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COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHOR
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 2091.
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST, ETC.
BY
GEORGE MAC DONALD.
IN ONE VOLUME.


TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
By the same Author,
ALEC FORBES OP HOWGLEN 2 Vols.
ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBOURHOOD . . 2 vols.
DAVID ELGINBROD 2 vols.
THE VICAR's DAUGHTER 2 vols.
MALCOLM 2 Vols.
ST. GEORGE AND ST. MICHAEI 2 vols.
THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE 2 vols.
SIR GIBBIE 2 vols.
MARY MABSTON 2 vols.


THE GIFTS
OF
THE CHILD CHRIST,
AND OTHER TALES.
BY
GEORGE MAC DONALD,
AUTHOR OF "DAVID F.LGINBROD," "MALCOLM," ETC.
COPYRIGHT EDITION.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1882.
The Right of Translation is reserved.


KC 13895
HARYANA
UNIVERSI
LIBRARY


CONTENTS.
· Page
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST
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THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS .
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53
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109
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·
155
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
STEPHEN ARCHER . .
PORT IN A STORM . .
IF I HAD A FATHER .
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176
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195
17592





THE
GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
CHAPTER I.
"My hearers, we grow old," said the preacher.
"Be it summer or be it spring with us now, autumn
will soon settle down into winter, that winter whose
snow melts only in the grave. The wind of the world
sets for the tomb. Some of us rejoice to be swept
along on its swift wings, and hear it bellowing in the
hollows of earth and sky; but it will grow a terror to
the man of trembling limb and withered brain, until
at length he will long for the shelter of the tomb to
escape its roaring and buffeting. Happy the man
who shall then be able to believe that old age itself,
with its pitiable decays and sad dreams of youth, is
the chastening of the Lord, a sure sign of his love
and his fatherhood."
It was the first Sunday in Advent; but "the
chastening of the Lord" came into almost every
sermon that man preached.
"Eloquent! But after all, can this kind of thing
be true?" said to himself a man of about thirty, who
sat decorously listening. For many years he had


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
thought he believed this kind of thing—but of late he
was not so sure.
Beside him sat his wife, in her new winter bonnet,
her pretty face turned up toward the preacher; but
her eyes—nothing else—revealed that she was not
listening. She was much younger than her husband
—hardly twenty, indeed.
In the upper corner of the pew sat a pale-faced
child about five, sucking her thumb, and staring at
the preacher.
The sermon over, they walked home in proximity.
The husband looked gloomy, and his eyes sought the
ground. The wife looked more smiling than cheerful,
and her pretty eyes went hither and thither. Behind
them walked the child—steadily, "with level-fronting
eyelids."
It was a late-built region of large, commonplace
houses, and at one of them they stopped and entered.
The door of the dining-room was open, showing the
table laid for their Sunday dinner. The gentleman
passed on to the library behind it, the lady went up
to her bedroom, and the child a stage higher to the
nursery.
It wanted half an hour to dinner. Mr. Greatorex
sat down, drummed with his fingers on the arm of his
easy-chair, took up a book of arctic exploration, threw
it again on the table, got up, and went to the smok-
ing-room. He had built it for his wife's sake, but
was often glad of it for his own. Again he seated
himself, took a cigar, and smoked gloomily.
Having reached her bedroom, Mrs. Greatorex took
off her bonnet, and stood for ten minutes turning it
round and round. Earnestly she regarded it—now


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
9
gave a twist to the wire-stem of a flower, then spread
wider the loop of a bow. She was meditating what
it lacked of perfection rather than brooding over its
merits: she was keen in bonnets.
Little Sophy—or, as she called herself by a
transposition of consonant sounds common with
children, Phosy—found her nurse Alice in the nursery.
But she was lost in the pages of a certain London
weekly, which had found her in a mood open to its
influences, and did not even look up when the child
entered. With some effort Phosy drew off her gloves,
and with more difficulty untied her hat. Then she
took off her jacket, smoothed her hair, and retreated
to a corner. There a large shabby doll lay upon her
little chair: she took it up, disposed it gently upon
the bed, seated herself in its place, got a little book
from where she had left it under the chair, smoothed
down her skirts, and began simultaneously to read
and suck her thumb. The book was an unhealthy
one, a cup filled to the brim with a poverty-stricken
and selfish religion: such are always breaking out like
an eruption here and there over the body of the
Church, doing their part, doubtless, in carrying off the
evil humours generated by poverty of blood, or the
congestion of self-preservation. It is wonderful out of
what spoiled fruit some children will suck sweetness.
But she did not read far: her thoughts went back
to a phrase which had haunted her ever since first
she went to church: "Whom the Lord loveth, he
chasteneth."
"I wish he would chasten me," she thought for
the hundredth time.
The small Christian had no suspicion that her


10
IO
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
whole life had been a period of chastening—that few
children indeed had to live in such a sunless at-
mosphere as hers.
Alice threw down the newspaper, gazed from the
window into the back-yard of the next house, saw
nothing but an elderly man-servant brushing a gar-
ment, and turned upon Sophy.
“Why don't you hang up your jacket, miss?" she
said, sharply.
The little one rose, opened the wardrobe-door
wide, carried a chair to it, fetched her jacket from
the bed, clambered up on the chair, and, leaning far
forward to reach a peg, tumbled right into the bottom
of the wardrobe.
“You clumsy!” exclaimed the nurse angrily, and
pulling her out by the arm, shook her.
Alice was not generally rough to her, but there
were reasons to-day.
Phosy crept back to her seat, pale, frightened, and
a little hurt. Alice hung up the jacket, closed the
wardrobe, and, turning, contemplated her own pretty
face and neat figure in the glass opposite. The
dinner-bell rang.
“There, I declare!" she cried, and wheeled round
on Phosy. “And your hair not brushed yet, miss!
Will you ever learn to do a thing without being told
it? Thank goodness, I shan't be plagued with you
long! But I pity her as comes after me: I do!”
"If the Lord would but chasten me!” said the
child to herself, as she rose and laid down her book
with a sigh.
The maid seized her roughly by the arm, and
brushed her hair with an angry haste that made the


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
child's eyes water, and herself feel a little ashamed
at the sight of them.
“How could anybody love such a troublesome
chit?" she said, seeking the comfort of justification
from the child herself.
Another sigh was the poor little damsel's only
answer. She looked very white and solemn as she
entered the dining-room.
Mr. Greatorex was a merchant in the City. But
he was more of a man than a merchant, which all
merchants are not. Also, he was more scrupulous in
his dealings than some merchants in the same line
of business, who yet stood as well with the world as
he; but, on the other hand, he had the meanness to
pride himself upon it as if it had been something he
might have done without and yet held up his head.
Some six years before, he had married to please
his parents; and a year before, he had married to
please himself. His first wife had intellect, educa-
tion, and heart, but little individuality—not enough
to reflect the individuality of her husband. The con-
sequence was, he found her uninteresting. He was
kind and indulgent however, and not even her best
friend blamed him much for manifesting nothing be-
yond the average devotion of husbands. But in truth
his wife had great capabilities, only they had never
ripened, and when she died, a fortnight after giving
birth to Sophy, her husband had not a suspicion of
the large amount of undeveloped power that had
passed away with her.
Her child was so like her both in countenance
and manner that he was too constantly reminded of
her unlamented mother; and he loved neither enough


12 THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
to discover that, in a sense as true as marvellous, the
child was the very flower-bud of her mother's nature,
in which her retarded blossom had yet a chance of
being slowly carried to perfection. Love alone gives
insight, and the father took her merely for a miniature
edition of the volume which he seemed to have laid
aside for ever in the dust of the earth's lumber-room.
Instead, therefore, of watering the roots of his little
human slip from the well of his affections, he had
scarcely as yet perceived more in relation to her than
that he was legally accountable for her existence, and
bound to give her shelter and food. If he had ques-
tioned himself on the matter, he would have replied
that love was not wanting, only waiting upon her
growth, and the development of something to interest
him.
Little right as he had had to expect anything
from his first marriage, he had yet cherished some
hopes therein—tolerably vague, it is true, yet hardly
faint enough, it would seem, for he was disappointed
in them. When its bonds fell from him, however, he
flattered himself that he had not worn them in vain,
but had through them arrived at a knowledge of
women as rare as profound. But whatever the reach
of this knowledge, it was not sufficient to prevent him
from harbouring the presumptuous hope of so choos-
ing and so fashioning the heart and mind of a woman
that they should be as concave mirrors to his own. I
do not mean that he would have admitted the figure,
but such was really the end he blindly sought. I
wonder how many of those who have been disappointed
in such an attempt have been thereby aroused to the
perception of what a frightful failure their success


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
13
would have been on both sides. It was bad enough
that Augustus Greatorex's theories had cramped his
own development; it would have been tenfold worse
had they been operative to the stunting of another
soul.
Letty Merewether was the daughter of a bishop
in partibus. She had been born tolerably innocent,
had grown up more than tolerably pretty, and was,
when she came to England at the age of sixteen, as
nearly a genuine example of Locke's sheet of white
paper as could well have fallen to the hand of such
an experimenter as Greatorex would fain become.
In his suit he had prospered—-perhaps too easily.
He loved the girl, or at least loved the modified re-
flection of her in his own mind; while she, thoroughly
admiring the dignity, good looks, and accomplishments
of the man whose attentions flattered her self-opinion,
accorded him deference enough to encourage his
vainest hopes. Although A' knew little, fluttering
over the merest surfaces of existence, she had sense
enough to know that he talked sense to her, and
foolishness enough to put it down to her own credit,
while for the sense itself she cared little or nothing.
And Greatorex, without even knowing what she was
rough-hewn for, would take upon him to shape her
ends!—an ambition the Divinity never permits to suc-
ceed: he who fancies himself the carver finds himself
but the chisel, or indeed perhaps only the mallet, in
the hand of the true workman.
During the days of his courtship, then, Letty
listened and smiled, or answered with what he took
for a spiritual response, when it was merely a brain-
echo. Looking down into the pond of her being,


14
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
whose surface was not yet ruffled by any bubbling of
springs from below, he saw the reflection of himself
and was satisfied. An able man on his hobby looks
a centaur of wisdom and folly; but if he be at all a
wise man, the beast will one day or other show him
the jade's favour of unseating him. Meantime
Augustus Greatorex was fooled, not by poor little
Letty, who was not capable of fooling him, but by
himself. Letty had made no pretences; had been
interested, and had shown her interest; had under-
stood, or seemed to understand, what he said to her,
and forgotten it the next moment—had no pocket to
put it in, did not know what to do with it, and let it
drop into the Limbo of Vanity. They had not been
married many days before the scouts of advancing
disappointment were upon them. Augustus resisted
manfully for a time. But the truth was each of the
two had to become a great deal more than either
was, before any approach to unity was possible. He
tried to interest her in one subject after another-
tried her first, I am ashamed to say, with political
economy. In that instance, when he came home to
dinner he found that she had not got beyond the first
page of the book he had left with her. But she had
the best of excuses, namely, that of that page she had
not understood a sentence. He saw his mistake, and
tried her with poetry. But Milton, with whom un-
fortunately he commenced his approaches, was to her,
if not equally unintelligible, equally uninteresting. He
tried her next with the elements of science, but with
no better success. He returned to poetry, and read
some of the Faerie Queene with her: she was, or
seemed to be, interested in all his talk about it, and


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
15
inclined to go on with it in his absence, but found
the first stanza she tried more than enough without
him to give life to it. She could give it none, and
therefore it gave her none. I believe she read a
chapter of the Bible every day, but the only books
she read with any real interest were novels of a sort
that Augustus despised. It never occurred to him
that he ought at once to have made friends of this
Momus of unrighteousness, for by them he might have
found entrance to the sealed chamber. He ought to
have read with her the books she did like, for by
them only could he make her think, and from them
alone could he lead her to better. It is but from the
very step upon which one stands that one can move
to the next. Besides these books, there was nothing
in her scheme of the universe but fashion, dress, calls,
the park, other-peopledom, concerts, plays, church-
going—whatever could show itself on the frosted glass
of her camera obscura—make an interest of motion
and colour in her darkened chamber. Without these,
her bosom's mistress would have found life unendur-
able, for not yet had she ascended her throne, but lay
on the floor of her nursery, surrounded with toys that
imitated life.
It was no wonder, therefore, that Augustus was at
length compelled to allow himself disappointed. That
it was the fault of his self-confidence made the thing
no whit better. He was too much of a man not to
cherish a certain tenderness for her, but he soon
found to his dismay that it had begun to be mingled
with a shadow of contempt. Against this he struggled,
but with fluctuating success. He stopped later and
later at business, and when he came home spent more


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
17
behaviour as we have just seen her, abandoned the
child almost entirely to her own resources. It was
often she sat alone in the nursery, wishing the Lord
would chasten her— because then he would love her.
The first course was nearly over ere Augustus had
brought himself to ask-
“What did you think of the sermon to-day, Letty?”
“Not much," answered Letty. "I am not fond of
finery. I prefer simplicity.”
Augustus held his peace bitterly. For it was just
finery in a sermon, without knowing it, that Letty was
fond of: what seemed to him a flimsy syllabub of
sacred things, beaten up with the whisk of composi-
tion, was charming to Letty; while, on the contrary, if
a man such as they had been listening to was car-
ried away by the thoughts that struggled in him for
utterance, the result, to her judgment, was finery, and
the object display. In excuse it must be remembered
that she had been used to her father's style, which
no one could have aspersed with lack of sobriety.
Presently she spoke again.
“Gus, dear, couldn't you make up your mind for
once to go with me to Lady Ashdaile's to-morrow? I
am getting quite ashamed of appearing so often with-
out you."
“There is another way of avoiding that unplea-
santness,” remarked her husband drily.
“You cruel creature!” returned Letty playfully.
“But I must go this once, for I promised Mrs. Holden.”
“You know, Letty,” said her husband, after a little
pause, “it gets of more and more consequence that
you should not fatigue yourself. By keeping such late
hours in such stifling rooms you are endangering two
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc.


18
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
lives--remember that, Letty. If you stay at home to-
morrow, I will come home early, and read to you all
the evening.”
“Gussy, that would be charming. You know there
is nothing in the world I should enjoy so much. But
this time I really mustn't.”
She launched into a list of all the great nobodies
and small somebodies who were to be there, and
whom she positively must see: it might be her only
chance.
Those last words quenched a sarcasm on Augustus'
lips. He was kinder than usual the rest of the even-
ing, and read her to sleep with the Pilgrim's Progress.
Phosy sat in a corner, listened, and understood.
Or where she misunderstood, it was an honest mis-
understanding, which never does much hurt. Neither
father nor mother spoke to her till they bade her
good night. Neither saw the hungry heart under the
mask of the still face. The father never imagined
her already fit for the modelling she was better with-
out, and the stepmother had to become a mother be-
fore she could value her.
Phosy went to bed to dream of the Valley of Hu-
miliation.
CHAPTER I I.
The next morning Alice gave her mistress warn-
ing. It was quite unexpected, and she looked at her
aghast.
“Alice,” she said at length, “you're never going to
leave me at such a time!”


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
19
“I'm sorry it don't suit you, ma'am, but I must.”
“Why, Alice? What is the matter? Has Sophy
been troublesome?”
“No, ma’am; there's no harm in that child."
“Then what can it be, Alice? Perhaps you are
going to be married sooner than you expected?”
Alice gave her chin a little toss, pressed her lips
together, and was silent.
“I have always been kind to you,” resumed her
mistress.
“I'm sure, ma’am, I never made no complaints!"
returned Alice, but as she spoke she drew herself up
straighter than before.
“Then what is it?” said her mistress.
“The fact is, ma'am," answered the girl, almost
fiercely, “I cannot any longer endure a state of do-
mestic slavery.”
“I don't understand you a bit better," said Mrs.
Greatorex, trying, but in vain, to smile, and therefore
looking angrier than she was.
“I mean, ma'am-an' I see no reason as I shouldn't
say it, for it's the truth-there's a worm at the root
of society where one yuman bein''s got to do the
dirty work of another. I don't mind sweepin' up my
own dust, but I won't sweep up nobody else's. I ain't
a goin' to demean myself no longer! There!”
“Leave the room, Alice,” said Mrs. Greatorex;
and when, with a toss and a flounce, the young
woman had vanished, she burst into tears of anger
and annoyance.
The day passed. The evening came. She dressed
without Alice's usual help, and went to Lady Ash-
daile's with her friend. There a reaction took place,
2*


20
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
and her spirits rose unnaturally. She even danced-
to the disgust of one or two quick-eyed matrons who
sat by the wall.
When she came home she found her husband sit-
ting up for her. He said next to nothing, and sat up
an hour longer with his book.
In the night she was taken ill. Her husband
called Alice, and ran himself to fetch the doctor. For
some hours she seemed in danger, but by noon was
much better. Only the greatest care was necessary.
As soon as she could speak, she told Augustus
of Alice's warning, and he sent for her to the library.
She stood before him with flushed cheeks and
flashing eyes.
“I understand, Alice, you have given your mistress
warning,” he said gently.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your mistress is very ill, Alice.”
“Yes, sir."
“Don't you think it would be ungrateful of you to
leave her in her present condition? She's not likely
to be strong for some time to come.”
The use of the word “ungrateful” was an un-
fortunate one. Alice begged to know what she had
to be grateful for. Was her work worth nothing?
And her master, as every one must who claims that
which can only be freely given, found himself in the
wrong.
“Well, Alice,” he said, “we won't dispute that
point; and if you are really determined on going, you
must do the best you can for your mistress for the
rest of the month.”
Alice's sense of injury was soothed by her master's


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
21
forbearance. She had always rather approved of Mr.
Greatorex, and she left the room more softly than she
had entered it.
Letty had a fortnight in bed, during which she
reflected a little.
The very day on which she left her room, Alice
sought an interview with her master, and declared
she could not stay out her month; she must go home
at once.
She had been very attentive to her mistress dur-
ing the fortnight: there must be something to account
for her strange behaviour.
“Come now, Alice,” said her master, “what's at
the back of all this? You have been a good, well-
behaved, obliging girl till now, and I am certain you
would never be like this if there weren't something
wrong somewhere."
“Something wrong, sir! No, indeed, sir! Except
you call it wrong to have an old uncle as dies and
leaves ever so much money—thousands on thousands,
the lawyers say.”
“And does it come to you then, Alice?"
“I get my share, sir. He left it to be parted even
between his nephews and nieces.”
“Why, Alice, you are quite an heiress, then!” re-
turned her master, scarcely however believing the
thing so grand as Alice would have it. “But don't
you think now it would be rather hard that your
fortune should be Mrs. Greatorex's misfortune?”
“Well, I don't see as how it shouldn't," replied
Alice. “It's mis’ess's fortun' as 'as been my mis-
fortun'-ain't it now, sir? An' why shouldn't it be
the other way next?”


22
TIE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
“I don't quite see how your mistress's fortune can
be said to be your misfortune, Alice.”
“Anybody would see that, sir, as wasn't blinded
by class-prejudices.”
“Class-prejudices!” exclaimed Mr. Greatorex, in
surprise at the word.
"It's a term they use, I believe, sir! But it's
plain enough that if mis’ess hadn't 'a' been better off
than me, she wouldn't ha' been able to secure my
services—as you calls it.”
“That is certainly plain enough,” returned Mr.
Greatorex. “But suppose nobody had been able to
secure your services, what would have become of you?”
“By that time the people'd have rose to assert
their rights.”
“To what?—To fortunes like yours?”
“To bread and cheese at least, sir,” returned
Alice, pertly.
“Well, but you've had something better than bread
and cheese.”
“I don't make no complaints as to the style of
livin' in the house, sir, but that's all one, so long as
it's on the vile condition of domestic slavery—which
it's nothing can justify."
“Then of course, although you are now a woman
of property, you will never dream of having any one
to wait on you,” said her master, amused with the
volume of human nature thus opened to him.
“All I say, sir, is—it's my turn now; and I ain't
goin' to be sit upon by no one. I know my dooty to
myself.”
“I didn't know there was such a duty, Alice,” said
her master.


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
23
Something in his tone displeased her.
“Then you know now, sir,” she said, and bounced
out of the room.
The next moment, however, ashamed of her rude-
ness, she re-entered, saying,
“I don't want to be unkind, sir, but I must go
home. I've got a brother that's ill, too, and wants to
see me. If you don't object to me goin' home for a
month, I promise you to come back and see mis’ess
through her trouble—as a friend, you know, sir.”
“But just listen to me first, Alice,” said Mr. Great-
orex. “I've had something to do with wills in my
time, and I can assure you it is not likely to be less
than a year before you can touch the money. You
had much better stay where you are till your uncle's
affairs are settled. You don't know what may happen.
There's many a slip between cup and lip, you know.”
“Oh! it's all right, sir. Everybody knows the
money's left to his nephews and nieces, and me and
my brother's as good as any."
“I don't doubt it: still, if you'll take my advice,
you'll keep a sound roof over your head till another's
ready for you.”
Alice only threw her chin in the air, and said
almost threateningly,
“Am I to go for the month, sir?”.
“I'll talk to your mistress about it," answered Mr.
Greatorex, not at all sure that such an arrangement
would be for his wife's comfort.
But the next day Mrs. Greatorex had a long talk
with Alice, and the result was that on the following
Monday she was to go home for a month, and then
return for two months more at least. What Mr. Great-


24
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
orex had said about the legacy, had had its effect,
and, besides, her mistress had spoken to her with
pleasure in her good fortune. About Sophy no one
felt any anxiety: she was no trouble to any one, and
the housemaid would see to her.
CHAPTER III.
On the Sunday evening, Alice's lover, having
heard, not from herself, but by a side wind, that she
was going home the next day, made his appearance
in Wimborne Square, somewhat perplexed—both at
the move, and at her leaving him in ignorance of the
same. He was a cabinet-maker in an honest shop in
the neighbourhood, and in education, faculty, and
general worth, considerably Alice's superior-a fact
which had hitherto rather pleased her, but now gave
zest to the change which she imagined had subverted
their former relation. Full of the sense of her new
superiority, she met him draped in an indescribable
strangeness. John Jephson felt, at the very first word,
as if her voice came from the other side of the Eng-
lish Channel. He wondered what he had done, or
rather what Alice could imagine he had done or said,
to put her in such tantrums.
“Alice, my dear," he said-for John was a man
to go straight at the enemy, “what's amiss? What's
come over you? You ain't altogether like your own
self to-night! And here I find you're goin' away, and
ne'er a word to me about it! What have I done?”
Alice's chin alone made reply. She waited the
fitting moment, with splendour to astonish, and with


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
25
grandeur to subdue her lover. To tell the sad truth,
she was no longer sure that it would be well to en-
courage him on the old footing; was she not standing
on tiptoe, her skirts in her hand, on the brink of the
brook that parted serfdom from gentility, on the point
of stepping daintily across, and leaving domestic
slavery, red hands, caps, and obedience behind her?
How then was she to marry a man that had black
nails, and smelt of glue? It was incumbent on her
at least, for propriety's sake, to render him at once
aware that it was in condescension ineffable she took
any notice of him.
"Alice, my girl!” began John again, in expostulatory
tone.
“Miss Cox, if you please, John Jephson," interposed
Alice.
“What on ’arth's come over you?” exclaimed John,
with the first throb of rousing indignation. “But if
you ain't your own self no more, why, Miss Cox be it.
'T seems to me 's if I warn't my own self no more-
's if I'd got into some un else, or 't least hedn't got
my own ears on m' own head.—Never saw or heerd
Alice like this afore!” he added, turning in gloomy
bewilderment to the housemaid for a word of human
sympathy.
The movement did not altogether please Alice,
and she felt she must justify her behaviour.
“You see, John,” she said, with dignity, keeping
her back towards him, and pretending to dust the
globe of a lamp, “there's things as no woman can
help, and therefore as no man has no right to com-
plain of them. It's not as if I'd gone an' done it, or
changed myself, no more 'n if it 'ad took place in my


26
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD: CHRIST.
cradle. What can I help it, if the world goes and
changes itself? Am I to blame?—tell me that. It's
not that I make no complaint, but I tell you it ain't
me, it's circumstances as is gone and changed their-
selves, and bein' as circumstances is changed, things
ain't the same as they was, and Miss is the properer
term from you to me, John Jephson."
"Dang it if I know what you're a drivin' at, Alice!
—Miss Cox!—and I beg yer pardon, miss, I'm sure.
—Dang me if I do!"
"Don't swear, John Jephson—leastways before a
lady. It's not proper."
"It seems to me, Miss Cox, as if the wind was a
settin' from Bedlam, or may be Colney Hatch," said
John,. who was considered a humourist among his
comrades. "I wouldn't take no liberties with a lady,
Miss Cox; but if I might be so bold as to arst the
joke of the thing"
"Joke, indeed!" cried Alice. "Do you call a dead
uncle and ten thousand pounds a joke?"
"God bless me!" said John. "You don't mean it,
Alice?"
"I do mean it, and that you'll find, John Jephson.
I'm goin' to bid you good-bye to-morrer."
"Whoy, Alice!" exclaimed honest John, aghast.
"It's truth I tell ye," said Alice.
"And for how long?" gasped John, fore-feeling
illimitable misfortune.
"That depends," returned Alice, who did not care
to lessen the effect of her communication by mention-
ing her promised return for a season. "It ain't likely,"
she added, "as a heiress is a gossip' to act the nuss-
maid much longer."


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
27
"But Alice," said John, "you don't mean to say—
it's not in your mind now—it can't be, Alice—you're
only jokin' with me"
"Indeed, and I'm not!" interjected Alice, with a
sniff.
"I don't mean that way, you know. What I mean
is, you don't mean as how this 'ere money—dang it
all!—as how it's to be all over between you and me?
—You can't mean that, Alice!" ended the poor fellow,
with a choking in his throat.
It was very hard upon him! He must either look
as if he wanted to share her money, or else as if he
were ready to give her up.
"Arst yourself, John Jephson," answered Alice,
"whether it's likely a young lady of fortun' would be
keepin' company with a young man as didn't know
how to take off his hat to her in the park?"
Alice did not above half mean what she said: she
wished mainly to enhance her own importance. At
the same time she did mean it half, and that would
have been enough for Jephson. He rose, grievously
wounded.
"Good-bye, Alice," he said, taking the hand she
did not refuse. "Ye're throwin' from ye what all yer
money won't buy."
She gave a scornful little laugh, and John walked
out of the kitchen.
At the door he turned with one lingering look;
but in Alice there was no sign of softening. She
turned scornfully away, and no doubt enjoyed her
triumph to the full.
The next morning she went away.


28
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
CHAPTER IV.
MR. GREATOREX had ceased to regard the advent
of Christmas with much interest. Naturally gifted
with a strong religious tendency, he had, since his
first marriage, taken, not to denial, but to the side of
objection, spending much energy in contempt for the
foolish opinions of others, a self-indulgence which
does less than little to further the growth of one's
own spirit in truth and righteousness. The only
person who stands excused—I do not say justified-
in so doing, is the man who, having been taught the
same opinions, has found them a legion of adversaries
barring his way to the truth. But having got rid of
them for himself, it is, I suspect, worse than useless
to attack them again, save as the ally of those who
are fighting their way through the same ranks to the
truth. Greatorex had been indulging his intellect at
the expense of his heart. A man may have light in
the brain and darkness in the heart. It were better
to be an owl than a strong-eyed apteryx. He was on
the path which naturally ends in blindness and un-
belief. I fancy, if he had not been neglectful of his
child, she would ere this time have relighted his
Christmas-candles for him; but now his second dis-
appointment in marriage had so dulled his heart that
he had begun to regard life as a stupid affair, in
which the most enviable fool was the man who could
still expect to realize an ideal. He had set out on a
false track altogether, but had not yet discovered that
there had been an immoral element at work in his
mistake.


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
2Q
For what right had he to desire the fashioning of
any woman after his ideas? did not the angel of her
eternal Ideal for ever behold the face of her Father
in heaven? The best that can be said for him is,
that, notwithstanding his disappointment and her
faults, yea, notwithstanding his own faults, which
were, with all his cultivation and strength of cha-
racter, yet more serious than hers, he was still kind
to her; yes, I may say for him, that, notwithstanding
even her silliness, which is a sickening fault, and one
which no supremacy of beauty can over-shadow, he
still loved her a little. Hence the care he showed for
her in respect of the coming sorrow was genuine; it
did not all belong to his desire for a son to whom he
might be a father indeed—after his own fancies,
however. Letty, on her part, was as full of expecta-
tion as the girl who has been promised a doll that
can shut and open its eyes, and cry when it is
pinched; her carelessness of its safe arrival came of
ignorance and not indifference.
It cannot but seem strange that such a man should
have been so careless of the child he had. But from
the first she had painfully reminded him - of her
mother, with whom in truth he had never quarrelled,
but with whom he had not found life the less irk-
some on that account. Add to this that he had been
growing fonder of business,—a fact which indicated,
in a man of his endowment and development, an in-
clination downwards of the' plane of his life. It was
some time since he had given up reading poetry.
History had almost followed: he now read little ex-
cept politics, travels, and popular expositions of
scientific progress.


30 THE GItIS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
That year Christmas Eve fell upon a Monday.
The day before, Letty not feeling very well, her hus-
band thought it better not to leave her, and gave up
going to church. Phosy was utterly forgotten, but she
dressed herself, and at the usual hour appeared with
her prayer-book in her hand ready for church. When
her father told her that he was not going, she looked
so blank that he took pity upon her, and accompanied
her to the church-door, promising to meet her as she
came out. Phosy sighed from relief as she entered,
for she had a vague idea that by going to church to
pray for it she might move the Lord'to chasten her.
At least he would see her there, and might think of
it. She had never had such an attention from her
father before, never such dignity conferred upon her
as to be allowed to appear in church alone, sitting in
the pew by herself like a grown damsel. But I
doubt if there was any pride in her stately step, or
any vanity in the smile—no, not smile, but illuminated
mist, the vapour of smiles, which haunted her sweet
little solemn church-window of a face, as she walked
up the aisle.
The preacher was one of whom she had never
heard her father speak slighting word, in whom her
unbounded trust had never been shaken. Also he was
one who believed with his whole soul in the things
that make Christmas precious. To him the birth of
the wonderful baby hinted at hundreds of strange
things in the economy of the planet. That a man
could so thoroughly persuade himself that he believed
the old fable, was matter of marvel to some of his
friends who held blind Nature the eternal mother, and
Night the everlasting grandmother of all things. But


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
31
the child Phosy, in her dreams or out of them, in
church or nursery, with her book or her doll, was
never out of the region of wonders, and would have
believed, or tried to believe, anything that did not in-
volve a moral impossibility.
What the preacher said I need not even partially
repeat; it is enough to mention a certain metamor-
phosed deposit from the stream of his eloquence car-
ried home in her mind by Phosy: from some of his
sayings about the birth of Jesus into the world, into
the family, into the individual human bosom, she had
got it into her head that Christmas Day was not a
birthday like that she had herself last year, but that,
in some wonderful way, to her requiring no explana-
tion, the baby Jesus was born every Christmas Day
afresh. What became of him afterwards she did not
know, and indeed she had never yet thought to ask
how it was that he could come to every house in
London as well as No. i, Wimborne Square. Little of
a home as another might think it, that house was yet
to her the centre of all houses, and the wonder had
not yet widened rippling beyond it: into that spot of
the pool the eternal gift would fall.
Her father forgot the time over his book, but so
entranced was her heart with the expectation of the
promised visit, now so near—the day after to-morrow
—that, if she did not altogether forget to look for
him as she stepped down the stair from the church
door to the street, his absence caused her no uneasi-
ness; and when, just as she reached it, he opened the
house-door in tardy haste to redeem his promise, she
looked up at him with a solemn, smileless repose,
born of spiritual tension and speechless anticipation,


32
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
upon her face, and walking past him without change
in the rhythm of her motion, marched stately up the
stairs to the nursery. I believe the centre of her hope
was that when the baby came she would beg him on
her knees to ask the Lord to chasten her.
When dessert was over, her mother on the sofa in
the drawing-room, and her father in an easy chair,
with a bottle of his favourite wine by his side, she
crept out of the room and away again to the nursery.
There she reached up to her little bookshelf, and, full
of the sermon as spongy mists are full of the sunlight,
took thence a volume of stories from the German, the
re-reading of one of which, narrating the visit of the
Christ-child, laden with gifts, to a certain household,
and what he gave to each and all therein, she had,
although sorely tempted, saved up until now, and sat
down with it by the fire, the only light she had.
When the housemaid, suddenly remembering she must
put her to bed, and at the same time discovering it
was a whole hour past her usual time, hurried to the
nursery, she found her fast asleep in her little arm-
chair, her book on her lap, and the fire self-consumed
into a dark cave with a sombre glow in its deepest
hollows. Dreams had doubtless come to deepen the
impressions of sermons and mährchen, for as she
slowly yielded to the hands of Polly putting her to
bed, her lips, unconsciously moved of the slumbering
but not sleeping spirit, more than once murmured the
words Lord loveth and chasteneth. Right blessedly
would I enter the dreams of such a child-revel in
them, as a bee in the heavenly gulf of a cactus-
flower.


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
33
CHAPTER V.
On Christmas Eve the church bells were ringing
through the murky air of London, whose streets lay
flaring and steaming below. The brightest of their
constellations were the butchers' shops, with their
shows of prize beef; around them, the eddies of the
human tides were most confused and knotted. But
the toy-shops were brilliant also. To Phosy they would
have been the treasure-caves of the Christ-child-all
mysteries, all with insides to them-boxes, and desks,
and windmills, and dove-cots, and hens with chickens,
and who could tell what all? In every one of those
shops her eyes would have searched for the Christ-
child, the giver of all their wealth. For to her he
was everywhere that night- ubiquitous as the lumi-
nous mist that brooded all over London - of which,
however, she saw nothing but the glow above the
mews. John Jephson was out in the middle of all the
show, drifting about in it: he saw nothing that had
pleasure in it, his heart was so heavy. He never
thought once of the Christ-child, or even of the Christ-
man, as the giver of anything. Birth is the one stand-
ing promise-hope for the race, but for poor John this
Christmas held no promise. With all his humour, he
was one of those people, generally dull and slow-
God grant me and mine such dulness and such sloth
—who having once loved, cannot cease. During the
fortnight he had scarce had a moment's ease from the
sting of his Alice's treatment. The honest fellow's
feelings were no study to himself; he knew nothing
but the pleasure and the pain of them; but I believe
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc.


34
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
it was not mainly for himself that he was sorry. Like
Othello, “the pity of it” haunted him: he had taken
Alice for a downright girl, about whom there was and
could be no mistake; and the first hot blast of pros-
perity had swept her away like a hectic leaf. What
were all the shops dressed out in holly and mistletoe,
what were all the rushing flaming gas-jets, what the
fattest of prize-pigs to John, who could never more
imagine a spare-rib on the table between Alice and
him of a Sunday? His imagination ran on seeing her
pass in her carriage, and drop him a nod of condes-
cension as she swept noisily by him—trudging home
weary from his work to his loveless fireside. He didn't
want her money! Honestly, he would rather have her
without than with money, for he now regarded it as
an enemy, seeing what evil changes it could work.
“There be some devil in it, sure!” he said to himself.
True, he had never found any in his week's wages,
but he did remember once finding the devil in a
month's wages received in the lump.
As he was thus thinking with himself, a carriage
came suddenly from a side street into the crowd, and
while he stared at it, thinking Alice might be sitting
inside it while he was tramping the pavement alone,
she passed him on the other side on foot—was actu-
ally pushed against him: he looked round, and saw a
young woman, carrying a small bag, disappearing in
the crowd. “There's an air of Alice about her," said
John to himself, seeing her back only. But of course
it couldn't be Alice; for her he must look in the car-
riages now! And what a fool he was: every young
woman reminded him of the one he had lost! Per-
haps if he was to call the next day—Polly was a


-THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
35
good-natured creature — he might hear some news
of her.
It had been a troubled fortnight with Mrs. Great -
orex. She wished much that she could have talked
to her husband more freely, but she had not learned
to feel at home with him. Yet he had been kinder
and more attentive than usual all the time, so much
so that Letty thought with herself—if she gave him
a boy, he would certainly return to his first devotion.
She said boy, because any one might see he cared
little for Phosy. She had never discovered that he
was disappointed in herself, but, since her disregard
of his wishes had brought evil upon her, she had be-
gun to suspect that he had some ground for being
dissatisfied with her. She never dreamed of his kind-
ness as the effort of a conscientious nature to make
the best of what could not now be otherwise helped.
Her own poverty of spirit and lack of worth achieved,
she knew as little of as she did of the riches of
Michael the archangel. One must have begun to
gather wisdom before he can see his own folly.
That evening she was seated alone in the drawing-
room, her husband having left her to smoke his cigar,
when the butler entered and informed her that Alice
had returned, but was behaving so oddly that they
did not know what to do with her. Asking wherein
her oddness consisted, and learning that it was mostly
in silence and tears, ,she was not sorry to gather that
some disappointment had befallen her, and felt con-
siderable curiosity to know what it was. She there-
fore told him to send her upstairs.
Meantime Polly, the housemaid, seeing plainly
enough from her return in the middle of her holiday,
3*


TOE. GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
and from her utter dejection, that Alice's expectations
had been frustrated, and cherishing no little resent-
ment against her because of her uppishness on the first
news of her good fortune, had been ungenerous enough
to take her revenge in a way as stinging in effect as
bitter in intention; for she loudly protested that no
amount of such luck as she pretended to suppose in
Alice's possession, would have induced her to behave
herself so that a handsome honest fellow like John
Jephson should be driven to despise her, and take up
with her betters. When her mistress's message came,
Alice was only too glad to find refuge from the kitchen
in the drawing-room.
The moment she entered, she fell on her knees at
the foot of the couch on which her mistress lay, covered
her face with her hands, and sobbed grievously.
Nor was the change more remarkable in her bear-
ing than in her person. She was pale and worn, and
had a hunted look—was in fact a mere shadow of
what she had been. For a time her mistress found it
impossible to quiet her so as to draw from her her
story: tears and sobs combined with repugnance to
hold her silent.
"Oh, ma'am!" she burst out at length, wringing
her hands, "how ever can I tell you? You will never
speak to me again. Little did I think such a disgrace
was waiting me!"
"It was no fault of yours if you were misinformed,"
said her mistress, "or that your uncle was not the rich
man you fancied."
"Oh, ma'am, there was no mistake there! He was
more than twice as rich as I fancied. If he had only
died a beggar, and left things as they was!"


38
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
the more overwhelming that it cast her from the gates
of the Paradise she had seemed on the point of enter-
ing: her fall she measured by the height of the social
ambition she had cherished, and had seemed on the
point of attaining. But it is not an evil that the
devil's money, which this legacy had from the first
proved to Alice, should turn to a hot cinder in the
hand. Rarely had a more haughty spirit than hers
gone before a fall, and rarely has the fall been more
sudden or more abject. And the consciousness of the
behaviour into which her false riches had seduced
her, changed the whip of her chastisement into
scorpions. Worst of all, she had insulted her lover as
beneath her notice, and the next moment had found
herself too vile for his. Judging by herself, in the in-
justice of bitter humiliation she imagined him scoffing
with his mates at the base-born menial who would set
up for a fine lady. But had she been more worthy of
honest John, she would have understood him better.
As it was, no really good fortune could have befallen
her but such as now seemed to her the depth of evil
fortune. Without humiliation to prepare the way for
humility, she must have become capable of more and
more baseness, until she lost all that makes life worth
having.
When Mrs. Greatorex had given her what consoletion she found handy, and at length dismissed her, the
girl, unable to endure her own company, sought the
nursery, where she caught Sophy in her arms and em-
braced her with fervour. Never in her life having
been the object of any such display of feeling, Phosy
was much astonished: when Alice had set her down
and she had resumed her seat by the fireside, she went


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
39
on staring for a while—and then a strange sort of
miming ensued.
It was Phosy's habit—one less rare with children
than may by most be imagined—to do what she could
to enter into any state of mind whose shows were
sufficiently marked for her observation. She sought to
lay hold of the feeling that produced the expression:
less than the reproduction of a similar condition in
her own imaginative sensorium, subject to her leisurely
examination, would in no case satisfy the little meta-
physician. But what was indeed very odd was the
means she took for arriving at the sympathetic know-
ledge she desired. As if she had been the most
earnest student of dramatic expression through the
facial muscles, she would sit watching the countenance
of the object of her solicitude, all the time, with full
consciousness, fashioning her own as nearly as she
could into the lines and forms of the other: in propor-
tion as she succeeded, the small psychologist imagined
she felt in herself the condition that produced the
phenomenon she observed—as if the shape of her face
cast inward its shadow upon her mind, and so revealed
to it, through the two faces, what was moving and
shaping in the mind of the other.
In the present instance, having at length, after
modelling and remodelling her face like that of a
gutta-percha doll for some time, composed it finally
into the best correspondence she could effect, she sat
brooding for a while, with Alice's expression as it were
frozen upon it. Gradually the forms assumed melted
away, and allowed her still, solemn face to look out
from behind them. The moment this evanishment was
complete, she rose and went to Alice, where she sat


4o
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
staring into the fire, unconscious of the scrutiny she
had been undergoing, and, looking up in her face,
took her thumb out of her mouth, and said,
"Is the Lord chastening Alice? I wish he would
chasten Phosy."
Her face was calm as that of the Sphinx; there
was no mist in the depth of her gray eyes, not a cloud
on the wide heaven of her forehead.
Was the child crazed? What could the atom mean,
with her big eyes looking right into her? Alice never
had understood her: it were indeed strange if the less
should comprehend the greater! She was not yet
capable of recognising the word of the Lord in the
mouth of babes and sucklings. But there was a some-
thing in Phosy's face besides its calmness and unin-
telligibility. What it was Alice could never have told
—yet it did her good. She lifted the child on her
lap. There she soon fell asleep. Alice undressed
her, laid her in her crib, and went to bed herself.
But, weary as she was, she had to rise again be-
fore she got to sleep. Her mistress was again taken
ill. Doctor and nurse were sent for in hot haste;
hansom cabs came and went throughout the night,
like noisy moths to the one lighted house in the street;
there were soft steps within, and doors were gently
opened and shut. The waters of Mara had risen and
filled the house.
Towards morning they were ebbing slowly away.
Letty did not know that her husband was watching
by her bedside. The street was quiet now. So was
the house. Most of its people had been up throughout
the night, but now they had all gone to bed except
the strange nurse and Mr. Greatorex.


42
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
haps she ought to wake them all, but she dared not
without being sure.
On the last landing above the first floor, she saw,
by the low gaslight at the end of the corridor, an un-
known figure pass the foot of the stair: could she have
anything to do with the marvel of the day? The
woman looked up, and Phosy dropped the question.
Yet she might be a charwoman, whose assistance
the expected advent rendered necessary. When she
reached the bottom of the stair she saw her dis-
appearing in her step-mother's room. That she did
not like. It was the one room into which she could
not go. But, as the house was so still, she would
search everywhere else, and if she did not find him,
would then sit down in the hall and wait for him.
The room next the foot of the stair, and opposite
her step-mother's, was the spare room, with which she
associated ideas of state and grandeur: where better
could she begin than at the guest-chamber?—There!
—Could it be? Yes!—Through the chink of the
scarce-closed door she saw light. Either he was
already there or there they were expecting him. From
that moment she felt as if lifted out of the body. Far
exalted above all dread, she peeped modestly in, and
then entered. Beyond the foot of the bed, a candle
stood on a little low table, but nobody was to be seen.
There was a stool near the table: she would sit on it
by the candle, and wait for him. But ere she reached
it, she caught sight of something upon the bed that
drew her thither. She stood entranced.—Could it be?
—It might be. Perhaps he had left it there while he
went into her mamma's room with something for her.


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
43
—The loveliest of dolls ever imagined! She drew
nearer. The light was low, and the shadows were
many: she could not be sure what it was. But when
she had gone close up to it, she concluded with cer-
tainty that it was in very truth a doll—perhaps in-
tended for her—but beyond doubt the most exquisite
of dolls. She dragged a chair to the bed, got up,
pushed her little arms softly under it, and drawing it
gently to her, slid down with it. When she felt her
feet firm on the floor, filled with the solemn composure
of holy awe she carried the gift of the child Jesus to
the candle, that she might the better admire its
beauty and know its preciousness. But the light had
no sooner fallen upon it than a strange undefinable
doubt awoke within her. Whatever it was, it was the
very essence of loveliness—the tiny darling with its
alabaster face, and its delicately modelled hands and
fingers! A long night-gown covered all the rest.—Was
it possible?—Could it be?—Yes, indeed! it must be—
it could be nothing else than a real baby! What a
goose she had been! Of course it was baby Jesus
himself!—for was not this his very own Christmas
Day on which he was always born?—If she had felt
awe of his gift before, what a grandeur of adoring
love, what a divine dignity possessed her, holding in
her arms the very child himself! One shudder of
bliss passed through her, and in an agony of pos-
session she clasped the baby to her great heart—then
at once became still with the satisfaction of eternity,
with the peace of God. She sat down on the stool,
near the little table, with her back to the candle, that
its rays should not fall on the eyes of the sleeping
Jesus and wake him: there she sat, lost in the very


44 THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
majesty of bliss, at once the mother and the slave of
the Lord Jesus.
She sat for a time still as marble waiting for
marble to awake, heedful as tenderest woman not to
rouse him before his time, though her heart was
swelling with the eager petition that he would ask his
Father to be as good as chasten her. And as she sat,
she began, after her wont, to model her face to the
likeness of his, that she might understand his stillness
—the absolute peace that dwelt on his countenance.
But as she did so, again a sudden doubt invaded her:
Jesus lay so very still—never moved, never opened his
pale eye-lids! And now set thinking, she noted that
he did not breathe. She had seen babies asleep, and
their breath came arid went—their little bosoms
heaved up and down, and sometimes they would smile,
and sometimes they would moan and sigh. But Jesus
did none of all these things: was it not strange? And
then he was cold—oh, so cold!
A blue silk coverlid lay on the bed: she half rose
and dragged it off, and contrived to wind it around
herself and the baby. Sad at heart, very sad, but
undismayed, she sat and watched him on her lap.


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
45
CHAPTER VI.
Meantime the morning of Christmas Day grew.
The light came and filled the house. The sleepers
slept late, but at length they stirred. Alice awoke
last—from a troubled sleep, in which the events of
the night mingled with her own lost condition and
destiny. After all Polly had been kind, she thought,
and got Sophy up without disturbing her.
She had been but a few minutes down, when a
strange and appalling rumour made itself—I cannot
say audible, but—somehow known through the house,
and every one hurried up in horrible dismay.
The nurse had gone into the spare room, and
missed the little dead thing she had laid there. The
bed was between her and Phosy, and she never saw
her. The doctor had been sharp with her about
something the night before: she now took her revenge
in suspicion of him, and after a hasty and fruitless
visit of inquiry to the kitchen, hurried to Mr. Great-
orex.
The servants crowded to the spare room, and
when their master, incredulous indeed, yet shocked
at the tidings brought him, hastened to the spot, he
found them all in the room, gathered at the foot of
the bed. A little sunlight filtered through the red
window-curtains, and gave a strange pallid expression
to the flame of the candle, which had now burned
very low. At first he saw nothing but the group of
servants, silent, motionless, with heads leaning for-
ward, intently gazing: he had come just in time:


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
47
Weeping the women went down the stairs. Alice's
tears were still flowing, when John Jephson entered.
Her own troubles forgotten in the emotion of the scene
she had just witnessed, she ran to his arms and wept
on his bosom.
John stood as one astonied.
"O Lord! this is a Christmas!" he sighed at last.
"Oh John!" cried Alice, and tore herself from his
embrace, "I forgot! You'll never speak to me again,
John! Don't do it, John."
And with the words she gave a stifled cry, and
fell a weeping again, behind her two shielding hands.
"Why, Alice!—you ain't married, are you?" gasped
John, to whom that was the only possible evil.
"No, John, and never shall be: a respectable man
like you would never think of looking twice at a poor
girl like me!"
"Let's have one more look anyhow," said John,
drawing her hands from her face. "Tell me what's
the matter, and if there's anything can be done to
right you, I'll work day and night to do it, Alice."
"There's nothing can be done, John," replied Alice,
and would again have floated out on the ocean of her
misery, but in spite of wind and tide, that is sobs and
tears, she held on by the shore at his entreaty, and
told her tale, not even omitting the fact that when
she went to the eldest of the cousins, inheriting
through the misfortune of her and her brother so
much more than their expected share, and "demeaned
herself" to beg a little help for her brother, who was
dying of consumption, he had all but ordered her out
of the house, swearing he had nothing to do with her


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
49
hadn't been took from me, I'd never ha' had you,
John. Ain't it awful to think on?"
"Well, no. O' coorse! How could ye?" said
Jephson—with reluctance.
"Now, John, don't ye talk like that, for I won't
stand it. Don't you go for to set me up again with
excusin' of me. I'm a nasty conceited cat, I am—
and all for nothing but mean pride."
"Mind ye, ye're mine now, Alice; an' what's mine's
mine, an' I won't have it abused. I knows you twice
the woman you was afore, and all the world couldn't
gi' me such another Christmas-box—no, not if it was
all gold watches and roast beef."
When Mr. Greatorex returned to his wife's room,
and thought to find her asleep as he had left her, he
was dismayed to hear sounds of soft weeping from
the bed. Some tone or stray word, never intended to
reach her ear, had been enough to reveal the truth
concerning her baby.
"Hush! hush!" he said, with more love in his
heart than had moved there for many months, and
therefore more in his tone than she had heard for as
many;—"if you cry you will be ill. Hush, my dear!"
In a moment, ere he could prevent her, she had
flung her arms around his neck as he stooped
over her.
"Husband! husband!" she cried, "is it my fault?"
"You behaved perfectly," he returned. "No woman
could have been braver."
"Ah, but I wouldn't stay at home when you
wanted me."
"Never mind that now, my child," he said.
At the word she pulled his face down to hers.
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 4


50 THE GUTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
"I have you, and I don't care," he added.
"Do you care to have me?" she said, with a sob
that ended in a loud cry. "Oh! I don't deserve it.
But I will be good after this. I promise you I will."
"Then you must begin now, my darling. You
must lie perfectly still, and not cry a bit, or you will
go after the baby, and I shall be left alone."
She looked up at him with such a light in her
face as he had never dreamed of there before. He
had never seen her so lovely. Then she withdrew
her arms, repressed her tears, smiled, and turned her
face away. He put her hands under the clothes, and
in a minute or two she was again fast asleep.


THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
51
CHAPTER VII.
That day, when Phosy and her father had sat
down to their Christmas dinner, he rose again, and
taking her up as she sat, chair and all, set her down
close to him, on the other side of the corner of the
table. It was the first of a new covenant between
them. The father's eyes having been suddenly opened
to her character and preciousness, as well as to his
own neglected duty in regard to her, it was as if a
well of life had burst forth at his feet. And every
day, as he looked in her face and talked to her, it
was with more and more respect for what he found
in her, with growing tenderness for her predilections,
and reverence for the divine idea enclosed in her
ignorance, for her childish wisdom, and her calm
seeking—until at length he would have been horrified
at the thought of training her up in his way: had she
not a way of her own to go—following—not the dead
Jesus, but Him who liveth for evermore? In the
endeavour to help her, he had to find his own posi-
tion towards the truth; and the results were weighty.
—Nor did the child's influence work forward merely.
In his intercourse with her he was so often reminded
of his first wife, and that with the gloss or comment
of a childish reproduction, that his memories of her
at length grew a little tender, and through the child
he began to understand the nature and worth of the
mother. In her child she had given him what she
could not be herself. Unable to keep up with him,
4*


52
THE GIFTS OF THE CHILD CHRIST.
she had handed him her baby, and dropped on the
path.
Nor was little Sophy his only comfort . Through
their common loss and her husband's tenderness,
Letty began to grow a woman. And her growth was
the more rapid that, himself taught through Phosy,
her husband no longer desired to make her adopt his
tastes, and judge with his experiences, but, as became
the elder and the tried, entered into her tastes and
experiences—became, as it were, a child again with
her, that, through the thing she was, he might help
the thing she had to be.
As soon as she was able to bear it, he told her
the story of the dead Jesus, and with the tale came
to her heart love for Phosy. She had lost a son for a
season, but she had gained a daughter for ever.
Such were the gifts the Christ-child brought to
one household that Christmas. And the days of the
mourning of that household were ended.


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN
AND NYCTERIS.
A DAY AND NIGHT MAHRCHEN.
CHAPTER I.
WATHO.
There was once a witch who desired to know
everything. But the wiser a witch is, the harder she
knocks her head against the wall when she comes to
it. Her name was Watho, and she had a wolf in her
mind. She cared for nothing in itself—only for
knowing it. She was not naturally cruel, but the
wolf had made her cruel.
She was tall and graceful, with a white skin, red
hair, and black eyes, which had a red fire in them.
She was straight and strong, but now and then would
fall bent together, shudder, and sit for a moment with
her head turned over her shoulder, as if the wolf had
got out of her mind on to her back.


54 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
CHAPTER II.
AURORA.
Tms witch got two ladies to visit her. One of
them belonged to the court, and her husband had
been sent on a far and difficult embassy. The other
was a young widow whose husband had lately died,
and who had since lost her sight. Watho lodged
them in different parts of her castle, and they did not
know of each other's existence.
The castle stood on the side of a hill sloping
gently down into a narrow valley, in which was a
river, with a pebbly channel and a continual song.
The garden went down to the bank of the river,
enclosed by high walls, which crossed the river and
there stopped. Each wall had a double row of battle-
ments, and between the rows was a narrow walk.
In the topmost story of the castle the Lady Aurora
occupied a spacious apartment of several large rooms
looking southward. The windows projected oriel-wise
over the garden below, and there was a splendid
view from them both up and down and across the
river. The opposite side of the valley was steep, but
not very high. Far away snow-peaks were visible.
These rooms Aurora seldom left, but their airy spaces,
the brilliant landscape and sky, the plentiful sunlight,
the musical instruments, books, pictures, curiosities,
with the company of Watho who made herself charm-
ing, precluded all dulness. She had venison and
feathered game to eat, milk and pale sunny sparkling
wine to drink.


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 55
She had hair of the yellow gold, waved and
rippled; her skin was fair, not white like Watho's, and
her eyes were of the blue of the heavens when bluest;
her features were delicate but strong, her mouth large
and finely curved, and haunted with smiles.
CHAPTER III.
VESPER.
Behind the castle the hill rose abruptly; the north-
eastern tower, indeed, was in contact with the rock,
and communicated with the interior of it. For in the
rock was a series of chambers, known only to Watho
and the one servant whom she trusted, called Falca.
Some former owner had constructed these chambers
after the tomb of an Egyptian king, and probably
with the same design, for in the centre of one of
them stood what could only be a sarcophagus, but
that and others were walled off. The sides and roofs
of them were carved in low relief, and curiously
painted. Here the witch lodged the blind lady, whose
name was Vesper. Her eyes were black, with long
black lashes; her skin had a look of darkened silver,
but was of purest tint and grain; her hair was black
and straight-flowing; her features were exquisitely
formed, and if less beautiful yet more lovely from
sadness; she always looked as if she wanted to lie
down and not rise again. She did not know she was
lodged in a tomb, though now and then she wondered
she never touched a window. There were many
couches, covered with richest silk, and soft as her own
cheek, for her to lie upon; and the carpets were so


56 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
thick, she might have cast herself down anywhere—
as befitted a tomb. The place was dry and warm,
and cunningly pierced for air, so that it was always
fresh, and lacked only sunlight. There the witch fed
her upon milk, and wine dark as a carbuncle, and
pomegranates, and purple grapes, and birds that dwell
in marshy places; and she played to her mournful
tunes, and caused wailful violins to attend her, and
told her sad tales, thus holding her ever in an atmo-
sphere of sweet sorrow.
CHAPTER IV.
PHOTOGEN.
Watho at length had her desire, for witches often
get what they want: a splendid boy was born to the
fair Aurora. Just as the sun rose, he opened his
eyes. Watho carried him immediately to a distant part
of the castle, and persuaded the mother that he never
cried but once, dying the moment he was born. Over-
come with grief, Aurora left the castle as soon as she
was able, and Watho never invited her again.
And now the witch's care was, that the child
should not know darkness. Persistently she trained
him until at last he never slept during the day, and
never woke during the night. She never let him see
anything black, and even kept all dull colours out of
his way. Never, if she could help it, would she let a
shadow fall upon him, watching against shadows as if
they had been live things that would hurt him. All
day he basked in the full splendour of the sun, in
the same large rooms his mother had occupied.


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 57
Watho used him to the sun, until he could bear more
of it than any dark-blooded African. In the hottest
of every day, she stript him and laid him in it, that
he might ripen like a peach; and the boy rejoiced in
it, and would resist being dressed again. She brought
all her knowledge to bear on making his muscles
strong and elastic and swiftly responsive—that his
soul, she said laughing, might sit in every fibre, be
all in every part, and awake the moment of call. His
hair was of the red gold, but his eyes grew darker as
he grew, until they were as black as Vesper's. He
was the merriest of creatures, always laughing, always
loving, for a moment raging, then laughing afresh.
Watho called him Photogen.
CHAPTER V.
NYCTERIS.
Five or six months after the birth of Photogen, the
dark lady also gave birth to a baby: in the window-
less tomb of a blind mother, in the dead of night,
under the feeble rays of a lamp in an alabaster globe,
a girl came into the darkness with a wail. And just
as she was born for the first time, Vesper was born
for the second, and passed into a world as unknown
to her as this was to her child—who would have to
be born yet again before she could see her mother.
Watho called her Nycteris, and she grew as like
Vesper as possible—in all but one particular. She
had the same dark skin, dark eyelashes and brows,
dark hair, and gentle sad look; but she had just the
eyes of Aurora, the mother of Photogen, and if they


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
59
of the castle were mainly supplied from them. The
chief of Watho's huntsmen was a fine fellow, and
when Photogen began to outgrow the training she
could give him, she handed him over to Fargu. He
with a will set about teaching him all he knew. He
got him pony after pony, larger and larger as he grew,
every one less manageable than that which had pre-
ceded it, and advanced him from pony to horse, and
from horse to horse, until he was equal to anything in
that kind which the country produced. In similar
fashion he trained him to the use of bow and arrow,
substituting every three months a stronger bow and
longer arrows; and soon he became, even on horse-
back, a wonderful archer. He was but fourteen when
he killed his first bull, causing jubilation among the
huntsmen, and, indeed, through all the castle, for
there too he was the favourite. Every day, almost as
soon as the sun was up, he went out hunting, and
would in general be out nearly the whole of the day.
But Watho had laid upon Fargu just one command-
ment, namely, that Photogen should on no account,
whatever the plea, be out until sundown, or so near it
as to wake in him the desire of seeing what was go-
ing to happen; and this commandment Fargu was
anxiously careful not to break; for, although he would
not have trembled had a whole herd of bulls come
down upon him, charging at full speed across the
level, and not an arrow left in his quiver, he was
more than afraid of his mistress. When she looked
at him in a certain way, he felt, he said, as if his
heart turned to ashes in his breast, and what ran in
his veins was no longer blood, but milk and water.
So that, ere long, as Photogen grew older, Fargu be-


60 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
gan to tremble, for he found it steadily growing harder
to restrain him. So full of life was he, as Fargu said
to his mistress, much to her content, that he was more
like a live thunderbolt than a human being. He did
not know what fear was, and that not because he did
not know danger; for he had had a severe laceration
from the razor-like tusk of a boar—whose spine, how-
ever, he had severed with one blow of his hunting-
knife, before Fargu could reach him with defence.
When he would spur his horse into the midst of a
herd of bulls, carrying only his bow and his short
sword, or shoot an arrow into a. herd, and go after it
as if to reclaim it for a runaway shaft, arriving in
time to follow it with a spear-thrust before the
wounded animal knew which way to charge, Fargu
thought with terror how it would be when he came to
know the temptation of the huddle-spot leopards, and
the knife-clawed lynxes, with which the forest was
haunted. For the boy had been so steeped in the
sun, from childhood so saturated with his influence,
that he looked upon every danger from a sovereign
height of courage. When, therefore, he was approach-
ing his sixteenth year, Fargu ventured to beg of
Watho that she would lay her commands upon the
youth himself, and release him from responsibility
for him. One might as soon hold a tawny-maned
lion as Photogen, he said. Watho called the youth,
and in the presence of Fargu laid her command
upon him never to be out when the rim of the sun
should touch the horizon, accompanying the pro-
hibition with hints of consequences, none the less aw-
ful that they were obscure. Photogen listened re-
spectfully, but, knowing neither the taste of fear nor


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 61
the temptation of the night, her words were but sounds
to him.
CHAPTER VII.
HOW NYCTERIS GREW.
The little education she intended Nycteris to have,
Watho gave her by word of mouth. Not meaning she
should have light enough to read by, to leave other
reasons unmentioned, she never put a book in her
hands. Nycteris, however, saw so much better than
Watho imagined, that the light she gave her was
quite sufficient, and she managed to coax Falca into
teaching her the letters, after which she taught her-
self to read, and Falca now and then brought her a
child's book. But her chief pleasure was in her in-
strument. Her very fingers loved it, and would wander
about over its keys like feeding sheep. She was not
unhappy. She knew nothing of the world except the
tomb in which she dwelt, and had some pleasure in
everything she did. But she desired, nevertheless,
something more or different. She did not know what
it was, and the nearest she could come to expressing
it to herself was—that she wanted more room. Watho
and Falca would go from her beyond the shine of the
lamp, and come again; therefore surely there must
be more room somewhere. As often as she was left
alone, she would fall to poring over the coloured bas-
reliefs on the walls. These were intended to represent
various of the powers of Nature under allegorical
similitudes, and as nothing can be made that does
not belong to the general scheme, she could not fail


62
THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGES" AND KYCTER1S.
at least to imagine a flicker of relationship between
some of them, and thus a shadow of the reality of
things found its way to her.
There was one thing, however, which moved and
taught her more than all the rest—the lamp, namely,
that hung from the ceiling, which she always saw
alight, though she never saw the flame, only the slight
condensation towards the centre of the alabaster globe.
And besides the operation of the light itself after its
kind, the indefiniteness of the globe, and the softness
of the light, giving her the feeling as if her eyes
could go in and into its whiteness, were somehow also
associated with the idea of space and room. She
would sit for an hour together gazing up at the lamp,
and her heart would swell as she gazed. She would
wonder what had hurt her, when she found her face
wet with tears, and then would wonder how she
could have been hurt without knowing it. She never
looked thus at the lamp except when she was alone.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE LAMP.
Watho having given orders, took it for granted
they were obeyed, and that Falca was all night long
with Nycteris, whose day it was. But Falca could not
get into the habit of sleeping through the day, and
would often leave her alone half the night. Then it
seemed to Nycteris that the white lamp was watching
over her. As it was never permitted to go out—while
she was awake at least—Nycteris, except by shutting
her eyes, knew less about darkness than she did about


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 63
light. Also, the lamp being fixed high overhead, and
in the centre of everything, she did not know much
about shadows either. The few there were fell almost
entirely on the floor, or kept like mice about the foot
of the walls.
Once, when she was thus alone, there came the
noise of a far-off rumbling: she had never before
heard a sound of which she did not know the origin,
and here therefore was a new sign of something be-
yond these chambers. Then came a trembling, then
a shaking; the lamp dropped from the ceiling to the
floor with a great crash, and she felt as if both her
eyes were hard shut and both her hands over them.
She concluded that it was the darkness that had made
the rumbling and the shaking, and rushing into the
room, had thrown down the lamp. She sat trembling.
The noise and the shaking ceased, but the light did
not return. The darkness had eaten it up!
Her lamp gone, the desire at once awoke to get
out of her prison. She scarcely knew what out meant;
out of one room into another, where there was not
even a dividing door, only an open arch, was all she
knew of the world. But suddenly she remembered
that she had heard Falca speak of the lamp going out:
this must be what she had meant? And if the lamp
had gone out, where had it gone? Surely where Falca
went, and like her it would come again. But she
could not wait. The desire to go out grew irresistible.
She must follow her beautiful lamp! She must find it!
She must see what it was about!
Now there was a curtain covering a recess in the
wall, where some of her toys and gymnastic things
were kept; and from behind that curtain Watho and


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 65
move her hands about over one of the walls behind
the curtain, half expecting them to go into it, as she
supposed Watho and Falca did. But the wall repelled
her with inexorable hardness, and she turned to the
one opposite. In so doing, she set her foot upon an
ivory die, and as it met sharply the same spot the
broken alabaster had already hurt, she fell forward
with her outstretched hands against the wall. Some-
thing gave way, and she tumbled out of the cavern.
CHAPTER IX.
OUT.
But alas! out was very much like in, for the same
enemy, the darkness, was here also. The next mo-
ment, however, came a great gladness—a firefly, which
had wandered in from the garden. She saw the tiny
spark in the distance. With slow pulsing ebb and
throb of light, it came pushing itself through the air,
drawing nearer and nearer, with that motion which
more resembles swimming than flying, and the light
seemed the source of its own motion.
"My lamp! my lamp!" cried Nycteris. "It is the
shiningness of my lamp, which the cruel darkness
drove out. My good lamp has been waiting for me
here all the time! It knew I would come after it, and
waited to take me with it."
She followed the firefly, which, like herself, was
seeking the way out. If it did not know the way, it
was yet light; and, because all light is one, any light
may serve to guide to more light. If she was mis-
taken in thinking it the spirit of her lamp, it was of
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 5


66 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
the same spirit as her lamp—and had wings. The
gold-green jet-boat, driven by light, went throbbing
before her through a long narrow passage. Suddenly
it rose higher, and the same moment Nycteris fell
upon an ascending stair. She had never seen a stair
before, and found going-up a curious sensation. Just
as she reached what seemed the top, the firefly ceased
to shine, and so disappeared. She was in utter dark-
ness once more. But when we are following the light,
even its extinction is a guide. If the firefly had gone
on shining, Nycteris would have seen the stair turn,
and would have gone up toWatho's bedroom; whereas
now, feeling straight before her, she came to a latched
door, which after a good deal of trying she managed
to open—and stood in a maze of wondering perplex-
ity, awe, and delight. What was it? Was it outside
of her, or something taking place in her head? Before
her was a very long and very narrow passage, broken
up she could not tell how, and spreading out above
and on all sides to an infinite height and breadth and
distance—as if space itself were growing out of a
trough. It was brighter than her rooms had ever
been—brighter than if six alabaster lamps had been
burning in them. There was a quantity of strange
streaking and mottling about it, very different from
the shapes on her walls. She was in a dream of plea-
sant perplexity, of delightful bewilderment. She could
not tell whether she was upon her feet or drifting
about like the firefly, driven by the pulses of an in-
ward bliss. But she knew little as yet of her inherit-
ance. Unconsciously she took one step forward from
the threshold, and the girl who had been from her
very birth a troglodyte, stood in the ravishing glory of


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
67
a southern night, lit by a perfect moon—not the moon
of our northern clime, but a moon like silver glowing
in a furnace—a moon one could see to be a globe—
not far off, a mere flat disc on the face of the blue,
but hanging down halfway, and looking as if one
could see all round it by a mere bending of the neck.
"It is my lamp!" she said, and stood dumb with
parted lips. She looked and felt as if she had been
standing there in silent ecstasy from the beginning.
"No, it is not my lamp," she said after a while;
"it is the mother of all the lamps."
And with that she fell on her knees, and spread
out her hands to the moon. She could not in the
least have told what was in her mind, but the action
was in reality just a begging of the moon to be what
she was—that precise incredible splendour hung in
the far-off roof, that very glory essential to the being
of poor girls born and bred in caverns. It was a re-
surrection—nay, a birth itself, to Nycteris. What the
vast blue sky, studded with tiny sparks like the heads
of diamond nails, could be; what the moon, looking
so absolutely content with light—why, she knew less
about them than you and I! but the greatest of astro-
nomers might envy the rapture of such a first im-
pression at the age of sixteen. Immeasurably imper-
fect it was, but false the impression could not be, for
she saw with the eyes made for seeing, and saw in-
deed what many men are too wise to see.
As she knelt, something softly flapped her, em-
braced her, stroked her, fondled her. She rose to her
feet, but saw nothing, did not know what it was. It
was likest a woman's breath. For she knew nothing
of the air even, had never breathed the still newborn
5*


f)P/ THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND KFCTERIS.
freshness of the world Her breath had come to her
only through long passages and spirals in the rock.
Still less did she know of the air alive with motion—
of that thrice blessed thing, the wind of a summer
night. It was like a spiritual wine, filling her whole
being with an intoxication of purest joy. To breathe
was a perfect existence. It seemed to her the light
itself she drew into her lungs. Possessed by the power
of the gorgeous night, she seemed at one and the
same moment annihilated and glorified.
She was in the open passage or gallery that ran
round the top of the garden walls, between the cleft
battlements, but she did not once look down to see
what lay beneath. Her soul was drawn to the vault
above her, with its lamp and its endless room, At
last she burst into tears, and her heart was relieved,
as the night itself is relieved by its lightning and
rain.
And now she grew thoughtful. She must hoard
this splendour! What a little ignorance her gaolers
had made of her! Life was a mighty bliss, and they
had scraped hers to the bare bone! They must not
know that she knew. She must hide her knowledge—
hide it even from her own eyes, keeping it close in
her bosom, content to know that she had it, even
when she could not brood on its presence, feasting
her eyes with its glory. She turned from the vision,
therefore, with a sigh of utter bliss, and with soft
quiet steps and groping hands, stole back into the
darkness of the rock. What was darkness or the
laziness of Time's feet to one who had seen what she
had that night seen? She was lifted above all weari-
ness—above all wrong.


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 69
When Falca entered, she uttered a cry of terror.
But Nycteris called to her not to be afraid, and told
her how there had come a rumbling and a shaking,
and the lamp had fallen. Then Falca went and told
her mistress, and within an hour a new globe hung
in the place of the old one. Nycteris thought it did
not look so bright and clear as the former, but she
made no lamentation over the change; she was far
too rich to heed it. For now, prisoner as she knew
herself, her heart was full of glory and gladness; at
times she had to hold herself from jumping up, and
going dancing and singing about the room. When she
slept, instead of dull dreams, she had splendid visions.
There were times, it is true, when she became rest-
less, and impatient to look upon her riches, but then
she would reason with herself, saying, "What does it
matter if I sit here for ages with my poor pale lamp,
when out there a lamp is burning at which ten
thousand little lamps are glowing with wonder?"
She never doubted she had looked upon the day
and the sun, of which she had read; and always
when she read of the day and the sun, she had the
night and the moon in her mind; and when she read
of the night and the moon, she thought only of the
cave and the lamp that hung there.
CHAPTER X.
THE GREAT LAMP.
It was some time before she had a second
opportunity of going out, for Falca, since the fall of
the lamp, had been a little more careful, and seldom


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. J t
still. Had it gone out? What would happen next?
Perhaps the little lamps had not to grow great lamps,
but to fall one by one and go out first?—With that,
came from below a sweet scent, then another, and
another. Ah, how delicious! Perhaps they were all
coming to her only on their way out after the great
lamp!—Then came the music of the river, which she
had been too absorbed in the sky to note the first
time. What was it? Alas! alas! another sweet living
thing on its way out. They were all marching slowly
out in long lovely file, one after the other, each taking
its leave of her as it passed! It must be so: here
were more and more sweet sounds, following and
fading! The whole of the Out was going out again;
it was all going after the great lovely lamp! She
would be left the only creature in the solitary day!
Was there nobody to hang up a new lamp for the old
one, and keep the creatures from going?—She crept
back to her rock very sad. She tried to comfort her-
self by saying that anyhow there would be room out
there; but as she said it she shuddered at the thought
of empty room.
When next she succeeded in getting out, a half-
moon hung in the east: a new lamp had come, she
thought, and all would be well.
It would be endless to describe the phases of
feeling through which Nycteris passed, more numerous
and delicate than those of a thousand changing
moons. A fresh bliss bloomed in her soul with every
varying aspect of infinite nature. Ere long she began
to suspect that the new moon was the old moon,
gone out and come in again like herself; also that,
unlike herself, it wasted and grew again; that it was


72 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
indeed a live thing, subject like herself to caverns,
and keepers, and solitude, escaping and shining when
it could. Was it a prison like hers it was shut in?
and did it grow dark when the lamp left it? Where
could be the way into it?—With that first she began
to look below, as well as above and around her; and
then first noted the tops of the trees between her
and the floor. There were palms with their red-
fingered hands full of fruit; eucalyptus trees crowded
with little boxes of powder-puffs; oleanders with their
half-caste roses; and orange trees with their clouds
of young silver stars, and their aged balls of gold.
Her eyes could see colours invisible to ours in the
moonlight, and all these she could distinguish well,
though at first she took them for the shapes and
colours of the carpet of the great room. She longed
to get down among them, now she saw they were
real creatures, but she did not know how. She went
along the whole length of the wall to the end that
crossed the river, but found no way of going down.
Above the river she stopped to gaze with awe upon
the rushing water. She knew nothing of water but
from what she drank and what she bathed in; and,
as the moon shone on the dark, swift stream, singing
lustily as it flowed, she did not doubt the river was
alive, a swift rushing serpent of life, going—out?—
whither? And then she wondered if what was
brought into her rooms had been killed that she
might drink it, and have her bath in it.
Once when she stepped out upon the wall, it was
into the midst of a fierce wind. The trees were all
roaring. Great clouds were rushing along the skies,
and tumbling over the little lamps: the great lamp


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 73
had not come yet. All was in tumult. The wind
seized her garments and hair, and shook them as if it
would tear them from her. What could she have
done to make the gentle creature so angry? Or was
this another creature altogether—of the same kind,
but hugely bigger, and of a very different temper and
behaviour? But the whole place was angry! Or was
it that the creatures dwelling in it, the wind, and the
trees, and the clouds, and the river, had all quar-
relled, each with all the rest? Would the whole come
to confusion and disorder? But, as she gazed wonder-
ing and disquieted, the moon, larger than ever she
had seen her, came lifting herself above the horizon
to look, broad and red as if she, too, were swollen
with anger that she had been roused from her rest by
their noise, and compelled to hurry up to see what
her children were about, thus rioting in her absence,
lest they should rack the whole frame of things. And
as she rose, the loud wind grew quieter and scolded
less fiercely, the trees grew stiller and moaned with a
lower complaint, and the clouds hunted and hurled
themselves less wildly across the sky. And as if she
were pleased that her children obeyed her very pre-
sence, the moon grew smaller as she ascended the
heavenly stair; her puffed cheeks sank, her complexion
grew clearer, and a sweet smile spread over her
countenance, as peacefully she rose and rose. But
there was treason and rebellion in her court; for, ere
she reached the top of her great stairs, the clouds
had assembled, forgetting their late wars, and very
still they were as they laid their heads together and
conspired. Then combining, and lying silently in wait
until she came near, they threw themselves upon her,


74 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
and swallowed her up. Down from the roof came
spots of wet, faster and faster, and they wetted the
cheeks of Nycteris; and what could they be but the
tears of the moon, crying because her children were
smothering her? Nycteris wept too, and not knowing
what to think, stole back in dismay to her room.
The next time, she came out in fear and trem-
bling. There was the moon still! away in the west
—poor, indeed, and old, and looking dreadfully worn,
as if all the wild beasts in the sky had been gnawing
at her—but there she was, alive still, and able to
shine!
CHAPTER XI.
THE SUNSET.
Knowing nothing of darkness, or stars, or moon,
Photogen spent his days in hunting. On a great white
horse he swept over the grassy plains, glorying in the
sun, fighting the wind, and killing the buffaloes.
One morning, when he happened to be on the
ground a little earlier than usual, and before his at-
tendants, he caught sight of an animal unknown to
him, stealing from a hollow into which the sunrays
had not yet reached. Like a swift shadow it sped
over the grass, slinking southward to the forest. He
gave chase, noted the body of a buffalo it had half
eaten, and pursued it the harder. But with great
leaps and bounds the creature shot farther and farther
ahead of him, and vanished. Turning therefore de-
feated, he met Fargu, who had been following him as
fast as his horse could carry him.


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 75
"What animal was that, Fargu?" he asked. "How
he did run!"
Fargu answered he might be a leopard, but he
rather thought from his pace and look that he was a
young lion.
"What a coward he must be!" said Photogen.
"Don't be too sure of that," rejoined Fargu. "He
is one of the creatures the sun makes uncomfortable.
As soon as the sun is down, he will be brave enough."
He had scarcely said it, when he repented; nor
did he regret it the less when he found that Photogen
made no reply. But alas! said was said.
"Then," said Photogen to himself, "that con-
temptible beast is one of the terrors of sundown, of
which Madam Watho spoke!"
He hunted all day, but not with his usual spirit.
He did not ride so hard, and did not kill one buffalo.
Fargu to his dismay observed also that he took every pretext for moving farther south, nearer to the forest.
But all at once, the sun now sinking in the west, he
seemed to change his mind, for he turned his horse's
head, and rode home so fast that the rest could not
keep him in sight. When they arrived, they found
his horse in the stable, and concluded that he had
gone into the castle. But he had in truth set out
again by the back of it. Crossing the river a good
way up the valley, he re-ascended to the ground they
had left, and just before sunset reached the skirts of
the forest.
The level orb shone straight in between the bare
stems, and saying to himself he could not fail to find
the beast, he rushed into the wood. But even as he
entered, he turned, and looked to the west. The rim


76 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
of the red was touching the horizon, all jagged with
broken hills. "Now," said Photogen, "we shall see;"
but he said it in the face of a darkness he had not
proved. The moment the sun began to sink among
the spikes and saw-edges, with a kind of sudden flap
at his heart a fear inexplicable laid hold of the youth;
and as he had never felt anything of the kind before,
the very fear itself terrified him. As the sun sank, it
rose like the shadow of the world, and grew deeper
and darker. He could not even think what it might
be, so utterly did it enfeeble him. When the last
flaming scimitar-edge of the sun went out like a lamp,
his horror seemed to blossom into very madness. Like
the closing lids of an eye—for there was no twilight,
and this night no moon—the terror and the darkness
rushed together, and he knew them for one. He was
no longer the man he had known, or rather thought
himself. The courage he had had was in no sense his
own—he had only had courage, not been courageous;
it had left him, and he could scarcely stand—certainly
not stand straight, for not one of his joints could he
make stiff or keep from trembling. He was but a
spark of the sun, in himself nothing.
The beast was behind him—stealing upon him!
He turned. All was dark in the wood, but to his
fancy the darkness here and there broke into pairs of
green eyes, and he had not the power even to raise
his bow-hand from his side. In the strength of de-
spair he strove to rouse courage enough—-not to fight
—that he did not even desire—but to run. Courage
to flee home was all he could ever imagine, and it
would not come. But what he had not, was ignomini-
ously given him. A cry in the wood, half a screech,


78 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
of horrors coming down the sky to curdle his blood,
and turn his brain to a cinder! He gave a sob, and
made straight for the river, where it ran between the
two walls, at the bottom of the garden. He plunged
in, struggled through, clambered up the bank, and fell
senseless on the grass.
CHAPTER XII.
THE GARDEN.
Although .Nycteris took care not to stay out long
at a time, and used every precaution, she could hardly
have escaped discovery so long, had it not been that
the strange attacks to which Watho was subject had
been more frequent of late, and had at last settled
into an illness which kept her to her bed. But
whether from an access of caution or from suspicion,
Falca, having now to be much with her mistress both
day and night, took it at length into her head to
fasten the door as often as she went by her usual
place of exit: so that one night, when Nycteris pushed,
she found, to her surprise and dismay, that the wall
pushed her again, and would not let her through; nor
with all her searching could she discover wherein lay
the cause of the change. Then first she felt the pres-
sure of her prison-walls, and turning, half in despair,
groped her way to the picture where she had once
seen Falca disappear. There she soon found the spot
by pressing upon which the wall yielded. It let her
through into a sort of cellar, where was a glimmer of
light from a sky whose blue was paled by the moon.
From the cellar she got into a long passage, into


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 79
which the moon was shining, and came to a door.
She managed to open it, and, to her great joy, found
herself in the other place, not on the top of the wall,
however, but in the garden she had longed to enter.
Noiseless as a fluffy moth she flitted away into the
covert of the trees and shrubs, her bare feet welcomed
by the softest of carpets, which, by the very touch,
her feet knew to be alive, whence it came that it was
so sweet and friendly to them. A soft little wind was
out among the trees, running now here, now there,
like a child that had got its will. She went dancing
over the grass, looking behind her at her shadow, as
she went. At first she had taken it for a little black
creature that made game of her, but when she per-
ceived that it was only where she kept the moon
away, and that every tree, however great and grand a
creature, had also one of these strange attendants, she
soon learned not to mind it, and by and by it became
the source of as much amusement to her, as to any
kitten its tail. It was long before she was quite at
home with the trees, however. At one time they
seemed to disapprove of her; at another not even to
know she was there, and to be altogether taken up
with their own business. Suddenly, as she went from
one to another of them, looking up with awe at the
murmuring mystery of their branches and leaves, she
spied one a little way off, which was very different
from all the rest. It was white, and dark, and spar-
kling, and spread like a palm—a small slender palm,
without much head; and it grew very fast, and sang
as it grew. But it never grew any bigger, for just as
fast as she could see it growing, it kept falling to
pieces. When she got close to it, she discovered that


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
CHAPTER XIII.
SOMETHING QUITE NEW.
A BEAUTIFUL moth brushed across the great blue
eyes of Nycteris. She sprang to her feet to follow it
—not in the spirit of the hunter, but of the lover.
Her heart-like every heart, if only its fallen sides
were cleared away-was an inexhaustible fountain of
love: she loved everything she saw. But as she
followed the moth, she caught sight of something lying
on the bank of the river, and not yet having learned
to be afraid of anything, ran straight to see what it
was. Reaching it, she stood amazed. Another girl
like herself! But what a strange-looking girl!—so
curiously dressed too!-and not able to move! Was
she dead? Filled suddenly with pity, she sat down,
lifted Photogen's head, laid it on her lap, and began
stroking his face. Her warm hands brought him to
himself. He opened his black eyes, out of which had
gone all the fire, and looked up with a strange sound
of fear, half moan, half gasp. But when he saw her
face, he drew a deep breath, and lay motionless-
gazing at her: those blue marvels above him, like a
better sky, seemed to side with courage and assuage
his terror. At length, in a trembling, awed voice, and
a half whisper, he said, “Who are you?”
“I am Nycteris," she answered.
“You are a creature of the darkness, and love the
night,” he said, his fear beginning to move again.
"I may be a creature of the darkness,” she replied.
“I hardly know what you mean. But I do not love
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc.


82 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
the night. I love the day—with all my heart; and I
sleep all the night long."
"How can that be?" said Photogen, rising on his
elbow, but dropping his head on her lap again the
moment he saw the moon; "—how can it be," he re-
peated, "when I see your eyes there—wide awake?"
She only smiled and stroked him, for she did not
understand him, and thought he did not know what
he was saying.
"Was it a dream then?" resumed Photogen, rubbing
his eyes. But with that his memory came clear, and
he shuddered, and cried, "Oh horrible! horrible! to be
turned all at once into a coward! a shameful, con-
temptible, disgraceful coward! I am ashamed—
ashamed—and so frightened! It is all so frightful!"
"What is so frightful?" asked Nycteris, with a
smile like that of a mother to her child waked from
a bad dream.
"All, all," he answered; "all this darkness and the
roaring."
"My dear," said Nycteris, "there is no roaring.
How sensitive you must be! What you hear is only
the walking of the water, and the running about of
the sweetest of all the creatures. She is invisible,
and I call her Everywhere, for she goes through all
the other creatures and comforts them. Now she is
amusing herself, and them too, with shaking them and
kissing them, and blowing in their faces. Listen: do
you call that roaring? You should hear her when she
is rather angry though! I don't know why, but she is
sometimes, and then she does roar a little."
"It is so horribly dark!" said Photogen, who, listen


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 83
ing while she spoke, had satisfied himself that there
was no roaring.
"Dark!" she echoed. "You should be in my room
when an earthquake has killed my lamp. I do not
understand. How can you call this dark? Let me
see: yes, you have eyes, and big ones, bigger than
Madam Watho's or Falca's—not so big as mine, I
fancy—only I never saw mine. But then—oh yes!—
I know now what is the matter! You can't see with
them because they are so black. Darkness can't see,
of course. Never mind: I will be your eyes, and teach
you to see. Look here—at these lovely white things
in the grass, with red sharp points all folded together
into one. Oh, I love them so! I could sit looking at
them all day, the darlings!"
Photogen looked close at the flowers, and thought
he had seen something like them before, but could
not make them out. As Nycteris had never seen an
open daisy, so had he never seen a closed one.
Thus instinctively Nycteris tried to turn him away
from his fear; and the beautiful creature's strange
lovely talk helped not a little to make him forget it.
"You call it dark!" she said again, as if she could
not get rid of the absurdity of the idea; "why, I could
count every blade of the green hair—I suppose it is
what the books call grass—within two yards of me!
And just look at the great lamp! It is brighter than
usual to-day, and I can't think why you should be
frightened, or call it dark!"
As she spoke, she went on stroking his cheeks and
hair, and trying to comfort him. But oh how miserable
he was! and how plainly he looked it! He was on
the point of saying that her great lamp was dreadful
6*


84
THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGÉN AND NYCTERIS.
to him, looking like a witch, walking in the sleep of
death; but he was not so ignorant as Nycteris, and
knew even in the moonlight that she was a woman,
though he had never seen one so young or so lovely
before; and while she comforted his fear, her presence
made him the more ashamed of it. Besides, not
knowing her nature, he might annoy her, and make
her leave him to his misery. He lay still therefore,
hardly daring to move: all the little life he had
seemed to come from her, and if he were to move,
she might move; and if she were to leave him, he
must weep like a child.
“How did you come here?” asked Nycteris, taking
his face between her hands.
“Down the hill,” he answered.
“Where do you sleep?" she asked.
He signed in the direction of the house. She
gave a little laugh of delight.
“When you have learned not to be frightened,
you will always be wanting to come out with me," she
said.
She thought with herself she would ask her pre-
sently, when she had come to herself a little, how she
had made her escape, for she must, of course, like
herself have got out of a cave, in which Watho and
Falca had been keeping her.
“Look at the lovely colours," she went on, pointing
to a rose-bush, on which Photogen could not see a
single flower. “They are far more beautiful—are they
not?-than any of the colours upon your walls. And
then they are alive, and smell so sweet!”
He wished she would not make him keep opening
his eyes to look at things he could not see; and every


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
- 85
other moment would start and grasp tight hold of her,
as some fresh pang of terror shot into him.
“Come, come, dear!” said Nycteris; "you must not
go on this way. You must be a brave girl, and---"
“A girl!” shouted Photogen, and started to his feet
in wrath. “If you were a man, I should kill you."
“A man?” repeated Nycteris: “what is that? How
could I be that? We are both girls—are we not?”
“No, I am not a girl," he answered; “_although,”
he added, changing his tone, and casting himself on
the ground at her feet, “I have given you too good
reason to call me one.”
“Oh, I see!” returned Nycteris. “No, of course!
you can't be a girl: girls are not afraid—without
reason. I understand now: it is because you are not
a girl that you are so frightened.”
Photogen twisted and writhed upon the grass.
“No, it is not,” he said sulkily; “it is this horrible
darkness that creeps into me, goes all through me,
into the very marrow of my bones—that is what makes
me behave like a girl. If only the sun would rise!”
“The sun! what is it?” cried Nycteris, now in her
turn conceiving a vague fear.
Then Photogen broke into a rhapsody, in which he
vainly sought to forget his.
“It is the soul, the life, the heart, the glory of the
universe,” he said. “The worlds dance like motes in
his beams. The heart of man is strong and brave in
his light, and when it departs his courage grows from
him-goes with the sun, and he becomes such as you
see me now."
“Then that is not the sun?” said Nycteris, thought-
fully, pointing up to the moon.


86 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
"That!" cried Photogen, with utter scorn; "I know
nothing about that, except that it is ugly and horrible.
At best it can be only the ghost of a dead sun. Yes,
that is it! That is what makes it look so frightful."
"No," said Nycteris, after a long, thoughtful pause;
"you must be wrong there. I think the sun is the
ghost of a dead moon, and that is how he is so much
more splendid as you say.—Is there, then, another big
room, where the sun lives in the roof?"
"I do not know what you mean," replied Photogen.
"But you mean to be kind, I know, though you should
not call a poor fellow in the dark a girl. If you will
let me lie here, with my head in your lap, I should
like to sleep. Will you watch me, and take care of
me?"
"Yes, that I will," answered Nycteris, forgetting all
her own danger.
So Photogen fell asleep.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SUN.
There Nycteris sat, and there the youth lay, all
night long, in the heart of the great cone-shadow of
the earth, like two Pharaohs in one pyramid. Photogen
slept, and slept; and Nycteris sat motionless lest she
should wake him, and so betray him to his fear.
The moon rode high in the blue eternity; it was a
very triumph of glorious night; the river ran babble-
murmuring in deep soft syllables; the fountain kept
rushing moonward, and blossoming momently to a
great silvery flower, whose petals were for ever falling


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 87
like snow, but with a continuous musical clash, into
the bed of its exhaustion beneath; the wind woke,
took a run among the trees, went to sleep, and woke
again; the daisies slept on their feet at hers, but she
did not know they slept; the roses might well seem
awake, for their scent filled the air, but in truth they
slept also, and the odour was that of their dreams;
the oranges hung like gold lamps in the trees, and
their silvery flowers were the souls of their yet un-
embodied children; the scent of the acacia blooms
filled the air like the very odour of the moon herself.
At last, unused to the living air, and weary with
sitting so still and so long, Nycteris grew drowsy. The
air began to grow cool, It was getting near the time
when she too was accustomed to sleep. She closed
her eyes just a moment, and nodded—opened them
suddenly wide, for she had promised to watch.
In that moment a change had come. The moon
had got round, and was fronting her from the west,
and she saw that her face was altered, that she had
grown pale, as if she too were wan with fear, and
from her lofty place espied a coming terror. The
light seemed to be dissolving out of her; she was
dying—she was going out! And yet everything around
looked strangely clear—clearer than ever she had seen
anything before: how could the lamp be shedding
more light when she herself had less? Ah, that was
just it! See how faint she looked! It was because the
light was forsaking her, and spreading itself over the
room, that she grew so thin and pale! She was giving
up everything! She was melting away from the roof
like a bit of sugar in water.
Nycteris was fast growing afraid, and sought re-


88 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
fuge with the face upon her lap. How beautiful the
creature was!—what to call it she could not think,
for it had been angry when she called it what Watho
called her. And, wonder upon wonder! now, even in
the cold change that was passing upon the great room,
the colour as of a red rose was rising in the wan
cheek. What beautiful yellow hair it was that spread
over her lap! What great huge breaths the creature
took! And what were those curious things it car-
ried? She had seen them on her walls, she was sure.
Thus she talked to herself while the lamp grew
paler and paler, and everything kept growing yet
clearer. What could it mean? The lamp was dying
—going out into the other place of which the creature
in her lap had spoken, to be a sun! But why were
the things growing clearer before it was yet a sun?
That was the point. Was it her growing into a sun
that did it? Yes! yes! it was coming death! She
knew it, for it was coming upon her also! She felt it
coming! What was she about to grow into? Some-
thing beautiful, like the creature in her lap? It might
be! Anyhow, it must be death; for all her strength
was going out of her, while all around her was grow-
ing so light she could not bear it! She must be blind
soon! Would she be blind or dead first?
For the sun was rushing up behind her. Photogen
woke, lifted his head from her lap, and sprang to his
feet. His face was one radiant smile. His heart was
full of daring—that of the hunter who will creep into
the tiger's den. Nycteris gave a cry, covered her face
with her hands, and pressed her eyelids close. Then
blindly she stretched out her arms to Photogen, cry-
ing, "Oh, I am so frightened! What is this? It must


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 89
be death! I don't wish to die yet. I love this room
and the old lamp. I do not want the other place!
This is terrible. I want to hide. I want to get into
the sweet, soft, dark hands of all the other creatures.
Ah me! ah me!"
"What is the matter with you, girl?" said Photogen,
with the arrogance of all male creatures until they
have been taught by the other kind. He stood look-
ing down upon her over his bow, of which he was ex-
amining the string. "There is no fear of anything
now, child. It is day. The sun is all but up. Look!
he will be above the brow of yon hill in one moment
more! Good-bye. Thank you for my night's lodging.
I'm off. Don't be a goose. If ever I can do anything
for you—and all that, you know!"
"Don't leave me; oh, don't leave me!" cried
Nycteris. "I am dying! I am dying! I cannot move.
The light sucks all the strength out of me. And oh,
I am so frightened!"
But already Photogen had splashed through the
river, holding high his bow that it might not get wet.
He rushed across the level, and strained up the op-
posing hill. Hearing no answer, Nycteris removed her
hands. Photogen had reached the top, and the same
moment the sunrays alighted upon him: the glory of
the king of day crowded blazing upon the golden-
haired youth. Radiant as Apollo, he stood in mighty
strength, a flashing shape in the midst of flame. He
fitted a glowing arrow to a gleaming bow. The arrow
parted with a keen musical twang of the bowstring,
and Photogen darting after it, vanished with a shout.
Up shot Apollo himself, and from his quiver scattered
astonishment and exultation. But the brain of poor


90 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
Nycteris was pierced through and through. She fell
down in utter darkness. All around her was a flaming
furnace. In despair and feebleness and agony, she
crept back, feeling her way with doubt and difficulty
and enforced persistence to her cell. When at last
the friendly darkness of her chamber folded her about
with its cooling and consoling arms, she threw herself
on her bed and fell fast asleep. And there she slept
on, one alive in a tomb, while Photogen, above in the
sun-glory, pursued the buffaloes on the lofty plain,
thinking not once of her where she lay dark and for-
saken, whose presence had been his refuge, her eyes
and her hands his guardians through the night. He
was in his glory and his pride; and the darkness and
its disgrace had vanished for a time.
CHAPTER XV.
THE COWARD HERO.
But no sooner had the sun reached the noon-
stead, than Photogen began to remember the past
night in the shadow of that which was at hand, and
to remember it with shame. He had proved himself
—and not to himself only, but to a girl as well—a
coward!—one bold in the daylight, while there was
nothing to fear, but trembling like any slave when
the night arrived. There was, there must be, some-
thing unfair in it! A spell had been cast upon him!
He had eaten, he had drunk something that did not
agree with courage! In any case he had been taken
unprepared! How was he to know what the going
down of the sun would be like? It was no wonder


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERTS. QI
he should have been surprised into terror, seeing it
was what it was—in its very nature so terrible!
Also, one could not see where danger might be com-
ing from! You might be torn in pieces, carried off,
or swallowed up, without even seeing where to strike
a blow! Every possible excuse he caught at, eager
as a self-lover to lighten his self-contempt. That
day he astonished the huntsmen—terrified them with
his reckless daring—all to prove to himself he was
no coward. But nothing eased his shame. One
thing only had hope in it—the resolve to encounter
the dark in solemn earnest, now that he knew some-
thing of what it was. It was nobler to meet a re-
cognized danger than to rush contemptuously into
what seemed nothing—nobler still to encounter a
nameless horror. He could conquer fear and wipe
out disgrace together. For a marksman and swords-
man like him, he said, one with his strength and
courage, there was but danger. Defeat there was
not. He knew the darkness now, and when it came
he would meet it as fearless and cool as now he felt
himself. And again he said, "We shall see!"
He stood under the boughs of a great beech as
the sun was going down, far away over the jagged
hills: before it was half down, he was trembling like
one of the leaves behind him in the first sigh of the
night-wind. The moment the last of the glowing disc
vanished, he bounded away in terror to gain the
valley, and his fear grew as he ran. Down the side
of the hill, an abject creature, he went bounding and
rolling and running; fell rather than plunged into the
river, and came to himself, as before, lying on the
grassy bank in the garden.


THE HISTORY OF PHOTO GEN AND NYCTERIS. 93
wet, and then lying out of doors all night, and night
after night,—worst of all, from the consuming of the
deathly fear, and the shame of shame, his sleep for-
sook him, and on the seventh morning, instead of
going to the hunt, he crawled into the castle, and
went to bed. The grand health, over which the
witch had taken such pains, had yielded, and in
an hour or two he was moaning and crying out in
delirium.
CHAPTER XVI.
AN EVIL NURSE.
Who was herself ill, as I have said, and was
the worse tempered; and, besides, it is a peculiarity
of witches, that what works in others to sympathy,
works in them to repulsion. Also, Watho had a poor,
helpless, rudimentary spleen of a conscience left, just
enough to make her uncomfortable, and therefore
more wicked. So, when she heard that Photogen
was ill, she was angry. Ill, indeed! after all she had
done to saturate him with the life of the system, with
the solar might itself! He was a wretched failure,
the boy! And because he was her failure, she was
annoyed with him, began to dislike him, grew to
hate him. She looked on him as a painter might
upon a picture, or a poet upon a poem, which he
had only succeeded in getting into an irrecoverable
mess. In the hearts of witches, love and hate lie
close together, and often tumble over each other.
And whether it was that her failure with Photogen
foiled also her plans in regard to Nycteris, or that her



94
THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
afraid out
Wte ska, Í
him bebave.
as Cuely as
and dear and
beasts that came
of the light, why
the same way-WL
he could not bear
find her again! Ah,
u her! But alas! p
melted her—burned E
it, if she was the nym,
illness made her yet more of a devil's wife, certainly
Watho now got sick of the girl too, and hated to know
her about the castle.
She was not too ill, however, to go to poor
Photogen's room and torment him. She told him
she hated him like a serpent, and hissed like one as
she said it, looking very sharp in the nose and chin,
and flat in the forehead. Photogen thought she
meant to kill him, and hardly ventured to take any-
thing brought him. She ordered every ray of light
to be shut out of his room; but by means of this he
got a little used to the darkness. She would take
one of his arrows, and now tickle him with the
feather end of it, now prick him with the point till
the blood ran down. What she meant finally I can-
not tell, but she brought Photogen speedily to the
determination of making his escape from the castle:
what he should do then he would think afterwards.
Who could tell but he might find his mother some-
where beyond the forest! If it were not for the
broad patches of darkness that divided day from day,
he would fear nothing!
But now, as he lay helpless in the dark, ever and
anon would come dawning through it the face of the
lovely creature who on that first awful night nursed
him so sweetly: was he never to see her again? If she
was, as he had concluded, the nymph of the river,
why had she not re-appeared? She might have taught
him not to fear the night, for plainly she had no
fear of it herself! But then, when the day came,
she did seem frightened:—why was that, seeing there
was nothing to be afraid of then? Perhaps one so
much at home in the darkness, was correspondingly
CHAP
WATE
FROM that dreadful n
got to be herself again.
almost death to her; and
with the memory of a terri
she dared scarcely recall, le
should sting her beyond enc
nothing to the pain which
radeness of the shining creatu
tárough his fear caused her; f
fering passed over to her, and
use he made of his returning
scorn her! She wondered and
beyond her comprehension.
Before long, Watho was plot
The witch was like a sick child


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
95
afraid of the light! Then his selfish joy at the rising
of the sun, blinding him to her condition, had made
him behave to her, in ill return for her kindness,
as cruelly as Watho behaved to him! How Sweet
and dear and lovely she was! If there were wild
beasts that came out only at night, and were afraid
of the light, why should there not be girls too, made
the same way—who could not endure the light, as
he could not bear the darkness? If only he could
find her again! Ah, how differently he would behave
to her! But alas! perhaps the sun had killed her-
melted her-burned her up!-dried her up—that was
it, if she was the nymph of the river!
CHAPTER XVII.
WATHO'S WOLF.
FROM that dreadful morning Nycteris had never
got to be herself again. The sudden light had been
almost death to her; and now she lay in the dark
with the memory of a terrific sharpness—a something
she dared scarcely recall, lest the very thought of it
should sting her beyond endurance. But this was as
nothing to the pain which the recollection of the
rudeness of the shining creature whom she had nursed
through his fear caused her; for, the moment his suf-
fering passed over to her, and he was free, the first
use he made of his returning strength had been to
scorn her! She wondered and wondered; it was all
beyond her comprehension.
Before long, Watho was plotting evil against her.
The witch was like a sick child weary of his toy: she


i)6 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
would pull her to pieces, and see how she liked it.
She would set her in the sun, and see her die, like a
jelly from the salt ocean cast out on a hot rock. It
would be a sight to soothe her wolf-pain. One day,
therefore, a little before noon, while Nycteris was in
her deepest sleep, she had a darkened litter brought
to the door, and in that she made two of her men
carry her to the plain above. There they took her
out, laid her on the grass, and left her.
Watho watched it all from the top of her high
tower, through her telescope; and scarcely was Nycteris
left, when she saw her sit up, and the same moment
cast herself down again with her face to the ground.
"She'll have a sunstroke," said Watho, "and that'll
be the end of her."
Presently, tormented by a fly, a huge-humped
buffalo, with great shaggy mane, came galloping along,
straight for where she lay. At sight of the thing on
the grass, he started, swerved yards aside, stopped
dead, and then came slowly up, looking malicious.
Nycteris lay quite still, and never even saw the
animal.
"Now she'll be trodden to death!" said Watho.
"That's the way those creatures do."
When the buffalo reached her, he sniffed at her
all over, and went away; then came back, and sniffed
again; then all at once went off as if a demon had
him by the tail.
Next came a gnu, a more dangerous animal still,
and did much the same; then a gaunt wild boar. But
no creature hurt her, and Watho was angry with the
whole creation.
At length, in the shade of her hair, the blue eyes


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 97
of Nycteris began to come to themselves a little, and
the first thing they saw was a comfort. I have told
already how she knew the night-daisies, each a sharp-
pointed little cone with a red tip; and once she had
parted the rays of one of them, with trembling fingers,
for she was afraid she was dreadfully rude, and per-
haps was hurting it; but she did want, she said to
herself, to see what secret it carried so carefully hid-
den; and she found its golden heart. But now, right
under her eyes, inside the veil of her hair, in the
sweet twilight of whose blackness she could see it
perfectly, stood a daisy with its red tip opened wide
into a carmine ring, displaying its heart of gold on a
platter of silver. She did not at first recognize it as
one of those cones come awake, but a moment's notice
revealed what it was. Who then could have been so
cruel to the lovely little creature, as to force it open
like that, and spread it heart-bare to the terrible
death-lamp? Whoever it was, it must be the same
that had thrown her out there to be burned to death
in its fire! But she had her hair, and could hang
her head, and make a small sweet night of her own
about her! She tried to bend the daisy down and
away from the sun, and to make its petals hang about
it like her hair, but she could not. Alas! it was
burned and dead already! She did not know that it
could not yield to her gentle force because it was drink-
ing life, with all the eagerness of life, from what she
called the death-lamp. Oh, how the lamp burned her!
But she went on thinking—she did not know how;
and by and by began to reflect that, as there was no
roof to the room except that in which the great fire
went rolling about, the little Red-tip must have seen
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 7


98 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
the lamp a thousand times, and must know it quite
well! and it had not killed it! Nay, thinking about
farther, she began to ask the question whether this,
in which she now saw it, might not be its more per-
fect condition. For not only now did the whole seem
perfect, as indeed it did before, but every part showed
its own individual perfection as well, which perfection
made it capable of combining with the rest into the
higher perfection of a whole. The flower was a lamp
itself! The golden heart was the light, and the silver
border was the alabaster globe, skilfully broken, and
spread wide to let out the glory. Yes; the radiant
shape was plainly its perfection! If, then, it was the
lamp which had opened it into that shape, the lamp
could not be unfriendly to it, but must be of its own
kind, seeing it made it perfect! And again, when
she thought of it, there was clearly no little resem-
blance between them. What if the flower then was
the little great-grandchild of the lamp, and he was
loving it all the time? And what if the lamp did not
mean to hurt her, only could not help it? The red
tips looked as if the flower had some time or other
been hurt: what if the lamp was making the best it
could of her—opening her out somehow like the
flower? She would bear it patiently, and see. But
how coarse the colour of the grass was! Perhaps,
however, her eyes not being made for the bright lamp,
she did not see them as they were! Then she re-
membered how different were the eyes of the creature
that was not a girl and was afraid of the darkness!
Ah, if the darkness would only come again, all arms,
friendly and soft everywhere about her! She would
wait and wait, and bear, and be patient.


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. IOI
about me, and turned soft in colour. Something wet
came upon it, and it was now so pleasant to my feet,
that I rose and ran about. And when I had been
running about a long time, all at once I found you
lying, just as I had been lying a little while before.
So I sat down beside you to take care of you, till your
life—and my death—should come again."
"How good you are, you beautiful creature!—Why,
you forgave me before ever I asked you!" cried Photogen.
.Thus they fell a talking, and he told her what he
knew of his history, and she told him what she knew
of hers, and they agreed they must get away from
Watho as far as ever they could.
"And we must set out at once," said Nycteris.
"The moment the morning comes," returned
Photogen.
"We must not wait for the morning," said Nycteris,
"for then I shall not be able to move, and what would
you do the next night? Besides, Watho sees best in
the daytime. Indeed, you must come now, Photogen.
—You must."
"I cannot; I dare not," said Photogen. "I can-
not move. If I but lift my head from your lap, the
very sickness of terror seizes me."
"I shall be with you," said Nycteris soothingly.
"I will take care of you till your dreadful sun comes,
and then you may leave me, and go away as fast as
you can. Only please put me in a dark place first,
if there is one to be found."
"I will never leave you again, Nycteris," cried
Photogen. "Only wait till the sun comes, and brings
me back my strength, and we will go away together,
and never, never part any more."


102 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
"No, no," persisted Nycteris; "we must go now.
And you must learn to be strong in the dark as well
as in the day, else you will always be only half brave, I have begun already—not to fight your sun, but to
try to get at peace with him, and understand what he
really is, and what he means with me—whether to
hurt me or to make the best of me. You must do
the same with my darkness."
"But you don't know what mad animals there are
away there towards the south," said Photogen. "They
have huge green eyes, and they would eat you up like
a bit of celery, you beautiful creature!"
"Come, come! you must," said Nycteris, "or I shall
have to pretend to leave you, to make you come. I
have seen the green eyes you speak of, and I will
take care of you from them."
"You! How can you do that? If it were day
now, I could take care of you from the worst of them.
But as it is, I can't even see them for this abomin-
able darkness. I could not see your lovely eyes but
for the light that is in them; that lets me see straight
into heaven through them. They are windows into
the very heaven beyond the sky. I believe they are
the very place where the stars are made."
"You come then, or I shall shut them," said
Nycteris, "and you shan't see them any more till you
are good. Come. If you can't see the wild beasts, I
can."
"You can! and you ask me to come!" cried
Photogen.
"Yes," answered Nycteris. "And more than that,
I see them long before they can see me, so that I am
able to take care of you."


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. IOj
"But how?" persisted Photogen. "You can't shoot
with bow and arrow, or stab with a hunting-knife."
"No, but I can keep out of the way of them all.
Why, just when I found you, I was having a game
with two or three of them at once. I see, and scent
them too, long before they are near me—long before
they can see or scent me."
"You don't see or scent any now, do you?" said
Photogen, uneasily, rising on his elbow."
"No—none at present. I will look," replied
Nycteris, and sprang to her feet.
"Oh, oh! do not leave me—not for a moment,"
cried Photogen, straining his eyes to keep her face in
sight through the darkness.
"Be quiet, or they will hear you," she returned.
"The wind is from the south, and they cannot scent
us. I have found out all about that. Ever since the
dear dark came, I have been amusing myself with
them, getting every now and then just into the edge
of the wind, and letting one have a sniff of me."
"Oh, horrible!" cried Photogen. "I hope you will
not insist on doing so any more. What was the con-
sequence?"
"Always, the very instant, he turned with flashing
eyes, and bounded towards me—only he could not
see me, you must remember. But my eyes being so
much better than his, I could see him perfectly well,
and would run away round him until I scented him,
and then I knew he could not find me anyhow. If
the wind were to turn, and run the other way now,
there might be a whole army of them down upon us,
leaving no room to keep out of their way. You had
better come."
She took him by the hand. He yielded and rose,


104 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
and she led him away. But his steps were feeble,
and as the night went on, he seemed more and more
ready to sink.
"Oh dear! I am so tired! and so frightened!"
he would say.
"Lean on me," Nycteris would return, putting her
arm round him, or patting his cheek. "Take a few steps
more. Every step away from the castle is clear gain.
Lean harder on me. I am quite strong and well now."
So they went on. The piercing night-eyes of
Nycteris descried not a few pairs of green ones gleam-
ing like holes in the darkness, and many a round she
made to keep far out of their way; but she never
said to Photogen she saw them. Carefully she kept
him off the uneven places, and on the softest and
smoothest of the grass, talking to him gently all the
way as they went—of the lovely flowers and the stars
—how comfortable the flowers looked, down in their
green beds, and how happy the stars up in their blue
beds!
When the morning began to come, he began to
grow better, but was dreadfully tired with walking
instead of sleeping, especially after being so long ill.
Nycteris too, what with supporting him, what with
growing fear of the light which was beginning to ooze
out of the east, was very tired. At length, both
equally exhausted, neither was able to help the other.
As if by consent they stopped. Embracing each the
other, they stood in the midst of the wide grassy
land, neither of them able to move a step, each sup-
ported only by the leaning weakness of the other,
each ready to fall if the other should move. But
while the one grew weaker still, the other had begun
to grow stronger. When the tide of the night began


CHE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. 105
to ebb, the tide of the day began to flow; and now
the sun was rushing to the horizon, borne upon its
foaming billows. And ever as he came, Photogen
revived. At last the sun shot up into the air, like a
bird from the hand of the Father of Lights. Nycteris
gave a cry of pain, and hid her face in her hands.
"Oh me!" she sighed; "I am so frightened! The
terrible light stings so!"
But the same instant, through her blindness, she
heard Photogen give a low exultant laugh, and the
next felt herself caught up: she who all night long
had tended and protected him like a child, was now
in his arms, borne along like a baby, with her head
lying on his shoulder. But she was the greater, for,
suffering more, she feared nothing.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE WEREWOLF.
At the very moment when Photogen caught up
Nycteris, the telescope of Watho was angrily sweep-
ing the table-land. She swung it from her in rage,
and running to her room, shut herself up. There she
anointed herself from top to toe with a certain oint-
ment; shook down her long red hair, and tied it
round her waist; then began to dance, whirling round
and round faster and faster, growing angrier and
angrier, until she was foaming at the mouth with
fury. When Falca went looking for her, she could not
find her anywhere.
As the sun rose, the wind slowly changed and
went round, until it blew straight from the north.
Photogen and Nycteris were drawing near the edge
of the forest, Photogen still carrying Nycteris, when


106 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS-
she moved a little on his shoulder uneasily, and
murmured in his ear,
"I smell a wild beast—that way, the way the wind
is coming."
Photogen turned, looked back towards the castle,
and saw a dark speck on the plain. As he looked, it
grew larger: it was coming across the grass with the
speed of the wind. It came nearer and nearer. It
looked long and low, but that might be because it
was running at a great stretch. He set Nycteris down
under a tree, in the black shadow of its bole, strung
his bow, and picked out his heaviest, longest, sharpest
arrow. Just as he set the notch on the string, he saw
that the creature was a tremendous wolf, rushing
straight at him. He loosened his knife in its sheath,
drew another arrow half-way from the quiver, lest the
first should fail, and took his aim—at a good dis-
tance, to leave time for a second chance. He shot.
The arrow rose, flew straight, descended, struck the
beast, and started again into the air, doubled like a
letter V. Quickly Photogen snatched the other, shot,
cast his bow from him, and drew his knife. But the
arrow was in the brute's chest, up to the feather; it
tumbled heels over head with a great thud of its
back on the earth, gave a groan, made a struggle or
two, and lay stretched out motionless.
"I've killed it, Nycteris," cried Photogen. "It is a
great red wolf."
"Oh, thank you!" answered Nycteris feebly from
behind the tree. "I was sure you would. I was not
a bit afraid."
Photogen went up to the wolf. It was a monster!
But he was vexed that his first arrow had behaved so
badly, and was the less willing to lose the one that


THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS. IO7
had done him such good service: with a long and a
strong pull, he drew it from the brute's chest. Could
he believe his eyes? There lay—no wolf, but Watho,
with her hair tied round her waist! The foolish witch
had made herself invulnerable, as she supposed, but
had forgotten that, to torment Photogen therewith, she
had handled one of his arrows. He ran back to
Nycteris and told her.
She shuddered and wept, and would not look.
CHAPTER XX.
ALL IS WELL.
There was now no occasion to fly a step farther.
Neither of them feared any one but Watho. They
left her there, and went back. A great cloud came
over the sun, and rain began to fall heavily, and
Nycteris was much refreshed, grew able to see a little,
and with Photogen's help walked gently over the cool
wet grass.
They had not gone far before they met Fargu and
the other huntsmen. Photogen told them he had
killed a great red wolf, and it was Madam Watho. The
huntsmen looked grave, but gladness shone through.
"Then," said Fargu, "I will go and bury my mistress."
But when they reached the place, they found she
was already buried—in the maws of sundry birds and
beasts which had made their breakfast of her.
Then Fargu, overtaking them, would, very wisely,
have Photogen go to the king, and tell him the whole
story. But Photogen, yet wiser than Fargu, would not
set out until he had married Nycteris; "for then," he
said, "the king himself can't part us; and if ever two
people couldn't do the one without the other, those


108 THE HISTORY OF PHOTOGEN AND NYCTERIS.
two are Nycteris and I. She has got to teach me to
be a brave man in the dark, and I have got to look
after her until she can bear the heat of the sun, and
he helps her to see, instead of blinding her."
They were married that very day. And the next
day they went together to the king, and told him the
whole story. But whom should they find at the court
but the father and mother of Photogen, both in high
favour with the king and queen. Aurora nearly died
for joy, and told them all how Watho had lied, and
made her believe her child was dead.
No one knew anything of the father or mother of
Nycteris; but when Aurora saw in the lovely girl her
own azure eyes shining through night and its clouds,
it made her think strange things, and wonder how
even the wicked themselves may be a link to join
together the good. Through Watho, the mothers, who
had never seen each other, had changed eyes in their
children.
The king gave them the castle and lands of
Watho, and there they lived and taught each other
for many years that were not long. But hardly had
one of them passed, before Nycteris had come to love
the day best, because it was the clothing and crown
of Photogen, and she saw that the day was greater
than the night, and the sun more lordly than the
moon; and Photogen had come to love the night best,
because it was the mother and home of Nycteris.
"But who knows," Nycteris would say to Photogen,
"that, when we go out, we shall not go into a day as
much greater than your day as your day is greater
than my night?"


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
CHAPTER I.
HUSBAND AND WIFE.
I am going to tell a story of married life. My
title will prepare the reader for something hardly
heroic; but I trust it will not be found lacking in the
one genuine and worthy interest a tale ought to have
—namely, that it presents a door through which we
may walk into one region or another of the human
heart, and there find ourselves not altogether un-
acquainted or from home.
There was a law among the Jews which forbade
the yoking together of certain animals, either because,
being unequal in size or strength, one of them must
be oppressed, or for the sake of some lesson thus
embodied to the Eastern mind—possibly for both
reasons. Half the tragedy would be taken out of
social life if this law could be applied to human
beings in their various relations. I do not say that
this would be well, or that we could afford to lose
the result of the tragedy thus occasioned. Neither
do I believe that there are so many instances of un-
equal yoking as the misprising judgments of men by


I IO
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
men and women by women might lead us to imagine.
Not every one declared by the wisdom of acquaint-
ance to have thrown himself or herself away must
therefore be set down as unequally yoked. Or it
may even be that the inequality is there, but the loss
on the other side. How some people could ever have
come together must always be a puzzle until one
knows the history of the affair; but not a few whom
most of us would judge quite unsuited to each other
do yet get on pretty well from the first, and better
and better the longer they are together, and that with
mutual advantage, improvement, and development.
Essential humanity is deeper than the accidents of
individuality; the common is more powerful than the
peculiar; and the honest heart will always be learning
to act more and more in accordance with the laws of
its being. It must be of much more consequence to
any lady that her husband should be a man on whose
word she can depend than that he should be of a
gracious presence. But if instead of coming nearer
to a true understanding of each other, the two should
from the first keep falling asunder, then something
tragic may almost be looked for.
Duncan and Lucy Dempster were a couple the
very mention of whose Christian names together would
have seemed amusing to the friends who had long
ceased to talk of their unfitness. Indeed, I doubt if
in their innermost privacy they ever addressed each
other except as Mr. and Mrs. Dempster. For the first
time to see them together, no one could help wonder-
ing how the conjunction could have been effected.
Dempster was of Scotch descent, but the hereditary
high cheek-bone seemed to have got into his nose,


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
111
which was too heavy a pendant for the low forehead
from which it hung. About an inch from the end it
took a swift and unexpected curve downwards, and
was a curious and abnormal nose, which could not
properly be assorted with any known class of noses.
A long upper lip, a large, firm, and not quite ugly
mouth, with a chin both long and square, completed
a face which, with its low forehead, being yet longer
than usual, had a particularly equine look. He was
rather under the middle height, slender, and well
enough made—altogether an ordinary mortal, known
on 'Change as an able, keen, and laborious man of
business. What his special business was I do not
know. He went to the city by the eight o'clock
omnibus every morning, dived into a court, entered a
little square, rushed up two flights of stairs to a
couple of rooms, and sat down in the back one be-
fore an office table on a hair-seated chair. It was a
dingy place—not so dirty as it looked, I daresay.
Even the windows, being of bad glass, did, I believe,
look dirtier than they were. It was a place where, so
far as the eye of an outsider could tell, much or no-
thing might be doing. Its occupant always wore his
hat in it, and his hat always looked shabby. Some
people said he was rich, others that he would be one
day. Some said he was a responsible man, whatever
the epithet may have been intended to mean. I be-
lieve he was quite as honest as the recognized laws
of his trade demanded—and for how many could I
say more? Nobody said he was avaricious—but then
he moved amongst men whose very notion was first
to make money, after that to be religious, or to enjoy
themselves, as the case might be. And no one either


II2
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
ever said of him that he was a good man, or a
generous. He was about forty years of age, looking
somehow as if he had never been younger. He had
had a fair education—better than is generally con-
sidered necessary for mercantile purposes—but it
would have been hard to discover any signs of it in
the spending of his leisure. On Sunday mornings he
went with his wife to church, and when he came
home had a good dinner, of which now and then a
friend took his share. If no stranger was present he
took his wine by himself, and went to sleep in his
easy chair of marone-coloured leather, while his wife
sat on the other side of the fire if it was winter, or a
little way off by the open window if it was summer,
gently yawned now and then, and looked at him with
eyes a little troubled. Then he went off again by the
eight o'clock omnibus on Monday morning, and not an
idea more or less had he in his head, not a hair's-
breadth of difference was there in his conduct or pur-
suits, that he had been to church and had spent the
day out of business. That may, however, for anything
I know, have been as much the clergyman's fault as
his. He was the sort of man you might call machine-
made, one in whom humanity, if in no wise cari-
catured, was yet in no wise ennobled.
His wife was ten years younger than he-hardly
less than beautiful-only that over her countenance
seemed to have gathered a kind of haze of common-
ness. At first sight, notwithstanding, one could not
help perceiving that she was china and he was delft.
She was graceful as she sat, long-necked, slope-
shouldered, and quite as tall as her husband, with a
marked daintiness about her in the absence of the


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
113
extremes of the fashion, in the quality of the lace she
wore on her black silk dress, and in the wide white
sleeves of fine cambric that covered her arms from
the shoulder to the wrist. She had a morally delicate
air, a look of scrupulous nicety and lavender-stored
linen. She had long dark lashes; and when they rose,
the eyelids revealed eyes of uncommon beauty. She
had good features, good teeth, and a good complexion.
The main feeling she produced and left was of lady-
hood—little more.
Sunday afternoon came fifty-two times in the year.
I mention this because then always, and nearly then
only, could one calculate on seeing them together. It
came to them in a surbub of London, and the look of
it was dull. Doubtless Mr. Dempster's dinner and his
repose after it were interesting to him, but I. cannot
help thinking his wife found it dreary. She had, how-
ever, got used to it. The house was a good old one,
of red brick, much larger than they required, but not
expensive, and had a general look of the refinement
of its mistress. In the summer the windows of the
dining-room would generally be open, for they looked
into a really lovely garden behind the house, and the
scent of the jasmine that crept all around them would
come in plentyfully. I wonder what the scent of
jasmine did in Duncan Dempster's world. Perhaps it
never got farther than the general ante-chamber of
the sensorium. It often made his wife sad—she could
not tell why. To him I daresay it smelt agreeable,
but I can hardly believe it ever woke in him that
dreamy sensation it gave her—of something she had
not had enough of, she could not say what. When
the heat was gone off a little he would walk out on
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 8


H4
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
the lawn, which was well kept and well watered, with
many flowering shrubs about it. Why he did so, I
cannot tell. He looked at nothing in particular, only
walked about for a few minutes, no doubt derived
some pleasure of a mild nature from something, and
walked in again to tea. One might have expected
he would have cultivated the acquaintance of his
garden a little, if it were only for the pleasure the
contrast would give him when he got back to his
loved office, for a greater contrast could not well have
been found than between his dingy dreary haunt on
week-days—a place which nothing but duty could
have made other than repugnant to any free soul—
and this nest of greenery and light and odour. Sweet
scents floated in clouds invisible about the place;
flower eyes and stars and bells and bunches shone
and glowed and lurked all around; his very feet might
have learned a lesson of that which is beyond the
sense from the turf he trod; but all the time, if he
were not exactly seeing in his mind's eye the walls
and tables of his office in the City square, his
thoughts were not the less brooding over such busi-
ness as he there transacted. For Mr. Dempster's was
not a free soul. How could it be when all his
energies were given to making money? This he
counted his calling—and I believe actually contrived
to associate some feeling of duty with the notion of
leaving behind him a plump round sum of money, as
if money in accumulation and following flood, instead
of money in peaceful current, were the good thing for
the world! Hence the whole realm of real life, the
universe of thought and growth, was a high-hedged
park to him, within which he never even tried to


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
115
look—not even knowing that he was shut out from it,
for the hedge was of his own growing. What shall
ever wake such a man to a sense of indwelling
poverty, or make him begin to hunger after any
lowliest expansion? Does a reader retort, "The man
was comfortable, and why should he be troubled?"
If the end of being, I answer, is only comfort in self,
I yield. But what if there should be at the heart of
the universe a Thought to which the being of such
men is distasteful? What if to that Thought they
look blots in light, ugly things? May there not lie in
that direction some possible reason why they should
bethink themselves? Dempster, however, was not yet
a clinker out of which all the life was burned, how-
ever much he looked like one. There was in him
that which might yet burn—and give light and heat.
On the Sunday evenings Mrs. Dempster would
have gladly gone to church again, if only—though to
herself she never allowed this for one of her reasons
—to slip from under the weight of her husband's
presence. He seldom spoke to her more than a sen-
tence at a time, but he did like to have her near
him, and I suppose held, through the bare presence,
some kind of dull one-sided communication with her;
what did a woman know about business? and what
did he know about except business? It is true he had
a rudimentary pleasure in music—and would some-
times ask her to play to him, when he would listen,
and after his fashion enjoy. But although here was a
gift that might be developed until his soul could echo
the music of the spheres, the embodied souls of Handel
or Mendelssohn were to him but clouds of sound
wrapped about kernels—let me say of stock or bonds.
8*


I 16 THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
For a year or so after their marriage it had been
the custom that, the first thing after breakfast on
Monday morning, she should bring him her account-
book, that they might together go over her week's ex-
penses. She must cultivate the business habits in
which, he said, he found her more than deficient.
How could he endure in a wife what would have been
preposterous in a clerk, and would have led to his
immediate dismissal? It was in his eyes necessary
that the same strict record of receipt and expenditure
should be kept in the household as in the office; how
else was one to know in what direction things were
going? he said. He required of his wife, therefore,
that every individual thing that cost money, even to
what she spent upon her own person, should be en-
tered in her book. She had no money of her own,
neither did he allow her any special sum for her
private needs; but he made her a tolerably liberal
weekly allowance, from which she had to pay every-
thing except house-rent and taxes, an arrangement
which I cannot believe a good one, as it will inevit-
ably lead some conscientious wives to self-denial
severer than necessary, and on the other hand will
tempt the vulgar nature to make a purse for herself
by mean savings off everybody else. It was especially
distasteful to Mrs. Dempster to have to set down every
little article of personal requirement that she bought.
It would probably have seemed to her but a trifle had
they both been young when they married, and had
there been that tenderness of love between them
which so soon sets everything more than right; but as
it was, she could never get over the feeling that the
man was strange to her. As it was she would have


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
117
got over this. But there was in her a certain con-
stitutional lack of precision, combined with a want of
energy and a weakness of will, that rendered her more
than careless where her liking was not interested.
Hence, while she would have been horrified at playing
a wrong note or singing out of tune, she not only had
no anxiety, for the thing's own sake, to have her ac-
counts correct, but shrunk from every effort in that
direction. Now I can perfectly understand her recoil
from the whole affair, with her added dislike to the
smallness of the thing required of her; but seeing she
did begin with doing it after a fashion, it is not so
easy to understand why, doing it, she should not make
a consolation of doing it with absolute exactness. Not
even her dread of her husband's dissatisfaction—
which was by no means small—could prevail to make
her, instead of still trusting a memory that constantly
played her false, put down a thing at once, nor post-
pone it to a far less convenient season. Hence it
came that her accounts, though never much out, never
balanced; and the weekly audit, while it grew more
and more irksome to the one, grew more and more
unsatisfactory to the other. For to Mr. Dempster's
dusty eyes exactitude wore the robe of rectitude, and
before long, precisely and merely from the continued
unsatisfactory condition of her accounts, he began, in
a hidden corner of his righteous soul, to reflect on
the moral condition of his wife herself as unsatisfac-
tory. Now such it certainly was, but he was not the
man to judge it correctly, or to perceive the true
significance of her failing. In business, while scrupul-
ous as to the requirements of custom and recognized
right, he nevertheless did things from which her soul


120
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
And as to Mrs. Dempster, I am sorry for the ap-
parent justification which what I have to confess con-
cerning her must give to the severe whims of such
husbands as hers: from that very Monday morning she
began to grow a little careless about her expenditure
—which she had never been before. By degrees bill
after bill was allowed to filch from the provision of
the following week, and when that was devoured, then
from that of the week after. It was not that she was
in the least more expensive upon herself, or that she
consciously wasted anything; but, altogether averse to
housekeeping, she ceased to exercise the same out-
look upon the expenditure of the house, did not keep
her horses together, left the management more and
more to her cook; while the consciousness that she
was not doing her duty made her more and more un-
comfortable, and the knowledge that things were going
farther and farther wrong, made her hate the idea of
accounts worse and worse, until she came at length to
regard them with such a loathing as might have fitted
some extreme of moral evil. The bills which were
supposed by her husband to be regularly settled every
week were at last months behind, and the week's
money spent in meeting the most pressing of its de-
mands, while what it could no longer cover was cast
upon the growing heap of evil for the time to come.
I must say this for her, however, that there was a
small sum of money she expected on the death of a
crazy aunt, which, if she could but lay hold of it with-
out her husband's knowledge, she meant to devote to
the clearing off of everything, when she vowed to her-
self to do better in the time to come.
The worst thing in it all was that her fear of her


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
121
husband kept increasing, and that she felt more and
more uncomfortable in his presence. Hence that
troubled look in her eye, always more marked when
her husband sat dozing in his chair of a Sunday after-
noon.
It was natural, too, that, although they never quar-
relled, their intercourse should not grow of a more
tender character. Seldom was there a salient point
in their few scattered sentences of conversation, ex-
cept, indeed, it were some piece of news either had
to communicate. Occasionally the wife read some-
thing from the newspaper, but never except at her
husband's request. In general he enjoyed his news-
paper over a chop at his office. Two or three times
since their marriage—now eight years—he had made
a transient resolve pointing at the improvement of her
mind, and to that end had taken from his great glass-
armoured bookcase some standard work—invariably, I
believe, upon party-politics—from which he had made
her read him a chapter. But, unhappily, she had
always got to the end of it without gaining the slightest
glimmer of a true notion of what the author was driv-
ing at.
It almost moves me to pity to think of the vague-
ness of that rudimentary humanity in Mr. Dempster
which made him dream of doing something to im-
prove his wife's mind. What did he ever do to im-
prove his own? It is hard to understand how horses
find themselves so comfortable in their stables that,
be the day ever so fine, the country ever so lovely,
the air ever so exhilarating, they are always rejoiced
to get back into their dull twilight: it is harder to me
to understand how Mr. Dempster could be so com-


122
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
fortable in his own mind that he never wanted to get
out of it, even at the risk of being beside himself;
but no doubt the dimness of its twilight had a good
deal to do with his content. And then there is that
in every human mind which no man's neighbour, nay,
no man himself, can understand. My neighbour may
in his turn be regarding my mind as a gloomy place
to live in, while I find it no undesirable residence—
though chiefly because of the number of windows it
affords me for looking out of it. Still, if Dempster's
dingy office in the City was not altogether a sufficing
type of the mind that used it, I consider it a very
fairly good one.
But wherein was Mrs. Dempster so very different
from her husband as I rudely fancy some of my
readers imagining her? Whatever may have been her
reasons for marrying him—one would suppose they
must have been weighty—to do so she must have
been in a very undeveloped condition, and in that
condition she still remained. I do not mean that she
was less developed than ninty-nine out of the hundred:
most women affect me only as valuable crude material
out of which precious things are making. How much
they might be, must be, shall be! For now they stand
like so many Lot's-wives—so many rough-hewn marble
blocks, rather, of which a Divinity is shaping the ends.
Mrs. Dempster had all the making of a lovely woman,
but notwithstanding her grace, her beauty, her sweet-
ness, her lark-like ballading too, she was a very ordi-
nary woman in that region of her which knew what
she meant when she said "I." Of this fact she had
hardly a suspicion, however; for until aspiration brings
humility, people are generally pretty well satisfied


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
123
with themselves, having no idea what poor creatures
they are. She saw in her mirror a superior woman,
regarded herself as one of the finer works of creation.
The worst was that from the first she had counted
herself superior to her husband, and in marrying him
had felt not merely that she was conferring a favour,
which every husband would allow, but that she was
lowering herself without elevating him. Now it is true
that she was pleasanter to look at, that her manners
were sweeter, and her notions of the becoming far
less easily satisfied than his; also that she was a little
less deficient in vague reverence for certain forms of
the higher than he. But I know of nothing in her to
determine her classification as of greater value than
he, except indeed that she was on the whole rather
more honest. She read novels and he did not; she
passed shallow judgment, where he scorned to judge;
she read all the middling poetry that came in her
way, and copied books full of it; but she could no
more have appreciated one of Milton's or Shakspere's
smallest poems than she could have laughed over a
page of Chinese. She liked to hear this and that
popular preacher, and when her husband called his
sermons humbug, she heard it with a shocked coun-
tenance; but was she better or worse than her hus-
band when, admiring them as she did, she permitted
them to have no more influence upon her conduct
than if they had been the merest humbug ever ut-
tered by ambitious demagogue? In truth, I cannot
see that in the matter of worth there was much as
yet to choose between them.
It is hardly necessary, then, to say that there was
little appreciable approximation of any kind going on


124
THE BUT CHER'S BILLS.
between them. If only they would have read Dickens
together! Who knows what might have come of it!
But this dull close animal proximity, without the
smallest conscious nearness of heart or mind or soul
—and so little chance, from very lack of wants, for
showing each other kindnesses—surely it is a killing
sort of thing! And yet, and yet, there is always a
something—call it habit, or any poorest name you
please—grows up between two who are much to-
gether, at least when they neither quarrel nor thwart
each other's designs, which, tending with its roots to-
wards the deeper human, blossoms into—a wretched
little flower indeed, yet afar off partaking of the nature
of love. The Something seldom reveals its existence
until they are parted. I suspect that with not a few,
Death is the love-messenger at the stroke of whose
dart the stream of love first begins to flow in the
selfish bosom.
It is now necessary to mention a little break in
the monotony of Mrs. Dempster's life, which, but for
what came afterwards, could claim no record. One
morning her page announced Major Strong, and pos-
sibly she received the gentleman who entered with a
brighter face than she had ever shown her husband.
The major had just arrived from India. He had been
much at her father's house while she was yet a mere
girl, being then engaged to one of her sisters, who
died after he went abroad, and before he could re-
turn to marry her. He was now a widower, a fine-
looking, frank, manly fellow. The expression of his
countenance was little altered, and the sight of him
revived in the memory of Mrs. Dempster many recol-
lections of a happy girlhood, when the prospect of


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS. 125
such a life as she now led with tolerable content would
have seemed simply unendurable. When her husband
came home she told him as much as he cared to
hear of the visitor she had had, and he made no ob-
jection to her asking him to dine the next Sunday.
When he arrived Mr. Dempster saw a man of his own
age, bronzed and big, with not much waist left, but a
good carriage and pleasant face. He made himself
agreeable at dinner, appreciated his host's wine, and
told good stories that pleased the business man as
showing that he knew "what was what." He accorded
him his more particular approval, speaking to his
wife, on the ground that he was a man of the world,
with none of the army slang about him. Mr. Demp-
ster was not aware that he had himself more business
peculiarities than any officer in her majesty's service
had military ones.
After this Major Strong frequently called upon
Mrs. Dempster. They were good friends, and did
each other no harm whatever, and the husband neither
showed nor felt the least jealousy. They sang to-
gether, occasionally went out shopping, and three or
four times went together to the play. Mr. Dempster,
so long as he had his usual comforts, did not pine in
his wife's absence, but did show a little more pleasure
when she came home to him than usually when he
came home to her. This lasted for a few months.
Then the major went back to India, and for a time
the lady missed him a good deal, which, considering
the dulness of her life, was not very surprising or
reprehensible.


THE BCTCHEE.rS BILLS.
CHAPTER II.
AS ASTONISHMENT.
Now comes the strange part of my story.
One evening the housemaid opened the door to
Mr. Dempster on his return from the city; and per-
haps the fact that it was the maid, and not the page
as usual, roused his observation, which, except in
business matters, was not remarkably operative. He
glanced at the young woman, when an eye far less
keen than his could not have failed to remark a
strangely excited expression on her countenance.
"Where is the boy?" he asked.
"Just run to the doctor's, sir," she answered.
Then first he remembered that when he left in
the morning his wife had not been feeling altogether
well, but he had never thought of her since.
"How is your mistress?" he said.
"She's rather poorly, sir, but—but—she's as well
as could be expected."
"What does the fool mean?" said Dempster to
himself, and very nearly said it aloud, for he was not
over polite to any in his service. But he did not say
it aloud. He advanced into the hall with deliberation,
and made for the stair.
"Oh, please sir," the maid cried in a tone of
perturbation, when, turning from shutting the door,
she saw his intention, "you can't go up to mis'ess's
room just at this minute, sir. Please go in the dining-
room, sir."
"What do you mean?" he asked, turning angrily
upon the girl, for of all things he hated mystery.


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
127
Like every one else in the house, and office both,
she stood in awe of him, and his look frightened her.
"Please go in the dining-room," she gasped entreat-
ingly.
"What!", he said and did turn towards the dining-
room, "is your mistress so ill she can't see me?"
"Oh, no, sir!—at least I don't know exactly. Cook's
with her, sir. She's over the worst, anyhow."
"What on earth do you mean, girl? Speak out,
will you? What is the matter with your mistress?"
As he spoke he stepped into the room, the maid
following him. The same moment he spied a whitish
bundle of something on the rug in front of the fire.
"What do you mean by leaving things like that
in the dining-room?" he went on more angrily still.
"Please, sir," answered the girl, going and lifting
the bundle carefully, "it's the baby!"
"The baby!" shouted Mr. Dempster, and looked
at her from head to foot. "What baby?" Then be-
thinking himself that it must belong to some visitor
in the'drawing-room with his wife, he moderated his
tone. "Make haste; take it away!" he said. "I don't
want babies here! There's a time and a place for
everything!—What are you about?"
For, instead of obeying her master and taking it
away, the maid was carefully looking in the blanket
for the baby. Having found it and turned aside the
covering from its face, she came nearer, and holding
up the little vision, about the size and colour of a roll
of red wax taper, said:—
"Look at it, sir! It's your own, and worth look-
ing at."
Never before had she dared speak to him so!


128
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
I will not venture to assert that Mr. Dempster
turned white, but his countenance changed, and he
dropped into the chair behind him, feeling less of a
business man than had been his consciousness for the
last twenty years. He was hit hard. The absolutely
incredible had hit him. Babies might be born in a
day, but surely not without previous preparation on
the part of nature at least, if not on that of the
mother; and in this case if the mother had prepared
herself, certainly she had not prepared him for the
event. It was as if the treasure of Nature's germens
were tumbling all together. His head swam. He
could not speak a word.
"Yes, sir," the maid went on, relieved of her
trepidation in perceiving that her master too was
mortal, and that her word had such power over him
—proud also of knowing more of his concerns than he
did himself, "she was took about an hour and a half
ago. We've kep' sendin' an' sendin' after the doctor,
but he ain't never been yet; only cook, she knows a
deal an' she says she's been very bad, sir. But the
young gentleman come at last, bless him! and now
she's doin' as well as could be expected, sir—cook
says."
"God bless me!" said the astonished father, and
relapsed into the silence of bewilderment.
Eight years married with never a glimmer of off-
spring—and now, all at once, and without a whisper
of warning, the father of a "young gentleman!" How
could it be other than perplexing—discomposing, in-
deed!—yet it was right pleasant too. Only it would
have been more pleasant if experience could have
justified the affair! Nature—no, not Nature—or, if


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
the side of the carriage, while it was jumbled along
by the maddened horses, was, "What do bishops do
in such circumstances?" Equally perplexing was the
question Dempster had to ask himself: how husbands
who, after being married eight years, suddenly and
unexpectedly received the gift of a first-born, were in
the habit of comporting themselves! He poured him-
self out another glass, and with it came the reflection,
both amusing and consoling, that his brother, who was
confidently expecting his tidy five figures to crown the
earthly bliss of one or more of his large family some
day, would be equally but less agreeably surprised.
"Serve him right!" he said to himself. "What busi-
ness have they to be looking out for my death?"
And for a moment the heavens appeared a little more
just than he was ordinarily in the habit of regarding
them. He said to himself he would work harder than
ever now. There would now be some good in making
money! He had never given his mind to it yet, he
said: now the world should see what he could do
when he did give his mind to it!
Hitherto gathering had been his main pleasure,
but with the thought of his money would now not
seldom be mingled the thought of the little thing in
the blanket! He began to find himself strangely
happy. I use the wrong phrase—for the fact is, he
had never yet found himself at all; he knew nothing
of the person except a self-painted and immensely
flattered portrait that hung in the innermost chamber
of his heart—I mean the innermost chamber he knew
anything of: there were many chambers there of which
he did not even know the doors. Yet a few minutes
as he sat there, and he was actually cherishing a little


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
pride in the wife who had done so much better for
him than he had at length come to expect. If not a
good accountant, she was at least a good wife, and a
very fair housekeeper: he had no doubt she would
prove a good mother. He would gladly have gone to
her at once, to let her know how much he was pleased
with her behaviour. As for that little bit of red clay
—"terra cotta," he called it to himself, as he looked
round with a smile at the blanket, which the house-
maid had replaced on the rug before the fire—who
could imagine him a potentate upon 'Change—per-
haps in time a director of European affairs! He was
not in the way of joking—of all things about money;
the very thought of business filled him from top to
toe with seriousness; but he did make that small joke,
and accompany it with a grim smile.
He was startled from his musing by the entrance
of the doctor, who had in the meantime arrived and
seen the lady, and now came to look at the baby. He
congratulated Mr. Dempster on having at length a son
and heir, but warned him that his wife was far from
being beyond danger yet. The whole thing was en-
tirely out of the common, he said, and she must be
taken the greatest possible care of. The words woke
a gentle pity in the heart of the man, for by nature
all men have some tenderness for women in such cir-
cumstances, but they did not trouble him greatly—
for such dangers belonged to their calling, their busi-
ness in life, and, doubtless, if she had attended to that
business earlier she would have found it easier.
"Did you ever know such a thing before, doctor?"
he asked, with the importance of one honoured by a
personal visit from the Marvellous,
9*


132
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
"Never in my own practice," answered the doctor,
whom the cook had instructed in the wonders of the
case, "but I have read of such a thing." And Mr.
Dempster swelled like a turkey-cock.
It was several days before he was allowed to see
the mother. Perhaps had she expressed a strong de-
sire to see him, it might have been risked sooner, but
she had neither expressed nor manifested any. He
kissed her, spoke a few stupid words in a kind tone,
asking her how she did, but paying no heed to her
answer, and turned aside to look at the baby.
Mrs. Dempster recovered but slowly, and not very
satisfactorily. She did not seem to care much about
the child. She tried to nurse him, but was not very
successful. She took him when the nurse brought
him, and yielded him again with the same indifference,
showing neither pleasure to receive nor unwillingness
to part with him. The nurse did not fail to observe
it and remark upon it: she had never seen a mother
care so little for her child! there was little of the
mother in her any way! it was no wonder she was so
long about it. It troubled the father a little that she
should not care for his child: some slight fermenta-
tion had commenced in the seemingly dead mass of
human affection that had lain so long neglected in
his being, and it seemed strange to him that, while
he was living for the child in the City, she should be
so indifferent to him at home. For already he had
begun to keep his vow, already his greater keenness
in business was remarked in the City. But it boded
little good for either that the gift of God should stir
up in him the worship of Mammon. More sons are


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
133
damned by their fathers' money than by anything else
whatever outside of themselves.
There was the excuse to be made for Mrs. Dempster
that she continued far from strong—and her husband
made it: he would have made it more heartily if he
had himself ever in his life known what it was to be
ill. By degrees she grew stronger, however, until, to
persons who had not known her before, she would
have seemed in tolerable health. For a week or two
after she was again going about the house, she con-
tinued to nurse the baby, but after that she became
unable to do so, and therewith began to neglect him
entirely. She never asked to see him, and when the
nurse brought him would turn her head aside, and
tell her to take it away. So far from his being a
pleasure to her, the very sight of the child brought
the hot dew upon her forehead. Her husband frowned
and wondered, but, unaccustomed to open his mind
either to her or to any one else, not unwisely sought
to understand the thing before speaking of it, and in
the meantime commenced a genuine attempt to make
up to the baby for his mother's neglect. Almost with-
out a notion how even to take him in his arms, he
would now send for him the moment he had had his
tea, and after a fashion, ludicrous in the eyes of the
nurse, would dandle and caress him, and strut about
with him before his wife, glancing up at her every
now and then, to point the lesson that such was the
manner in which a parent ought to behave to a child.
In his presence she never made any active show of
her dislike, but her look seemed all the time fixed on
something far away, as if she had nothing to do with
the affair.


134
THE BUTCHER'S DILLS.
CHAPTER III.
ANOTHER ASTONISHMENT.
But a second and very different astonishment
awaited Mr. Dempster. Again one evening, on his re-
turn from the City, he saw a strange look on the face
of the girl who opened the door—but this time it was
a look of fear.
"Well?" he said, in a tone at once alarmed and
peremptory.
She made no answer, but turned whiter than be-
fore.
"Where is your mistress?" he demanded.
"Nobody knows, sir," she answered.
"Nobody knows! What would you have me under-
stand by such an answer?"
"It's the bare truth, sir. Nobody knows where
she is."
"God bless me!" cried the husband. "What does
it all mean?"
And again he sunk down upon a chair—this time
in the hall, and stared at the girl as if waiting further
enlightenment.
But there was little enough to be had. Only one
point was clear: his wife was nowhere to be found.
He sent for every one in the house, and cross-ques-
tioned each to discover the last occasion on which
she had been seen. It was some time since she had
been missed; how long before that she had been seen
there was no certainty to be had. He ran to the
doctor, then from one to another of her acquaintance,
then to her mother, who lived on the opposite side of


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
135
London. She, like the rest, could tell him nothing.
In her anxiety she would have gone back with him,
but he was surly, and would not allow her. It was
getting towards morning before he reached home, but
no relieving news awaited him. What to think was
as much a perplexity to him as what to do. He was
not in the agony in which a man would have been
who thoroughly loved his wife, but he cared enough
about her to feel uncomfortable; and the cries of the
child, who was suffering from some ailment, made him
miserable: in his perplexity and dull sense of help-
lessness he wondered whether she might not have
given the baby poison before she went. Then the
thing would make such a talk! and, of all things,
Duncan Dempster hated being talked about. How
busy people's brains would be with all his affairs!
How many explanations of the mystery would be sug-
gested on 'Change! Some would say, "What business
had a man like him with a fine lady for a wife? one
so much younger than himself too!" He could re-
member making the same remark of another, before
he was married. "Served him right!" they would say.
And with that the first movement of suspicion awoke
in him—purely and solely from his own mind's reflec-
tion of the imagined minds of others. While in his
mind's ear he heard them talking, almost before he
knew what they meant the words came to him:
"There was that Major Strong, you know!"
"She's gone to him!" he cried aloud, and, spring-
ing from the bed on which he had thrown himself,
he paced the chamber in a fury. He had no word
for it but hers that he was now in India! They had
only been waiting till—By heaven, that child was none


136
THE BUTCHER'S BELLS.
of his! And therewith rushed into his mind the con-
viction that everything was thus explained. No man
ever yet entertained an unhappy suspicion, but straight-
way an army of proofs positive came crowding to the
service of the lie. It is astounding with what mani-
fest probability everything will fall in to prove that a
fact which has no foundation whatever! There is no
end to the perfection with which a man may fool
himself while taking absolute precautions against be-
ing fooled by others. Every fact, being a living fact,
has endless sides and relations; but of all these, the
man whose being hangs upon one thought, will see
only those sides and relations which fall in with that
thought. Dempster even recalled the words of the
maid, "It's mis'ess's," as embodying the girl's belief
that it was not master's. Where a man, whether by
nature jealous or not, is in a jealous condition, there
is no need of an Iago to parade before him the proofs
of his wrong. It was because Shakespere would
neither have Desdemona less than perfect, nor Othello
other than the most trusting and least suspicious of
men, that he had to invent an all but incredible vil-
lain to effect the needful catastrophe.
But why should a man, who has cared so little for
his wife, become instantly, upon the bare suspicion,
so utter a prey to consuming misery? There was a
character in his suffering which could not be at-
tributed to any degree of anger, shame, or dread of
ridicule. The truth was, there lay in his being a pos-
sibility of love to his wife far beyond anything his
miserably stunted consciousness had an idea of; and
the conviction of her faithlessness now wrought upon
him in the office of Death, to let him know what he


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
137
had lost. It magnified her beauty in his eyes, her
gentleness, her grace; and he thought with a pang
how little he had made of her or it.
But the next moment wrath at the idea of another
man's child being imposed upon him as his, with the
consequent loss of his precious money, swept every
other feeling before it. For by law the child was his,
whoever might be the father of it. During a whole
minute he felt on the point of tying a stone about its
neck, carrying it out, and throwing it into the river
Lea. Then, with the laugh of a hyena, he set about
arranging in his mind the proofs of her guilt. First
came eight childless years with himself; next the
concealment of her condition, and the absurd pre-
tence that she had known nothing of it; then the
trouble of mind into which she had fallen; then her
strange unnatural aversion to her own child; and now,
last of all, conclusive of a guilty conscience, her flight
from his house. He would give himself no trouble to
find her; why should he search after his own shame!
He would neither attempt to conceal nor to explain
the fact that she had left him—people might say
what they pleased—try him for murder if they liked!
As to the child she had so kindly left to console him
for her absence, he would not drown him, neither
would he bring him up in his house; he would give
him an ordinary education, and apprentice him to a
trade. For his money, he would leave it to a hospital
—a rich one, able to defend his will if disputed. For
what was the child? A monster—a creature that had
no right to existence!
Not one of those who knew him best would have
believed him capable of being so moved, nor did one


138
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
of them now know it, for he hid his suffering with the
success of a man not unaccustomed to make a mask
of his face. There are not a few men who, except
something of the nature of a catastrophe befall them,
will pass through life without having or affording a
suspicion of what is in them. Everything hitherto
had tended to suppress the live elements of Duncan
Dempster; but now, like the fire of a volcano in a
land of ice, the vitality in him had begun to show
itself.
Sheer weariness drove him, as the morning began
to break, to lie down again; but he neither undressed
nor slept, and rose at his usual hour. When he
entered the dining-room, where breakfast was laid as
usual—only for one instead of two—he found by his
plate, among letters addressed to his wife, a packet
directed to himself. It had not been through the post,
and the address was in his wife's hand. He opened
it. A sheet of paper was wrapped around a roll of
unpaid butcher's bills, amounting to something like
eighty pounds, and a note from the butcher craving
immediate settlement. On the sheet of paper was
written, also in his wife's hand, these words: "I am
quite unworthy of being your wife any longer;" that
was all.
Now here, to a man who had loved her enough to
understand her, was a clue to the whole—to Dempster
it was the strongest possible confirmation of what he
had already concluded. To him it appeared as certain
as anything he called truth, that for years, while
keeping a fair face to her husband—a man who had
never refused her anything—he did not recall the fact
that almost never had she asked or he offered any-


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
thing—she had been deceiving him, spending money
she would not account for, pretending to pay every-
thing when she had been ruining his credit with the
neighbourhood, making him, a far richer man than
any but himself knew, appear to be living beyond his
means, when he was every month investing far more
than he spent. It was injury upon injury! Then, as
a last mark of her contempt, she had taken pains that
these beggarly butcher's bills should reach him from
her own hand! He would trouble himself about such
a woman not a moment longer!
He went from breakfast to his omnibus as usual,
walked straight to his office, and spent the day ac-
cording to custom. I need hardly say that the first
thing he did was to write a cheque for the butcher.
He made no further inquiry after her whatever, nor
was any made of him there, for scarcely one of the
people with whom he did business had been to his
house, or had even seen his wife.
In the suburb where he lived it was different; but
he paid no heed to any inquiry, beyond saying he
knew nothing about her. To her relatives he said
that if they wanted her they might find her for them-
selves. She had gone to please herself, and he was
not going to ruin himself by running about the world
after her.
Night after night he came home to his desolate
house; took no comfort from his child; made no con-
fession that he stood in need of comfort. But he had
a dull sensation as if the sun had forsaken the world,
and an endless night had begun. The simile, of
course, is mine—the sensation only was his; he could


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS, 141
CHAPTER IV.
WHAT IT MEANT.
Some of my readers, perhaps all of them, will
have concluded that Mrs. Dempster was a little out
of her mind. Such, indeed, was the fact, and one not
greatly to be wondered at, after such a peculiar ex-
perience as she had had. Some small degree of con-
gestion, and the consequent pressure on some portion
of the brain, had sent certain faculties to sleep, and,
perhaps, roused others into morbid activity. That it
is impossible to tell where sanity ends and insanity
begins, is a trite remark indeed; but like many things
which it is useless to say, it has the more need to be
thought of. If I yield to an impulse of which I know
I shall be ashamed, is it not the act of a madman?
And may not the act lead to a habit, and at length
to a despised, perhaps feared and hated, old age,
twisting at the ragged ends of a miserable life?
However certain it is that mental disorder had to
do with Mrs. Dempster's departure from her home, it
is almost as certain she would never have gone had
it not been for the unpaid bills haunting her con-
sciousness, a combination of demon and ghost. The
misery had all the time been growing upon her, and
must have had no small share in the subversion of
her microcosm. When that was effected, the evil
thing that lay at the root of it all rose and pounced
upon her. Wrong is its own avenger. She had been
doing wrong, and knowingly for years, and now the
plant of evil was blossoming towards its fruit. If one
say the evil was but a trifle, I take her judgment, not
his, upon that. She had been lazy towards duty, had


142
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
persistently turned aside from what she knew to be
her business, until she dared not even look at it.
And now that the crisis was at hand, as omened by
that letter from the butcher, with the sense of her
wrong-doing was mingled the terror of her husband.
What would he think, say, and do? Not yet had she,
after all these years,. any deep insight into his cha-
racter; else perhaps she might have read there that,
much as he loved money, the pleasure of seeing signal
failure follow the neglect of his instructions would
quite compensate him for the loss. What the bills
amounted to, she had not an idea. Not until she had
made up her mind to leave her home could she
muster the courage to get them together. Then she
even counted up the total and set down the sum in
her memory—which sum thereafter haunted her like
the name of her devil.
As to the making up of her mind—she could re-
member very little of that process—or indeed of the
turning of her resolve into action. She left the house
in the plainest dress her wardrobe could afford her,
and with just one half-crown in her pocket. Her de-
sign was to seek a situation, as a refuge from her
husband and his wrath. It was a curious thing, that,
while it gave her no trouble to leave her baby, whom
indeed she had not that day seen, and to whom for
some time she had ceased to be necessary, her only
notion was to get a place as nurse.
At that time, I presume, there were few or no such
offices for engaging servants as are now common; at
all events, the plan Mrs. Dempster took, when she had
reached a part of London she judged sufficiently distant
for her purpose, was to go from shop to shop inquiring


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
143
after a situation. But she met with no prospect of
success, and at last, greatly in need of rest and re-
freshment, went into a small coffee shop. The woman
who kept it was taken by her appearance, her manners,
and her evident trouble, and, happening to have heard
of a lady who wanted a nurse, gave her the address.
She went at once, and applied for the place. The
lady was much pleased with her, and agreed to take
her, provided she received a satisfactory character of
her. For such a demand Mrs. Dempster was unpre-
pared; she had never thought what reference she could
give, and, her resources for deception easily exhausted,
gave, driven to extremity, the name and address of her
mother. So met the extremes of loss and salvation!
She returned to the coffee shop, and the lady wrote
at once to the address of the young woman's late
mistress, as she supposed.
The kindness of her new friend was not exhausted;
she gave her a share of her own bed that night, Mrs.
Dempster had now but two shillings, which she offered
her, promising to pay her the rest out of the first wages
she received. But the good woman would take no
more than one of them, and that in full payment of
what she owed her, and Mrs. Dempster left the shop
in tears, to linger about the neighbourhood until the
hour should arrive at which the lady had told her to
call again. Apparently she must have cherished the
hope that her mother, divining her extremity, would
give her the character she could honestly claim. But
as she drew near the door which she hoped would
prove a refuge, her mother was approaching it also,
and at the turning of a corner they ran into each
other's arms. The elderly lady had a hackney coach


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
145
They were to have more of this indulgence, how-
ever, than, for her sake, they would have desired, for
before morning she was very ill. She had brain fever,
in fact, and they had their hands full, especially as
they desired to take every precaution to prevent the
neighbourhood from knowing there was any one but
themselves in the house.
It was a severe attack, but she passed the crisis
favourably, and began to recover. One morning, after
a quieter night than usual, she called her mother, and
told her she had had a strange dream—that she had
a baby somewhere, but could not find him, and was
wandering about looking for him.
"Wasn't it a curious dream, mamma?" she said.
"I wish it were a true one. I knew exactly what my
baby was like, and went into house after house full of
children, sure that I could pick him out of thousands.
I was just going up to the door of the Foundling
Hospital to look for him there when I woke."
As she ceased, a strange trouble passed like a
cloud over her forehead and eyes, and her hand, worn
almost transparent by the fever, followed it over fore-
head and eyes. She seemed trying to recall some-
thing forgotten. But her mother thought it better to
say nothing.
Each of the two nights following she had the same
dream.
"Three times, mother," she said. "I am not super-
stitious, as you know, but I can't help feeling as if it
must mean something. I don't know what to make of
it else—except it be that I haven't got over the fever
yet. And, indeed, I am afraid my head is not quite
right, for I can't be sure sometimes, such a hold has
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. IO


146
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
my dream of me, that I haven't got a baby somewhere
about the world. Give me your hand, mother, and
sing to me."
Still her mother thought it more prudent to say
nothing, and do what she could to divert her thoughts;
for she judged it must be better to let her brain come
right, as it were, of itself.
In the middle of the next night she woke her with
a cry.
"O, mother, mother! I know it all now. I am
not out of my mind any more. How I came here I
cannot tell—but I know I have a husband and a baby
at Hackney—and—oh, such a horrible roll of butcher's
bills!"
"Yes, yes, my dear! I know all about it," answered
her mother. "But never mind; you can pay them all
yourself now, for I heard only yesterday that your aunt
Lucy is dead, and has left you the hundred pounds
she promised you twenty years ago."
"Oh, bless her!" cried Mrs. Dempster, springing
out of bed, much to the dismay of her mother, who
boded a return of the fever. "I must go home to my
baby at once. But tell me all about it, mamma. How
did I come here? I seem to remember being in a
carriage with you, and that is the last I know."
Then, upon condition that she got into bed at once,
and promised not to move until she gave her leave,
her mother consented to tell her all she knew. She
listened in silence, with face flushed and eyes glowing,
but drank a cooling draught, lay down again, and at
daybreak was fast asleep. When she awoke she was
herself again.


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
147
CHAPTER V.
WHAT CAME OF IT.
Meantime, things were going, as they should, in
rather a dull fashion with Duncan Dempster. His
chariot wheels were gone, and he drove heavily. The
weather was good; he seldom failed of the box-seat
on the omnibus; a ray of light, the first he had ever
seen there, visited his table, reflected from a new
window on the opposite side of a court into the heart
of his dismal back office; and best of all, business was
better than usual. Yet was Dempster not cheerful.
He was not, indeed, a man an acquaintance would
ever have thought of calling cheerful; but in grays
there are gradations; and however differently a man's
barometer may be set from those of other people, it
has its ups and downs, its fair weather and foul. But
not yet had he an idea how much his mental equi-
librium had been dependent upon the dim conscious-
ness of having that quiet uninterested wife in the
comfortable house at Hackney. It had been stronger
than it seemed, the spidery, invisible line connecting
that office and that house, along which had run twice
a day the hard dumpling that dwelt in Mr. Dempster's
bosom. Vaguely connected with that home after all
must have been that endless careful gathering of trea-
sure in the city; for now, though he could no more
stop making money than he could stop breathing, it
had not the same interest as formerly. Indeed, he had
less interest than before in keeping his lungs themselves
going. But he kept on doing everything as usual.
Not one of the men he met ever said a word to
him about his wife. The general impression was that
io»


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
she had left him for preferable society, and no one
wondered at her throwing aside such "a dry old stick,"
whom even the devoted slaves of business contemned
as having nothing in him but business.
A further change was, however, in progress within
him. The first sign of it was that he began to doubt
whether his wife had indeed been false to him—had
forsaken him in any other company than that of Death.
But there was one great difficulty in the way of the
conclusion. It was impossible for him to imagine
suicide as proceeding from any cause but insanity, and
what could have produced the disorder in one who
had no cares or anxieties, everything she wanted, and
nothing to trouble her, a devoted husband, and a
happy home? Yet the mere idea made him think
more pitifully, and so more tenderly of her than be-
fore. It had not yet occurred to him to consider
whether he might not have had something to do with
her conduct or condition. Blame was a thing he had
never made acquaintance with—least of all in the
form of self-blame. To himself he was simply all
right—the poised centre of things capable of righteous
judgment on every one else. But it must not be for-
gotten how little he knew about his own affairs at all;
his was a very different condition from that of one
who had closed his eyes and hardened his heart to
suspicions concerning himself. His eyes had never yet
been opened to anything but the order of things in the
money world—its laws, its penalties, its rewards—those
he did understand. But apparently he was worth
troubling. A slow dissatisfaction was now preying upon
him—a sense of want—of not having something he
once had, a vague discomfort, growing restless. This


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
149
feeling was no doubt the worse that the birth of the
child had brought such a sudden rush of fresh interest
into his occupation, which doubt concerning that birth
had again so suddenly checked; but even if the child
should prove after all his own, a supposition he was
now willing to admit as possibly a true one, he could
never without his mother feel any enthusiasm about
him, even such enthusiasm as might be allowed to a
man who knew money from moonshine, and common
sense from hysterics. Yet once and again, about this
time, the nurse coming into the room after a few
minutes' absence, found him bending over the sleeping
infant, and, as she described him, "looking as if he
would have cried if he had only known how."
One frosty evening in late autumn the forsaken
husband came from London—I doubt if he would now
have said "home"—as usual, on the top of the omni-
bus. His was a tough nature physically, as well as
morally, and if he had found himself inside an omni-
bus he would have thought he was going to die. The
sun was down. A green hue rose from the horizon
half-way to the zenith, but a pale yellow lingered over
the vanished sun, like the gold at the bottom of a
chrysolite. The stars were twinkling small and sharp
in the azure overhead. A cold wind blew in little
gusts, now from this side, now from that, as they went
steadily along. The horses' hoofs rang loud on the
hard road. The night got hold of him: it was at this
season, and on nights like these, that he had haunted
the house of Lucy's father, doing his best to persuade
her to make him, as he said, a happy man. It now
seemed as if then, and then only, he had been a
happy man. Certainly, of all his life, it was the time


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
when he came nearest to having a peep out of the
upper windows of the house of life. He had been a
dweller in the lower regions, a hewer of wood to the
god of the cellar; and after his marriage, he had
gone straight down again to the temple of the earthy
god—to a worship whose god and temple and trea-
sure caves will one day drop suddenly from under the
votary's feet, and leave him dangling in the air with-
out even a pocket about him—without even his banker's
book to show for his respectability.
The night, I say, recalled the lovely season of his
courtship, and again, in the mirror of loss, he caught
a glimpse of things beyond him. Ah, if only that
time and its hopes had remained with him! How
different things would have been now! If Lucy had
proved what he thought her!—remained what she
seemed—the gentle, complaisant, yielding lady he
imagined her, promising him a life of bliss! Alas, she
would not even keep account of five pounds a week to
please him! He never thought whether he, on his
part, might not have, in some measure, come short of
her expectations in a husband; whether she, the more
lovely in inward design and outward fashion, might
not have indulged yet more exquisite dreams of bliss
which, by devotion to his ideal of life, he had done
his part in disappointing. He only thought what a
foolishness it all was; that thus it would go on to the
end of the book; that youth after youth would have
his turn of such a wooing, and such a disappointment.
Sunsets, indeed! The suns of man's happiness never
did anything but set! Out of money even—and who
could say there was any poetry in that?—there was
not half the satisfaction to be got that one expected.


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
It was all a mess of expectations and disappointments
mashed up together—nothing more. That was the
world—on a fair judgment.
Such were his reflections till the driver pulled up
for him to get down at his own gate. As he got down
the said driver glanced up curiously at the row of
windows on the first floor, and as soon as Mr. Dempster's
back was turned, pointed to them with the butt-end
of his whip, and nodded queerly to the gentleman who
sat on his other side.
"That's more'n I've seen this six weeks," he said.
"There's something more'n common up this evenin', sir."
There was light in the drawing-room—that was
all the wonder; but at those windows Mr. Dempster
himself looked so fixedly that he had nearly stumbled
up his own door-steps.
He carried a latch-key now, for he did not care to
stand at the door till the boy answered the bell;
people's eyes, as they passed, seemed to burn holes in
the back of his coat.
He opened the street door quietly, and went
straight up the stair to the drawing-room. Perhaps
he thought to detect some liberty taken by his ser-
vants. He was a little earlier than usual. He opened
that door, took two steps into the room, and stood ar-
rested, motionless. With his shabby hat on his head,
his shabby greatcoat on his back—for he grudged
every penny spent on his clothes—his arms hanging
down by his sides, and his knees bent, ready to
tremble, he looked not a little out of keeping in the
soft-lighted, dainty, delicate-hued drawing-room. Could
he believe his eyes? The light of a large lamp was
centred upon a gracious figure in white—his wife, just
as he used to see her before he married her! That


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
was the way her hair would break loose as she ran
down the stair to meet him!—only then there was
no baby in her lap for it to fall over like a torrent of
unlighted water over a white stone! It was a lovely
sight.
He had stood but a moment when she looked up
and saw him. She started, but gave no cry louder than
a little moan. Instantly she rose. Turning, she laid
the baby on the sofa, and flitted to him like a wraith.
Arrived where he stood yet motionless, she fell upon
her knees and clasped his. He was far too bewildered
now to ask himself what husbands did in such cir-
cumstances, and stood like a block.
"Husband! husband!" she cried, "forgive me."
With one hand she hid her face, although it was bent
to the ground, and with the other held up to him a
bit of paper. He took it from the thin white fingers;
it might explain something—help him out of this be-
wilderment, half nightmare, half heavenly vision. He
opened it. Nothing but a hundred-pound note! The
familiar sight of bank paper, however, seemed, to re-
store his speech.
"What does this mean, Lucy? Upon my word!
Permit me to say"
He was growing angry.
"It is to pay the butcher," she said, with a falter-
ing voice.
"Damn the butcher!" he cried. "I hope you've
got something else to say to me! Where have you
been all this time?"
"At my mother's. I've had a brain fever, and been
out of my mind. It was all about the butcher's bill."
Dempster stared. Perhaps he could not under-
stand how a woman who would not keep accounts


THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
153
should be to such a degree troubled at the result of
her neglect.
"Look at me, if you don't believe me," she cried,
and as she spoke she rose and lifted her face to his.
He gazed at it for a moment—pale, thin, and
worn; and out of it shone the beautiful eyes, larger
than before, but shimmering uncertain like the stars of
a humid night, although they looked straight into his.
Something queer was suddenly the matter with
his throat—something he had never felt before—a
constriction such as, had he been superstitious, he
might have taken for the prologue to a rope. Then
the thought came—what a brute he must be that his
wife should have been afraid to tell him her trouble!
Thereupon he tried to speak, but his throat was irre-
sponsive to his will. Eve's apple kept sliding up and
down in it, and would not let the words out. He had
never been so served by members of his own body in
his life before! It was positive rebellion, and would
get him into trouble with his wife. There it was!
Didn't he say so?
"Can't you forgive me, Mr. Dempster?" she said,
and the voice was so sweet and so sad! "It is my own
money. Aunt Lucy is dead, and left it me. I think
it will be enough to pay all my debts; and I promise
you—I do promise you that I will set down every
halfpenny after this. Do try me once again—for
baby's sake."
This last was a sudden thought. She turned and
ran to the sofa. Dempster stood where he was, fight-
ing the strange uncomfortable feeling in his throat.
It would not yield a jot . Was he going to die suddenly
of choking? Was it a judgment upon him? Diph-
theria, perhaps! It was much about in the City!


154
THE BUTCHER'S BILLS.
She was back, and holding up to him their sleep-
ing child.
The poor fellow was not half the brute he looked
—only he could not tell what to do with that con-
founded lump in his throat! He dared not try to
speak, for it only choked him the more. He put his
arms round them both, and pressed them to his
bosom. Then the lump in his throat melted and ran
out at his eyes, and all doubt vanished like a mist
before the sun. But he never knew that he had wept
.
His wife did, and that was enough.
The next morning, for the first time in his life, he
lost the eight o'clock omnibus.
The following Monday morning she brought her
week's account to him. He turned from it testily, but
she insisted on his going over it. There was not the
mistake of a halfpenny. He went to town with a
smile in his heart, and that night brought her home
a cheque for ten pounds instead of five.
One day, in the middle of the same week, he came
upon her sitting over the little blue-and-red-ruled book
with a troubled countenance. She took no notice of
his entrance.
"Do leave those accounts," he said, "and attend
to me."
She shook her head impatiently, and made him
no other answer. One moment more, however, and she
started up, threw her arms about his neck, and cried
triumphantly,
"It's buttons!-—fourpence-halfpenny I paid for
buttons!"


STEPHEN ARCHER.
Stephen Archer was a stationer, bookseller, and
newsmonger in one of the suburbs of London. The
newspapers hung in a sort of rack at his door, as if
for the convenience of the public to help themselves
in passing. On his counter lay penny. weeklies and
books coming out in parts, amongst which the Family
Herald was in force, and the London Journal not to
be found. I had occasion once to try the extent of
his stock, for I required a good many copies of one of
Shakspere's plays—at a penny, if I could find such.
He shook his head, and told me he could not en-
courage the sale of such productions. This pleased
me; for, although it was of little consequence what he
thought concerning Shakespere, it was of the utmost
import that he should prefer principle to pence. So I
loitered in the shop, looking for something to buy; but
there was nothing in the way of literature: his whole
stock, as far as I could see, consisted of little religious
volumes of gay binding and inferior print; he had no-
thing even from the Halifax press. He was a good-
looking fellow, about thirty, with dark eyes, overhang-
ing brows that indicated thought, mouth of character,
and no smile. I was interested in him.


STEPHEN ARCHER.
I asked if he would mind getting the plays I
wanted. He said he would rather not. I bade him
good morning.
More than a year after, I saw him again. I had
passed his shop many times, but this morning, I forget
why, I went in. I could hardly recall the former ap-
pearance of the man, so was it swallowed up in a new
expression. His face was alive, and his behaviour
courteous. A similar change had passed upon his
stock. There was Punch and Fun amongst the papers,
and tenpenny Shaksperes on the counter, printed on
straw-paper, with ugly wood-cuts. The former class of
publications had not vanished, but was mingled with
cheap editions of some worthy of being called books.
"I see you have changed your mind since I saw
you last," I said.
"You have the advantage of me, sir," he returned.
"I did not know you were a customer."
"Not much of that," I replied; "only in intention.
I wanted you to get me some penny Shaksperes, and
you would not take the order."
"Oh! I think I remember," he answered, with just
a trace of confusion; adding, with a smile, "I'm mar-
ried now;" and I fancied I could read a sort of triumph
over his former self.
I laughed, of course—the best expression of sym-
pathy at hand—and, after a little talk, left the shop,
resolved to look in again soon. Before a month was
over, I had made the acquaintance of his wife too,
and between them learned so much of their history as
to be able to give the following particulars concern-
ing it.
Stephen Archer was one of the deacons, rather a


STEPHEN ARCHER,
157
young one perhaps, of a dissenting congregation. The
chapel was one of the oldest in the neighbourhood,
quite triumphant in ugliness, but possessed of a history
which gave it high rank with those who frequented
it. The sacred odour of the names of pastors who
had occupied its pulpit, lingered about its walls—
names unknown beyond its precincts, but starry in the
eyes of those whose world lay within its tabernacle.
People generally do not know what a power some of
these small conventicles are in the education of the
world. If only as an outlet for the energies of men of
lowly education and position, who in connexion with
most of the churches of the Establishment would find
no employment, they are of inestimable value.
To Stephen Archer, for instance, when I saw him
first, his chapel was the sole door out of the common
world into the infinite. When he entered, as certainly
did the awe and the hush of the sacred place over-
shadow his spirit as if it had been a gorgeous cathe-
dral-house borne aloft upon the joined palms of its
Gothic arches. The Master is truer than men think,
and the power of His presence, as Browning has so
well set forth in his "Christmas Eve," is where two or
three are gathered in His name. And inasmuch as
Stephen was not a man of imagination, he had the
greater need of the undefined influences of the place.
He had been chief in establishing a small mission
amongst the poor in the neighbourhood, with the work-
ing of which he occupied the greater part of his spare
time. I will not venture to assert that his mind was
pure from the ambition of gathering from these to
swell the flock at the little chapel; nay, I will not even
assert that there never arose a suggestion of the


STEPHEN ARCHER.
enemy that the pence of these rescued brands might
alleviate the burden upon the heads and shoulders of
the poorly prosperous caryatids of his church; but I
do say that Stephen was an honest man in the main,
ever ready to grow honester: and who can demand
more?
One evening, as he was putting up the shutters of
his window, his attention was arrested by a shuffling
behind him. Glancing round, he set down the shutter,
and the next instant boxed a boy's ears, who ran
away howling and mildly excavating his eyeballs,
while a young, pale-faced woman, with the largest
black eyes he had ever seen, expostulated with him
on the proceeding.
"Oh, sir!" she said, "he wasn't troubling you."
There was a touch of indignation in the tone.
"I'm sorry I can't return the compliment," said
Stephen, rather illogically. "If I'd ha' known you
liked to have your shins kicked, I might ha' let the
young rascal alone. But you see I didn't know it."
"He's my brother," said the young woman, con-
clusively.
"The more shame to him," returned Stephen. "If
he'd been your husband, now, there might ha' been
more harm than good in interferin', 'cause he'd only
give it you the worse after; but brothers! Well, I'm
sure it's a pity I interfered."
"I don't see the difference," she retorted, still with
offence.
"I beg your pardon, then," said Stephen. "I pro-
mise you I won't interfere next time."
So saying, he turned, took up his shutter, and pro-
ceeded to close his shop. The young woman walked on.


STEPHEN ARCHER.
159
Stephen gave an inward growl or two at the de-
pravity of human nature, and set out to make his usual
visits; but before he reached the place, he had begun
to doubt whether the old Adam had not overcome him
in the matter of boxing the boy's ears; and the follow-
ing interviews appeared in consequence less satisfactory
than usual. Disappointed with himself, he could not
be so hopeful about others.
As he was descending a stair so narrow that it was
only just possible for two people to pass, he met the
same young woman ascending. Glad of the op-
portunity, he stepped aside with his best manners and
said:
"I am sorry I offended you this evening. I did
not know that the boy was your brother."
"Oh, sir!" she returned—for to one in her posi-
tion, Stephen Archer was a gentleman: had he not a
shop of his own?—"you didn't hurt him much; only
I'm so anxious to save him."
"To be sure," returned Stephen, "that is the one
thing needful."
"Yes, sir," she rejoined. "I try hard, but boys
will be boys."
"There is but one way, you know," said Stephen,
following the words with a certain formula which I
will not repeat.
The girl stared. "I don't know about that," she
said. "What I want is to keep him out of prison.
Sometimes I think I shan't be able long. Oh, sir! if
you be the gentleman that goes about here, couldn't
you help me? I can't get anything for him to do, and
I can't be at home to look after him."
"What is he about all day, then?"


i6o
STEPHEN ARCHER.
"The streets," she answered. "I don't know as
he's ever done anything he oughtn't to, but he came
home once in a fright, and that breathless with run-
ning, that I thought he'd ha' fainted. If I only could
get him into a place!"
"Do you live here?" he asked.
"Yes, sir; I do."
At the moment a half-bestial sound below, accom-
panied by uncertain footsteps, announced the arrival
of a drunken bricklayer.
"There's Joe Bradley," she said, in some alarm.
"Come into my room, sir, till he's gone up; there's no
harm in him when he's sober, but he ain't been sober
for a week now."
Stephen obeyed; and she, taking a key from her
pocket, and unlocking a door on the landing, led him
into a room to which his back-parlour was a paradise.
She offered him the only chair in the room, and took
her place on the edge of the bed, which showed a
clean but much-worn patchwork quilt. Charley slept
on the bed, and she on a shake-down in the corner.
The room was not untidy, though the walls and floor
were not clean; indeed there were not in it articles
enough to make it untidy withal.
"Where do you go on Sundays?" asked Stephen.
"Nowheres. I ain't got nobody," she added, with
a smile, "to take me nowheres."
"What do you do then?"
"I've plenty to do mending of Charley's trousers.
You see they're only shoddy, and as fast as I patch
'em in one place they're out in another."
"But you oughtn't to work Sundays."
"I have heard tell of people as say you oughtn't


STEPHEN ARCHER.
to work of a Sunday; but where's the differ when
you've got a brother to look after? He ain't got no
mother."
"But you're breaking the fourth commandment;
and you know where people go that do that. You
believe in hell, I suppose."
"I always thought that was a bad word."
"To be sure! But it's where you'll go if you break
the Sabbath."
"Oh, sir!" she said, bursting into tears, "I don't
care what become of me if I could only save that
boy."
"What do you mean by saving him?"
"Keep him out of prison, to be sure. I shouldn't
mind the workus myself, if I could get him into a
place."
A place was her heaven, a prison her hell.
Stephen looked at her more attentively. No one
who merely glanced at her could help seeing her eyes
first, and no one who regarded them could help think-
ing her nice-looking at least, all in a shabby cotton
dress and black shawl as she was. It was only the
"penury and pine" that kept her from being beautiful.
Her features were both regular and delicate, with an
anxious mystery about the thin tremulous lips, and a
beseeching look, like that of an animal, in her fine
eyes, hazy with the trouble that haunted her mouth.
Stephen had the good sense not to press the Sabbath
question, and by degrees drew her story from her.
Her father had been a watchmaker, but, giving
way to drink, had been, as far back as she could re-
member, entirely dependent on her mother, who by
charing and jobbing managed to keep the family alive.
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 11


162
STEPHEN ARCHER.
Sara was then the only child, but, within a few months
after her father's death, her mother died in giving
birth to the boy. With her last breath she had com-
mended him to his sister. Sara had brought him up
—how she hardly knew. He had been everything to
her. The child that her mother had given her was
all her thought . Those who start with the idea "that
people with nought are naughty," whose eyes are
offended by rags, whose ears cannot distinguish be-
tween vulgarity and wickedness, and who think the
first duty is care for self, must be excused from be-
lieving that Sara Coulter passed through all that had
been decreed for her without losing her simplicity and
purity. But God is in the back slums as certainly as
—perhaps to some eyes more evidently than—in Bel-
gravia. That which was the burden of her life—
namely, the care of her brother—was her salvation.
After hearing her story, which he had to draw from
her, because she had no impulse to talk about herself,
Stephen went home to turn the matter over in his mind.
The next Sunday, after he had had his dinner, he
went out into the same region, and found himself at
Sara's door. She was busy over a garment of Charley's,
who was sitting on the bed with half a loaf in his
hand. When he recognized Stephen he jumped down,
and would have rushed from the room; but changing
his mind, possibly because of the condition of his
lower limbs, he turned, and springing into the bed,
scrambled under the counterpane, and drew it over
his head.
"I am sorry to see you working on Sunday,"
Stephen said, with an emphasis that referred to their
previous conversation.


STEPHEN ARCHER.
163
"You would not have the boy go naked?" she re-
turned, with again a touch of indignation. She had
been thinking how easily a man of Stephen's social
position could get him a place if he would. Then
recollecting her manners, she added, "I should get
him better clothes if he had a place. Wouldn't you
like to get a place now, Charley?"
"Yes," said Charley, from under the counterpane,
and began to peep at the visitor.
He was not an ill-looking boy—only roguish to a
degree. His eyes, as black as his sister's, but only
half as big, danced and twinkled with mischief.
Archer would have taken him off to his ragged class,
but even of rags he had not at the moment the com-
plement necessary for admittance. He left them, there-
fore, with a few commonplaces of religious phrase,
falling utterly meaningless. But he was not one to
confine his ministrations to words: he was an honest
man. Before the next Sunday it was clear to him
that he could do nothing for the soul of Sara until he
had taken the weight of her brother off it.
When he called the next Sunday the same vision
precisely met his view. She might have been sitting
there ever since, with those wonderfully-patched
trousers in her hands, and the boy beside her, gnaw-
ing at his lump of bread. But many a long seam had
passed through her fingers since then, for she worked
at a clothes-shop all the week with the sewing-machine,
whence arose the possibility of patching Charley's
clothes, for the overseer granted her a cutting or two
now and then.
After a little chat, Stephen put the question:
11*


STEPHEN ARCHER.
"If I find a place for Charley, will you go to Pro-
vidence Chapel next Sunday?"
"I will go anywhere you please, Mr. Archer," she
answered, looking up quickly with a flushed face. She
would have accompanied him to any casino in London
just as readily: her sole thought was to keep Charley
out of prison. Her father had been in prison once;
to keep her mother's child out of prison was the grand
object of her life.
"Well," he resumed, with some hesitation, for he
had arrived at the resolution through difficulties,
whose fogs yet lingered about him, "if he will be an
honest, careful boy, I will take him myself."
"Charley! Charley!" cried Sara, utterly neglectful
of the source of the benefaction; and rising, she went
to the bed and hugged him.
"Don't, Sara!" said Charley, petulantly. "I don't
want girls to squash me. Leave go, I say. You mend
my trousers, and /'ll take care of myself." "The little wretch!" thought Stephen.
Sara returned to her seat, and her needle went
almost as fast as her sewing-machine. A glow had
arisen now, and rested on her pale cheek: Stephen
found himself staring at a kind of transfiguration, back
from the ghostly to the human. His admiration ex-
tended itself to her deft and slender fingers and there
brooded until his conscience informed him that he
was actually admiring the breaking of the Sabbath;
whereupon he rose. But all the time he was about
amongst the rest of his people, his thoughts kept wan-
dering back to the desolate room, the thankless boy,
and the ministering woman. Before leaving, however,


STEPHEN ARCHER.
167
"There's no chapel in the afternoon," he said;
"but I'll come and fetch you in the evening."
Thus it came about that Sara was seated in
Stephen's pew, next to Stephen himself, and Stephen
felt a strange pleasure unknown before, like that of
the shepherd who having brought the stray back to
the fold cares little that its wool is torn by the bushes,
and it looks a ragged and disreputable sheep. It was
only Sara's wool that might seem disreputable, for she
was a very good-faced sheep. He found the hymns
for her, and they shared the same book. He did not
know then that Sara could not read a word of them.
The gathered people, the stillness, the gaslights,
the solemn ascent of the minister into the pulpit, the
hearty singing of the congregation, doubtless had their
effect upon Sara, for she had never been to a chapel
and hardly to any place of assembly before. From
all amusements, the burden of Charley and her own
retiring nature had kept her back.
But she could make nothing of the sermon. She
confessed afterwards that she did not know she had
anything to do with it. Like "the Northern Farmer,"
she took it all for the clergyman's business, which she
amongst the rest had to see done. She did not even
wonder why Stephen should have wanted to bring her
there. She sat when other people sat, pretended to
kneel when other people pretended to kneel, and stood
up when other people stood up—still brooding upon
Charley's jacket.
But Archer's feelings were not those he had ex-
pected. He had brought her, intending her to be
done good to; but before the sermon was over he
wished he had not brought her. He resisted the feel-


STEPHEN ARCHER.
ing for a long time, but at length yielded to it en-
tirely; the object of his solicitude all the while con-
scious only of the lighted stillness and the new barrier
between Charley and Newgate. The fact with regard
to Stephen was that a certain hard pan, occasioned by
continual ploughings to the same depth and no deeper,
in the soil of his mind, began this night to be broken
up from within, and that through the presence of a
young woman who did not for herself put together
two words of the whole discourse.
The pastor was preaching upon the saying of
St. Paul, that he could wish himself accursed from
Christ for his brethren. Great part of his sermon was
an attempt to prove that he could not have meant
what his words implied. For the preacher's mind was
so filled with the supposed paramount duty of saving
his own soul, that the enthusiasm of the Apostle was
simply incredible. Listening with that woman by his
side, Stephen for the first time grew doubtful of the
wisdom of his pastor. Nor could he endure that such
should be the first doctrine Sara heard from his lips.
Thus was he already and grandly repaid for his kind-
ness; for the presence of a woman who without any
conscious religion was to herself a law of love, brought
him so far into sympathy with the mighty soul of
St. Paul, that from that moment the blessing of doubt
was at work in his, undermining prison walls.
He walked home with Sara almost in silence, for
he found it impossible to impress upon her those parts
of the sermon with which he had no fault to find, lest
she should retort upon that one point. The arrows
which Sara escaped, however, could from her ignorance
have struck her only with their feather end.


STEPHEN ARCHER.
169
Things proceeded in much the same fashion for a
while. Charley went home at night to his sister's
lodging, generally more than two hours after leaving
the shop, but gave her no new ground of complaint.
Every Sunday evening Sara went to the chapel, taking
Charley with her when she could persuade him to go;
and, in obedience with the supposed wish of Stephen,
sat in his pew. He did not go home with her any
more for a while, and indeed visited her but seldom,
anxious to avoid scandal, more especially as he was a
deacon.
But now that Charley was so far safe, Sara's cheek
began to generate a little of that celestial rosy red
which is the blossom of the woman-plant, although
after all it hardly equalled the heart of the blush
rose. She grew a little rounder in form too, for she
lived rather better now,—buying herself a rasher of
bacon twice a week. Hence she began to be in more
danger, as any one acquainted with her surroundings
will easily comprehend. But what seemed at first the
ruin of her hopes dissipated this danger.
One evening, when she returned from her work,
she found Stephen in her room. She made him the
submissive grateful salutation, half courtesy, half bow,
with which she always greeted him, and awaited his
will.
"I am very sorry to have to tell you, Sara, that
your brother"
She turned white as a shroud, and her great black
eyes grew greater and blacker as she stared in agonized
expectancy while Stephen hesitated in search of a
better form of communication. Finding none, he blurted
out the fact—


'7°
STEPHEN ARCHER.
"—has robbed me, and run away."
"Don't send him to prison, Mr. Archer," shrieked
Sara, and laid herself on the floor at his feet with a
grovelling motion, as if striving with her mother earth
for comfort. There was not a film of art in this. She
had never been to a theatre. The natural urging of
life gave the truest shape to her entreaty. Her posture
was the result of the same feeling which made the
nations of old bring their sacrifices to the altar of a
deity who, possibly benevolent in the main, had yet
cause to be inimical to them. From the prostrate
living sacrifice arose the one prayer, "Don't send him
to prison; don't send him to prison!"
Stephen gazed at her in bewildered admiration,
half divine and all human. A certain consciousness
of power had, I confess, a part in his silence, but the
only definite shape this consciousness took was of
beneficence. Attributing his silence to unwillingness,
Sara got half-way from the ground—that is, to her
knees—and lifted a face of utter entreaty to the sight
of Stephen. I will not say words fail me to describe
the intensity of its prayer, for words fail me to describe
the commonest phenomenon of nature: all I can is to
say, that it made Stephen's heart too large for its
confining walls. "Mr. Archer," she said, in a voice
hollow with emotion, "I will do anything you like. I
will be your slave. Don't send Charley to prison."
The words were spoken with a certain strange
dignity of self-abnegation. It is not alone the country
people of Cumberland or of Scotland, who in their
highest moments are capable of poetic utterance.
An indescribable thrill of conscious delight shot
through the frame of Stephen as the woman spoke the


172
STEPHEN ARCHER.
himself, had gone into such a fury of determination
to return to his master, that the house-surgeon saw
that the only chance for the ungovernable creature
was to yield. Perhaps he had some dim idea of
restoring the money ere his master should have dis-
covered its loss. As he was very little, they made a
couch for him in the cab, and so sent him.
It would appear that the suffering and the faint-
ness had given his conscience a chance of being
heard. The accident was to Charley what the sight
of the mountain-peak was to the boy Wordsworth. He
was delirious when he arrived, and instead of show-
ing any contrition towards his master, only testified
an extravagant joy at finding him again. Stephen
had him taken into the back room, and laid upon
his own bed. One of the policemen fetched the char-
woman, and when she arrived, Stephen went to find
Sara.
She was sitting almost as he had left her, with a
dull, hopeless look.
"I am sorry to say Charley has had an accident,"
he said.
She started up and clasped her hands.
"He is not in prison?" she panted in a husky voice.
"No; he is at my house. Come and see him.
I don't think he is in any danger, but his leg is
broken."
A gleam of joy crossed Sara's countenance. She
did not mind the broken leg, for he was safe from
her terror. She put on her bonnet, tied the strings
with trembling hands, and went with Stephen.
"You see God wants to keep him out of prison
too," he said, as they walked along the street.


STEPHEN ARCHER.
173
But to Sara this hardly conveyed an idea. She
walked by his side in silence.
"Charley! Charley!" she cried, when she saw
him white on the bed, rolling his head from side to
side. Charley ordered her away with words awful to
hear, but which from him meant no more than words
of ordinary temper in the mouth of the well-nurtured
man or woman. She had spoiled and indulged him
all his life, and now for the first time she was nothing
to him, while the master who had lectured and re-
strained him was everything. When the surgeon
wanted to change his dressings, he would not let him
touch them till his master came. Before he was able
to leave his bed, he had developed for Stephen a
terrier-like attachment. But, after the first feverish-
ness was over, his sister waited upon him.
Stephen got a lodging, and abandoned his back
room to the brother and sister. But he had to attend
to his shop, and therefore saw much of both of them.
Finding then to his astonishment that Sara could not
read, he gave all his odd moments to her instruction,
and her mind being at rest about Charley so long as
she had him in bed, her spirit had leisure to think of
other things.
She learned rapidly. The lesson-book was of
course the New Testament; and Stephen soon dis-
covered that Sara's questions, moving his pity at first
because of the ignorance they displayed, always left
him thinking about some point that had never oc-
curred to him before; so that at length he regarded
Sara as a being of superior intelligence waylaid and
obstructed by unfriendly powers upon her path towards
the threshold of the kingdom, while she looked up to


174
STEPHEN ARCHER.
him as to one supreme in knowledge as in goodness.
But she never could understand the pastor. This
would have been a great trouble to Stephen, had not
his vanity been flattered by her understanding of him-
self. He did not consider that growing love had
enlightened his eyes to see into her heart, and
enabled him thus to use an ordinary human language
for the embodiment of common-sense ideas; whereas
the speech of the pastor contained such an admixture
of technicalities as to be unintelligible to the neophyte.
Stephen was now distressed to find that whereas
formerly he had received everything without question
that his minister spoke, he now in general went home
in a doubting, questioning mood, begotten of asking
himself what Sara would say. He feared at first that
the old Adam was beginning to get the upper hand
of him, and that Satan was laying snares for his soul.
But when he found at the same time that his con-
science was growing more scrupulous concerning his
business affairs, his hope sprouted afresh.
One day, after Charley had been out for the first
time, Sara, with a little tremor of voice and manner,
addressed Stephen thus:
"I shall take Charley home to-morrow, if you
please, Mr. Archer."
"You don't mean to say, Sara, you've been paying
for those lodgings all this time?" half-asked, half-ex-
claimed Stephen.
"Yes, Mr. Archer. We must have somewhere to
go to. It ain't easy to get a room at any moment,
now them railways is everywheres."
"But I hope as how you're comfortable where you
are, Sara?"


PORT IN A STORM.
"Papa," said my sister Effie, one evening as we all
sat about the drawing-room fire. One after another,
as nothing followed, we turned our eyes upon her.
There she sat, still silent, embroidering the corner of
a cambric handkerchief, apparently unaware that she
had spoken.
It was a very cold night in the beginning of winter.
My father had come home early, and we had dined
early that we might have a long evening together, for
it was my father's and mother's wedding-day, and we
always kept it as the homeliest of holidays. My
father was seated in an easy-chair by the chimney
corner, with a jug of Burgundy near him, and my
mother sat by his side, now and then taking a sip out
of his glass.
Effie was now nearly nineteen; the rest of us
were younger. What she was thinking about we did
not know then, though we could all guess now. Sud-
denly she looked up, and seeing all eyes fixed upon
her, became either aware or suspicious, and blushed
rosy red.
- "You spoke to me, Effie. What was it, my dear?"
"O yes, papa. I wanted to ask you whether you


PORT IN A STORM.
177
wouldn't tell us, to-night, the story about how
"Well, my love?"
"—About how you"
"I am listening, my dear."
"I mean, about mamma and you."
"Yes, yes. About how I got your mamma for a
mother to you. Yes. I paid a dozen of port for
her."
We all and each exclaimed Papal and my
mother laughed.
"Tell us all about it," was the general cry.
"Well, I will," answered my father. "I must be-
gin at the beginning, though."
And, filling his glass with Burgundy, he began.
"As far back as I can remember, I lived with my
father in an old manor-house in the country. It did
not belong to my father, but to an elder brother of
his, who at that time was captain of a seventy-four.
He loved the sea more than his life; and, as yet ap-
parently, had loved his ship better than any woman.
At least he was not married.
"My mother had been dead for some years, and
my father was now in very delicate health. He had
never been strong, and since my mother's death, I be-
lieve, though I was too young to notice it, he had
pined away. I am not going to tell you anything
about him just now, because it does not belong to my
story. When I was about five years old, as nearly as
I can judge, the doctors advised him to leave Eng-
land. The house was put into the hands of an agent
to let—at least, so I suppose; and he took me with
him to Madeira, where he died. I was brought home
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 12


i78
PORT IN A STORM.
by his servant, and by my uncle's directions, sent to a
boarding-school; from there to Eton, and from there
to Oxford.
"Before I had finished my studies, my uncle had
been an admiral for some time. The year before I
left Oxford, he married Lady Georgiana Thornbury,
a widow lady, with one daughter. Thereupon he
bade farewell to the sea, though I dare say he did
not like the parting, and retired with his bride to
the house where he was born—the same house I told
you I was born in, which had been in the family
for many generations, and which your cousin now
lives in.
"It was late in the autumn when they arrived at
Culverwood. They were no sooner settled than my
uncle wrote to me, inviting me to spend Christmas-
tide with them at the old place. And here you may
see that my story has arrived at its beginning.
"It was with strange feelings that I entered the
house. It looked so old-fashioned, and stately, and
grand, to eyes which had been accustomed to all the
modern commonplaces! Yet the shadowy recollections
which hung about it gave an air of homeliness to
the place, which, along with the grandeur, occasioned
a sense of rare delight. For what can be better than
to feel that you are in stately company, and at the
same time perfectly at home in it? I am grateful to
this day for the lesson I had from the sense of which
I have spoken—that of mingled awe and tenderness
in the aspect of the old hall as I entered it for the
first time after fifteen years, having left it a mere
child.
"I was cordially received by my old uncle and


PORT IN A STORM.
179
my new aunt. But the moment Kate Thornbury
entered I lost my heart, and have never found it
again to this day, I get on wonderfully well without
it, though, for I have got the loan of a better one
till I find my own, which, therefore, I hope I never
shall."
My father glanced at my mother as he said this,
and she returned his look in a way which I can now
interpret as a quiet satisfied confidence. But the
tears came in Effie's eyes. She had trouble before
long, poor girl! But it is not her story I have to
tell.—My father went on:
"Your mother was prettier then than she is now,
but not so beautiful; beautiful enough, though, to
make me think there never had been or could again
be anything so beautiful. She met me kindly, and I
met her awkwardly."
"You made me feel that I had no business there,"
said my mother, speaking for the first time in the
course of the story.
"See there, girls," said my father. "You are al-
ways so confident in first impressions, and instinctive
judgment! I was awkward because, as I said, I fell
in love with your mother the moment I saw her; and
she thought I regarded her as an intruder into the
old family precincts.
"I will not follow the story of the days. I was
very happy, except when I felt too keenly how un-
worthy I was of Kate Thornbury; not that she meant
to make me feel it, for she was never other than kind;
but she was such that I could not help feeling it. I
gathered courage, however, and before three days
were over, I began to tell her all my slowly reviving
12*


i8o
PORT IN A STORM.
memories of the place, with my childish adventures
associated with this and that room or outhouse or spot
in the grounds; for the longer I was in the place the
more my old associations with it revived, till I was
quite astonished to find how much of my history in
connection with Culverwood had been thoroughly im-
printed on my memory. She never showed, at least,
that she was weary of my stories; which, however
interesting to me, must have been tiresome to any one
who did not sympathize with what I felt towards my
old nest. From room to room we rambled, talking or
silent; and nothing could have given me a better
chance, I believe, with a heart like your mother's'. I
think it was not long before she began to like me, at
least, and liking had every opportunity of growing into
something stronger, if only she too did not come to
the conclusion that I was unworthy of her.
"My uncle received me like the jolly old tar that
he was—welcomed me to the old ship—hoped we
should make many a voyage together—and that I
would take the run of the craft—all but in one
thing.
"'You see, my boy,' he said, 'I married above my
station, and I don't want my wife's friends to say that
I laid alongside of her to get hold of her daughter's
fortune. No, no, my boy; your old uncle has too
much salt water in him to do a dog's trick like that.
So you take care of yourself—that's all. She might
turn the head of a wiser man than ever came out of
our family.'
"I did not tell my uncle that his advice was al-
ready too late; for that, though it was not an hour
since I had first seen her, my head was so far turned


PORT IN A STORM.
already, that the only way to get it right again, was
to go on turning it in the same direction; though, no
doubt, there was a danger of overhauling the screw.
The old gentleman never referred to the matter again,
nor took any notice of our increasing intimacy; so
that I sometimes doubt even now if he could have
been in earnest in the very simple warning he gave
me. Fortunately, Lady Georgiana liked me—at least
I thought she did, and that gave me courage."
"That's all nonsense, my dear," said my mother.
"Mamma was nearly as fond of you as I was; but you
never wanted courage."
"I knew better than to show my cowardice, I dare
say," returned my father. "But," he continued, "things
grew worse and worse, till I was certain I should kill
myself, or go straight out of my mind, if your mother
would not have me. So it went on for a few days,
and Christmas was at hand.
"The admiral had invited several old friends to
come and spend the Christmas week with him. Now
you must remember that, although you look on me as
an old-fashioned fogie"
"Oh, papa!" we all interrupted; but he went on.
"Yet my old uncle was an older-fashioned fogie,
and his friends were much the same as himself.
Now, I am fond of a glass of port, though I dare
not take it, and must content myself with Burgundy.
Uncle Bob would have called Burgundy pig-wash.
He could not do without his port, though he was a
moderate enough man, as customs were. Fancy, then,
his dismay when, on questioning his butler, an old
coxen of his own, and after going down to inspect in
person, he found that there was scarcely more than


i8z
PORT IN A STORM.
a dozen of port in the wine-cellar. He turned white
with dismay, and, till he had brought the blood back
to his countenance by swearing, he was something
awful to behold in the dim light of the tallow candle
old Jacob held in his tattooed fist. I will not repeat
the words he used; fortunately, they are out of fashion
amongst gentlemen, although ladies, I understand, are
beginning to revive the custom, now old, and always
ugly. Jacob reminded his honour that he would not
have more put down till he had got a proper cellar
built, for the one there was, he had said, was not fit
to put anything but dead men in. Thereupon, after
abusing Jacob for not reminding him of the neces-
sities of the coming season, he turned to me, and be-
gan, certainly not to swear at his own father, but to
expostulate sideways with the absent shade for not
having provided a decent cellar before his departure
from this world of dinners and wine, hinting that it
was somewhat selfish, and very inconsiderate of the
welfare of those who were to come after him. Hav-
ing a little exhausted his indignation, he came up,
and wrote the most peremptory order to his wine-
merchant, in Liverpool, to let him have thirty dozen
of port before Christmas Day, even if he had to send
it by post-chaise. I took the letter to the post my-
self, for the old man would trust nobody but me, and
indeed would have preferred taking it himself; but in
winter he was always lame from the effects of a
bruise he had received from a falling spar in the
battle of Aboukir.
"That night I remember well. I lay in bed won-
dering whether I might venture to say a word, or
even to give a hint to your mother that there was a


PORT IN A STORM.
183
word that pined to be said if it might. All at once
I heard a whine of the wind in the old chimney.
How well I knew that whine! For my kind aunt
had taken the trouble to find out from me what room
I had occupied as a boy, and, by the third night
I spent there, she had got it ready for me. I
jumped out of bed, and found that the snow was
falling fast and thick. I jumped into bed again, and
began wondering what my uncle would do if the
port did not arrive. And then I thought that, if the
snow went on falling as it did, and if the wind rose
any higher, it might turn out that the roads through
the hilly part of Yorkshire in which Culverwood lay,
might very well be blocked up.
"The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will my uncle do then, poor thing?
He'll run for his port,
But he will run short,
And have too much water to drink, poor thing.
"With the influences of the chamber of my child-
hood crowding upon me, I kept repeating the travestied
rhyme to myself, till I fell asleep.
"Now, boys and girls, if I were writing a novel, I
should like to make you, somehow or other, put to-
gether the facts—that I was in the room I have men-
tioned; that I had been in the cellar with my uncle
for the first time that evening; that I had seen my
uncle's distress, and heard his reflections upon his
father. I may add that I was not myself, even then,
so indifferent to the merits of a good glass of port as
to be unable to enter into my uncle's dismay, and
that of his guests at last, if they should find that the


PORT IN A STORM.
snowstorm had actually closed up the sweet ap-
proaches of the expected port. If I was personally
indifferent to the matter, I fear it is to be attributed
to your mother, and not to myself."
"Nonsense!" interposed my mother once more, "I never knew such a man for making little of him-
self and much of other people. You never drank a
glass too much port in your life."
"That's why I'm so fond of it, my dear," returned
my father. "I declare you make me quite discon-
tented with my pig-wash here.
"That night I had a dream.
"The next day the visitors began to arrive. Before
the evening after, they had all come. There were
five of them—three tars and two land-crabs, as they
called each other when they got jolly, which, by-the-
way, they would not have done long without me.
"My uncle's anxiety visibly increased. Each guest,
as he came down to breakfast, received each morning
a more constrained greeting.—I beg your pardon,
ladies; I forgot to mention that my aunt had lady-
visitors, of course. But the fact is, it is only the port-
drinking visitors in whom my story is interested, al-
ways excepted your mother.
"These ladies my admiral uncle greeted with
something even approaching to servility. I understood
him well enough. He instinctively sought to make a
party to protect him when the awful secret of his
cellar should be found out. But for two preliminary
days or so, his resources would serve; for he had
plenty of excellent claret and Madeira—stuff I don't
know much about—and both Jacob and himself con-
descended to manoeuvre a little.


PORT IN A STORM.
185
"The wine did not arrive. But the morning of
Christmas Eve did. I was sitting in my room, trying
to write a song for Kate—that's your mother, my
dears"
"I know, papa," said Effie, as if she were very
knowing to know that.
"when my uncle came into the room, looking
like Sintram with Death and the Other One after
him—that's the nonsense you read to me the other
day, isn't it, Effie?"
"Not nonsense, dear papa," remonstrated Effie;
and I loved her for saying it, for surely that is not
nonsense.
"I didn't mean it," said my father; and turning
to my mother, added: "It must be your fault, my
dear, that my children are so serious that they always
take a joke for earnest. However, it was no joke with
my uncle. If he didn't look like Sintram he looked
like t'other one.
"'The roads are frozen—I mean snowed up,' he
said. 'There's just one bottle of port left, and what
Captain Calker will say—I dare say I know, but I'd
rather not. Damn this weather!—God forgive me!
-—that's not right—but it is trying—ain't it, my
boy?'
"'What will you give me for a dozen of port,
uncle?' was all my answer.
"'Give you? I'll give you Culverwood, you rogue.'
"'Done,' I cried.
"'That is,' stamrrered my uncle, 'that is,' and he
reddened like the funnel of one of his hated steamers,
'that is, you know, always provided, you know. It
wouldn't be fair to Lady Georgiana, now, would it?


PORT IN A STORM.
I put it to yourself—if she took the trouble, you know.
You understand me, my boy?'
"'That's of course, uncle,' I said.
"'Ah! I see you're a gentleman like your father,
not to trip a man when he stumbles,' said my uncle.
For such was the dear old man's sense of honour,
that he was actually uncomfortable about the hasty
promise he had made without first specifying the ex-
ception. The exception, you know, has Culverwood
at the present hour, and right welcome he is.
"'Of course, uncle,' I said—'between gentlemen,
you know. Still, I want my joke out, too. What will
you give me for a dozen of port to tide you over
Christmas Day?'
"'Give you, my boy? I'll give you'
"But here he checked himself, as one that had
been burned already.
"'Bah!' he said, turning his back, and going to-
wards the door; 'what's the use of joking about serious
affairs like this?'
"And so he left the room. And I let him go. For
I had heard that the road from Liverpool was im-
passable, the wind and snow having continued every
day since that night of which I told you. Meantime,
I had never been able to summon the courage to say
one word to your mother—I beg her pardon, I mean
Miss Thornbury.
"Christmas Day arrived. My uncle was awful to
behold. His friends were evidently anxious about
him. They thought he was ill. There was such a
hesitation about him, like a shark with a bait, and
such a flurry, like a whale in his last agonies. He


PORT IN A STORM.
I87
had a horrible secret which he dared not tell, and
which yet would come out of its grave at the appointe d
hour.
"Down in the kitchen the roast beef and turkey
were meeting their deserts. Up in the store-room—
for Lady Georgiana was not above housekeeping, any
more than her daughter—the ladies of the house were
doing their part; and I was oscillating between my
uncle and his niece, making myself amazingly useful
now to one and now to the other. The turkey and
the beef were on the table, nay, they had been well
eaten, before I felt that my moment was come. Out-
side, the wind was howling, and driving the snow with
soft pats against the window-panes. Eager-eyed I
watched General Fortescue, who despised sherry or
Madeira even during dinner, and would no more touch
champagne than he would eau sucrie, but drank port
after fish or with cheese indiscriminately—with eager
eyes I watched how the last bottle dwindled out its
fading life in the clear decanter. Glass after glass
was supplied to General Fortescue by the fearless
cockswain, who, if he might have had his choice,
would rather have boarded a Frenchman than waited
for what was to follow. My uncle scarcely ate at all,
and the only thing that stopped his face from growing
longer with the removal of every dish was that nothing
but death could have made it longer than it was al-
ready. It was my interest to let matters go as far as
they might up to a certain point, beyond which it was
not my interest to let them go, if I could help it. At
the same time I was curious to know how my uncle
would announce—confess the terrible fact that in his
house, on Christmas Day, having invited his oldest


PORT IN A STORM.
189
sence of the company gave me a kind of mesmeric
strength; perhaps the excitement of the whole venture
kept me up; perhaps Kate herself gave me courage,
like a goddess of old, in some way I did not under-
stand. At all events I said to her:
"'Kate,'—we had got so far even then—'my uncle
hasn't another bottle of port in his cellar. Consider
what a state General Fortescue will be in soon. He'll
be tipsy for want of it. Will you come and help me
to find a bottle or two?'
"She rose at once, with a white-rose blush—so
delicate I don't believe any one saw it but myself.
But the shadow of a stray ringlet could not fall on
her cheek without my seeing it.
"When we got into the hall, the wind was roaring
loud, and the few lights were flickering and waving
gustily with alternate light and shade across the old
portraits which I had known so well as a child—for
I used to think what each would say first, if he or she
came down out of the frame and spoke to me.
"I stopped, and taking Kate's hand, I said—
"'I daren't let you come farther, Kate, before I
tell you another thing: my uncle has promised, if I
find him a dozen of port—you must have seen what
a state the poor man is in—to let me say something
to you—I suppose he meant your mamma, but I prefer
saying it to you, if you will let me. Will you come
and help me to find the port?'
"She said nothing, but took up a candle that was
on a table in the hall, and stood waiting. I ventured
to look at her. Her face was now celestial rosy red,
and I could not doubt that she had understood me.
She looked so beautiful that I stood staring at her


PORT IN A STORM. <
without moving. What the servants could have been
about that not one of them crossed the hall, I can't think.
"At last Kate laughed and said—'Well?' I started,
and I dare say took my turn at blushing. At least I
did not know what to say. I had forgotten all about
the guests inside. 'Where's the port?' said Kate, I caught hold of her hand again and kissed it."
"You needn't be quite so minute in your account,
my dear," said my mother, smiling.
"I will be more careful in future, my love," re-
turned my father.
"'What do you want me to do?' said Kate.
"'Only to hold the candle for me,' I answered,
restored to my seven senses at last; and, taking it
from her, I led the way, and she followed, till we had
passed through the kitchen and reached the cellar-
stairs. These were steep and awkward, and she let
me help her down."
"Now, Edward!" said my mother.
"Yes, yes, my love, I understand," returned my
father.
"Up to this time your mother had asked no
questions; but when we stood in a vast, low cellar,
which we had made several turns to reach, and I
gave her the candle, and took up a great crowbar
which lay on the floor, she said at last—
"'Edward, are you going to bury me alive? or
what are you going to do?'
"'I'm going to dig you out,' I said, for I was
nearly beside myself with joy, as I struck the crowbar
like a battering-ram into the wall. You can fancy,
John, that I didn't work the worse that Kate was
holding the candle for me.


igz
PORT IN A STORM.
lime. But we could not be half so amusing to them
as they were to us. There they sat with the dessert
before them but no wine-decanters forthcoming. How
long they had sat thus, I have no idea. If you think
your mamma has, you may ask her. Captain Calker
and General Fortescue looked positively white about
the gills. My uncle, clinging to the last hope,
despairingly, had sat still and said nothing, and the
guests could not understand the awful delay. Even
Lady Georgiana had begun to fear a mutiny in the
kitchen, or something equally awful. But to see the
flash that passed across my uncle's face, when he
saw us appear with ported arms! He immediately
began to pretend that nothing had been the matter.
"'What the deuce has kept you, Ned, my boy?'
he said. 'Fair Hebe,' he went on, 'I beg your
pardon. Jacob, you can go on decanting. It was
very careless of you to forget it. Meantime, Hebe,
bring that bottle to General Jupiter, there. He's
got a corkscrew in the tail of his robe, or I'm mis-
taken.'
"Out came General Fortescue's corkscrew. I was
trembling once more with anxiety. The cork gave
the genuine plop; the bottle was lowered; glug, glug,
glug, came from its beneficent throat, and out flowed
something tawny as a lion's mane. The general
lifted it lazily to his lips, saluting his nose on the
way.
"'Fifteen! by Gyeove!' he cried. 'Well, Admiral,
this was worth waiting for! Take care how you
decant that, Jacob—on peril of your life.'
"My uncle was triumphant. He winked hard at
me not to tell. Kate and I retired, she to change


PORT IN A STORM.
193
her dress, I to get mine well brushed, and my hands
washed. By the time I returned to the dining-room,
no one had any questions to ask. For Kate, the
ladies had gone to the drawing-room before she was
ready, and I believe she had some difficulty in keep-
ing my uncle's counsel. But she did.—Need I say
that was the happiest Christmas I ever spent?"
"But how did you find the cellar, papa?" asked
Effie.
"Where are your brains, Effie? Don't you re-
member I told you that I had a dream?"
"Yes. But you don't mean to say the existence
of that wine-cellar was revealed to you in a dream?"
"But I do, indeed. I had seen the wine-cellar
built up just before we left for Madeira. It was my
father's plan for securing the wine when the house
was let. And very well it turned out for the wine,
and me too. I had forgotten all about it. Every-
thing had conspired to bring it to my memory, but
had just failed of success. I had fallen asleep under
all the influences I told you of—influences from the
region of my childhood. They operated still when I
was asleep, and, all other distracting influences being
removed, at length roused in my sleeping brain the
memory of what I had seen. In the morning I re-
membered not my dream only, but the event of which
my dream was a reproduction. Still, I was under
considerable doubt about the place, and in this I
followed the dream only, as near as I could judge.
"The admiral kept his word, and interposed no
difficulties between Kate and me. Not that, to tell
the truth, I was ever very anxious about that rock
ahead; but it was very possible that his fastidious
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 13


194
PORT IN A STORM.
honour or pride might have occasioned a consider-
able interference with our happiness for a time. As
it turned out, he could not leave me Culverwood, and
I regretted the fact as little as he did himself. His
gratitude to me was, however, excessive, assuming
occasionally ludicrous outbursts of thankfulness. I do
not believe he could have been more grateful if I
had saved his ship and its whole crew. For his
hospitality was at stake. Kind old man!"
Here ended my father's story, with a light sigh,
a gaze into the bright coals, a kiss of my mother's
hand which he held in his, and another glass of
Burgundy.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
A DRAMA.
ACT L
Scene.—A Sculptor's studio. Arthur Gervaise work-
ing at a clay figure and humming a tune. A
knock.
Ger. Come in. (Throws a wet cloth over the clay.
Enter Warren by the door communicating with the
house) Ah, Warren! How do you do?
War. How are you, Gervaise? I'm delighted to
see you once more. I have but just heard of your
return.
Ger. I've been home but a fortnight. I was just
thinking of you.
War. I was certain I should find you at work.
Ger. You see my work can go on by any light. It
is more independent than yours.
War. I wish it weren't, then, Ger. Why?
War. Because there would be a chance of our
getting you out of your den sometimes.
'3*


i96
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Ger. Like any other wild beast when the dark
falls—eh?
War. Just so.
Ger. And where the good?
War. Why shouldn't you roar a little now and
then like other honest lions?
Ger. I doubt if the roaring lions do much beyond
roaring.
War. And I doubt whether the lion that won't
even whisk his tail, will get food enough shoved
through his bars to make it worth his while to keep
a cage in London.
Ger. I certainly shall not make use of myself to
recommend my work.
War. What is it now?
Ger. Oh, nothing!—only a little fancy of my own.
War. There again! The moment I set foot in your
study, you throw the sheet over your clay, and when
I ask you what you are working at—"Oh—a little
fancy of my own!"
Ger. I couldn't tell it was you coming.
War. Let me see what you've been doing, then.
Ger. Oh, she's a mere Lot's-wife as yet!
War. (approaching the figure). Of course, of course!
I understand all that.
Ger. (laying his hand on his arm). Excuse me: I
would rather not show it.
War. I beg your pardon.—I couldn't believe you
really meant it.
Ger. I'll show you the mould if you like.
War. I don't know what you mean by that: you
would never throw a wet sheet over a cast! (Ger. lifts
a painting from the floor and sets it on an easel. War.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
IQ7
regards it for a few moments in silence) Ah! by Jove,
Gervaise! some one sent you down the wrong turn:
you ought to have been a painter. What a sky! And
what a sea! Those blues and greens—rich as a pea-
cock's feather-eyes! Superb! A tropical night! The
dolphin at its last gasp in the west, and all above, an
abyss of blue, at the bottom of which the stars lie
like gems in the mine-shaft of the darkness!
Ger. You seem to have taken the wrong turn,
Warren! You ought to have been a poet.
War. Such a thing as that puts the slang out of
a fellow's head.
Ger. I'm glad you like it. I do myself, though it
falls short of my intent sadly enough.
War. But I don't for the life of me see what this
has to do with that. You said something about a
mould.
Ger. I will tell you what I meant. Every indivi-
dual aspect of nature looks to me as if about to give
birth to a human form, embodying that of which itself
only dreams. In this way landscape-painting is, in
my eyes, the mother of sculpture. That Apollo is of
the summer dawn; that Aphrodite of the moonlit sea;
this picture represents the mother of my Psyche.
War. Under the sheet there?
Ger. Yes. You shall see her some day; but to
show your work too soon, is to uncork your champagne
before dinner.
War. Well, you've spoiled my picture. I shall go
home and scrape my canvas to the bone.
Ger. On second thoughts, I will show you my
Psyche. (Uncovers the clay. War, stands in admiration.
Enter Waterfield by same door)


ig8
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Wat. Ah, Warren! here you are before me! Mr.
Gervaise, I hope I see you well.
War. Mr. Waterfield—an old friend of yours, Ger-
vaise, I believe.
Ger. I cannot appropriate the honour.
Wat. I was twice in your studio at Rome, but it's
six months ago, Mr. Gervaise. Ha! (using his eye-
glass) What a charming figure! A Psyche! Wings
suggested by Very skilful! Contour lovely! Al-
together antique in pose and expression!—Is she a
commission?
Ger. No.
Wat. Then I beg you will consider her one.
Ger. Excuse me; I never work on commission—
at least never in this kind. A bust or two I have
done.
Wat. By Jove!—I should like to see your model!—
This is perfect. Are you going to carve her?
Ger. Possibly.
Wat. Uncommissioned?
Ger. If at all.
Wat. Well, I can't call it running any risk. What
lines!—You will let me drop in some day when you've
got your model here?
Ger. Impossible.
Wat. You don't mean?
Ger. I had no model.
Wat. No model? Hal ha!—You must excuse me!
(Ger. takes up the wet sheet) I understand. Reasons.
A little mystery enhances—eh?—is convenient too—
balks intrusion—throws the drapery over the mignon-
ette. I understand. (Ger. covers the clay) Oh! pray
don't carry out my figure. That is a damper now!


IF I HAD A FATHER.
199
Ger. I am not fond of acting the showman. You
must excuse me: I am busy.
Wat. Ah well!—some other time—when you've
got on with her a bit. Good morning. Ta, ta, Warren.
Ger. Good morning. This way, if you please.
(Shows him out by the door to the street) How did the
fellow find his way here?
War. I am the culprit, I'm sorry to say. He asked
me for your address, and I gave it him.
Ger. How long have you known him?
War. A month or two.
Ger. Don't bring him here again.
War. Don't say I brought him. I didn't do that.
But I'm afraid you've not seen the last of him.
Ger. Oh yes, I have! Old Martha would let in
anybody, but I've got a man now.—William!
Enter Col. Gervaise dressed as a servant.
You didn't see the gentleman just gone, I'm afraid,
William?
Col. G. No, sir.
Ger. Don't let in any one calling himself Water-
field.
Col. G. No, sir.
Ger. I'm going out with Mr. Warren. I shall be
back shortly.
Col. G. Very well, sir. Exit into the house.
Ger. (to War.). I can't touch clay again till I get
that fellow out of my head.
War. Come along, then.
Exeunt Ger, and War.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
20I
body to help mo, aw dunnot think aw'll coom to th'
end in haste. Aw're a lookin' for summut aw've lost,
mon.
Col. G. Did you come all the way from Lancashire
to look for it?
Tho. Eh, lad! aw thowt thae'rt beawn to know
wheer aw coom fro!
Col. G. Anybody could tell that, the first word you
spoke. I mean no offence.
Tho. (looking disappointed). Well, noan's ta'en. But
thae dunnot say thae's ne'er been to Lancashire thisel'?
Col. G. No, I don't say that: I've been to Lan-
cashire several times.
Tho. Wheer to?
Col. G. Why, Manchester.
Tho. That's noan ov it.
Col. G. And Lancaster.
Tho. Tut! tut! That's noan of it, nayther.
Col. G. And Liverpool, I was once there for a
whole week.
Tho. Nay, nay. Noather o' those plazes. Fur away
off 'em.
Col. G. But what does it matter where I have or
haven't been?
Tho. Mun aw tell tho again? Aw've lost summut,
aw tell tho. Didsto ne'er hear tell ov th' owd woman
'at lost her shillin'? Hoo couldn't sit her deawn
beawt hoo feawnd it! Yon's me. (Hides his face in
his hands)
Col. G. Ah! now I begin to guess! (aside).—You
don't mean you've lost your
Tho. (starting up and grasping his stick with both
hands). Aw do mane aw've lost mo yung lass; and aw


202
IF I HAD A FATHER.
dunnot say thae's feawnd her, but aw do say thae
knows wheer hoo is. Aw do. Theighur! Nea then!
Col. G. What on earth makes you think that? I
don't know what you're after.
Tho. Thae knows well enough. Thae knowed what
aw'd lost afoor aw tou'd tho. Yo' be denyin' your
own name. Thae knows. Aw'll tay tho afore the
police, beout thou gie her oop. Aw wull.
Col. G. What story have you to tell the police
then? They'll want to know.
Tho. Story saysto? The dule's i' th' mon! Didn't
aw seigh th' mon 'at stealed her away goo into this
heawse not mich over hauve an hour ago?—Aw seigh
him wi' mo own eighes.
Col. G. Why didn't you speak to him?
Tho. He poppit in at th' same dur, and there aw've
been a-watching ever since. Aw've not took my
eighes off ov it. He's somewheeres now in this same
heawse.
Col. G. He may have been out in the morning
(aside).—But you see there are more doors than one
to the place. There is a back door; and there is a
door out into the street.
Tho. Eight. eight. Th' t'one has to do wi' th' t'other
—have it? Three dur-holes to one shed! That looks
bad!
Col. G. He's not here, whoever it was. There's not
a man but myself in the place.
Tho. Hea am aw to know yo're not playin' a mar-
lock wi' mo? He'll be oop i' th' heawse theer. Aw
mun goo look (going).
Col. G. (preventing him). And how am I to know
you're not a housebreaker?


IF I HAD A FATHER.
203
Tho. Dun yo think an owd mon like moseF would
be of mich use for sich wark as that, mon?
Col. G. The more fit for a spy, though, to see what
might be made of it.
Tho. Eh, mon! Dun they do sich things as yon?
But aw'm seechin' nothin', man nor meawse, that
donnot belung me. Aw tell yo true. Gie mo mo
Mattie, and aw'll trouble yo no moor.—Aw winnot—
if yo'll give mo back mo Mattie. (Comes close up to
him and lays his hand on his arm) Be yo a feyther,
mon?
Col. G. Yes.
Tho. Ov a pratty yung lass?
Col. G. Well, no. I have but a son.
Tho. Then thae winnot help mo?
Col. G. I shall be very glad to help you, if you
will tell me how.
Tho. Tell yor maister 'at Mattie's owd feyther's
coom a' the gait fro Rachda to fot her whoam, and
aw'll be much obleeged to him iv he'll let her goo
beout lunger delay, for her mother wants her to
whoam: hoo's but poorly. Tell yor maister that.
Col. G. But I don't believe my master knows any-
thing about her.
Tho. Aw're tellin' tho, aw seigh' th' mon goo into
this heawse but a feow minutes agoo?
Col. G. You've mistaken somebody for him.
Tho. Well, aw'm beawn to tell tho moore. Twothre
days ago, aw seigh mo chylt coom eawt ov this same
dur—aw mane th' heawse-dur, yon.
Col. G. Are you sure of that?
Tho. Sure as death. Aw seigh her back.
Col. G. Her back! Who could be sure of a back?


IF I HAD A FATHER.
205
After a moment turns again) Noa. Aw winnot say
that; for mo Mattie's sake aw winnot say that. God
forgie you! (going by the house).
Col. G. This way, please! (opening the street-door).
Tho. Aw see. Aw'm not to have a chance ov seem'
oather Mattie or th' mon. Exit.
Col. G. resumes his boot absently. Re-enter Thomas,
shaking his fist.
Tho. But aw tell tho, aw'll stick to th' place day
and neet, aw wull. Aw wull. Aw wull.
Col. G. Come back to-morrow.
Tho. Coom back, saysto? Aw'll not goo away (grow-ing fierce). Wilto gie mo mo Mattie? Aw'm noan
beawn to ston here so mich lunger. Wilto gie mo mo
Mattie?
Col. G. I cannot give you what I haven't got.
Tho. Aw'll break thi yed, thou villain! (threatening
him with his stick). Eh, Mattie! Mattie! to loe sich a
mon's maister more'n me! I would dey fur thee,
Mattie. Exit.
Col. G. It's all a mistake, of course. There are
plenty of young men—but my Arthur's none of such.
I cannot believe it of him. The daughter! If I could
find her, she would settle the question. (It begins to
grow dark) I must help the old man to find her.
He's sure to come back. Arthur does not look the
least like it. But—(polishes vigorously). I cannotget
this boot to look like a gentleman's. I wish I had
taken a lesson or two first. I'll get hold of a shoe-
black, and make him come for a morning or two. No,
he does not look like it. There he comes. (Goes on
polishing)


206
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Enter Ger.
Ger. William!
Col. G. (turning). Yes, sir.
Ger. Light the gas. Any one called?
Col. G. Yes, sir.
Ger. Who?
Col. G. I don't know, sir. (Lighting the gas.)
Ger. You should have asked his name. (Stands
before the clay, contemplating it)
Col. G. I'm sorry I forgot, sir. It was only an
old man from the country—after his daughter, he
said.
Ger. Came to offer his daughter, or himself per-
haps. (Begins to work at the figure)
Col. G. (watching him stealthily). He looked a re-
spectable old party—from Lancashire, he said.
Ger. I dare say. You will have many such callers.
Take the address. Models, you know.
Col. G. If he calls again, sir?
Ger. Ask him to leave his address, I say.
Col. G. But he told me you knew her.
Ger. Possibly. I had a good many models before
I left. But it's of no consequence; I don't want any
at present.
Col. G. He seemed in a great way, sir—and swore.
I couldn't make him out.
Ger. Ah! hm!
Col. G. He says he saw her come out of the
house.
Ger. Has there been any girl here? Have you
seen any about?
Col. G. No, sir.


IF I HAD A FATHER. 2cg
rendered him such service as may prove me not alto-
gether unworthy to be his father. Twenty years of
neglect will be hard to surmount.
Mrs. C. But mere menial service cannot discharge
the least portion of your obligations. As his father
alone can you really serve him.
Col. G. You persist in misunderstanding me. This
is not the service I mean. I scorn the fancy. This
is only the means, as I told you plainly before, of
finding out how I may serve him—of learning what
he really needs—or most desires. If I fail in dis-
covering how to recommend myself to him, I shall go
back to India, and content myself with leaving him a
tolerable fortune.
Mrs. C. How ever a hair-brained fellow like you,
Walter, could have made such a soldier!—Why don't
you tell your boy you love him, and have done
with it?
Col. G. I will, as soon as I have proof to back the
assertion.
Mrs. C. I tell you it is rank pride.
Col. G. It may be pride, sister; but it is the pride
of a repentant thief who puts off his confession until
he has the money in his hand to prove the genuineness
of his sorrow.
Mrs. C. It never was of any use to argue with
you, Walter; you know that, or at least I know it. So
I give up.—I trust you have got over your prejudice
against his profession. It is not my fault.
Col. G. In truth, I had forgotten the profession—
as you call it—in watching the professor.
Mrs. C. And has is not once occurred to you to
ask how he may take such watching?
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc.14


IF I HAD A FATHER.
213
You have been my angel, Arthur. What would have
become of me if you hadn't taken me, I dare not
think.
Ger. I have had my reward, Constance: you are
happy.
Con. Not quite. There's something I want to
tell you.
Ger. Tell on, child.
Con. Oh, thank you!—that is how you used to
talk to me. (Hesitates.)
Ger. (with foreboding). Well, what is it?
Con. (pulling the fingers of her gloves). A gentle-
man-you know him—has been-calling upon aunt-
and me. We have seen a good deal of him.
Ger. Who is he?
· Con. Mr. Waterfield. (Keeps her eyes on the floor.)
Ger. Well?
Con. He says-he-he-he wants me to marry
him.-Aunt likes him.
Ger. And you?
Con. I like him too. I don't think I like him
enough-I dare say I shall. It is so good of him to
take poor me! He is very rich, they say.
Ger. Have you accepted him?
Con. I am afraid he thinks so.— Yeme--S.-I
hardly know.
Ger. Haven't you—been rather-in a hurry-Con-
stance?
Con. No, indeed! I haven't been in a hurry at all.
He has been a long time trying to make me like him.
I have been too long a burden to Mrs. Clifford.
Ger. So! it is her doing, then!
Con. You were away, you know.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
215
Ger. Good-bye. (Exit Con., looking back troubled)
Come at last! Oh fool! fool! fool! In love with her
at last!—and too late! For three years I haven't seen
her—have not once written to her! Since I came
back I've seen her just twice,—and now in the very
hell of love! The ragged little darling that used to
lie coiled up there in that corner! If it were my
sister, it would be hard to lose her so! And to such
a fellow as that!—not even a gentleman! How could
she take him for one! That does perplex me! Ah,
well! I suppose men have borne such things before,
and men will bear them again! I must work! No-
thing but work will save me. (Approaches the Psyche,
but turns from it with a look of despair and disgust)
What a fool I have been!—Constance! Constance!—
A brute like that to touch one of her fingers! God in
heaven! It will drive me mad. (Rushes out, leaving
the door open)
Enter Col. Gervaise.
Col. G. Gone again! and without his breakfast!
My poor boy! There's something very wrong with
you! It's that girl! It must be! But there's con-
science in him yet!—It is all my fault. If I had been
a father to him, this would never have happened.—If
he were to marry the girl now?—Only, who can tell
but she led him astray? I have known such a thing.
(Sits down and buries his face in his hands)
Enter Waterfield.
Wat. Is Mr. Gervaise in?
Col. G. (rising). No, sir.
Wat. Tell him I called, will you? Exit.


2l6
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Col. G. Yes, sir.—Forgot again. Young man;—-
gentleman or cad?—don't know; think the latter.
Enter Thomas.
Tho. Han yo heard speyk ov mo chylt yet, sir?
Col. G. (starting up). In the name of God, I know
nothing of your child; but bring her here, and I will
give you a hundred pounds—in golden sovereigns.
Tho. Hea am aw to fot her yere, when I dunnot
know wheer hoo be, sir?
Col. G. That's your business. Bring her, and there
will be your money.
Tho. Dun yo think, sir, o' the gouden suverings i'
th' Bank ov England would put a sharper edge on mo
oud eighes when they look for mo lass? Eh, mon!
Yo dunnot know the heart ov a feyther—ov the feyther
ov a lass-barn, sir. Han yo kilt and buried her, and
nea be yo sorry for't? F hoo be dead and gwoan,
tell mo, sir, and aw'll goo whoam again, for mo oud
lass be main lonesome beout mo, and we'll wait till
we goo to her, for hoo winnot coom no moor to us.
Col. G. For anything I know, your daughter is
alive and well. Bring her here, I say, and I will
make you happy.
Tho. Aw shannot want thee or thi suverings either
to mak mo happy then, maister. Iv aw hed a houd
o' mo lass, it's noan o' yere aw'd be a coomin' wi' her.
It's reet straight whoam to her mother we'd be gooin',
aw'll be beawn. Nay, nay, mon!—aw'm noan sich a
greight foo as yo tak me for.
Exit. Col. G. follows him. Enter Ger. Sits
down beforethe Psyche, but without looking at her.
Ger. Oh those fingers! They are striking terrible


2l8
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Ger. (without looking up). Nothing—only a headache.
Con. Do come home with me, and let aunt and
me nurse you. Don't be vexed with me any more.
I will do whatever you like. I couldn't go home with-
out seeing you again. And now I find you ill!
Ger. Not a bit. I am only dreadfully busy. I must
go out of town. I am so busy! I can't stay in it a
moment longer. I have so many things to do.
Con. Mayn't I come and see you while you work?
I never used to interrupt you. I want so to sit once
more in my old place. (Draws a stool towards him)
Ger. No, no—not—not there! Constance used to
sit there. William!
Con. You frighten me, Arthur!
Enter Col. G.
Ger. Bring a chair, William.
Constance sits down like a chidden child. Exit
Col. G.
Con. I must have offended you more than I thought,
Arthur! What can I say? It is so stupid to be always
saying / am sorry.
Ger. No, no. But some one may call.
Con. You mean more than that. Will you not let
me understand?
Ger. Your friend Mr. Waterfield called a few minutes
ago. He will be here again presently, I dare say.
Con. (indifferently). Indeed!
Ger. I suppose you appointed—expected—to meet
him here.
Con. Arthur! Do you think I would come to you
to meet him? I saw him this morning; I don't want
to see him again. I wish you knew him.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
HQ
Ger. Why should you want me to know him?
Con. Because you would do him good.
Ger. What good does he want done him?
Con. He has got beautiful things in him—talks
well—in bits—arms and feet and faces—never any-
thing like—(turning to the Psyche) Why have you?
Has she been naughty too?
Ger. Is it only naughty things that must be put
out of sight, Constance?
Con. Dear Arthur! you spoke like your own self
then.
Ger. (rising hurriedly). Excuse me. I must go.
It is very rude, but—William!
Enter Col. G.
Col. G. Yes, sir.
Ger. Fetch a hansom directly.
Col. G. Yes, sir. Exit.
Con. You do frighten me, Arthur! I am sure you
are ill.
Ger. Not at all. I have an engagement.
Con. I must go then—must I?
Ger. Do not think me unkind?
Con. I will not think anything you would not have
me think.
Re-enter Col. G.
Col. G. The cab is at the door, sir.
Ger. Thank you. Then show Miss Lacordere out.
Stay. I will open the door for her myself.
Exeunt Ger. and Con.
Col. G. He speaks like one in despair, forcing
every word! If he should die! Oh, my God!


220
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Re-enter Ger. Walks up and down the room.
Col. G. Ain't you going, sir?
Ger. No. I have sent the lady in the cab.
Col. G. Then hadn't you better lie down, sir?
Ger. Lie down! What do you mean? I'm not in
the way of lying down except to sleep.
Col. G. And let me go for the doctor, sir?
Ger. The doctor! Ha! ha! ha!—You are a soldier,
you say?
Col. G. Yes, sir.
Ger. Right. We're all soldiers—or ought to be.
I will put you to your catechism. What is a soldier's
first duty?
Col. G. Obedience, sir.
Ger. sits down and leans his head on his hands.
Col. G. watches him.
Ger. Ah! obedience, is it? Then turn those women
out. They will hurt you—may kill you; but you must
not mind that. They burn, they blister, and they blast,
for as white as they look! The hottest is the white
fire. But duty, old soldier!—obedience, you know!—
Hal ha! Oh, my head! my head! I believe I am
losing my senses, William. I was in a bad part of
the town this morning. I went to see a place I knew
long ago. It had gone to hell—but the black edges
of it were left. There was a smell—and I can't get
it out of me. Oh, William! William! take hold of me.
Don't let them come near me. Psyche is laughing at
me. I told you to throw the red cloth over her.
Col. G. My poor boy!
Ger. Don't fancy you're my father, though! I wish
you were. But I cannot allow that.—Why the devil


222
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Col. G. What shall I do? If he married her, he'd
be miserable, and make her miserable too. I'll take
her away somewhere. I'll be a father to her; I'll tend
her as if she were his widow. But what confusions
would follow! Alas! alas! one crime is the mother of
a thousand miseries! And now he's in for a fever—
typhus, perhaps!—I must find this girl!—What a sweet
creature that Miss Lacordere is! If only he might
have her! I don't care what she was.
Ger. Don't let them near me, William! They will
drive me mad. They think I shall love them. I will
not. If she comes one step nearer, I shall strike her.
You Diana! Hecate! Hell-cat!—Fire-hearted Chaos
is burning me to ashes! My brain is a cinder! Some
water, William!
Col. G. Here it is, sir.
Ger. But just look to Psyche there. Ah! she's off!
There she goes! melting away in the blue, like a dis-
solving vapour. Bring me my field-glass, William, I
may catch a glimpse of her yet. Make haste.
Col. G. Pray don't talk so, sir. Do be quiet, or
you will make yourself very ill. Think what will be-
come of me if
Ger. What worse would you be, William? You are
a soldier. I must talk. You are all wrong about it:
it keeps me quiet (holding his head with both hands). I
should go raving mad else (wildly). Give me some
water. (He drinks eagerly, then looks slowly round the
room) Now they are gone, and I do believe they
won't come again! I see everything—and your face,
William. You are very good to me—very patient! I
should die if it weren't for you.
Col. G. I would die for you, sir.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
2^3
Get: Would you? But perhaps you don't care much
for your life. Anybody might have my life for the
asking. I dare say it's just as good to be dead.—Ah!
there is a toad—a toad with a tail! No; it's a toad
with a slow-worm after him. Take them away, Wil-
liam!—Thank you.—I used to think life pleasant, but
now—somehow there's nothing in it. She told me the
truth about it—Constance did. Don't let those women
come back. What if I should love them, William!—
love and hate them both at once! William! William!
(A knock at the door) See who that is. Mind you
don't let them in.
Col. G. Martha is there, sir.
Ger. She's but an old woman; she can't keep
them out. They would walk over her. All the god-
desses have such long legs! You go and look. You'll
easily know them: if they've got no irises to their eyes,
don't let them in, for the love of God, William! Real
women have irises to their eyes: those have none—
those frightful snowy beauties.—And yet snow is very
nice! And I'm so hot! There they come again!
Exit Col. G.
Enter Mrs. Clifford.
Ger. Aunt! aunt! help me! There they come!
Mrs. C. What is it, my Arthur? They shan't hurt
you. I am here. I will take care of you.
Ger. Yes, yes, you will! I am not a bit afraid of
them now. Do you know them, aunt? I'll tell you a
secret: they are Juno and Diana and Venus.—They
hate sculptors. But I never wronged them. Three
white women—only, between their fingers and behind
their knees they are purple—and inside their lips,


IF I HAD A FATHER.
225
Ger. (sitting up). Constance! Constance!
Con. Here I am! (running to him).
Ger. Oh, my head! I wish I could find some-
where to lay it!—Sit by me, Constance, and let me
lay my head on your shoulder—for one minute—only
one minute. It aches so! (She sits down by him. His
head sinks on her shoulder. Mrs. C. looks annoyed, and
exit.)
Con. Thank you, thank you, dear Arthur! (sobbing).
You used to like me! I could not believe you hated
me now. You have forgiven me? Dear head!
He closes his eyes. Slow plaintive music.
Ger. (half waking). I can't read. When I get to
the bottom of the page, I wonder what it was all
about. I shall never get to Garibaldi! and if I don't,
I shall never get farther. If I could but keep that one
line away! It drives me mad, mad. "He took her
by the lily-white hand."—I could strangle myself for
thinking of such things, but they will come!—I won't
go mad. I should never get to Garibaldi, and never
be rid of this red-hot ploughshare ploughing up my
heart. I will not go mad! I will die like a man.
Con. Arthur! Arthur!
Ger. God in heaven! she is there! And the others
are behind her!—Psyche! Psyche! Don't speak to those
women! Come alone, and I will tear my heart out
and give it you.—It is Psyche herself now, and the
rest are gone! Psyche—listen.
Con. It's only me, Arthur! your own little Con-
stance! If aunt would but let me stay and nurse you!
But I don't know what's come to her: she's not like
herself at all.
Ger. Who's that behind you?
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 15


IF I HAD A FATHER.
229
day on scraps o' wittles to bring out the hunger: a
cove can't be hungry upon nuffin at all.
Jim. He gets what mother calls the squeamishes.
Jack,Well, Bill?
Bill. Well, the werry moment their bellies was as
long an' as loose as a o'-clo'-bag of a winter's mornin',
I'd bring 'em all up to this 'ere winder, five or six at
a time—with the darbies on, mind ye
Jim. And I'm to be there to see, Bill—ain't I?
Bill. If you're good, Jim, an' don't forget yer
prayers.
Jack. My eye! it's as good as a penny gaff! Go
it, Bill.
Bill. Then I up an' addresses 'em: "My Lords an'
Gen'lemen, 'cos as how ye're all good boys, an' goes
to church, an' don't eat too many wittles, an' don't
take off your bracelets when you goes to bed, you shall
obswerve me eat."
Jim. Go it, Bill! I likes you, Bill.
Bill. No, Jim; I must close. The imagination is a
'ungry gift, as the cock said when he bolted the peb-
bles. Let's sojourn the meetin'.
Jack. Yes; come along. 'Tain't a comf'able corner
this yere: the wind cuts round uncommon sharp. Them
pies ain't good—leastways not to look at.
Bill. They ain't disgestible. But look ye here,
Jack and Jim—hearkee, my kids. (Puts an arm round
the neck oreach, and whispers first to one and then to
the other.)Enter Mattie and Susan.
Sus. Now, Mattie, we're close to the house, an' I
don't want to be seen with you, for she's mad at me.


230
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Mat. You must have made her mad, then, Sue.
Sus. She madded me first: what else when she
wouldn't believe a word I said? She'd ha' sworn on
the gospel book, we sent the parcel up the spout. But
she'll believe you, an' give you something, and then
we'll have a chop!
Mat. How can you expect that, Sue, when the
work's lost?
Sus. Never mind; you go and see.
Mat. I shan't take it, Susan. I couldn't.
Sus. Stuff and nonsense! I'll wait you round the
corner: I don't like the smell o' them pastry things.
Exit. Mattie walks past the window.
Mat. I don't like going. It makes me feel a thief
to be suspected.
Bill. Lor! it's our Mattie! There's our Mattie!
-—Mattie! Mattie!
Mat. Ah, Bill! you're there—are you?
Bill. Yes, Mattie. It's a tart-show. You walks up
and takes yer chice;—leastways, you makes it: some-
body else takes it.
Mat. Wouldn't you like to take your choice some-
times, Bill?
Bill. In course I would.
Mat. Then why don't you work, and better your-
self a bit?
Bill. Bless you, MattieI myself is werry comf'able.
He never complains.
Mat. You're hungry sometimes,—ain't you?
Bill. Most remarkable 'ungry, Mattie—this werry
moment. Odd you should ask now-—ain't it?
Mat. You would get plenty to eat if you would
work.


232
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Bill. Well, yes—if it was guv to me. But I don't
go in for knocking of yourself about, to sleep warm.
Mat. Well, look here, Bill. It's all Susan and I
can do to pay for our room, and get a bit of bread
and a cup of tea. It ain't enough.—If you were to
earn a few pence now
Bill. Oh golly! I never thought o' that . What a
hass I wur, to be sure! I'll go a shoe-blackin' to-
morror—I will.
Mat. Did you ever black a shoe, Bill?
Bill. I tried a boot oncet—when Jim wor a blackin'
for a day or two. But I made nothink on it—nothink
worth mentionin'. The blackin' or som'at was wrong.
The gen'leman said it wur coal-dust, an' he'd slog
me, an' adwised me to go an' learn my trade.
Mat. And what did you say to that?
Bill. Holler'd out "Shine yer boots!" as loud as
I could holler.
Mat. You must try my boots next time you come.
Bill. This wery night, Mattie. I'll make 'em shine
like plate glass—see then if I don't . But where'll I
get a box and brushes?
Mat. You shall have our brushes and my foot-stool.
Bill. I see! Turn the stool upside down, put the
brushes in, and carry it by one leg—as drunken Moll
does her kid.—Here you are, sir! Black your boots,
sir?—Shine your trotters' sir? (bawling).
Mat. That'll do; that'll do, Bill! Famous! You
needn't do it again (holding her ears). Would you
like a tart?
Bill. Just wouldn't I, then!—Shine your boooooots!
Mat. (laughing). Do hold your tongue, Bill. There's
a penny for a tart.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
233
Bill. Thank you, Mattie. Thank you.
Exit into the shop.
Jack and Jim (touching their supposed caps). Please,
ma'am! Please ma'am! I likes 'em too. I likes 'em
more 'n Bill.
Mat. I'm very sorry, but—(feeling in her pocket)
I've got a ha'penny, I believe. No—there's a penny!
You must share it, you know. (Gives it to Jack. Knocks
at Mrs. Clifford's door)
Jack and Jim. Thank you, ma'am. Thank you,
ma'am.
Exit Mattie into Mrs. Clifford's.
Jim. Now, Jack, what's it to be?
Jack. I believe I shall spend it in St. Martin's
Lane.
Jim. A ha'p'orth on it's mine, you know, Jack.
Jack,Well, you do put the stunners on me!
Jim. She said we wos to divide it—she did.
Jack. 'Taint possible. It beats my ivories.
(He pretends to bite it. Jim flies at him in a rage)
Re-enter Bill, with his mouth full.Bill. Now what are you two a squabblin' over?
Oh! Jack's got a yennep, and Jim's lookin' shirty.
Jim. She told him to divide it, and he won't.
Bill. Who told him?
Jim. Mattie.
Bill. You dare, Jack? Hand over.
Jack,Be hanged if I do.
Bill. Then do and be hanged. (A struggle) There,
Jim! Now you go and buy what you like.
Jim. Am I to give Jack the half?
Bill. Yes, if our Mattie said it.


234
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Jim. All right, Bill. (Goes into the shop)
Jack,I owe you one for that, Bill.
Bill. Owe it me then, Jack, I do like fair play—
always did (eating).
Jack. You ain't a sharin' of your yennep, Bill.
Bill. Mattie didn't say I was to. She knowed one
wouldn't break up into three nohow. 'Tain't in natur',
Jack.
Jack,You might ha' guv me a bite, anyhow, Bill, Bill. It ain't desirable, Jack—size o' trap dooly
considered. Here comes your share.
Re-enter Jim. Gives a bun to Jack.
Jim. I tell you what, Bill—she ain't your Mattie.
She ain't nobody's Mattie; she's a hangel.
Bill. No, Jim, she ain't a hangel; she 'ain't got no
wings, leastways outside her clo'es, and she 'ain't got
clo'es enough to hide 'em. I wish I wos a hangel!
Jack. At it again, Bill! I do like to hear Bill a
wishin' of hisself! Why, Bill?
Bill. Acause they're never 'ungry.
Jack,How do you know they ain't?
Bill. You never sees 'em loafin' about nowheres.
Jim. Is Mattie your sister, Bill?
Bill. No, Jim; I ain't good 'nough to have a sister
like she.
Jack. Your sweetheart, Bill? Ha! ha! ha!
Bill. Dry up, Jack.
Jim. Tell me about her, Bill. / didn't jaw you.
Bill. She lives in our court, Jim. Makes shirts and
things.
Jack. Oh! ho!
Bill hits Jack. Jack doubles himself up.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
235
Bill. Jim, our Mattie ain't like other gals; I never
see her out afore this blessed day—upon my word
and honour, Jim, never!
Jack (wiping his nose with his sleeve). You don't
know a joke from a jemmy, Bill.
Bill. I'll joke you!—A hangel tips you a tart, and
you plucks her feathers! Get on t'other side of the
way, you little dirty devil, or I'll give you another
smeller—cheap too. Off with you!
Jack,No, Bill; no, please. I'm wery sorry. I ain't
so bad's all that comes to.
Bill. If you wants to go with Jim and me, then
behave like a gen'leman.
Jim. I calls our Mattie a brick!
Bill. None o' your jaw, Jim! She ain't your Mattie.
Enter Thomas.
Tho. Childer, dun yo know th' way to Paradise—
Row, or Road, or summat?
Bill. Dunnow, sir. You axes at the Sunday-school.
Tho. Wheer's th' Sunday-school, chylt?
Bill. Second door round the corner, sir.
Tho. Second dur reawnd th' corner! Which corner,
my man?
Bill. Round any corner. Second door's all-ways
Sunday-school. (Takes a sight. Exeunt boys)
Thomas sits down on a doorstep.
Tho. Eh, but aw be main weary! Surely th' Lord
dunnot be a forsakin' ov mo. There's that abeawt th'
lost ship. Oop yon, wheer th' angels keep greight
flocks ov 'em, they dunnot like to lose one ov 'em, an'
they met well be helpin' ov mo to look for mo lost
lamb i' this awful plaze! What has th' shepherd o'


IF I HAD A FATHER.
239
"Old Daddy Longlegs wouldn't say his prayers—
Take him by his left leg, and throw him downstairs."
Go along! Go to hell!
We'll skin you.
Melt ye down for taller, we will.
Only he 'ain't got none, the red herrin'!
They throw things at him. He sits down on the
door-step, and covers his head with his arms.
Enter Col. G. Boys run off.
Tho. Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie!
Col. G. Poor old fellow! Are you hurt?
Tho. Eh! yo be a followin' ov mo too!
Col. G. What are you doing here?
Tom. What am aw doin' yere! Thee knows well
enough what aw're a doin' yere. It 're o' thy fau't, mon.
Col. G. Why, you've got a blow! Your head is
cut! Poor old fellow!
Tho. Never yo mind mo yed.
Col. G. You must go home.
Tho. Goo whoam, says to! Aw goo nowheers but
to th' grave afoor aw've feawnd mo chylt.
Col. G. Come along with me; I will do all I can
to find her. Perhaps I can help you after all.
Tho. Aw mak nea deawbt o' that, mon. And thae
seems a gradely chap. Aw'm a'most spent. An aw'm
sick, sick! Dunnot let th' boys shove mo abeawt again.
Col. G. I will not. They shan't come near you.
Take my arm. Poor old fellow! If you would but
trust me! Hey! Cab there! Exeunt.
Enter Susan, peeping.
Sus. I wonder whatever's come to Mattie! It's
long time she was out again.


240
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Enter Mattie, hurriedly.
Mat. Oh, Susan! Susan! (Falls)
Sus. Mattie! Matttie! (Kneels beside her, and un-
does her bonnet)
Enter Policeman.
Pol. What ails her? (Goes to lift her)
Sus. Leave her alone, will you? Let her head
down. Get some water.
Pol. Drunk—is she?
Sus. Hold your tongue, you brute! If she'd a
satin frock on, i'stead o' this here poor cotton gownd,
you'd ha' showed her t'other side o' your manners!
Get away with you. You're too ugly to look at.—
Mattie! Mattie! Look up, child.
Pol. She mustn't lie there.
Mat. Susan!
Pol. Come, my girl.
Sus. You keep off, I tell you! Don't touch her.
She's none o' your sort. Come, Mattie, dear.—Why
don't you make 'em move on?
Pol. You'd better keep a civil tongue in your
head, young woman.
Sus. You live lobster!
Pol. I'll have to lock you up, I see. One violent.
T'other incapable.
Sus. You're another. Mattie, my dear, come along
home.
Pol. That's right; be off with you.
Mattie rises.
Mat. Let's go, Sue! Let's get farther off.
Sus. You can't walk, child. If I hadn't been so


IF I HAD A FATHER.
243
no wonder he forgot poor me. But it'll burn itself out
afore long.
Sus. Don't ye talk like that, Mattie; I can't abear it.
Mat. If I was dressed like her, though, and could
get my colour back! But laws! I'm such a washed
out piece o' goods beside her!
Sus. That's as I say, Matilda! It's the dress
makes the differ.
Mat. No, Susan, it ain't. It's the free look of
them—and the head up—and the white hand—and
the taper fingers. They're stronger than us, and
they're that trained like, that all their body goes in
one, like the music at a concert. / couldn't pick up
a needle without going down on my knees after it. It's
the pain in my side, Sue.—Yes, it's a fine thing to be
born a lady. It's not the clothes, Sue. If we was
dressed ever so, we couldn't come near them. It's that
look,—I don't know what.
Sus. Speak for yerself, Mattie; I'm not a goin' to
think such small beer of myself, I can tell you! I
believe if I'd been took in time
Mat. It's a big if that though, Sue.—And then
she looked so good! You'd hardly think it of me,—
perhaps it's because I'm dying—but for one minute I
could ha' kissed her very shoes. Oh, my side!
Sus. (putting her arm tight round her waist).Does
that help it Mattie, dear?—a little teeny bit?
Mat. Yes, Sukey. It holds it together a bit. Will
he break her heart too, I wonder?
Sus. No fear o' that! Ladies takes care o' their-
selves. They're brought up to it.
Mat. It's only poor girls gentlemen don't mind
hurting, I suppose.
16*


IF I HAD A FATHER.
245
Slow music. Twilight.
Enter Bill with a three-legged stool, brushes, etc.
Bill. Come! it's blackin' all over! When gents
can't no longer see their boots, 'tain't much use offer-
in' to shine 'em. But if I can get a penny, I will. I
must take a tart to Mattie, or this here damaged one
(laying his hand on his stomach) won't go to sleep this
night.
Enter Waterfield.
Bill. Black your boots for a party, sir?
Wat. (aside) The very rascal I saw her speaking
to! But wasn't she a brick not to split! That's
what I call devotion now! There are some of them
capable of it. I'll set her up for life. I'd give a cool
thousand it hadn't happened, though. I saw her
father too hanging about Gervaise's yesterday.
Bill. Clean your boots, sir? Shine 'em till they
grin like a Cheshire cat eatin' cheese!
Wat. Shine away, you beggar.
Bill (turning up his trousers). I ain't no beggar,
sir. Shine for a shiner's fair play.
Wat. Do you live in this neighbourhood?
Bill. No, sir.
Wat. Where, then?
Bill (feeling where a pocket should be).I don't ap-
pear to 'ave a card about me, sir, but my address is
Lamb's Court, Camomile Street—leastways I do my
sleepin' not far off of it. I've lived there, what livin'
I have done, sin' ever I wor anywheres as I knows on.
Wat. Do you happen to know a girl of the name
of Pearson?


246
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Bill. No, sir. I can't say as how I rec'lect the
name. Is she a old girl or a young un?
Wat. You young liar! I saw you talking to her
not two hours ago!
Bill. Did ye now, sir? That's odd, ain't it? Bless
you! I talks to everybody. I ain't proud, sir.
Wat. Well, do you see this? (holding up a sov-
ereign).
Bill. That's one o' them things what don't require
much seein', sir. There! Bright as a butterfly! T'other
twin, sir!
Wat. I'll give you this, if you'll do something for
me—and another to that when the thing's done.
Bill. 'Tain't stealin', sir?
Wat. No.
Bill. Cos, you see, Mattie
Wat. Who did you say?
Bill. Old Madge as lets the beds at tuppence a
short night. 'Tain't stealin', you say, sir?
Wat. What do you take me for? I want you to
find out for me where the girl Pearson lives—that's all.
Bill (snatching the sovereign and putting it in his
mouth). Now then, sir!—What's the young woman
like?
Wat. Rather tall—thin—dark hair—large dark
eyes—and long white hands. Her name's Matilda—
Mattie Pearson—the girl you were talking to, I tell
you, on this very spot an hour or two ago.
Bill (dropping the sovereign, and stooping to find it).
Golly! it is our Mattie! -
Wat. Shall you know her again?
Bill. Any boy as wasn't a hass would know his
own grandmother by them spots. Besides, I remember


IF I HAD A FATHER.
247
sich a gal addressin' of me this mornin'. If you say
her it was, I'll detect her for ye.
Wat. There's a good boy! What's your name?
Bill. Timothy, sir.
Wat. What else?
Bill. Never had no other, —leastways as I knows on.
Wat. Well, Timothy—there's the other sov.—and
it's yours the moment you take me to her. Look
at it
.
Bill. My eye!—Is she a square Moll, sir?
Wat. What do you mean by that?
Bill. Green you are, to be sure!—She ain't one as
steals, or
Wat. Not she. She's a sempstress—a needlewoman,
or something of the sort.
Bill. And where shall I find you, sir?
Wat. Let me see:—to-morrow night—on the steps
of St . Martin's Church—ten o'clock.
Bill. But if I don't find her? It may be a week
—or a month—-or
Wat. Come whether you find her or not, and let
me know.
Bill. All serene, sir! There you are, sir! Brush
your trousers, sir?
Wat. No; leave 'em.—Don't forget now.
Bill. Honour bright, sir! Not if I knows it, sir!
Wat. There's that other skid, you know.
Bill. All right, sir! Anything more, sir?
Wat. Damn your impudence! Get along.
Exit. Bill watches him into Mrs. Clifford's.
Bill. Now by all the 'ungry gums of Arabiar,
'ere's a swell arter our Mattie!—A right rig'lar swell!
I knows 'em—soverings an' red socks. What's come


248
IF I HAD A FATHER.
to our Mattie? 'Ere's Daddy Longlegs arter her, vith
his penny and his blessin'! an' 'ere's this 'ere mighty
swell vith soverings—an' his red socks! An' she's 'ungry,
poor gal!—This 'ere yellow-boy?-I 'ain't got no faith
in swells—no more'n in Daddy Longlegses—I ain't-
S'posin' he wants to marry her?—Not if I know it.
He ain't half good 'nough for her. Too many quids
--goin' a flingin' on 'em about like buttons! He's
been a crackin' o' cribs—he has. I ain't a goin' to
interduce our Mattie to no sich blokes as him. No
fathers or lovyers for me-says I—But this here
pebble o' Paradise!—What's to be done wi' the cherub?
I can't tell her a lie about it, an' who'll break it up
for a cove like me, lookin' jes' as if I'd been an tarred
myself and crep' through a rag-bag! They'd jug me.
An' what 'ud Mattie say then? I wish I ’adn't a'
touched it. I'm blowed if I don't toss it over a bridge!
- Then the gent ’ain't got the weight on his dunop
out o' me. O Lord! what shall I do with it? I wish
I'd skied it in his face! I don't believe it's a good
un; I don't! (Bites it.) It do taste wery nasty. It's
nothin' better 'n a gilt fardin'! Jes? what a cove might
look for from sich a swell! (Goes to a street lamp and
examines it.) Lor! there's a bobby! (Exit. Re-enter
to the lamp.) I wish the gen'leman 'ad guy me a
penny. I can't do nothin' wi’ this 'ere quid. Vere
am I to put it? I 'ain't got no pocket, an' if I was to
stow it in my 'tato-trap, I couldn't wag my red rag-
an' Mother Madge 'ud soon have me by the chops.
Nor I've got noveres to plant it.-0 Lor! it's all I've
got, an' Madge lets nobody go to bed without the
tuppence. It's all up with Bill—for the night! -
Where's the odds!—there's a first-class hotel by the


254
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Bill,You're a liar! I never picked a pocket in
my life.
James. Bad language, you see! What more would
you have?
Tho. Who'd iver ha' thowt o' sich wickedness in a
boy like that!
Bill. I ain't a wicked boy.
Tho. Nay, doan't thae tell mo that! Thae made
gam of mo, and hurried and scurried mo, as iv aw'd
been a mak ov a deevil—yo did.
James. He's one of the worst boys I know. This
Timothy is one of the very worst boys in all London.
Bill (aside). Timothy, eh? I twigs! It's Rain-
bow, by Peter and Paul!—Look ye here, old gen'le-
man! This 'ere's a bad cove as is takin' adwantage
o' your woolliness. / knows him. His master guv
me the suvering. He guv it to me to tell him where
your Mattie was.
James,Don't you fancy you're goin' to take in an
experienced old gen'leman like that with your cock-
and-bull stories! Come along, I say. Hey! Police!
Bill. Here you are! (Takes the coin fromhis mouth,
rubs it dry on his jacket, and offers it) I don't want
it. Give it to old Hunx there.—He shan't never see
his Mattie! I wur right to chivy him, arter all.
James (taking the coin). Now look here, Timothy.
I'm a detective hofficer. But I won't never be hard
on no boy as wants to make a honest livin'. So you
be hoff! I'll show the old gen'leman where he wants
to go to.
Bill moves two paces, and takes a sight at him.
Tho. The Lord be praised! Dosto know eawr
Mattie then?


IF I HAD A FATHER.
257
Mrs. C. He doesn't want me. You are every-
thing now. Besides, I can't come alone.
Col. G. Why not?
Mrs. C. Constance would fancy I did not want to
take her.
Col. G. Then why not take her?
Mrs. C. I have my reasons.
Col. G. What are they?
Mrs. C. Never mind.
Col. G. I insist upon knowing them.
Mrs. C. It would break my heart, Walter, to
quarrel with you, but I will if you use such an ex-
pression.
Col. G. But why shouldn't you bring Miss La-
cordere with you?
Mrs. C. He's but a boy, and it might put some
nonsense in his head.
Col. G. She's a fine girl. You make a friend of
her.
Mrs. C. She's a good girl, and a lady-like girl;
but I don't wan't to meddle with the bulwarks of
society. I hope to goodness they will last my time.
Col. G. Clara, I begin to doubt whether pride be
a Christian virtue.
Mrs. C. I see! You'll be a radical before long.
Everything is going that way.
Col. G. I don't care what I am, so I do what's
right. I'm sick of all that kind of thing. What I
want is bare honesty. I believe I'm a tory as yet, but
I should be a radical to-morrow if I thought justice
lay on that side.—If a man falls in love with a woman,
why shouldn't he marry her?
Mrs. C. She may be unfit for him.
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 17


IF I HAD A FATHER.
259
Mat. I don't think we ought to buy chops, dear.
We must be content with bread, I think.
Sus. Bread, indeed!
Mat. Well, it's something to eat.
Sns. Do you call it eatin' when you see a dog
polishin' a bone?
Mat. Bread's very good with a cup of tea.
Sus. Tea, indeed! Fawn-colour, trimmed with sky-
blue!—If you'd mentioned lobster-salad and sherry,
now!
Mat. I never tasted lobster-salad.
Sus. I have, though; and I do call lobster-salad
good. You don't care about your wittles: / do, When
I'm hungry, I'm not at all comfortable.
Mat. Poor dear Sue! There is a crust in the cup-
board.
Sus. I can't eat crusts. I want summat nice. I
ain't dyin' of 'unger. It's only I'm peckish. Very
peckish, though. I could eat—let me see what I could
eat:—I could eat a lobster-salad, and two dozen
oysters, and a lump of cake, and a wing and a leg of
a chicken—if it was a spring chicken, with water-
creases round it—and a Bath-bun, and a sandwich;
and in fact I don't know what I couldn't eat, except
just that crust in the cupboard. And I do believe I
could drink a whole bottle of champagne.
Mat. I don't know what one of those things tastes
like—scarce one; and I don't believe you do either.
Sus. Don't I?—I never did taste champagne, but
I've seen them eating lobster-salad many a time;—
girls not half so good-lookin' as you or me, Mattie,
and fine gentlemen a waitin' upon 'em. Oh dear! I
am so hungry! Think of having your supper with a
17*


IF I HAD A FATHER.
26l
thing, I'll take to gin—that's what I'll do. Don't say
I didn't act fair, and tell you beforehand.
Mat. How can I help dying, Susan?
Sus. I say, Don't do it, Mattie. We'll fall out, if
you do. Don't do it, Matilda—La! there's that lump-
ing Bill again—always a comin' up the stair when
you don't want him!
Enter Bill.
Mat. Well, Bill, how have you been getting on?
Bill. Pretty tollol, Mattie. But I can't go on so.
(Holds out his stool) It ain't respectable.
Mat. What ain't respectable? Everything's re-
spectable that's honest.
Bill. Why, who ever saw a respectable shiner goin'
about with a three-legged stool for a blackin' box? It
ain't the thing. The rig'lars chaffs me fit to throw it
at their 'eads, they does—only there's too many on
'em, an' I've got to dror it mild. A box I must have,
or a feller's ockypation's gone. Look ye here! One
bob, one tanner, and a joey! There! that's what comes
of never condescending to an 'a'penny.
Sus. Bless us! what mighty fine words we've got
a waitin' on us!
Bill. If I 'ave a weakness, Miss Susan, it's for the
right word in the right place—as the coster said to
the devil-dodger as blowed him up for purfane swear-
in'.—When a gen'leman hoffers me an 'a'penny, I axes
him in the purlitest manner I can assume, to oblige
me by givin' of it to the first beggar he may 'ave the
good fort'n to meet. Some on 'em throws down the
'a'penny. Most on 'em makes it a penny.—But I say,
Mattie, you don't want nobody arter you—do you now?


262
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Mat. I don't know what you mean by that, Bill.
Bill. You don't want a father—do you now? Do
she, Susan?
Sus. We want no father a hectorin' here, Bill. You
'ain't seen one about, have you?
Bill. I seen a rig'lar swell arter Mattie, anyhow.
Mat. What do you mean, Bill?
Bill. A rig'lar swell—I repeats it—a astin' arter
a young woman by the name o' Mattie.
Sus. (pulling him aside). Hold your tongue, Bill!
You'll kill her! You young viper! Hold your tongue,
or I'll twist your neck. Don't you see how white she is?
Mat. What was he like? Do tell me, Bill.
Bill. A long-legged rig'lar swell, with a gold chain,
and a cane with a hivory 'andle.
Sus. He's a bad man, Bill, and Mattie can't abide
him. If you tell him where she is, she'll never speak
to you again.
Mat. Oh, Susan! what shall I do? Don't bring
him here, Bill. I shall have to run away again; and
I can't, for we owe a week's rent.
Sus. There, Bill!
Bill. Don't you be afeard, Mattie. He shan't touch
you. Nor the old one neither.
Mat. There wasn't an old man with him?—not an
old man with a long stick?
Bill. Not with him. Daddy was on his own hook?
Mat. It must have been my father, Susan. (Sinks
back on her chair)
Sus. 'Tain't the least likely.—There, Bill! I always
said you was no good! You've killed her.
Bill. Mattie! Mattie! I didn't tell him where you
was.


264
IF I HAD A FATHER
Bill. I'm off this indentical minute. But you
see-
Sus. There! there!—now you mizzle. I don't want
no fathers here-goodness knows; but the poor girl's
took a fancy to hers, and she'll die if she don't get
him. Run now—there's a good boy! (Exit Bill.)
You ’ain't forgotten who's a comin', Mattie?
Mat. No, indeed.
Sus. Well, I hope she'll be civil, or I'll just give
her a bit of my mind.
Mat. Not enough to change hers, I'm afraid. That
sort of thing never does any good.
Sus. And am I to go a twiddlin' of my thumbs,
and sayin' yes, ma'am, an' no, ma'am? Not if I knows
it, Matilda!
Mat. You will only make her the more positive in
her ill opinion of us.
Sus. An' what's that to me?
Mat. Well, I don't like to be thought a thief. Be-
sides, Mrs. Clifford has been kind to us.
Sus. She's paid us for work done; so has old Nathan.
Mat. Did old Nathan ever give you a glass of
wine when you took home his slops?
Sus. Oh! that don't cost much; and besides, she
takes it out in kingdom-come.
Mat. You're unfair, Susan.
Sus. Well, it's little fairness I get.
Mat. And to set that right you're unfair yourself!
What you call speaking your mind, is as cheap, and
as nasty, as the worst shoddy old Nathan ever got
gobble-stitched into coats and trousers.
Sus. Very well, Miss Matilda! (rising and snatching
her bonnet). The sooner we part the better! You stick


IF I HAD A FATHER.
265
by your fine friends! I don't care that for them!
(snapping her fingers)—and you may tell 'em so! I
can make a livin' without them or you either. Good-
ness gracious knows it ain't much of a livin' I've made
sin' I come across you, Miss!
Exit.
Mat. (trying to rise). Susan! Susan! (Lays her
head on the table.)
A tap at the door, and enter MRS. CLIFFORD, with JAMES
behind. MATTIE rises.
Mrs. C. Wait on the landing, James.
James. Yes, ma'am.'
Exit JAMES, leaving the door a little ajar.
Mrs. C. Well, Miss Pearson! (Mattie offers a chair.)
No, thank you. That person is still with you, I see!
Mat. Indeed, ma'am, she's an honest girl.
Mrs. C. She is a low creature, and capable of any-
thing. I advise you to get rid of her.
Mat. Was she rude on the stair, ma’am?
Mrs. C. Rude! Vulgar-quite vulgar! Insulting!
Mat. I am very sorry. But, believe me, ma'am,
she is an honest girl, and never pawned that work. It
was done—every stitch of it; and the loss of the
money is hard upon us too. Indeed, ma'am, she did
lose the parcel.
Mrs. C. You have only her word for it. If you
don't give her up, I give you up.
Mat. I can't, ma'am. She might go into bad ways
if I did.
Mrs. C. She can't well get into worse. Her
language! You would do ever so much better with-
out her.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
267
ing spitefully)—which I'm no better'n I should be, and
a great deal worse, if I'm on my oath to your ladyship
—that's neither here nor there!—but she's better'n a
van-load o' sich ladies as you, pryin' into other people's
houses, with yer bibles, an' yer religion, an' yer
flunkies! /know ye! I do I
Mat. Don't, Susan.
Sus. Why don't ye go an' pay twopence a week to
somebody to learn ye good manners? I been better
brought up myself.
Mrs. C. I see I was wrong: I ought at once to
have handed the matter over to the police.
Sus. The perlice, indeed!—You get out of this,
ma'am, or I'll make you!—you and your cowardly
man-pup there, as is afraid to look me in the face
through the crack o' the door! Get out, I say, with
your—insolence—that's your word!
Exit Mrs. Clifford.
Mat. Susan! Susan! what is to become of us?
Sus. She daren't do it—the old scrooge! But just
let her try it on! See if I don't show her up afore
the magistrate! Mattie! I'll work my fingers to the
bone for you. I would do worse, only you won't let
me. I'll go to the court, and tell the magistrate you're
a-dyin' of hunger, which it's as true as gospel.
Mat. They'd send me to the workhouse, Sukey.
Sus. There must be some good people somewheres,
Mattie.
Mat. Yes; if we could get at them. But we can
live till we die, Sukey.
Sus. I'll go and list for a soldier, I will. Women
ha' done it afore. It's quite respectable, so long as
they don't find you out—and they shouldn't me.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
273
Jones's kettle's sure to be a bilin'. That's what you
would like.
Exit. Constance steps aside, and Susan passes with-
out seeing her.
Mat. Oh! to be a baby again in my mother's
arms! But it'll soon be over now.
Constance comes forward.
Con. I hope you're a little better now?
Mat. You're very kind, miss; and I beg your pardon
for speaking to you as I did.
Con. Don't say a word about it. You didn't quite
know what you were saying. I'm in trouble myself. I
don't know how soon I may be worse off than you.
Mat. Why, miss, I thought you were going to be
married!
Con. No, I am not.
Mat. Why, miss, what's happened. He's never
going to play^ow false—is he?
Con. I don't mean ever to speak to him again!
Mat. What has he done to offend you, miss?
Con. Nothing. Only I know now I don't like him.
To tell you the truth, Mattie, he's not a gentleman.
Mat. Not a gentleman, miss! How dare you say so?
Con. Do you know anything about him? Did you
ever see him?
Mat. Yes.
Con. Where?
Mat. Once at your house.
Con. Oh! I remember—that time! I begin to
It couldn't be at the sight of him you fainted, Mattie?
—You knew him? Tell me! tell me! Make me sure
of it.
The Gifts of the Child Christ, etc. 18


274
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Mat. To give you your revenge! No. It's a mean
spite to say he ain't a gentleman.
Con. Perhaps you and I have different ideas of
what goes to make a gentleman.
Mat. Very likely.
Con. Oh! don't be vexed, Mattie. I didn't mean
to hurt you.
Mat. Oh! I dare say!
Con. If you talk to me like that, I must go.
Mat. I never asked you to come.
Con. Well, I did want to be friendly with you. I
wouldn't hurt you for the world.
Mat. (bursting into tears). I beg your pardon, miss.
I'm behaving like a brute. But you must forgive me;
my heart is breaking.
Con. Poor dear! (kissing her). So is mine almost.
Let us be friends. Where's Susan gone?
Mat. To fetch me a cup of tea. She'll be back
directly.
Con. Don't let her say bad words: I can't bear
them. I think it's because I was so used to them
once—in the streets, I mean—not at home—never at
home.
Mat. She don't often, miss. She's a good-hearted
creature. It's only when hunger makes her cross. She
don't like to be hungry.
Con. I should think not, poor girl!
Mat. Don't mind what she says, please. If you
say nothing, she'll come all right. When she's spoken
her mind, she feels better. Here she comes!
Re-enter Susan. It begins to grow dark.
Sus. Well, and who have we got here?


IF I HAD A FATHER.
275
Mat. Miss Lacordere, Sukey.
Sus. There's no lack o' dare about her, to come
here!
Mat. It's very kind of her to come, Susan;
Sus. I tell you what, miss: that parcel was stole.
It was stole, miss!—stole from me—an' that angel
there a dyin' in the street!
Con. I'm quite sure of it, Susan. I never thought
anything else.
Sus. Not but I allow it was a pity, miss!—I'm very
sorry. But, bless you! (lighting a candle)—with all
your fine clothes !My! you look like a theayter-
queen—you do, miss! If you was to send them up the
spout now!—My! what a lot they'd let you have on
that silk!
Con. The shawl is worth a good deal, I believe.
It's an Indian one—all needlework.
Sus. And the bee-utiful silk! Laws, miss! just
shouldn't I like to wear a frock like that! I should be
hard up before I pledged that! But the shawl! If I
was you, miss, I would send 'most everything up be-
fore that!—things inside, you know, miss—where it
don't matter so much.
Con. (laughing). The shawl would be the first thing
I should part with. I would rather be nice inside
than out.
Sus. Lawk, miss! I shouldn't wonder if that was
one of the differs now! Well, I never! It ain't seen! It
must be one o' the differs!
Con. What differs? I don't understand you.
Sus. The differs 'tween girls an' ladies—girls like
me an' real ladies like you.
Con. Oh, I see! But how dark it has got! What
i8»


276
IF I HAD A FATHER.
can be keeping William? I must go at once, or what
will my aunt say! Would you mind going with me a
little bit, Susan?
Sus. I'll go with pleasure, miss.
Con. Just a little way, I mean, till we get to the
wide streets. You couldn't lend me an old cloak,
could you?
Sus. I 'ain't got one stitch, miss, but what I stand
up in—'cep' it be a hodd glove an' 'alf a pocket-
'an'kercher. Nobody 'ill know you.
Con. But I oughtn't to be out dressed like this.
Sus. You've only got to turn up your skirt over
your head, miss.
Con. (drawing up her skirt). I never thought of
that!
Sus. Well, I never!
Con. What's the matter?
Sus. Only the whiteness o' the linin' as took my
breath away, miss. It ain't no use turnin' of it up:
you'll look like a lady whatever you do to hide it.
But never mind: that ain't no disgrace so long as you
don't look down on the rest of us. There, miss! There
you are—fit for a play! Come along; I'll take care of
you. Lawks! I'm as good as a man—/ am!
Con. Good-bye then, Mattie.
Mat. Good-bye, miss. God bless you.
Exeunt.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
277
ACT IV.
SCENE.— The Studio.
Enter Col. G. Walks about restless and eager.
Col. G. Thank heaven! If Bill has found Mr. War-
ren now,--
Exit.
Enter WARREN.
War. What can the fellow be up to? There's
something odd about him—something I don't like-
but it can't mean mischief when he sends for me.
Where could Gervaise have picked him up?-Nobody
here?
Re-enter Col. G. and hurries to him with outstretched
hand.
Col. G. My dear sir! I am greatly obliged to you.
This is very kind.
War. (stepping back). Excuse me.—I do not under-
stand.
Col. G. I beg your pardon. I ought to have ex-
plained.
War. I believe something of the sort is necessary.
Col. G. You are my master's friend.
War. I should be proud of the honour. Can I be
of any service to him?
Col. G. I believe I can trust you. I will trust you
-I am his father.


278
IF I HAD A FATHER.
War. Whose father? Belzebub's?
Col. G. Arthur's—your friend Gervaise's. I am
Sir Walter Gervaise. You must help me to help him.
WARREN regards him for a moment.
War. (stiffy). Sir Walter, I owe your son much-
you nothing yet. I am his friend.
Col. G. There is not a moment to lose. Listen.
An old man came about the place a few weeks ago,
looking for his daughter. He has been got out of the
way, but I have learned where he is: I want you to
bring him.
War. I would serve your son blindfold: you must
excuse me if I wish to understand first.
Col. G. Arthur is in trouble. He has a secret.-
God forgive me!—I feared it was a bad one.
War. You don't know him as I do!
Col. G. I know him now—and can help him. Only
I can't prove anything yet. I must have the old man.
I've found his daughter, and suspect the villain: if I
can bring the three together, all will come out, sure
enough. The boy I sent for you will take you to the
father. He will trust you, and come. (Bell rings.) I
must go to Arthur now.
Exit.
War. What a strange old fellow! An officer-and
disguise himself !
Enter BILL.
Bill. Here you are, sir!
War. No vast amount of information in that state-
ment, my boy!
Bill. Well, sir--here I are, sir.
War. That is a trifle more to the point, though
scarcely requiring mention.


200
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Col. G. God knows I would, sir—to the last drop
of my blood.
Ger. That's saying much, William. A son couldn't
say more—no, nor a father either.
Col. G. Oh! yes, he could, sir.
Ger. And mean it?
Col. G. Yes.
Ger. If I had a father, William, I would tell him
all about it. I was but two years old when he
left me.
Col. G. Then you don't remember him, sir?
Ger. I often dream about him, and then I seem to
remember him.
Col. G. What is he like, sir?—in your dreams, I
mean.
Ger. I never see him distinctly: I try hard some-
times, but it's no use. If he would but come home!
I feel as if I could bear anything then.—But I'm talk-
ing like a girl!
Col. G. Where is your father, sir?
Ger. In India.
Col. G. A soldier, sir?
Ger. Yes. Colonel Gervaise—you must have heard
of him. Sir Walter he is now.
Col. G. I've heard of him, sir—away in the north
parts he's been, mostly.
Ger. Yes. How I wish he would come home! I
would do everything to please him. I have it, William!
I'll go to India. I did think of going to Garibaldi—
but I won't—I'll go to India. I must find my father.
Will you go with me?
Col. G. Willingly, sir.
Ger. Is there any fighting there now?


284
IF I HAD A FATHER.
wet. But it's no matter. Let her go. Earth to earth,
and dust to dust!—the law of Nature—and Art too.
Exit into the house.
Col. G. (following him). I mustn't lose sight of
him.—Here he comes again, thank God!
Catches up a coat, and begins brushing it.
Re-enter Ger.
Ger. I don't like to see you doing that.
Col. G. Why shouldn't I serve my own—superior,
sir? Anything' s better than serving yourself. And
that's what every one does who won't serve other
people.
Ger. You are right. And it's so cheap.
Col. G. And so nasty!
Ger. Right again, William!—Right indeed!—You're
a gentleman! If there's anything I could help you in
—anything gone wrong,—any friends offended—I'm
not altogether without influence.
Col. G. (aside). He will vanquish me with my own
weapons!
Ger. But you will go to Garibaldi with me?
Col. G. I will, sir.
Ger. And ride by my side?
Col. G. Of course.
Ger. If you ride by me, you will have to ride far.
Col. G. I know, sir. But if you would be fit for
fighting, you must come and have something to eat
and drink.
Ger. All right. A soldier must obey: I shall begin
by obeying you. Only mind you keep up with me.
Exit, leaning on Col. G.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
285
Enter Thomas.
Tho. Th' dule a mon be yere! Aw're main troubled
to get shut ov they reyvers! Aw'm olez i' trouble!
Mine's a gradely yed! it be!—Hoy!—Nobory yere!
'T seems to me, honest men be scarce i' Lonnon.
Aw'm beawn to believe nobory but mo own heighes,
and mo own oud lass. Exit.
Re-enter Gervaise, followed by Col. G.
Ger. No, William; I won't lie down. I feel much
better. Let's have a bout with the foils.
Col. G. Very well, sir. (Aside.) A little of that will
go far, I know. (Gets down the foils)
Ger. And, William, you must set a block up here.
I shall have a cut or two at it to-morrow. There's a
good cavalry weapon up there — next that cast of
Davis's arm.
Col. G. Suppose your father were to arrive just
after you had started!
Ger. I shouldn't mind. I don't want to see him
yet. I'm such a poor creature! The heart seems to
have gone out of me. You see, William
Enter Mrs. Clifford.
Ger. Ah! How do you do, aunt?
MrsC. What's this nonsense about Garibaldi,
Arthur?
Ger. Who told you?
Mrs. C. You don't mean it's true?
Ger. Quite true, aunt.
Mrs. C. Really, Arthur, you are more of a scatter-
brain than I took you for!


286
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Ger. Don't say that, aunt. I only take after my
father.
Mrs. C. Don't talk to me of your father! I have
no patience with him. A careless hard-hearted fellow
—not worthy the name of a father! (She glares at
Sir Walter.)
Ger. You may go, William. (Col. G. retires slowly.)
Ger. Aunt, you have been a mother to me; but
were you really my mother, I must not listen to such
words of my father. He has good reasons for what
he does, though I admit there is something in it we
don't understand. (Aside) If I could but understand
how Constance
Mrs. C. What do you say? What was that about
Constance?
Ger. Oh, nothing, aunt. I was only thinking how
difficult it is to understand people.
Mrs. C. If you mean Constance, I agree with you.
She is a most provoking girl.
Ger. (smiling). I am sorry to hear that, aunt.
Mrs. C. I'm very glad you were never so silly as
take a fancy to the girl. She would have led you a
pretty dance! If you saw how she treats that un-
fortunate Waterfield! But what's bred in the bone
won't out of the flesh.
Ger. There's nothing bred in her I would have
out, aunt.
Mrs. C. Perhaps she originated her vulgarity. That
is a shade worse.
Ger. Vulgarity, aunt! I cannot remember the
meaning of the word when I think of her.
Mrs. C. If you choose to insult me, Arthur
Exit.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
287
Ger. It is high time I were gone! If I should be
called in now to settle matters between William!
William!—William!
Enter Col. G.
Ger. To-morrow, William. Not a word. If you
will go with me, I shall be glad. If you will not, I
shall go without you. Exit.
Col. G. Yes, sir.—I wish Warren were here with
the old man. I don't know what to do till he comes.
Enter Constance.
Con. I thought my aunt was here, William.
Col. G. No, miss. She was here, but she's gone
again.
Con. Could I see Mr. Gervaise for a moment?
Col. G. Certainly, miss. I'll tell him.
Con. Is he still determined on going, William?
Col. G. Yes, miss;—to-morrow, he says.
Con. To-morrow!
Col. G. Yes, miss. I think he means to start for
Dover in the morning.
Con. What am I to do?
Col. G. What's the matter, miss?
Con. What can I do? I know he is angry with me.
I don't quite know why. I wish I had never I
can't help it now. My heart will break. (Weeps)
Col. G. Don't let him go to Dover to-morrow,
miss.
Con. He would have listened to me once. He
won't now. It's all so different! Everything has gone
wrong somehow.
Col. G. Do try to keep him from going, miss.


288
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Con. He would but think me forward. I could
bear anything better than have him think ill of me.
Col. G. No fear of that, miss. The danger is all
the other way.
Con. What other way, William?
Col. G. He thinks you don't care a bit about him.
Exit. CONSTANCE drops on the dais, nearly under
the veiled Psyche.
Enter GER. and stands a moment regarding her.
Ger. Constance.
Con. (starting up, and flying to him with her hands
clasped). Arthur! Arthur! don't go. I can't bear you
to go. It's all my fault, but do forgive me! Oh, do,
do-dear Arthur! Don't go to-morrow. I shall be
miserable if you do.
Ger. But why, my--why, Constance?
Con. I was your Constance once.
Ger. But why should I not go? Nobody wants
me here.
Con. Oh, Arthur! how can you be so cruel? Can
it be that——? Do say something. If you won't say
anything, how can I know what you are thinking-
what you wish? Perhaps you don't like—- I would
-I have—I won't—Oh, Arthur! do say something.
Ger. I have nothing to say, Constance.
Con. Then I have lost you — altogether! I dare
say I deserve it. I hardly know. God help me!
What can I have done so very wicked? Oh! why did
you take me out of the streets? I should have been
used to them by this time! They are terrible to me
now. No, no, Arthur! I thank you—thank you—with
my very soul! What might I not have been by this


2 9o IF I HAD A FATHER.
gooin'. Nobory can tell what may be coomin to mo
Mattie. Aw mun go look, go look! Ha! ha! they
couldn't keep mo, owd mon as aw wur! But aw wish
aw hed a word wi' th' mon first.
Enter Warren.
War. (aside). This must be the old fellow himself!
Here he is after all! (Peeps into the room)
Tho. Theer be nobory theer, sir. Th' maister's
run eawt, and th' mon after him.
War. Run out!
Tho. Aw niver says what aw donnot mane. An'
aw'm glad yo're theer, sir; for William he towd mo to
stay till he coom back; but awVe not geet so mich
time to spare; and so be's yo're a friend ov th'
maister's, yo'll mebbe mind th' shop a smo' bit. Aw
mun goo (going).
War. I say, old man—your name's Thomas Pear-
son—ain't it?
Tho. Yigh. Aw yer. But hea cooms to knaw mo
name?
War. I know all about you.
Tho. Iwery body knaws iwery body yere! Aw
connot stur a fut fur folks as knaws mo, and knaws
mo name, and knaws what aw be after. Lonnon is a
dreedfu' plaze. Aw mun geet mo lass to whoam.
Yo'll mind th' shop till th' maister cooms back. Good
neet (going).
War. (stopping him). They want you here a bit.
You'd better stop. The man will be back directly.
You're too suspicious.
Tho. Nea, maister, thae'rt wrung theer. Aw've
trusted too mich—a theawsand times too mich.


292
IF I HAD A FATHER.
and which not to trust. But aw mun wait for maister
William, as yo co' him.
Bill. All right, daddy!—Don't you stir from here
till I come back—not for nobody—no, not for Joseph!
Tho. Aw dunnot knaw no Joseph.
Bill. I'll soon let you see I'm a honest boy! As
you can't go to Mattie, I'll bring Mattie to you: see if
I don't! An' if she ain't the right un, I'll take her
back, and charge ye nuffin for carriage. Can't say
fairer than that, daddy!
Tho. Bless tho, mo boy! Dosto mane it true?
Bill. Yes—an' that you'll see, afore you're an 'alf
an hour older, daddy. When Mr. William comes, you
say to him, "Bill's been.—All right."
Tho. Aw dunnot like secrets, lad. What don yo
mane? Ivvery body seems to mane something, and
nobory to say it.
Bill. Never you mind, daddy! "Bill's been.—All
right." That's your ticket. I'm off. Exit.
Thomas gets up, and walks about, murmuring to
himself. A knock at the door.
Tho. Somebory after mo again! Aw'll geet eawt
ov th' way. (Goes behind the Psyche)
Enter Waterfield.
Wat. Nobody here! I am unlucky. "Not at home,"
said the rascal,—and grinned, by Jove! I'll be at the
bottom of this. There's no harm in Gervaise. He's a
decent fellow. (Knocks at the door of Ger.'s room) I
won't leave the place till I've set things right—not if
I've got to give him a post-obit for five thousand—I
won't!—Nobody there? (Looks in) No. Then I'll go
in and wait. Exit.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
293
Tho. (peeping from behind the Psyche). That's the
villain! Lord o' mercy! that's the villain! If aw're as
strung as aw'm owd, aw'd scrunch his yed—aw would!
Aw'm sure it's th' mon. He kep eawt ov mo way—
but aw seigh him once. O Lord, keep mo hands off
ov him. Aw met kill him. Aw'm sartin sure ov him
when aw see him. Aw^l not goo nigh him till some-
bory cooms—cep' he croons away. Aw'm noan fieyed
ov him, but aw met not be able to keep mo howd ov
him. Oh, mo Mattie! mo Mattie! to leave thi owd
faither for sich a mak ov a mon as yon! But yere
cooms somebory moor. (Goes behind the Psyche)
Enter Mrs. Clifford.
Mrs. C. No one here? She can never be in his
room with him! (Opens the door) Oh! Mr. Water-
field! You're here—are you?
Wat. (coming to the door). Mrs. Clifford! This is
indeed an unexpected pleasure!
Mrs. C. Have you got Constance with you there?
Wat. I've no such good fortune.
Mrs. C. Where is she, then?
Wat. At home, I presume.
Mrs. C. Indeed she is not. I must speak to
Arthur.
Wat. He's not here.
Mrs. C. Where's my—his man, then?
Wat. Taken himself off to the public-house, I sup-
pose. There's nobody about. Odd—ain't it?
Mrs. C. I'll go and see. Exit into the house.
Wat. What can be the row! there is some row.'
Exit intojhe room.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
295
ma'am, if you please. He's been out for the first
time.
Mrs. C. At night! and in a fog! A pretty nurse
you are! Poor boy!
Col. G. Mr. Waterfield, sir, would you mind
stepping into the room again for a moment? (Exit
Wat.) Mrs. Clifford, ma'am, would you please get a
glass of wine for master? Exit Mrs. C. into the house.
Ger. William! William!
Col. G. Yes, sir.
Ger. Send him away. Don't let him stop there.
I have nothing to say to him.
Col. G. He shan't trouble you, sir. I'll take care
of that. (Goes behind the Psyche to Thomas, but keeps
watching the door of the room)—Did you see the man
that went in there just now?
Tho. (with anxiety). He winnot joomp eawt ov th'
window, dosto thenk, lad?
Re-enter Mrs. C. with wine. Ger. drinks.
Col. G. Why should he do that? Do you know
anything about him?
Tho. Aw do.
Col. G. Has he seen you here?
Tho. No. Aw're afeard he'd roon away, and aw
keepet snoog.
Col. G. I needn't ask who it is, then?
Tho. Yo needn't, lad.
Enter Waterfield.
Tho. Mo conscience! he'll pike eawt afoor aw geet
howd on him! (Rushes out and seizes Wat.)


296
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Enter MATTIE and BILL.
Tho. Thae'rt a domned villain! Wheer's mo
Mattie?
WATERFIELD knocks THOMAS down.
Bill. O Lord! the swell's murdered old daddy!
All but GER. rush together. COLONEL GERVAISE seizes
WATERFIELD. MATTIE throws herself on her
knees beside THOMAS and lifts his head.
Mat. Father! father! Look at me! It's Mattie!-
your own wicked Mattie! Look at her once, father
dear! (Lays down his head in despair, and rises.)
Who struck the good old man?
Bill. He did—the swell as give me the gold sov.
Mat. Mr. Watkins!--
Wat. I haven't the honour of the gentleman's ac-
quaintance. I'm not Mr. Watkins. Am I now? (to
Col. G.) Ha! ha!—Let go, I say. I'm not the man.
It's all a mistake, you see.
Col. G. In good time. I might make a worse.
Watkins mayn't be your name, but Watkins is your
nature.
Wat. Damn your insolence! Let me go, I tell
you! (Struggles threatening.)
Col. G. Gently, gently, young man!—If I give
your neckcloth a twist now—-!
Mat. Yes, there is a mistake—and a sad one for
me! A wretch that would strike an old man! Indeed
you are not what I took you for.
Wat. You hear the young woman! She says it's
all a mistake.—My good girl, I'm sorry for the old
gentleman; but he oughtn't to behave like a ruffian.


3oo
IF I HAD A FATHER.
Old times, you know! — Take it. You're welcome.
(Forces the note on her. She steps back. It drops)
Mat. This is a humiliation! Will nobody take
him away?
Sus. (rushing at him). You be off! An' them goggle
eyes o' yours, or /'ll goggle 'em! I can't bear the
sight on 'em. I should never ha' taken you for a
gentleman. You don't look it. You slope, I say!
(Hustles him)
Waterfield picks up the note, and exit.
Mat. (bursting into tears). Father! father! don't
hate me; don't despise me.
Thomas tries to get up, but falls back.
Bill. Don't be in no hurry, Daddy. There's none
but friends here now—'cep' the old lady;—she do
look glum.
Sus. I'll soon settle her hash!
Mat. Susie! Susie! Don't—there's a dear!
Sus. What business has she here then! She's not
a doin' of nothink.
Mat. Don't you see she's looking after the poor
gentleman there?
Ger. William!—William!—Gone again! What a
fellow he is! The best servant in the world, but
always vanishing! Call your James—will you, aunt?
We must have the old man put to bed. But the poor
girl looks the worse of the two! She can have the
spare room, and William can sleep on the sofa in
mine.
Mrs. C. I'll see to it. Exit.
Ger. goes towards Thomas.
Tho. Coom whoam—coom whoam, Mattie! Thi
mother, hoo's cryin' her eighes eawt to whoam.


IF I HAD A FATHER.
301
Mat. I'll run for a doctor first, father.
Tho. No, no, chylt! Aw're only a bit stunned, like.
Aw'll be o' reet in a smo' bit. Aw dunnot want no
doctor. Aw'm a coomin' reawnd.
Ger. Neither of you shall stir to-night. Your
rooms will be ready in a few minutes.
Mat. Thank you, sir! I don't know what I
should have done with him. — Susan, you wouldn't
mind going home without me? You know Miss La-
cordere
Ger. Miss Lacordere! What do you know of her?
Mat. Oh, dear! Oh, dear! I oughtn't to have men-
tioned her. But my poor head!
Ger. What of Miss Lacordere? For God's sake,
tell me.
Enter Mrs. C. with James.
Sus. Oh, nothing, sir! nothing at all! Only Miss
Lacordere has been good to us—which it's more than
can be said for everybody! (Scowls at Mrs. C. James
proceeds to lift Thomas. She flies at him) Put the
old gentleman down, you sneakin' reptile! How many
doors have you been a hearkenin' at since mornin'—
eh, putty-lump? You touch the old man again, and
I'll mark you! Here, Bill! I'll take his head—you
take his feet. We'll carry him between us like a
feather.
Mat. O Susan! do hold your tongue.
Sus. It's my only weapon, my dear. If I was a
man—see if I'd talk then.
James. It's a providence you ain't a man, young
woman!
Sus. Right you are! Them's my werry motives. I


302
IF I HAD A FATHER.
ain't a makin' of no complaint on that score, young
Plush! I wouldn't be a man for—no, not for — not
even for sich a pair o' calves as yourn!
Sus. and Bill carry Tho. out. Mat. follows. GER.
is going after them.
Mrs. C. Don't you go, Arthur. They can manage
quite well. I will go if you like.
Ger. They know something about Constance.
Mrs. C. Pray give yourself no anxiety about her.
Ger. What do you mean, aunt?
Mrs. C. I will be responsible for her.
Ger. Where is she then? (Exit. Mrs. C.) Wil-
liam!—If he doesn't come in one minute more, I'll go
after her myself. Those girls know where she is. I
am as strong as a giant.-0 God! All but married
to that infamous fellow!—That he should ever have
touched the tip of one of her fingers! What a sun-
rise of hope! Psyche may yet fold her wings to
my prayer! William! William !—Where can the fel-
low be?
no that ithe tip oyche maxiam !
Enter Col. G. in uniform and star, leading
CONSTANCE.
Ger. (hurrying to meet them). Constance, Con-
stance! forgive me. Oh my God! You will when you
know all.
Col. G. She knows enough for that already, my
boy, or she wouldn't be here. Take her--and me for
her sake.
Ger. What! who—? Constance !--What does it
all mean?--It must be — can it be— my father? -
William-It is William! — William my father!—0


IF I HAD A FATHER.
303
father! father! (throwing his arms about him) it was
you all the time then!
Col. G. My boy! my boy! There!—take Con-
stance, and let me go. I did want to do something
for you—but There! I'm too much ashamed to
look at you in my own person.
Ger. (kneeling). Father! father! don't talk like
that! O father! my father!
Col. G. (raising him). My boy! my boy! I wanted
to do something for you—tried hard—and was foiled.
—I doubly deserved it. I doubted as well as neglected
you. But God is good. He has shamed me, and
saved you.
Ger. By your hand, father.
Col. G. No—by His own. It would all have come
right without me. I was unworthy of the honour, my
boy. But I was allowed to try; and for that I am
grateful.—Arthur, I come to you empty-handed—a
beggar for your love.
Ger. How dare you say that, father?—Empty-
handed—bringing me her and yourself—all I ever
longed for!—my father and my Psyche! Father, thank
you. The poor word must do its best. I thank you
with my very soul.—How shall I bear my happiness!
—Constance, it was my father all the time! Did you
know it? Serving me like a slave!—humouring all
my whims!—watching me night and day!—and then
bringing me
Con. Your own little girl, Arthur. But why did
you not tell me?
Ger. Tell you what, darling?
Con. That—that—that you Oh! you know what, Arthur!