + +<p>“Who is the lady that plays Helen so badly?” asked Mr. Desmond.</p> + +<p>“It’s—it’s I who am to play Helen,” exclaimed poor Lucy. “Isn’t it +shameful of her to say that? I was letter-perfect yesterday when we +rehearsed—I was, indeed, Mr. Desmond. And Miss Courtenay read her part +all through the piece. And now she says—oh, it’s really too bad—”</p> + +<p>A mighty rushing sound, as of a Niagara of moire antique, heralded the +approach of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> lady in question, who bounced into the green-room, +and swept past Mr. Desmond with the air of a Semiramis in high-heeled +boots. She was a tall stalwart personage of about thirty-five years +of age, and she was as handsome as rouge, pearl-powder, painted lips, +painted nostrils, painted eyelids, painted eyebrows, and a liberal +supply of false hair could make her. The share that nature had in her +beauty was limited to a pair of fierce black eyes, which might have +been sufficiently large and lustrous without the aid of Indian ink or +belladonna; and the outline of a figure which the masculine critic +usually denominates “fine.” Mauve moire antique, a white-lace burnous, +and a bonnet from the Burlington Arcade, did the rest; and the general +result was a very resplendent creature, of a type which has become +too familiar to the eyes of English citizens and citizenesses in this +latter half of the nineteenth century.</p> + +<p>Towards this lady Mr. de Mortemar’s manner exhibited a deference which +was somewhat<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> surprising, and not a little displeasing, to the editor +of the <i>Areopagus</i>.</p> + +<p>“Good evening, sir,” said the provincial Roscius, on perceiving +Laurence. “I am gratified to find you again a witness of our +performance. You will have observed a wide difference of style between +my Claude and my Stranger. Those two characters mark, if I may be +permitted the expression, the opposite poles of my dramatic sphere. +Claude, the lover, belongs to my torrid zone; Steinforth, the outraged +husband, locked in the icy armour of his pride—snow-bound, as I may +say, by the bitter drift of woe—is my polar region. I venture to hope +that you were struck by the different phases of passion in my silent +recognition of Mrs. Haller. My provincial critics have been good enough +to assure me that the whole gamut of emotional feeling is run by me in +that situation.”</p> + +<p>“I fear that I am scarcely qualified to form a judgment upon your +acting, Mr. de Mortemar,” the editor replied, very coldly; “I was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> +not very attentive to the performance this evening. I came to the +theatre only to see Miss Al—Miss St. Albans—whose father is one of my +earliest friends. I am sorry to find that she has reason to consider +herself somewhat ill-used by your stage-manager in the matter of a +certain caste of the <i>Hunchback</i>.”</p> + +<p>The attention of Miss Ida Courtenay had, until this moment, been +occupied by some official documents stuck against a little board upon +the mantelpiece; but on hearing these words pronounced in a very +audible manner by Mr. Desmond, she turned abruptly, and glared at that +gentleman with all the ferocity of which her fine eyes were capable. +She lived among people with whom this kind of glare generally proved +effective, and she expected to subjugate Mr. Desmond as easily as it +was her wont to subjugate the weak-minded individuals with whom she +consorted.</p> + +<p>She found, to her mortification, that in this case she had glared in +vain. The editor of the <i>Areopagus</i> did not flinch before the +angry<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> glances of this Semiramis of Lodge Road, but calmly awaited Mr. +de Mortemar’s explanation.</p> + +<p>“I am my own stage-manager,” replied that gentleman, with offended +majesty; “and I have yet to learn by what right Miss St. Albans +considers herself ill-treated in this theatre. This is not the return +which I expected from a young lady for whom my influence alone could +have secured a hearing from a London audience.”</p> + +<p>“Pray do not let us have any high-flown talk of that kind, Mr. de +Mortemar,” said Laurence, with some slight impatience of tone. “I +am quite sure that you would not have engaged Miss St. Albans if it +had not suited you to do so. I believe you engaged her for what is +technically called leading business—the whole of the leading business.”</p> + +<p>“There was no written engagement. I offered to engage Miss St. Albans, +and she was only too glad to accept my offer. Until this time she has +played the complete range of leading characters.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span></p> + +<p>“Indeed! Then, as there is no formal engagement, and as you have found +a lady who wishes to supersede Miss St. Albans, I suppose there can be +no objection to this young lady’s withdrawal from your company?”</p> + +<p>Lucy looked terribly alarmed by this speech.</p> + +<p>“I—I wouldn’t inconvenience Mr. de Mortemar for the world,” she +faltered; but Laurence would not allow her to say more.</p> + +<p>“You must let me act for you in this matter, Miss Alford,” he said. +“As I am your father’s friend, and as I am rather more experienced in +theatrical matters than he is, I shall venture to take this affair +into my own hands. You may consider yourself free to cast your pieces +without reference to this young lady, Mr. de Mortemar; she will not +again act in your theatre.”</p> + +<p>“But she must act in my theatre!” cried the infuriated tragedian. “Do +you suppose you are to come here interfering with my arrangements, and +taking away my actresses, in this manner? You ignore me in your paper, +and then you<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> come and insult me in my green-room. Really, this is a +little too bad!”</p> + +<p>“I think some of your arrangements are a little too bad, Mr. de +Mortemar. I will be answerable for any legal penalty you may be able +to inflict upon Miss St. Albans, whose engagement I hold to be no +engagement at all. For the rest, you have Miss Courtenay, who will, no +doubt, be delighted to play a round of characters.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, indeed!” cried that lady, with ironical politeness; “you’re +monstrously wise about other people’s business, upon my word, sir. But, +though I’ve seen a good deal of cool impudence in my life, I never +witnessed cooler impudence than I’ve seen in this room to-night. If +you knew what you were talking about, you’d know that I play Julia in +the <i>Hunchback</i>, and Constance in the <i>Love-Chase</i>, and play +nothing else. My dresses for those two characters were made for me by +Madame Carabine Nourrisson, of Paris, and I should be sorry to tell you +what they cost.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span></p> + +<p>“I should be very sorry to hear it. I am too much of a political +economist not to regret that money should be spent in that way. +However, as you like the cream of the drama so much, Miss Courtenay, +would it not be as well to try a little of the skim-milk? If you really +want to be an actress, you cannot do better than extend your experience +by some of the drudgery that Miss St. Albans has so industriously gone +through.”</p> + +<p>“If I want to be an actress!” cried the outraged lady. “And pray who +may have told you that I want to be an actress?”</p> + +<p>“If that is not your design, <i>que diable venez-vous faire dans cette +galère</i>?”</p> + +<p>“I don’t understand Latin, and I don’t want to,” replied the fair Ida, +with a venemous look at Mr. Desmond; “but I beg to tell you that I am a +lady of independent means, and that I act for my own amusement, and the +amusement of my friends.”</p> + +<p>“I have no doubt of the latter fact,” murmured Laurence, politely.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span></p> + +<p>“And I have no intention whatever of sinking to a poor, weak, +trodden-down drudge, in limp white muslin, like some actresses I could +mention.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed, Miss Courtenay! And are you aware that it is you, and ladies +of your class, who bring discredit upon the profession which you +condescend to take up for the amusement of your idle evenings? It +is this—amateur—element which contaminates the atmosphere of our +theatres, and the manager who fosters it is an enemy to the interests +he is bound to protect.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, indeed!” exclaimed Miss Courtenay, who was very weak in a +conversational tussle, where neither fierce looks nor strong language +were admissible. And then, finding herself powerless against her +unknown assailant, she turned with Medea-like ferocity upon the injured +and innocent Manager. “I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. de Mortemar,” she +cried; “since you are so mean-spirited as to let me be insulted in this +manner, I beg you to understand<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> that I shall never enter your theatre +again—no, Mr. de Mortemar, not if you were to go down on your knees to +me. And you may find some one else to play Julia, and you may let your +private boxes yourself, if you can, which I know you can’t; and I have +the honour to wish you good evening.”</p> + +<p>Hereupon Miss Courtenay swept out of the room. And thus it happened +that at one fell swoop Mr. de Mortemar was deprived of both his +heroines, much to his discomfiture; but not to his entire annihilation. +The unconquerable force of conscious genius supported him in this +extremity.</p> + +<p>“I can send on my walking-lady and second-chambermaid for Julia and +Helen,” he said to himself. “After all, what does it matter how the +women’s parts are played? The feature of the play is my Master Walter; +and I don’t suppose the audience would care what sticks I put in the +other characters.”</p> + +<p>This is how he consoled himself in the seclusion of his dressing-room, +whither he retired,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> after bestowing upon Mr. Desmond a scathing look, +but no words of reproach. The editor of the <i>Areopagus</i> was a +person whom an embryo Kean could hardly afford to offend.</p> + +<p>Lucy Alford departed to change the penitential white muslin of Mrs. +Haller for the well-worn merino dress and dark shawl and bonnet in +which she came to the theatre. Before doing so, she told Mr. Desmond +that it was her father’s habit to wait for her every evening at +the close of the performance in the immediate neighbourhood of the +stage-door.</p> + +<p>“Then I will go and wait there with him,” said Mr. Desmond. “I must +excuse myself to him for the liberty I have taken in breaking your +engagement, and explain my motive for taking that liberty. I’m sure +your father will approve my reasons for acting as I did.”</p> + +<p>“I’m sure of that,” answered Lucy; and then she blushed, as she added, +falteringly, “I scarcely think you would like to go to the place where +papa waits for me; it is a kind of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> public-house, two doors from the +theatre. The gentlemen of the company go there a good deal, and as papa +finds it so very dull in the dress-circle when the play is over, he is +obliged to go there.”</p> + +<p>“I am not at all afraid of going there in search of him. I shall not +say good-night until I have seen you comfortably seated in your cab.”</p> + +<p>“You are very kind; but on fine nights we generally walk home. Papa +likes the walk.”</p> + +<p>She blushed as she said this; and the blush smote the very heart of +Laurence Desmond. It was not the first time that he had seen those +fair young cheeks crimsoned by that shame of the sinless—the sense of +poverty; and the thought of those trials and humiliations which this +gentle, innocent, tender creature had to bear touched him deeply.</p> + +<p>He thought of the women he met in his own world—women who would have +uttered a shriek of horror at the idea of walking in the streets of +London at any hour of the day, to say<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> nothing of the night; and here +was this poor child walking every night from one end of London to the +other, after mental and physical fatigue which would have prostrated +those other women for a week. He thought of the extravagance, the +exaction, the egotism, which he had seen in the women he met in +society; and he asked himself how many among the brightest and best of +those he knew were as pure and true as this girl, for whom the present +was so hard a slavery, the future so dark an enigma.</p> + +<p>He left the theatre, and found that the establishment of which she +had spoken as “a kind of public-house,” was an actual public-house, +and nothing else. He went in at that quieter and more aristocratic +portal on which the mystic phrase “Jugs and Bottles” was inscribed; +but even here he found a select circle engaged in the consumption of +gin-and-bitters. He inquired for Mr. St. Albans—concluding that the +gentleman would be best known by his daughter’s professional alias—and +the old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> man speedily emerged from a parlour where some noisy gentlemen +were playing bagatelle.</p> + +<p>The old tutor was not a little disconcerted on beholding Laurence +Desmond, and faltered a feeble apology as the two men went out into the +street together.</p> + +<p>“I am obliged to wait somewhere, you see, Desmond,” he said. “I +can’t stand Harry Bestow in the farces; and I can’t hang about the +green-room; Mortemar doesn’t like it. So I take a glass of bitter ale +in there. The Prince of Wales is a regular theatrical house, and one +hears all sorts of news about the West-end theatres.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond wondered that the bitter ale dispensed at the Prince of +Wales should perfume the breath of the consumer with so powerful an +odour of gin. He gave no expression to this wonder, however, but +proceeded to relate what he had done in the green-room.</p> + +<p>“Yes, very right, very right, Desmond,” said Tristram Alford, rather +despondently, when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> he had heard all. “My little Lucy ought not to act +with such a woman as that; and she can go back to Market Deeping for +the new year. The journey will be expensive—but——”</p> + +<p>“You must let me arrange that little matter in my own way,” Laurence +said, kindly. “I can promise Miss Alford an engagement at the Pall +Mall, in March; and in the meantime you must let me be your banker.”</p> + +<p>“My dear friend, you are too generous—you are the soul of nobility. +But how can I ever repay——”</p> + +<p>“It is I who am under obligation to you. Can I forget that if +you hadn’t made me work up my Thucydides to the highest point of +perfection, those stony-hearted examiners would have inevitably +ploughed me? And now let us go to the stage-door. Lucy—Miss +Alford—must be ready by this time.”</p> + +<p>The young lady was waiting for them in the shadow of the dingy portal. +The night was bright and clear, and for some little distance Mr. +Desmond walked by his old tutor’s side,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> with Lucy’s little hand on his +arm. He wondered to find himself walking the obscure streets, through +which Mr. Alford had mapped out a short-cut between the Oxford Road +and Islington; he wondered still more to find Lucy’s hand resting so +lightly, and yet so confidingly, on his coat-sleeve; and, above all, he +wondered that it should seem so pleasant to him to be quite out of his +own world.</p> + +<p>He walked about a mile, and then hailed a passing cab, and placed the +young lady by her father’s side. He had made one very painful discovery +during the walk, and that was the fact that Tristram Alford had been +drinking, and bore upon him the stamp of habitual drunkenness. This, +then, was the cause of that gradual decadence which had attended the +tutor’s fortunes since the days at Henley. What a man to hold the +fate of a daughter in his hand! What a helpless guardian for innocent +girlhood! Mr. Desmond’s heart ached as he thought of this.</p> + +<p>“I may help them a little for the moment,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> he said, to himself, “but +if this man is what I believe him to be, there can be no such thing as +permanent help for him or for his daughter.”</p> + +<p>“I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness to-night,” Lucy said, +as she shook hands with the editor.</p> + +<p>“Indeed, you owe me no thanks. I only acted on the impulse of the +moment. I was enraged by that woman’s impertinence, and that man’s +sycophantic manner of treating her. Let me know if he makes any attempt +to enforce your engagement. I don’t think he will. When are you likely +to go to Market Deeping?”</p> + +<p>“On the thirtieth, I suppose. The theatre reopens on New-Year’s day. +Shall we—will papa—see you again before we go, Mr. Desmond?”</p> + +<p>“Well, no; I fear my time—or—yes, you can breakfast with me some +morning, can’t you, Alford? Say the morning after Christmas Day. Come +to my chambers at nine, if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> that is not too early for you, and we can +talk over Miss Alford’s future.”</p> + +<p>Tristram Alford accepted this invitation with evident pleasure; but +Laurence, whose hearing was very acute, heard the faintest sigh of +disappointment escape the lips of Lucy, as he released her hand.</p> + +<p>“Good-night,” he said, cheerily; “and all success at Market Deeping! I +shall hope to see you when you come back to town for your engagement at +the Pall Mall.”</p> + +<p>And so they parted—Mr. Alford and his daughter to enjoy the novel +luxury of a cab-ride; Laurence to walk all the way to the Temple, in an +unusually thoughtful mood.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III.<br> +MR. DESMOND TO THE RESCUE.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>LAURENCE DESMOND had received a whole packet of invitations to +country-houses, where Christmas was to be kept with something of the +traditional warmth and joviality, and with ample entertainment in the +way of carpet-dances, and amateur concerts, and impromptu comedies +in the style popular at that Italian theatre which was so dangerous +a rival to the house of Molière. But to all such invitations Mr. +Desmond had returned the same kind of answer. The laborious duties of +the <i>Areopagus</i> kept him prisoner in town, and would so keep him +throughout the winter.</p> + +<p>This was what the editor told his friends, but the fact was that +Mr. Desmond dared not indulge any natural yearnings for jovial +hunting-breakfasts, or private theatricals, or country<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> gatherings of +pretty girls and hard-riding young men. He was bound to devote all +Christmas leisure to the society of Mrs. Jerningham. The lady received +her share of invitations from the chiefs of those very houses to which +Mr. Desmond was bidden, but elected to refuse all.</p> + +<p>“I do not care to be stared at and gossiped about, as if I were some +kind of natural curiosity,” she said, when she discussed the subject +with her friend. “The men watch you with malicious grins whenever you +are decently civil to me, and the women watch me with more intense +malice whenever you talk to other women. There are times when we are +compelled to walk upon red-hot ploughshares, and then, of course, +<i>noblesse oblige</i>, we must tread the iron with a good grace. But I +don’t see why we should go out of our way to find the ploughshares.”</p> + +<p>“My dear Emily, you insist on looking at everything in this bitter +spirit.”</p> + +<p>“I know the world in which I live.”</p> + +<p>“I think the world has been extremely gracious to you.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span></p> + +<p>“Perhaps so; but the world has taken care to let me know that I +am accepted on sufferance. Your position in literature, and Mr. +Jerningham’s fortune, sustain a platform for me, but it is a slippery +platform at best. I am happier in my own house than anywhere else.”</p> + +<p>“But unhappily you are not happy in your own house.”</p> + +<p>“At any rate, I am less miserable.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond shrugged his shoulders. He felt that his burden was growing +heavier day by day, but he could not find it in his heart to be hard +upon this beautiful woman, whose worst error was to love him with a +jealous, suspicious love that made her own torment and his.</p> + +<p>And by and by, when the demon of discontent had been exorcised, Mrs. +Jerningham grew animated and gracious, and put on her sweetest smiles +for the man she loved.</p> + +<p>“You will spend Christmas Day with me, Laurence, will you not?” she +pleaded. “I suppose I shall be honoured by your society on that day +<i>at least</i>?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span></p> + +<p>The little, piteous air with which she uttered the last words, was +scarcely justified by circumstances; since Mr. Desmond spent always one +day, and sometimes two days a week at the Hampton villa.</p> + +<p>So all the invitations were refused, and Laurence ate his Christmas +dinner at Eiver Lawn, where he met a second-rate literary celebrity +and his wife, and an elderly magnate of the War Office, who had been +a bosom-friend of Mrs. Jerningham’s father. They were people whom he +met very frequently at Hampton. He knew the literary gentleman’s good +stories by heart, and loathed them; he knew the bad stories of the War +Office magnate, and loathed them with a still deeper aversion; indeed, +there were different series of Castlereaghiana and Wellingtoniana, +which inspired him with a wild desire to throw claret-jugs and other +instruments of warfare at the head of the narrator. Mrs. Jerningham’s +circle grew narrower every day. The green-eyed monster held her in +his fatal grip, and one by one she struck the best names<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> from her +visiting-list. She did not care to invite very pretty women or very +charming women; for every word or look of Laurence Desmond’s was a +sufficient cause for doubt and terror in her diseased imagination. She +was jealous even of very agreeable men, if they absorbed too much of +the editor’s attention. She condemned him to dulness, and yet upbraided +him because he was not gay.</p> + +<p>“I fear you have not enjoyed your evening, Laurence,” she said, as he +lingered for a few minutes’ confidential talk before hurrying off to +catch the last train for London.</p> + +<p>“I have enjoyed my little snatches of talk with you,” he answered, +mildly; “but I am getting rather tired of Stapleton, and your old +friend’s Wellington stories are almost too much for human endurance.”</p> + +<p>“How do you like Mrs. Stapleton?”</p> + +<p>“I have told you at least a dozen times. She is neither particularly +pretty nor particularly amusing. She gave me some very interesting +details about her elder boy’s experiences<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> in the way of +whooping-cough, and the trouble she has with her cook. How is it I +never see your friends the Westcombes? He is a very nice fellow, and +Mrs. Westcombe a most delightful little woman.”</p> + +<p>“You think her pretty?”</p> + +<p>“Amazingly pretty, in the soubrette style. You used to admire her so +much.”</p> + +<p>“I think it was you who admired her so much,” answered Mrs. Jerningham, +with suppressed acrimony.</p> + +<p>“I only echoed your sentiments. Have you quarrelled with her?”</p> + +<p>“I am not in the habit of quarrelling with my acquaintance.”</p> + +<p>“No; but you have a knack of dropping them. Your house used to be the +pleasantest in England.”</p> + +<p>“And it has ceased to be so because Mrs. Westcombe has ceased to visit +me? If I cannot make my house pleasant to you myself, I will not ask +you to come to it.”</p> + +<p>“Your house is always pleasant to me when<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> I find you and Mrs. Colton +alone; but even you cannot make dull people agreeable. If you invite +people for my pleasure, you should choose those I like.”</p> + +<p>“Very well, Monsieur le Soudain, in future I will send you my +visiting-list.”</p> + +<p>“You are always unjust, Emily. You cross-question me, and then object +to my candour.”</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +Although Mr. Desmond was accustomed to relate almost all the details of +his existence for the amusement of Mrs. Jerningham, he had refrained +from telling her his experiences at the Oxford Road Theatre, or his +renewal of an old friendship with Tristram Alford. Experience was fast +teaching him a reticence that was the next thing to hypocrisy. It would +have been very pleasant to him to tell the lady of River Lawn the story +of Lucy Alford’s trials and aspirations; but he had an ever-present +terror of awakening that slumbering monster, always lurking in the +deeps of Emily Jerningham’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> mind. He knew that to speak of Lucy would +bring upon him a sharp interrogation; and he shrunk from the idea of a +possible scene which might arise out of the mention of that damsel’s +name.</p> + +<p>He expected Mr. Alford to breakfast on the morning after that +uncongenial evening at Hampton, and had taken care that a tempting meal +should be prepared for the dweller on the heights of Ball’s Pond. He +waited breakfast for more than an hour, and only gave his visitor up +when his own engagements obliged him to drink his tea and eat his dry +toast with business-like haste, while the kippered salmon and devilled +kidneys remained neglected in their hot-water dishes on a stand by the +fire.</p> + +<p>“I suppose poor old Tristram has forgotten our engagement,” he said to +himself, as he began his morning’s work; “I should like to have seen +him, in order to have some talk with him about that poor little girl’s +prospects; and yet what good can I hope to achieve for her, if the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> +father is a drunkard? Nothing else could have brought him so low: for +he had an excellent position when I knew him twelve years ago. Even +then Waldon and I suspected his attachment to the brandy-bottle. He +was so fond of recommending brandy and cold water as the remedy for +every disease common to mortality. And now it has come from brandy +to gin—which indicates a decadence of a hundred per cent. in his +social status. Poor girl! she is such a pretty, winning, childlike +creature, and of that sympathetic nature which is so susceptible to all +suffering.”</p> + +<p>Neither letter nor message of apology or explanation came from Mr. +Alford during that day, but very late at night came a mysterious boy, +with a damp and dirty-looking missive from the learned Tristram. Mr. +Alford was one of those people whose letters usually arrive late at +night; so Laurence was in nowise disconcerted when his man informed him +that a boy had brought this damp epistle, and was waiting for an answer.</p> + +<p>“Has the letter come from Islington by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> hand?” asked Laurence, +surprised that the needy tutor should have preferred to employ +the expensive luxury of a messenger to the cheap convenience of a +postage-stamp.</p> + +<p>The major-domo departed to question the boy, and returned to tell his +master that the letter had not come from Islington, but from Whitecross +Street.</p> + +<p>That fatal name explained all. Mr. Desmond tore open the flabby +envelope, and read the following epistle, in the penmanship whereof was +ample evidence of the flurry and distraction of mind incident upon a +first night in bondage.</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“<span class="allsmcap">MY DEAR DESMOND</span>,—The sword of Damocles has been long +suspended above my unhappy head. This morning the hair snapped, and +a writ issued by a butcher at Henley, who enjoyed my custom for many +years, but whose later accounts I have been unable to discharge, has +brought me to this place. The necessity for the step which I am about +to take has long been obvious; but I have hoped against hope,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> and +struggled on bravely, with the idea of making some kind of compromise +with my old Henley creditors. I now feel that this desire is vain:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Longa via est, nec tempora longa supersunt.’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“I am too old to accomplish the Sisyphean labour of paying debts +which seem to spring from the very earth, like the armed antagonists +of Cadmus. I have resolved, therefore, to endure that shame which +worthier men than I have suffered. I must avail myself of the +protection which the law affords to honest poverty; and with this view +I have sent for a solicitor versed in this kind of practice, and have +made arrangements for placing my petition on the file.</p> + +<p>“I am told by one of my fellow-prisoners that the small amount of +my debts will in all likelihood be a hindrance to my release. If my +liabilities were of a colossal character, their extinction would be +a mere affair of accountancy, and I might enjoy the mildness of a +winter in the south of France while my lawyers arranged an agreeable +settlement in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> Walbrook, and might return in the spring to make my +bow before the commissioner, and to be complimented on the excellence +of my bookkeeping. But for the man who owes a few paltry hundreds are +reserved the extreme rigours of the law; and I am advised to prepare +myself for much harassing delay before I obtain my protection and can +once more walk at liberty among my fellow-men.</p> + +<p>“This, for myself, I could bear with stoical fortitude; but what is +my child to do while I am detained in this wretched place? The old +Queen’s Bench gave a hospitable shelter to the prisoner, and afforded +a comfortable home for his family; but here stern warders refuse me +the privilege of my daughter’s company, nor could I bring her even for +an hour into a common ward where she would be, in all probability, +the subject of rude remark or insolent observation. The poor child +is yet in ignorance of my incarceration. I left her upon a pretence +of business in the City, intending to inform her by letter of my +whereabouts; but now the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> night has come, I have not courage to write +that letter; and in my dilemma I venture to appeal to you, the only +friend on whose goodness I can count.</p> + +<p>“Will you, my dear Desmond, call at Paul’s Terrace early to-morrow +morning, and tell my poor Lucy the reason of my non-appearance? If +you will, at the same time, generously advance her a small sum for +the payment of the account owing to Mrs. Wilkins, the landlady, and +for the expenses of Lucy’s journey to Market Deeping—which she must +now take alone—you will confer a boon upon one who to his last hour +will cherish the memory of your goodness. The cessation of even Mr. de +Mortemar’s pitiful stipend has been felt by us.</p> + +<p>“Pardon this long epistle from your distracted friend,</p> + +<p class="right"> +“T. A.</p> + +<p class="space-below2"> +“<i>White X Street Prison, nine o’clock.</i>”</p> +</div> + +<p>“Alone, and her father in prison! Poor, ill-used girl!” exclaimed +Laurence, as he finished<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> this letter. He had been thinking of her, +with regret and compassion, more than once that day; but he had little +known the utter misery of her position. She was quite alone, this girl, +who was of an age to need all the protecting influences of home—alone +in a shabby lodging; perhaps with vulgar, sordid people, who would use +her harshly because of those unpaid bills alluded to so lightly by the +captive of Whitecross Street.</p> + +<p>“What a father!” mused Mr. Desmond. “He leaves his daughter, in +ignorance of his fate, to suffer the tortures of suspense all day, +and at night writes to ask me, a single man of something less than +five-and-thirty years of age, to befriend and protect the poor, +helpless girl. I am the only friend he has; and he can trust me, he +says. How does he know that he can trust me? and what guarantee has he +for my honour? Only the fact that I read with him twelve years ago, +and have lent him money since that time. And on the strength of this +he asks me to befriend his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> daughter in her loneliness! If I were a +scoundrel, he would have done the same. Indeed, how does he know that I +am not a scoundrel? And this poor little girl must go through life with +no better guardian; and the world is full of scoundrels.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond looked at the dial on the low Belgian marble mantelpiece, +where a lank and grim Mephistopheles, with peaked beard and pointed +shoes, kept watch and ward over an ivy-mantled clock-tower. It was +nearly eleven o’clock.</p> + +<p>“I dare say she is sitting up, waiting for him, at this moment,” +Laurence said to himself. “Why should she be kept in suspense till +to-morrow morning? It will be no more trouble to me to go up there +to-night than to-morrow; and I can much better spare the time now. +It would be actual cruelty to let that poor girl suffer twelve hours +more of uncertainty and apprehension; for I dare say she loves this +reprobate father of hers as fondly as it is the luck of such reprobates +to be loved.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> He is the kind of father who ruins himself and his +children with the most affectionate intentions, and would perish +rather than speak an unkind word to the child whose prospects he is +destroying.”</p> + +<p>Upon this Mr. Desmond threw down his book, and went in quest of his hat +and overcoat.</p> + +<p>The streets were clear at this time, and a hansom carried Laurence +Desmond to Paul’s Terrace in half an hour. He saw the feeble light +burning in the parlour-window as he stepped from the cab, and before he +could knock, the door was opened, and a tremulous voice cried, “Papa, +papa! Oh, thank God you have come!”</p> + +<p>It was Lucy. She recognized Laurence in the next moment, and recoiled +from him, with a faint shriek of horror.</p> + +<p>“Something has happened to papa!” she cried, and then began to tremble +violently.</p> + +<p>“My dear Lucy—my dear girl, your father is well—quite well,” Laurence +exclaimed, eager<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> to relieve the terrified girl, whose chattering +teeth revealed her agony of fear. He took her by the arm with gentle +firmness, and led her into the parlour.</p> + +<p>“It has been very wrong of your father to leave you ignorant of his +whereabouts,” he said; “but I am sure you will forgive him when you +know the cause. He is quite well; but he is a prisoner in Whitecross +Street, and is likely to remain there for a week or two. He had not +courage to write to you the tidings of his troubles, and so sent me to +tell you his misfortune.”</p> + +<p>“Poor, dear papa! Thank heaven he is well! You—you are not deceiving +me, Mr. Desmond?” she said, suddenly, with the look of terror coming +back to her pale, sad face; “my father is really well? The only trouble +is the prison?”</p> + +<p>“That is the only trouble.”</p> + +<p>“Then I can bear it very patiently,” answered Lucy, with a plaintive +resignation that seemed inexpressibly touching to Laurence.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> “We have +long known that trouble of that kind was inevitable. Poor, dear papa! +It is a very uncomfortable place, is it not? He was in a prison on the +other side of the Thames once, when I was a little girl, and poor mamma +and I used to go and see him; and it seemed quite a pleasant place, +like a large hotel. But even the prisons are wretched now, papa says. I +may go and see him, may I not?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I believe you can be allowed to see him. But it is not a nice +place for you to visit.”</p> + +<p>“I do not mind that in the least, if I may only see him. Can I go very +early to-morrow? Papa will want linen, and razors, and things. Oh, why +did he not send a messenger for a portmanteau? It would have been so +much more comfortable for him to have his things ready for the morning.”</p> + +<p>“And he would have spared you many hours of anxiety,” said Mr. +Desmond, touched by the unselfishness of the girl, who in this hour of +trouble had not one thought for herself. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> could not avoid making +a comparison, as he reflected how Emily Jerningham, under the same +circumstances, would have bewailed her own misery, and the horror and +degradation of her position.</p> + +<p>“She could suffer slow death at the stake, with a smile upon her +splendid face, for pride’s sake,” that impertinent inward voice, which +he was always trying to stifle, remarked, obtrusively; “but she has no +idea of enduring patiently, as this girl endures, unconscious of her +own suffering in her thoughtfulness for others. With Emily the virtues +are different phases of egotism.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; I have been very wretched since two o’clock, when I expected papa +to dinner,” said Lucy; “but I feel almost happy now that I know he is +well. Do you think the prison is a <i>very</i> uncomfortable place?”</p> + +<p>“Well, I dare say it is rather a rough kind of lodging; but no doubt +your father will contrive to make himself tolerably comfortable. +It will not be for long, you know. He is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> almost sure to get his +protection in a week or two.”</p> + +<p>“Whose protection did you say,” Lucy faltered, at a loss to understand +this phrase.</p> + +<p>“His own protection—an immunity from arrest—his liberty, in point of +fact. It is only a technical term. But what will you do in the mean +time? That is the question.”</p> + +<p>“I fear I shall have to leave town before poor papa gets his release. +The Market Deeping theatre opens on New-Year’s night; and I think I +must go on the 28th at latest. They are going to do the burlesque of +<i>Lucrezia Borgia</i>, and I am to play Gennaro.”</p> + +<p>“Gennaro?”</p> + +<p>“Yes. The son, you know. I believe he gets poisoned, or something, at +the end. I have to sing parodies on ‘Sam Hall,’ and the ‘Cat’s-meat +Man;’ and I have to dance a—a—cellar-flap breakdown, I believe they +call it. It is a very good part.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! The ‘cellar-flap breakdown,’ and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> ‘Sam Hall,’ and the +‘Cat’s-meat Man,’ constitute a very good part. I am sorry for the +legitimate drama.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, of course it is not like Pauline or Julia,” cried Lucy; “but as +a burlesque part it is very good. And in the country one has to play +burlesque, and farce, and everything.”</p> + +<p>“And for that I suppose your salary is only four or five pounds a week?”</p> + +<p>“My salary at Market Deeping will be twenty-five shillings,” Lucy +answered, blushing.</p> + +<p>Four or five pounds!—it was a salary which she had thought of +sometimes in her dreams. She knew that there were people in London +who actually had such salaries; but to her the sum seemed fabulous as +the golden treasure of Raleigh’s unknown lands may have seemed to his +mutinous crew.</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond made no remark upon the smallness of this pitiful stipend, +though the thought of it smote his heart with actual pain.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span></p> + +<p>“Your father sent you some money,” he said, not without embarrassment, +“to carry on the housekeeping, and so on.”</p> + +<p>“Papa sent me money! You have seen him, then?” Lucy asked, eagerly.</p> + +<p>“No—a messenger brought me his letter.”</p> + +<p>“And the money. Where could papa get money? I know he had none when +he left home this morning; and he has no friend in the world but you. +Ah, I understand, Mr. Desmond. It is your own money you are giving me; +and you are so kind, so thoughtful, that you fear I should be pained +by knowing how much we owe you. I am used to feel the weight of such +obligations, and I have sometimes felt the burden very heavy; but +with you it is different. Your kindness takes the sting out of the +obligation; and—and it does not seem so deep a humiliation to accept +your charity——”</p> + +<p>Here the sweet, low voice trembled and broke down, and the tutor’s +daughter burst into tears.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span></p> + +<p>“Lucy, my dear girl—my dearest Lucy—for God’s sake don’t do that,” +cried Laurence, overcome in a moment by the aspect of that half-averted +face, which the girl vainly strove to cover with her hands. The +water-drops trickled through those slender fingers. All day her heart +had been well-nigh bursting with grief, and unhappily her fortitude +must needs give way at this very inconvenient crisis.</p> + +<p>Truly a pleasant situation for the editor of the <i>Areopagus</i>. +Called upon, at a moment’s notice, to play the part of comforter and +benefactor to a pretty, sensitive girl of eighteen, whose father was in +prison!</p> + +<p>“If Emily Jerningham could see me now!” Mr. Desmond said to himself, +involuntarily.</p> + +<p>He had called Miss Alford his dear—nay, indeed, his dearest—Lucy; but +it was in the same spirit of compassion that would have prompted him +to address endearing epithets to the charwoman who cleaned his rooms, +had he found that honest creature in bitter need of consolation. His +conscience whispered no<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> word of reproof to him on that score; but he +felt somehow that his position was a perilous one, though he wondered +what the peril could be.</p> + +<p>“Am I a fool or a reprobate, that I cannot befriend an innocent girl +without some kind of danger to her or myself?” the inward voice +demanded, angrily.</p> + +<p>Miss Alford had recovered her composure by this time.</p> + +<p>“I have been so unhappy all day, that your kindness quite overcame me,” +she said, quietly. “I hope you will forgive me for being so silly.”</p> + +<p>“Do not talk of my kindness,” answered the editor, who seemed now +the more embarrassed of the two. “It is a great pleasure to me to +serve—your father. You must go to Lincolnshire on the 28th, the day +after to-morrow. Shall you be obliged to travel alone?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; but I am not at all afraid of travelling alone.”</p> + +<p>“Una was not afraid of the lion,” Mr. Desmond murmured to himself, +softly; and then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> he added, aloud, “If you really wish to see your +father to-morrow, I will take you to him.”</p> + +<p>“You are too kind; but I cannot consent to give you so much trouble. I +don’t at all mind going to the prison alone.”</p> + +<p>“No, no; you shall not do that. There might be all kinds of difficulty +about getting admitted, and so on. I shall call for you at twelve +o’clock to-morrow. You must let me play the part of your elder brother +upon this occasion, or your father. I am almost old enough to stand in +the latter position, you know.”</p> + +<p>At this Lucy blushed crimson; and the sight of that shy, blushing face +sent a strange thrill to the heart of the editor. He bade her a hasty +good-night and went back to his cab. The interview had only lasted +ten minutes—though the cabman mulcted him of sixpence by and by on +account of the delay—and the grim-visaged landlady, who stood lurking +at the head of the kitchen-stairs, had no ground for complaint that the +proprieties had been outraged.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span></p> + +<p>He stopped to say a word or two to this grim-visaged individual.</p> + +<p>“Mr. Alford is unavoidably detained out of town for a few days,” he +said. “I hope you will take care of his daughter during his absence.”</p> + +<p>“I hope my little account will be paid before Miss St. Halbings goes +to Lincolnshire,” answered the woman, sternly. “I’ve had a many +theatricals from the ‘Wells’ in my parlours; though theatricals in +general are parties I avides taking; but I never had any theatrical +backward in his rent till Mr. St. Halbings came to me.”</p> + +<p>“Miss St. Albans can pay you to-night, if you please,” replied the +editor; “her father has sent her money for that purpose.”</p> + +<p>“Ho, indeed,” cried the landlady, with a tone of satisfaction that was +not without a shade of irony; “circumstances alters cases. I am glad to +find that Miss St. Halbings has got so rich all of a suddent.”</p> + +<p>“She is rich enough to find new lodgings, if<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> you make these +disagreeable to her,” answered Laurence, angrily. There was an +insolence about the woman’s tone which made his blood boil.</p> + +<p>Yet what could he do? It would have been very pleasant to him to +horsewhip this grim-visaged landlady; but one of the perplexities +of social existence lies in the fact that the opposite sexes cannot +horsewhip each other. Mr. Desmond ground his teeth, and departed with +a sentiment of anger against a universe in which such a girl as Lucy +Alford was subject to the insolence of grim-visaged landladies.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV.<br> +A PERILOUS PROTEGEE.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>EVEN the icy December blast, which buffeted Mr. Desmond, as his hansom +descended the Islingtonian Mont Blanc, could not blow away his sense +of impotent indignation against the Nemesis who had presided over +the youth of Miss Alford. His slumbers were rendered restless by the +thought of her wrongs; and the picture of a desolate girl, travelling +alone through a bleak wintry landscape, was the first image that +presented itself to his mind when he awoke.</p> + +<p>He disposed of his breakfast in about ten minutes, and from nine to +half-past eleven worked at his desk as even he rarely worked. For +scarcely any one but a helpless girl, whose sorrows had enlisted all +his sympathy, would<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> the editor of the <i>Areopagus</i> have sacrificed +the noon of a business day. He glanced with a guilty look at a pile of +proofs that lay unread amongst his chaos of papers, and then departed +to keep his appointment with Lucy.</p> + +<p>He took her to the prison, and was present during the interview between +father and daughter. Lucy’s tenderness and sweetness touched him to +the heart. Never before had he seen such patience, such unselfish +affection; never had he imagined so perfect a type of womanhood.</p> + +<p>“And she will go to that country theatre, utterly friendless and alone, +to sing the ‘Cat’s-meat Man,’ and to dance a cellar-flap breakdown,” +Mr. Desmond said to himself, as he stood in the background, watching +this Grecian Daughter of Ball’s Pond, who would have given her heart’s +best blood for the captive father, upon whose neck she hung so fondly.</p> + +<p>“I would rather see her under the wheels of Juggernaut than dancing a +cellar-flap breakdown,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> thought Mr. Desmond. And at this moment there +arose in Laurence Desmond’s mind a desperate resolution. He would do +something—he knew not what, but something—to prevent any further +dancing of cellar-flap breakdowns on the part of Miss Alford. During +that brief interview of the preceding night his quick eye had noted +a mysterious rose-coloured satin garment of the tunic family lying +on a table beside a shabby little workbox and a paper of spangles, +whereby he opined that Miss Alford had been sewing spangles upon +this rose-coloured garment, and that it was to be worn by her in the +character of Gennaro, together with a pair of little rose-coloured +silk boots, very much the worse for wear, but laboriously darned, and +renovated by spangles.</p> + +<p>“She might surely be a nursery-governess—a companion to some kind +elderly lady; anything would be better than the ‘Cat’s-meat Man,’” +he said to himself; and, being prone to act with promptitude and +decision in all the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> affairs of life, he broke ground with Miss +Alford immediately after leaving the prison. They had travelled from +Islington in a cab; but as it was a fine clear day, and as Lucy seemed +to consider walking no hardship, he offered her his arm, and began +the homeward journey on foot. He wanted to talk seriously to her, +undistracted by the rattle of a cab.</p> + +<p>“Are you very fond of acting?” he began.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, Mr. Desmond; I love it dearly, when I play my own +parts—Pauline and Julia—Juliet and Ophelia, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Yes; but there is so much hardship, so many discouragements.”</p> + +<p>“I do not mind either hardship or discouragement,” the girl answered, +bravely.</p> + +<p>“Not now perhaps, while you are very young and very hopeful; but the +day must come when——”</p> + +<p>“Oh don’t, please don’t!” cried Lucy, piteously. “You are talking +like Mrs. M’Grudder. ‘Wait till you’ve been in the profession as long +as I have, my dear,’ she says, ‘and then<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> you’ll know what it is to +be an actress. Look at me, and see where I am, after five-and-twenty +years’ slavery; and <i>I</i> had talent, when <i>I</i> began;’ and she +lays such an insulting emphasis on the ‘I’ and makes me feel utterly +wretched for the rest of the evening, unless I get a little more +applause than usual to give me courage. There is a chimney-sweep, a +regular playgoer, at Market Deeping, who is said to be quite the king +of the gallery—all the other gallery people form their opinion by his, +you know; and I believe he likes me. He always gives me a reception.”</p> + +<p>“A reception?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; he applauds me when I first come on;—that is a reception, you +know; and a good reception puts one in spirits for the whole evening. +The sweep cries ‘Bravo,’ or ‘Brayvo’ as <i>he</i> calls it, poor +fellow; and then they all applaud.”</p> + +<p>Her face quite softened as she thought of the chimney-sweep, and +Laurence Desmond watched her with a smile, half pitying, half<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> +amused—she seemed such a childish creature, in her ignorant +hopefulness, and dependence on the approbation of chimney-sweeps.</p> + +<p>“I should be very sorry to seem as disagreeable to you, as Mrs. +M’Grudder does,” he said, presently; “but I am very deeply interested +in your career—for auld lang syne, you know—and I want to discuss +your prospects seriously. I do not think the stage, as it is at present +constituted, offers a brilliant prospect for any woman. Of course there +are exceptional circumstances, and there is exceptional talent; but, +unhappily, exceptional talent does not always win its reward unless +favoured by exceptional circumstances. Your surroundings are against +you, my dear Miss Alford. Your father’s ignorance of the dramatic +world, your own inexperience of any world except the world of books, +must tell against you when you fight for precedence with people who +have been born and bred at the side-scenes of a theatre. The prizes +in the dramatic profession are very few, and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> blanks are the most +worthless of all ciphers. And for the chance of winning one of these +rare prizes you must stake so much. Even in these enlightened days, +there are prejudiced people who hold in abhorrence the profession +of Garrick and the Kembles, of Mrs. Pritchard and Mrs. Kean; and by +and by, when you have failed, perhaps, to realize one of the bright +hopes that sustain you now, and have entered upon some other career, +malicious people will reproach you with your dramatic associations, and +discredit the truth and purity of your nature, because you tried to +support your father by the patient exercise of your talents and your +industry. You see <i>I</i> know what the world is, Lucy, and know that +it can be a very hard and bitter world; above all things, bitter for a +woman whose youth is unguarded by any natural protector.”</p> + +<p>Miss Alford looked at him wonderingly. “I have papa,” she said. “What +other protector can I want?”</p> + +<p>“Your papa loves you very fondly, I have<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> no doubt; but his +circumstances do not enable him to——”</p> + +<p>“You mean that he is poor?” Lucy interposed, a little wounded.</p> + +<p>“No, it is not of his poverty I am thinking, but of his inexperience. +In all matters relating to the profession you have chosen, your father +is as inexperienced as yourself. He cannot help you, as other girls who +aspire for dramatic success are helped by those about them.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, that is quite true,” answered the girl, rather sadly; “but I +hope to succeed in spite of that. And by and by, when I get a London +engagement, and have a salary of three or four pounds a week, papa and +I can live in nice lodgings, and be very happy.”</p> + +<p>“And you really like your theatrical life, with all its difficulties; +even with its Mrs. M’Grudders?”</p> + +<p>“I like it so much, that neither Mrs. M’Grudder nor you can discourage +me,” answered Lucy. “I know that you speak very<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> kindly, and that you +are the best and most generous of friends; but I cannot tell you how it +pains me to hear you run down the profession.”</p> + +<p>This was a difficulty which Mr. Desmond had never contemplated. In a +moment of generous feeling, he had resolved to rescue this fair young +flower from the foul atmosphere in which her freshness was fading, +and, behold! the fair young flower rejoiced in that unwholesome +atmosphere, and refused to be restored to loftier and purer regions. +He would have snatched this brand from the burning, but the brand +preferred to remain in Tophet. For the first time in his life, Mr. +Desmond understood the nature of that midsummer madness which affects +the ignorant aspirant for dramatic fame; for the first time he beheld +what it was to be “stage-struck.” If he had been talking to a young +actress, familiar from the cradle with the mysteries of her art, she +would have heartily coincided with his abuse of “the profession;” but +Lucy<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> Alford was fresh from the little parlour at Henley, where she +had rehearsed Shakspeare, Sheridan Knowles, and Bulwer Lytton, before +the looking-glass, in a fever of poetic feeling, and she had all the +amateur’s fond, ignorant love of her art.</p> + +<p>She knew that Mr. Desmond meant kindly by her, but she was cruelly +affected by the tenor of his advice. “<i>Et tu, Brute</i>,” she said to +herself, sadly. So many people had tortured and tormented her by their +dismal croakings about the career she had chosen; and now he, even he, +the friend who had promised to help her, went over to the enemy, and +spoke to her in the accents of M’Grudder. She had been very happy that +morning as they drove to Whitecross Street—yes, actually happy—though +the father she loved was languishing in captivity; but her heart sank +with a new despondency as she walked by Mr. Desmond’s side after this +serious conversation.</p> + +<p>Was it all true that people had told her? she asked herself; was there +no such thing as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> success possible for her, let her study never so +diligently, and labour never so industriously? And then she thought of +Mrs. Siddons, who appeared in London, young, beautiful, gifted, only +to fail ignominiously, and then went quietly back to her provincial +drudgery, and plodded on with inimitable patience, to return in due +time and take the town by storm. It was from the consideration of this +little history she was wont to obtain consolation when depressed by the +advice of her acquaintance; but even this failed to console her to-day. +Discouragement from Laurence Desmond seemed more depressing than from +any one else. Was he not her kindest—nay, indeed, her only—friend, +and could she doubt the sincerity of his counsel?</p> + +<p>The tears gathered slowly in her downcast eyes as she walked silently +by his side, thinking thus; but she contrived to brush those unbidden +tears away, almost unseen by her companion. Almost, but not quite +unseen. Laurence saw that she was depressed, and he had a faint<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span> +suspicion that she had been crying; and immediately his heart smote +him, and he was angry with himself for the recklessness with which his +rude hand had smitten down her airy castle.</p> + +<p>“Poor little girl!” he said to himself, very sadly; “and she really +thinks that she will be a great actress some day, and win her reward +for all the patient drudgery of the present. Well, she must keep her +day-dream, since it is so dear. Mine shall not be the hand to let in +the common light of reason on her dream-world. But I am very sorry for +her, notwithstanding.”</p> + +<p>And hereupon Mr. Desmond tried to cheer his companion with much +pleasant and hopeful talk; and the innocent young face brightened, and +the shy, blue eyes glanced up at him with a grateful look which went +straight to his heart, whither, indeed, all this girl’s unsophisticated +words and looks seemed to go.</p> + +<p>“She is born to melt the hearts of men,” he said to himself; “a tender, +Wordsworthian<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span> creature—plaintive, and grateful, and confiding. She +will make a very sweet Juliet, if she ever acquire dramatic tact and +power; but I cannot endure the preliminary ordeal of the ‘Cat’s-meat +Man.’ Free-trade in the drama is no doubt a supreme good, but there are +times when one sighs for the days of the patent theatres, when every +provincial manager kept a Shakspearian school, and would have shrunk +appalled from the idea of street-boy dances and street-boy songs.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond and the young actress walked all the way from Whitecross +Street to Paul’s Terrace, and it seemed to Laurence quite a natural +occurrence to be walking with the girl’s shabby little glove upon his +arm. He was quite conscious that she was poorly dressed, that her shawl +would have been despised by the tawdry factory-girls they met near the +Old Street Road; but he knew that she looked like a lady, in spite of +her well-worn shawl, and he had no sense of shame in the companionship. +He had never felt a more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> unselfish regard than he felt for this girl; +and during the visit to the prison he had decided upon taking a step, +the desperation whereof he was by no means inclined to underrate. He +had determined to obtain Emily Jerningham’s friendship for Lucy Alford, +if sympathy for any human creature could be awakened in that lady’s +heart and mind.</p> + +<p>“I have never yet asked her a favour,” he said to himself. “I will +ask her to interest herself in this poor girl’s fate. My friendship +can serve Lucy Alford very little; but the friendship of a woman, an +accomplished woman like Emily, who is in every way independent, may +help to shape her future, and rescue her at once from ‘cellar-flap +breakdowns’ and ‘cat’s-meat men.’ Emily is always bewailing the +emptiness of her life. It might be at once an amusement and a +consolation to her to befriend this girl. I know it is a generous heart +to which I shall make my appeal. The only question is, whether I can +contrive to touch that heart with Lucy Alford’s story.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span></p> + +<p>Mr. Desmond only apprehended one difficulty in the matter, but that was +rather a serious one. Might not Mrs. Jerningham—of late the victim +of such morbid fancies, such frivolous suspicions—take it into her +head to be jealous of this girl? and in that case there was an end to +all hope for Lucy. Let the green-eyed monster show but the tip of his +forked tail, and friendship between Mrs. Jerningham and Miss Alford +would be an impossibility.</p> + +<p>Reasoning upon the matter within himself, as he walked by Lucy’s side, +Laurence Desmond decided that jealousy in this case must needs be out +of the question.</p> + +<p>“No, no; she has been foolish and absurd enough in her fancies, Heaven +knows; but here it is impossible. The girl is nearly twenty years +younger than I am, and has nothing in common with me, or the world I +live in.”</p> + +<p>After arguing with himself thus, Mr. Desmond decided that there was no +possibility of any such feeling as jealousy upon Emily Jerningham’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> +part; and yet it seemed to him that it would be a desperate and awful +thing to address the lady of River Lawn on the subject of Lucy Alford.</p> + +<p>They arrived at Paul’s Terrace while the editor was still meditating +upon the young lady’s future, and, indeed, before he had altogether +decided upon what was best to be done on her behalf. An unexpected +difficulty had arisen, in the girl’s enthusiastic regard for her +profession. It was quite out of the question that Mr. Desmond should +introduce Lucy to Mrs. Jerningham while the girl still hankered +after the triumphs of Market Deeping. All thought of “cellar-flap +breakdowns,” and “cat’s-meat men,” must be put away before Lucy could +approach the wife of Harold Jerningham.</p> + +<p>In this perplexity of mind, Mr. Desmond could not bring himself to bid +Lucy Alford good-bye upon the threshold of No. 20, Paul’s Terrace, as +she evidently expected him to do. He lingered doubtfully for a minute +or two, and then went into the parlour with her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span></p> + +<p>“I should like to have a few minutes’ chat before I bid you good-bye,” +he said. “I suppose you really must go to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, to-morrow is the latest. It seems very dreadful to leave papa in +that horrible dingy place; but he says it will be only for a few days. +I ought to have been at Market Deeping on Monday, for the rehearsals. +Mr. Bungrave is very particular.”</p> + +<p>“What time do you start?”</p> + +<p>“At a quarter-past five.”</p> + +<p>“In the afternoon, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, in the morning.”</p> + +<p>“At a quarter-past five on a December morning!” cried Laurence, with a +shudder. “Isn’t that a very inconvenient hour?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, it is rather disagreeable to start before it is light, because +cabmen are always so ill-tempered at that time in the morning. But the +train goes at a quarter past five, and I must contrive to be at the +station at five.”</p> + +<p>“<i>The</i> train?” repeated Laurence. “There<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> must be several trains +for Lincolnshire in the course of the day.”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, there are other trains; but, you see, that is the +parliamentary train, and in the profession, people generally travel +by the parliamentary train, because it is so much cheaper, you know, +and it comes to the same thing in the end. One meets most respectable +people, generally with large families of children and canary-birds; +and sometimes people even play cards, if one can get something flat—a +tea-tray, or a picture—to play on. One has to hide the cards, of +course, when the guard comes round, unless he happens to be a very +good-natured guard, who pretends not to see them. Oh, I assure you, it +is not at all disagreeable to travel by the parliamentary train.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I can fancy there <i>might</i> be a combination of circumstances +under which a journey to—say the Land’s End—in the slowest of +parliamentaries would be delightful,” said the editor, looking at the +girl’s innocent, animated face with a very tender smile. “But I think<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> +I could willingly forego the children and the canaries, and even the +card-playing on a tea-tray. Suppose you go by the mid-day express, +Lucy, upon this occasion, as the weather is cold, and you will he +travelling alone? I will meet you at the station, and see to your +ticket, and all that sort of thing; and then, when I have placed you in +the care of the most indulgent guard who ever ignored card-playing on a +tea-tray, I can go to Whitecross Street, and assure your father of your +comfortable departure.”</p> + +<p>“You are too kind. I cannot accept so much kindness,” murmured Lucy, to +whom it was a very new thing to receive such evidence of disinterested +friendship.</p> + +<p>As she faltered her grateful acknowledgments, with a confusion of +manner that was not without its charm, her eyes wandered to the +chimney-piece, where there was a letter, directed in a sprawling, +masculine hand.</p> + +<p>“It is from the manager,” she said, as she took the letter. “Perhaps to +scold me for not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> being at the theatre last Monday. Will you excuse me +if I read it, Mr. Desmond?”</p> + +<p>“I would excuse you if you read all the epistles of Pliny,” said +Laurence; and in the next moment would have cut his tongue out.</p> + +<p>Lucy tore open her letter with nervous haste. The change in her +countenance as she read, told Mr. Desmond that the missive brought her +no good tidings.</p> + +<p>“Is there anything amiss?” he asked.</p> + +<p>“Oh, it is cruel, it is shameful!” cried the girl, indignantly. “Mr. +Bungrave has given Gennaro to another lady, because I was not there for +the rehearsal yesterday. Papa wrote to him to say when we were coming; +and if he had telegraphed to say I must positively be there, I should +have gone. And now I have lost my engagement, after studying my part so +carefully, and altering my dress, and——”</p> + +<p>Here the young lady stopped abruptly, and Laurence saw that it cost her +no small effort to keep back her tears. She was very young,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> and the +fever of the amateur, the devotee of a beloved art, was strong upon +her. Laurence perceived also her regretful glance in the direction of +a little old-fashioned sofa, on which there lay, neatly folded, the +rose-coloured satin garment he had seen the night before; and he felt +that to be disappointed of the glory of appearing in this costume was a +grief to her.</p> + +<p>“I must confess that I am not sorry for this, Lucy,” he said, +earnestly. “I do not think there could have been any lasting triumph +won by the ‘Cat’s-meat Man.’”</p> + +<p>Miss St. Albans could not be brought all at once to see that the +‘Cat’s-meat Man’ was an abomination.</p> + +<p>“Gennaro is a beau-beau-tiful part,” she said, struggling with her +emotion; “it is full of good puns, and the parodies are splendid, +and——. If I had a regular written engagement, Mr. Bungrave couldn’t +treat me so; but there was only a verbal understanding between him +and papa. I dare say it is all Mr. de Mortemar’s doing, because of my +leaving the Oxford<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> Road Theatre. Mr. de Mortemar can do anything at +Market Deeping; he is such an immense favourite.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” said Laurence, on whose editorial ear the “immense favourite” +grated unpleasantly; “and it is my fault that you offended Mr. de +Mortemar—my fault, my very great fault. But do you know, Lucy, that +I cannot bring myself to be sufficiently sorry for what I have done. +You see I feel a very real interest in your career; and I do not think +your Market Deeping experience could be of any actual benefit to you. +I admit that you must arrive at Drury Lane and Juliet by easy stages; +but I cannot see why you should begin by dancing silly dances, and +singing still more silly songs. In March Mr. Hartstone will give you an +engagement at the Pall Mall; and in the meantime your father will get +through his difficulties, and you will have leisure for the study of +your beloved art.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Lucy, consoled but not elated, “I shall study with all +my might. Oh,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> Mr. Desmond, what would become of us if your kindness +had not secured me a London engagement!”</p> + +<p>She was thinking sadly enough of the bitter shifts to which she and +her father must needs be driven for want of the pittance that would +have rewarded her labours at the little country theatre; and then, at +Market Deeping lodgings and provisions were very cheap, and in London +everything was so dear. The kindness and generosity of Mr. Desmond +seemed boundless; but there must be some limit to their acceptance of +such help. They could not go on living upon this gentleman’s charity.</p> + +<p>Laurence saw her despondency, and had some idea of the cares that +troubled her. He could find no way of telling her that the dread +spectre Poverty was a shadow she need fear no longer, since he was +ready to place his purse at her disposal until—until when? Well, she +would have a salary from the lessee of the Pall Mall in March; and +then, of course, he need be Tristram Alford’s banker no longer; and, +in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> the meantime, what would his kindness cost him?—a ten-pound note +now and then—a ten-pound note, which would be better bestowed thus +than lost at a club-house whist-table, or squandered at a sale of books +or bric-à-brac.</p> + +<p>“You must try to make yourself happy while your father is under a +cloud, Lucy,” he said, cheerily. “Rely upon it he will weather the +storm, and right himself speedily. I will answer for that. In the +interim, it will be rather dreary for you in these lodgings, I dare +say; and I should much like to introduce you to a lady, a friend of +mine.”</p> + +<p>“I—I am sure you are very kind,” faltered Lucy; “and I shall be +pleased to know any lady whom you like. Is she a relation of yours, Mr. +Desmond?”</p> + +<p>“No, not a relation, but a friend of many years’ standing. Her father +and my father were very intimate; in fact, I have known her a long +time. I think she was as young as you, Lucy, when I first knew her.”</p> + +<p>His thoughts went back to the little garden<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> at Passy, the white wall, +and scarlet blossoms bright against the deep blue sky, and Emily +Jerningham in all the glory of her girlhood. Well, those days were +gone, and, unhappily, the Emily and Laurence of those days had vanished +with them.</p> + +<p>“She is not young now, then, the lady?” Lucy asked, with an interest +that was a little warmer than the occasion warranted.</p> + +<p>“Well, she is not what you would call young. I believe she is nearly +thirty; and that to a young lady of eighteen seems a venerable +age, no doubt. She is a very agreeable woman, generous-minded, and +refined”—Laurence felt a little twinge of conscience as he remembered +certain occasions upon which the lady in question had not shown herself +so very generous-minded—“and I am sure her friendship would be a +source of happiness for you.”</p> + +<p>“It is very good of you to think of this. It will be a pleasure to me +to know any friend of yours; but—but—I am so unused to society; and +while poor papa is in that dreadful place,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> I think I would rather not +see any stranger, please, Mr. Desmond.”</p> + +<p>“Very well, we will see about it. If Mrs. Jerningham should call upon +you some morning, you will not refuse to see her?”</p> + +<p>“Mrs. Jerningham!” repeated Lucy; “she is a married lady, then?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, she is married. Her husband is rather an eccentric person—a +great traveller; so she lives by herself, in a very charming house near +Hampton Court.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” said Lucy, with a little sigh that sounded rather like a sigh +of relief; and then she repeated her protestations of gratitude, which +this time seemed less constrained.</p> + +<p>After this, Mr. Desmond had nothing more to do than to say good-bye.</p> + +<p>“I should recommend you not to go to Whitecross Street again,” he said, +at parting. “It is an unpleasant place for you to visit alone; and +your father will soon get his release. If my time were less engaged, +I should be happy to take you there again; but I am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> too busy for +friendship. Good-bye. I dare say you will see Mrs. Jerningham before +long. You can be as frank with her as you are with me; but I am sure +there is no occasion to tell you that, for it is your nature to be +truthful and confiding. Once more, good-bye.”</p> + +<p>He pressed the little hand kindly, and departed. He felt that he had +conducted himself in an eminently paternal manner, and it seemed to +him that the sentiment of paternal regard had a strange sweetness—a +sweetness that was not all sweet.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V.<br> +OUT OF THE WORLD.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>THE arrival of Harold Jerningham disturbed the even tenor of life at +the bailiff’s cottage, albeit he earnestly entreated there might be no +change in his old friend’s existence. Theodore de Bergerac’s notion of +hospitality was Arabian; and he would have slaughtered his daughter’s +favourite Newfoundland if Mr. Jerningham had hinted an eccentric desire +for <i>pâté de foie de chien</i>. He altered his dinner-hour from three +o’clock to seven, in accordance with the habits of his guest; and he +took pains to order such refined and delicate repasts as might have +been chosen by a Lucullus in reduced circumstances. His cook was an old +Frenchwoman, who had lived with him ever since he had occupied a house +of his own; and for a <i>vol-au-vent</i>, an omelette<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> <i>aux fines +herbes</i>, a cup of coffee, or a batch of pistolets, white as snow +and light as thistledown, old Nanon was prepared to enter herself in a +<i>concours</i> of the universe.</p> + +<p>“Ne vous dérangez, donc pas, petite amour,” she said to Helen, when +that young lady expressed some misgiving on the subject of Mr. +Jerningham’s dinners; “nous avons toujours les vaches et les poulets; +avec ça on a de quoi servir un dîner au lor maire. Et puis pour le +café: n’est-ce pas que je l’ai fait pour madame la mère de monsieur +dans le temps? C’était elle qui disait toujours, ‘Il n’y a que Nanon +qui fait le café comme ça;’ et puis elle se meurt, la bonne dame, et +puis il y avait la révolution, et monsieur me dit, ‘Nanon, adieu, je +m’en vais;’ et puis j’ai tant pleuré, et puis——”</p> + +<p>There was no end to Nanon’s “et puis.”</p> + +<p>“C’est une espèce de puits qui n’a point de fond,” said M. de Bergerac, +when his daughter repeated to him some of the old woman’s affectionate +twaddlings.</p> + +<p>It was some years since Mr. Jerningham had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> been to Greenlands, and in +the past his visits had been of the briefest.</p> + +<p>“Thou art always as one that falls from the heavens,” said M. de +Bergerac.</p> + +<p>This time, however, it seemed as if the restless demon that ruled +Harold Jerningham’s existence was in some manner exorcised. The master +of Greenlands took up his abode in those snug bachelor rooms on the +ground-floor of the mansion, which he preferred to the statelier +apartments above. There had crept upon the old house a silence and +solemnity almost as profound as the mystic silence which reigned in +the palace of the Sleeping Beauty, and not even the coming of the +master could break the awful spell. By night and by day the doors shut +with a clang that might have sounded in the Castle of Udolpho. The +catacombs of subterranean Rome are more cheerful than the great stone +entrance-hall; the chamber in which Frederick Barbarossa sat in a +charmed sleep, awaiting the summons that was to call him once again to +the battle-field, was not more<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> appalling than the great dining-room, +where the shutters were seldom opened, and where the pictured images of +departed Jerninghams looked ghostlike in the gloom.</p> + +<p>It was only natural, therefore, that Mr. Jerningham should prefer the +pleasant, home-like rooms in the bailiff’s cottage. Considered as a +habitation only, the cottage was much more pleasant than the great +house; and at the cottage Mr. Jerningham enjoyed the society that was +of all companionship most agreeable to him. With Theodore de Bergerac +there was always some new subject for discussion; and the theme which +employed the quiet days of the savant had a keen interest for his +friend. The Frenchman might ride his hobby as hard as he pleased +without inflicting weariness upon Mr. Jerningham, who in general +society affected the tone and manner of a gentlemanly martyr.</p> + +<p>He spent all his evenings at the cottage, after contriving to occupy +himself somehow or other during the day; for this most selfish of +men was too well-bred to intrude upon his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> friend’s studious hours. +It was only between six and seven o’clock that Mr. Jerningham made +his appearance in the little drawing-room, where he generally found +Helen alone with her books and work, with the ponderous limbs of the +Newfoundland stretched luxuriously upon the hearth at her feet.</p> + +<p>The half-hour before dinner was by no means disagreeable to the +master of Greenlands, nor was it unpleasant to Helen. Jerningham the +irresistible had not lost the charm of manner that had won him renown +in that modern Hôtel de Rambouillet, to whose saloons all that was +brightest in the regions of intellect lent its light; and across +whose floors, silent and inscrutable as a shadow, passed that exiled +prince whose voice now rules the Western world. Mr. Jerningham had +acquired the art of conversation amongst the best men of his day, and +he talked well. Subdued in all things, he pleased without effort, and +was instructive without taint of dogmatism. He discussed a subject with +interest, but he never argued. That war of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> words which some people +call conversation was detestable to him.</p> + +<p>Helen was unversed in the hateful art of argument, and she was the +most delightful, the most sympathetic of listeners. She had read just +enough to make her a good listener. There were few subjects you could +touch of which she did not know something, and about which she did not +languish to know more. She was not unpleasantly demonstrative of her +interest in your discourse, nor did she cut you down in the middle of +a sentence from the desire to prove herself your equal in wisdom; but +every now and then, by some apposite remark or well-timed question, she +demonstrated her interest in your discourse, her perfect appreciation +of your meaning.</p> + +<p>“If my wife had been like this girl, my marriage would have been a +turning-point in my life,” Harold Jerningham said to himself, very +sadly, after one of these pleasant half-hours before dinner.</p> + +<p>After that first interview between the two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> men, no more was said about +Eustace Thorburn. To the secretary, Mr. Jerningham was unalterably +polite, preserving always that tone of the grand seigneur which marks +difference of rank, and yet is not the assumption of superiority; +a manner that seems to say, “We are born of different races, and, +unhappily, no condescension on my part can bring us any nearer to each +other.” It was the manner of Louis the Great to Molière or Racine. +But a very close observer might have discovered that the master of +Greenlands liked neither the secretary’s presence nor the secretary +himself. He talked to him a little now and then; for he was at his +worst a gentleman, and could not insult a dependant; and he listened +courteously to the young man’s talk. But he rarely pursued any subject +that seemed a favourite with Mr. Thorburn; and on rare occasions when +Eustace warmed with the excitement of some argument between himself and +his employer, and talked with unusual warmth, Mr. Jerningham betrayed +some slight weariness.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span></p> + +<p>“Do you not find that young man insufferable with his rhapsodies about +Homer and Æschylus?” he said to Helen one evening. But the young lady +declared her sympathies with Mr. Thorburn, and this time without +blushes or confusion whatsoever.</p> + +<p>There is a calm, sweet peace that attends the monotony of a happy life, +in which doubt and bewilderment of mind are unknown. On that first day +of Mr. Jerningham’s return, Helen had been just a little embarrassed +in her conversation with the unexpected guest; hence the blushes and +confusion that had accompanied her mention of Eustace Thorburn. But +now she had no more restraint in talking of the secretary with Mr. +Jerningham than when she talked of him with her father. Harold saw +this, and began to fancy that he had been mistaken. There might be no +love-affair between these young people after all. He was very willing +to think it was so. “I should be sorry to see Helen de Bergerac waste +her regard upon that pedantic young prig,” he said to himself.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span></p> + +<p>Now most assuredly Eustace Thorburn was neither prig nor pedant; but +in his own tranquil manner Mr. Jerningham was a good hater, and he +had taken it into his head to hate this young man. The prejudice was, +perhaps, not entirely unnatural, since Eustace was in some manner a +protégé of Laurence Desmond’s.</p> + +<p>Happily for the secretary, this unprovoked dislike was yet unknown to +him. He was no sycophant, to languish for a rich man’s friendship; and +he had never studied Mr. Jerningham’s looks or tones so closely as to +discover the state of that gentleman’s feelings. There was, indeed, no +room in his mind for any consideration of Mr. Jerningham’s thoughts or +feelings. He was a poet, and he was in love, and he was happy; happy, +in spite of the lurking consciousness that there might come a sudden +end to his happiness.</p> + +<p>Yes, he was happy—calmly, completely happy; and it is just possible +that this very fact was irritating to Mr. Jerningham, who was a +creature of whims and fancies, capricious and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> exacting as a woman. +Had he not lived a womanish, self-indulgent life, eminently calculated +to render the best and bravest of men something less than manly? Mr. +Jerningham had chosen his position in life, and had never outstepped +it. In the great opera of existence he had played only one part, and +that was the rôle of the lover—the false, the fickle, the devoted, the +disdainful, the jealous, the exacting—what you will—but always the +same part in the same familiar drama; and now that he was too old for +the character, he felt that he had no further use in life, and that for +him the universe must henceforward be a blank.</p> + +<p>He felt this always, but never with a pang so keen as that which smote +him when Eustace Thorburn’s freshness and enthusiasm marked the depth +of his own gentlemanly hopelessness. For the last fifteen years of his +life he had kept himself carefully aloof from young men, holding the +youth of his generation as an inferior species, something lower than +his dog, infinitely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> worse than his horse. He saw young men from afar +off at his club, and on those rare occasions when he condescended to +appear in society, and it seemed to him that they were all alike, and +all equally inane. The only clever young men he had ever met were older +in feeling than himself, and more wicked, with the wickedness of the +Orleans regency as distinguished from the wickedness of the Augustan +age, it followed—the decadence from a Lauzun to a Riom, from the +stately saloons of Versailles to the <i>luxe effréné</i> of the Palais +Royal.</p> + +<p>But, behold, here was a young man who was intellectual and not cynical, +learned and not a scoffer, ambitious without conceit, enthusiastic +without pretence. Here was a young man whom Harold Jerningham admired +in spite of himself, and whose virtues and graces inspired in his +breast a feeling that was terribly like envy.</p> + +<p>“Is it his happiness or his youth that I envy him?” Mr. Jerningham +asked himself, when he tried to solve the mystery of his own sentiments +with regard to this matter. “His<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> youth surely; for the other word +is only a synonym for youth. Yes, if I am angry with his obtrusive +brightness and hopefulness, I suppose it is because I see him in full +possession of that universal heritage which I have wasted. He is +young, and life is all before him. How will he spend his ten talents, +I wonder? Will he turn them into small change, and squander them in +fashionable drawing-rooms, as I squandered mine? or will he invest +them in some grand undertaking where they will carry interest till +the end of time? Helen tells me he is to be a poet. I have seen his +lighted window shining between the bare black branches when I have been +restless, and prowled in the park after midnight. Ah, what delight +to be three-and-twenty, with a spotless name, a clear conscience, a +good digestion, and to be able to sit up late on a winter’s night to +scribble verses! I dare say his fire goes out sometimes, and he writes +on, supremely unconscious of the cold, and fancying himself Homer. +Happy youth!”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span></p> + +<p>A perfectly idle man is naturally the subject of strange whims and +caprices; for that saying of Dr. Watts, about the work that Satan +supplies to the idle, is as true as if it had been composed by Plato +or Seneca. It must surely have been from very <i>désœuvrement</i> that +Mr. Jerningham wasted so much of his life at the cottage, and devoted +so much of his leisure to the study of Eustace Thorburn as a member of +the human family, and Eustace Thorburn in his relation to the student’s +daughter. Certain it is that he bestowed as much of his attention upon +the affairs of these young people as he could well have done had he +been the appointed guardian of Helen de Bergerac’s peace. Closely as +he studied these young persons, he could not arrive at any definite +conclusion about them. Helen’s bright, changeful face told so many +different stories; and the countenance of the secretary was almost as +bright and changeful.</p> + +<p>Sweet though the charms of friendship must always be to the jaded +spirit, Mr. Jerningham<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> was not altogether happy in his intercourse +with the family at the bailiff’s cottage. He found pleasure there, +and he dallied with the brief glimpses of happiness, loth to lose the +brightness of those transient rays; but he found pain far keener than +the pleasure, and every day when he went to his old friend’s house he +told himself this visit should be the last.</p> + +<p>But when the next day came, the outlook over life’s desert seemed more +than ever dark and dreary; so he lingered a little longer by the cool +waters of the green oasis.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI.<br> +MRS. JERNINGHAM IS PHILANTHROPIC.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>MR. DESMOND took the earliest opportunity of carrying out his +resolution in the matter of Lucy Alford, otherwise Miss St. Albans. He +dined at the Hampton villa within a few days of his visit to Whitecross +Street, and entertained Mrs. Jerningham with the story of his tutor’s +daughter, her hopes and her struggles. He told the simple little story +very pleasantly, and not without a touch of pathos, as he sat by the +pretty fireplace in the Hampton drawing-room, after a New Year’s dinner +<i>à trois</i> with Mrs. Colton and her niece. The dinner had been a +success, the snug circular table crowned with a monster pine of Emily’s +own growing; and the châtelaine herself was in a peculiarly amiable +mood.</p> + +<p>The most delightful of dragons had a habit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> of dozing after dinner, +which was just a little hazardous for the fruit under her guardianship.</p> + +<p>She always awoke from her slumbers to declare that she had heard +every word of the conversation, and had enjoyed it amazingly; but +this declaration was taken with certain qualifications. Seated in her +comfortable nook by the low Belgian mantelpiece, half in the shadow of +the projecting marble, half in the red light of the fire, she was at +once the image of repose and propriety—a statue of Comfort, draped in +that neutral-tinted silk which is the privilege of middle age.</p> + +<p>“Why do you ever ask stupid people to meet me, Emily?” asked Laurence, +when he had finished Lucy Alford’s story. “See how happy we are alone +together. It is so nice to be able to talk to you <i>sans gêne</i>, +with the sense that one is really holding converse with one’s best and +truest friend.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham’s flexible lips were slightly contracted as Laurence +said this. His tone<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> was just a little <i>too</i> friendly to be +pleasing to her.</p> + +<p>“You are very good,” she said, rather coldly, “and I am delighted to +find you think my house pleasant this evening. Is your Miss Alford +pretty?”</p> + +<p>“No, ‘my Miss Alford’ is not particularly pretty,” replied the editor, +conscious that the green-eyed monster was not entirely banished from +that comfortable paradise; “at least, I suppose not. She is the sort +of girl who is usually called interesting. I remember a young man +who called all the beauties of the season ‘pleasing.’ His vocabulary +contained no warmer epithet. They were all pleasing. I think, without +going too far, I may venture to call Miss Alford pleasing.”</p> + +<p>“She is young, of course?”</p> + +<p>“A mere child.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! a mere child, like Göthe’s Mignon or Hugo’s Esmeralda, I +suppose?”</p> + +<p>This was a very palpable pat from the paw of the green-eyed one; but +Mr. Desmond had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> set his foot upon the ploughshare, and he was not +inclined to withdraw from the ordeal, because the iron proved a little +hotter than he had expected to find it.</p> + +<p>“She is not in the least like Mignon. She is a very sensible, +reasonable young lady, about eighteen years of age. Now, I know that +you are dreadfully at a loss for some object upon which to bestow +your sympathy, and it has struck me that, with very little trouble +to yourself, you might confer much kindness on this friendless girl. +She is of gentle blood, of refined rearing; and she is quite alone in +the world; for I count her broken-down, drunken father as less than +nothing. She is all innocence, gratitude, and affection; and——”</p> + +<p>“Indeed!” exclaimed Mrs. Jerningham. “You appear to have studied her +character with considerable attention.”</p> + +<p>“She is as simple as a child, and reveals her character in half a +dozen sentences. Go and see her, Emily; and if you are not pleased and +interested, let your first visit be your last.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> + +<p>“And if I should be pleased and interested, what then?”</p> + +<p>“Your own heart will answer that question. The girl is a lady, exposed +to all the miseries of genteel poverty, disappointed of one theatrical +engagement, and not likely to be professionally employed for some +months. I think your first impulse will be to bring her home with you. +Her youth is fast fading in her miserable home, where there is so much +anxiety, so little happiness. You have lamented the emptiness of your +life, your inability to be of use to your fellow-creatures——”</p> + +<p>“Excuse me, Mr. Desmond, I told you very plainly that I have no taste +for philanthropy.”</p> + +<p>“And I took the liberty to disbelieve you. I am sure you do yourself +injustice when you pretend not to be kind and womanly.”</p> + +<p>“And am I to go about the world adopting casual orphans, or any amiable +young persons who happen to be afflicted with disreputable fathers, +in order to gratify the charitable instincts of Mr. Desmond, whose +last mania is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> the rescue of pretty actresses from the anxieties and +discomforts of their profession?”</p> + +<p>“You will do just as you please, Emily,” Laurence answered, very +coldly. “I thought the history of this girl’s trials would have +interested you. I might have known that you would receive it in your +usual spirit.”</p> + +<p>“And pray what is my usual spirit?”</p> + +<p>“A very unpleasant one!”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! I am a most objectionable person because I do not rush to the +rescue of Miss Lucy Alford, whom you talk of, by the way, as Lucy, +<i>tout court</i>. Shall I order the brougham, and go in search of your +paragon, to-night.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham extended her hand, and made as if she would ring the +bell. Mrs. Colton’s slumbers were broken by a faint moaning sound, as +of remonstrance.</p> + +<p>“I shall never again mention the name of my paragon, Mrs. Jerningham,” +said Laurence, rising and planting himself with his back to the +fireplace; “nor will I ever again ask the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> smallest favour at your +hands. You have a positive genius for aggravation!”</p> + +<p>“Thank you very much. It is not given to every one to be so charming as +Miss Alford.”</p> + +<p>“Good night, Mrs. Colton,” said Laurence, as the image of the +proprieties awoke to life, conscious that the atmosphere had changed +since she sank to her peaceful slumbers. “I have a little work to do +to-night, and must get back to town early.”</p> + +<p>This awful threat brought Mrs. Jerningham’s proud spirit to the dust +immediately.</p> + +<p>“Oh no, you are not going away!” she exclaimed. “Aunt Fanny is just +going to give us some tea—why are those people always so long bringing +the tea?—and after tea you shall have as much music as you like, +or none, if you like that better. I will go and see your tutor’s +daughter to-morrow morning, Laurence; and if Aunt Fanny and I find her +a nice person—nice in the feminine sense of the adjective, <i>bien +entendu</i>—we will bring her down to stay with us for a few weeks.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> + +<p>After this, there was perfect harmony for the rest of the evening. +No one could be more gentle, more humble, more charming than Mrs. +Jerningham, after she had goaded the man she loved to the verge of +madness; but so to goad him was a delight that she could not forego.</p> + +<p>Early in the next afternoon the simple inhabitants of Paul’s Terrace +were electrified by the apparition of a brougham and pair—a brougham, +on the box whereof sat two servants, clad in subdued and unexceptional +livery—a brougham which even the untutored denizens of Ball’s Pond +recognized as the very archetype of equipages. A tremendous knock at +the door of No. 20 set Lucy’s heart beating; a pompous voice asked +if Miss Alford was at home; and in the next minute the door of the +brougham was opened, and two ladies alighted—ladies whose furs were +alone worth a fortune, as the proprietress of No. 20 informed her +gossips at the first opportunity.</p> + +<p>Lucy’s heart fluttered like some frightened bird, as Mrs. Jerningham +advanced to greet her,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> with outstretched hand and pleasant smile. It +was long since she had been accustomed to any but the free-and-easy +society of the green-room, where the ladies called her “St. Albans,” +and the gentlemen “my dear,” in no impertinent spirit, but with a +fatherly familiarity which had, at first, rather amazed her.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham’s carriage, and sables, and elegance, and beauty, +were alike startling to her; and this handsome lady was Mr. Desmond’s +friend! The world in which he lived was inhabited by such people! Oh, +what a vulgar, miserable place Paul’s Terrace must have seemed to +him! what a loathsome den the prison in which her father languished, +broken-down and desolate! The ex-coach was drinking brandy and water, +and maundering about great “wines,” and patrician bear-fights—the +battles of Ursa Major—in the prison-ward, as the girl thought of him, +and was enjoying life very tolerably after his old fashion.</p> + +<p>“Our common friend Mr. Desmond has sent me to call upon you, Miss +Alford,” said the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> lady in sables, with much cordiality of tone and +manner, and with Lucy’s timid hand in her own. “We are to be excellent +friends, he tells me; and he has given me such an interesting account +of your professional career, and your love for the drama, that I +feel already as if I knew you quite intimately. I hope I do not seem +altogether a stranger to you.”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, indeed,” faltered Lucy. “Mr. Desmond told me how kind you are; +and I am sure——”</p> + +<p>This was all that Miss Alford was capable of saying just yet. Mrs. +Jerningham had noted every detail of her appearance by this time, with +some touch of that fatal spirit whose influence embittered so much of +her life.</p> + +<p>“Yes, she is interesting,” thought the visitor, “and not exactly +pretty; and yet I am not quite convinced of that. Her eyes are large +and blue, and have a tender, earnest look, that is assumed, no doubt, +like the rest of her stage-tricks; and, I declare, the minx has long +black eyelashes. I wonder whether<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> she has dyed them? That rosy little +mouth is painted, no doubt, in order to set off her pale complexion, +which of course is pearl-powder, so artfully put on that one cannot see +it. No doubt these actresses have a hundred secrets of the Rachel kind.”</p> + +<p>Thus whispered jealousy; and then spoke the milder voice of womanly +compassion.</p> + +<p>“That brown merino dress is dreadfully shabby, almost threadbare about +the sleeves; and what a horrible place to live in, with children +playing on the door-step, and fowls—actually fowls!—in the area. Poor +little thing! she really seems like a lady—shy and gentle, and alarmed +by our grandeur.”</p> + +<p>The voice of compassion drowned the green-eyed one’s insidious whisper, +and in a very few minutes Mrs. Jerningham had contrived to set Lucy +at her ease. She made Miss Alford talk of herself, and her hopes and +disappointments, in discoursing whereof Lucy was careful to avoid all +mention of the “Cat’s-meat Man.”</p> + +<p>“I want you to come and stay a few days<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> with me at Hampton, Miss +Alford,” said Emily. “You are not looking at all well, and our nice +country air will revive you after all your worries.—A week at Hampton +would quite set Miss Alford up in the matter of health, wouldn’t it, +Aunt Fanny?”</p> + +<p>On this Mrs. Colton, of course, seconded her niece’s proposal; but Lucy +was evidently at a loss to reply to this flattering invitation.</p> + +<p>“It would be most delightful,” she murmured. “I cannot thank you +sufficiently for your kindness. But I think while papa is—away—I +ought not to——”</p> + +<p>And here she looked down at her threadbare merino dress, and Mrs. +Jerningham divined that there lay the obstacle.</p> + +<p>“I shall take no refusal,” she said; while Lucy was wondering whether +she could enter society in the pink silk she wore for the second act of +the <i>Lady of Lyons</i>, or the blue moiré antique—a deceitful and +spurious fabric with a cotton back—which she wore for Julia in the +<i>Hunchback</i>. “I have pledged myself to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> carry you off to Hampton, +and I must keep my word. I will not wait for any preparations in the +way of toilette; you must come in the dress you have on, and my maid +shall run you up two or three dresses to wear while you are with me. I +have a mania for buying bargains, and I have always half a dozen unmade +dresses in my wardrobe. It will be a real charity to take them off my +hands, and leave me free to buy more bargains. I never can resist that +insidious man who assails me, just as I have finished my shopping, with +the remark that if I happen to want anything in the way of silks, he +can call my attention to a most valuable opportunity. And I yield to +the voice of the tempter, and burden myself with things I don’t want.”</p> + +<p>After this, the question was easily settled. Mrs. Jerningham met all +Lucy’s difficulties in the pleasantest manner, while Mrs. Colton put in +a kind word every now and then; and, encouraged by so much kindness, +Lucy yielded. It was agreed that she should write to her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> father, and +pack her little carpet-bag of indispensables between that hour and five +o’clock, during which interval the two ladies were to pay their visits, +and take their luncheon, while the horses had their two hours’ rest, +and then return, to convey Miss Alford to Hampton in the brougham.</p> + +<p>Lucy felt like a creature in a dream when the archetypal carriage had +driven away, and she was left alone to make her arrangements for the +visit to Hampton. These were not the first refined and well-bred women +she had met, but never before had she been on visiting terms with the +proprietress of such sables, or such an equipage, as those possessed by +Mrs. Jerningham.</p> + +<p>“How good of him to give me such kind friends!” she said to herself. +She felt gratefully disposed towards Mrs. Jerningham, but her deepest +gratitude was given to Laurence, the benefactor and champion who had +sent her these new friends in her hour of difficulty.</p> + +<p>She had many little duties to perform before<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> the return of the +carriage—little bills to pay, a letter to write to her father, and a +post-office order to procure for the same helpless individual. After +paying all debts due to landlady and tradesmen, she reserved for +herself only one sovereign of the money given her by Laurence Desmond. +The rest she sent to the prisoner.</p> + +<p>“Do not think me unkind if I ask you to be very careful, dear papa,” +she wrote. “This money is the last we can expect to receive from Mr. +Desmond. He has been more kind than words can express, and I am sure +you will feel his kindness as deeply as I do.”</p> + +<p>And then came a description of the strange lady, the grand carriage, +and the invitation that she would fain have refused.</p> + +<p>“You must not imagine that I am enjoying myself while you are unhappy, +poor dear papa,” she continued. “I thought that to refuse Mrs. +Jerningham’s invitation would seem ungracious to her, and ungrateful +to Mr. Desmond; so I am going to Hampton. The train<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> will bring me +to town in an hour whenever you wish to see me, and you have only to +write one line to me at River Lawn—isn’t that a pretty name for a +place?—telling me your wish, in order to be immediately obeyed. I +have told Mrs. Wilkins that you may return at any moment, and she has +promised to make you comfortable in my absence. She seemed awestruck +by the sight of Mrs. Jerningham’s carriage, and has adopted quite +a new tone to me within the last hour. You know how disrespectful +she has been lately. I think she suspected that you had been taken +to that dreadful place; but the appearance of the carriage and the +settlement of her account have quite changed her. I hope you do not +sit in draughts, and that you take care to secure a corner near the +fire. It almost breaks my heart to think of you sitting in that long, +dreary room, while I am going away to a pleasant house. It seems almost +heartless in me to go; but, believe me, I only do so to avoid offending +Mr. Desmond.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span></p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“May God bless you, dear papa! and support you in your hour of trouble.</p> + +<p class="nindc"> +“You ever loving child,</p> +<p class="right space-below2"><span class="allsmcap">“LUCY</span>.”</p> +</div> + +<p>After this letter to her father, Miss Alford wrote a note to Laurence +Desmond, thanking him for his kindness to herself, and putting in a +timid little plea for the prisoner in Whitecross Street. By the time +these letters were written and posted, and Lucy’s modest carpet-bag +packed, the brougham was again a thing of wonder for the inhabitants of +Paul’s Terrace, more especially wonderful upon this occasion by reason +of two flaming lamps, that flashed like meteors upon the darkness of +Ball’s Pond. Lucy could not help feeling a faint thrill of pride as she +stepped into this vehicle, attended to the very door by the obsequious +Mrs. Wilkins, who insisted on getting in the way-of that grandiose +creature in livery, whose business it was to open and shut the door of +the brougham.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Jerningham’s bays performed the distance<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> between London and +Hampton in about two hours; and during the long drive Lucy told the +two ladies a good deal about herself and her father, and the old +days in which Laurence Desmond had read for “greats” at Henley. All +this she related without egotism, and urged thereto by Emily, who +seemed interested in all Miss Alford had to tell, but most especially +interested in her account of Mr. Desmond’s reading for honours.</p> + +<p>“And was he very industrious?” she asked; “did he work very hard?”</p> + +<p>“Well, yes, I believe he read sometimes at night; but I was only nine +years old, you know,” replied Lucy, “and poor mamma used to send me +to bed very early. Mr. Desmond and his two friends used to be on the +river nearly all day, sometimes training for boat-races, you know, and +sometimes fishing—spinning for jack, I think they used to call it.”</p> + +<p>“But surely it was not by spinning for jack that Mr. Desmond got his +degree?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no! of course he did read, you know,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> because he came to Henley on +purpose to read. I believe there used to be a great deal of reading +done every night after the shutters were shut and the lamps lighted. +But Mr. Desmond used to say he could never work well until he had used +up his idleness; and he declared that he never felt himself in such +good training for cramming Thicksides as after a long day’s punting.”</p> + +<p>“Cramming Thicksides!” cried Mrs. Jerningham, in amazement; “what, in +mercy’s name, did he mean by that?”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Thicksides is the Oxonian name for Thucydides.”</p> + +<p>“How very charming! And at night, when the lamps were lighted, Mr. +Desmond and your father used to cram Thicksides?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, and Cicero; the Philippics, you know, and that sort of thing; and +all the Greek tragedies, and Demosthenes, and Mill’s Logic, and the +Gospels. I believe Mr. Desmond’s friends were both ploughed. Papa said +that they were not nearly so clever as he.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p> + +<p>“And your papa thinks him very clever, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>“Papa says he is one of the best Balliol men; and Balliol is a college +where they work very hard, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! Miss Alford, I know nothing of the kind.”</p> + +<p>“I beg your pardon! I only said ‘you know’ in a general sense, you +know. Papa has often told me what a silly, vulgar habit it is, you +know; but I go on saying it in spite of myself.”</p> + +<p>“It is not such a very grave offence, Lucy. May I call you Lucy, Miss +Alford?”</p> + +<p>“Oh! if you please. I should like it much better than for you to call +me Miss Alford.”</p> + +<p>“In that case it shall always be Lucy,” replied Mrs. Jerningham, +kindly; “Lucy is such a pretty name, and suits you admirably.”</p> + +<p>She was thinking of Wordsworth’s familiar lines:—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">“A creature not too bright or good</div> + <div class="verse indent0">For human nature’s daily food.”</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“I am not fit for ‘human nature’s daily<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> food,’” she said to herself. +“I am what the French call <i>difficile</i>; not easily pleased by +others, never quite satisfied with myself. The circumstances of my life +have always been exceptional; but I doubt if I should have been a happy +woman under happier circumstances.”</p> + +<p>The question of how much character may or may not be moulded and +influenced by circumstances, was a psychological problem too difficult +for Mrs. Jerningham’s comprehension. She knew that she was not happy; +and there were times when she was inclined to ascribe her unhappiness +to some radical defect in her own character, rather than to her +exceptional position.</p> + +<p>She found herself pleased and interested by Lucy Alford; but she +was nevertheless bent on measuring the extent of that young lady’s +acquaintance with Laurence Desmond.</p> + +<p>“I am glad to think that your father considers Mr. Desmond so clever,” +she said, presently, returning to the charge.</p> + +<p>“Oh yes, he is very clever, and as good as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> he is clever,” replied +Lucy, with more enthusiasm than was quite agreeable to her questioner.</p> + +<p>“You have seen a great deal of him in the course of your life?”</p> + +<p>“Oh yes; I used to be with him and papa a great deal at Henley, in the +punt, you know, when I was nine years old. I used to catch flies for +them—blue-bottles, and all sorts of flies. It seemed very cruel to the +flies, you know; but Mr. Desmond was so kind to me, and I was pleased +to be of any use to him.”</p> + +<p>“And have you seen him very often since you were nine years old?”</p> + +<p>“Oh no, very seldom; never until two or three weeks ago, when papa +wrote to ask him for an introduction to a London manager. But in that +short time he has been so kind, so good, so generous, so thoughtful, +that——”</p> + +<p>The rest was expressed by a little choking sob.</p> + +<p>“I am glad to think that he is kind, and generous, and thoughtful,” +said Mrs. Jerningham, very seriously. “He is my friend, Lucy—a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> very +old and intimate friend; and I am more pleased to hear him praised than +to hear any praise of myself. Your gratitude for his kindness touches +me very deeply.”</p> + +<p>There was a tone of appropriation in this speech which was felt rather +than understood by Lucy. She was conscious that this grand lady of the +irreproachable brougham claimed Laurence Desmond for her own, and she +began to perceive how frail a link was that accidental association +which bound him to herself.</p> + +<p>“Laurence has asked me to be your friend, Lucy,” continued Mrs. +Jerningham, and something that was almost pain smote Lucy’s heart as +the lady uttered his Christian name for the first time in her hearing. +“He has requested me to be your friend and adviser; and it will be +a great pleasure to me to obey his wish. Of course, it will be much +better for you to accept friendship from me than from him, Lucy. That +kind of thing could not go on for ever, you know.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, of course not,” murmured Lucy. She<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> was too innocent to perceive +the real drift of this remark. She thought that Mrs. Jerningham was +considering the business entirely from a pecuniary point of view. “Of +course, I know that Mr. Desmond could not afford to go on helping papa +as he has been helping him,” she said; “it would be very shameful of us +to wish it.”</p> + +<p>“<i>You</i> could not afford to receive money from him any longer, +Lucy,” returned the voice of worldly wisdom from the lips of Mrs. +Jerningham. “It would be a most improper position for you to occupy. +In future you must tell me your troubles, and I shall be always glad +to help you; but all confidences between you and Mr. Desmond had much +better come to an end.”</p> + +<p>“I do not want to confide in him; that is to say, I do not want to +ask favours of him,” replied poor Lucy, much distressed by this stern +dictum. “But my friendship for him cannot come to an end. I cannot so +easily forget his kindness. If I were at the Antipodes,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> and with no +hope ever to see his face again, I should think of him with the same +regard and gratitude to my dying day. If I live to be an old, old +woman, I shall always think of him as my truest and kindest friend.”</p> + +<p>“Your grateful feelings are very creditable; but I hope you will not +express yourself in that manner to other people, Lucy. You talk in a +way that sounds theatrical, and rather bold. A girl of your age ought +not to be so very enthusiastic about any gentleman.”</p> + +<p>“Not when he has been so good, so generous?”</p> + +<p>“Not under any circumstances. You may be grateful as Androcles, or the +lion—which was it that was grateful, by the bye?—but you need not +indulge in that kind of rhapsody; it is not in very good taste.”</p> + +<p>This was the first time Lucy had heard of taste, in the modern-society +sense of the word. She submitted to Mrs. Jerningham’s sentence. The +voice of a lady, admired and respected by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> Laurence Desmond, must be +sacred as the voices of Delphos.</p> + +<p>The carriage rolled into the shrubberied drive at River Lawn presently, +and then Lucy beheld flashing lights, and a vestibule with bright +tesselated pavement, and pictures on the walls, and open doors leading +into the brightest, prettiest rooms she had ever seen in her life; and +in the dining-room was set forth that banquet so dear to the heart +of every true woman—a tea-dinner. Quaint old silver tea and coffee +service, turquoise-blue cups and saucers, an antique oval tea-tray, +a pierced cake-basket that would make a collector’s mouth water; +substantial fare in the way of tongue and chicken and game-pie; a +room adorned as only perfect taste, allied with wealth, can adorn a +room, were the things that greeted Lucy Alford’s eyes as she looked +round her for the first time in her new friend’s home. It was scarcely +strange that such a room should seem to her almost like a picture of +fairy-land, as contrasted with those dingy lodgings<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> in Ball’s Pond, +where the last few weeks of her existence had been spent. She thought +of her father in his dreary prison-ward, and she could not quite put +away from her the feeling that she had no right to be amidst such +pleasant surroundings.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII.<br> +DECEITFUL ABOVE ALL THINGS.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>THE fair river that wound like a broad ribbon of silver through the +lands of Harold Jerningham was not more tranquil than the course of +existence at the bailiff’s cottage. M. de Bergerac’s great book grew +slowly and steadily in bulk, and developed day by day from chaos into +form; while Helen’s simple life went on, eventless and purposeless +perhaps, if measured by the ordinary standard by which the world +measures existence, every hour filled with pleasant occupation, every +morning bringing with it some new delight. Her father, her books, +her dog, her piano, her birds, her dairy, her poultry-yard,—these +were the delights of Helen’s life, and these left her no leisure for +the ordinary aspirations of young-ladyhood. It is not to be supposed +that so charming a damsel was neglected or ignored<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> by neighbouring +families. Helen had to receive an occasional morning visitor, and +was obliged sometimes to withdraw the declaration that she never +visited, in favour of some friendly matron hunting pretty girls for a +garden-party, or presentable pianistes for a musical evening. But she +went out very seldom. Her home-life was inexpressibly dear to her, +and an evening’s absence from the beloved father’s side seemed like a +break in her existence. What could people give her at garden-parties or +musical evenings that was equal to her father’s society?</p> + +<p>“I meet no one who can talk like you, papa,” she said on returning, +blooming and radiant, from a neighbouring mansion, not elated because +she had been enjoying herself especially abroad, but because she was +pleased to come home. “Why should I take the trouble to put on this +white dress, and crush all the little flounces that poor Nanon insists +upon ironing with her own hands, in order to hear people say stupid +things, when I am always so much happier with you in this dear old +room? I am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> afraid I must be a blue-stocking, papa, for I cannot enjoy +the perpetual talk about operas and morning-concerts, and new curates +and croquet-parties, that I hear whenever I go out.”</p> + +<p>It was very pleasant to Eustace Thorburn to discover that the country +society had so little fascination for his employer’s daughter. It had +been anguish to him to see her borne away to halls of dazzling light, +or paradisaic croquet-grounds, whither he might not follow. He loved +her with a young man’s love—pure, honest, and enthusiastic. The +depth and intensity, the abnegation of self, which constitutes the +religion of love, were as yet only latent in his breast. It was the +summer-morning of life, and the barque that bore the lovers onward +upon the enchanted waters was floating with the stream. The hour of +the turning tide would be the hour to test the strength of Eustace +Thorburn’s devotion. At present all was smooth and bright and happy, +and the affection which these young people felt for one another grew +imperceptibly in the hearts of each. Helen did not know why<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> her life +seemed to her so perfect in its calm happiness. Eustace believed that +he was battling manfully with his own weakness, and that every day +brought him nearer to the hour of victory.</p> + +<p>“I am resigned to the thought that Helen de Bergerac may never be my +wife,” he said to himself; “and yet I am almost happy.”</p> + +<p>He might have said, quite happy; for a happiness more perfect than +any man can hope to experience twice in his life made his new home a +paradise for him. He was happy because, unknown to himself, he still +hoped; he was happy because he was still the friend and companion of +his idol.</p> + +<p>“What is to become of me when my task here is finished?” he asked +himself. But this was a line of thought which he dared not pursue; +beyond that bright home all was darkness.</p> + +<p>M. de Bergerac looked on at the little Arcadian comedy, and wondered. +The scholar was too unskilled in the study of youthful hearts to read +the mysterious cipher in which the secret<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> thoughts of lovers are +written. He saw that the young people were very well pleased with each +other’s society, but he saw no more; nor did he disturb himself by +doubts or apprehensions. Harold Jerningham contemplated the same comedy +with angry feelings in his breast; he envied these young people the +brightness of their morning. The feeling was mean and detestable. Mr. +Jerningham knew this, and hated himself; but the bitter envy of youth +and happiness was not to be banished from his heart. “The heart is +deceitful above all things and desperately wicked,” cries the Prophet; +and if it was even so with the people of God, what must it be with +such a man as Mr. Jerningham, who had never recognized any other god +than himself, and the fancy or the passion of the hour, and who at his +best had known for his only law that vague instinct—half pride, half +shame—which bad men call honour?</p> + +<p>It is quite impossible that a man who performs no duty and cherishes +no ambition can escape that fatal decline which leads to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> region +of moral darkness. Harold Jerningham had cherished some faint hope +of distinction at the beginning of his life. He had made his venture +in the lottery, and had drawn, not exactly a blank, but a number so +infinitely beneath his expectation that it seemed to him as worthless.</p> + +<p>There had been a time when the master of Greenlands, fresh from a +successful university career, and steeped to the very lips in Greek +verse, had fancied himself a poet. The dream, which was so sweet to +Eustace Thorburn, had shed its glamour over his pathway. Even the +sweets of fame had come to him in some small measure, but not that +laurel-crown which he had hoped to win; so he shrugged his shoulders, +laughed at his critics, and wandered away to the sunny lands where +life itself is unwritten poetry. Young Jerningham of Brazenose was +a very brilliant young man, but he lacked that divine spark, that +touch of the superhuman, which men call genius. He had not the +fire, the pluck, the energy, the passion of that young lordling who +answered his contemptuous critics,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> not with <i>English Bards and +Scotch Reviewers</i>—that was only the <i>tour de force</i> of a +pamphleteer—but with <i>Childe Harold</i>, the inspired verse of a +poet supremely unconscious of public and of critics, under the sway of +a possession no less potent than that which gave prophetic voice to +Cassandra.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham had discovered that a handsome face, a manner eminently +successful in feminine society, an intimate acquaintance with classic +literature, a fine fortune, and some ambition for literary fame, do +not make a Byron; and to be anything less than Byron seemed to Mr. +Jerningham synonymous with failure. “I am like the tiger,” said Byron. +“If I do not succeed with the first spring, I go back growling to my +cave.” Mr. Jerningham was also like the tiger. He went back to his +cave, and remained there. “Cæsar or nothing,” he had said to himself, +when he made his venture. The result was nothing.</p> + +<p>The fact that he had thus aspired and failed, may have had some slight +influence upon his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> feelings on the subject of Eustace Thorburn. The +young man’s ambitious hopes were never paraded. It was only by the glow +upon his face, and the warmth of his words, when he praised the poets +of the past, that he unconsciously revealed the bent of his mind. For +the rest, Mr. Jerningham heard a great deal about the young poet’s +hopes and dreams from Helen, who was his confidante and adviser.</p> + +<p>“He helps me so kindly with all my studies, that it is the least I +can do to be interested in his poems,” Helen said, as if she felt +herself bound to apologize for the warmth of her interest in this +subject. “He is writing a long poem, something in the style of Mrs. +Browning’s <i>Aurora Leigh</i>, only with a much prettier story for the +groundwork; and he has read me little bits—such noble verses! And then +he writes an occasional short poem, just as the fancy strikes him. Some +of the short poems have been published in the magazines. Perhaps you +would like to see them?”</p> + +<p>Helen rose as if to go in search of the magazines,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> but Mr. Jerningham +stopped her with a hasty gesture of deprecation.</p> + +<p>“Please spare me the short poems, my dear Helen,” he said. “I have +given up reading my Horace and Catullus, since I have passed the poetic +age. Don’t ask me to read magazine verses.”</p> + +<p>Helen looked very much disappointed.</p> + +<p>“I dare say, two thousand years hence, learned men will be disputing +about a false quantity in one of Mr. Thorburn’s poems,” said her +father. “Not every poet can hope to be thought great in his own +century. Do you remember that preface of Webster’s to the <i>White +Devil</i>, in which he names all the dramatists of the day, and last +of all, ‘without wrong so to be named, the right happy and copious +industry of master Shakspeare’?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered Mr. Jerningham. “I don’t think either Shakspeare or +Molière had the faintest suspicion that he was to be immortal. It is +only once in a thousand years that a poet drinks the cup of triumph +that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> Byron drained to the very lees. He tasted the lees, and died +with the bitterness of them on his lips. He might have tasted nothing +but lees had he lived longer. For one man who dies too soon, a hundred +die too late. There is a golden opportunity for effective death in +every man’s career, but few are wise enough to seize it. If the first +Napoleon had fallen at Austerlitz, he would have taken high rank among +the demi-gods; nay, De Quincey suggests that even Commodus might have +made a shred of character for himself by dying immediately after a +triumphant display of his genius as a toxophilite.”</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +Mr. Jerningham’s distaste for his friend’s secretary did not keep him +away from the cottage. He came at all times and seasons, and if his +only possibility of happiness had been found in that house, he could +not have seemed less inclined to leave it, or more eager to return to +it. Weeks, and even months, passed, and he still remained in England, +spending a few<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> days every now and then at the bijou house in Park +Lane, but making Greenlands his headquarters. Capricious in all his +movements, he came when he pleased, and departed when he pleased. +Theodore de Bergerac loved and trusted him, as it was his nature to +love and trust those whom he thought worthy of his friendship. The +welcome that awaited him was always equally cordial. He had never +imagined so calm a haven.</p> + +<p>“If I could spend the rest of my life here, I might die a good +Christian,” he said to himself; until, little by little, he came to +understand that those feelings which made the bailiff’s cottage so +pleasant to him were not altogether Christian like.</p> + +<p>He hated Eustace Thorburn. He envied him his youth, his hopefulness, +his chances of future distinction; above all, he envied him the love +of Helen de Bergerac. Yes, there was the sting. Youth, hope, chances +of future glory, might all have been given to this young man, and +Harold Jerningham would have let<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> him go by with a careless sneer. But +Eustace Thorburn had more than these gifts; he had the love of a pure +and bright young creature, whose purity and brightness had touched the +heart of this middle-aged sybarite as it had never been touched before. +His fancy, his vanity, his pride of conquest, had been the motive power +to sustain him in bygone victories. He had dreamed his dreams, and had +awakened suddenly to see Fancy’s radiant vision vanish before the chill +gray light of Reality’s cheerless dawn.</p> + +<p>But this time the dream was fairer than any of those old, forgotten +visions. This time the heart of the man, and not the poet’s fancy only, +was touched and subjugated. It was many years since the master of +Greenlands had bade a formal farewell to the follies and delusions of +youth, and he had believed the farewell eternal. And now, in a moment, +unbidden, dreams, delusions, and folly returned to hold him with fatal +sway; and in his self-communings he confessed that it was no common<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> +sentiment which made Helen’s presence so delightful, and no common +prejudice that rendered Eustace Thorburn so odious.</p> + +<p>He confessed to himself as much as this; and knowing this, he lingered +at Greenlands, and came day after day to sit beside his friend’s +hearth, or loiter in his friend’s garden. And why should he not snatch +the brief hours of happiness which yet remained for him—the Indian +summer of his life?</p> + +<p>“I am an old man,” he said to himself; “at least, in the eyes of this +girl I must seem an old man. She will never know that I regard her +with any warmer sentiment than a fatherly kind of friendship. She will +dream her own dreams, and think her own thoughts, unconscious of her +influence on mine. And by and by, after a few months of sentimental +flirtation, she will marry this young secretary, or some other man, +young, self-satisfied, good-looking, empty-headed, and utterly unable +to understand how divine a treasure the fates have bestowed upon him.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span></p> + +<p>With such philosophy as this did Mr. Jerningham trifle with his +conscience, or rather that vague sense of honour which stood him +instead of conscience. But there were times when philosophy gave poor +comfort to the soul of this unprincipled egotist, who until now had +never known what it was to set a seal upon his lips or a curb upon +his will. There were hours of envious rage, of dark remorse, of vain, +passionate broodings on the things that might have been; there were +hours in which the spirits of evil claimed Harold Jerningham for their +own, and walked about with him, and hovered around his bed as he slept, +and made his dreams hideous with shapeless horrors. He looked back upon +his early dreams, and laughed at their folly. He was like that French +libertine who, in writing of his youthful caprices, said, “My hour for +loving truly and profoundly had not yet come.” That fateful hour, which +comes to every man, had come to this one too late.</p> + +<p>What special charm in this girl enthralled<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> his mind and melted his +heart? He did not know. It could scarcely be her beauty, for his life +had been spent amongst beautiful women, and his heart had long ago +become impervious to the fascination of a fair and noble face. It may +have been her innocence, her youth, her gentleness, that had subdued +this world-weary cynic—the poetic charm of her surroundings, the sweet +repose which seemed a part of the very atmosphere she breathed.</p> + +<p>Yes, in this youthful purity there lurked the potent charm that held +Harold Jerningham. The girl, with her sweet, confiding face and pure +thoughts, the rustic life, the perfume of Arcadia, composed the +subtle charm that had intoxicated Mr. Jerningham’s senses. What is +so delightful as novelty to an idle, <i>blasé</i> creature of the +Jerningham type? The life at Greenlands had all the charm of novelty; +it was fresh, piquant, exhilarating, because of its very innocence; and +as it had never been in Mr. Jerningham’s creed to deny himself any<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> +pleasure, he lingered at the neglected house in which his father and +mother had died. He spent his evenings at the bailiffs cottage, and +left the issue to fate.</p> + +<p>“She will never know how tenderly her father’s old friend loves her,” +he said to himself; “and at the worst I may prevent her throwing +herself away upon an adventurer.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.<br> +DANIEL MAYFIELD’S COUNSEL.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>THE great book and his own studies afforded Mr. Thorburn ample +occupation for all his days and nights. If his days had been twice as +long as they were, the young man would have found work for every hour. +He was very ambitious, and he had that passionate love of learning +for its own sake which marks the predestined scholar. But with all +a Bentley or a Porson’s delight in the niceties of a Greek verb or +the use of a preposition, he was as free from pedantry as from every +other affectation. In the garden, on the river, by the piano, or on +the croquet lawn, he was a match for the most empty-headed bachelor +in Berkshire; and if he played croquet on mathematical principles, +he was careful to keep that fact to himself. He had a knack of doing +everything well, and even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> Mr. Jerningham was fain to admit that he +was in tone and manner irreproachable. Never was the boyish candour of +light-hearted youth more pleasantly blended with the self-possession of +accomplished manhood. Grave and earnest, when good taste required that +he should be serious; in his moments of expansion, full of enthusiasm +and vivacity; always deferential to superior age and attainments, yet +entirely without sycophancy; profoundly respectful in his intercourse +with women—Eustace Thorburn was a man who made friends for himself +unconsciously.</p> + +<p>“I am very proud of my daughter,” M. de Bergerac said to Harold +Jerningham one day, when they had been talking of the secretary; “but I +should have been prouder still of such a son as that young man.”</p> + +<p>“I have no passion for pattern young men,” replied Mr. Jerningham. “I +dare say your model secretary is very amiable. You pay him a salary for +being amiable, you see, and he occupies a very pleasant position in +your house.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> But I cannot quite understand how you could bring yourself +to admit a stranger into the bosom of your family. The arrangement +reminds me a little of those curious advertisements one sees in +the <i>Times</i>. A family who occupy a house too large for their +requirements invite a gentleman engaged in the City during the day to +share the delights of their too spacious mansion; and they promise him +cheerful society—imagine the horror implied in pledging yourself to be +cheerful all the year round for a gentleman engaged in the City!—and +the gentleman comes to be welcomed to the arms of the family who know +about as much of his antecedents, or his qualities of head and heart, +as if he were an inhabitant of the planet Mars. Now it seems to me that +you receive Mr. Thorburn very much on the same principle.”</p> + +<p>“Not at all. I had Mr. Desmond’s credentials for my secretary’s +character.”</p> + +<p>“And how much does Mr. Desmond know of your secretary?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p> + +<p>“I can scarcely tell you that. I know that Desmond’s letter of +recommendation was very satisfactory, and that the result has justified +the letter.”</p> + +<p>“And you do not even know who and what the young man’s father was?”</p> + +<p>“I do not; but I would pledge my life upon the young man’s honesty of +purpose, and I am not inclined to trouble, myself about his father.”</p> + +<p>This conversation was eminently provoking to Mr. Jerningham. He had +of late found himself tormented by an irritating curiosity upon the +subject of Eustace Thorburn. He wanted to know who and what this +man was whom he envied with so iniquitous an envy, whom he hated +with a hatred so utterly unprovoked. Had he good blood in his veins, +this young adventurer, who carried himself with an easy grace that +could scarcely have been given to a plebeian? Mr. Jerningham was a +Conservative in the narrowest sense of the word, and did not believe +in nature’s nobility. He watched Eustace Thorburn with cold, critical<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> +eyes, and was fain to admit that in this young man there were no traces +of vulgar origin.</p> + +<p>“And they say he is like me,” Mr. Jerningham said to himself. “Was I +ever as handsome as that, as bright, as candid in tone and frank in +manner? I think not. Life was too smooth for me when I was a young man, +and prosperity spoiled me.”</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham looked back at the days of his youth, and remembered +how prosperous they had been, and was fain to confess to himself that +it might have been better for him if Fortune had been less lavish of +her gifts. Absolute power is a crucial test that few men can stand. +Absolute power makes a Caligula or a Heliogabalus, a Sixtus the Fourth +or an Alexander the Sixth; and do not wealth, and good looks, and +youth, and a decent amount of talent, constitute a power as absolute as +the dominion of imperial papal Rome?</p> + +<p>While Mr. Jerningham lingered—idle, discontented, ill at ease—amidst +that Berkshire landscape which made Eustace Thorburn’s paradise,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> the +young man’s life crept on, sweet as a summer-day’s dream. It had dawned +upon him of late that he was not liked by the master of Greenlands, +and he endured that affliction with becoming patience. He would have +wished to be liked and trusted by all mankind, since his own heart knew +only kindly feelings, except always against that one man who had to +answer for his mother’s broken life. He wished to be on good terms with +everybody; but if a cynical, middle-aged gentleman chose to dislike +him, he was the last of men to court the cynical gentleman’s liking.</p> + +<p>“I dare say Mr. Jerningham thinks there is a kind of impertinence in +my likeness to him,” Eustace thought, when Harold’s eyes had watched +him with a more than usually disdainful gaze. “He is angry with nature +herself for having made a nameless adventurer somewhat after his image. +Am I like him, I wonder? Yes, I see a look of his face in my own when +I look in my glass. And that woman, Mrs. Willows, told me that I +reminded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> her of my father; so Mr. Jerningham must be like my father. +I can almost fancy my father that kind of man—cold, and proud, and +selfish; for I know that Mr. Jerningham is selfish, in spite of M. de +Bergerac’s praise of him.”</p> + +<p>The idea that Harold Jerningham must needs bear some faint resemblance +to the father whom Eustace had never seen, quickened the young man’s +interest in him. The two men watched each other, and thought of each +other, and wondered about each other, with ever-increasing interest, +each seeking to fathom the hidden depths of the other’s nature, each +baffled by that conventional external life which raises a kind of +screen between the real and the artificial man.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham was a master of the art of concealing his sentiments, +and Eustace, frank, true, and young as he was, kept his gravest +thoughts locked in his own breast; so, after meeting nearly every day +for some months, the two men knew very little more of each other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> than +they had known after the first week of their intercourse.</p> + +<p>Early in June, when the garden and park, river and wood-crowned hills +beyond, were looking unspeakably beautiful in the early summer, +Eustace left that arcadian paradise for a week’s hard labour in the +manuscript-room of the British Museum, where there were certain +documents bearing upon the subject of M. de Bergerac’s <i>magnum +opus</i>—records of trials for witchcraft; ghastly confessions, wrung +from the white lips of writhing wretches in the torture-chambers of +mediæval England; hideous details of trial and <i>auto da fé</i> in +the days when the great stone scaffold stood at the gates of Seville, +and the smoke and the stench of burning heretics darkened the skies of +Spain.</p> + +<p>Eustace shared his Uncle Dan’s lodgings on this occasion as on the +last, to the delight of both. To Daniel Mayfield his nephew’s presence +was like a glimpse of green fields and cooling waters seen athwart the +arid sands of a desert.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span></p> + +<p>“You are like a summer wind, blowing the hopes and joys of my youth +back to me,” said Daniel, as the two men dined together on the first +evening. “You are not like your mother, dear boy; but you have a look +of hers in your eyes when you are at your best.”</p> + +<p>“I have been told that I am like my father,” said Eustace, thoughtfully.</p> + +<p>“Told by whom?”</p> + +<p>“By Mrs. Willows—Sarah Kimber—my mother’s friend.”</p> + +<p>“Indeed! Yes; Sarah Kimber must have seen that man.”</p> + +<p>“And you never saw him?”</p> + +<p>“Never. I was in London at the time. If I had been at Bayham, things +might have been——Ah, well, we always think we could have saved our +darlings from ruin or death if we had been at hand. God would not save +her. But who knows if it was not better for her to have sinned, and +suffered, and repented, and lived her pure, unselfish life for twenty +years, to die humble and trusting, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> she did, than to have married +some vulgar, prosperous tradesman, and to have grown hard, and bitter, +and worldly? Better for her to be the Publican than the Pharisee. +You know what I am in the matter of religious opinion, Eustace; or, +at any rate, you know as well as I know myself how I take Rabelais’ +Great Perhaps; but since your mother’s death the hope of something +better to come, after all this wear and tear, and drudgery and turmoil, +has seemed nearer to me. The Great Perhaps has grown almost into a +certainty; and sometimes at sunset, when I am walking in the busiest +street in this great clamorous city, I see the sun going down in +crimson glory behind the house-tops, and in the midst of all that roar +and bustle, with the omnibuses rattling past, and the crowd jostling +and pushing me as I tramp along, I think of the golden-paved city, that +has no need of either sun or moon to shine in it, but is lighted with +the glory of God; and I wish that the farce were over and the curtain +dropped.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span></p> + +<p>Much more was said about the mild and inoffensive creature whom these +two men had loved so dearly. To Eustace there was supreme comfort in +this quiet talk about the unforgotten dead. After this there came +more cheerful talk. Daniel Mayfield was anxious to ascertain what his +nephew’s life was like at Greenlands.</p> + +<p>“It is not an unprofitable life, at any rate,” he said, with a +proud smile; “for those little poems you send me now and then for +the magazines show a marked growth of mind. It ripens the mind; and +the heart is not absorbed by the brain. That is the point. It is so +difficult to keep heart and brain alive together. Do you remember +what Vasari says of Giotto, ‘<i>Il renouvela l’art, parce qu’il mit +plus de bonté dans les têtes</i>’? There is <i>bonté</i> in your +verses, my lad; and if Dan Mayfield is anything of a judge of literary +yearlings, you may safely enter yourself for some of the great events. +Of course, you will not depend upon verse-making for your daily +bread. Verse-making<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> is the Sabbath of a hard-working literary life. +You will find good work to do without descending to such cab-horse +labour as mine has been. And take to heart this one precept throughout +your literary career: you have only one master, and that master is +the British public. For your critics, if they are honest, respect +and honour them with all your heart and mind; accept their blame in +all humility, and be diligent to learn whatever they can teach. But +when the false prophets assail you,—they who come to you in sheep’s +clothing, but inwardly are ravening wolves,—the critics who are no +critics, but unsuccessful writers or trade rivals in disguise,—be on +your guard, and take care of your cheese. You know the fable: the fox +flattered the raven until the weak-minded bird dropped her cheese. The +fox goes on another principle now-a-days, and reviles the raven; but +for the same purpose. Remember my warning, Eustace, and don’t drop your +cheese. The public, your master,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> has a very plain way of expressing +its opinion. If the public like your book, the public will read it; if +not, the public will assuredly let it alone; and all the king’s horses +and all the king’s men, in the way of criticism, cannot set you up or +knock you down, unless the reading public is with them. Accept this +brief sermon, Eustace, from a man who has lived and suffered.”</p> + +<p>Those were pleasant hours which the two men spent together, sitting +late into the night, talking of books and men, of worlds seen and +unseen; metaphysical, practical, poetical, theological, by turns, as +the stream of talk flowed onward in its wandering way—erratic as the +most wayward brook that ever strayed by hill-side and meadow.</p> + +<p>Eustace believed in his Uncle Dan as the greatest of men; and, indeed, +in close companionship, the most stolid of companions could scarcely +refrain from some expression of wonder and delight on beholding so +much unconscious power, such depth of thought,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> such wealth of fancy, +such grand imaginings,—all scattered as recklessly as Daniel Mayfield +scattered his more substantial possessions in the shape of sovereigns +and half-crowns. A dangerous enemy, a warm friend, a pitiless +assailant, a staunch champion, large of heart and large of brain, more +like Ben Jonson than Shakspeare, nearer to Dryden than to Pope, to +Steele than to Addison,—such was Daniel Mayfield, essayist, reviewer, +historian—what you will; always excellent, and sometimes great; but +never so admirable a creature as when he sat smoking his meerschaum, +dreamily, and looking across the blue mists of tobacco at the nephew he +loved.</p> + +<p>“And you are really and truly happy at Greenlands?” he said, after the +young man had told him a good deal about his life in Berkshire.</p> + +<p>“Happier than I ever was before in a stranger’s house,” answered +Eustace; “though Mr. Jerningham evidently considers me an intruder.”</p> + +<p>“Never mind Mr. Jerningham; you do not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> exist to please him. M. de +Bergerac likes you; and Mademoiselle—she tolerates you, I suppose?”</p> + +<p>A vivid blush betrayed that secret which Eustace Thorburn was so +incapable of concealing.</p> + +<p>“Ho, ho!” cried Daniel; “that is where we are, is it? We are in love +with our employer’s daughter! Take care, Eustace; that way madness +lies.”</p> + +<p>“I know that,” the young man answered, gravely. “I have kept that in my +mind ever since I first went to Greenlands.”</p> + +<p>“Ever since? Ah, then it is an old story!”</p> + +<p>“I know the chances are against me, and I mean to cure myself, sooner +or later; unless——Well, Uncle Dan, I can’t teach myself to look at +this business as altogether desperate. M. de Bergerac is all goodness, +generosity, simplicity; and as for Helen——Don’t think me a cox-comb +or a fool if I say I believe she loves me. We have been together for +nearly a year, you see, like brother and sister; I teaching her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> Greek, +she teaching me music. I play the basses of her duets—you remember how +my poor mother taught me, when I was a child—and we have all kinds +of tastes, and predilections, and enthusiasms in common. I cannot +believe we could be so completely happy together if—if there were not +something more than common sympathy between us. Don’t laugh at me, +Uncle Dan.”</p> + +<p>“Shall I laugh at youth, and hope, and love?” cried Daniel Mayfield. +“The next thing would be to laugh at the angels in heaven.—And so she +loves you, this Demoiselle de Bergerac? I wonder how she could help +loving you, forsooth! Has her father any inkling of this pretty little +pastoral comedy that is being enacted under his very nose?”</p> + +<p>“I doubt it. He is simplicity itself.”</p> + +<p>“And don’t you think, Eustace, that, in consideration for that sweet, +childlike simplicity which so often goes with scholarship, you are +bound to tell him the truth? You see, your position in the house is a +privilege<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> which you can scarcely enjoy with the consciousness of this +treasonable secret. Tell M. de Bergerac the whole truth,—your plans, +your chances of future distinction,—and ascertain from his own lips +whether there is any hope for you.”</p> + +<p>“And if he tells me there is no hope?”</p> + +<p>“Well, that will seem a death-blow, of course. But if the girl really +loves you, her heart will be always on your side. In that case, I +should say wait, and put your trust in Time—Time, the father of +Truth, as Mary Stuart called him when she wanted to obtain belief for +a bouncer,—and oh, what an incredible number of royal bouncers were +carried to and fro in the despatches of that period! Wait, Eustace, +and when you have made a hit in the literary world, you can carry your +laurel-crown to M. de Bergerac, and make an appeal against his stern +decision.”</p> + +<p>“And in the meantime, while the laurels are growing for my crown, some +one else will marry Helen.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span></p> + +<p>“That is probable, if her love for you is only the caprice of a +boarding-school miss, in which case you will be better off without +her. Don’t look at me so despairingly, dear boy. You cannot get +five-and-forty to regard these things with the eyes of five-and-twenty. +I have had my own dream and my own disappointment, and have gone my +ways, and cannot tell whether I am worse or better for my loss. Do you +remember that tender little essay of Charles Lamb’s, in which he tells +us about the children that might have been—the dear, loving, pretty +creatures, who never lived except in Elia’s dreams? I have my little +family too, Eustace; and of a night, when I sit alone and the candles +burn dim on yonder table, they come out of the dusky corners and stand +at my knee, and I talk to them, and tell them of the things that might +have been if they had ever been born. And yet, how do I know that they +wouldn’t have turned out the veriest little rascals and scoundrels in +Christendom, and the torment of my existence? I have missed the home +that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> I once dreamt of; but I have my pipe and my rare old books, and +my faithful friends who come sometimes of an evening to play a rubber +with me—as Elia’s friends used to come to him—and I take things +quietly, and say Kismet. Be honest and true, Eustace, and leave the +rest to the destiny that ‘shapes our ends.’</p> + +<p>“I have thought that it might be my duty to tell M. de Bergerac the +truth,” said Eustace, thoughtfully; “but then, you see, I have set a +watch upon every look and word. I have preserved my own proper position +as a paid secretary with punctilious care. What harm is there in my +presence in that house, where I am so happy, so long as I keep my +secret?”</p> + +<p>“But can you tell how long you may keep it?” asked the incredulous +Daniel, “or how many times you betray it in a single day to every one +except that dreaming student, who has evidently no eyes to see anything +that lies beyond his own desk? Your girlish blush betrayed you to +me—blushes, and looks, and tones,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> and sighs will betray you to the +demoiselle, and then some day the great discovery will be made all at +once, and you will find yourself in a false position.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, Uncle Dan; I begin to think you are right. I should be a +scoundrel to profit by that dear old man’s simplicity. I will tell him +the truth, and leave Greenlands. Ah, you cannot imagine how happy I +have been there. And then, I am so useful to M. de Bergerac. The great +book will come to a standstill again, or at any rate go on very slowly. +And I am so interested in my work. It seems very hard, Uncle Dan; but I +suppose it must be done.”</p> + +<p>“It had better be done, my dear boy. Besides, you may not lose by your +candour. M. de Bergerac may tell you to remain.”</p> + +<p>“I cannot hope that. But I will take your advice; the truth is always +best.”</p> + +<p>“Always best and wisest.”</p> + +<p>It was thus decided. Eustace wrung his uncle’s hand in silence, and +retired, pale and sorrowful. The elder man felt this keenly;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> but he +had something of the Spartan’s feelings in his relations with his +beloved nephew.</p> + +<p>“I have kept him away from me because I love him, and now I take him +from this girl because I love him,” he thought, as he smoked his last +pipe in cheerless solitude. “I am more watchful of his honour than ever +I was of my own.”</p> + +<p>There was very little more said about Greenlands during the few +remaining days of Eustace Thorburn’s visit. His face told Daniel that +the die was cast. The young Spartan had determined to do his duty.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX.<br> +BETWEEN EDEN AND EXILE.</h2> +</div> + + +<p>ON the last night of Eustace Thorburn’s abode in his uncle’s lodgings, +the two men sat very late, talking earnestly, the elder watching the +face of the younger with more than usual tenderness.</p> + +<p>“I dare say the future seems a little dark to you, dear lad,” he began, +softly, after they had talked of all the things except that which was +nearest to the hearts of both. “I won’t try to comfort you with the +usual philosophical truisms about the foolishness of youthful fancies. +I won’t preach the <i>vanitas vanitatum</i> of worn-out middle age +to hoping, dreaming, despairing youth. Keep the dream, boy, even if +there is a bitter flavour of despair mingled with the sweetness of it. +Keep the dream. Such dreams are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> the guardian angels of youth, the +patron-saints of manhood. I have my patron-saint, and I pray to her +sometimes, and confess my sins to her, and receive absolution, and +am comforted. To my eyes Mademoiselle de Bergerac would most likely +be only a pretty young person, with blue eyes—I think you said blue +eyes—and a white muslin frock. But if she seem an angel to you, +enthrone her in your heart of hearts. A man is all the better for +carrying an angel about with him, even if it be only an angel of his +own making.”</p> + +<p>And then, after a pause, Daniel went on. “About your future career as a +man of letters, I think you need have no misgiving. Those little verses +which you submitted to me in such fear and trembling have made their +mark. They have gone straight to the hearts of the people. The rising +generation always elects its own poet. The students of the Quartier +Latin knew Alfred de Musset’s verses by heart, and spouted and sang +them, before they were reprinted from the magazine where they first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> +appeared. M. de Lamartine thought very small things of the youngster, +just as Byron thought very small things of Monsieur Lamartine himself. +No, Eustace, I have no fear for your future. When you leave Greenlands, +it shall not be for the smoke and riot of London. You must take a +lodging at some pretty village by the river, and write your book or +your poem as your guardian angel directs; and if your heart is broken, +and you put it into your book, so much the better. Your heart can be +patched up again by and by; and in the meantime the public likes a book +with a genuine broken heart in it. Byron used to break his heart once a +year, and send Murray the pieces.”</p> + +<p>“I could not trade upon my sorrows as Byron did.”</p> + +<p>“Because you are not Byron. He did not trade upon his sorrows. That is +a true saying of Owen Meredith’s, ‘Genius is greater than man. Genius +does what it must, and talent does what it can.’ I quote from memory. +Byron’s was genius—the real fire; the super-natural<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> force that is +given to a man to use, but seldom given him to govern. Byron was the +Ajax of poets,—abused, distraught, roaring like a bull in his mighty +pain,—and a demi-god.”</p> + +<p>After this there came a long and animated discourse upon Byron and his +successors. Of all things, Eustace loved best to talk of poetry and +poets, from Homer to Tennyson. What mortal creature does not like to +talk “shop”? And then, when the two men had wearied themselves with the +pleasant excitement of debate, there was a silence of some minutes, +which was broken abruptly by Daniel Mayfield.</p> + +<p>“I made a discovery the other day, Eustace,” he said. “I have had half +a mind to tell you nothing about it; but perhaps it is as well you +should be told.”</p> + +<p>“What kind of discovery, Uncle Dan?”</p> + +<p>“A discovery about—well—about the author of <i>Dion</i>.”</p> + +<p>“What? Have you found out who he is?”</p> + +<p>“No,” replied Daniel, very gravely; “I am<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> no wiser as to his name and +status; but I have found out that he was a villain, and is a villain +still, if he lives, I dare say; for I don’t think so base a wretch as +that would be likely to amend with age. I doubt if it will ever be any +good to you to know more of your father than you knew when your poor +mother died; but you have wished to be wiser, and I have humoured your +wish. Do you remember what I said to you after I read <i>Dion</i>?</p> + +<p>“I remember every word.”</p> + +<p>“I told you then that the author of that book must have been the kind +of man to fascinate such a girl as your mother. I have met with another +book written by the same man, and have read it as carefully as I read +the first. Eustace, I believe that man was your father.”</p> + +<p>“You—you believe that?”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” returned Daniel, earnestly. “There is a picture of your mother’s +girlhood in the book I have been reading—a likeness too close to be +accidental.”</p> + +<p>“Let me see it, Uncle Dan! let me see<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> that book! Let me only assure +myself that the man who wrote it was——”</p> + +<p>“What would you do if you were sure of that?”</p> + +<p>“I would find him—or his grave.”</p> + +<p>The young man had risen, and stood before his kinsman, breathless, +eager, ready to confront the universe in his passionate desire to +avenge the wrongs of the dead. Standing thus, he looked like a +sculptor’s ideal image of righteous anger.</p> + +<p>Daniel Mayfield looked up at him with a sad smile.</p> + +<p>“And then,” he said; “and then—what then? If you find a grave, will +you trample or spit upon it? Surely it would be but a sorry vengeance +to insult the dead. And if you find this man in the flesh, what will +you do to him? Your face tells me you would like to kill him. You look +like Orestes newly come from the temple of Loxias Apollo, charged with +his dreadful duty. But Orestes did not seem any the happier for having +killed his mother. The primitive instinct must<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span> always be—kill; the +thirst for blood. It is only human nature to want to kill the man who +has offended you, and the modern horse-whipping is a feeble substitute +for the exploded duel. But then Christianity comes in, with its law of +sufferance and submission. No, dear lad, I cannot believe that any good +could come of a meeting between you and your father, unless——”</p> + +<p>“Unless what, Uncle Dan?” asked Eustace, when the other paused.</p> + +<p>“Unless, by his affection for you, he could atone for his desertion of +your mother.”</p> + +<p>“Atone for that!” cried the young man. “Do you think any favours that +man could bestow on me would blot out the remembrance of her wrongs? +Do you think I could be so mean as to sell my heritage of vengeance +for some mess of pottage in the shape of worldly advantage? No, Uncle +Dan; she is dead, and there is no such thing as atonement. It is too +late—too late! While she lived she was ready to forgive; nature made +her to love and pardon.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span> If he had come then, and she had forgiven him, +I could have forgiven for her—with her. But she is gone. That man +permitted her to die alone; and if I could forgive him the wrongs that +blighted her life, I could not forgive him that last wrong—her lonely +death-bed. And do you think he cares for my love or my forgiveness? The +man who could leave my mother to her lonely fate for twenty years is +not likely to be suddenly possessed with affection for her son.”</p> + +<p>“The day may come when you will be a son whom any father would be proud +to claim.”</p> + +<p>“Let him claim me in that day, if he dare,” answered Eustace, with +kindling eyes. “I belong to the dead. And now, Uncle Dan, tell me what +this book is, and how you came by it.”</p> + +<p>“That part of the business is commonplace enough. I told you I knew +a handy scrub of a man, good at picking up any out-of-the-way book I +may happen to want. I commissioned this man to hunt the second-hand +booksellers for a copy of <i>Dion</i>—strange that neither you nor +I ever speculated on the author of <i>Dion</i><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> having written other +books! My man hunted without result as regards <i>Dion</i>; but one +morning he came to me with a couple of thin volumes, bound in gray +paper-covered boards, and looking very dingy in comparison with the +gaudy cloth and gilt lettering that obtains now-a-days. He had hunted +in vain for <i>Dion</i>, he informed me; but in the course of his +search he had come across this other book by the author of <i>Dion</i>. +The book is yonder, in that parcel.—No,” cried Daniel, pushing the +young man gently aside; “you shall not look at the book while you are +with me. <i>That</i> is a subject I do not care to talk about. Carry +the parcel down to Greenlands with you, and read the book quietly—at +night, in your own room. You will know little more of your father after +you have read it than you know now. The book is a study in morbid +anatomy; it is the revelation of an utterly selfish nature, and the +writer is an unconscious moralist. <i>Vanitas vanitatum</i> is the +unwritten refrain of his song.”</p> + +<p>“Was the book a success, like <i>Dion</i>?”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> + +<p>“It was not. I have taken the trouble to refer to the literary journals +for the year in which this second book was published. In some it is +passed over with a few cold words of approval, in others unnoticed; +in one it forms the subject of what French critics call a <i>sanglant +article</i>. The book wants all that is best in <i>Dion</i>—the +freshness, the youth, the young romance that plays at bo-beep behind +a mask of world-weariness. There is an interval of ten years between +the two books. In the second the writer is really <i>blasé</i>. He +is ten times more egotistical, more contemptuous and suspicious of +his fellow-men—more everything that is bad. He has ceased to enjoy +anything in life. He has no enjoyment even in his writing; indeed, he +writes with the air of a man who knows he will only be read by inferior +creatures, and one expects him at every moment to throw down the pen. +One cannot read the book without yawning, for one feels that the man +yawned while he was writing it.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span></p> + +<p>“And in this cold epitome of his selfish life he writes of my mother?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.”</p> + +<p>“And throughout the book you believe it is of himself he writes?”</p> + +<p>“Of that I am certain. A man has a tone in writing of himself that he +never has when his subject is only some figment of the brain. There is +a passion, an acrimony, in genuine autobiography not to be mistaken. +I do not say that this book is a plain narration of facts. There is +no doubt considerable dressing-up and disguising of events; but the +under-current of reality is obvious to the least experienced reader. +There is one point that puzzles—I must own perplexes—me beyond +measure. It was perhaps a mistaken delicacy which induced me to respect +your mother’s silence about all things relating to that bad man. If I +had found this book during her life-time, I should have broached this +painful subject, and compelled her to tell me all.”</p> + +<p>“But why—why?” Eustace asked, with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> breathless eagerness. “What had +you to learn more than those letters tell us—that he was a villain, +without heart or conscience, and that she was young and guileless, and +loved him only too dearly?”</p> + +<p>“There are passages in that book which have made me think that the +relations between this man and my sister were something more than we +have believed.”</p> + +<p>“You think that he married my mother?”</p> + +<p>“I am disposed to think so. But the marriage—if it took place—could +hardly have been an ordinary marriage. His allusions to it are very +vague; but it seems as if, whatever the ceremonial was, its legal +importance was only known to this man himself.”</p> + +<p>“Why do you think this?”</p> + +<p>“From certain faint hints here and there. ‘If she only knew her legal +hold upon me,’ he writes; ‘if she were a woman of the world, and knew +her power.’ There is some hidden meaning in these half-sentences; I +know not what. In a record of mixed reality and fiction, who is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> to say +where reality ends and fiction begins? But you will read the book, and +then judge for yourself.”</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +Eustace Thorburn went back to Greenlands, depressed, but not utterly +disheartened. He knew that his uncle had urged upon him the only +honourable course open to him in his relations with M. de Bergerac. +It would have been sweet to him to live on for ever in that friendly +companionship with the bright and gentle creature who had welcomed him +to her home with such simple kindness. And now reflection had convinced +him that it was necessary to resign the dear privilege of this innocent +companionship, he felt more keenly than he had felt hitherto all the +sweetness of his life at Greenlands, and the dreariness of any life +that could come after it. His ambition would be left to him; that +wonderful, radiant high-road which every young man believes in—the +<i>via sacra</i> that leads straight across the untrodden wilderness of +the future to the Temple of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> Fame—would still await the coming of his +eager feet. But even that sacred road would seem dreary and desolate if +the pole-star of hope were darkened; or, in plainer words, it must seem +to him but a poor thing to make his mark in the world of letters, if he +were not to be blest with Helen de Bergerac’s love.</p> + +<p>He returned to Greenlands by the same pathway which he had trodden just +one year before, when he went a stranger to M. de Bergerac’s house. +Ah, how unutterably beautiful the Berkshire landscape seemed to him in +its ripe, rich midsummer loveliness! High tangled hedge, winding lane, +distant hill, and woodland shone before him like a picture too divine +for earth.</p> + +<p>“And I am to leave all this, and to leave her!” he thought. “I am to be +self-banished from a home that Horace might have loved, and from the +tranquil life which is a poet’s best education. If such a sacrifice as +this be duty, it is very hard.”</p> + +<p>For the first time in his life this young man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> found himself before +the altar on which he was to immolate his happiness. In the existence +of every man there comes the hour in which he must needs sacrifice his +first-born, or live inglorious, with the remorseful consciousness that +he has shrunk from the performance of a duty. The altar is there, and +Isaac, and the knife is given to him. Heaven help the weak wretch if +his courage fail him in that awful moment, and he refuse to complete +the propitiation!</p> + +<p>Eustace Thorburn approached his altar resolute, but very sorrowful, and +the voice of the tempter pleaded with the casuistry of an Escobar.</p> + +<p>“Why not stop, at least, till the book is finished?” said the tempter. +“You will be doing your kind employer a disservice by depriving him +of your labour. Your mighty secret can do no harm so long as it is +securely locked in your own breast, and are you so weak a fool that you +must needs betray yourself?”</p> + +<p>And hereupon the stern voice of Duty took up the argument.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p> + +<p>“What warranty can you give for the preservation of your secret?” +asked the cold, calm matron. “A word, a look from that foolish chit, +Mademoiselle de Bergerac, and the story would be told. As for the +great book, which is, no doubt, foredoomed to be the ruin of some +too-confiding publisher, you may give M. de Bergerac almost as much +assistance in London as you can give him in Berkshire.”</p> + +<p>Eustace heard voices and gay laughter in the garden as he drew near +the gate in the holly-hedge, and amongst other voices the low, +gentlemanlike tones of Harold Jerningham. Hephæstus barked a noisy +welcome as the young man opened the gate. M. de Bergerac and Mr. +Jerningham were sitting by a tea-table under the chestnut-trees, deep +in a learned dispute upon the history of Islamism; while Helen busied +herself with the cups and saucers, and looked up every now and then to +join in the argument, or to laugh at the acrimony of the disputants.</p> + +<p>“So Mr. Jerningham has not left Berkshire, although he talked of +starting for a yachting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> expedition to Norway last week,” thought +Eustace, not too well pleased to see the master of Greenlands so +completely at home in that dear abode which he was himself so soon to +leave.</p> + +<p>Helen started up from the tea-table with a little exclamation of +delight as the returning traveller came across the lawn. She blushed +as she welcomed him; but blushes at eighteen mean very little. Mr. +Jerningham stopped in the middle of a sentence, and watched the young +lady with attentive eyes as she shook hands with her father’s secretary.</p> + +<p>“We are so pleased to see you back again, Mr. Thorburn,” she said. “We +have missed you so much—haven’t we, papa?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, my dear, I have been very much at a loss for my kind assistant,” +answered M. de Bergerac. “Would you imagine it possible, Thorburn, that +any man can pretend to doubt the original genius and creative power of +Mahomet?”</p> + +<p>And hereupon M. de Bergerac entered upon a long disquisition on the +subject that was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> dearest to his heart, and Eustace had to listen in +reverential silence, while he was languishing to tell Helen about the +little commissions he had executed for her in town, or to inquire into +the health of her song-birds, or the economy of the poultry-yard to +which she devoted so much care. He wanted some excuse for looking at +her sweet face and hearing her beloved voice, and all the poetry of +Mohammedanism seemed dull and prosaic to him when compared with the +magical charm of the commonest observation this young lady could utter. +It is given to youth and beauty to drop pearls and diamonds from her +lips unconsciously—pearls and diamonds invisible to common eyes, it is +true, but the most precious of all gems for that one person to whom the +speaker seems at once an angel and a goddess.</p> + +<p>For that one evening Eustace Thorburn permitted himself to be +unutterably happy. So magical a light does true love shed on the +scene it illumines, that the lover’s eye is blinded for the moment +to all that lies beyond<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> the region thus glorified. The future +scarcely existed for the mind of Eustace Thorburn that happy midsummer +evening. He lived in the present; and this quaint old garden, these +chestnut-trees, this white-robed maiden seated under the shadow, dim +and ghostlike in the twilight, constituted the world. The great canopy +of heaven, and the young moon, and all the stars, the murmuring river, +and shadowy woods and distant hills, had been created for those two. +She was Eve, and he was Adam, and this was Paradise. The tones of the +two sages disputing about the Sheeahs and the Soonnees might have been +the murmurings of the west wind for any consciousness that Eustace +had of their neighbourhood when once he was released from the duty of +listening to M. de Bergerac, and free to converse with Helen.</p> + +<p>And yet, in the breast of one of the sages there beat a heart from +which the pains and passions of youth had not yet been banished—a +heart that ached with a keen anguish as its<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> owner watched those two +figures seated in the shadow of the chestnut-tree. Mr. Jerningham had +lived in society, and had learned the difficult art of conducting one +argument with skill and judgment while another argument was being +silently debated in his heart. He talked about Islamism, and did battle +for his own convictions, and missed no chance of putting his opponent +in the wrong; and yet all the time the inner voice was debating that +other question.</p> + +<p>“If I had been as free as this young man, could I have won that girl, +with him for my rival?” he asked himself. “What gift has he that I do +not possess—except youth? And is there really a charm in youth more +divine than any grace of mind or polish of manner that belongs to a +riper age? Is it only a physical charm—the charm of a smoother cheek +or brighter eyes—or is it an indefinable freshness of mind and heart +that constitutes the superiority? I do not think Helen de Bergerac +the kind of woman to like a man less because there<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> are a few lines +across his forehead and a few silver threads in his hair; but I know +that there is a sympathy between her and this young man that does not +exist between her and me. And yet I doubt if any ambitious youth of +five-and-twenty can love as devotedly as a man of my age. It is only +when he has proved the hollowness of everything else in life that a man +is free to surrender himself entirely to the woman he loves.”</p> + +<p>Again and again during the six months of his lingering at Greenlands, +Mr. Jerningham had told himself that his case would have been utterly +hopeless, even if he had been free to woo his old friend’s daughter. +And yet he pined for his freedom; and there were times when he felt +somewhat unkindly disposed towards the harmless lady at Hampton.</p> + +<p>“What are we to each other but an incumbrance?” he asked himself. “If +she had been more guilty, we might be free; she to marry Desmond, and +I——”</p> + +<p>And then Mr. Jerningham reflected upon the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> Continental manner of +marrying and giving in marriage. If he had been at liberty to ask for +Helen’s hand, what more likely than that the priceless boon would have +been granted by the friend who loved him and believed in him? Theodore +de Bergerac was of all men the most likely to bestow his daughter on +a husband of mature age, since he himself had married a woman twenty +years his junior, and had found perfect happiness in that union.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham fancied himself blest with this fair young wife, and +pictured to himself the calm and blameless existence which he might +have led with so sweet a companion. Oh, what a tranquil haven would +this have been, after the storms he had tempted, the lightnings he had +invited and defied!</p> + +<p>“Of thorns men do not gather figs, nor of a bramble-bush gather they +grapes,” said the Divine Teacher. Mr. Jerningham remembered that solemn +sentence. There are some precepts of Holy Writ that a man cannot put +out of his memory, though he may have outlived by a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> quarter of a +century his faith in the creed they teach.</p> + +<p>“I suppose I had my chance of perfect happiness at some moment of my +life, and forfeited it,” he said to himself. “Destiny is a bitter +schoolmistress, and has no pity on the mistakes of her scholars.”</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X.<br> +“L’OISEAU FUIT COMME LE BONHEUR.”</h2> +</div> + + +<p>EUSTACE refrained from opening the parcel given to him by his uncle +until he found himself in his own room, in the solemn quiet of a rural +midnight. Then, and then only, did he feel himself at liberty to enter +upon a task which had a certain sanctity. It was but a mixed record of +truth and fiction, this book which his guilty father had given to the +world; but some part of his mother’s life was interwoven with those +pages; her brief dream of happiness was shut, as it were, between the +leaves of the volumes, like flowers that have once been bright with +colour and rich with perfume, and which one finds pale and scentless in +a long-unopened book.</p> + +<p>The book was called <i>The Disappointments<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> of Dion: a Sequel to +Dion, a Confession</i>. By the same Author. This preservation in +the second book of the name that had figured in the first seemed +to indicate the autobiographical nature of both works. The hero of +the <i>Disappointments</i> was the same being as the hero of the +<i>Confession</i>—the same being, hardened and degraded by ten years +of selfishness and dissipation. The Dion of the <i>Confession</i> +had the affectation of cynicism, the tone of an Alcibiades who apes +the philosophy of Diogenes. The Dion of the <i>Disappointments</i> +was really cynical, and attempted to disguise his cynicism under an +affectation of <i>bonhomie</i>.</p> + +<p>Eustace sat till late into the night, reading—with unspeakable pain, +with sorrow, anger, sympathy, mixed in his mind as he read. Yes, this +book had been written by his father—there could be no doubt of that. +The first volume contained his mother’s story. It fitted into the +record of the letters, and to the story told by Mrs. Willows. Idealized +and poetized by the fancy of the hero, he read the history of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> a girl’s +day-dream, and recognized in this poetized heroine the woman whose +pensive face had been wont to brighten when it looked upon his. The +story of a young student’s passion for a tradesman’s daughter was told +with a certain grace and poetry. It is but an old story at best. It is +always more or less the legend of Faust and Gretchen, and it needs a +Göthe to elevate so simple a fable from the commonplace to the sublime.</p> + +<p>The author of <i>Dion</i> described his Gretchen very prettily. It was +a portrait by Greuse, with an occasional touch of Raphael.</p> + +<p>To the study of this book Eustace Thorburn applied himself with intense +earnestness of thought and purpose. The Sibylline volumes were not +more precious to the sage who purchased them so dearly than was this +egotistical composition to the man who had found a leaf from his +mother’s life in the heart of the book.</p> + +<p>How much written here was the plain, unvarnished truth? how much the +mere exercise<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> of a romantic fancy? That was the question upon which +depended the whole value of the volumes.</p> + +<p>On the one hand, it would seem scarcely likely that any man would +publish to the world the story of his own wrong-doing, or anatomize +his own heart for the pleasure of a novel-reading public. On the +other hand, there was the fact that men have, in a perverted spirit +of vanity, given to the press revelations of viler sins and more +deliberate baseness than any transgression confessed by the author +of <i>Dion</i>. Eustace remembered the Confessions of Jean Jacques +Rousseau; and he told himself that there is no crime which the egotist +does not think interesting when the criminal is himself. But the +strongest evidence in support of the idea that this <i>Disappointments +of Dion</i> was throughout a narration of real events lay in the +fact that those pages which described the author’s courtship of a +tradesman’s daughter formed an exact transcript of his mother’s story, +as Eustace had learned it. The quiet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> sea-coast town, gayer in those +days than now; the bookseller’s shop; the stretch of yellow sand beyond +the rocks; the dull, commonplace companion of the author’s “divine C.”; +the time of year; the interval that elapsed between the brief courtship +and the elopement—all corresponded exactly with the data of that sad +history whose every detail was written upon Eustace Thorburn’s heart.</p> + +<p>Throughout the book, places and persons were indicated only by +initials; and this alone imparted somewhat of an obsolete and +Minerva-Press appearance to the volumes. This circumstance also gave +further ground for the idea that there was in this book very little of +absolute invention.</p> + +<p>Eustace read the two slender volumes from beginning to end at a +sitting. He began to read before midnight. The broad summer sunlight +shone upon him, and the birds were singing loud in the woodland, when +he closed the second volume. For him every page had an all-absorbing +interest. The reading of this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span> book was like the autopsy of his +father’s mind and heart; and there was something of the surgeon’s +scientific scrutiny in the deliberate care with which he read.</p> + +<p>If there were any good to be found in this book, he was prepared to set +that good as a <i>per-contra</i> in the dread account of debtor and +creditor which he kept against his unknown father. But he wanted to +fathom the depths of evil in the mind of that nameless enemy. He wanted +to ascertain the uttermost wrong this man had done him in the person of +that dearer part of himself, his dead mother.</p> + +<p>He read the book steadily through, pausing only to mark the passages +which seemed to tell Celia Mayfield’s story, and all passages which +bore, however indirectly, upon that story.</p> + +<p>It was half-past six when he read the last page; and half-past seven +was M. de Bergerac’s breakfast-hour. Happily, Mr. Thorburn was at +that privileged age when a man can do without sleep, and find as much +refreshment in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> a few pails of cold water as ponderous middle age +can derive from a long night’s rest. So he made his toilet, and went +down-stairs to the bright, pretty breakfast-room, little the worse for +the studious occupation of his night.</p> + +<p>Mr. Jerningham had wandered down by the water-side after leaving the +cottage, and had seen the light in the secretary’s window, and wondered +what the young man was doing.</p> + +<p>“In the throes of poetical composition, no doubt,” thought the master +of Greenlands. “How pleased he seemed to come back to these people; +and with what a smile <i>she</i> welcomed him! And to think that if I +were to offer every possession I have in this world, and my heart of +hearts, and my pride, and my life into the bargain, I could not buy +one such smile as that! I could have such smiles once for the asking; +they shone upon me from the fairest faces, spontaneous and liberal as +the sunlight; and I passed on, and did not cherish one of them to light +my old age. Oh, surely there is some world in which we live our lives<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> +again, enlightened by the follies of the past; some Swedenborgian +heaven, in which the shadows of the things we love here are presented +to us, and we move amongst them regenerate and spiritualised, and +redeem the mistakes and errors of our earthly existence!”</p> + +<p>Helen de Bergerac came in from the garden, with an apronful of flowers, +as Eustace Thorburn entered the breakfast-room. And then came the +arrangement of the flowers in old Wedgwood vases and old Worcester +bowls, the clipping of stems, the plucking of stray leaves, the +selections of dewy roses and jasmine, honeysuckle and geranium,—the +most dangerous of all occupations for two people who would fain hide +that secret which these two were trying to conceal from each other.</p> + +<p>These two, however, behaved with supreme discretion. There was a +dull pain in the heart of Eustace which made him more silent than +usual. He could not ask the playful, frivolous questions, about +garden and poultry-yard, aviary and greenhouse, Greek verbs or Latin +verse-making,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> the asking of which until now had been such an unfailing +source of delight.</p> + +<p>The long night-watching had saddened him; the brooding over his +mother’s history had brought the sense of the irremoveable stigma upon +his name home to his mind with a new bitterness.</p> + +<p>“Would this girl’s father, with his Spanish pride of race and his +pedigree of half a dozen centuries, ever bring himself to excuse that +one shortcoming upon my part?” he asked himself. “If in all other +respects I were the very suitor he would choose for his only child, +could he forgive the bar-sinister which makes my shield unworthy to go +side by side with his?”</p> + +<p>And then the young poet remembered his poverty, and laughed at himself +in very bitterness of heart for the folly which had permitted him to +believe, even for one delusive moment, that Theodore de Bergerac would +accept him for a son-in-law.</p> + +<p>“Uncle Dan sees these things clearly,” he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> said to himself. “He has +told me my duty, and I will do it.”</p> + +<p>Helen saw the cloud upon his face, and wondered what could have changed +him so suddenly. Only last night he had seemed so gay, so happy. This +morning he was silent and thoughtful; and something told her that his +thoughts were sad.</p> + +<p>“I fear you heard some unpleasant news while you were in town,” she +said, anxiously; “and yet last night you seemed so light-hearted.”</p> + +<p>“Light-headed, perhaps! There is a kind of intoxication in pleasant +talk about the things one loves and believes in; and last night the +very atmosphere was intoxicating. The faint new moon, and the flowers, +and the river,—those things mount to one’s brain. The morning is +sacred to common-sense. Hope, faith, happiness, what are they but +phantoms that vanish at cock-crow? Daylight ushers in the reign of +worldly wisdom, and her rule is apt to seem hard.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span></p> + +<p>“Does she seem such a hard mistress to you, Mr. Thorburn?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; she shows me cruel truths in a cold, pitiless way.”</p> + +<p>Helen looked puzzled. She felt that the conversation was in some manner +dangerous, and did not know whither any further question might drift +her. So she wisely desisted from questioning, and fell back upon such +safe subjects as the flowers and the birds. But every now and then she +gave a little furtive look at Eustace Thorburn’s grave face; and those +furtive glances convinced her that he was unhappy.</p> + +<p>M. de Bergerac came from his library before the arrangement of the +vases was quite concluded. He was the earliest riser in his household, +and came to the breakfast-table always refreshed and invigorated by +upwards of an hour’s hard reading.</p> + +<p>“I have been looking over your note-books, Thorburn,” he said; “you +have done wonders—those extracts from the old Venetian manuscripts<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> +will be invaluable to me. You must have worked very closely during your +absence.”</p> + +<p>“I did stick to my desk at the Museum pretty closely. But I am more +than repaid if my extracts are likely to be useful.”</p> + +<p>“They are of the most precious kind. Where should I get such another +secretary? You will be able to finish my book some day.”</p> + +<p>“Papa!” cried Helen, tenderly.</p> + +<p>“Do not look at me so sadly, dear child! If I were to live to the age +of Old Parr, the book would scarcely be finished. Thou knowest not how +such a subject grows upon the writer—how he sees worlds on worlds +opening before his dazzled eyes—ever distant, ever new—widening +into infinity. Everywhere it is the wealth of man’s imagination which +astounds, which terrifies him; and he asks himself with shame and +humiliation, of the most profound, is it this which I have set myself +to catalogue? Is it this that I think can be numbered and summarized +in my short span? In the traditions of the Rabbins what a universe! In +the faith<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> of Zoroaster, what worlds unexplored—unexplorable! What +fond fantastic dreams, what sublime depths of thought, what grandeur +of faith, in the pious mysteries of Brahma and Buddha! Every race +peoples invisible worlds; and in each new voyage into the realms of +untutored fancy the shadow-world stretches wider before our gaze. Gods +and demons, angels of good and of evil, assume shapes more gigantic, +attributes more awful. Hell sinks to depths unfathomable. Heaven +recedes from the weak grasp of mortal intellect. Stricken, distraught, +the weak soul flees aghast before those barbaric wonders, and takes +refuge in the haven of Christian faith. Ah, how simple, how beautiful, +after the gigantic demonology of the East, seems the pure and perfect +Redeemer of the West—beginning with the martyrdom of the magnanimous +Prometheus, the bondage of the mythic Herakles, culminating in the +Atonement of the Divine Christ!”</p> + +<p>And here M. de Bergerac dilated upon one of his favourite theories, +the dual gospel of Western<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> Paganism and Christianity; and fought with +Eustace Thorburn in support of his pet hypothesis, to the effect that +Grecian fable was only a distortion of Bible-history, and the stories +of Prometheus and Herakles mere rude fore-shadowings of the purer and +holier story of man’s Redeemer.</p> + +<p>They fought out the battle of comparative mythology; Eustace was of +the two the more earnest Christian. M. de Bergerac went every Sunday +to a pretty little Roman Catholic chapel, half hidden in a rustic +garden, beyond Windsor; but his faith would scarcely have satisfied +the requirements of an orthodox director. The younger man had passed +dryshod through the boundless ocean of mythic lore to that haven of +which his patron had spoken—that harbour of rest for the wandering +soul, where passionate desire to solve the great enigma is exchanged +for the simple faith of childhood. From his mother’s lips Eustace had +learned that tender religion of the heart which Paganism tries in +vain to match with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> hard logic of a Plato, or the moral axioms of +a Confucius. To this faith he had clung even more fondly since his +mother’s death. If not for his own sake, for hers he must needs have +been a believer. Where else could he find hope and comfort in the +thought of her sad pilgrimage? Here her weak feet had travelled by +hard and crooked ways—here the burden laid on her had been cruel and +heavy. As an earthly destiny, with no hope of compensation beyond the +regions of earth, Celia’s life would have seemed all bitterness—the +vengeance decreed by a pitiless Nemesis, rather than the chastisement +of a merciful God. But if beyond the sad end of that sorrowful journey +the traveller found rest and forgiveness in regions unimaginable to the +earth-burdened spirit, the pilgrimage seemed no longer hard, the burden +no longer heavy; the enigma of all earthly sorrows received its answer.</p> + +<p>This was the hope dear to the heart of Celia Mayfield’s son; and +for this faith he fought sturdily in conversational battles with +his patron,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> refusing to yield one inch of that ground on which +the divinity of his Master’s mission rested. He would accept for +that pure Teacher no first-cousinship with Buddha or Confucius—no +misty resemblance to Zagreus or Dionysus, Prometheus or Herakles—no +intellectual relationship with Zoroaster or Mahomet. For the truth and +the whole truth of the gospel which he had read at his mother’s knee, +he was resolute and unflinching.</p> + +<p>If he had been the most jesuitical of schemers, he could not have +better forwarded his cause with Helen de Bergerac than by this +championship of the true faith. She too had learned her best and +earliest lessons from a mother’s lips, and the philosophical breadth of +view presented to her always in her father’s conversation had in nowise +spoiled the simplicity of those first lessons. She heard her father’s +rationalistic talk with unchanging regret; and hoped always for the +day in which he should come to see these things in the same mysterious +light which made them so sacred and beautiful to her.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span></p> + +<p>To-day Eustace was more than usually earnest. Was he not about to make +his first great sacrifice in proof of his faith? Not on the shrine of +Pagan honour was he about to lay down his happiness, but on the altar +of Christian duty.</p> + +<p>He determined that there should be little time lost in the completion +of that bitter sacrifice. The knife should be sharpened at once for +the slaughter of Isaac. And in this case, there was, alas! no hope of +Divine interposition.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI.<br> +“THE DISAPPOINTMENTS OF DION.”</h2> +</div> + + +<p>THE secretary went out into the park, and down to the neglected +shrubbery-walk that wound along the river bank. This was the loneliest +and wildest part of Mr. Jerningham’s domain, and solitude was what +Eustace Thorburn wanted to-day. He had brought with him, not his own +poem, but those two slender volumes which contained the history of his +mother’s youth, and in the composition whereof he beheld the hand of +his unknown father. He wanted to read this book a second time, even +more slowly and thoughtfully than he had read it the first time. He +wanted, if it were possible, to plumb the very depths of his father’s +heart.</p> + +<p>The still summer day and the woodland<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span> solitude were well fitted +for meditation. Eustace walked about a mile and a half from M. de +Bergerac’s cottage before he opened his book. The seat which he chose +was a rude rustic bench, in a hollow of the bank, close to the edge of +the river—a seat which at high tide was half covered by the water. The +rugged sloping bank rose behind the rough wooden bench. The young man +leaned lazily against the short burnt grass of the bank as he read.</p> + +<p>The portion of the book most interesting to this one reader was that +which told, in terms half cynical, half playful, of the writer’s brief +delusion—the little Arcadian comedy of rustic life with the girl whose +heart he had broken, and the bitter tragedy in which it ended.</p> + +<p>The scene depicted in this portion of the story was wild and +mountainous; snow-crowned hills formed the background of the landscape. +The sea was close at hand; all was gigantic, rugged, uncivilized. Yet +there was no mention of foreign customs or foreign people. There was a +certain familiarity in everything,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> that was scarcely compatible with +the idea that this rustic dwelling-place of Dion’s was remote from +England; and Eustace decided that the scene of the story must have lain +within the British dominions. The description of the landscape might +apply to many spots in Scotland, in Wales, or even in Ireland. Clue to +the exact locality there seemed, on first consideration, none; so faint +were the indications, so general the features of the scene. The record +had been evidently written long after the occurrences described. Only +the cold light of memory illumined the pages; after-disappointments +had embittered the spirit of the writer, and lent bitterness even to +memory. It was, in very truth, the confession of a man infinitely worse +than the author of <i>Dion</i>.</p> + +<p>The following were the pages which told Eustace how rudely his mother’s +brief dream had been broken:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"> + +<p>“I think we had scarcely been a month at H. H. before I began to +discover how profound<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> was my mistake. Tenderness and affection, +a fond admiration of my mental attributes that approached +idolatry—these my poor C. gave me in liberal measure. But the higher +tribute of self-abnegation she could not give me. Hers was one of +those natures which are not made for sacrifice. The grandeur of heroic +souls was wanting in this gentle breast. In the haven of a domestic +circle, safely sheltered from the storms of fate, to a man whose days +were occupied in that hard struggle for life which the world calls +business, and who asked of the gods nothing brighter than a household +angel, this dear girl would have seemed the sweetest of wives. I +think of her always with supreme tenderness; but I cannot forget the +weariness that crept upon me when I found how little sympathy there +was between us.</p> + +<p>“From all loud reproaches, even from the appearance of grief, she for +a long time refrained. But I could see that she was not happy; and +this fact was in itself a torture to a man of sensitive nature and +irritable nerves.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span> A look, a half-stifled sigh, ever and anon told +me that I had not found a companion, but a victim. The smile whose +angelic sweetness had charmed me in the bookseller’s lovely daughter +had faded, nay almost vanished. It was like some mediæval legend: +the supernal beauty met by the knight in the haunted darkness of an +enchanted forest is transformed into a dull, earthly spouse; and the +foolish knight, who had ridden home to his castle with a divinity, +awakens to find himself mated to a peasant-girl.</p> + +<p>“This was my first and most bitter disappointment. I look back now and +ask myself what it was that I had hoped, and what substantial ground +there had been for my hopes. Because this poor girl had a face like +Guido’s Beatrice Cenci, because she praised my book in her low musical +voice and simple commonplace phrases, I must needs fancy that I had +found the Ægeria of my dreams, the companion-spirit, the inspiring and +elevating influence which every poet seeks in the object of his love!</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span></p> + +<p>“I used to think my own thoughts very grand in those days. There were +moments in which I yearned and hungered for some sharer in my dreams. +I was steeped to the lips in Shelley’s poetry; I wanted to find a +Cynthia,—</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘A second self, far dearer and more fair.</div> + <div class="verse indent14">* * * * * * *</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hers too were all my thoughts: ere yet endowed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">With music and with light, their fountains flowed</div> + <div class="verse indent4">In poesy; and her still, earnest face,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Pallid with feelings which intensely glowed</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Within, was turned on mine with speechless grace</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Watching the hopes which there her heart had learned to trace.</div> + </div> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">In me, communion with this purest being</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Kindled intenser zeal, and made me wise</div> + <div class="verse indent0">In knowledge, which in hers mine own mind seeing,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Left in the human world few mysteries:</div> + <div class="verse indent4">How without fear of evil or disguise</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Was Cynthia! What a spirit, strong and mild,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which death, or pain, or peril could despise,</div> + <div class="verse indent4">Yet melt in tenderness!’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"> +This was the bright ideal of my dream; and instead of this, what had +I found? A gentle girl, whose education had scarcely outstepped the +boundary-line of the all-abridging Pinnock,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span> and who consumed hours +in secret weeping because she had offended her father, a small trader +in a small country town, and had forfeited her social position in +that miserably narrow world which was the beginning and end of her +universe. Alas for my fond delusions! Where was the</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent16">‘spirit strong and mild,</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Which death, or pain, or peril could despise?’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p>“There were, indeed, moments in which some pretty poetical thought +slipped between my poor girl’s ‘scarlet-threaded lips;’ but she was +too timid by nature to give voice to her brightest fancies, and I +saw noble thoughts in her deep eyes which her lips never learned to +translate. Sometimes, in the solemn stillness of a moonlight night, +when we had wandered along some rugged mountain-path, and reached a +spot whence we could look down upon the pathless waste of waters, +which of all spectacles in Nature’s great theatre most affected this +untaught girl, I could see that her mind took a kind of inspiration +from the grandeur of the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span> scene, and that the littleness of self was +for the moment put away from her. Are there not, indeed, brief pauses +of mental intoxication, in which the spirit releases itself from its +dull mortal bondage, and floats starward on the wings of inspiration?</p> + +<p>‘If we could stay here for ever,’ she said to me one night, when we +sat in the little classic temple on D. P., looking down from that +craggy headland upon the barren sea; ‘if this light could shine +always, with those deep, solemn shadows sleeping under the shelter of +the rocks, I think that one might forget all that is hardest in the +world. Here I remember nothing except that you and I are together in +the moonlight. Past, present, and future seem to melt into this hour. +I can almost fancy the rocks and the waves feeling a sort of happiness +like this—a sense of delight when the moon shines upon them. It is +difficult to think that the waves feel <i>nothing</i> when they come +creeping along the sands with that half-stealthy, half-joyous motion, +like the nymphs you talk of,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span> dancing in secret, afraid to awaken the +sea-god.’</p> + +<p>‘If you had lived in the days when there were gods upon the earth, C., +I think you would have fallen in love with Poseidon.’</p> + +<p>“She was looking out across the sea, with a dreamy light in her +eyes, and her lips half parted, as if she had indeed seen a band of +snowy-kirtled nymphs dancing on the broad stretch of sand in the +shadow of the headland.</p> + +<p>‘Poss—who?’ she asked, wonderingly.</p> + +<p>‘Poseidon; one of the elder sons of Time and the Great Mother, the +sea-god of whom you spoke just now. I think if you had lived in the +Golden Age, you would have met Tyro’s lover, and loved him, as she +did. I never saw such a passionate fondness for the sea as you betray +in every look and word.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ she said; ‘I have always loved the sea with a feeling that I +have been unable to express, as if there were indeed a human heart in +all that wide ocean. When I am—when you have been away longer than +usual,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span> and I feel lonely, I come here, and sit for hours watching the +waves roll slowly in, and thinking.’</p> + +<p>“And here her voice trembled a little, and I knew that the thoughts +of which she spoke were gloomy ones. Thus it was with us ever. For +a moment she seemed a companion, a kindred spirit; but in the next +we were back again in the old wearisome channel, and I felt myself +stifled by the atmosphere of B.</p> + +<p>“Her utter want of education made a gulf between us which even love +could not span. The fact that she was intelligent, appreciative, was +not sufficient to render companionship possible between us. Those +regions which for me were densely peopled with bright and wondrous +images were for her blank and empty as the desert plains of Central +Africa. Pretty poetical fancies—the wild flowers of the intellectual +world—took quick root in her shallow mind; but the basis for deep +thoughts was wanting. I grew weary of conversation in which my part +was almost a monologue, weary<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span> of long <i>tête-à-têtes</i> which left +me no richer by one wise thought or amusing paradox. Day by day I +fell back more completely upon my books for company. The poor child +perceived this with evident distress. One day she asked me, with +tones and looks most piteous, why I no longer talked to her, as I had +once talked, about the books I was reading, the subjects that I had +chosen for future poetic treatment. I told her frankly that it was +tiresome to me to talk to her of things with which she had evidently +no sympathy.</p> + +<p>‘Indeed,’ she cried, ‘you are mistaken. I sympathize with all your +thoughts. I can picture to myself all your fancies. The worlds which +you tell me of, and the people—the strange, wild worship of those +strange people—I can fancy them and see them. They are a little dim +and shadowy to me; but I <i>do</i> see them. And I so dearly love to +hear you talk. I cannot discuss these things with you as a clever +person would, and I cannot tell you half I think and feel about them; +but to sit by you as you read<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span> or write, to watch you till you grow +tired of your books, and look up and talk to me, is perfect happiness +for me—my only happiness now.’</p> + +<p>“Here her voice grew tremulous, and she broke down in the usual +hopeless manner.</p> + +<p>‘If you would only teach me to understand the things that interest +you, if you would let me read your books, I should be a fitter +companion for you,’ she said, presently.</p> + +<p>“I groaned aloud at the hopelessness of this idea. I was to teach this +poor child to be my second self, to train her into sympathy—to grow +my own Cynthia! I envied Shelley his happier fate, and that bright +spirit which</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Walked as free as light the clouds among.’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"> +But Shelley had made his mistake, and had drained the bitter cup of +disappointment before he found his fair ideal.</p> + +<p>“I know there are men who have educated their wives, but I never +could understand this idea of the lover lined with the pedagogue. C. +asked to read the books I was reading; <i>id<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> est</i>, K. O. Müller, +in the original German; the <i>Orestea</i>, in the original Greek; +<i>A Course of Hindoo Tradition</i>, published by the Society for +the Propagation of Arianism; De Barante’s <i>Dukes of Burgundy</i>; +and the <i>Old Ballads of France</i>, with an occasional dip into +Catullus, Juvenal, Lucretius, or Horace. These were the books which +I was reading, in a very desultory, unprofitable manner; for the +weakness of my life has been inconstancy, even in the matter of books. +A few pages of one, a random peep between the leaves of another, a +hop, skip, and a jump between Oriental legend and Platonic philosophy, +finding everywhere some point of comparison, some forced resemblance. +I told my poor dear C. that anything like teaching on my part would +be an impossibility. However, by way of satisfying the poor child’s +thirst for knowledge, I sent a list of books to a London bookseller, +including a few simple elementary works and my favourite English +poets; and this little collection I presented to C. I found she had +read<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span> all the poets, in her father’s library, and was indeed as +familiar with them as I myself; but she received the books from me +with an appearance of real delight. This was the first present I made +her. It would have been a pleasure to me to lavish costly gifts upon +her; but it was a pleasure more exquisite to withhold them, and to be +sure that no adventitious aid had assisted me in the winning of her +love.</p> + +<p>“I think that most wearisome institution, the honeymoon, must have +been inaugurated by some sworn foe to matrimony, some vile misogamist, +who took to himself a wife in order to discover, by experience, the +best mode of rendering married life a martyrdom.</p> + +<p>“Enlightened by experience, this miserable wretch said to himself, +‘I will introduce a practice which, in the space of one short month, +shall transform the doating bridegroom into the indifferent husband, +the idolatrous lover into the submissive expiator of a fatal mistake. +For one month I, by my invisible agent, Fashion, will bind together +bride and bridegroom<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> in dread imprisonment. Impalpable shall be their +fetters; fair and luxurious shall be their prison; complacent and +respectful shall be the valet and abigail, the lackeys and grooms who +act as their gaolers; and in that awful bondage they shall have no +worse chastisement than each other’s society. Chained together like +the wretched convicts of Toulon, they shall pace to and fro their +lonely exercise-ground, until the bright sky above and the bright +earth around them shall seem alike hateful. They shall be for ever +plumbing each other’s souls, and for ever finding shallows; for ever +gauging each other’s minds, to be for ever disappointed by the result. +And not till they have learned thoroughly to detest each other shall +the order of release be granted, and the fiat pronounced: You know +each other’s emptiness of mind and shallowness of heart; go forth and +begin your new existence, profoundly wretched in the knowledge that +your miserable lives must be spent together.’</p> + +<p>“I had planned and plotted this residence at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> H. H., hoping to find +a glimpse of Eden in this loneliness amid Nature’s splendour, ‘with +one fair spirit for my minister.’ If I had been fond of sport, I +might have found amusement for my days, and might have returned at +night to my nest to meet an all-sufficient welcome in my love’s happy +smile. But I was at this time a student, still suffering from the +effects of over-work at O——, and a little from the disappointments +of my career, hyper-sensitive, <i>tant soit peu</i> irritable; and +C.’s companionship bored me. This was a crisis of my life, in which +I needed the sustaining influence of a stronger mind than my own. +Even her affection became a kind of torment. She was too anxious to +please me, too painfully conscious of my slightest show of weariness, +too apprehensive of losing my regard. I could almost have said with +Bussy Rabutin, “<i>Je ne pouvais plus souffrir ma maîtresse, tant elle +m’aimait</i>.”</p> + +<p>“It is needless to dwell upon this story of disappointment, that +was so keen as to verge upon remorse. I hated myself for my folly; +I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> was angry with this poor girl because she could neither be happy +nor render me so. If there were any breach of honour involved in my +broken promise, I paid dearly for my dishonour. And <i>that</i> kind +of promise is never intended to be believed: it is the easy excuse +which a faithful knight provides for his lady-love. Let me be guilty +of perjury, that you may still be perfect, he says; and the damsel +accepts the chivalrous pretence.</p> + +<p>“With this poor child, unhappily, there was no such thing as reason. +Worldly wisdom, the necessities of position, the ties of family, were +unknown in her vocabulary.</p> + +<p>‘I have broken my father’s heart,’ she said, in that <i>larmoyante</i> +tone which became almost habitual to her. And thereupon, of course, +I felt myself a wretch. At this period of my life I sometimes +caught myself wondering what would have become of Faust if he and +Gretchen had spent six months in a rustic cottage amongst the Hartz +mountains. Surely he would have languished to return to his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span> books, +to his parchments, to his crucibles and mathematical instruments, his +Nostradamus, and his prosy, insufferable Wagner; anything to escape +that lugubrious maiden.</p> + +<p>“And yet what can be a prettier picture than Gretchen plucking the +petals of her rose, or my poor C., as I first saw her, bending with +rapt countenance over my own book? Oh, fatal book, that brought sorrow +to her, weariness unspeakable to me!</p> + +<p>“If C. had been reasonable, she could have found little cause to +complain of me. I had no intention of breaking the tie so lightly +made. That I was responsible for that step, which must colour the +remainder of <i>her</i> existence, I never for a moment forgot. All +I rebelled against was the notion that my future life was to be +overshadowed by the funereal tint which her melancholy vision imparted +to everything she looked upon. At one time I conceived the idea that +she was disquieted by the uncertainty of the future, and I hastened to +relieve her mind upon this point.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span></p> + +<p>‘My darling girl,’ I said, with real earnestness, ‘you cannot surely +doubt that your future will be my first care. Come what may, your +prosperity, your happiness indeed,—so far as mortal man can command +happiness,—shall be assured. I hope you do not doubt this.’</p> + +<p>“She looked at me with that dull despair which of late I had more than +once remarked in her countenance.</p> + +<p>‘H.,’ she said, ‘shall I ever be your wife?’</p> + +<p>“I turned my face away from her in silence, wrung her poor little cold +hands in my own, and left her without a word. This was a question +which I could not answer, a question which she should not have asked.</p> + +<p>“That evening, as I walked alone in the dreary solitude under the +cliffs, a sudden thought flashed into my mind.</p> + +<p>‘Good heavens,’ I thought, ‘how completely I have put myself into this +girl’s power by my folly; and what a hold she has upon me, if she knew +how to use it, or were base enough to trade upon the advantages of her +position!’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span></p> + +<p>“Reflection told me that it was not in C. to make a mean use of power +which I had so unwittingly placed in her hands. But I laughed aloud +when I considered my shortsighted folly in allowing myself to drop +into such a dangerous position.</p> + +<p>“When we next met, C. was pallid as death, and I could see that she +had devoted the interval to tears. I keenly felt her silent woe, and +with my whole heart pitied her childish disappointment. Until this +occasion I had not for a moment supposed that she cherished any hope +of such folly on my part as an utter sacrifice of my liberty. It was +this of which I thought, and not my position in the world. Had I +been inclined for matrimony, I would as willingly have married this +tradesman’s daughter as a countess. It was the hateful tie, the utter +abnegation of man’s divinest gift of freedom, the mortgage of my +future, from which I shrank with abhorrence.</p> + +<p>‘My dear love,’ I said to C., as I tried to kiss away the traces of +her tears, ‘I mean to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span> love you all my life, if you will let me. And +do you think I shall love you any less because I have not asked the +Archbishop of Canterbury’s permission to adore you? And then I was +guilty of that customary commonplace about ‘a marriage in the sight of +Heaven,’ which has been especially invented for such occasions.</p> + +<p>“After this I tried to indoctrinate her with the philosophy of the +purest of men and most lawless of poets. I entreated her to rend +custom’s mortal chain,</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘And walk as free as light the clouds among.’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"> +But the exalted mind which can rise superior to the bondage of custom +had not been given to this poor girl. She always went back to the one +inevitable argument, ‘I have broken my father’s heart.’</p> + +<p>“It was quite in vain that I endeavoured to make her see the ethics of +life from a nobler stand-point. Her thoughts revolved always in the +same narrow circle—B——, that odious watering-place, and the humdrum +set of shopkeepers<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span> whom she had known from her childhood.</p> + +<p>‘You do not know how my father is respected in the town,’ she said, +piteously, when I reminded her of the insignificance of such a place +as B—— when weighed against the rest of the universe, and ventured +to suggest that the esteem and approbation of B—— did not constitute +the greatest sacrifice ever made by woman.</p> + +<p>‘As for the respect which these good people feel for your father, what +does it amount to, my dear love?’ I asked. ‘A man lives in some sleepy +country town twenty years or so, and pays his debts, and attends the +services of his parish church with unbroken regularity, and dies in +the odour of sanctity; or else suddenly throws the mental powers of +his fellow-townsmen off their balance by forging a bill of exchange, +or murdering his wife and children, or setting his house on fire +with a view to cheating the insurance companies. What is the respect +of such people worth? It is given to the man who pays his tradesmen +and goes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span> to church. He may be the veriest tyrant, or hypocrite, or +fool in the universe, and they respect him all the same. He may have +squared the circle, or solved the problem of perpetual motion, or +invented the steam-engine, or originated the process of vaccination, +and if he fails to pay his butcher and baker, and to attend his +church, they will withhold their respect. Greatness of intellect, or +of conduct, is utterly beyond their comprehension. They would consider +Columbus a doubtful character, and Raleigh a disreputable one.’</p> + +<p>“Upon this I saw symptoms of tears, and timeously departed. The dear +child took everything <i>au grand sérieux</i>. Oh! how I languished +for the graceful badinage of Kensington Gore, the careless talk of my +clubs—anything rather than this too poetical loneliness!</p> + +<p>“I planned my future that night. Some pretty rustic cottage for C. in +the hilly country between Hampstead and Barnet, within an easy ride +of town, where my own headquarters must needs be when not abroad. I +had fancied<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span> that C. and I could have travelled together, but I found +her far too <i>triste</i> a companion for Continental wanderings. She +was too ignorant to appreciate scenes which owe their best charm to +association, and thus utterly unable to sympathize with the emotions +which those scenes might excite in the breast of her fellow-traveller; +nor had she the animal spirits which render the ignorance of some +women amusing. She was, in short, the genius of home rather than the +goddess of poetry; and I resolved to establish a home over which she +might preside, a haven from the storms of life, whither I might go to +have oil poured into my wounds, and whence I might return to the world +refreshed and comforted.</p> + +<p>“I pictured to myself this home, as fair as taste and wealth could +make it. No flowers that my hand could lavish would have been wanting +to adorn this poor girl’s pathway. I have no reproach to make against +myself here. There are few lives happier than hers would have been, +if she had been content to entrust<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span> herself to my guidance. But my +liberty was a treasure which I could not bring myself to resign.</p> + +<p>“All might, perhaps, have gone well with us but for one unlucky turn +of affairs; an accident in which a fatalist would have recognized +the hand of Destiny, but in which I saw only one of those foolish +<i>contretemps</i> which assist the further entanglement of that +tangled skein called Life.</p> + +<p>“One day, in a sudden fit of disgust with myself, my books, my +companion, and the universe, I left the house, and went on foot in +search of some wandering Mephistopheles with whom to barter my soul +for a fresh sensation.</p> + +<p>“I was five-and-twenty. My <i>première jeunesse</i>—the bloom on the +peach, the down on the butterfly’s wing, the fresh dews of morning, +the glory of the sunshine—had been wasted. The world called me a +young man—young because bitter thoughts had not yet set their mark +upon my brow. They were only inscribed upon my heart. I surveyed the +horizon of my<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span> life, and saw that the stars had all vanished. There +was only the dull equal gray of a sunless afternoon. It is impossible +to imagine a prospect more completely blank than that on which I +looked. There is no pleasure known to mankind that I had not tasted, +to satiety. The baser, as well as the more refined—I had tried them +all. In the records of Roman dissipation Suetonius or Gibbon could +suggest little—except some darker vices—which I had not tried, and +found wanting. I had slept under the reticulated lilies of Antinöus, +and supped upon beef-steaks and porter with the gladiators of +Commodus, in the modern guise of Tom Spring and Ben Caunt. Love had +been powerless to give me happiness. Friendship I had been too wise to +test. My friends were the friends of the rich Timon. I did not value +them so highly as to put their friendship through the crucible of +pretended poverty. I took them for what they were worth; and my sole +cause of complaint against them was that they failed to amuse me. My +life was one long yawn—and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> if I still lived, it was only because I +knew not what purgatory of perpetual <i>ennui</i> might await me on +Acheron’s further shore. Could I have been certain of such an Inferno +as Dante’s—all action, passion, fever, excitement—I should gladly +have exchanged the placid wretchedness of life for the stirring +horrors of that dread under-world.</p> + +<p>“On this one particular day, when most of all I felt the utter +weariness of my existence, I wandered purposeless along the +mountain-side—thinking of those rugged steeps of Hellas, which the +scene recalled—and scarcely knew whither my footsteps took me, till +I suddenly found myself in a scene that was very familiar, and on a +spot which, though not by any means remote from my own eyrie, I had +hitherto avoided.</p> + +<p>“I was on the landward slope of the mountain; below me lay a lake, +and between my stand-point and the water rose curling wreaths of blue +smoke from the chimneys of a house which I knew very well.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span></p> + +<p>“It was the hunting-lodge of E. T., a man who was, if not my friend, +at least one of my oldest acquaintances; a man between whom and myself +there reigned that easy-going familiarity which passes current for +friendship. We had been partners at whist, had been in love with +the same women, <i>de par le haut monde</i> and <i>de par le bas +monde</i>. We had bought horses of each other; had cheated each other, +more or less unconsciously, in such dealing; had helped each other +to break the bank at a Palais-Royal gaming-table; had been concerned +together in an opera-ball riot one Easter with the D. of H. and +certain Parisian notabilities of the Boulevard du Gand. If this be not +friendship, I know not what is.</p> + +<p>“The sight of those blue wreaths of smoke; the remembrance of the riot +in the Rue Lepelletier; the little suppers at the Rocher and the Trois +Frères; the wit, the wine, the fever of the blood that for the time +being is almost happiness—stirred my senses with a faint thrill of +pleasure.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span></p> + +<p>‘If T. is there, I will ask him to dine with me,’ I thought; ‘C. must +accustom herself to receive my friends, or to let me receive them +without her. I am suffering from the Londoner’s nostalgie; I languish +for the air of the club-houses and the Ring. It will be something +to hear the newest scandals, fresh from the lips of E. T., who is a +notorious gossip and <i>mauvais diseur</i>.’</p> + +<p>“I had some reason for concluding that T. was stopping at his place. +The smoke gave evidence that the house was inhabited, and I knew that +in his absence the place was generally shut up, and left in the charge +of a shepherd, who lived in a wretched shanty further down the valley. +My friend’s finances were as slender as his lineage was noble. He +claimed a direct descent from the Plantagenets, and was never out of +the hands of the Jews.</p> + +<p>‘They are taking it out of me on account of that nasty knack of my +ancestors, who raised money by the extraction of the teeth of Israel,’ +he said. ‘But we have changed all that. Isaac<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span> of York has the best of +it now-a-days, and draws the teeth of the Giaour!’</p> + +<p>“I turned aside from the narrow path skirting the mountain, and walked +down the slope towards E. T.’s <i>pied-à-terre</i>. I was absurdly +pleased at the idea of seeing a man whose character I thoroughly +despised, and whose death I should have heard of without so much as a +passing regret.</p> + +<p>“In my utter weariness of myself and my own thoughts, I cared not in +what cloaca I found a harbour of refuge. The gate of the small domain +swung loosely on its hinges. I pushed it open, and walked across the +small lawn, bordered by shrubberies of fir and laurel. As I neared +the porch, I saw the red glow of a fire shining in one of the lower +windows, and was welcomed by a yapping chorus of lap-dogs, whose bark +sounded shrill through the open door. There was no need for ceremony +in this wild region; and even if I had wished to stand upon punctilio, +there was neither bell nor knocker whereby I might have demanded +admittance.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> I walked straight into the hall, or lobby—the former +title is too grandiose for so small a chamber—and was immediately +struck by the change which had come over the scene since I had looked +upon it some twelve months before.</p> + +<p>“It was then a rude chaos of gunnery, fishing-tackle, single-sticks, +fencers’ masks, boxing-gloves, plastrons, pipes, greatcoats, leather +gaiters, fishing-boots, mackintoshes, and horse-cloths; nauseous with +the odour of stale tobacco, and dangerous by the occupation of savage +dogs. It was now dainty as a lady’s boudoir: the floor bright with +scarlet sheepskins, the walls gay with French prints. A velvet curtain +half-shrouded the door of my friend’s dining-room, just revealing a +peep of the bright picture within—a table spread for luncheon, with +snowy linen and sparkling glass. Half a dozen little yapping dogs +issued from this room, and assailed me with shrill rancour. Not such +specimens of the canine race had I before beheld in this mountain +retreat. My friend T.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span> ever affected the biggest and roughest of +the species. Lancashire-bred mastiffs, Danish wolfhounds—the very +Titans of the canine race from Mount St. Bernard or Newfoundland. +These little creatures were the apoplectic descendants of that royal +race which was cradled on the knees of Castlemain and Portsmouth, +swaddled in the purple of Charles. Among these appeared a couple of +russet-coated pugs, with negro features, swart visages, and short, +bandy legs.</p> + +<p>“Amidst the clamour of these creatures my entrance was unheard. I +stooped down to examine the brutes, and was amused to perceive that +the collar of one of the spaniels was the daintiest toy of filigree +gold and mosaic.</p> + +<p>‘Has my friend turned <i>petit maitre</i>?’ I asked myself.</p> + +<p>“A second glance showed me a name upon the collar—Carlitz.</p> + +<p>“Carlitz! Hast thou not read, oh! gentle reader, Eastern stories that +tell how, by a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> magician’s wand, a fairy palace has risen suddenly +in the midst of the barren desert, with birds singing, and fountains +dancing in the sunlight; and among the fountains, and flowers, and +birds, and barbarously-splendid colonnades, tripping across the +tesselated floors, there comes something more beautiful than tropical +bird or flower?</p> + +<p>“The princess of the fairy tale—the Orient personified, with all its +languid loveliness, its intoxicating sweetness, its colour and music, +and sunshine and perfume—melted into one divine human creature.</p> + +<p>“This is what the name upon the dog’s collar did for me. It was the +arch-enchanter’s wand, evoking a goddess, in that bleak valley where I +had hoped only to find a commonplace acquaintance.</p> + +<p>“Carlitz! Shall I try to describe her—to describe the indescribable? +Thou knowest her, kind reader; on thee, too, has she shone; for not +to have seen her is to be a slave so dull that I would not think this +book should fall<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span> into such unworthy hands. I will say of her what +Lysippus said of Athens:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"> +<div class="poetry"> + <div class="stanza"> + <div class="verse indent0">‘Hast not seen Carlitz, then thou art a log;</div> + <div class="verse indent0">Hast seen and not been charmed, thou art an ass.’</div> + </div> +</div> +</div> + +<p class="nind"> +Or if, by reason of absence in far-distant lands, thou hast not seen +her, picture to thyself the fairest princess of thy childish fairy +lore, place her on a mortal stage, the cynosure of a thousand eyes, +the idol of innumerable hearts, the topic of incalculable tongues, +the gossip of uncountable newspapers, or, in one word—<span class="allsmcap">THE +FASHION</span>; endow her with a voice of the rarest power and richness; +gift her with smiles that bewitch the fancy and accents that enthrall +the soul; surround her with all the loveliest objects art ever devised +or taste selected—and thou hast some faint image of that supernal +being whom men call Carlitz.</p> + +<p>“She lives still—still walks ‘a form of life and light,’ which, seen, +becomes ‘a part of sight;’ but the first glory of her loveliness has +departed—the rich, ripe voice has lost some touch of its old music. +She is still Carlitz,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span> and to say this is to say that she is fairer +than all the rest of womankind; but she is no longer the Carlitz of +those days when Plancus was consul, and the Bonbonnière Opera-house +was in its glory.”</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span></p> + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII.<br> +“INFINITE RICHES IN A LITTLE ROOM.”</h2> +</div> + + +<p>“I DREW aside the <i>portière</i> and looked into the room. She was +there—Carlitz—nestling in a deep easy-chair, with that perfect +arm—whose rounded line was accentuated by the tight-fitting sleeve of +her violet silk dress—flung above her head in an attitude expressive +of weariness. She was not alone. In a chair almost as comfortable as +her own sat a portly gentleman of middle age, upon whose handsome +countenance good-nature had set a stamp unmistakeable even by the +shallowest observer. This gentleman was happily no stranger to me. I +had met him in London, and knew him as the guide, philosopher, friend, +and financial agent of Madame Carlitz; at once the Talleyrand and the +Fould of that fair despot.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span></p> + +<p>“The divinity arched her eyebrows in lazy surprise as I crossed the +threshold.</p> + +<p>‘I really believe it is some one we know, H.,’ she said to her friend, +with delightful insolence.</p> + +<p>“Mr. H. received me with more cordiality. I had seen a good deal of him +in London during the previous season. E. T. and he were sworn allies. +H. had been lieutenant in a regiment of the line, and, after wasting +a small patrimony, had sold his commission and turned stage-player. +His intimates called him Captain H. and Gentleman H., and he was a man +who, in the whole of his careless career, had neither lost a friend +nor made an enemy. To Madame Carlitz he was invaluable. The divinity +had of late years taken it into her splendid mind to set up a temple +of her own, whereby the little Sheppard’s Alley Theatre, the most +battered old wooden box that ever held a metropolitan audience, had +been transformed, at the cost of some thousands, into a fairy temple +of cream-coloured panelling, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span> white-satin hangings, powdered with +golden butterflies; and was now known to the fashionable world, whose +carriages and cabs blocked Sheppard’s Alley and overflowed into Wild’s +Corner, as the Royal Bonbonnière Opera House.</p> + +<p>“Here Carlitz had sung and acted in delicious little operettas, +imported from her native shores, to the delight of the world in +general—always excepting those stupid people, the builders, and +decorators, and upholsterers who had effected the transformation that +made Sheppard’s Alley and Wild’s Corner the haunt of rank and fashion, +and who had not received any pecuniary reward for their labours. To +keep these people at bay, or, it is possible, to reduce their claims to +something like reason, Madame Carlitz employed my friend H., who of all +men was best adapted to pour oil upon the stormy ocean of a creditor’s +mind. He was the enchantress’s <i>alter ego</i>, opening and sifting +her letters, arranging her starring engagements, choosing her pieces, +managing her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span> theatre, and receiving, with imperturbable temper, the +torrents of her wrath when she was pleased to be angry. Nor were the +proprieties outraged by an alliance so pure. H. was one of those men +who are by nature fatherly—nay, almost motherly—in their treatment +of women. No scandal had ever tarnished his familiar name. He had that +tender, half-quixotic gallantry which is never allied with vice. He was +the idol of old women and children, the pride of a doting mother, and +the sovereign lord of a commonplace little woman whom he had taken for +his wife.</p> + +<p>“It was to this gentleman that I owed my right to approach Madame +Carlitz. E. T. had obtained my admission to the side-scenes of the +Bonbonnière, and had induced H. to present me to the lovely manageress, +who was unapproachable as royalty. My introduction obtained for me only +some ten minutes’ converse with the presiding genius of the temple; but +so supreme an honour was even this small privilege, that E. T. hastened +to borrow a couple<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span> of hundred from me while my gratitude was yet warm.</p> + +<p>“It will be seen, therefore, that I had little justification for +intruding on the lady now, beyond the loneliness of the country in +which I found her, and the primitive habits there obtaining.</p> + +<p>“After I had been a second time presented by H.—the lady having quite +forgotten my presentation in Sheppard’s Alley—madame received me with +more warmth than she had deigned to evince for me in the green-room of +the Bonbonnière.</p> + +<p>‘These hills are so dreadfully dreary, and we are so glad to see any +one who can give us news,’ she said, with agreeable candour.</p> + +<p>“And then H. explained how it fell out that I met them there. Madame +had been knocked-up with the season—six new operettas, the lovely +<i>prima donna</i> singing in two pieces every night, and <i>never</i> +disappointing her public, which master this fair Carlitz served +faithfully and constantly throughout her career—and the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span> doctors had +ordered change of scene and quiet—no Switzerland, no Italy, no German +spa, but a sheltered hermitage, far from the busy haunts of men and the +halting-places of stage-coaches.</p> + +<p>“On hearing this E. T. had offered his mountain-shanty—poor +accommodation, but scenery and air unmatchable in any other spot of +earth. Madame Carlitz had been enraptured by the idea. E. T.’s hut +was the place of places. She felt herself refreshed and invigorated +by the very thought of the mountains and the sea. She would wait for +no preparations, no fuss. She would take her own maid and a couple of +women for the house—servants in those mountain-districts must be such +barbarous creatures—and Parker, her butler, and a page or so, and a +dozen or two trunks, and her favourite dogs, and her own particular +phaeton and ponies, and her piano, and nothing more. Mr. and Mrs. H. +must, of course, go with her, to keep house, and to write to people in +London, and prevent the possibility of her being pursued by bills and +tiresome letters, and so on.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span></p> + +<p>“H. consented to this, and arranged the journey with infinite patience +and good-humour, suppressing the unnecessary adjuncts of the convoy, +and reducing the luggage to limits that were almost within the bounds +of reason. All this he told me, as we strolled on the lawn before +dinner.</p> + +<p>‘She—well, she very nearly swore at me when I told her she mustn’t +bring her piano,’ said Mr. H.; ‘a concert grand, you know, about +‘seven feet long. And then she stood out for bringing her man Parker, +the greatest thief and scoundrel in Christendom; and the ponies and +a groom, who sits behind her when she drives; but I fought my ground +inch by inch, sir, and here we are. Madame has her own maid, and her +lap-dogs; I have hired a stout country-girl for the kitchen, and we +do the rest of the housework ourselves. And, egad, madame likes it. +She dusts and arranges the rooms, and so forth, with her own hands, +and sings and dances about the house more deliciously than ever she +sang or danced on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span> boards of the Bonbonnière. She has developed a +genius for cooking: puts on a big holland apron, and tosses an omelet, +or fries a dish of trout, with the art of a Vatel, and the grace of +a Hebe. I never knew half her fascination until we came here; and I +think, if her London admirers could see her, they would be more madly +in love with her than ever.’</p> + +<p>“They invited me to dine. Mrs. H. made her appearance before dinner—a +most amiable inanity, fat, fair, and thirty, with innocent flaxen +curls, blue ribbons in her cap, and a babyfied, simpering face; the +sort of woman whose presence at a dinner-table, or in a drawing-room, +one can only remember by perpetual mental effort. Happily she did not +demand much attention, but was content to sit still and simper at her +husband’s jokes and madame’s ‘agreeable rattle.’</p> + +<p>“We talked of everything and everybody. The divine Carlitz, who in +her audience-chamber at the Bonbonnière had received me with such +chilling courtesy, was now cordial and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> familiar as friendship itself. +Our conversation developed innumerable points of sympathy between us: +mutual likings, mutual antipathies—all of the most frivolous kind; +for the world of Estelle Carlitz was a world of trifles—a universe +of cashmere-shawls, pug-dogs, airy ballads, dainty pony-carriages, +diamonds, and strawberries and cream. I have since heard that beneath +that snowy breast, whereon bright gems seemed to shine with intenser +brightness, there beat a heart full of generous pity for her own sex, +though hard as adamant for ours.</p> + +<p>“To me, upon this particular evening, in this lonely mountain-retreat, +she was delightful. The dinner was excellent—simplicity itself, but +served with a rustic grace that might have charmed Savarin or Alvanly. +In my own eyrie the <i>cuisine</i> had been a lamentable failure; and +the fact that it was so, may have somewhat contributed to the causes +of that ever-increasing weariness of spirit which had been my portion +in these mountain regions. At five-and-twenty a man can endure a +good deal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span> in this way. I was no <i>gourmet</i>, though I had lived +amongst men who, in the old Roman days, would have known by the flavour +of their oysters whether they had been brought from the coasts of +barbarous Britain—men who discussed the <i>menu</i> of a dinner with +a solemnity that would have sufficed for the forming of a Cabinet, and +arranged the importation of a truffled turkey or a Strasburg pie with +as much care as might have attended the dismissal of a secret emissary +to the Jacobite court at Rome in the days of the first two Georges.</p> + +<p>“H. dozed after dinner, worn out by a long morning’s fishing; while +Madame Carlitz and I trifled with our modest dessert, and slandered +our London acquaintance. Between us we seemed to know every one. The +lady’s knowledge of the great world was chiefly second-hand, it must +be confessed, but she told me many facts relating to my intimate +acquaintance that were quite new to me, and which might have made my +hair stand on end, had I not happily outlived that period in which the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span> +secret records of our friends’ lives have power either to shock or to +astonish.</p> + +<p>“Nothing could present a more piquant contrast to my poor C.’s +plaintive looks and tones, and ill-concealed unhappiness, than the +elegant vivacity of this most fascinating Carlitz. And to have found +her thus remote from her usual surroundings, sequestered, unexpected, +as mountain sylph, lent a positive enchantment to the whole affair.</p> + +<p>“We went out on to the lawn in the tender moonlight, while Mrs. H. +made tea for us at a pretty lamp-lit table, and that most amiable and +inconsiderately-considerate H. slept on serenely in his comfortable +chintz-covered easy-chair. We went out into that divine, intoxicating +light. The ripple of the waves sounded softly afar. A deep cleft in the +mountain revealed a glimpse of moonlit water, and around and about us +fell the shadows of the mighty hills.</p> + +<p>‘It is like a scene in an opera,’ cried Madame Carlitz.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span></p> + +<p>“And it was evident the set awakened no higher emotion in her mind.</p> + +<p>‘If such a set were only manageable at the Bonbonnière! But we have +not enough depth for this kind of thing. That is what we want, you +see—depth.’</p> + +<p>‘Yes,’ I answered, almost sadly, ‘that is what we want—depth.’</p> + +<p>‘The moonlight effect is only a question of green gauzes, and lamps +at the wing. I think, by the bye, we make our moonlights a little too +green. I wonder whether Mr. Fresko has ever seen the moon. He spends +all his evenings in the theatre, smoking and drinking beer in his +painting-room, or hanging about the side-scenes, smelling intolerably +of stale tobacco. I really doubt if he has ever seen this kind of +thing. But I can’t afford to change him for a better painter. His +interiors are exquisite. He was painting a tapestried drawing-room, +after Boucher, when I left London—a scene that will enchant you next +season. The draperies are to be blue watered-silk—real silk, you +know;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span> and folding-doors at the back will open into a garden of real +exotics, if I can get my florist to supply them; but he is rather an +impracticable sort of person, who is always wanting sums on account.’</p> + +<p>‘And the piece?’ I asked.</p> + +<p>‘Oh, the piece is a pretty-enough little trifle,’ the lady replied, +with supreme carelessness; ‘<i>The Marquis of Yesterday</i>, a +vaudeville of the Pompadour period, adapted from Scribe. Of course I am +to play Pompadour.’</p> + +<p>“On this I would fain have become more sentimental. The mountain light, +the deep mysterious shadows, the glimpse of ocean—all invited to that +dreamy sentimentality which is of earth’s transient intoxications the +most delightful. But Madame Carlitz was not sentimentally inclined. +To shine, to astonish, to enchant—these to her were but too easy. +The melting mood was out of her line. And though she fooled me by her +charming air of sympathy, I felt, even in the hour of my delusion, a +vague sense that it was all stage-play, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span> that the looks and tones +which thrilled my senses, and almost touched that finer sense I had +been taught to call my soul, were the same looks and tones which the +dramatic critics praised in the finished actress of the Bonbonnière.</p> + +<p>“Have I any right to be angry with her if she was all falsehood, when +there was so little reality in my own <i>fade</i> sentimentality and +hackneyed flatteries? No; I am not angry. I encountered the enchantress +but a few nights ago in society, and said to myself, wonderingly, ‘Once +I almost loved you.’</p> + +<p class="space-above2"> +“H. awoke, and smiled upon us with his genial smile, as we returned to +the pretty lamp-lit room.</p> + +<p>‘Have you two children been rehearsing the balcony-scene in the +moonlight,’ he cried. And then we went back to our London talk and +London scandal, and H. told us some admirable stories, more or less +embellished by a glowing imagination; and Mrs. H. simpered,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span> placidly, +just as she had simpered at dinner; and madame contradicted her friend, +and laughed at him, and interrupted him by delicious mimicry of his +<i>dramatis personæ</i>, and behaved altogether in a most fascinating +manner.</p> + +<p>“I went home slowly in the moonlight, meditating on my evening’s +entertainment.</p> + +<p>‘Have I been happy?’ I asked myself. ‘No. I have been only amused; and +I have come to that period in which little beyond amusement is possible +for me.’</p> + +<p>“And all my dreams had resolved themselves into this! My Cynthia was +not to be found on earth; and the next best thing to the spirit that +walks as free as air the clouds among, was—an elegant and fashionable +actress.</p> + +<p>“My evening had been very pleasant to me; and I was angry with myself, +disappointed with myself, because it had been so.</p> + +<p>“I thought of Byron. It was not till his star was waning that he found +that one companion-spirit<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span> who was to console him for the brilliant +miseries of his career.</p> + +<p>‘Numa was an old man when he met his Ægeria,’ I said, to myself. +‘Perhaps for me too the divine nymph will appear in life’s dreary +twilight.’</p> + +<p>“I found that my poor C. had been sorely distressed, and even alarmed, +by my unwonted absence; and I had no choice but to burden my conscience +with a falsehood, or to make her unhappy by the confession that I had +been beguiled into the forgetfulness of time in the society of a more +fascinating person than her poor, pretty, sentimental self.</p> + +<p>‘I found my friend T. at his hut beyond D—— H——,’ I said; ‘and the +fellow insisted on my dining with him.’</p> + +<p>“My simple-minded C. had implicit faith in my word, even after that +<i>one</i> broken promise which had caused this poor child so many +tears.</p> + +<p>‘I am so glad you found an old friend,’ she said; ‘but oh, H., I cannot +tell you what I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span> have suffered in all these long hours! There is no +terrible accident which I have not pictured to myself. I thought how +you might lose your footing in the narrow path at the edge of the +cliff; I thought you might have been tempted to go round by the sands, +and that the tide had risen before you could reach the steps in the +cliff. I sent D. to look for you.”</p> + +<p>“I told her that on another occasion she must disturb herself with +no such fear, and hinted that as E. T. was a very intimate and +affectionate friend, I might find myself compelled to dine with him +occasionally during his stay.</p> + +<p>‘Will he be here long?’ she asked, piteously.</p> + +<p>‘Oh dear, no,’ I replied; ‘depend upon it, he will soon be tired of +these desolate regions.’</p> + +<p>“I had pointed out the cottage to her in one of our walks, and had +given her some slight account of the owner.</p> + +<p>“After this I was often away from my too sad, too gentle companion. +Carlitz seemed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span> me every day more delightful. I forgot all that I +had been told about this most volatile of human butterflies, this most +enchanting of the papilionaceous tribe. I, the <i>blasé</i> worldling, +suffered myself to be caught in that airy net. Most completely was +I deluded by her smile of welcome; the sweet, low voice, that grew +lower and sweeter when she talked with me; the tender tones in which +the enchantress confessed her love for these wild, romantic regions; +the unexpected happiness she had found amongst these rugged hills; +the disinclination—nay, indeed, the positive disgust—with which she +contemplated her approaching return to London; all the meretricious +charms of the accomplished coquette had given place to the tender +grace, the almost divine loveliness of the woman who for the first time +discovers that she possesses a heart, and who only becomes aware of +that possession in the hour in which she loses it for ever.</p> + +<p>“It must not be supposed that I yielded to this new influence without +some weak struggle.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span> Every night I went back to my eyrie, determined +to see the divine Carlitz no more. Every morning I found C.’s society +more hopelessly dull, and was fain to take refuge in a mountain ramble. +Unhappily, the ramble always ended at the same spot.</p> + +<p>“To me had been offered some of the sweetest flatteries ever shaped +by woman’s lips; but the lovely proprietress of the Bonbonnière was +past-mistress of the art, and her flatteries were more subtle than +sweetest words. She fooled me to the top of my bent. C. was day by day +more neglected; my books were abandoned; my ambitions, my aspirations, +for the time utterly forgotten. I had found the supreme good of the +Sybarite’s life—amusement. And my vanity was flattered by the idea +that I was beloved by a woman whose name was synonymous with the verb +‘to charm.’</p> + +<p>“Yes; I was beloved. How else could I account for that gradual +transformation which had changed the most volatile of women into a +creature pensive and poetical as Sappho or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</span> Heloise? If there had been +any striking suddenness in this change, I might have considered it a +mere stage-trick; but the transition had been so gradual, and seemed so +unconscious. What motive could she have for deceiving me? Had she been +free to marry, she might have considered me an eligible <i>parti</i>, +and this might have been a matrimonial snare; but I had been given +to understand that somewhere, undistinguished and uncared for, there +existed a person answering to the name of Carlitz, and possessing +legal authority over this lovely lady. From matrimonial designs I was +therefore safe; and I told myself that these signs and tokens which I +beheld with such rapture were the evidence of a disinterested affection.</p> + +<p>“I remembered the lady’s elegant insolence in the green-room of the +Bonbonnière; and it pleased me to think that I had humbled so proud a +spirit.</p> + +<p>“Whether the sentiment which this most fascinating woman inspired in my +mind was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</span> ever more than gratified vanity, I know not. For the moment +it seemed a deeper feeling; and in thought and word I was already +inconstant to that poor child whom I had loved so fondly, so purely, +so truly, when we walked, hand locked in hand, on that lovely English +shore beyond the little town of B——.</p> + +<p>“I hated myself for my inconstancy, but was still inconstant. This +woman had a thousand arts and witcheries wherewith to beguile me +from my better self. Or were not all her witcheries comprised in one +profound and simple art?—<span class="allsmcap">SHE FLATTERED ME.</span></p> + +<p>“It is needless to dwell long upon this, my second disappointment in +affairs of the heart. The net was spread for me; and, unsuspecting as +Agamemnon, I allowed this fair Clytemnestra to entangle me in her fatal +web before she gave me the <i>coup de grâce</i>.</p> + +<p>“Every morning I found some fresh excuse for spending my day in her +society. We went upon all manner of excursions, with Mr. and Mrs. +H. to play propriety. Any fragment of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span> Gothic tower or ruined stone +wall within twenty miles of E. T.’s small domain served as a pretext +for a long drive and an impromptu picnic. We went fishing in a rough +yacht, and brought up monsters in the way of star-fish and dog-fish, +sword-fish and jelly-fish, from the briny deep; but rarely succeeded in +securing any piscatorial prize of an edible nature.</p> + +<p>‘I don’t exactly know what kind of thing we are fishing for,’ H. said, +piteously, ‘but if the boat is to be filled with these savage reptiles, +I should be obliged if you would allow me to be put on shore at the +earliest opportunity.’</p> + +<p>“In all our rambles, madame’s gaiety and good-humour were the chief +source of our delight. Her animal spirits were inexhaustible; and for +me alone were reserved those occasional touches of sentiment which, in +a creature so gay, possessed an unspeakable charm. Her accomplishments +were of the highest order, but her reading very little. Yet, by her +exquisite<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span> tact and <i>savoir-faire</i>, she made even her ignorance +bewitching. And then she had the art of seeming so interested in every +subject her companion started, and would listen to my prosiest rhapsody +with eyes of mute eloquence, and parted lips that seemed tremulous with +suppressed emotion.</p> + +<p>“One day, after she had been even more than usually vivacious +and enchanting, during a little open-air repast among the most +uninteresting ruins in A——, I was surprised, and indeed mystified, by +a sudden change in her manner.</p> + +<p>“We had wandered away from the ruins, leaving H. and his placid wife +calmly discussing a bottle of E. T.’s old Madeira. Slowly and silently +we walked along a solitary path, winding through the bosom of a most +romantic glen. I was silent, in sympathy with my companion’s unwonted +thoughtfulness. Of my own feelings I had spoken to Estelle Carlitz in +the vaguest terms. Close and constant as our companionship had been +within these few<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span> weeks, we had never passed beyond the boundary-line +of flirtation. Poetical and sentimental we had been, in all conscience; +but our poetry and sentiment had been expressed by eloquent +generalities, which had committed neither of us. Yet I could not doubt +that the lady numbered me among her slaves; and I dared to believe my +bondage was not to be an utterly hopeless captivity.</p> + +<p>‘Can you imagine anything more beautiful than this secluded glen?’ said +Madame Carlitz, suddenly. ‘One can scarcely fancy it a part of the same +world which contains that noisy whirlpool, London. I cannot tell you +how this place has made me hate London. I wish E. T. had never offered +me his house. What good have I done myself by coming here? I shall only +feel the contrast between perfect peace and unceasing care more keenly +when I go back to all my old troubles. It would have been wiser to stay +in town, and go on acting, until I realized the dismal prophecies of my +medical advisers. If I am doomed to die in harness, my life might<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span> as +well end one year as another. What does it matter?’</p> + +<p>“The words were commonplace enough of themselves, but from the lips of +Carlitz the commonest words were magical as the strains of Arion to +kindly Dolphin—musical as the seven-stringed lyre with whose chords +Terpander healed the wounds of civil war.</p> + +<p>‘Do you really mean that you have been happy here among these rugged +mountains and barren valleys—you?’</p> + +<p>‘Me—I, who speak to you. Happy! Ah, but too happy!’ murmured the +divine Estelle, in tones of profoundest melancholy. ‘My life here has +been like a pleasant dream; but it is over, and to-morrow I must set my +face towards London.’</p> + +<p>‘To-morrow!’ I exclaimed. ‘Surely this is very sudden.’</p> + +<p>‘It is sudden!’ answered madame, with a short, impatient sigh; ‘but +it is inevitable, as it seems. H. received letters this morning; all +sorts of bills and lawyers’ threats—horrors<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span> which I am incapable +of comprehending. I must return; I must, if I die on the journey, +<i>quand même</i>; she cried, becoming less English as she became more +energetic. ‘They will have it, these harpies. I must open my theatre +and begin my season, and have the air to gain money <i>à flots</i>. +Then they will tranquillize themselves. H. will talk to them. This must +be. Otherwise they will send their myrmidons here, and put me into +their Clichy—their Bench.’</p> + +<p>“I expressed my sympathy with all tenderness; but madame shook her head +despairingly, and would not be consoled. I remembered the existence of +the unknown Carlitz, and reflected that his accomplished wife could +scarcely be subject to the horror of imprisonment for debt while +sheltered by the ægis of her coverture. But could I basely remind her +of his obscure and obnoxious existence? Sentiment, chivalry, devotion, +forbade so business-like a suggestion.</p> + +<p>‘My dear Estelle,’ I murmured, ‘remain<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span> in these tranquil regions till +you grow weary of nature’s solitude and my society. You need have no +fear of your creditors while I have power to write a cheque.’</p> + +<p>“I pressed the daintily-gloved hand that rested on my arm. It was the +first time I had uttered her Christian name. Until this moment I had +worshipped on my knees. But the tender down is brushed from the wings +of Cupid when he rubs shoulders with Plutus.</p> + +<p>“The divine Carlitz drew her hand from mine with a movement of outraged +dignity.</p> + +<p>‘Do you think so meanly of me as <i>that</i>?’ she asked, proudly. ‘Do +you think I would borrow money from <i>you</i>?’</p> + +<p>“The emphasis on the last word of the first sentence revealed the +nobility of the speaker’s mind; the emphasis on the last word of the +second sentence went straight home to the—vanity—of the hearer.</p> + +<p>‘Estelle!’ I exclaimed, ‘you cannot refuse the poor service of my +fortune! Can there be any question of obligation between<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span> you and me? +Have you not taught me what it is to be happy? have you not——’</p> + +<p>“Idem, idem, idem! Why should I transcribe the milk-and-watery version +of that old story, which is only worth telling when it is written in +the heart’s blood of an honest man?</p> + +<p>“Deep or earnest feeling I had none. By nature I was inconstant. The +love that had glorified the sands of B—— with a light that shone not +from sun or moon, had faded from my life. Like a fair child who dies +in early infancy, the god had vanished, and the memory of his sweet +companionship alone remained to me. I think I had tried to fall in love +with Estelle Carlitz, and had failed. But I was none the less anxious +to win her regard. There is a fashion in these follies; and to have +been beloved by the fair directress of the Bonbonnière would have given +me <i>kudos</i> amongst my acquaintance of the clubs—nay, even in +patrician drawing-rooms, to which the lovely Carlitz herself was yet a +stranger.</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span></p> + +<p>“This was in my mind as I declared myself in a hackneyed strain of +eloquence.</p> + +<p>“The lady heard me to the end in silence, and then turned upon me with +superb indignation.</p> + +<p>‘<i>Taisez-vous.</i> Would you offer to lend me money if I were in +your own set—if I were not an actress, a person whom you pay to amuse +your idle evenings? It is not so long since they refused us Christian +burial in my country. Ah! but you are only like the rest. You talk +to me of your heart and your banker’s-book in the same breath!’ she +cried, passionately. ‘It is mean of you to persecute me with offers of +help which you ought to know that I cannot, and will not, accept. But +you are in your right. It was I who betrayed my poverty. You wrung my +secret from me. I beg you to speak of it no more. My affairs are in +very good hands. Mr. H. will arrange everything for me; and—I shall go +to-morrow. And now let us be friends. Forget that I have ever spoken to +you about these things, and forget that I have been angry.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span></p> + +<p>“She turned to me with her most bewitching smile, and held out her +hand. This power of transition was her greatest charm. The gift that +made her most accomplished among stage-players made her also most +delightful among women. Pity that the woman who is playing a part +should always have so supreme an advantage over the woman who is in +earnest.</p> + +<p>“We spoke no more of money-matters. I assured Madame Carlitz that, in +the circle which she was pleased to call my ‘set,’ there was no one +who possessed my respect in greater measure than it was possessed by +herself. And at this juncture we heard the jovial voice of the genial +H. echoing down the glen, announcing that the carriage was ready for +our return.</p> + +<p>‘It is agreed that we are to forget everything,’ said madame, ‘except +that this is to be my last evening in this dear place, and that we are +to spend it together.’</p> + +<p>“To this I consented with all tender reverence and submission. Our +homeward drive was gaiety itself—our dinner, the banquet of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span> Horace +and Lydia after that little misunderstanding about Chloe and the +Thurine boy had been settled to the satisfaction of both parties. After +dinner Estelle sang to me, accompanying herself on the guitar, which +she played with a rare perfection. The old, forgotten ballads come back +to me sometimes, and I hear the low sweet voice, and the sound of the +waves washing that rocky headland in A——.</p> + +<p>“After she had sung as many songs as I could in conscience entreat +from her, I asked H. to smoke a cigar with me in the garden. He came +promptly at my call; and I know now, though I was persistently blind at +the moment, that a little look of intelligence passed between him and +my enchantress as he crossed the room to comply with my request.</p> + +<p>“We went out upon the lawn, lighted our cigars, and paced up and down +for some few minutes in silence. Then I plunged into the middle of +things.</p> + +<p>‘H.,’ I said, ‘how much would it take to clear Madame Carlitz of her +pressing pecuniary<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span> engagements, and release her from any necessity of +commencing a new season at the Bonbonnière for the next few months?’</p> + +<p>“H. gave a long whistle.</p> + +<p>‘My dear boy, don’t think of it,’ he exclaimed; ‘it can’t be done. We +must open the theatre, make what money we can; and if we can’t make a +composition, we had better go through the court.’</p> + +<p>‘But Carlitz!’ I remonstrated.</p> + +<p>‘Carlitz is dying,’ replied H., with supreme carelessness—‘has been +dying for the last four years. It’s very trying for her. She’d have +been driving in her barouche, with strawberry-leaves on the panel, by +this time, if he hadn’t been so long about it. But a man can’t go on +dying for ever, you know; there must be a limit to that sort of thing.’</p> + +<p>‘You talk of a composition. Would a cheque for a thousand pounds enable +her to satisfy her creditors?’</p> + +<p>“Mr. H. deliberated.</p> + +<p>‘Fifteen hundred might do,’ he said, presently;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span> “Snoggs and Bangham, +the builders, must have a decent lump of money to stop <i>their</i> +mouths; and there’s Kaliks, the florist, an uncommonly tough customer. +Yes, I think something between fifteen hundred and two thousand would +do it.”</p> + +<p>‘You must contrive to settle matters for fifteen hundred,’ I said. ‘I +know what a clever financier you are, H. Take me to your room, and give +me a pen and ink. I have been sending away money this morning, and +happen to have my cheque-book in my pocket.’</p> + +<p>‘My dear fellow, this generosity is really something utterly +unprecedented, and completely overpowering,’ exclaimed H., in a fat, +choking voice. ‘But I doubt if madame will be induced to accept a loan +of this nature. If she does avail herself of your generous offer, the +matter must of course be placed on a strictly business-like footing. If +a bill of sale on the wardrobe and musical library of the Bonbonnière +would satisfy your legal adviser as security——’</p> + +<p>“I assured Mr. H. that nothing could be farther<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span> from my thoughts than +the desire to secure myself from loss by means of a bill of sale.</p> + +<p>‘The very name of such an instrument sets my teeth on edge,’ I said; +‘the money will be to all intents and purposes a free gift, but it may +be better to call it a loan.’</p> + +<p>‘My dear fellow,’ cried H., with a gulp, expressive of generous +emotion, ‘this is noble. But you don’t know madame. Proud, sir, proud +as Lucifer.’</p> + +<p>“I remembered that little scene in the glen, and could not dispute the +fact of the lady’s haughty and somewhat impracticable mind.</p> + +<p>‘It can’t be done, sir,’ said H., decisively; ‘it’s a pity, but it +can’t be done.’</p> + +<p>‘Why not? Madame Carlitz knows nothing of business matters. I have +heard her say as much fifty times.’</p> + +<p>‘A mere child, sir—a baby.’</p> + +<p>‘In that case there is no difficulty. I will write the cheque; you will +settle with the tradesmen, and tell Madame Carlitz nothing except that +those obnoxious persons are satisfied.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span> You may take as much credit as +you please for your financial powers; I shall not betray the secret of +the affair.’</p> + +<p>‘Upon my word, my dear friend, you are a prince!’ said H., with +enthusiasm.</p> + +<p>“Nor did he make any further difficulty. We finished our cigars, and +went into the house together, with stealthy footsteps; for the thing we +were about to do was a kind of treason. H. led me into a little room +which he called his den—a room in which he had spent many weary hours +trying to square the circle of madame’s pecuniary embarrassments.</p> + +<p>“I wrote a cheque for 1,500<i>l.</i>, payable to the order of the +divine Carlitz.</p> + +<p>‘She will endorse it without looking at it, I suppose?’ I said.</p> + +<p>‘My dear sir, she would endorse the bond of a compact with +Mephistopheles. In business matters she is perfectly infantine. I think +she has a vague notion that her creditors can send her to the Tower, +and have her head cut off, if she fails to satisfy their demands.’</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span></p> + +<p>“On this we went back to the drawing-room, where madame asked me, with +a pretty, half-offended air, why I had been so long absent. Then H. +brewed some Maraschino punch, which was supposed to be an Olympian +beverage, and madame was more charming than ever. If I had been capable +of thinking twice of a sum of money squandered on a pretty woman—which +I was not—I should have been amply rewarded for my generosity. But I +could afford to waste a thousand or two on the caprice of the moment +without fear of remorseful twinges or economical regrets after the deed +was done.</p> + +<p>“It was late when I left the Lodge. Madame and H. followed me to the +gate, and bade me good-night under the soft summer stars. Her gaiety +had left her by one of those sudden changes that made her charming; and +she looked and spoke with a tender sadness as we parted.</p> + +<p>‘If I could believe in her depth of feeling, if I could hope——’ I +said to myself, after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span> that pensive parting; and then I remembered the +sands at B——, and the vows that I had vowed, and the dreams that I +had dreamed.</p> + +<p>‘No,’ I said, ‘if I could trust her, I could not trust myself. With +passion and reality I have finished. Let amusement be the business of +my life. I will love as Horace loved, and my motto shall be, <i>Vogue +la galère</i>.’</p> + +<p>“I had only walked a few yards away from the gate when I remembered +that I had left my light overcoat, with a pocket full of letters and +papers, in the hall. I ran back; the gate was open, the door open too. +I went in, and took my coat from its peg. As I did so, I was surprised +to hear a silvery peal of laughter—long and joyous, nay indeed, +triumphant, from my enchantress. H.’s bass guffaw sustained the sweet +soprano peal; and even placid Mrs. H. assisted with a cheerful second.</p> + +<p>“And but three minutes before Estelle had looked at me with eyes so +tenderly mournful, had spoken with tones so sadly sweet!</p> + +<p>“I lifted the <i>portière</i> and looked into the room.”</p> + +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span></p> + +<p>‘I have come back for my coat,’ I said.</p> + +<p>“The laughter ceased with suspicious abruptness.”</p> + +<p>‘Oh, do come in! This absurd H. has been telling us the most ridiculous +story about Fred M. Of course you know Fred M.?’ cried madame, in +nowise disconcerted.</p> + +<p>“She insisted that I should stay to hear the anecdote, which H. told +for my benefit, with sufficient fluency, and a dash of that club-house +mimicry which passes current for faithful imitation. I did not find the +anecdote overpoweringly funny; but the lady sounded her peal of silver +bells again, long and loudly as before, and I was fain to believe that +this frivolous semi-scandalous relation had been the cause of the +laughter that had startled me.</p> + +<p>“I was not altogether convinced; and that nice appreciation of +club-house anecdotes did not appear to me an excellent thing in +woman. My adieux were brief and cold, and I walked homeward somewhat +<i>désillusionné</i>.”</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">END OF VOL. II.</p> + + +<p class="nindc space-above2 space-below2">J. Ogden and Co., Printers, 172, St. John Street, E.C.</p> + + +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"> + +<div class="chapter"> +<div class="transnote spa1"> +<p class="nindc"><b>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</b></p> + +<p>Simple typographical errors have been silently corrected; unbalanced +quotation marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and +otherwise left unbalanced.</p> + +<p>Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a +predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they +were not changed.</p> +</div></div> + + +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76886 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76886-h/images/cover.jpg b/76886-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f875791 --- /dev/null +++ b/76886-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/76886-h/images/i001.jpg b/76886-h/images/i001.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2151c89 --- /dev/null +++ b/76886-h/images/i001.jpg diff --git a/76886-h/images/i002.jpg b/76886-h/images/i002.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..8590ff3 --- /dev/null +++ b/76886-h/images/i002.jpg diff --git a/76886-h/images/i003.jpg b/76886-h/images/i003.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2b086e0 --- /dev/null +++ b/76886-h/images/i003.jpg 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. 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