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NAME AND FAME. 
 
 CHAPTKR I. 
 
 HUSBAND AND WIFE. 
 
 It was a brilliant day in June. 'Vha sky was cloudless and 
 da"3lingly blue, but the heat of the sun's rays was temi)ered 
 by a deliciously cool breeze, and tb.e foliage of the trees 
 that clothe the pleasant slopes round the vivacious little 
 town of Aix-les-Bains afforded plenty of shade to the pe- 
 destrian. Aix was, as usual, very crowded and very gay. 
 German potentates abounded : French notabihties were 
 not wanting : it was rumored that English royalty was 
 coming. A very motley crowd of divers nationalities drank 
 the waters every morning and discussed the latest society 
 scandal. Festivity seemed to haimt the very air of the 
 place, beaming from the trim white villas with their smart 
 green jalousies, the tall hotels with crudely tinted flags 
 flying from their roofs, the cheery little shoj)s with their 
 cheerier dames de coniptoir smiling complacently on the 
 tourists who unwarily bought their goods. Ladies in gay 
 toilets, with scarlet i)arasols or floating feathers, made vivid, 
 patches of color against the green background of the 
 gardens, and the sireets were now and then touched into 
 picturescpieness by the passing of some half-dozen peasants 
 who had couk' from the neighboring villages to sell their 
 butter or their eggs. The men in their blue blouses were 
 mostly lean, dark, and taciturn ; the women, small, black- 
 eyed, and vivacious, with bright-colored petticoats, long 
 earrings, and the quaintest of round white caps. The 
 silvery whiteness of the lake, flashing back an answer to 
 
^ NAME AND FAME. 
 
 the sunlight, g.iv.' a iH'Cuh'arly joyous radiance to the scene. 
 For water is lo a landscape what the eye is to the human 
 counienanci' : it gives Hfe and expression ; without it, the 
 most beaulitiil features may he blank and uninteresting. 
 
 Hut the brigluness of tiic scene did not hnd an echo in 
 every heart. 
 
 " Dame ! " said a French waiter, who stood, napkin in 
 hand, al a window of the Hotel Venat, watching the 
 passers-by, " thi-re they go, that < old, sullen Knglish pair, 
 looking as if nothing on earth would make them smile 
 again ! " 
 
 A bullet-headed little man in a white apron stepped up 
 to the window and stared in the direction that Auguste's 
 eyes had taken. 
 
 " Tiens, done ! (Quelle toumure ! But she is superl) 1 " 
 he exclaimed, as if in renK)nslrance. 
 
 " She is handsome- -oui, sans doule ; i)ut see how she 
 frowns ! I like a woman who smiles, who coipiettes, who 
 knows how to divert iierself — like iMademoiselle Lisette 
 here, queen of my heart and life." 
 
 And Auguste bowed sentimentally lo a pretty little 
 chambermaid who came tripping up the stairs at that mo- 
 ment, and laid his hand upon his heart. 
 
 " V'ou are too polite. Monsieur Auguste,'' Lisette re- 
 sponded amicably. " And at whom are you gazing so 
 earnestly? " 
 
 '* At the belle Anglaise — you can still see her, if you look 
 — she is charmingly dressed, but " 
 
 *' She is magnit'icent ! simply magnificent," murmured 
 the bullet-headed jean, who was not, like his friend, ena- 
 mored of the pert Lisette. " I have nevt-r seen so splendid 
 an Englishwoman, never ! nor one who had so much the 
 true Parisian air ! " 
 
 Lisette uttered a shrill little scream of laughter. " Do 
 you know the reason, mon ami } She is not Faiglish at all : 
 she is a compatriot. He — the husband — he is F^nglish ; 
 but she is French, I tell you, Frencli to the finger-tips." 
 
 " Voyons ; what rooms have they ? " 
 
 " They are au quatrieme — they are poor — poor," said 
 Lisette, with infinite scorn. " I wait on them a little — not 
 much ; they have been here tliree days, and one can see 
 
 But the gentleman, he is generous. When madanie 
 
 scolds, he gives me money to buy my forbearance ; she 
 
N^lMl: .L\0 I'AME. 
 
 has the temper of a dcinon. tlic tongue of :i veritable 
 fieiul:' 
 
 '• Ah I lie loves her, thru I " said Aiiguste, putting his 
 head on one side. 
 
 liisette sn;ipi)(,{l her fingers. '' Ah, oui ! He loves her 
 so well that he will strangle her one of tliesedays when she 
 says a word too niu<"h and he is in his sombre mood ! 
 Quiet as he is, I would not go too far with him, ce beau 
 monsieur! Me will not be patient always — you will 
 see ! " 
 
 She went on her way, and the waiters remained at the 
 window in the corridor. The lady and gentlemen of whom 
 they spoke had turned into the hotel garden, and were 
 walking uj) and down its gravelled paths, apparently in 
 silence. Auguste and Jean watched them, as if fascinated 
 by the sight of the taciturn ])air, who now and then were 
 lost to sight behind a chnnj) of trees or in some shady 
 walk, presently reappearing in the full sunshine, with the 
 air of those who wish for some reason or other to show 
 themselves as much as possible. 
 
 This, at least, was the impression produced by the air 
 and gait of the woman ; not by those of the man. He 
 walked beside her gravely, somewhat dejectedly, indeed. 
 There was a look of resignation in his face, which con- 
 trasted forcibly with the Haunting audacity visible in every 
 gesture of the woman who was his wife. 
 
 He was the less noticeable of the two, but still a hand- 
 some man in his way, of a refined and almost scholarly 
 type. He was tall, and although rather of slender than 
 powerful build, his movements were characterized by the 
 mingled grace and alertness which may be seen when well- 
 proportioned limbs are trained to every kind of athletic 
 exercise. His face, however, was that of the dreamer, not 
 of the athlete. He liad a fine brow, thoughtful brown eyes, 
 a somewhat long nose with sensitive nostrils, a stern-set 
 mouth, and resolute chin. I'he spare outlines of his face, 
 well defined yet delicate withal, sometimes reminded 
 strangers of (liotlo's frescoed head of Dante in his youth. 
 But the mouth was j^artly hidden beneath a dark brown 
 moustache ; a pily from tlie artistic point of view. Refine- 
 ment was the first and ])redominaiing characteristic of his 
 face ; thoughtful melancholy, the second. It was evident, 
 even to the most casual observer, that this man was emin- 
 
r 
 
 a- 
 
 ^ ATAMF. AND FAME, 
 
 ently unfitted to be the husband of the woman at his 
 
 side. 
 
 For a woman she was unusually tall. She was also un- 
 usually handsome. She had a magnificent figure, a com- 
 manding presence, good features, hair, and eyes ; yet the 
 impression that she produced was anything but pleasant. 
 The flashing dark eyes were too bold and too defiant ; the 
 carmine on her cheeks was artificially laid on, and her face 
 had been dabbed with a powder puffin very reckless fashion. 
 Her black hair was frizzed and tortured in the latest mode, 
 and her dress made in so novel a style that it looked outre, 
 even at a fashionable watering-place. Dress, bonnet and 
 parasol were scarlet of hue ; and the vivid tint was softened 
 but slightly by the black lace which fell in cascades from 
 her closely-swatlied neck to the hem of her dress, fastened 
 here and there by diamond pins. If it were possible tliat, 
 as Lisette had said, Mr. and Mrs. Alan Walcott were poor, 
 their poverty was not apparent in Mrs. Walcott's dress. 
 Black and scarlet were certainly becoming to her, biu the 
 effect in broad daylight was too startling for good tasie. 
 To a critical observer, moreover, there was something un- 
 pleasantly suggestive in her movements : the way in which 
 she walked and lield her parasol, and turned her head from 
 side to side, spoke of a desire to attract attention, and a 
 delight in admiration even of the coarest and least compli- 
 mentary kind. 
 
 There was certainly something in the bearing of husband 
 and wife that attracted notice. Her vivacity ,;.nd her 
 boldness, a certain weariness and reluctance in his air, as 
 if he were paraded up and down these garden walks against 
 his will, led others beside inquisitive French waiters to 
 watch the movements of the pair. And they were in full 
 view of several gizers when an unexpected and dramatic 
 incident occurred. 
 
 A man who had sauntered out of the hotel into the gar- 
 dens directed his steps towards them, and met them face 
 to face as they issued from one of the side-paths. He was 
 not tall, but he was dapper and agile : his moustache curled 
 fiercely, and his eyeglass was worn with something of an 
 aggressive air. He was perfectly dressed, except that — for 
 English taste — he wore too much jewellery ; and from the 
 crown of his shining hat to the tip of his polished pointed 
 boot he was essentially Parisian — a dandy of the Boule- 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 vards, or rather, ])erhaps, of the Palais Royal — an exqui- 
 site who prided himself upon the lit of his trousers and the 
 swing of his Malaeca cane. 
 
 He paused as he met the Walcotts, and raised his hat 
 with a true French fiotuish, J'he lady laughed, showing a 
 row of very white, even teeth, and lield out her hand. Her 
 husband sprang forward, uttering an angry word of remon- 
 strance or command. The Frenchman grinned insolently, 
 and answered with a sneer. 
 
 The Englishman seemed to gain in dignity as he replied. 
 His wife laughed loudly and uni)leasantly, however, and 
 then, with a quick movement which proved him agile as a 
 cat, the Frenchman struck him with his cane across the 
 face. In anotlier moment, Alan Walcott had taken him 
 by the collar and wrested the cane from his hand. Whe- 
 ther or no he would have administered the thrashing that 
 the man deserved must remain an unsettled question, for 
 hotel servants and functionaries came rushing to the rescue, 
 p;uests flocked to the scene in hopes o" further excitement, 
 and all was bustle and confusion. Mrs. Walcott began to 
 scream violently, as soon as she saw signs of an impending 
 conflict, and was finally carried into the house in a fit of 
 hysterics. 
 
 A very pretty little altercation between the two comba- 
 tants — who were separated with difiiculty — and the land- 
 lord and his myrmidons then followed. The police arrived 
 rather late on the scene, but were speedily quieted by 
 assurances that peace was restored, and by the transfer of 
 a few coins from Alan Walcott's pockets to their own. The 
 aggressor, who gave his name as Henri de Hauteville, was 
 politely requested to leave the Hotel Venat ; and Mr. 
 Walcott declared his own intention of proceeding to Paris 
 next morning. Accordingly the Frenchman speedily dis- 
 appeared, but it was noticed that he dropped a word to 
 his enemy,which Walcott answered by a bend of his head, 
 and that he was seen shortly afterwards arm-in-arm with 
 a young officer who was known to be an enthusiast in the 
 matter of duelling. 
 
 An hour later Alan Walcott was crossing the hall wi h a 
 hurried ste]) and a face expressive of deep anxiety and 
 vexation, when he encountered a stout, fair Englishman, 
 who greeted him with effusion. 
 
 *' Yoti here, Walcott? Never thought of meeting you." 
 
8 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 ve 
 
 ** I'm glad to see you, Dalton. I was longing at that 
 ry moment for some one to act as my friend." 
 " Not in the convention il meaning, 1 hope," laughed 
 Dalton. " Your way of putiing it suggests a duel — which 
 no Englishman of any sense would embark in, I should 
 hope ! " 
 
 Dalton was a fresh-colored, blue-eyed man, of nearly 
 thirty years of age. His frankness of manner and shrewd- 
 ness of expression contrasted forcibly with the subtle 
 dreaminess characteristic of Alan Walcott's face. Alan 
 eyed him curiously, as if doubtful whether he should pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 '^ I am not altogether an Englishman," he said presently, 
 "which may account in your eyes for some lack of sense. 
 I want you, as a friend, in the most conventional manner 
 possible. Come out with me and let us talk it over." 
 
 The tv,-o men went out and talked together for upwards 
 of an hour. When they separated the expression of their 
 faces afforded a curious contrast. Alan looked defiant, 
 resolved, almost triumphant ; but Brooke Dalton went on 
 his way wagging liis liead in a de])ressed and melancholy 
 manner, as if his soul were afflicted by misgivings of many 
 kinds. 
 
 Mr. Alan Walcott had said that he should leave Aix-les- 
 Bains next day, but the state of his wife's health rendered 
 it impossible for her to vjuit the hotel, and he could not 
 very well separate himself f'om her. Slie continued for 
 some time in shrieking hysterics, varied by fainting fits ; 
 and when she became quieter, under tlie influence of a 
 soporific administered by the doctor, shf H'-'^hired herself 
 quite too ill and exhausted to rise from her bed. Her 
 husband remained wi'h her night and day, until the second 
 morning, when he escaped from her sight and ken for a 
 couple of hours, and absolulely refused to tell her where 
 he had been. His refusal seemed to produce a quieting 
 effect upon her. She i)ecame very still, and lay watching 
 him, with a sullen, ])uzzled look in her great dark eyes. 
 He took up a paper and began to read, with an assump- 
 tion of complete calmness and unconcern ; but she saw 
 that he was paler than usual, and that his hand shook a 
 little as he turned the pages of his Ga/ii^nani. Presently 
 she asked, iu a subdued voice, for something to drink. 
 
I'AME AND FAME. 
 
 ipwards 
 Df their 
 defiant, 
 ^vent on 
 ancholy 
 pf many 
 
 Aix-les- 
 ndered 
 Id not 
 Lied for 
 ng fits ; 
 e of a 
 herself 
 Her 
 second 
 n for a 
 where 
 Liieting 
 tching 
 eyes, 
 isump- 
 le saw 
 ook a 
 sently 
 drink. 
 
 He brought her a glass of claret and water, and she raised 
 herself a little on one arm to take it from him. Suddenly 
 she uttered a loud cry, and fell back gasping upon her 
 pillows. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! " she cried, " there is blood upon your 
 cuff." 
 
 Alan looked down hastily. It was true enough : his white 
 cuff was stained with red. 
 
 " You have killed him ! " she said. " You have mur- 
 dered him, you wretch, you murderer " 
 
 " Not at all," said Walcott, with the greatest composure. 
 ** Upon my word, I rather wish I had. I think he deserved 
 it. He has got off very easily." 
 
 " You had a meeting } " his wife shrieked, her eyes be- 
 ginning to flash with rage. 
 
 " We had a meeting. It was for that purpose that I left 
 
 for two hours this morning. You don't suppose that I 
 
 [should let myself be struck in the face without demanding 
 
 satisfaction ? I have enough P'rench blood in my veins 
 
 [to think it a very natural way of settling such a quarrel 
 
 " Was he hurt ? " she asked, without waiting foi him to 
 Ifinish. 
 
 Very slightly. A sword-cut on the shoulder. The 
 
 |seconds interposed, or we should have gone on " 
 
 " I have no doubt you wanted to kill him ! I shall de- 
 [nounce you lo the police ! " 
 
 " As you please," said her husband indifferently, 
 taking up his paper. " But M. de Hauteville has retired 
 from the scene : he had a carriage waiting, and has crossed 
 the frontier by this time. I assure you he is perfectly safe 
 in Switzerland." 
 
 There was a taunt in his voice which exasperated his 
 ■wife's temper almost to madness. 
 
 " Scelerat ! " she said, in a hissing, unnatural voice. 
 ^" You would have killed him if you could ? Beware of my 
 < vengeance then, for I swear that you shall suffer as he has 
 ksuffered — and worse things too ! " 
 
 Alan shrugged his shoulders. He had heard threats of 
 
 his kind too often to be greatly moved by them. And 
 
 rs. Walcott, after a few ineffectual remarks of the sai.ie 
 
 ort, began to sob violently, and finally to work herself 
 
h 
 
 V 
 
 t» 
 
 NAME AN'y FAME. 
 
 into another hysterical fit, during which her husband coolly 
 rang the bell, and left her to Lisette's not very tender care. 
 
 When he returned she was once more quiet and subdued. 
 He noticed that she was reading a letter, which, at his en- 
 trance, she thrust — somewhat ostentatiously — beneath her 
 pillow. He took no notice. He was tired of taking notice. 
 As a rule, he let her go her own way. He had been 
 married for three years, and he had learned that, save in 
 exceptional circumstances, it was better not to interfere. 
 He was relieved, and somewhat surprised, when she sud- 
 denly declared herself better, and wishful to leave her bed. 
 Before long she was sitting at an open window, with a cup 
 of black coffee and a flask of cognac on a table before her, 
 wliile Alan fanned her with a great red fan and occasion- 
 ally bathed her temples with eau-de-cologne. He paid her 
 these attentions with an air of gentle gravity which became 
 him well, but the slight fold between his brows betokened 
 irritation and weariness. 
 
 Cora Walcott seemed to delight in keeping him at her 
 beck and call. She did not let him stir from her side for 
 the whole of that sultry summer day. She put on a soft 
 and languid manner : she shed tears and tried to say coax- 
 ing things, which were very coldly received ; for there was 
 a hard and evil look in her fine dark eyes that went far to 
 neutralize the effect of her cd/ineries. Once, indeed, 
 when Alan had gone into an adjoining room to fetch a 
 vinaigrette^ her true feeling found its vent in a few expres- 
 sive words. 
 
 '* Sacre," she muttered, drawing back the red lips from 
 her white teeth, with the snarl of a vicious dog, '' how I 
 hate you, cocnon ! How I wish that you were dead ! " 
 
 And then she smoothed her brows, and smiled at him as 
 he re-entered the room. 
 
 In the course of the evening she made the suggestion 
 that they should leave Aix-les-Bains next day. 
 
 *' Certainly," Alan answered, more warmly than usual. 
 ** And where shall we go ? " 
 
 " Oh, to Paris, I suppose. To Dijon first, of course — 
 if I am string enough to travel so far." 
 
 Alan was eager to make his preparations for departure, 
 and pleased to find that his wife was as ready as he to has- 
 ten them. Only in one point did her behavior strike him 
 as peculiar. She announced that she meant to leave Aix- 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 '^■» ■W,U «lii-» 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 II 
 
 coolly 
 ^r care, 
 ibdued. 
 his en- 
 ath her 
 ; notice. 
 ,d been 
 save in 
 iterfere. 
 he sud- 
 ler bed. 
 th a cup 
 fore her, 
 ccasion- 
 paid her 
 , became 
 ;tokened 
 
 n at her 
 ■ side for 
 on a soft 
 say coax- 
 :here was 
 ;nt far to 
 indeed, 
 fetch a 
 expres- 
 
 |ips from 
 how I 
 ad ! " 
 t him as 
 
 iggestion 
 
 In usual. 
 
 :ourse — 
 
 ?parture, 
 |e to has- 
 jrike him 
 lave Aix- 
 
 '%. 
 
 les-Bains at an early hour, lunch and rest at Culoz, and go 
 on to Dijon by the afternoon train. 
 
 " But why Culoz ? Nobody slops at Culoz," he remon- 
 strated. 
 
 " Wliy not Culoz? There is an inn. I suppose we can 
 get some lunch," she answered. " Besides, I have always 
 meant to go there, to look at the iliateau on the hill ! You 
 English like 'views,' do you not? Tiie 'view' must be 
 magnificent." 
 
 She had never formerly shown any interest in scenery, 
 and Alan stared at iier for a moment with a puzzled look. 
 If Henry de Hauteville liad been likely to join her at Culoz 
 he could have understood this whim of hers ; but de Haute- 
 ville was safely lodged by this time in the nearest Swiss 
 canton, and not at all likely to intercept their journey. 
 He did her bidding, however, without com})rehension of 
 her reasons, as he had done many a time before. Again, 
 he was discomfited by her behavior in the train, shortly 
 after their departure from the station at Aix-les-Bains. 
 She suddenly flung herself back in the corner of the coupe 
 and burst into a prolonged fit of noisy laughter, which 
 seemed as if it would choke her by its violence. Alan 
 questioned and remonstrated in vain. Fortunately, they 
 had the coupe to themselves ; but the laughtei continued 
 so long that he began to doubt his wife's sanity, as well as 
 her self-control. At last she sat up and wij^ed her eyes. 
 
 " You will know why I laugh some day, mon ami," she 
 remarked. " Till then, ask no questions." 
 
 Alan was not disposed to ask them. He remained silent, 
 nd his silence continued until the little station of Culoz 
 *as reached. 
 
 " We change here, of course," he said. " But why should 
 We leave the station ? " 
 
 " Do you want to starve me ? " his wife inquired angrily. 
 *' We will go to the inn. There is an inn on the road to the 
 village ; 1 asked about it yesterday." 
 
 Very few English tourists think it worth their while to 
 spend any time at Culoz, pretty little place although it be ; 
 and the landlady of the quaint auberge, with i:s wooden, 
 vine-grown piazza, was somewhat amazed and distracted 
 by the appearance of foreign visitors. The dining-room 
 seemed to be full of peasants in blue blouses, who had 
 n attending a fair; but Utnch was served to Mr, and 
 
 W-' 
 
12 
 
 NAME AND J' A ME. 
 
 Mrs. Walcott in the open air, on the verandah. Cora 
 grumbkd openly at the simple fare provided ; and Alan 
 thought how charming would be the scene and the rustic 
 meal if only his companion were more congenial. For 
 himself, he was qi.'ite satisfied with the long French loaf, 
 the skinny chicken, the well-salted cream cheese, and the 
 rough red I'in du pays. The blue sky, the lovely view of 
 mountain and valley, lake and grove, the soft wind stirring 
 tbe vine leaves on the trellis-work of the verandah, would 
 have given him unmixed delight if he had been alone. 
 But all was spoiled by the presence of an unloved and un- 
 loving wife. 
 
 The road to the chateau leads upwards from Culoz, and 
 is a trifle hot and dusty. Alan wondered dumbly whether 
 Cora had an object in dragging him so far away from the 
 inn, and what that object was. But he took small annoy- 
 ances patiently. It was something gained, at least, that his 
 wife should seem content. Anything was better than tear- 
 ing rage or violent hysterical weeping, which were the 
 phases of temper most frequently presented to his view. 
 On this occasion she appeared pleased and happy. He 
 surprised a touch of malignity in her tones, a glance of 
 evil meaning now and then ; but he did not greatly care. 
 Cora could not keep a secret. If she had any ill-will or ill 
 intention towards him he was sure to know it before long. 
 
 " I am tired," she said at last, abruptly. " Let us sit 
 down and rest. Look, here is an entrance into the park 
 of the chateau. Shall we go in ? " 
 
 " Is it q)en to the public ? " said Alan, wi*^h an English- 
 man's instinctive fear of trespassing. For, although he 
 had had a French grandmother, and sometimes boasted 
 himself of French descent, he was essentially English in 
 his ideas. Cora laughed him to scorn. 
 
 " 1 go where I will," she said, " and nobody finds it in 
 his heart to turn me out. Courage, mon ami, I will pro- 
 tect you, if necessary. Follow me ! " 
 
 Piqued by her tone, he oi)ened the gate for her, and 
 they passed from the hot, white road into the green de- 
 mesnes of the Count who owned the chateau above Culoz. 
 It struck Alan that liis wife know the way wonderfully well. 
 She turned without Jiesitation into a path which led them 
 to a wooden seat shaded by two great trees, and so situat- 
 
 
NAME .1XP FAME. 
 
 n 
 
 Cora 
 I Alan 
 
 rustic 
 . For 
 :h loaf, 
 nd the 
 view of 
 stirring 
 , would 
 1 alone, 
 and un- 
 
 iloz, and 
 whether 
 from the 
 1 annoy- 
 , that his 
 lian tear- 
 ^vere the 
 his view. 
 )py. He 
 Iglance of 
 ,tly care. 
 will or ill 
 "ore long, 
 et us sit 
 |the park 
 
 English- 
 lough he 
 boasted 
 [nglish in 
 
 inds it in 
 [will pro- 
 
 1 her, and 
 Treen de- 
 /e Culoz. 
 
 liilly well. 
 
 lied them 
 so situat- 
 
 ed that it coulJ not be scon by anyone jvissing on the high 
 road. Here she scaled herself und looked up at her hus- 
 band with a defiant spiiie. 
 
 " You have been liere before ? " he said suddenly. 
 
 She nodded. Tret isely. ni 'U ami, I liave been here be- 
 fore. Antl with wh)ni? WiiliM.de Mauteviiie, when 
 you imagined nie suffering from a migraine a i^w days ago. 
 Surely you did not think that it was liis first appearance 
 when he arrived at llic hotel, the day before yesterday?" 
 
 " 1 do not wish to discuss M. de Haiitcville," said Alan 
 tumiiicf awav. 
 
 " But i)erhap3 I wish to discuss him. We discussed 
 you at full length — that day last week. We chronicled 
 your vices, your weaknesses, your meannesses in detail. 
 One thing I might have told him, which I left out — 
 the fact that you are no gentleman, not even bourgeois 
 — a mere peasant clown. He would not have let you 
 measure swords with him if he had known the baseness of 
 your origin, my friend ! " 
 
 Alan's lips moved as if he would have spoken, but he 
 restrained himself. He saw that she wanted him to res- 
 pond, to lose liis temper, to give her some cause of com- 
 plaint., some opening for recrimination ; and he resolved 
 that hf would not yield to her desire. She might abuse 
 him as she would and he would not reply. She would 
 cease when she was tired — and not till then. 
 
 " \ ou are a i lean-spirited creature ! " she said, her eyes 
 flashing hatred at him as she spoke. "You have chained 
 me to you all these years, although you know that I loathe 
 the very sight of you, that I have worshiped Henri, my 
 lover, all the while. Who but a base, vile wretch would 
 ^not have given me my freedom ? You have known all the 
 time that he loved me, and you have pretended ignorance 
 because you did not want to let me go. From the mo- 
 ment I found this out, I have hated and despised you. 
 You have no courage, no spirit ; there is nothing even to 
 be afraid of in you. You would be brutal if you dared, 
 f but you do not dare. You can be spiteful and treacherous 
 and villainous, that is all. And I hate you for all that you 
 ^ are and all that you do not dare to be ! " 
 
 Alan ground his teeth, in a moment's raging desire to 
 bring the woman to her senses by some actual exertion of 
 his physical strength. But the impulse of anger lasted only 
 
14 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 \\ 
 
 I 
 
 ff)r a moment. He knew that half lier rage was simulated 
 — thai she was lashing IicrseH" up in prcDaration for some 
 treiuciidous crisis, and all ihat he could do was to wait for 
 it in silence. She had risen to lier feet as she spoke. He 
 rose too and leaned against the trunk of a tree, \yhile she 
 stormed and raved like a madwoman for some minutes in 
 front of him. 
 
 '• Now," she said at last, " you know what I think of 
 you, how I hate you, how I despise you. But it is not 
 enough. My father shot down twenty of his enemies in the 
 siege of Paris. Do you think that his daughter is a cow- 
 ard, to be trampled on by a brutal, cold-blooded English- 
 man ? No ! Because I hate you, and because you have 
 tried to kill the man I love, and because you are too mean 
 and vile to live — 1 will VxWyou ! " 
 
 Her hand darted to the bosom of her dress. Before 
 Alan could stop her — almost before he realized what she 
 was doing — she had drawn out a little pistol, cocked it, 
 and i)ulled the trigger. But her hurry at the last moment 
 spoiled her aim. Alan felt a sting in the left arm, and 
 knew that she had so far succeeded in her intentions ; but 
 with his right hand he was able to snatch the pistol from 
 her, and to fling it far into the brushwood. 
 
 Then came the reaction. She burst into loud, scream- 
 ing sobs and tears, and flung herself on the ground, where 
 she writhed for a time like one in convulsions. Alan 
 seated himself, feeling somewhat sick and faint, and waited 
 for the storm to spend itself. Some time elapsed before 
 she became calm ; but at last she raised herself panting 
 from the ground and looked half timorously at her husband. 
 His coolness and quietness often enraged, but now and 
 then it frightened her. 
 
 *■ If you have not another pistol with you," said Alan, 
 " you cannot kill me just now. Perhaps you have done 
 enough to satisfy yourself for the moment. What do you 
 propose to do next ? " 
 
 " AVhat do you mean to do ? " she asked sullenly. " Of 
 course, you can follow me and give me up to the poHce." 
 
 " I shall not do that." 
 
 *' I will not return with you," she said in a furious tone. 
 
 " That is natural," Alan agreed politely. '* What then ? " 
 
 " I told you I knew this place," she answered. " I am 
 to meet a friend upon the road, half a mile further on. I 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 t| 
 
 ilated 
 some 
 lit for 
 He 
 le she 
 ites in 
 
 link of 
 is not 
 \ in the 
 a cow- 
 ;nglish- 
 u have 
 o mean 
 
 Before 
 diat she 
 »cked it, 
 moment 
 Lrm, and 
 )ns ; but 
 itol from 
 
 scream- 
 id, where 
 Alan 
 id waited 
 :d before 
 
 panting 
 husband. 
 
 now and 
 
 lid Alan, 
 ive done 
 It do you 
 
 [ly. "Of 
 police." 
 
 lous tone. 
 It then?" 
 " I am 
 ler on. 1 
 
 am going there now. He will lake me to the next station 
 on the line." 
 
 " Admirably planned ! " said Alan. " Every detail fits 
 in 10 perfeciion." 
 
 "And I shall never come back," she said, looking at 
 him spitefully. 
 
 For answer, he raised his hat. She turned on her heel, 
 went down the slope towards the road, and disappeared. 
 It was a strange partmg between husband and wife. Not 
 a single feeling of reluctance existed in the mind of either ; 
 only a hxed resolve to have done with each other hence- 
 forth and for ever. 
 
 Jan bound up his wounds as well as he could, and 
 retraced his steps to Culoz. He would have done better, 
 possibly, to avoid the place. People stared at him curious- 
 ly as he passed them by. Why had he come back alone ? 
 What had he done with the beautiful lady who had ac- 
 companied him when he set forth ? 
 
 " H^, monsieur," tried the black-eyed dame of the au- 
 berge, leaning over the rail of the verandah, as he passed: 
 " ou done est madame ^ Est-ce qu'elle ne revient pas ? " 
 
 " Madame est partie," said Alan continuing his walk 
 without turning round. The aubergiste looked after him 
 in amaze. Where could madame have gone ? There was 
 no other rorid to the station, and she had been watching 
 for the English milord and his lady for the last hour and a 
 half ! What had he done with madame ? 
 
 It was a matter of speculation which lasted her for many 
 a day, and was often recounted to new comers. It became 
 the general opinion at Culoz that the Englishman had in 
 some unaccountable manner killed his wife and disposed 
 mysteriously of her body. But although search was made 
 for it high and low, the murdered body was never found. 
 Nevertheless, the stranger's guilt remained a tradition of 
 the neighborhood, and the story of that marvelous disap- 
 pearance is related by the villagers unto this day. 
 
 Alan went on his way rejoicing, although in somewhat 
 rim and shamefaced wise. For three years he had been 
 miserable slave. Now he was free ! And he determined 
 hat he would never submit to bonds again. 
 
NAMK AND FAME, 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 AT THE ECTORY. 
 
 About the very time wlicn Alan W.ncott, at the age of 
 three-and-twcnty, was UKiking a hasly match with the 
 daughter of a French refugee- -a nialch bitterly deplored 
 before the first few weeks of married life were over — events, 
 which afterwards very greatly affected his career, were 
 quickly shaping themselves in a slee])y little I'^nglish vil- 
 lage not far from the ])kice where he was boin. 
 
 Anglcfortl, a mere handful of red-brick cottages, five 
 miles from a railway station, was little known to the outer 
 world. Its nearest market-town was Dorminster, and the 
 village of Thorley lay between Angleford and the county 
 town. Birchniead, a hamlet which had some repute of its 
 own as a ])articiilarly healthy ])lace, stood further down the 
 river on whicli Angleford was built, and its merits general- 
 ly threw those of neigliborin., villages into the sluide. 
 
 But Angleford was in itself a pretty little nook, and its 
 inhabitants somewhat prided themselves on its seclusion 
 from the world. These inhabitants, it must be confessed, 
 were few. It had once been a larger and more important 
 place, but had gradually dwindled away until the village 
 contained less than three hundred persons, chiefly laborers 
 and small shop-keepers. Beside these, there were the 
 doctor, and his wife, tlie rector and his flimily, and the 
 squire — a childless widower, who was of rather less account 
 than anybody else in the parish. 
 
 The Rectory was a rambling, long, low, red-brick house 
 standing in prettily-wooded grounds, bordered by the river, 
 on the other side of whicli lay the park belonging t ^ 
 the squire. The park ran for some distance on both 
 sides of the stream, and the Rectory grounds were, 
 so to speak, taken out of the very midst of the squire'.; 
 demesne. The continuation of wooded ground on 
 either side the narrow winding river made the jjlace ])ar- 
 ticularly picturesque ; and it was a favorite amusement lor 
 
NAME AXn PA ME. 
 
 17 
 
 the rector's son and daughter to push a rather crazy boat 
 out of the htth- l)()al-housc at the foot of the garden, and 
 row uj) and down those reaches of the stream '' between 
 the bridges," which were navigable. One of the bridges 
 warned iheni of the weir, which it was not very safe to 
 approach ; and beyond ihc other, lliree miles further down 
 and close to Iliichmead, the stream was shallow and 
 clogged with reeds, liut will. in these limits there was a 
 peaceful tranquil b.auty which made the boat a favorite 
 resting place for tlie Rectory [)eople during the long summer 
 evennigs .md afternoons. 
 
 It was two o'clock on a late autumn afternoon, when a girl 
 of sixteen came out of the Rectorv door, which always stood 
 hospitably ojjen in fi. . weallier, and walk'>.(l to the boat- 
 house, as if intending to launch out upon the water. The 
 day was sunny on the whole, but not cloudless: the sun 
 shone out brightly every now and then, and was again 
 obscured by a filrny haze, such as rises so easily from the 
 low-lying land in Ksscx. But the golden haze softened the 
 distant outlines of wood and meadow, and the sun's beams 
 rested tenderly upon the rapidly stripping branches, where 
 a few rustling leaves still told of their departed glories. The 
 long undefined shadows of the trees stretched far across the 
 wide lawn, scarc-ely moving in the profound stillness of the 
 air ; and a whole assembly of birds kept up a low-toned 
 conversation in the bushes, as if the day were hardly bright 
 enough to warrant a full chorus of concerted song. It was 
 a lender, wistful kind of day, such as comes sometimes in 
 the fall of the year, before the advent of frost. And a cer- 
 tain affinity w^iih the day was visible in the face of the girl 
 who had walked down to the riverside, There was no 
 melancholy in her ex[)rcssion : indeed, a very sweet and 
 hapi^y smile ])layed about the corners of her sensitive 
 mouth ; but a slightly wistful look in the long-lashed grey 
 eyes lent an unconscious pathos to the delicate face. But, 
 although delicate, the face was anything but weak. The 
 features were clearly cut ; the mouth and chin expressed 
 decision as well as sensibility ; and beneath the thick, fine 
 waves of shining brown hair, the forehead was broad and 
 well-developed. Without pretension to actual beauty or 
 any kind of perfection, the face was one likely to attract 
 and then to charm ; gentleness, thoughtfulness. intellectual 
 power, might be read in those fair features, as well as an 
 
 % 
 
If« ■ 
 
 l8 
 
 NAME AM) J'AME. 
 
 almost infantine candor nnd innocenrc, and tli'j subtle and 
 all too-transient bloom of extreme youth. Herluiir, which 
 constituted one of her best '• points," was simply i)artcd in 
 the middle, fastened wiih a clasp at the nape of her neck, 
 and then allowed to fall in a smooth, shining shower down 
 to her waist. Mrs. Campion, who had been something of 
 a beauty in her young days, was given lo lamenting that 
 I,cttice's hair was not goldiMi, as hers had been ; but the 
 clear .soft brown of the girl's abundant tresses had a 
 beauty of its own ; and, as it waved over her light woollen 
 frock of grey-green hue, it gave her an air of peculiar ap- 
 l)rupriateness to the scene — as of a wood-nymph, who bore 
 the colors of the forest-trees from which she sprang. 
 
 Such, at any rate, was the fancy of a man whose canoe 
 came shooting down the river at this moment, like an arrow 
 from a bow. He slackened pace as he came near the 
 Rei:lory garden, and peered through the tangled branches 
 which surrounded the old black boat-house, to catch 
 another glimpse of Lettice. He wondered that she did not 
 notice him : his red and white blazer and jaunty cap made 
 him a somewhat consi)icuous object in this quiet country 
 ]-)lace ; and she must have heard the long strokes of his 
 oars. But she remained silent, apparently examining the 
 fisienings of the boat ; absorbed and tranquil, with a 
 happy smile upon her lips. 
 
 " Good afternoon, Miss Campion : can I help }^ou there 
 in any way?'' he shouted at last, letting his boat slide 
 past the boat-house entrance, and then bringing it round 
 to the little flight of grassy steps cut in the bank from the 
 lawn to the river. 
 
 " Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Dalton. Thank you, no; I 
 don't want any help," said Lellice ; but the ycungmanhad 
 already set foot upon the lawn and was advancing towards 
 her. He was the nei)hew and heir of the childless Squire 
 at Angleford Manor, and he occasionally spent a few 
 weeks with his uncle in the country. Old Mr. Dalton was 
 not fond of Angleford, liowevcr, and the Campions did not 
 see much of him and his nephew. 
 
 Brooke Dalton was six-and-twenty, a manly, well-looking 
 young fellow, with fair hair and bright blue eyes. He was 
 not very tall, and had already begim to develop a ten- 
 dency towards stoutness, which gave him considerable 
 trouble ni after years. At present he kept it down by 
 
XAAfE AND FAMli. 
 
 19 
 
 I and 
 /hich 
 cd in 
 neck, 
 down 
 ing of 
 ^ that 
 lit the 
 uid a 
 ooUcn 
 iir ap- 
 obore 
 
 canoe 
 arrow 
 ar the 
 anches 
 catch 
 did not 
 p made 
 :ountry 
 ^ of his 
 ing the 
 with a 
 
 )ii there 
 at slide 
 t round 
 rom the 
 
 heavy doses of physical exercise, so that it amounti'd only 
 to ,1 little umisiial tiillncss of body ar.d the sus|)ici<)n of a 
 double chill. His enemies called him fat. His friends 
 declared that his sunshiny look of prosperity and good- 
 himior was worth any amount of beauty, ;ind that it would 
 be a positive loss to the world if he were even a trifle 
 thinner. And l^tooke Dnllon was a man of many friends. 
 
 Leilici- greeted him with a smile. "So you are here 
 again," she said. 
 
 '* Yes, I've been here a day or two. Have you heard 
 from Sydney yet ? " 
 
 " No, and we are dreadfully anxious. But papa says 
 wc shall hear very soon now." 
 
 " I don't suppose you need have the slightest anxiety. 
 Sydney is sure to do well : he was always a clever fellow." 
 
 "Yes, but he has had no teaching except from papa: 
 and papa torments himself with the idea that there may be 
 better teachers than himself at Cambridge — which I am 
 sure there couldn't be. And I am sure he will be disap- 
 pointed if Sydney does not get at least an exhibition, 
 although he tries to pretend that he will not mind." 
 
 " If he does not get it this year, he will be the surer of 
 it next time." 
 
 " Yes," said Lettice rather doubtfully. " But I wish 
 papa were not quite so anxious." 
 
 *' Did he go to Cambridge with Sydney?" 
 
 " Yes, and stayed for a day or two ; but he said he was 
 rather glad to get home again — there had been ^^o many 
 changes since he was there." 
 
 " Here he comes," said Brooke, turning round. 
 
 The rector was a dignified-looking man, with a tall 
 figiue, handsome features, and hair and beard which had 
 of late been growing very grey. He greeted'Dalton cor- 
 dially, and at once began to speak of his hopes and expect- 
 ations for his son. To all of these Dalton responded 
 good-humoiedly. '* Sydney has plenty of brains : he is 
 is sure to do well," he said. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know — I don't know. I've been his only 
 tutor, and I may not have laid the foundations with suffi- 
 cient care. I shall not be at all surprised if he fails. 
 Indeed " — witli a transpart.Mit affectation of indifference — 
 " 1 shall not be sorry to have him back for another year. 
 He is not (juite eighteen, you know. And Lettice will be 
 glad to have him again." 
 
t- 
 
 i 
 
 20 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 " But I want him to succeed ! " said Leltice eagerly. 
 
 " Of course you do. And he ze//7/ succeed," said Brooke ; 
 an assurance which caused her to flash a glad look of gra- 
 titude to him in reply. 
 
 *' Lettice has been Sydney's companion m his studies,' 
 said Mr. Campion, patting her hand gently with his long 
 white fingers. " She has been very industrio'is and has 
 got on very well, but I daresay she will be pleased to have 
 a holiday when he is gone." 
 
 " Yes, I daresay," said Brooke ; and then, looking at 
 Lettice, he saw the manifestation of some strong feeling 
 which he did not understand. The girl flushed hotly and 
 withdrew her hand from her liither's arm. The tears sud- 
 denly came into her eyes. 
 
 " I never wanted a holiday," she said, in a hurt tone. 
 
 " No, no, you were always a good girl," reuirned her 
 father absently — his eyes had wandered away from her to 
 the high-road beyond the glebe. "But of course there 
 is a limit to a girl's powers ; she can't compete with a boy 
 beyond a certain point. Is not that a cab, Lettice ? Surely 
 it must be Sydney, and he has came at last. Well, now we 
 shall know the result ! " 
 
 " I'll go to the fence and look," said Lettice, running 
 away. The tears of mortification and distress were stiil 
 smarting in her eyes. Why should her father depreciate 
 her to their neighbor because she was a girl ? She did not 
 mind Mr. Dalton's opinion of her, ])ut it was hard that her 
 father should give her no credit for the work that she had 
 done in the study at his side. Step by step she had kept 
 pace with her brother: sometimes lie had excelled her, 
 sometimes she thought that she was outstripping him. 
 Now in the hour of his i)o.ssil)le success (of which she 
 would be proud and glad), why sh(juld her father seem to 
 undervalue her powers and her industry? T!iey would 
 never bring her the guerdon that might fall to Sydney's lot ; 
 but she felt that she, too, had a right to her father's 
 praise. 
 
 She had been vaguely hurt during Sydney's absence to 
 find that Mr. Cami)ion did not seem disposed to allow her 
 to go on working alone with him. '• W.iit, iny dear, wait," 
 he had said to her, when she came to him as usual, '"let 
 US see how Sydney's exaimnation turns out. If he comes 
 
 (( 
 
 ;r to 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 at 
 
 3oke ; 
 
 »f gra- 
 
 dies," 
 ' long 
 d has 
 > have 
 
 ing at 
 "eeling 
 ly and 
 s sud- 
 
 )ne. 
 ed her 
 her to 
 I there 
 1 a boy 
 Surely 
 now we 
 
 unning 
 
 still 
 eciate 
 id not 
 Kit her 
 le had 
 d kept 
 cd her, 
 
 re 
 
 g 
 
 him. 
 
 ch she 
 
 eem to 
 
 would 
 
 y's lot ; 
 
 ather's 
 
 m, 
 
 back to us for another year you can go on with him. If 
 not — Well, you are a girl, it does not matter so much for 
 you ; and your mother comj^lains that you do not sit with 
 her sufficient}/. Take a holiday just now, we will go on 
 when Sydney comes back." 
 
 But in this, Lettice's first separation from her beloved 
 brother, she had no heart for a holiday. She would have 
 been glad of liaidwork to take her out of herself. She 
 was anxious, sad, desccuvrec, and if she had not been 
 tauGrht all her life to look on failure in an examination as 
 something disgraceful, she would have earnestly hoped 
 that Sydney might lose the scholarship fur which he was 
 competing. 
 
 Brooke Dalton saw that his presence was scarcely 
 desired just then, and took his leave, meditating as he 
 pulled up the river on Lettice's reddened cheeks and pretty 
 tear-filled eyes. '* I sui)pose she thinks she'll miss iier 
 brother when he goes away," he decided at length, "and 
 no doubt she will, for a time ; but it is just as well — what 
 does a girl want with all that Latin and Greek ? It will 
 only serve to make her forget to brush her hair and wear a 
 frock becomingly. Of course she's clever, but I should 
 not care for that sort of cleverness in a sister — or a wife." 
 He thought again of the girl's soft grey eyes. But he had 
 a hundred other preoccupations, and her image very soon 
 flided from his brain. 
 
 Lettice ran to the fence to look at the cab, but Mr. 
 Campion turned at once to the gateway and walked out 
 into the road. He had not been mistaken, it was Sydney, 
 indeed ; and as soon as the young fellow saw his father he 
 stopped the vehicle, told the driver to go on to the Rectory 
 with his portmanteau, and turned to his father with a tri- 
 umi)hant smile. Lettice did not meet the i)air for a minute 
 or two, so the son's communication was made first to Mr. 
 Campion alone. 
 
 *' Here I am, sir ! " was the young man's greeting, 
 " turned up again like a bad half-])enny." 
 
 '' Welcome anyhow, my boy,'" said the rector, " and 
 sterling coin, I'll warrant, liowever much you may malign 
 lyourself " He was too nervous to ask a direct question 
 iabout his son's success. '' We have been vcivdull without 
 lyou. Lettice is counting on your help to break in her poiiy 
 'to the saddle." 
 
 1 1 
 
22 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 
 
 "You mustn't be dull after a v/eck's absence. What 
 would you do if I had to be more than half the year at 
 Cambridge ? " 
 
 *• Ah, that would be a different thing. Have they given 
 you an exhibition then ? " 
 
 "Well, not exactly that." The rector's face fell, but it 
 brightened as Sydney proceeded with a touch of youthful 
 pomposity. '' Your old pupil is a Scholar of Trinity." 
 
 The rector was carrying Ins cane as he walked along, 
 and when Sydney had told his good news he stopped short, 
 his face aglow, and for lack of any more eloquent mode of 
 expressing his satisfaction, raised it in the air and brought 
 it down witli sounding emphasis on his companion's 
 back. 
 
 Sydney laughed. 
 
 " Laudatur et alget," he said. " How many stripes 
 would it have been if I had come home disgraced? " 
 
 " The stripes would have been my portion in that case," 
 the rector answered, with a hearty Jaugh. He had not 
 been so jovial for many months. 
 
 Then Lettice came running up, and had to be told the 
 news, and cliMig to Sydney's ncjk with kisses, which he 
 graciously permitted rather than returned. But he was 
 gratified by her affection, as well as by the pride and 
 pleasure which his father took in liis success, and the less 
 discriminating, but equally warm congratulations and 
 caresses showered upon him by his mother. 
 
 Indeed for the rest of the day, Sydney was caressed and 
 complimented to his heart's coinent. He preferred the 
 compliments to the caresses, and he v/a*s not unloving to 
 his parents, although he repulsed Lettice when she at- 
 tempted to kiss him more than once. He had come back 
 from Cambridge with an added sense of manliness and im- 
 portance, which did not sit ill upon his handsome face and 
 the frank confidence of his manner. It was Sydney who 
 had inherited the golden hair and regular features which, 
 as his mother said, ought to have belonged to Lettice and 
 not to him ; but she loved him all the more dearly for his 
 resemblance to her family and to herself. It escaped her 
 observation tiiat Sydney's blue-grey eyes vcre keener, his 
 mouth more firmly closed and his jaw squarer than those 
 of most boys or men, and betokened, if physiognomy goes 
 for anything, a rew de})arture in ciiaracter and intellect 
 
 B:vS^ 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 «3 
 
 What 
 ^ear at 
 
 y given 
 
 , but it 
 •outhful 
 
 L along, 
 d short, 
 mode of 
 brought 
 panion's 
 
 J stripes 
 
 ?" 
 
 at case," 
 had not 
 
 told the 
 ,vhich he 
 ; he was 
 ride and 
 tlie less 
 pns and 
 
 isscd and 
 rrcd the 
 [loving to 
 n she at- 
 »me back 
 Is and im- 
 
 face and 
 
 Iney who 
 :s which, 
 
 ttice and 
 •ly for his 
 
 ;aped her 
 [:encr, his 
 han those 
 
 omy goes 
 intellect 
 
 (Rri.;:.. 
 
 ■»3 
 
 from the ways in which Mrs. Campion and Iier family had 
 always walked. A fair, roseate complexion, and a winning 
 manner, served to disguise these points of difference ; and 
 Mrs. Campion had not (juick sight for anything which did 
 not lie upon the surface, in the character of those with 
 whom she had to do. 
 
 She was usnally to be found in the drawing-room — a 
 faded, pretty woman, little over fifty years of age, but with 
 the delicate and enfeebled air of the semi-invalid — a white 
 shawl round her slioulders, a bit of knitting or embroidery 
 between her incapable, uncertain fingers. Her hair was 
 very grey, but the curliness had never gone out of it, and 
 it sprang so crisply and picturesquely from her white, un- 
 wrinkled forehead that it seemed a i)ity to hide any of the 
 pretty waves even by the crown of fine old lace which 
 Mrs. Campion loved. She was a woman at whom no one 
 could look without a sense of artistic satisfactic , for her 
 face was still charming, and her dress delic-^.tely neat and 
 becoming. As for her mental and moral qualities, she 
 was perfectly well satisfied with them, and her husband 
 was as satisfied as she — although from a somewhat differ- 
 ent point of view. And as she very properly remarked, if 
 her husband were satisfied with her, she did not know why 
 she should be called upon to regard any adverse opinion 
 of the outer world. At the same time she was an ardent 
 disciple of Mrs. Grundy. 
 
 How this woman came to be the mother of a child like 
 Lettice, it were, indeed, hard to say. Sydney was fash- 
 ioned more or less after Mrs. Campion's own heart : he 
 was brisk, practical, unimaginative — of a type that she to 
 some extent understood ; but Lettice with her large heart, 
 her warm and passionate nature, her keen sensibilities 
 and tender conscience, was a continual puzzle to her 
 mother. Especially at this period of the girl's Hfe, when 
 new powers were developing and new instincts coming 
 into existence — the very time when a girl most needs the 
 help and comfort of a mother's tender comprehension — 
 Mrs. Campion and Lettice fell hopelessly apart. Lettice's 
 absorption in her studies did not seem right in Mrs. Cam- 
 pion's eyes ; she longed with all her soul to set her daugh- 
 ter down to crewel-work and fancy knitting, and her one 
 comfort in view of Sydney's apjnoaching separation from 
 rhis home was her hope that, when he was gone, Lettice 
 
 ; I 
 
 i I 
 
H 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 
 f U 
 
 I 
 
 would give up Latin and Greek and become like oilier 
 girls. She was ignorantly i)roud of Sydney's successes : 
 she was quite as ignorantly ashamed of Lettice's achieve- 
 ments in the same lines of study. 
 
 '' I can never forget," she said to T.ettice that evening, 
 when the rector and his son vere discussing Cambridge 
 and examination papers in the study, while the mother 
 and her daughter occui)ied the drawing-room — Leltice, 
 indeed, wild to join lier father and brother in the study 
 and glean every possible fragment of information concerning 
 the place which she had been tauglit to reverence', but far 
 too dutiful to her mother to leave her alone when Mrs. 
 Campion seemed inclined to talk — " I can never forget 
 that Sydney learned his alphabet at my knee. I taught 
 him to spell, at any rate ; and if your father had not in- 
 sisted on taking the teaching out of my hands when he was 
 seven years old, I am convinced that I should have done 
 great things with him." 
 
 " Surely he has done great things already, mamma ! " 
 Lettice said with enthusiasm. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " said Mrs. Campion with a sigh. " But I 
 don't think your father has given quite the bias to his 
 mind that I should have liked best. I have always hoped 
 that he would spend his strength in the service of the 
 
 Cliurch ; but You have not heard him say much 
 
 about his future career, have you, Lettice? " 
 
 " I don't think he has considered it particularly," Let- 
 tice answered. " But he never speaks of taking Orders ; 
 he talked of the Bar the other day. There's no reason 
 why he should make up his mind so soon, is there, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 *' No, dear, no. But I am quite sure that if he went into 
 the Cliurch he would be a Bishop," said Mrs. Campion, 
 with conviction. " And I should like him to be a Bishop." 
 
 " Well, perhaps he will be Lord Chancellor instead," 
 said Lettice, merrily. 
 
 " There can be no dou])t, my dear/' said her mother, 
 '^that a Bishop of the Anglican Church is able to carry 
 himself with more dignity and distinction in everyday life 
 than a Lord Chancellor, who is only dignified when he is 
 on the Bench. I think that Sydney would make an ex- 
 cellent Bishop—quite the most distinguished Bishop of 
 the day." 
 
 fori 
 
 vidi 
 
 pul 
 
 die! 
 
 rod 
 waJ 
 
 I'M 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 <s 
 
 " But I 
 
 LS to his 
 ^£ hoped 
 ;e of the 
 ly much 
 
 ly," Let- 
 Orders ; 
 10 reason 
 is there, 
 
 went into 
 'ampion, 
 Bishop.'' 
 instead," 
 
 r mother, 
 to carry 
 ryday life 
 v'heu he is 
 ike an ex- 
 Bishop of 
 
 It was not until next morning that Lettice had time to 
 ply her brother with questions as to his examination and 
 his Cambridge experiences generally. She did not ask 
 about tlie visit to London which he had also paid. She 
 had been to London herself, and could go there any day. 
 But Cambridge ! — the goal of Sydney's aspirations — the 
 place where (the girl believed) inlellcctual success or 
 failure was of such paramount importance — what was that 
 like ? 
 
 Sydney was ready to hold forth. He liked the position 
 of instructor, and was not insensible to the flattery of Let- 
 tice's intentness on his answeis. But he was a little dis- 
 mayed by one of her questions, which showed the direction 
 of her thoughts. 
 
 '' Did you hear anything about the women's college, 
 Sydney ? " For Girton and Nevvnham were less well 
 known then than they are now. 
 
 ''Women's colleges! No, indeed. At least, I heard 
 them aughed at several times. They're n good." 
 
 " Why not ? " said Lettice, wistfully. 
 
 " Now, Lettice," said the youthful mentor, severe in 
 boyish wisdom, " I hoi)e you are not going to take fancies 
 into your head about going to Cambridge yourself. I 
 should not like it at all. I'm not going to have tny sister 
 laughed at and sneered at every time she walks out. I 
 don't want to be made a laughing-stock. Nice girls stay 
 at home with tlieir mothers ; they don't go to colleges and 
 make themselves peculiar." 
 
 " I am not goiflg to be peculiar ; but I don't want to 
 forget all I have learned with you," said Lettice, quickly. 
 
 " You have learned too much already," said the auto- 
 crat, whose views concerning women's education had de- 
 veloi^ed since his short stay in Cambridge. " Girls don't 
 want Latin and Greek ; they want music and needlework, 
 and all that sort of thing. I don't want my sister to be a 
 blue-stocking." 
 
 Lettice felt that her lot in life ought not to be settled 
 for her simply as Sydney's sister — that she had an indi- 
 viduality of her own. But the feeling was too vague to 
 put into words ; and after Syndey had left her, in obe- 
 dience to a call from his falher, she sat en in the long, low 
 room with its cushioned window-seats and book-covered 
 Walls — the dear old room in which she had spent so many 
 
il> 
 
 26 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 happy hours with her teacher and her fellow-pupil — and 
 wondered what would become of her when Sydney was 
 really gone; whether all those hapi)y days were over, and 
 she must henceforth content herself with a life at Mrs. 
 Campion's side, where it was high treason to glance at any 
 book that was neither a devotional work nor a novel. 
 Lettice loved her mother, but the prospect did not strike 
 her as either brilliant or cheering. 
 
 It was the beginning, although at fi. st she knew it not, 
 of a new era in her life. Her happy childhood was over ; 
 she was bound henceforth to take up the heavy burden 
 which custom lays on the shoulders of so many women : 
 the burden of trivial care, unchanging routine, petty con- 
 ventionalities — 
 
 ^1 
 
 *' Heavy as frost and deep almost as life." 
 
 Sydney went out into the world to fight ; Lettice sat in 
 idleness at home ; and society, as well as the rector and 
 his wife, judged this division of labor to be fair and right. 
 But lO Lettice, whose courage was high and whose will 
 and intellect were strong, it seemed a terrible injustice 
 that she might not fight and labor too. She longed for 
 expansion : for a wider field and sharper weapons where- 
 with to contest the battle ; and she longed in vain. Dur- 
 ing her father's Hfetime it became more and more impos- 
 sible for her to leave home. She was five-and-twenty 
 before she breathed a larger air than that of Angleford. 
 
 Vi 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ; i 
 
 iiif 
 
 PROGRESS. 
 
 In due time, Sydney proceeded to Cambridge, and Lettice 
 was left alone. The further development of brother and 
 sister can scarcely be understood without a retrospective 
 glance at their own and their parents' history. 
 
 The Reverend Lawrence Campion, Rector of Angle- 
 ford, was at this time a prosperous and contented man. 
 Before he reached his fortieth year, he had been presented 
 by an old college friend to a comfortable hving. Married 
 to the woman of his early choice, he had become the father 
 
 an( 
 not I 
 aiiol 
 Syd 
 Car 
 
 ■ ! > 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 27 
 
 1 — and 
 
 ■•y was 
 er, and 
 It Mrs. 
 at any 
 novel. 
 t strike 
 
 r it not, 
 IS over ; 
 burden 
 women : 
 tty con- 
 
 ce sat in 
 ctor and 
 nd right, 
 hose will 
 injustice 
 pnged for 
 ^" where- 
 n. Dur- 
 re impos- 
 id-twenty 
 eford. 
 
 id Lettice 
 other and 
 rospective 
 
 of Angle- 
 nted man. 
 presented 
 Married 
 I the father 
 
 of two straight-limbed, healthy, and intelligent children ; 
 and then, for another twenty years, he felt that he would 
 not care to change his lot with that of the most enviable 
 of his felluvv-crcatiires. 
 
 Being himself a scholar and a student, he determined 
 that his boy and girl, so far as he could shape their lives, 
 should be scholars also. To teach them a'l he knew was 
 henceforth his chief occupation; for he would not hand 
 over to another a task wliich for him was a simple labor 
 of love. Day by day he sat between them in his comfortable 
 study, where roses tapped at the lozenge-shaped window 
 panes all through the summ.i, and in winter the glow 
 of the great logs upon the hearth was reflected from the 
 polished binding and gilt lettering of his books in a thou- 
 sand autumnal hues, as pleasing to his eyes as the tints of 
 the summer flowers. Day by day he sat between his 
 children, patiently laying the foundation of all they could 
 thereafter learn or know. He made no distinction for age 
 or sex ; and in their case, at any rate, nature had set no 
 stigma of inferiority on the intelligence of the girl. Sydney 
 was the older of the two by eighteen months, and at first 
 it seemed as though his mind was readier to grasp a new 
 idea ; but there awoke in Lettice a spirit of generous 
 rivalry and resolution, which saved her from being far out- 
 stripped by her brother. Together they studied Greek and 
 Latin ; they talked French and read German ; they picked 
 up as much of mathematics as their father could explain 
 to them — which was little enough ; and, best of all, they 
 developed a literary faculty such as does not ah ays accom- 
 pany a knowledge of half-a-dozen dead and living lan- 
 guages. 
 
 The day came when Mr. Campion, not without misgiving, 
 resolved to test the value of the education which he 
 had given to his children. He had held a fellowship at 
 iPeterhouse up to the time of his marriage, and had intend- 
 ed that Sydney should try for a scholarship at the same 
 college. But the boy aimed at a higher mark ; he was bent 
 on being a Scholar of Trinity. Perhaps it might have done 
 him good to fail once or twice on the threshold of his life, 
 and his father assured himself beforehand that he would 
 not be disappointed if his pupil was sent back to him for 
 another year of preparation. But, as we have already seen, 
 Sydney succeeded, and, if the truth must be told, Mr. 
 Campion was in no way surprised at his success. 
 
 ! I 
 
'^^^ 
 
 a 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 m 
 
 
 Jl 
 
 
 i 
 
 , 
 
 i i 
 
 V 
 
 1 ; ; 
 
 1 
 
 Li 
 
 
 nil 
 
 ; 
 
 From that time forward none of the Campions ever 
 dreamed of fiiihire ih connection witli Sydney's efforts. 
 He certainly did not dream of faihire for himself He had 
 that sublime confidence which swells the heart of every 
 young man in the flush of his first victory. We laugh in the 
 middle age at the ambitions which we nursed at twenty ; 
 but we did not laugh when the divine breath was in us, 
 and when our faith removed mountains of difficulty from 
 our path. 
 
 Sydney's career at Cambridge was one long triumph. 
 He gained the Craven and Porson scholarships ; his epi- 
 grams were quoted by college tutors rs models of vigor 
 and elegance ; he was President of the Union ; he took an 
 excellent degree, and was elected to a fellowship in due 
 course. He had, in fact, done brilliant things; and at 
 the age of twenty-four he was — to those who knew him 
 best, and especially to those who liked him least — that 
 shining, glorified, inspired, and yet sophisticated product 
 of modern university culture, an academic prig. The word 
 is not of necessity a term of reproach. Perhaps we are 
 all prigs at some season in our lives, if we happen to have 
 any inherent power of doing great things. There are lovable 
 prigs, who grow into admirable men and women ; but, 
 alas ! for the prig whose self-love coils round him like a 
 snake, until it crushes out the ingenuous fervor of youth, 
 and perverts the noblest aspirations of manhood ! 
 
 From Cambridge Sydney went to London, and was 
 called to the bar. Plere, of course, his progress was not 
 so rapid. Briefs do not come for vishing, ?-.or even for 
 merit alone. Nevertheless he was advancing year by year 
 in the estimation of good judges ; and it was known to his 
 father, and to his intimate friends, that he only waited a 
 favorable opportunity to stand for a seat in parliament. 
 
 At Angleford, in the meantime, they watched his career 
 with proud hearts and loving sympathy. Mrs. Campion, 
 in particular, doted on her son. She even scanned the 
 paper every morning, never by any chance missing an 
 item of law intelligence, where occasionally she would be 
 rewarded by coming across Sydney's name. She would 
 not have considered any distinction, however great, to be 
 more than his due. 
 
 Lettice never thought of disagreeing with her mother 
 when she sang the praises of Sydney ; but it must be con- 
 
 cert, 
 
 her 
 
 tfmel 
 
 by 
 
 to pi 
 Ii 
 
 beeni 
 
 cleai 
 
 She 
 
 iimitj 
 
 what 
 
 went! 
 
 be s( 
 
 Trinii 
 
SSJ*- 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 29 
 
 5 ever ^ 
 efforts, 
 le had 
 f every 
 I in the 
 wenty ; 
 ; m us, 
 ty from 
 
 riumph- 
 
 his epi- 
 of vigor 
 
 took an 
 .p in due 
 ; and at 
 new him 
 ast— that 
 
 product 
 phe word 
 )s we are 
 n to have 
 Lie lovable 
 rnen ; but, 
 lim like a 
 
 of youth, 
 
 and was 
 ss was not 
 even for 
 ar by year 
 lown to his 
 y waited a 
 lament, 
 his career 
 . Campion, 
 canned the 
 missing an 
 le would be 
 She would 
 great, to be 
 
 her mother 
 nust be con- 
 
 fessed that both the rector and his wife displayed less 
 than their ordinary balance of judgment in discussing the 
 merits of iheir son. They unconsciously did much in- 
 justice to the gill, by tlicir excessive adulation of her 
 brother, and her interests were constantly sacrificed to his. 
 She would have been the last to admit liiat it was so ; but 
 the fact was clear enough to the few persons who used to 
 visit them at Angleford. Her friend, Clara Graham, for 
 instance, tlic wife of a London journalist, who came down 
 now and then to spend a holiday in her native village, 
 would attempt to commiserate Lettice on the hardness of 
 her lot ; but Lettice wouV] not listen to anything of the 
 kind. She was too loyal to permit a word to be spoken 
 in her presence which might seem to reflect upon her 
 parents or her brother. 
 
 Yet it would have been impossible that she should not 
 be in some way affected by the change which had come 
 over her life since Sydney went to Cambridge. From that 
 day her regular reading with her father had ceased, and 
 she was left to direct her studies as she thought best. Mr. 
 Campion was almost entirely absorbed in the prospects of 
 his son, and if Lettice needed his assistance she had to ask 
 for it, often more than once. The consequence was that she 
 soon gave up asking, and her mind, left to its own devices, 
 gradually found its true bent. She did not read much 
 more Latin or Greek, but devoured all the Modern litera- 
 ture that came in her way. After that she began to write — 
 not fiction in the first instance, but more or less solid essays 
 in criticism and social philosophy, following the pattern of 
 certain writers in the half-crown monthly magazines, which 
 her father was wont to take in. If she had known that the 
 time would come when she would have to earn her living 
 by her pen, she could scarcely have adopted a better plan 
 to prepare herself for the task. 
 
 In the first instance, whatever .sh<' >lid in this way had 
 been for her own pleasure and distraction, without any 
 clear idea of turning her abiliiies to practical account. 
 She had no inclination for an idle life, but there was a 
 limited period during which it rested with her father to say 
 what her occupation as a womi.n should be. When Sidney 
 went to Cambridge, Lettice had entreated that she might 
 be sent to Girton or Newnham ; but the young Scholar of 
 Trinity had fought shy of the notion, and it was dropped at 
 
 \ 
 
 k 
 
 If' 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 \\\ 
 
if 
 
 3» 
 
 J\^AM£: AND FAME, 
 
 1 1 
 
 HI 
 
 J r 
 
 \' I 
 
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 \ ; 
 
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 i 
 
 
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 y 
 
 1 
 
 once. That, indeed, was the beginning of Letlice's isola- 
 tion—the beginning of a kind of mental estrangement 
 from her brother, which the lapse of time was to widen 
 and perpetuate. 
 
 Mr. Campion and his wife were by no means unkind to 
 their daughter ; they simply put Sydney first in all their 
 plans and anticipations of the future. Her education was 
 supposed to be complete ; her lot was to be cast at home, 
 and not in the rough outer world, where men compete and 
 struggle for the mastery. If slic liad comphiined, they might 
 not have been shocked, but they would have been im- 
 measurably astonished. Tiie rector had given her an 
 excellent training, and though his strongest motive was the 
 desire to stimulate and encourage his son, no doubt he had 
 her interests in view at the same time. But when he finished 
 with Sydney he finished with Lettice, and it never occurred 
 to him that there was any injustice in suddenly withdrawing 
 from her the arm on which he had taught her to lean. 
 
 She did not complain. Yet as time went on she could 
 not shut her e/es to Sydney's habit of referring every 
 question to the test of personal expediency. It was her 
 first great disillusion, but the pain which it caused her was 
 on her parents' behalf rather than on her own. They were 
 the chief sufferers ; they gave him so much and received so 
 little in return. To be sure, Sydney was only what they 
 had made him. They bade him " take," in language which 
 he could easily understand, but their craving for love, for 
 tenderness, for a share in his hopes, ambitions, resolutions, 
 and triumphs, found no entrance to his understanding. 
 
 Sydney had spent a large sum of money at Cambridge, 
 and had left heavy debts behind him, although his father 
 had paid without remonstrance all the accounts which he 
 suffered to reach the old man's hands. He had what are 
 called expensive tastes ; in other words, he bought what 
 he coveted, and did not count the cost. The same thing 
 went on in London, and Mr. Campion soon found that 
 his income, good as it was, fell short of the demands 
 which were made upon it. 
 
 The rector himself had always been a free spender. 
 His books, his pictures, his garden, his mania for curiosities, 
 had run away with thousands of pounds, and now, when 
 he surreptitiously tried to convert these things into cash 
 again there was a woeful falling off m their value. He 
 
 a m 
 
 scie 
 
 in tl 
 
 fessi 
 
 who 
 
 have 
 
 fall 
 
 Al 
 
 his t 
 
 for 
 
 Parii 
 
 try fc 
 
 befoi 
 
 wortn 
 
:'s isola- 
 igement 
 
 widen 
 
 nkind to 
 all their 
 tion was 
 at home, 
 ipete and 
 icy might 
 been im- . 
 
 1 her an 
 re was the 
 ibt he had 
 \e finished 
 r occurred 
 thdrawing 
 
 lean. 
 
 she could 
 ring every 
 It was her 
 ed her was 
 They were 
 Ireceived so 
 what they 
 uage which 
 or love, for 
 resolutions, 
 
 anding. 
 
 Cambridge, 
 
 I his father 
 s which he 
 d what are 
 
 ought what 
 same thing 
 found that 
 e demands 
 
 lee spender. 
 
 |r curiosities, 
 
 now, wher 
 
 rs into cash 
 
 value. He 
 
 AT/IME AND FAME, 
 
 31 
 
 knew nothing of the art of driving a bargain ; and, where 
 others would have made a profit with the same opi)orluni- 
 ties, he invariably lost money. He had bougiit badly to 
 begin witli, and he sold disastrously. Being hard i)ressed 
 on one occasion for a hundred pounds to send to Sydney, 
 he borrowed it of .1 perfect stranger, who look for his 
 security what would have sufficed to cover ten times the 
 amount. 
 
 This was in the '^irdyear after Sydney was called to the 
 bar. Lettice was in London that autumn, on a visit to the 
 Grahams ; and perhaps something which she contrived to 
 say to her brother induced him to write and tell his father 
 that briefs were coming in at last, and that he hoped to be 
 able to dispense with further remittances from home. Nii. 
 Campion rejoiced in this assurance as though it implied 
 that Sydney had made his fortune. But things had gone 
 too far with him to admit of recovery, even if the young 
 man had kept to his good resolutions — which he did not. 
 
 The fact is that Sydney's college debts hung like a weight 
 round his neck, and he had made no effort to be rid of 
 them. The income of his fellowship and his professional 
 earnings ought to have l)een ample for all his needs, and 
 no excuse can be urged for the selfishness which made him 
 a burden to his father after he had left Cambridge. But 
 chambers in Piccadilly, as well as at the Inner Temple, a 
 couple of West End clubs, a nightly rubber at whist, and 
 certain regular drains upon his pocket which never found 
 their way into any book of accounts, made up a formidable 
 total of expenditure by the year's end. He was too cLver 
 a man of the world to let his reputation — or even his con- 
 science — suffer by his self-indulgence, and, if he lived hard 
 in the pursuit of pleasure, he also worked hard in his pro- 
 fession. In short, he was a well-reputed lawyer, against 
 whom no one had a word to say ; and he was supposed to 
 have a very good chance of the prizes which are wont to 
 fall to the lot of successful lawyers. 
 
 At the beginning of 1880, when Sydney Campion was in 
 his twenty-seventh year, there came to him the opportunity 
 for which he had waited. Mr. Disraeli had dissolved 
 Parliament somewhat suddenly, and appealed to the coun- 
 try for a renewal of the support accorded to him six years 
 before. He had carried out in Eastern Europe a policy 
 worthy of an Imperial race. He had brought peace with 
 
3« 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 i 
 
 i i! 
 
 honor from Berlin, filled the bazaars of three comments 
 with rumors of his fame, and annexed the Suez Canal. He 
 had made his Queen an Empress, and had lavished garters 
 and dukedoms on the greatest of Her Majesty's subjects. 
 But the integrity of the empire, safe from foes without, was 
 threatened on either shore of St. George's Channel -by 
 malignant treason on one side, and on the other by exu- 
 berant verbosity. It was a moment big with the fate of 
 humanity— and he strongly advised the constituencies to 
 make him Prime Minister again. 
 
 Then the country was i)lunged into the turmoil of a 
 General Election. Every borough and shire which had 
 not already secured candidates hastened to do so. Zealous 
 Liberals and enthusiastic Tories ran up to town from the 
 places where local spirit failed, or local funds were not 
 forthcoming, convinced that they would find no lack of 
 either in the clubs and associations of the metropolis. 
 Young and ambitious politicians had their chance at last, 
 and amongst others the chance came for Sydney Campion. 
 
 There is no difficulty about getting into Parliament for 
 a young man who has friends. He can borrow the money, 
 the spirit, the eloquence, the political knowledge, and he 
 will never be asked to repay any of them out of his own 
 resources. Now Sydney had a friend who would have seen 
 him through the whole business on these terms, whov/ould 
 at any rate have found him money, the only qualification 
 in which he u deficient. But he fell into a trap prepared 
 for him by his own vanity, and, as it happened, the mistake 
 cost him very dear. 
 
 '' You see, Campion," his friend had said to him, after 
 suggesting that he should go down as Conservative candi- 
 date for Dormer, " our people know very well what they 
 would get for their money if you were elected. You would 
 make your mark in the first session, and be immensely 
 useful to us in ever so many ways." 
 
 " Would it cost much ? " asked Sydney, rather nettled 
 by the mention of money. He had known Sir John Pyn- 
 sent at Cambridge, and had never allowed himself to be 
 outdressed or outshone by him in any way. But Pynsent 
 had beaten him in the race for political honors ; and Syd- 
 ney, like a showy player at billiards who prefers to put 
 side on when he might make a straightforward stroke, 
 resolved to take a high tone with his would-be patronizing 
 friend. 
 
 
 -'«mtt*n^*fe.<» 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 33 
 
 '' Much ? " said Sir John. ** Well, no, not much, as tilings 
 go. But these worthies at Dormer have their own tradi- 
 tional ways of working the oracle. The Rads have got 
 hold of a stockjobber who is good for a thousand, and 
 Maltinan says they cannot tight him wich less llian that. 
 The long and short of it is t!iat they want a strong candi- 
 date with five hundred pounds, and we are prepared to 
 send you down, my boy, and to be good for that amount." 
 
 Sydney took out his cigar case, and offered the beaming 
 baronet a choice Villar. 
 
 ** It's uncommonly good of you, Pynsent, to give me a 
 look in at Dormer, and to suggest the other thing in sucii 
 a friendly way. Now, look here — can you let me have two 
 days to say yes or no to Maltman ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I can't. He must have his answer in 
 twenty-four hours." 
 
 " Well, say twenty-four hours. He shall have it by this 
 time to-morrow. And as for the five hundred, you may be 
 wanting that by and by. Keep it for some fellow who is 
 not in a position to fight for his own hand." 
 
 Sir John Pynsent left his friend with a greatly increased 
 opinion of his spirit and professional standing — a result of 
 the interview with which Sydney was perfectly satisfied. 
 
 Then came the serious question, how he was to deal with 
 the emergency which had arisen — perhaps the most critical 
 emergency of his life. Within twenty-four hours he must 
 know when and how he could put his hand upon five 
 hundred pounds. 
 
 He might easily have saved twice the sum before '^ ^w ; 
 but he had never learned the art of saving. He thought 
 of his father, whom he had not seen or written to for more 
 than a month, and determined that he would at all events 
 go down and consult the rector. He had not realized the 
 fact that his father's resources were already exhausted, 
 and that mere humanity, to say nothing of filial duty, 
 req-.ired him to come to the old man's assistance, instead 
 of asking him for fresh sacrifices. 
 
 " If he has not the money/' Sydney said, " no doubt he 
 can help me to raise it. It will be an excellent investment 
 of our joint credit, and a very good thing for us both." 
 
 So he telegraphed to Angleford — 
 
 " I am going to contest a borough. Must make orovision. 
 Shall be with you by next train." 
 
 ^ 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 ili 
 
 1 1 
 
 1 ^ 
 
 i'' 
 
 \\'. : 
 
 ■ - 1 ' ■ , ■ ' 
 
 1 
 
 ■ 1 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FATHER AND SON. 
 
 Sydney's telegram reached Angleford at an awkward time. 
 Things had been going from bad to worse with Mr. Cam- 
 pion, who had never had as much money as he needed 
 since he paid the last accounts of the Cambridge tradesmen. 
 In the vain hope that matters would mend by and by — 
 though he did not form any precise idea as to how the 
 improvement would take place — he had been meeting each 
 engagement as it came to maturity by entering on another 
 still more onerous. After stripping himself of all his house- 
 hold treasures that could be converted into money, he had 
 pledged his insurance policy, his professional and private 
 income, and at last even his furniture ; and he was now in 
 very deep waters. 
 
 A great change had come over him. At sixty, when 
 Sydney took his degree, he was still handsome and upright, 
 buoyant with hope and energy. At sixty-six he was broken, 
 weak, and disheartened. To his wife and daughter, 
 indeed, he was always the same cheerful, gentle, sanguine 
 man, full of courtesy and consideration. In the village he 
 was more beloved than ever, because there was scarcely a 
 man or woman who was not familiar with the nature and 
 extent of his troubles. In a country parish the affairs of 
 the parson, especially when they do not prosper, are apt to 
 become the affairs of the congregation as well Who should 
 know better than a man's butcher and baker when the 
 supply of ready money runs short, when one month would 
 be more convenient than another for the settlement of a 
 bill, or when the half-year's stipend has been forestalled 
 and appropriated long before it fell due ? 
 
 However great his trouble, the rector had generally 
 contrived to put a good face on things. He considered his 
 difficulties as entirely the result of his own improvidence, 
 and rejoiced to think that Sydney's position was assured; 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 35 
 
 no matter what might happen to himself. Yet often in 
 the silence of the night he ^yould toss upon his restless 
 bed, or vex his soul with complicated accounts in the 
 privacy of his study, and none but the two faithful women 
 who lived with him suspected what he suffered in his 
 weakest moments. 
 
 He had come to lean more and more constantly on the 
 companionship of Lettice. Mrs. Campion had never been 
 the kind of woman to whom a man looks for strength or 
 consolation, and when she condoled with her husband he 
 usually felt himself twice as miserable as before. Some 
 wives have a way of making their condolences sound like 
 reproaches ; and they may be none the 'less loving wives 
 for that. Mrs. Campion sincerely loved her husband, but 
 she never thoroughly understood him. 
 
 When the boy arrived with Sydney's telegram, Lettice 
 intercepted him at the door. She was accustomed to keep 
 watch over everything that entered the house, and saved 
 her father a- great deal of trouble by reading his letters, 
 and, if need be, by answering them. What he would have 
 done without her, he was wont to aver, nobody could tell. 
 
 Time had dealt gently with Lettice, in spite of her 
 anxieties, in spite of that passionate revolt against fate 
 which from time to time had shaken her very soul. She 
 was nearly five-and-twenty, and she certainly looked no 
 more then twenty-one. The sweet country air had pre- 
 served the delicate freshness of her complexion: her dark 
 grey eyes were clear, her white brow unlined by trouble, 
 her rippling brown hair shining and abundant. Her 
 slender hands were a little tanned — the only sign that 
 country life had laid upon her — because she was never 
 very careful about wearing gloves when she worked in the 
 garden ; but neither tan nor freckle ever appeared upon 
 her face, the bloom of which was tender and refined as 
 that of a briar-rose. The old wistful look of her sweet 
 eyes remained unchanged, but the mouth was sadder in 
 repose than it haJ been when she was a child. When she 
 smiled however, there could not have been a brighter 
 face. 
 
 Notwithstanding this touch of sadness on her lips, and a 
 faint shadow of thought on the clear fine brows, the face of 
 Lettice was noticeable for its tranquillity. No storm of 
 passion had ever troubled those translucent eyes : patience 
 
 ^ 
 
i 
 
 ^:,V' 
 
 
 3« 
 
 iV^i^/^ /<iVZ> FAME. 
 
 
 Ik 
 
 
 \ 
 
 j-ti 
 
 
 i 
 
 j: 1: 1 
 
 f ) 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 i 
 1 
 
 ■ i 
 
 7 
 
 sat there, patience and reflection ; emotion waited its turn. 
 One could not doubt her capabilities of feeling ; but, in 
 spite of her four-and-twenty years, the depths of her heart 
 had never yet been stirred. She had lived a somewhat 
 restricted life, and there was yet very much for her to ex- 
 perience and to learn. V/ho would be her teacher ? For 
 Lettice was not the woman to go ignorant of life's fullest 
 bliss and deepest sorrow to the grave. 
 
 She looked particularly slender and youthful as she stood 
 that day at the hall window when Sydney's telegram 
 arrived. She had a double reason for keeping guard in the 
 hall and glancing nervously down the carriage-drive that 
 led from the main road to the rectory front. Half-an-hour 
 before, a hard-featured man had swaggered up the avenue, 
 fired off a volley of defiance on the knocker, and demanded 
 to see Mr. Campion. 
 
 " What do you want? " said Lettice, who had opened 
 the door and stood boldly facing him. 
 
 " I want to see the parson. At once, miss, if you please." 
 
 " Perhaps I can do what is necessary, if you will tell me 
 what your business is. You cannot see my father." 
 
 " Oh," said the man, with a little more respect. " You 
 are his daughter, are you ? Well, if you can do the needful 
 I am sure I have no objection. Tiiree hundred and twenty 
 pound seventeen-and-six " — here he took out a si mped 
 paper and showed it to Lettice. " That's the figure, miss, 
 and if you'll oblige with coin — cheques and promises being 
 equally inconvenient — I don't mind waiting five minutes 
 to accommodate a lady." 
 
 " We have not the money in the house," an'?wered 
 Lettice, who had been reading the formidable document, 
 without quite und^^rstanding what it meant. 
 
 " Ah, that's a pity," said the man. ^' But I didn't expect 
 it, so I ain't disappointed." 
 
 " It shall be sent to you. I will see that you have it — 
 within a week from this date — only go away now, for my 
 father is unwell." 
 
 *' Very sorry, miss, but I can't go without the money. 
 This business won't wait any longer. The coin or the 
 sticks— those are my orders, and that's my notion of what 
 is fair and right." 
 
 "* The sticks ? " said Lettice faintly. 
 
 " The goods— the furniture. This paper is a bill of sale, 
 iind as the reverend gentleman doesn't find it convenient to 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 37 
 
 pay, why, of course, my principal is bound to realize the 
 security. Now, miss, am I to see the gentleman, or am I 
 not ? " 
 
 " Oh no," said Lettice, *' it is useless." 
 
 " Then what I am going to do," said the man, " is this. 
 I am going to get the vans, and fetch the goods right away. 
 I may be back this afternoon, or I may be back to-morrow 
 morning ; but you take my advice, miss. Talk it over with 
 the old gentleman, and raise the money somehow, for it 
 really would go agaii^st me to have to sell you up. I'm to 
 be heard of at the ' Chequers,' miss — William Joskins, at 
 your service." 
 
 Then he had gone away, and left her alone, and she 
 stood looking through the window at the dreary prospect 
 — thinking, and thinking, and unable to see any light in 
 the darkness. 
 
 One thing, at all events, she must do ; a message must 
 be sent to Sydney. It would not be just, either to him or 
 to his father, that the extent of the disaster should be any 
 longer concealed. She had just arrived at this determina- 
 tion, and was turning away to write the telegram, when 
 the messenger from the post-office made his appearance. 
 
 In five minutes all the house was astir. A visit from 
 Sydney was a rare occurrence, and he must be treated 
 royally, as though he were a king condescending to quarter 
 himself on his loyal subjects — which, indeed, he was. 
 When Lettice went to tell her father the news she found 
 him seated by the fire, pondering gloomily on what the 
 immediate future might have in store for him ; but as soon 
 as she showed him Sydney's telegram he sprang to his feet, 
 with straightened body and brightly shining eyes. In one 
 moment he had passed from despondency to the height of 
 exultation. 
 
 " Two o'clock," he said, looking at his watch, " and he 
 will be here at five ! Dinner must be ready for him by 
 six ; and you will take care, Lettice, that everything is pre- 
 pared as you know he would like to have it. Going into 
 Parliament, is he ? Yes, I have always told you that he 
 would. He is a born orator, child ; he will serve his coun- 
 try brilliantly — not for place, nor for corrupt motives of 
 any kind, but as a patriot and a Christian, to whom duty is 
 the law of his nature." 
 
 " Yes, papa. And you will be satisfied when he is a 
 member of Parliament ? " 
 
 % 
 
 t 
 
 ! I 
 
 1 1: 
 
I I 
 
 1 
 
 I V 
 
 38 
 
 ATA ME AND FAME. 
 
 <( 
 
 So long as Sydney lives, my dear, I know that he will 
 grow in favor wilh God and man ; and so long as I live, I 
 shall watch his course with undiminished joy and satisfac- 
 tion. What else have we left to live for ? Wife ! " said 
 the rector, as Mrs. Campion entered the room, " do you 
 know that our boy is to dine with us to-night ? " 
 
 " Yes, Lawrence, I have seen his telegram ; and Mollie 
 is doing all she can at short notice. It will not be the 
 kind of dinner I should like to put before him ; but times 
 are changed with us — sadly changed ! I hope he will not 
 miss the plate, Lawrence ; and as for wine and dessert 
 
 " Oh, mother dear," said Lettice, interrupting, *' I quite 
 forgot to tell you about my letter this morning. Look 
 here ! It contained a cheque for ten pounds, for that ar- 
 ticle of mine in the Decade. I mean to go into Dorminster, 
 and get one or two things we shall be wanting, and I shall 
 probably drive back in Sydney's cab. So you can leave 
 the wine and dessert to me. And, mother dear, be sure 
 you put on your silver-grey poplin, with the Mechlin cap. 
 Nothing suits you half as well ! " 
 
 Lettice's earnings had sufficed for some years past for 
 her dress and personal expenses ; but latterly she had 
 contrived to have a fair margin left for such emergencies 
 as that which had now arisen. She was more than thanked 
 by the gleam of love which lightened the eyes of her 
 parents as she spoke. Even though Sydney was coming, 
 she thought, that smile at any rate was all for her. 
 
 So she went into the town and made her purchases, and 
 waited at the station, shivering in the cold March wind, 
 for Sydney's train. 
 
 How much should she tell him to begin with ? Cr should 
 she say nothing till after dinner ? How would he take it? 
 How would it affect him? And suppc"e for a moment 
 that he had to choose between getting into Parliament and 
 rescuing his father from ruin ? 
 
 Clearly as she saw the worst sides of Sydney's character, 
 yet she loved him well, and was proud of him. How often 
 she had yearned for tenderness in the days gone by ! 
 What excuses she had framed for him in her own heart, 
 when he seemed to forget their existence at Angleford for 
 months together ! And now, when she had this terrible 
 
 !IB5'' 
 
■■■I 1 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 39 
 
 news to tell him, was it not possible that his heart would 
 be softened by the blow, and that good would come for all 
 of them out of this menaced evil? What a happy place 
 the old Rectory might be if her father's mind were set at 
 rest again, and Sydney would come down and stay with 
 them from time to time ! " 
 
 The train was at the platform before Lettice had decided 
 what to do. Sydney looked rather surprised to see her, 
 but gave her his cheek to kiss, and hurried her off to the 
 cab stand. 
 
 '* What brought you here? " he said. ** How cold you 
 ar^ ! All well at home ? " 
 
 *' Yes, they are well. But, oh, Sydney, they are growing 
 old?" 
 
 " Growing old, child ? Why, of course ihey are. We 
 must expect it. Do you mean they look older than they 
 are ? " 
 
 " Yes — older, and — and more " 
 
 ''Well?" 
 
 He looked at her sharply, for she could not quite com- 
 mand her voice, and left the sentence unfinished. Then 
 Sydney had an uncomfortable feeling. He saw that there 
 was something amiss, but did not care at the moment to 
 insist on further comfidences. No doubt he would hear 
 all that there was to be said by and by. Meanwhile he 
 turned the conversation, and soon contrived to interest 
 her, so that they reached the Rectory in excellent spirits. 
 All that day poor Lettice alternated between despair and 
 giddy lightness of heart. 
 
 So the hero came home and was feasted, and his father 
 and mother did obeisance to him, and evnn he for an hour 
 or two thought it good that he should now and then re- 
 new his contract with the earth from which he sprang, and 
 remember the chains of duty and affection which bound 
 him to the past, instead of dwelling constantly in the 
 present and the future. 
 
 Throughout dinner, and at dessert, and as they drank 
 the wine which Lettice had provided, Sydney spoke of his 
 position and prospects, dazzling those who listened to him 
 with his pictures of victory at Dormer, of Conservative 
 triumphs all along the line, of Ministerial favor for himself, 
 (f " Office — why not ? — within a twelvemonth." It would 
 
 -. 1, 
 
 1 ' 
 
 ' 
 
! 
 
 
 
 ■ k 
 
 
 <* 
 
 "■ f 
 
 
 •|i 
 
 
 cjj 
 
 u 
 
 '1*1 ! 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 NAiME AND FAME. 
 
 have been treason for any of his audience to doubt that all 
 these good things would come to pabb. If Lettice felt that 
 there was a skeleton at the feast, her father at any rate 
 had forgotten its existence. Or, rather, he saw deliverance 
 at hand. The crisis of his boy's fortune had arrived ; 
 and, if Sydney triumphed, nothing that could happen to 
 Sydney's father could rob Mr. Campion of his joy. 
 
 At last the women left the room, and Sydney proceeded 
 to tell his father what he wanted. He must return to town 
 by the first train in the morning, having made an appoint- 
 ment with Mr. Maltman for two o'clock. Of course he 
 meant to contest Dormer ; but it was desirable that he 
 should know for certain that he could raise five hundred 
 pounds within a week, to supplement his own narrow 
 means. 
 
 His face fell a little when his father confessed — as though 
 it were clearly a matter for shame and remorse — that he 
 could not so much as draw a cheque for twenty pounds. 
 But, in fact, he was not surprised. Recklessly as he had 
 abstained from inquiring into the old man's affairs since 
 Lettice spoke to him in London two years ago, he had 
 taken it for granted that there were difficulties of some 
 kind ; and men in difficulties do not keep large balances 
 at their bankers'. 
 
 " Well, father," he said, " I am sorry for that. Yes — it 
 certainly makes the thing rather hard for me. I hoped 
 you might have seen me fairly launched on my career ; 
 and then, you know, if the worst came to the worst, I could 
 soon have repaid you what you advanced. Well, what I 
 suggest is this. I can probably borrow the money with 
 your assistance, and I want to know what security we 
 could offer between us for the loan." 
 
 Mr. Campion looked mournfully at his son, but he was 
 not ready with a reply. 
 
 " You see," said Sydney, " it would never do for me to 
 miss this chance. Everything depends upon it, and I was 
 bound to refuse Pynsent's offer of the money. But if you 
 have something that we can lodge as security " 
 
 Mr. Campion shook his head. The look of distress that 
 came upon his face might have softened Sydney's heart, if 
 he had been less intent on his object. 
 
 " There will be an insurance policy I suppose ? " 
 
 IjiiP. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 4« 
 
 " No, my boy ! The fact is, I was obliged to assign it 
 a few years ago, to cover a former engagement." 
 
 ** Dear me ! " said Sydney, in a tone of vexation, *' what 
 a nuisance ! I am afraid our signatures alone would hardly 
 suftice. A bill of sale is out of the question, for that 
 would have to be registered.'' 
 
 Something in the old man's appearance, as he sank back 
 in his chair and wrung his hands, struck Sydney with a 
 sudden conviction. He sprang to his feet, and came close 
 to his father's side, standing over him in what looked almost 
 like an attitude of menace. 
 
 ** Good heaven ! " he cried. *' Don't tell me that it has 
 gone so far as that ! " 
 
 The door opened, and Lettice stood before them, with 
 pale cheeks and glistening eyes. She had guessed what 
 would come of their conversation, and had held herself in 
 readiness to intervene. 
 
 Sydney turned upon her at once. 
 
 " You," he said, as deliberate now as he had been ex- 
 cited a minute before, "you, with your fine head for busi- 
 ness, will doubtless know as much about this as anybody. 
 Has my father given a bill of sale on his furniture ? " 
 
 " He has," said Lettice. 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " Months ago. I must have known it, for I read all his 
 correspondence ; but I hardly knew what a bill of sale 
 meant. And Sydney," she continued, laying her hand on 
 his arm, and whispering so that her father should not hear, 
 " it may be only a threat, but a man was here this morning, 
 who said he should come to-morrow and take the things 
 away." 
 
 When he heard this, Sydney lost his self-command, and 
 snoke certain words for which he never quite forgave 
 himself. No doubt the blow was a heavy one, and he 
 realized immediately all that it implied. But he did not 
 foresee the effect of the harsh and bitter words which he 
 flung at his father and sister, charging them with reckless 
 extravagance, and declaring that their selfishness had 
 ruined his whole career. 
 
 Lettice was stung to the quick, not so much by her bro- 
 ther's unjust accusations as by the suffering which they in- 
 flicted on her father. His childishness had increased upon 
 
 ; ' 
 
 ! 'i 
 
 ■- \\ 
 
42 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 k 1 
 
 li 'I 
 
 him so much of late that he was in truth, at this moment, 
 more like a boy under correction than a father in pre- 
 sence of his children. He buried his face in his hands, and 
 Lettice heard a piteous groan. 
 
 Then she stood beside him, laid her arm upon his neck, 
 and faced Sydney with indignant eyes. 
 
 " Look ! " she said. " This is your work. Can you not 
 see and understand ? You accuse him of selfishness — him, 
 whose life has been one long sacrifice for you ! I tell you, 
 Sydney, that your cruel neglect, your ingrained love of 
 self, have dragged our father down to this. He gave you 
 all that you have, and made you all that you are, and when 
 you should have come to his succor, and secured for him 
 a happy old age, you have left him all these years to 
 struggle with the poverty to which you reduced him. He 
 never murmured — he will never blame you as long as he 
 lives — he is as proud of you to-day as he was len years 
 ago — and you dare, you dare to reproach him ! " 
 
 Lettice ended in magnificent wrath ; and, then, being a 
 woman after all, she knelt by her father's side and burst 
 into tears. 
 
 If Sydney's pride had not got the better of him he would 
 have owned the justice of her words, and all might 
 have been well. Instead of that, he went to his room, 
 brooding upon his misfortune, and soothing his wounded 
 feelings in an intense self-pity. 
 
 And next morning, when he came remorsefully to his 
 father's bedside, intending to assure him that he would 
 make it the first business of his life to rescue him from his 
 difficulties, he found him rescued indeed, with placid face 
 and silent heart, over which the cares of earth had no fur- 
 ther dominion. 
 
 I!!, ' %\ 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 43 
 
 I 
 
 w 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SEVERANCE. 
 
 The rector's death was a terrible shock to Sydney. For 
 a time hia remorse for liis own conduct was very great, 
 and it bore good fruit in a perceptible softening of his over- 
 confident manner and a more distinct show of consideration 
 for his motfier and sister. Little by little he drew from 
 Lettice the story of her past anxieties, of his father's efforts 
 and privations, of his mother's suffering at the loss of lux- 
 uries to which she had always been accustomed — suffering 
 silently borne because it was borne for Sydney. Lettice 
 spared him as far as she could ; but there was much that 
 she was obliged to tell, as she hud been for so long the 
 depositary of her father's secrets and his cares. Man-like, 
 Sydney showed his sorrow by exceeding sharpness of tone. 
 
 " Why did you not write to me ? Why was I never 
 told ? " 
 
 " I told you as much as I dared, when I was in London." 
 
 ** As much as you dared ? " 
 
 " Dear father would not let me tell very much. He laid 
 his commands on me to say nothing." 
 
 " You should have disobeyed him," said Sydney march- 
 ing up and down the darkened study, in which this con- 
 ference took place. '* It was your duty to have disobeyed 
 him, for his own good- " 
 
 " Oh, Sydney, how can you talk to me of duty ? " said 
 Lettice, with a sob. " Why did you not com^ and see for 
 yourself? Why did you stay away so long?" 
 
 The reproach cut deeper than she knew. " I thought I 
 was acting for the best," said the young man, half defiantly, 
 half apologetically. " I did what it was the desire of his 
 heart that I should do — But you, you were at home ; 
 you saw it all, and you should have told me, Lettice." 
 
 " I did try," she answered meekly, " but it was not very 
 easy to make you listen.'' 
 
 In other circumstances he would, perhaps, have retorted 
 angrily ; and Lettice felt that it said much for the depth 
 
 H 
 
51: 
 
 44 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 of his sorrow for the past that he did not carry his self- 
 defence any further. By and by he paused in his agitated 
 wallc up and down the room, with head bent and hands 
 plunged deep into his pockets. After two or three mo- 
 ments' silence, Lettice crept up to him and put her hand 
 within his arm. 
 
 " Forgive me, Sydney, I spoke too bitterly ; but it has 
 been very hard sometimes." 
 
 " I would have helped if I had known," said Sydney 
 gloomily. 
 
 " I know you would, dear. And he always knew it, too. 
 That was the reason why he told me to keep silence — for 
 fear of hampering you in your career. He has often said 
 to me that he wished to keep the knowledge of his difficul- 
 ties from you, because he knew you would be generous 
 and kind " 
 
 Tears choked her voice. Her brother, who had hitherto 
 been quite unresponsive to her caresses, put out his right 
 hand and stroked the trembling fingers that rested on his 
 left arm. He was leaning against the old oak table, where 
 his father's books and papers had stood for so many years ; 
 and some remembrance of bygone days when he and Let- 
 tice, as boy and girl, sat together with their grammars and 
 lexicons at that very place, occurred a little dimly to his 
 mind. But what was a dim memory to him was very clear 
 and distinct to Lettice. 
 
 " Oh, Sydney, do you remember how we used to work 
 here with father ? " she broke out. " How many hours we 
 spent here together — r-ading the same books, thinking the 
 same thoughts — and now we seem so divided, so very far 
 apart ! You have not quite forgotten those old days, have 
 you ? " 
 
 " No, I have not forgotten them," said Sydney, in a 
 rather unsteady voice. Poor Lettice ! She had counted 
 for very little in his life for the last few years, and yet, as 
 she reminded him, what companions they had been before 
 he went to Cambridge ! A suddenly roused instinct of 
 compassion and protection caused him to put his arm round 
 her and to speak with unusual tenderness. 
 
 " I won't forget those old times, Lettice. Perhaps we 
 shall be able to see more of each other by and bye than 
 we have done lately. You have been a good girl, never 
 wanting any change or amusement all these years ; but I'll 
 do my best to look after you now." 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 45 
 
 *'I began to think you did not care for any of us, Syd- 
 ney." 
 
 " Nonsense," said Sydney, and he kissed her forehead 
 affectionately before he left the study, where, indeed, he 
 felt that he had stayed a httle too long, and given Lettice 
 an unusual advantage over him. He was not destitute of 
 natural affections, but they had so long been obscured by 
 the mists of selfishness that he found it difficult to let them 
 appear — and more difficult with his sister than with his 
 mother. Lettice seemed to him to exact too much, to be 
 too intense in feeling, too critical in observation. He was 
 fond of her, but she was not at all his ideal woman — if he 
 had one. Sydney's preference was for what he called " a 
 womanly woman " : not one who knew Greek. 
 
 ^le made a brave and manly effort to wind up his father's 
 affairs and pay his outstanding debts. He was so far 
 stirred out of himself that it hardly occurred to his mind 
 that a slur would be left on him if these debts were left 
 unpaid : his strongest motive just now wps the sense of 
 right and wrong, and he knew, too late, that it was right 
 for him to take up the load which his own acts had made 
 so heavy. 
 
 The rector had died absolutely penniless. His insurance 
 policy, his furniture, the whole of his personal effects, 
 barely sufficed to cover the money he had borrowed. What 
 Sydney did was to procure the means of discharging at 
 once all the household bills, and the expenses connected 
 with the funeral. 
 
 " And now," he said to Lettice, when the last of these 
 dues had been paid off and they took their last stroll to- 
 gether througii the already half dismantled rooms of the 
 desolate old Rectory, '' I feel more of a man than I have 
 felt since that terrible night, and I want to get back to my 
 work." 
 
 " I am afraid you will have to work very hard, dear ! " 
 said Lettice, laying her hand on his arm, rather timidly. 
 How she still yearned for the full measure of mutual confi- 
 dence and sympathy ! 
 
 " Hard work will be good for me," he said, his keen 
 blue eyes lighting up as if with ardor for the fray. " I 
 shall soon wipe off old scores,- and there's nothing like 
 knowing you have only yourself to look to. My practice, 
 you know, is pretty good already, and it will be very good 
 by and bye." 
 
 * 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 I' 
 
 > 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 \ 
 
 I. 1 I 
 
46 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 1 
 
 ** r am so glad ! " 
 
 •' \'cs. And, of course, you niu.st never have any anxiety 
 about mother and yourself. I shali sec to all that. You 
 are going W slay with the (irahams for a while, so I can 
 come over one day and discuss it. 1 don't suppose I shall 
 ever marry, but whether I do or not, I shall always set 
 apart a certain sum for mother and you." 
 
 •' I have been thinking about the future," said Lettice. 
 quietly. She always spoke in a low, musical voice, without 
 gesture, but not without animation, producing on those 
 who heard her tlie impression that she had formed her 
 opinions beforehead, and was deliberate in stating them. 
 " Do you know, Sydney, that I can earn a very respectable 
 income ? " 
 
 " Earn an income ! You ! " he said, with a wrinkle in 
 his forehead, and a curl in his nostrils. " I will not hear 
 of such a thing. I cannot have my sister a dependent in 
 other people's houses — a humble governess or companion. 
 How could you dream of it ! " 
 
 " I have not dreamed of that," said Lettice. '' I do not 
 think I should like it myself. I simply stay at home and 
 write. I earned seventy pounds last year, and Mr. Gra- 
 ham says I could almost certainly earn twice as much if I 
 were living in London." 
 
 ** Why was I not told of this? " said Sydney, with an air 
 of vexation. " What do you write ? " 
 
 " Essays, and now and then a review, and little stories." 
 
 " Little stories— ouf! " he muttered, in evident disgust. 
 "You don't put your name to these things !" 
 
 " I did to one article, last March, in The Decade'' 
 
 " That is Graham's magazine, and I daresay Graham 
 asked you to sign your name. When I see him 1 shall tell 
 him it was done without sufficient consideration." 
 
 *' All articles are signed in The Decade'' said Lettice. 
 She did not think it worth while to mention that Graham 
 had written her a very flattering letter about her article, 
 telling her that it had attracted notice — that the critics 
 said she had a style of her own, and was likely to make 
 her mark. The letter had reached her on the morning 
 before her father's death, and she had found but a brief 
 satisfaction in it at the time. 
 
 " I think you had better not say anything to Mr. Graham," 
 she continued. " They have both been very kind, and 
 we shall not have tQO many friends in London." 
 
^TAMF. AXn FAME, 
 
 47 
 
 " Why do you want to live in London ? " 
 
 '•I think 1 should like it, and mother would like it too. 
 You know she has fifty pounds a year of her own, and if 
 what Mr. Graham says is right we shall be able to live very 
 comfortably." 
 
 •' I can't say I like this writing for a living," he said. 
 
 " I suppose we cannot have everything as we like it. 
 And, besides, I do like it. It is congenial work, and it 
 makes me feel independent." 
 
 *• It is not always good for women to be independent. It 
 is dangerous." 
 
 She laughed — a pleasant little rallying laugh. 
 
 "■ I hope you will not be shocked," she said. *' I have 
 set my heart on being perfectly independent of you and 
 everybody else." 
 
 He saw that she would have her way, and let the subject 
 drop. 
 
 A few weeks afterwards, Lettice and her mother had 
 packvid up their belongings and went to London. The 
 Grahan^ - were delighted to have tiiem, for I^etticc was a 
 great lavorite with both. James Graham was a literary 
 man of good standing, who, in addition to editing The 
 Decade, wrote for one of the weekly papers, and reviewed 
 books in his special lines for one of the dailies. By dint 
 of hard work, and carefully nursing his connection, he 
 contrived to make a living ; and that was all. Literary 
 work is not well paid as a rule. There is fair pay to be 
 had on the staff of the best daily papers, but that kind of 
 work requires a special aptitude. It requires, in particu- 
 lar, a supple and indifferent mind, ready to take its cue 
 from other peoi)le, with the art of representing things from 
 day to day not exactly as they are, but as an editor or 
 paymaster wants them to appear. If v-e suffered our 
 journalists to sign their articles, they would probably write 
 better, with more self-respect and a higher sense of respon- 
 sibility ; they would become stronger in themselves, and 
 would be more inlluential with their readers. As it is, few 
 men with vigorous and original minds can endure beyond 
 a year or two of political leader-writing. 
 
 Graham had tried it, and the ordeal was too difficult for 
 him. Now he had a greater scope for his abilities, and less 
 money for his pains. 
 
 Clara Graham was the daughter of a solicitor in Angle- 
 ford, and had known Lettice Canpion from childhood. 
 
 w 
 
i 
 
 i 
 
 m 
 
 48 
 
 uVAM£ AND FAME. 
 
 li 
 
 ■j 1 
 
 ■II 
 
 11 
 it 
 
 '1 
 
 She was a pretty woman, thoroughly good-hearted, with 
 tastes and powers somewhat in advance of her education. 
 Perhaps she stood a liitle in awe of Lettice, and wondered 
 occasionally whether her husband considered a woman 
 who knew Latin and Greek, and wrote clever articles in 
 The Decade, superior to one who had no such accomplish- 
 ments, though she might be prettier, and the mother of his 
 children, and even the darner of his stockings. But Clara 
 was not without wits, so she did not propound questions 
 of that sort to her husband ; she reserved them for her own 
 torment, and then expiated her jealousy by being kinder to 
 Lettice than ever. 
 
 Lettice's plans were far more fixed and decided than 
 Sydney knew. She had corresponded very fully and frank- 
 ly with the Grahams on the subject, and Mr. Graham was 
 a'lready looking about for a place whe^-^ she could set up 
 her household gods. It was no use to consult Mrs. Cam- 
 pion on the s;.bject. Her husband's death had thrown her 
 into a state of mental torpor which seemed at first to bor- 
 der upon imbecility : and although she recovered to some 
 extent from the shock, her health had been too much sha- 
 ken to admit of complece recovery. Thenceforward she 
 was an invalid and aii old woman, who had abnegated her 
 will in favor of i?er daughter's, ana asked for nothing bet- 
 ter than to be governed as well as cared for. The change 
 was a painful one to Lettice, but practically it left her freer 
 than ever, for her mother wanted little companionship, and 
 was quite as hap])y with the maid that Lettice had brought 
 from Ancrleford as with Lettice herself. The visit to the 
 Grahams was an excellent thing both for Mrs. Campion 
 and for her dau£:hter. ' Clara manafjed to win the old ladv's 
 heart, and so relieved her friend of much of her anxiety. 
 The relief came not a moment too soon, for the long strain 
 to which Lettice had been subjected began to tell upon her 
 and she was sorely in need oi rest. The last three or four 
 years had been a time of almost incessant worry to her. 
 She had literally had the care oi the household on her 
 shoulders, and it had needed both courage and endurance 
 of no ordinary kind to enable her to discharge her task 
 without abandoning that inner and intellectual lite which 
 had become so indi>pensabie to her well-being. The sud- 
 den death of her father was a paralyzing blow, but the care 
 exacted from her by her mjiher had saved her from the 
 
XAM£ AXD FAME. 
 
 49 
 
 physical collapse which it might have brought about. Now, 
 when the necessity for immediate exertion had passed away, 
 the reaction was very great, and it was fortunate that she 
 had at this crisis the bracing companionship of James 
 Graham, and Clara's friendly and stimulating acerbities. 
 
 Lettlce had reached the age of five and twenty without 
 experiencing either love, or intimate friendship, or intellec- 
 tual sympathy. She had had neither of those two things 
 which a woman, and especially an intellectual woman, 
 constantly craves, and in the absence of which she 
 cannot be happy. Either of the two may suffice for 
 happiness, both together would satisfy l>er coinpletely, 
 but the woman who has not one or the other is a stranger 
 to content. The nature of a woman requires either equal- 
 ity of friendship, a free exchange of confidence, trust and 
 respect — having which, she can put up with a good deal of 
 apparent coldness and dryness of heart in her friend ; or 
 else she wants the contrasted savor''.' life, caressing words, 
 demonstrations of tenderness, arcnities and attentions, 
 which keep her heart at rest even if they do not satisfy her 
 whole nature. If she gets neither of these things the love 
 or friendship never wakes, or. having been aroused, it dies 
 of inanition. 
 
 So it was with Lettice. The one oasis in the wilderness 
 of her existence had been the aftermath of love which 
 sprang up between her and her father in the last few years, 
 when she felt him depending upon her, confiding and trust- 
 ing in her, and when she had a voice in the shaping of his 
 life. But even this love, unsurpassable in its tenderness, 
 was only as a faint shadow in a thirsty land. Such as it 
 was, she had lost it, and the place which it had occupied 
 was an aching void. 
 
 The one desire left to her at present was to become an 
 absolutely independent woman. This meant that she 
 should work hard for her living in her own way, and that 
 she should do what seemed good and pleasant to her, be- 
 cause it seemed good and pleasant, not because it was the 
 way of the world, or the way of a house, or the routine of 
 a relative or an employer. It meant that she should keep 
 her mother under her own eye, in comfort and decency, 
 not lodged with strangers to mope out her life in dreary 
 solitude. It meant also that she should not be a burden 
 
 I 
 

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 f 
 
 ! 
 i 
 
 |! 
 
 P ■ 
 
 
 1 '.'^Vi^ 
 
 'li 
 
 1 ^' '"■' 
 
 ^f 
 
 !i! .• 
 
 so 
 
 A^^i^£" AJVD FAME. 
 
 on Sydney — or, in plain terms, that she should not take 
 Sydney's money, either for herself or her mother. 
 
 Indeed, the consciousness that she had to work for 
 another, and to be her protection and support, was not only 
 bracing but cheering in its effects, and Lettice itow turned 
 towards her writing-table with an energy which had been 
 wanting when her efforts were for herself alone. 
 
 The Rectory household had been reduced as much as 
 possible during the last few months, and only two servants 
 remained at the time of the rector's death : one, an elder- 
 ly cook, who was content for the love of " Miss Lettice " 
 to do the work of a general servant ; and a young girl of 
 eighteen, who had lived at the Rectory and been trained 
 for domestic service under Mrs. Campion's eye ever since 
 her parents' death, which had occurred when she was fif- 
 teen years of age. Emily, or Milly Harrington, as she 
 was generally called, was a quick, clever girl, very neat- 
 handed and fairly industrious ; and it seemed to Lettice, 
 when she decided upon going to London, that she could 
 not do better than ask Milly to go too. The girl's great 
 blue eyes opened with a flash of positive rapture. '' Go 
 with you to London ? Oh, Miss Lettice ! " 
 
 " You would like it, Milly ? " said Lettice, wondering at 
 her excitement, and thinking that she had never before 
 noticed how pretty Millie Harrington had grown of late. 
 
 " Oh, of all things in the world, miss, I've wanted to go 
 to London ! " said Milly, flushing all over her face through 
 the clear white skin which was one of her especial beauties. 
 
 There was very little trace of commonness in Milly's 
 good looks. Three years of life at the Rectory had re- 
 fined her appearance, as also her manners and 'ways of 
 speech; and Lettice thought that it would be far plea- 
 santer to keep Milly about her than to go through the 
 agonies of a succession of pert London girls. Yet some- 
 thing in Milly's eagerness to go, as well as the girl's fresh, 
 innocent, country air, troubled her with a vague sense of 
 anxiety. Was not London said to be a place of tempta- 
 tion for inexperienced country girls ? Could she keep 
 Milly safe and innocentif she took her away from Angle- 
 ford ? 
 
 " You would have all the work of the house to do, and 
 to look after Mrs. Campion a little as well," she said seek- 
 mg to put her vague anxiety into the form of a warning or 
 an objection. But Milly only smiled. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 SI 
 
 ^^I'm very strong, Miss Lettice. I am sure I can do all 
 that* you want. And I should like to go to London 
 with you. One hears such fine tales of London — -and I 
 don't want to leave mistress and you." Though this was 
 evidently an afterthought. 
 
 " You will see very little of London, Milly ; I shall live 
 in a very quiet part," said Lettice. " And I shall want you 
 to be very good and steady, and take care of my mother 
 when I am busy. I shall have to work hard now, you 
 know; quite as hard as you." 
 
 Milly looked up quickly ; there was inquiry in her eyes. 
 But she answered only by protestations of good behavior 
 and repeated desires to go with her young mistress ; and 
 Lettice gave her a promise, subject to the consent of Milly's 
 grandmother, who lived at Birchmead, that she would take 
 the girl with her when she went away. 
 
 Old Mrs. Harrington had no objection at all to Milly's 
 going to London. ''Indeed, Miss Lettice," she said, *' I'm 
 only too glad to think of your looking after her, for Milly's 
 not got much sense, I'm afraid, although she's a woman 
 grown." 
 
 " I always thought her unusually clever and sensible," 
 said Lettice, in some surprise. 
 
 " Clever, miss, she always was, but sensible's a different 
 affair. Her head's filled with foolishness, all along of her 
 reading story books, I tell her ; and she's got an idea that 
 her pretty face will bring her a rich husband, and I don't 
 know what beside. I shall be obliged to you, miss, if you'll 
 kindly keep a sharp eye and a tight hand over Milly. Not 
 but what she's a good kind-hearted girl," said the old wo- 
 man, relenting a little, as she saw a rather startled expres- 
 sion on Miss Campion's face, " and I don't tiiink there's 
 any harm in her, but girls are always bef^er for being 
 looked after, that is all." 
 
 " I'll try to take care of Milly," said Lettice, as she rose 
 to go. *' But my care will be of very little use if she does 
 not take care of herself." 
 
 She was fated on the same day to hear a remonstrance 
 from the doctor's wife, Mrs. Budworth, on the subject of 
 her choice of a servant. Mrs. Budworth was a noted 
 busybody, who knew everybody's business belter than the 
 rest of the world. 
 
 ( 
 
 \\i 
 
 \^A 
 
^' 
 
 Sa 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 " Oh, Lettice, dear," she said, " I do hope it's not true 
 that you are going to take that silly girl, Milly Harnng- 
 ton, up to London with you." • , ,, 
 
 " Why not? You cannot know anything against her, 
 said Lettice, who was becoming a little angry. 
 
 " Well, perhaps not— only she is so very pretty, and 
 London is so full of temptations for a pretty girl of that 
 
 class ! " 
 
 " We shall live so quietly that she will have no more 
 temptations there than here, Mrs. Budworth." 
 
 ** You can't tell that, my dear— once you get a girl away 
 from her friends and relations. However, she has only 
 her old grandmother to fall back on, and she seems a well- 
 meaning girl enough, and perhaps she won't be considered 
 so pretty in London as she has the name of being here. I 
 hope she will keep straight, I'm sure ; it would be such a 
 worry to you, Lettice, if anything went wrong." 
 
 " Poor Milly ! " said Lettice to herself, as she walked 
 home in a state of blazing indignation ; " how easily that 
 woman would undermine your reputation — or that of any- 
 body else ! Milly is a dear, good little girl ; and as for 
 her being so pretty — well, it is not her fault, and I don't 
 see why it should be her misfortune ! I will look well 
 after her when we are in London, and it will be for her 
 good, I believe, to stay with us. What an absurd fuss to 
 make about such a trifle ! " 
 
 So she dismissed the matter from her mind, remember- 
 ing it only from time to time when she was making her 
 new household arrangements, and carefully planning to 
 keep Milly out of every possible danger. 
 
 But dangers are oftener from within than from without. 
 While Lettice walked homeward after her talk with Mrs. 
 Budworth, ivlilly Harrington had locked herself into her 
 own room, and was experimenting with her pretty curling 
 hair before the looking-glass. She wanted to see herself 
 with a " fringe " — a thing that was strictly forbidden at 
 the Rectory, and she had brushed the soft little curls that 
 were generally hidden beneath her cap well over her fore- 
 head. Then she stood and gazed at the reflection of the 
 fair locks, the large blue eyes, the graceful neck and 
 shoulders. " I suppose I look pretty," she was saying to 
 herself. " I've been told so often enough. Mr. Sydney 
 thought so when he was here at Christmas, I'm sure of 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 53 
 
 that. This time, of course, he was so taken up with his 
 father's death, and other things, that he never noticed me. 
 But I shall see him again." 
 
 A faint color mantled in her cheeks, and her eyes began 
 to sparkle. 
 
 '* Beauty's a great power, I've heard," she said to her- 
 self, still looking at that fair image in the glass. " There's 
 no knowing what I mayn't do if I meet the right person. 
 And one meets nobody in Angleford. In London — things 
 may be different." 
 
 Different, indeed, but not as poor Milly fancied the 
 difference. 
 
 And then she brushed back her curls, and fastened up 
 her black dress, and tied a clean muslin apron round her 
 trim little figure before going downstairs ; ar^d when she 
 brought in the tea-tray that afternoon, Lettice looked at 
 her with pleasure and admiration, and thought how sweet 
 and good a girl she was, and how she had won the Prayer- 
 Book prize at the Diocesan Inspector's examination, and 
 of the praise that the rector had given her for her well- 
 written papers at the Confirmation Class, and of her own 
 kindly and earnest teaching of all things that were good in 
 Lettice's eyes ; and she decided that Mrs. Harrington and 
 Mrs. Budworth were mere croakers, and that poor Milly 
 would never come to harm. 
 
 \ ,: 
 
 i 
 
 
BOOK II. 
 
 ■^ 
 
 t 
 
 CHANGE. 
 
 " Yet the twin habit of that early time 
 
 Lingered for long about the heart and tongue ; 
 We had been natives of one happy clime, 
 And its dear accent to our utterance clun<y. 
 
 " Till the dire years whose awful name is Change 
 Had grasped our souls, still yearning in divorce, 
 And pitiless shaped them in two forms that range- 
 Two elements which sever their life's course." 
 
 Geojige Eliot. 
 
 
 ! li!'': 
 
i 
 
 « Pool 
 Clara 
 
 <( 
 
 <( 
 
 gone. 
 
 "I 
 
 (( 'p 
 
 << 
 
NAME AND I A ME, 
 
 5; 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 NEW BEGINNINGS. 
 
 " Poor dear Lettice ! how she must have suffered ! " said 
 Clara Graham. 
 
 *' Less than you suppose/' rejoined her husband. 
 
 " Jim, what do you mean ? You are very hard-hearted." 
 
 " No, I'm not ! I'm only practical. Your friend, Miss 
 Campion, has beeai a source of lamentatio and woe to 
 you ever since I made your acquaintance. According to 
 you, she was always being sacrificed to that intolerable 
 prig of a brother of hers. T/ien she was immolated on the 
 altar of her father's money difficulties and her mother's ill- 
 health. Now she has got a fair field, and can live where 
 she likes and exercise her talents as she pleases ; and as I 
 can be as unfeeling as I like in the bosom of my family, I 
 will at once acknowledge that I am very glad the old man's 
 gone." 
 
 " I do hope and trust, Jim " 
 
 " That I am not a born fool, my dear? " 
 
 " — That you won't say these things to Lettice herself." 
 
 " Exactly. That is what I knew you were going to 
 say." 
 
 " If it weren't that I am certain you do not mean half 
 you say " , 
 
 " I mean all that I say : every word of it. But I'll tell 
 you what, Clara : I believe that Lettice Campion is a 
 woman of great talent — possibly even of genius — and that 
 she has never yet been able to give her talents full play. 
 She has the chance now, and I hope she'll use it." 
 
 " Oh, Jim, dear, do you think she is so sure to succeed ? " 
 
 " If she doesn't, it will be pure cussedness on her part, 
 and nothing else," said Jim. 
 
 Clara reflected that she would tell Lettice what her hus- 
 band said. She moved to the window and looked out. 
 She was waiting for her guests, Lettice and Mrs. Campion, 
 
 \ 
 
 I t I 
 
 i'll^S 
 
 a:E; 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 i 
 
 ;r 
 
 in tlie soft dusk of a sweet May evening, and she was a 
 little impatient for their arrival. She had had a comfort- 
 able, nondescript meal, which she called dinner-tea, set 
 ready for them in tlie dining-room, and as this room was 
 near the hall-door, she had installed herself therein, so 
 that she could the more easily watch for "ler visitors. Mr. 
 Graham, a tall, thin man, with coal-black beard, deep-set 
 dark eyes, and marked features, had thrown himself into a 
 great arm-chair, where he sat buried in the current num- 
 ber of a monthly magazine. His wife was universally de- 
 clared to be a very i)retty woman, and she was even more 
 "stylish," as women say, than pretty \ for she had one of 
 those light, graceful figures that give an air of beauty to 
 everything they wear. For the rest, she had well-cut fea- 
 tures, bright dark eyes, and a very winning smile. A 
 brightly impulsive and affectionate nature had especially 
 endeared her to Lelticc, and this had never been soured 
 or darkened by her experiences of the outer world, 
 although, like most people, she had knovn reverses of 
 fortune and was not altogether free from care. But her 
 husband loved her, and her three babies were the most 
 charming children ever seen, and everybody admired the 
 decorations of her bright little house in Edwardes Square ; 
 and what more could the heart of womankind desire ? 
 
 '' I wonder," she said presently, " whether Sydney will 
 come with them. He was to meet them at Liverpool 
 Street; and of course I asked him to come on." 
 
 " I would have gone out if you had told me that before," 
 said Mr. Graham, tersely. 
 
 " Why do you dislike Sydney Campion so much, Jim ? " 
 
 " DisHke ? I admire him. I think he is the coming 
 man. He's one of the most successful persons of my 
 acquaintance. It is just because I feel so small beside him 
 that I can't stand his company." 
 
 '• I must repeat, Jim, that if you talk like that to Let- 
 tice " 
 
 " Oh, Lettice doesn't adore her precious brother," said 
 Graham, irreverently. '* She knows as well as you and I 
 do that he's a selfish sort of brute, in spite of his good 
 looks and his gift of the gab. I say, Clara, when are these 
 folks coming? I'm confoundedly hungry." 
 
 /'Who's the selfish brute now?" asked Clara, with 
 trmmph. " But you won't be kept waiting long : the cab's 
 stoppmg at the door, and Sydney hasn't come." 
 
 ;.<;», 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 59 
 
 » 
 
 She flew to the door, to be the first to meet and greet 
 her visitors. There was not much to be got from Mrs. 
 Campion that evening except tears — this was evident as 
 soon as she entered the huiisc, leaning on Lettice's arm; 
 and the best thing was to i)ut her at once to bed, and delay 
 the evening meal until Leltice was able to leave her. 
 Graham was quite too good-natured lo grumble at a delay 
 for which there was so valid a reason ; lor, as he informed 
 his wife, he preferred Miss Campion's conversation without 
 an accompaniment of groans. He talked lightly, but his 
 grasp of the hand was so warm, his manner so sympathetic, 
 when Lettice at last came down, that Clara felt herself 
 rebuked at having for one moment doubted the real kind- 
 liness of his feeling. 
 
 Lettice in her deep mourning looked painfully white and 
 slender in Clara's eyes ; but she spoke cheerfully of her 
 prospects for the future, as they sat at their evening meal. 
 Sad topics were not broached, and Mr. Graham set himself 
 to give her all the encouragement in his power. 
 
 " And as to where you are to set up your tent," he said, 
 "Clara and I have seen a cottage on Brook Green that we 
 think would suit you admirably." 
 
 " Where is Brook Green ? " asked Lettice, who was 
 almost ignorant of any save the main thoroughfares of 
 London. 
 
 " In the wilds of Hammersmith " 
 
 " West Kensington," put in Clara, rather indignantly. 
 
 ** Well, West Kensington is only Hammersmith writ fine. 
 It is about ten minutes' walk from us >" 
 
 " Oh, I am glad of that," said Lettice. 
 
 " — And it is not, I think, too large or too dear. You 
 must go and look at it to-morrow, if you can." 
 
 " Is there any garden ? " 
 
 " There is a garden, with trees mider which your mother 
 can sit when it it warm. Clara told me you would like 
 that ; and there is a grass-plot — I won't call it a lawn — 
 where you can let your dog and cat disport themselves in 
 safety. I am sure you must have brought a dog or a cat 
 with you. Miss Campion. I never yet knew a young woman 
 from the country who did not bring a pet animal to town 
 with her." 
 
 *' Jim, you are very rude," said his wife. 
 
 " I shall have to plead guilty," Lettice answered, smiling 
 a little. " I have left my fair Persian, Fluff, in the care erf" 
 
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 my maid, Milly, who is to bring her to London as soon as 
 I can get into my new lionic." 
 
 " Fhiff," said Clara, meditatively, " is tiie creature with a 
 tail as big as your arm, and a ruff round her neck, and 
 Milly is the pretty little housemaid ; I remember and ap- 
 prove of them both." 
 
 The subject of the new house served them until they 
 went upstairs into Claia's bright little drawing-room, which 
 Graham used to speak of disresi)c{tfully as his wife's doll's 
 house. It was crowded with i)relly but inexpensive knick- 
 knacks, the profusion of which was rather bewildering to 
 Lettice, with her more simple tastes. Of one thing she 
 was quite sure, that she would not, when she furnished her 
 own rooms, expend much money in droves of delicately- 
 colored china ])igs and elei)hants, which happened to be in 
 fashion at the time. She also doubted the exi)edicncy of 
 tying up two peacocks' feathers with a yellow ribbon, and 
 hanging them in solitary glory on the wall flanked by plates 
 of Kaga ware, at tenijence-half))enny a-piece. Lettice's 
 taste had been formed by her father, and was somewhat 
 masculine in its simplicity^ and she cared only for the finer 
 kinds of art, whether in porcelain or ])ainting. But she 
 was fain to confess that the effect of Clara's decorations 
 was very pretty, and she wondered at the care and pains 
 which had evidently been sjient on the arrangement of 
 Mrs. Graham's " Liberty rags" and Oriental ware. When 
 the soft yellow silk curtains were drawn, and a subdued 
 light fell through the jewelled facets of an Eastern lamp 
 upon the peacock fans and richly-toned Syrian rugs, and 
 all the other hackneyed ornamentation by which *' artistic " 
 taste is supposed to be shown, Lettice could not but 
 acknowledge that the room was charming. But her 
 thoughts flew back instantly to the old study at home, 
 with its solid oak furniture, its cushioned window-seats, its 
 unfashionable curtains of red moreen ; and in the faint 
 sickness of that memory, it seemed to her that she* could be 
 more comfortable at a deal table, with a kitchen ' chair set 
 upon unpolished boards, than in the midst of Clar;^'s pretty 
 novelties. \ 
 
 " You are tired," Mr. Graham said to her, watdhing her 
 keenly as she sat down in the chair that he offei(-ed her, 
 and let her hands sink languidly upon 1 er lap. " \V'e won't 
 let you talk too much. Clara is going tc sec after he(r bairns, 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 6t 
 
 and I'm going to read the Pall Afall, Here's the May 
 ntimber of The Decade : have you seen it ? " 
 
 She took it vvitli a grateful smile ; l)ut she did not intend 
 to read, and Mr. (iraham knew il. He i)eruse(l his paper 
 (hhgently, but he was sufficiently interested in iier to know 
 exactly at wiiat point she ceased to brood and began to 
 glance at the magazine. After a little while, she became 
 absorbed in its i)ages ; and only when she laid it down 
 at last, with a half suppressed sigh, did he openly look up 
 to find that her eyes were full of tear';. 
 
 " I hope that you discovered something to interest you," 
 he said. 
 
 ** I was reading a poem," Lettice answered, rather guilt- 
 ily. 
 
 '• Oh — Alan Walcott's * Sorrow ' ? Very well done, isn't 
 it ? but a trifle morbid, all the same." 
 
 "It is very sad. Is he — has he had much troul)le?" 
 
 " I'm sure I couldn't tell you. Probably not, as he 
 writes about it," said (iraham, grimly. " He's a pessimist 
 and a bit of a dilletanie. If lie would work and believe in 
 himself a little more, I think he might do great things." 
 
 " He is young? " 
 
 " Over thirty. He comes to the house sometimes. I 
 daresay you will meet him before long." 
 
 Lettice said nothing. She was not in a mood to enjay 
 the prospect of making new acquaintances; but 'he poem 
 had touched her, and she felt a slight thrill of interest in 
 its writer. 
 
 " Yes," she said, " I shall be pleased to make his 
 acquaintance — some day." And then the conversation 
 dropped, and Graham understood from her tone that she 
 was not disposed as yet to meet new faces. 
 
 The house on Brook Green proved eminently satisfac- 
 tory. She agreed to take it as soon as possible, and for 
 the next few weeks her mind was occupied with the pur- 
 chase and arrangement of furniture, and the many details 
 which belong to the first start in a new career. Although 
 her tastes differed widely from those of Clara Graham, she 
 found her friend's advice and assistance infinitely valuable 
 to her ; and many were the expeditions taken together to 
 the Kensington shops to supply Lettice's requirements. 
 She had not- Clara's love for shopping, or Clara's eagerness 
 for a bargain ^ but she took pleasure in her visits to the 
 
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 great London store-houses of beautiful things, and made 
 her purchases with care and deliberation. 
 
 So at the end of June she settled down with her mother 
 in the pleasant cottage which was thenceforth to be their 
 home. In addition to the new plenishing, there were in 
 the bouse a few favorite pieces of furniture which had been 
 saved from the wreck at Angleford ; and Sydney — perhaps 
 as a sign that he recognized some redeeming features in 
 her desire to be independent — had made one room look 
 quite imposing with an old-fashioned bookcase, and a 
 library table and chair. There was a well-established 
 garden behind the house, with tall box and bay-trees of 
 more than a generation's growth, and plenty of those old 
 English border plants without which a garden is scarcely 
 worthy of its name. On the wliole, Lettice felt that she 
 had not made a bad selection out of the million or so of 
 human habitations which overflow the province of London ; 
 and even Mrs. Campion would occasionally end her lamen- 
 tations over the past by admitting that Maple Cottage was 
 " not a workhouse, my dear, where I might have expected 
 to finish my life." 
 
 The widow had a fixed idea about the troubles which 
 had fallen upon her. She would talk now and then of the 
 " shameful robberies " which had broken !,er husband's 
 heart, and declare that sooner or later the miscreants would 
 be discovered, and restitution would be made, and they 
 would " all end their days in peace." As for Sydney, he 
 was still her hero of heroes, who had come to their rescue 
 when their natural protector was done to death, and whose 
 elevation to the woolsack might be expected at any mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Lettice's friends, the Grahnms, had naturally left her 
 a'.most undisturbed during her visit to them, so tar as 
 invited guests were concerned. Nevertheless, she casually 
 met several of Mr. Graham's literary acquaintances, and 
 he took care to introduce her to one or two editors and 
 publishers whom he thought likely to be useful to her. 
 James Graham had pleniy of tact;' he knew just what to 
 say about Miss Cami)ion, without saying too much, and he 
 contrived to leave an impression in "the minds of those to 
 whom he spoke that it might be rather difiicult to make 
 this young woman sit down r.nd write, but decidedly worth 
 their while to do it if they could. 
 
NAME AND TAME, 
 
 *3 
 
 " Now I have thrown in the seeds," Graham said to her 
 before she left Edwaides Square, ** and by the time you 
 want to see them the blades will be springing up. From 
 what you have told me I should say that you have quite 
 enough to do in the next three months. There is that 
 article for me, and the translation of Feuerbach, and the 
 Ouf stories." 
 
 'I'his reminiscence of Sydney's criticism made Lettice 
 laugh — she was beginning to laugh again — and Graham's 
 forecast of her future as a woman of letters put her into a 
 cheerful and hopeful mood. 
 
 The summer passed away, and the autumn, and when 
 Lettice lighted her first study fire, one cold day at the end 
 of October, she could look forward to the coming winter 
 without misgiving. In four months she had done fifty 
 pounds' worth of work, and she had commissions which 
 would keep her busy for six months more, and would yield 
 at least twice as much money. Mr. Graham's seeds were 
 beginning to send up their blades ; and, in short, Lettice 
 was in a very fair way of earning not only a living, but also 
 a good literary repute. 
 
 One call, indeed, was made upon her resources in a 
 very unexpected manner. She had put by four five-pound 
 notes of clear saving — it is at such moments that our un- 
 expected liabilities are wont to find us out — and she was 
 just congratulating herself on that first achievement in the 
 art of domestic thrift when her maid Milly knocked at her 
 door, and announced a visitor. 
 
 " Please^ miss, here is Mrs. Bundlecombe of Thor- 
 ley ! " 
 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe was a bookseller in her own right, in 
 a village some three miles from Angleford. Her husband 
 had died four years before Mr. Campion, and his widow 
 made an effort to carry on the business. The rector in his 
 palmy days had had many dealings with Mr. Bundlecombe, 
 who was of some note in the world as a collector of 
 second-hand books ; but, as Lettice had no reason to 
 th'nk that he had bought anything of Mrs. Bimdlecombe 
 personally, she could not imagine what the object of this 
 visit might be. 
 
 " Did she say what her business was, Milly ? " 
 
 " No, miss. Only she said she had heard you were 
 living here, and she would Hke to see you, please." 
 
 
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 Milly's relations had lived in Thorley. Thus she knew 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe by sight, and, being somewhat inquisi- 
 tive by nature, she had already tried to draw the visitor 
 into conversation, but without success. 
 
 " Show her in," said Lettice, after a moment's pause. 
 It was pleasant, after all, to meet a " kent face " in London 
 solitudes, and she felt quite kindly towards Mrs. Bundle- 
 combe, whom she had sometimes seen over the counter in 
 her shop at Thorley. So she received her with gentle 
 cordiality. 
 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe showed symptoms of embarrassment 
 at the quiet friendliness of Lettice's manners. She was 
 not a person of aristocratic appearance, for she was short 
 and very stout, and florid into the bargain ; but her broad 
 face was both shrewd and kindly, and her grey eyes were 
 observant a nd good-humored. Her grey hair was arrangi. d 
 in three flat curls, fastened with small black combs on cacli 
 side of her face, which was rosy and wrinkled like a russet 
 apple, and her full purple skirt, her big bonnet, adorned 
 with bows of scarlet ribbon, and her much be-furbelowed 
 and be-spangled dolman, attested the fact that she had 
 donned her best clothes for the occasion of her visit, and 
 that Thorley fashions differed from those of the metropolis. 
 She wore gloves with one button, moreover, and boots with 
 elastic sides. 
 
 Mis. Bundlecombe seemed to have some difficulty in 
 coming to the point. She told Lettice much Angleford 
 news, including a piece of information that interested her 
 a good deal : namely, that the old squire, after many years 
 of suffering, was dead, and that his nephew, Mr. Brooke 
 Dallon, had at last succeeded to the property. " He's not 
 there very much, however : he leaves the house pretty 
 much to his sister. Miss Edith Dalton ; but it's to be 
 hoped that he'll maiTy soon and bring a lady to the 
 place." 
 
 Lettice wondered again why Mrs. Bundlecombe had 
 called upon her. There seemed very little point in her 
 remarks. But the good woman had a very sufficient reason 
 for her call. She was a practical-minded person, and she 
 war. moreover a literary woman in her way, as behoved the 
 widow of a bookseller who had herself taken to selling 
 books. It is true that her acquaintance with the works of 
 British authors did not extend far bevond their titles, but 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 65 
 
 it was to her credit that she contrived to make so much as 
 she did out of her materials. She might have known as 
 many insidcs of books as she knew outsides, and have put 
 ihem to less practical service. 
 
 ^' Well, she said, after a quarter of an hour's incessant 
 talk, " you will be wondering what brought me here, and 
 10 be sure, miss, I hardly like to say it now I've come ; but, 
 as I argued with myself, the rights of man are the rights of 
 man, and to do your best by them who depend on you is 
 the 'vhole duty of man, which applies, I take it, to woman 
 also. And when my poor dear husband died, I thought 
 the path of duty was marked out for me, and I went 
 through my daily exercises, so to speak, just as he had done 
 for forty years. But times were bad, and I could make 
 nothing of it. He had ways of selling books that I could 
 ncv^er understand, and I soon saw that the decline and fall 
 was setting in. So I have sold the business for what it 
 would fetch, and paid all that was owing, and I can assure 
 you that there is very little left. I have a nephew in Lon- 
 don who is something in the writing way himself. He 
 used to live with us at Thorley, and he is a dear dutiful 
 boy, but he has had great troubles ; so I am going to keep 
 his rooms for him, and take care of his linen, and look 
 after things a bit. I came up to-day to talk to him about 
 it. 
 
 *' Well, Miss Campion, the long and short of it is that 
 as I was looking over my husband's state documents, so to 
 speak, which he had kept in a private drawer, and wliich 
 I had never found until I was packing up to go, I found a 
 paper signed by your respected father, less than three 
 months before my good man went to his saint's everlasting 
 rest. You see, miss, it is an undertaking to pay Samuel 
 Bundlecombe the sum of twenty pounds in six months 
 from date, for value received, but owing to my husband 
 dying that s'ldden, and not telling me of his private drawer, 
 this paper was never presented." 
 
 Lettice took the paper and read it, feeling rather sick at 
 heart, for two or three reasons. If her father had made 
 this promise she felt sure that he would either have kept 
 it or have put down the twenty pounds in his list of debts. 
 The list, indeed, which had been handed to Sydney was in 
 her own writing, and certainly the name of Bundlecombe 
 was not included in it. Was the omission her fault ? If 
 
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 dWAME AND FAME, 
 
 the money had never been paid, that was wliat slie would 
 prefer to beHeve. 
 
 " 1 thought, miss," her visitor continued, " tlir.t there 
 might be some mention of this in Mr. Campion's papers, 
 and, having heard that all the accounts were properly 
 settled, I made bold to bring it to your notice. It is a 
 kind of social contract, you sec, and a solemn league and 
 covenant, as between man and man, which I am sure you 
 would like to settle if the means exist. Not but what it 
 seems a shame to come to a lady on such an errand ; and 
 I may tell you miss, fair and candid, that I have been to 
 Mr. Sydney Campion in the Temple, who does not admit 
 that he is liable. That may be law, or it may not, but I 
 do consider that this signature ought to be worth the 
 money." 
 
 Lettice took the paper again. There could be no doubt 
 as to its genuineness, and the fact that Sydney had denied 
 his liability influenced her in some subtle manner to do 
 what she had already half resolved to do without that 
 additional argument. 
 
 She looked at the box in which she had put her twenty 
 pounds, and she looked at her father's signature. Then she 
 opened the box and took out the notes. 
 
 ''You did quite right in coming, Mrs. Bundlecombe. 
 This is certainly my father's handwriting, and I suppose 
 that if the debt had been settled the paper would not 
 have remained in your husband's possession. Here is the 
 money." 
 
 The old woman could scarcely believe her eyes ; but 
 she pocketed the notes with great satisfaction, and began 
 to express her admiration for such honorable conduct in a 
 very voluble manner. Lettice cut her short and got rid 
 of her, and then, if the truth must be confessed, rhe sat 
 down and had a comfortable cry over the speedy d/.si^ rpation 
 of her savings. 
 
^AMM, AND FAME. 
 
 f 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MRS. HARTLEY AT HOME. 
 
 After her first Christmas in London, Lettice began to 
 accept invitations to the houses of her acqua'.ntance. 
 
 She dined several times at the Grahams', where there 
 were never more than eight at table, and, being a bright 
 talker and an appreciative listener — two qualities which 
 do not often go together — she was always an impressive 
 personality without exactly knowing it. Clara was ac- 
 customed to be outshone by her in conversation, and 
 had become used to it, but some of the women whom 
 Lettice was invited to meet looked at her rather hard, as 
 though they would have liked to draw her serious attention 
 to the fact that they were better looking, or better dressed, 
 or older or younger than herself, as the case might be, and 
 that it was consequently a Httle improper in her to be talked 
 to so much by the men. 
 
 Undoubtedly Lettice got on well with men, and was 
 more at her ease with inem than with her own sex. It was 
 not the effect of forwardness on her part, and indeed she 
 was scarcely conscious of the fact. She conversed readily, 
 because her mind was full of reading and of thought, and 
 her moral courage was never at a loss. The keenness of 
 her perception led her to understand and respond to the 
 opinions of the cleverest men whom she met, and it was 
 not unnatural that they should be flattered. 
 
 It does not take long for a man or woman to earn a 
 reputation in the literary circles of London, provided he 
 or she has real ability, and is well introduced. The ability 
 win not, as a rule, suffice without the introductions, though 
 introductions have been known to create a reputation, 
 lasting at any rate for a few months, without any real 
 ability. Lettice advanced rapidly in the estimation of 
 those whose good opinion was worth having. She soon 
 began to discriminate between the people who were worth 
 
 ■ ! 
 
l^AME AND FAME. 
 
 \a% 
 
 M 
 
 cultivating and the people who were not. If a person 
 were sincere and straightforward, could say what he 
 meant and say it with point and vivacity, or if he pos- 
 sessed for her those vaguely attractive and stimulating 
 qualities which draw people together without their exactly 
 knowing why (probably through some correlation of tem- 
 perament), Lettice would feel this person was good to 
 know, whether the world approved her choice of friends 
 or not. And when she wanted co know man or woman, 
 she exerted herself to please — mainly by showing that she 
 herself was pleased. She did not exactly flatter — she was 
 never insincere — but it amounted to much the same thing 
 as flattery. She listened eagerly ; her interest was mani- 
 fested in her face, her attitude, her answers. In fact she 
 was her absolute self, without reserve and without fence. 
 No wonder that she incurred the jealousy of half the women 
 in her set. 
 
 But this is how an intellectual woman can best please a 
 man who has passed the childish age, when he only cared 
 for human dolls and dolls' houses. She must carry her 
 intellect about with her, like a brave costume — dressing, 
 of course, with taste and harmony — she must not be slow 
 to admire the intellectual costume of others, if she wants 
 her own to be admired ; she must be subtle enough at the 
 same time to forget that she is dressed at all, and yet 
 never for a moment forget that her companion may have 
 no soul or heart except in his dress. If he has, it is for 
 him to prove it, not for her to assume it. 
 
 It was because Lettice had this art of intellectual inter- 
 course, and because she exercised it in a perfectly natural 
 and artless manner, that she chaimed so many of those 
 who made her acquaintance, and that they rarely paused 
 to consider whether she was prettier or plainer, taller or 
 shorter, more or less prepossessing, than the women who 
 surrounded her. 
 
 In due time she found herself welcomed at the houses 
 of those dear and estimable ladies, who — generally old 
 and childless themselves— love to gather round them the 
 young and clever acolytes of literature and art, the enthusi- 
 astic devotees of science, the generous apprentices of 
 constructive politics, for politicians who do not dabble in 
 the reformation of society find other and more congenial 
 haunts. This many-minded crowd of acolytes, and devo- 
 
NAME AND SAME, 
 
 tees, and apprentices, owe much to the hospitable women 
 who bring them together in a sort of indulgent dame'j 
 school, where their angles are rubbed down, and whence 
 they merge, perhaps, as Arthur Hallam said, the pictu- 
 resque of man and man, but certainly also more fitted for 
 their work in the social mill than if they had never known 
 that kindly feminine influence. 
 
 Lcttice became especially fond of one of these minor 
 queens of literary society, who received her friends on 
 Sunday afternoon, and whose drawing-room was frequently 
 attended by a dozen or a score of well-reputed men and 
 women. Mrs. Hartley was an excellent hostess. She was 
 not only careful, to begin with, about her own acquaintance, 
 cultivating none but those whom she had heard well 
 spoken of by competent judges, but she knew how to make 
 a second choice amongst the chosen, bringing kindred 
 spirits together with a happy, instinctive sense of their 
 mutual suitabilities. In spite of her many amiable and 
 agreeable qualities, however, it took Lcttice a little time to 
 believe that she should ever make a friend of Mrs. Hartley, 
 whose habit of assorting and labeUing he- acquaintances 
 in groups struck her at first as artificial and conventional. 
 Lettice objected, for her own part, ^o be classified. 
 
 She had been entreated so often Ly Clara to go to one 
 of Mrs. Hartley's afternoons that it was with some com- 
 punction of heart that she prepared at last to fulfil her 
 long-delayed promise. She walked from Brook Green to 
 Edwarde^ Square, about three o'clock one bright Sunday 
 afternoon, in February, and found Clara waiting for her. 
 Clara was looking very trim and smart in a new gown of 
 inexpensive material, but the latest, and she surveyed 
 Lettice in a comprehensive manner from top to toe, as if 
 to ascertain whether a proper value had been attached to 
 Mrs. Hartley's invitation. 
 
 " You look very nice," was her verdict. " I am so glad 
 that you have relieved your black at last, Lettice. There 
 is no reason why you should not wear a little white or 
 lavender." 
 
 And indeed this mitigation of her mourning weeds was 
 becoming to Lettice, whose delicate bloom showed fresh 
 and fair against the black and white of her new costume. 
 She had pinned a little bunch of sweet violets into her 
 jacket, and they harmonized excellently well with the 
 
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 NAME AND FA MB. 
 
 grave tranquillity of her face and the soberness of her 
 
 dress. 
 
 " I don't know why it is, but you remind me of a nun," 
 Clara said, glancing at her in some perplexity. " The 
 effect is quite charming, but it is nun-like too " 
 
 " I am sure I don't know why ; I never felt more worldly 
 in my life," said Lattice, laughing. " Am I not fit for Mrs. 
 Hartley's drawing-room ? " 
 
 ''Fit? You are lovely; but not quite like anybody 
 else. That is the best of it ; Mrs. Hartley will rave of you," 
 i-aid Clara, as they set forth. And the words jarred a little 
 c.i ' ettice's sensitive mind; she thought that she should 
 object to be raved about. 
 
 They took an omnibus to Kensington High Street, and 
 then they made their way to Campden Hill, where Mrs. 
 Hartley's house was situated. And as they went, Clara 
 took the opportunity of explaining Mrs. Hartley's position 
 and claims to distinction. Mrs. Hartley was a widow, 
 childless, rich, perfectly independent : she was very critical 
 and very clever (said Mrs. Graham), but, oh, so kind- 
 hearted ! And she was sure that Lettice would like her. 
 
 Lettice meekly hoped that she should, although she had 
 a guilty sense of wayward dislike to the woman in whose 
 house, it appeared, she was to be exhibited. For some 
 words of Graham's lingered in her mind. " Mrs. Hartley ? 
 The lion-hunter? Oh ! so yoti^x^ to be on view this after- 
 noon, I understand." Accordingly, it was with no very 
 pleasant anticipation that Lettice entered the lion-hunter's 
 house on Campden Hill. 
 
 A stout, little grey-haired lady in black, with a very ob- 
 servant eye, came forward to greet the visitors. *' This is 
 Miss Campion, I feel sure," she said, putting out a podgy 
 hand, laden with diamond rings. " Dear Mrs. Graham, 
 how kind of you to bring her. Come and sit by me. Miss 
 Campion, and tell me all about yourself. I want to know 
 how you first came to think of literature as a profession ? " 
 
 This was not the way in which people talked at Angleford. 
 Lettice felt posed for a moment, and then a sense of humor 
 came happily to her relief. 
 
 " I drifted into it, I am afraid," she answered, com- 
 posedly. 
 
 " Drifted ? No, I am sure you would never drift. You 
 don't know how interested I am, Miss Campion, in the 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 »• 
 
 development of the human mind, or you would not try to 
 evade the question. Now, which interests you most, poetry 
 or prose ? " 
 
 " That depends upon my mood ; I am not sure that I am 
 permanently interested in either," Lettice said, qui'ly. 
 
 Her hostess' observant eye was upon her for a ^u ».nent ; 
 tiien Mrs. Hartley's face expanded in a benignant mile. 
 
 " Ah, I see you are very clever," she said. " I ask the 
 question — not from idle curiosity, because I have repre- 
 sentatives of both in the room at the present moment. 
 There is a poet, whom I mean to introduce you to by and 
 by, if you will allow me ; and there is the very embodiment 
 of prose close beside you, although I don't believe that he 
 writes any, and, like M. Jourdain, talks it without knowing 
 that it is prose." 
 
 Lettice glanced involunta' ily v< die man beside her, and 
 glanced again. Where har .''le .-en his face before? He 
 was a rather stout, blonde ..i.a)., with an honest open coun- 
 tenance that she liked, alihoi ^^h it expressed goodnature 
 rather than inteHectual fc e. 
 
 " Don't you remember xiiia ? " said Mrs. Hartley, in her 
 ear. " He's a cousin of mine : Brooke Dalton, whose 
 uncle used to live at Angleford. He has been wanting to 
 meet you very much ; he remembers you quite well, he 
 tells me." 
 
 The color rose in Lettice's face. "She was feminine 
 enough to feel that a connecting link between Mrs. Hart- 
 ley and her dear old home changed her views of her hostess 
 at once. She looked up and smiled. " I remember Mr. 
 Dalton too," she said. 
 
 " What a sweet face ! " Mrs. Hartley said to herself. 
 " Now if Brooke would only take it into his head to settle 
 
 down '* 
 
 And aloud sne added : " Brooke, come and be introduced 
 to Miss Campion. You used to know her at Angleford." 
 
 •' It seems a long time since I saw you," Mr. Dalton 
 said, rather clumsily, as he took Lettice's hand into a very 
 cordial clasp. " It was that day in December when your 
 brother had just got his scholarship at Trinity." 
 
 "" Oh, yes ; that day 1 I remember it very well," said 
 Lettice, drawing a long breath, which was not exactly a 
 sigh, although it sounded like one. *' I gave up being a 
 child on that day, I believe ! " 
 
 w 
 
 
 
 
yt NAME AND FAME, 
 
 "There have been many changes since then." Brooke 
 Dalton was not brilliant in conversation. 
 
 "You have heard of them all, 1 suppose? Yes, my 
 mother and I are in London now." 
 
 *'You will allow me to call, I hope?" 
 
 Lettice had but time to signify her consent, when Mrs. 
 Hartley seized on her again, but this time Lettice did not 
 so much object to be cross-examined. She recognized the 
 fact that Mrs. Hartley's aim was kindly, and she submitted 
 to be asked questions about her work and her prospects, 
 and to answer them with a frankness that amazed herself. 
 
 But in the very midst of the conversation she was con- 
 scious of being much observed by two or three people in 
 the room ; notably by Brooke Dalton, who had j^lanted 
 himself in a position from which he could look at her with- 
 out attracting the other visitors' remark; and also by a- 
 tall man with a dark, melancholy face, deep-set eyes, and 
 a peaked Vandyke beard, whose glances were more furtive 
 than those of Dalton, but equally interested and intent. 
 He was a handsome man, and Lettice found herself won- 
 dering whether he were not '^ somebody," and somebody 
 worth talking to, moreover ; for he was receiving, in a 
 languid, half-indifferent manner, a great deal of homage 
 from the women in the room. He seemed bored by it, and 
 was turning away in relief from a lady who had just quoted 
 half-a-dozen lines of Shelley for his especial behoof, when 
 Mrs. Hartley, who had been discussing Feuerbach and the 
 German materialists with Lettice, caught his eye, and 
 beckoned him to her side. 
 
 " Mr. Walcott," she said, " I never heard that you were 
 a materialist, and I don't think it is very likely ; so you 
 can condole with Miss Campion on having been condemned 
 to translate five hundred pages of Feuerbach. Now, isn't 
 that terrible?" 
 
 " I don't know Feuerbach," said the poet, after he had 
 bowed to Lettice, *' but it sounds warm and comfortable 
 on a wintry day. Nevertheless, I do condole with her." 
 
 " I am not sure that I need condolence," said Lettice. 
 " The work was really very interesting, and one likes to 
 know what any philosopher has to say for himself, whether 
 one believes in his theories or not. I must say I have 
 enjoyed reading Feuerbach, — though he is a German with a 
 translatable name." 
 
NAME AND I- A ME. 
 
 73 
 
 This was a flippant speech, as Leltice acknowledsrcd to 
 hcrs<.'lf; but, then, Mr. Walcott's speech had been flippant 
 to begin with, and slie wanted to give as good as she got. 
 
 *' Vou read German, then?" said Walcolt, sitting down 
 in the cluiir that Mrs. Ilarllcy had vacated, and looking at 
 Leltice with interest, altli )ugh he did not abandon the 
 slight affectation of tone and manner that she liad noted 
 from the beginning of her talk with him. " How nice that 
 must be ! 1 often wish I knew something more than my 
 schoolboy's smattering of Greek, Latin, and French." 
 
 Lattice had read Mr. Walcott's last volume cf" poems, 
 which were just then exciting considerable interest in the 
 literary world, and she could not help recalling one or two 
 lyrics and sonnets from Uhland, Filicaja, and other Conti- 
 nentals. As though divining her thoughts, Walcott went 
 on quickly, with much more sincerity of tone : 
 
 " I do try now and then to put an idea that strikes me 
 from German or Italian into English ; but think of my 
 l)ainful groping with a dictionary, before the crami)ed and 
 crippled idea can reach my mind ! I am the translator 
 most in need of condolence. Miss Campion ! " 
 
 " Yet, even without going to other languages," said 
 Lettice. " there is an unlimited field in our own, both for 
 ideas and for expression — as well as a practically unlimited 
 audience." 
 
 " The artists and musicians say that their domains are 
 absolutely unlimited — that the poet sings to those who 
 happen to speak his language, whilst they discourse to the 
 whole world and to all time. I suppose, in a sense, they 
 are right." 
 
 He spoke listlessly, as if he did not care whether they 
 were right or wrong. 
 
 Bui Lettice's eyes began to glow. 
 
 ^' Surely in a narrow ':ense ! They would hardly say 
 that Handel or Beethoven speaks to a wider audience than 
 Homer or Shakspeare, and certainly no musician or painter 
 or sculptor can hope to delight mankind for as many cen- 
 turies as a poet. And, then, to think what an idea can 
 accomplish — what Greek ideas have done in England, for 
 instance, or Roman ideas in France, or French ideas in 
 nearly every country of Euro])e I Could a tune make a re- 
 volution, or a picture destroy a religion? " 
 
 " Perhaps, yes," said Walcott, wishing to draw her out, 
 "if the tunes or the pictures could be repeated often 
 
 li' 
 
 
 I 
 
I 
 
 
 H 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 enough, and biouglu before tlie eyes and ears of the mul- 
 titude." 
 
 " 1 do not think so. And, at any rate, that could not be 
 done by way of systematic and coinprclicnsive teaching, so 
 that your compiirison only sui^'gesis anoilicr sui)criority In 
 literary expression. A pod can teach a whole art, or estab- 
 lisli a definite creed ; lie can move the heart and mould 
 the mind at the same lime; but one can hardly imagine 
 such an effjct from the work of those who speak to us only 
 through the eye or ear." 
 
 By this time Alan U'alcott was fiiirly interested. What 
 Lattice said might be commonplace enough, but it did 
 not strike him so. It was her manner that pleased 
 him, her quiet fervor and gentle insistance, which 
 showed that she was accustomed to think for her- 
 self, and suggested that she would have the honesty to say 
 what she thought. And, of course, he api)lied to himself 
 all that she said about poets in general, and was delighted 
 by her warm championship of his special vocation. As 
 they went or. talking for another quarter of an hour he 
 recognized, without framing the admission in words, that 
 Miss Campion was an exceedingly well-read person, and 
 that she knew many authors — even poets — with whom he 
 had the slightest acquaintance. Most of the i)eople whom he 
 met talked idle nonsense to him, as though their main ob- 
 ject was to pass the time, or else they aired a superficial 
 knowledge of the uppermost thoughts and theories of the 
 day, gleaned as a rule from the cheap primers and maga- 
 zine articles in which a bustled age is content to study its 
 science, art, economy, politics, and religion. But here 
 was a woman who had been a voracious reader, who had 
 gone to the fountain-head for her facts, and who yet spoke 
 with the air of one who wanted io learn, rather than to 
 display. 
 
 "We have had a very pleasant talk," he said to her at 
 last. " I mean that I have found it veiy pleasant. I am 
 going now to dine at my club, and shall spend my evening 
 over a monologue which has suggested itself since I en- 
 tered this room. As you know the Grahams I may hope 
 to meet you again, there if not here. A talk with you. 
 Miss Campion, is what the critics in \\\^ Acropolis might 
 call very suggestive ! " 
 
 Again Lettice thought the manner and the speech 
 affected, but there was an air of sincerity about the man 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 75 
 
 which seemed to be fi;;!(tiiig down the affectation. Sho 
 luirdiy kiuw whether she Hked liim or not, but slie knew 
 that lie hud interested lur and niado her talk — lor which 
 two thiiit^s slie hair forgave liiiiiihc affectation, 
 
 '• I knew you two would geL on together," said Mrs. 
 Hartley, who came up ;ii the moment and dropj)ed into 
 Alan Walcoti's chair. "• i am nut easily deceived in my 
 friends, and 1 was sure you would have plenty to say to 
 each other, i have l)een watching you, and I declare it 
 was quite a case of conversation at first sight. Now, mind 
 you come to me often, Miss Campion. 1 feel that I shall 
 like you." 
 
 And the fatgood-i'atured little woman nodded her grey 
 head t emphasize the compliment. 
 
 " It is kind of you to say that," said Lettice, warmly. 
 " I will certainly take you at your word." 
 
 "My dear," said Mrs. Hartley, when Alan Walcott had 
 left them, '* he is a very nice and clever man — but, oh, so 
 jnelancholy ! He makes me feel quite unhappy. I never 
 saw him so animated as he was just now, and it must be 
 thoroughly good for him to be drawn out in that way." 
 
 " I suppose it is the natural mood of poets," Lettice 
 answered with a smile. " It is an old joke against them." 
 
 "Ah, but I think the race is changing its characteristics 
 in these days, and going in for cheerfulness and comfort. 
 There is Mr. Pemberton, for instance — how aggravatingly 
 prosperous he looks ! Do you see how he beams with 
 good nature on all the world ? I should say that he is a 
 jovial man — and yet, you know, he has been down there, 
 as they taid of Dante." 
 
 " Perhaps it goes by opposites. What I have read of 
 Mr. Walcott's poetry is rather light than sad — except one 
 or two pieces in The Decade'' 
 
 " Poor man ! I think there is another cause for his 
 melancholy. He lost his wife two or three years ago, and 
 I have been told that she was a charming creature, and 
 that her death upset him terribly. He has only just begun 
 to go about again." 
 
 * How very unfortunate ! " said Lettice. *' And that 
 makes it still more strange that his poems should be so 
 slightly tinged with melancho'y. He mubt live quite a 
 double life. Most men would give eA:pres?3ion to their per- 
 sonal griefs, and publish theni for everybody to read ; but 
 he keeps them sacred. That is much more interesting." 
 
! 
 
 I" 
 
 76 
 
 J\^AME AND FAME. 
 
 " I should think it is more difficult. It seems natural 
 that a poet, being in grief, should write the poetry of grief." 
 
 « Yes — no doubt it is more difficult." 
 
 And Lettice, on her way home and afterwards, found 
 herself pondering on the problem of a man who, recently 
 robbed of a well-beloved wife, wrote a thousand verses with- 
 out a single reference to her. 
 
 She took down his " Measures and Monologues," and 
 read it through, to see what he had to say about women. 
 
 There were a few cynical verses from Heine, and three 
 bitter stanzas on the text from Balzac : — " Vous nous pro- 
 metliez le bonheur, et finissiez par nous jeter dans une 
 precipice ; " but not one tender word applied to a woman 
 throughout the book. It was certainly strange ; and Let- 
 tice felt that her curiosity was natural and legitimate. 
 
 Alan Walcott, in fact, became quite an. interesting study. 
 During the next few months Lettice had many opportuni- 
 ties of arriving at a better knowledge of his character, and 
 she amused herself by quietly pushing her inquiries into 
 wnat was for her a comparatively new field of speculation. 
 The outcome of the res, :.fch was not very profitable. The 
 more she saw of him the more he puzzled her. Qualities 
 which appeared one day seemed to be entirely wanting 
 when they next met. In some subtle manner she was 
 aware tha*" even his feelings and inclinations constantly 
 varied ; at one ti .e he did not conceal his craving for 
 sympathy, at another he was frigid and almost repellent. 
 Lettice still did not know whether she liked or disliked 
 him. But she was now piqued as well as interested, and 
 so it happened that Mr. Walcott began to occupy more of 
 her thoughts than she was altogether willing to devote to 
 him. 
 
 So far, all their meetings were in public. They had 
 never exchanged a word that the world might not hear. 
 They saw each other at the Grahams' dinner-parties at 
 Mrs. Hardey's Sunday afternoon ''at homes," and at one 
 or two other houses. To meet a dozen times in a London 
 season constitutes intimacy. Although they talked chiefly 
 of books, sometimes oi men and women, and never of 
 themselves, Lettice began to feel that a confidential tone 
 was creeping into their intercourse — that she criticized his 
 poems with extraordinary freedom, and argued her opinions 
 with him in a way that would certainly have staggered her 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 77 
 
 brother Sydnev if he had heard her. But in all this 
 friendly talk, ihe personal note had never once been struck. 
 He told iier nothing of his inner self, of his past life, or his 
 dreams for the future. All that they said might have been 
 said to each other on their first meeting in Mrs. Hartley's 
 drawing-room. It seemed as if some vague impalpable 
 barrier had been erected between them, and Lettice puzzled 
 herself from time to time to know how this barrier had 
 l)een set up. 
 
 Sometimes — she did not know why — she was disposed 
 to associate it with the presence of Brooke Dalton. That 
 gentleman continued to display his usual lack of brilliance 
 in conversation, together with much good-heartedness, 
 soundness of judgment, and thouglufulness for others ; and 
 in spite of his slowness of speech Lettice liked him very 
 much. But why would he persist in establishing himself 
 witiiin earshot when Alan was talking to her? If they 
 absolutely eluded him, he betrayed uneasiness, like that 
 of a faithful dog who sees his beloved mistress in some 
 danger. He did not often interrupt the conversation 
 He sat silent for the most part, unconsciously throwing a 
 wet blanket over both speakers, and sometimes sending 
 Walcott away in a state of almost irrepressible irritation. 
 And yet he seemed to be on good terms with Alan. They 
 spoke to each other as men who had been acquaintances, 
 if not friends, for a good number of years ; and he never 
 made an allusion to Alan, in his absence, which could in 
 the least be deemed disparaging. And yet Lettice felt 
 that she was watched, and that there was some mysterious 
 anxiety in Dalton's mind. 
 
 Having no companions (for Clara was too busy with her 
 house and her cliildren to be considered a companion for 
 the cla3'-time), Lettice sometimes went for solitary expe- 
 ditions to various " sights " of London, and, as usual in 
 such ex[)cdiiions, had never once met anybody she knew. 
 She had gone rather early one summer morning to West- 
 minster Abbey, and was walking slowly through the 
 ^vcci cloistered shades, enjoying the coolness and the quiet- 
 ness, when she came full upon Alan Walcott, who seemed 
 lo be doing likewise. 
 
 They both started : indeed, they both changed color. 
 For the first time they mt t outside a drawing-room; and 
 the ciiange in their environment seemed to warrant some 
 
 .r, 
 
 _ii,j 
 
78 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 I 
 
 change in their relation to one another. After the first 
 greeting, and a short significant jtause — for what can be 
 moie significant than silence between two i)eople who have 
 reached that stage of sensitiveness to each other's moods 
 when every word or movement seems like self-revelation? 
 — Alan si)oke. 
 
 " You love this place — as I do ; I know you love it." 
 
 '' I have never been here before," said Lettice, letting 
 her eyes stray dreamily over the grey stones at her feet. 
 
 •' No, or I should have seen you. 1 am often here. And 
 I see you so seldom " 
 
 "So seldom?" said Lettice in some natural surprise. 
 "Why, I thought we met rather often?" 
 
 " Under the world's eye," said Alan, but in so low a 
 voice that she was not sure whether lie meant her to hear 
 or not. However, they both smiled;, and he went on 
 rather hurriedly, '"It is the place of all others where I 
 should expect to meet you. We think so much alike " 
 
 "Do we?" said Lettice doubtfully. "But we differ 
 very much." 
 
 " Not in essentials. Don't say that you think so," he 
 said, in a tone that was almost passionately earnest. '* I 
 can't tell you how much it is to me to feel that I have a 
 friend who understands — who sympathizes — who would 
 sympatliize, I am sure, if she knew all " 
 
 He broke off suddenly, and the emotion in his voice so 
 far touched Lettice that she remained silent, with droop- 
 ing head and lowered eyes. 
 
 *' Yes," he went on, " you owe me your sympathy now. 
 You have given me so much that you must give me more. 
 I have a right to it." 
 
 " Mr. Walcott ! " said Lettice, raising her head quickly, 
 " you can have no ri^iit " 
 
 " No right to symi)athy from a friend ? Well, perhaps 
 not," he answered ])itterly. "I thought that, although 
 you were a woman, you could allow me the claim I make. 
 It is small enough, G(jd knows ! Miss Campion, forgive 
 me for speaking so roughly. I ask most earnestly for your 
 friendship and your sympathy; will you not give me 
 these ? " 
 
 Lettice moved onward towards the door. " Do you 
 think that we ought to discuss our personal concerns in 
 such a place as this?" she asked, evading the question in 
 a thoroughly feminine manner. 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 n 
 
 " VVh> not ? But if not here, then in another place. 
 By the bye" — with a sudden change of manner, as they 
 stepped into the Hght of day — " 1 have a rare book that I 
 want to show you. Will you let me brmg it to your house 
 to-morrow morning? I think that you will be interested. 
 May I bring it ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Lettice mechanically. The change from 
 fierce earnestness to this subdued conventionality of tone 
 bewildered her a little. 
 
 "I will come at twelve, if that hour will suit you? " 
 
 " It will suit me very wiU." 
 
 And then he raised his hat and left her. Lettice, her 
 pulses throbbing strangely, took her way back to Hammer- 
 smith. As she grew calmer, she wondered what had 
 agitated her so much ; it must have been something in his 
 look or in his tone, for every effort to assure herself by a 
 repetition of his words that they were mere commonplaces 
 of conversation set her heart beating more tumultuously 
 than ever. She walked all the way from Westminster to 
 Brook Green without once reflecting that she might save 
 herself that fatigue by hailing a passing omnibus. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AT THE OLIGARCHY CLUB. 
 
 Sydney Campion had done a year's hard and remunera- 
 tive work since he paid his last visit to Angleford, and the 
 result more than answered his expectations. 
 
 When the courts were sitting he was fully absorbed in 
 his briefs ; but now and again he took life easily enough 
 — at any rate, so far as the law was concerned. In the 
 autumn it had been his custom to live abroad for a month 
 or two ; at Christmas and Easter he invariably found his 
 way to his club in the afternoon, and finished the evening 
 over a rubber of whist. 
 
 It was a rare occasion when Sydney was able, in the 
 middle of term, to lea. j his chamb'^rs between three and 
 four o'clock, and stroll in a leisurely way along the Em- 
 l)ankment, peacefully smoking a cigar. The chance came 
 to him one m'^i" day in June. There was no case for him 
 
8o 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 to master, nothing proceeding in which he was specially 
 interested, and he did not feel disposed to sit down and 
 improvise a case for himself, as he used to do in his earlier 
 days. He was minded to be idle ; and we may accom- 
 pany him in his westward walk along the river side to 
 Hungerford Bridge, and up the Avenue to Pall Mall. 
 
 On the steps of the Oligarchy Club he found his old 
 friend, Pynsent, just starting for the House. The time 
 was one of great excitement for those who had not lost 
 their interest in the politics of the day. I'he Irish Land 
 Bill was in Committee, and the Conservatives had strenu- 
 ously opposed it, fighting, as they knew, a losing battle, 
 yet not without consolations. This very week they had 
 run the Government so close that the transfer of three 
 votes would have put them m a minority ; and Sir John 
 Pynsent, who was always a sanguine man, had convinced 
 i.imself that the Liberal party waa on the point of break- 
 ing up. 
 
 "They are sure to go to pieces." he said to Campion ; 
 '* and it would be a strange ihing if ih-^iy did not. What 
 Heneage has done already sG?ne other Whig with a con- 
 science will do again, and more effectually. You \viil see 
 we shall be back in office before tlie year is out. No Min- 
 istry and no majority could b^ar tiie strain which the Old 
 Man is putting on his folio wers--it is simply impossible. 
 The worth and birth of the country are sick of this veiled 
 communisiTi la j"^ ihey call justice to Ireland — sick of de- 
 mocratic svcopi.ancy — deadly sick of the Old Man. You 
 mark my words, dear boy : there will be a great rerolt 
 against him before many months have passed. I see it 
 working. I find it in the House, m the clubs, in the 
 drawing-rooms ; and I don't speak merely as my wishes 
 lead me." 
 
 " No doubt you are right as to London ; but how about 
 the country? " 
 
 " The j)rovinces waver more than the metropolis, I ad- 
 mit ; but I don't despair of seeing a majority even in the 
 English boroughs. Ah, Cam])ion, I never see you ■■'ith- 
 out saying to myself, ' There goes the man who lost us 
 "^)ormer.' You would have won that election, I am cer- 
 tain." 
 
 " Well," said Sydney, " you know why I could not fight. 
 The will, the money, everything was ready : but " 
 
 " True, I forgot. I beg your pardon 1 " 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 8i 
 
 " Not at all- ! But I will fight for you some day — as 
 soon as you like. Bear that in mind, Pynsent ! " 
 
 " To be sure I will, my dear fellow. \Ve must have you 
 in the House. I have often said so." 
 
 And the energetic baronet hurried away, whilst Sydney 
 entered the Club, and made straight for the smoking-room. 
 Here he found others just as eager to predict the downfall 
 of the Government as Sir John Pynsent had been ; but he 
 was not in the mood to listen to a number of young men 
 all of the same mind, all of doubtful intellectual calibre, 
 and all sure to say what he had heard a dozen times 
 already. So he passed on to the billiard-room, and find- 
 ing that a pool was just beginning, took a ball and played. 
 
 That served to pass the time until six o'clock, when he 
 went upstairs and read the evening papers for an hour ; 
 and at seven he had his dinner and a bottle of wine. Mean- 
 while he had met two or three friends, with whom he kept 
 up a lively conversation on the events of the day, sea- 
 soned by man} a pungent joke, and fatal ('for the moment) 
 to many a reputation. It is a habit fostered by club life 
 — as, no doubt, it is fostered in the life of the drawing- 
 rooiri, for neither sex is exempt — to sacrifi ■■-. Hie repute of 
 one's absent acquaintance with a liglit h ■ irt, not in malice, 
 but more as a parrot bites the finger that feeds it, in sport, 
 or even in affection. If we backbite our friends, w; give 
 them fiee permission to backbite us, or wekn':-v that they 
 do it, which amoi.nts to pretty much the s': .e thing. The 
 biting may not be very severe, and, as a rule, 't leaves no 
 scars; but, of course, there ar-^ exceptions to vhe rule. 
 
 The secret history of almos every man or wnm<in who 
 has mixed at all in polite so( ly is sure to be known by 
 some one or other in the dubs and drawing-rooms. If 
 there is anything to your di credit in your past life, any- 
 thing which you wotild blot out if you could with rivers of 
 repentance or expiation, uu may be pretty sure that at 
 some time, when you might least expect it, this thing has 
 been, or will be, the subject of discourse and dissection 
 amongst your friends. It may not be told in an injurious 
 or exaggerated manner, and it may not travel far ; but 
 none the less do you walk on treacherous shale, which 
 may give way at any momeP' \mder your feet. T1ie art of 
 living, if you are afraid of the passing of your r.ecret from the 
 lew who know to the many who welcome a new scandal, is 
 
 f 
 
 ft! 
 
 1 \ 
 
i 
 
 ,1 
 
 82 
 
 J^AME AND FAME, 
 
 to go on walking with the light and confident step of youth, 
 never so much as quailing in your own mnid at the 
 thought that the ground may cruml)le beneath yon — that 
 you may go home some fine day, or to your club, or to 
 Lady Jane's five o'clock tea, and be confronted by the 
 grinning skeleton on whom you had so carefully turned 
 your keys and shot your bolts. 
 
 No doubt there are men and women so refined and 
 kindly in their nature that they have absolutely no appetite 
 for scandal — never speak it, or listen to it, or remember 
 what they have overheard. Sydney and his friends were 
 troubled by no such qualms, and, if either of them had 
 been, he would not have been so ill-mannered as to spoil 
 sport for the rest. 
 
 After dinner they had gone upstairs to the members' 
 smoking room, in a comfortable corner of which they were 
 lazily continuing their conversation. It turned by chance 
 on a certain barrister of Sydney's inn, a Mr. IJarrington 
 Baynes, whom one of the party not incorrectly described 
 as "that beautiful, bumptious, and briefless barrister, B. 
 B." 
 
 " He gives himself great airs," said Captain Williams, 
 a swaggering, supercilious man, for whom Sydney had no 
 affection, and who was not one of Sydney's admirers. " To 
 hear him talk one would imagine he was a high authority 
 on every subject under the sun, but I suspect he has very 
 little to go upon. Has he ever held a brief, Campion ? " 
 
 " I never heard of it, if he did. One of those poor 
 devils who take to journalism, and usually end by going to 
 the dogs. You will find his name on the covers of maga- 
 zines, and I fancy he does something in the reviewing 
 way." 
 
 It was an unfortunate speech for Sydney to make, and 
 Captain Williams did not fail to seize his oppportunity of 
 giving the sharp-tongued lawyer — who perhaps knew better 
 how to thrust than 10 parry in such encounters — a whole- 
 some snub. 
 
 Fortune favored him. The current number of The 
 Decade was lying on the table beside him. He took it up 
 in a casual sort of way, and glanced at the list of contents. 
 
 "By the bye, Campion," he said, " you are not a mar- 
 ried man, are you ? I see magazine articles Jiow and then 
 signed Lettice Campion ; no relation, I suppose." 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 83 
 
 
 " That is my sister," Sydney answered, quietly enough. 
 But it was plain that the hit had told ; and he was vexed 
 with himself for being so snobbish as to deserve a sneer 
 from a man like Wi'liams. 
 
 '' I have had the i)leasure of meeting Miss Campion two 
 or three times lately at Mrs. Hartley's, in Kensington," 
 said another of the quartette. This was none other than 
 Brooke Dalton, whom Sydney always liked. He spoke in 
 a confidential undertone, with the kindly intention of cover- 
 ing Sydney's embarrassment. " Mrs. Hartley is a cousin 
 of mine ; and, though I say it, she brings some very nice 
 people together sometimes. By the way, have you ever 
 seen a man ot the name of Walcott — Alan Walcott : a man 
 who writes poetry, and so forth? " 
 
 " I know him by name, that is all. I have heard people 
 say he is one of the best poets we have ; but I don't pre- 
 tend to understand our latter-day bards." 
 
 " You never met him ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Well, then," said Mr. Dalton, who, though a justice of 
 the peace, and the oldest of the four, could give them all 
 points and beat themasaretailer of gossip ; "well, then, that 
 leaves me free to tell you as curious a little history as any 
 T know. But mind, you fellows," he continued, as the 
 others ])ricked up their ears and prepared to listen, "this 
 is not a story for repetition, and I pledge you to silence 
 before I say another word." 
 
 " Honor bright ! " said Charles Milton ; and the captain 
 nodded his head. 
 
 " The facts are these : Five or six years ago, I knew a 
 little of Alan Walcott. I had made his acquaintance in a 
 fortuitous way, and he once did me a good turn by coming 
 forward as a witness in the police court." 
 
 " Confession is good for the soul," Milton interjected. 
 
 " Well, I was summoned for thrashing a cabman, and I 
 should certainly have been fined if Walcott had not con- 
 trived to put the matter in its proper light. For a month 
 or two we saw a good deal of each other, and I rather 
 liked him. He was frank and open in his ways, and though 
 not a well-to-do man, I never observed anything about him 
 that was mean or unhandsome. I did not know that he 
 was married at first, but gradually I put two and two to- 
 gether, and found that he came out now and again to enjoy 
 
 i^ 
 
84 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 ii* "■; 
 
 a snatch of personal freedom, which he could not always 
 make sure of at home. 
 
 " Once I saw Jiis wife, and only once. She was a strik- 
 ingly handsome Frenchwoman, of that bold and flaunting 
 type which generally puts an Englishman on his guard 
 — all paint and powder and cosmetics ; you know the 
 style ! " 
 
 " Not exactly a poetic ideal," said Sydney. 
 
 " That is just what I thought at the time ; and she seems 
 to have been still less so in character. When I saw her 
 she was terribly excited about some trifle or other — treated 
 Walcott like a dog, without the slightest consideration for 
 his feelings or mine, stood over him with a knife, and ended 
 with a fit of shrieking hysterics." 
 
 " Drink or jealousy ? " Captain Williams asked. 
 
 ''Perhaps a little of both. Walcott told me afterwards 
 that that was his daily and nightly experience, and that he 
 was making up his mind to end it. I never knew what he 
 meant by that, but it was impressed upon my meniiory by 
 the cool sort of way in which he said it, and a quiet look 
 in his eyes which evidently meant mischief. About a 
 fortnight later they went abroad, rather in a hurry ; and 
 for some time I heard nothing more of them. Then I went 
 to Aix-les-Bains, and came on the scene just after a fright- 
 ful row. It seems that a French admirer of hers had fol- 
 lowed her to Aix, and attacked Walcott, and even struck 
 him in the hotel gardens. The proprietor and the police 
 had to interfere, and I came across Walcott just as he was 
 looking for some one to act as second. There had been a 
 challenge, and all that sort of thing ; and, un-English as it 
 seems, I thought Walcott perfecdy right, and acted as his 
 friend throughout the affair. It was m no way a remark- 
 able duel : the French fellow was shot in the arm and got 
 away to Switzerland, and we managed to keep it dark. 
 Walcott was not hurt, and went back to his hotel." 
 
 " What did the woman do ? " asked Williams, curiously. 
 
 " That's the odd part of it. Husband and wife seem to 
 have made it up, for in a day or two they went on to C^uloz, 
 had luncheon there, and went out for a walk together. 
 From that walk, Mrs. Alan Walcott did not return. Now 
 comes the mystery : what happened in the course of that 
 walk near Culoz ? All that is known is that the landlady 
 saw Walcott returning by himself two or three hours later, 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 «s 
 
 and that when she questioned him he replied that madame 
 had taken her departure. What do you think of that for a 
 bit of suggested melodrama ? " 
 
 ** It lacks finish," said Milton. 
 
 " I can't see where the poetry comes in," observed the 
 captain. 
 
 " It certainly looked black for Walcott," Sydney re- 
 marked. " I suppose there was a regular hue and cry — a 
 search for the body, and all that kind of thing? " 
 
 " So far as I know, there was nothing of the sort. No- 
 body seems to have had any suspicion at the time. The 
 peasants at Culoz seemed to have talked about it a little, 
 and some weeks afterwards the English people at Aix-les- 
 Bains got hold of it, and a friend of mine tried to extract 
 information from the landlady. But he was unsuccessful : 
 the landlady could not positively affirm that there was any- 
 thing wrong. And — perhaps there was not," Mr. Dalton 
 concluded, with a burst of Christian charity which was 
 creditable to him, considering how strong were his objec- 
 tions to VValcott's friendship with Miss Campion. 
 
 The captain leaned his head back, sent a pillar of smoke 
 up to the ceiling, and laughed aloud. 
 
 " There is no question about it," said Milton, " that Wal- 
 cott got out of it cheaply. I would not be in his shoes for 
 any money, even now." 
 
 It 
 
 (( 
 
 " Is this business widely known ? " Sydney asked 
 is strange that I never heard anything about it." 
 
 He was thinking that the acquaintance of Mr. Alan Wal- 
 cott could not in any case be a desirable thing for Miss 
 Lettice Campion. From the manner in which Dalton had 
 introduced the subject he felt pretty sure that the attention 
 paid by this man to his sister had been noticed, and that 
 his friend was actuated by a sense- of duty in giving him 
 warning as to the facts within his knowledge. 
 
 *' I don't wonder you never heard of it," said Dalton. 
 " I am not aware of anyone in England who ever did, ex- 
 cept myself. I have not mentioned it before, because I 
 am not sure that it is fair to Walcott to do so. But I know 
 you men will not repeat what I have been telling you." 
 
 " Not a word," said Captain Williams and Charles Milton, 
 in a breath. 
 
 Yet in less than a week from that time the whole story 
 made its appearance in one of the baser personal journals, 
 
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 A'/IMI- AND FAME. 
 
 and people were discussing wlio tlic " well-known poet " 
 was, and whether " the buried secret " would presently 
 come to light again. 
 
 And Alan Walcott saw the i)aragrai)h. nnd felt that he 
 had not yet quite done witii his jjast, and wondered at the 
 dispensation o{ Providence which permitted the writers of 
 such paiagiaphs to Hvc and tlirive. 
 
 But a good deal was to hapi)cn hefore tliat paragraph 
 was printed; and in tlie meantime Dallon and Campion 
 went off to look for partners in a rubber, without suppos- 
 ing for a moment that they had delivered a stab in the 
 back to one who had never done an injury to either of 
 them. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LETTICE RECEIVES A VISITOR. 
 
 The day following that on which Sydney Campion paid 
 his afternoon visit to his club in Pall Mall was one of con- 
 siderable importance to his sister Lctlicc. 
 
 She was an earlv riser, and gencrallv contrived to write 
 half-a-dozen ]Kagcs of easy translation or straightforward 
 fiction before ten o'clock. That was tJie hour when she 
 was due in her mother's room, to licli) her in dressing, and 
 to setde her comfortably in her arm-chair, with her Bible and 
 spectacles at her side, and a newsi^iper or magazine wait- 
 ing its turn after the lessons for the day had been read. 
 Mrs. Camj)ion was growing \eiy feeble, both in mind and 
 in body, but shc^ got thi-ough her waking hours witli a fair 
 amount of satisfaction,. thanks to t!ie attention which was 
 l)aid to all her w.mts and wislies. Tettice did not suffer 
 anything to interfere wiiii the regulai- routine which she 
 had marked ont lor her mother's comfort. She and her 
 maid Milly between them kept the old lady in peace of 
 mind and constant good luimor ; and if Mrs. Campion still 
 believed that Sydney was their great l)enefactor, and that 
 it behoved her to comport herself with dignity and grace 
 as the mother of a Lord Chancellor, Lettice did'not attempt 
 the hopeless task of undcccivinfr her. 
 
 On this particular day there had been a poor pretence of 
 morning work. She had arranged her papers, the ink and 
 
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 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 •7 
 
 |)t'ii were ready to licr band, and a few lines were actually 
 written. But her ideas wore all in confusion, and eluded 
 her when she tried to fix them. She could not settle to 
 anything, and instead of writing she found iierself drawing 
 tigures on the blotting jKid. She knew that of old as a bad 
 symptom, and gave U[) trying to be industrious. The 
 French window stood open, and the baUiiy June morning 
 tempted her out into the garden. She ])icked some Howers 
 for her vases, and pinned a rosebud on the collar of her 
 soft grey dress. It was a simple, straight-flowing dress, of 
 the make which suits every woman best, tall or short, hand- 
 some or })lain, dei)ending for its beauty on shape and 
 material alone, without any superfluous trimmings ; for 
 Leltice had a man's knack of getting her dressmaker to 
 obey orders, and would have scorned to wear and pay for, 
 as a matter of course, whatever trajjpings might be sent 
 home to her in lieu of what she wanted. 
 
 Clearly there were special reasons for her ])erturbation of 
 mind, and if any other woman had been at her side, and 
 watched her in and out of the house for ten minutes at a 
 time, slie would have had no difiiculty in divining that 
 Lt'ttice exj^ected a visitor. She would i)robal)ly go further 
 than this, and draw some confident conclusion as to the 
 kind of welcome likely to be accorded to the visitor ; but 
 here, at any rate, the criticism would have been ])remature. 
 Ivcttice did expect a visitor — "Mr. Alan Walcott to wit ; 
 but she had not the slightest notion as to how she should 
 receive him, or whether she would prefer tbnt hj sli.uld 
 come or stay away. 
 
 Her friendshi}) with the poet had grown steadily since 
 their first meeting, and they were now on tolerably familiar 
 terms. His manner had made it impossible for her to 
 doubt that he liked to talk and listen to her, that he sought 
 her company, and even considered himself entitled to her 
 sympathy. But when on the previous day he had gone so 
 far as to assert his title in words, he had done so with 
 what seemed to her remarkable audacity. And, although 
 she had given him permission to come to her house this 
 morning, she was thinking now whether it would not have 
 been better if she had suggested the transfer of the volume 
 of which he spoke at Mrs. Hartley's on the following Sun- 
 day, or if she had made her hint still broader by praising 
 the cheapness and despatch of the Parcels Delivery Com- 
 pany. 
 
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81 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 She had done nothing of this kind. She had been neither 
 rude nor effusive, for it was not in her nature to be either. 
 He was coming '• some lime after twelve," and in fact, 
 punctually as the cjock struck twelve, Mr. Alan Walcott 
 was at the door. 
 
 Milly announced him demurely. She observed him care- 
 fully, however, as she admitted him into Lettice's room, 
 and studied his card with interest while carrying it to Miss 
 Campion. No man so young and handsome had ever 
 called at Maple Cottage in her time before. 
 
 Lettice had been sitting with her mother, and she came 
 down to her study and received her visiior with a frank 
 smile. 
 
 " It is really_ very kind of you," she said, taking the in- 
 nocent book which he held out as a sort of warrant for his 
 intrusion, " to be at all this trouble. And this is a splendid 
 copy, it reminds me of the volumes my father used to be 
 so fond of I will take great care of it. How long did 
 you say I might keep it? " 
 
 " Till you have read it, at any rate. Or till I ask you 
 for it again — which I don't think I shall. You say that 
 you used to see volumes like this on your father's book- 
 shelves. I should not wonder if you had seen this very 
 book there. It i."i a strange coincidence that I should have 
 had it in my possession for some time, and yet never 
 noticed until this morning, when I took it down to bring to 
 you, that it had your name on the fly-leaf. Look ! " 
 
 He opened the book and held the fly leaf against the 
 window. The name had been rubbed out with a wet fin- 
 ger, after the manner of second-hand booksellers, but the 
 " Lawrence Campion " was still easily legible. Lettice 
 could not restrain a little cry of delight. 
 
 "Yes, that is his dear handwriting, I know it so well! 
 And this is his book-plate, too, and his motto — * Vive ut 
 vivas in vitam aeternam.' Oh, where did you get the book ? 
 But I suppose my father's library was scattered all over the 
 country." 
 
 " No doubt it was. I have a few — perhaps twenty — 
 with the same plate. My uncle gave me them. I — a — 
 Miss Campion — I came this morning — " 
 
 Apparently he did not quite know why he came, or at 
 any rate he did not find it easy to say. Lettice spoke 
 again in order to relieve his embarrassment, which she did 
 not understand. 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 89 
 
 " It is so strange that I should have one of his books in 
 my hand again. Vou can imagine what a grief il was to 
 him when he had to let them go." 
 
 " I am so glad to have restored to you something that 
 was your father's. I want you to give me a great pleasure, 
 Miss Cam])ion. I'hese books — there are not more than 
 forty outside — I want\ou lo have them. They are yours, 
 you know, because they were his, and he ought never to 
 have been deprived of ihem." 
 
 " I could not take them, indeed, Mr. VValcott. You are 
 most kind to think of it, but I could not ! " 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 "That is hardly a reasonable question," she said, with a 
 quiet little laugh. " How could I ? " 
 
 " I see very well how you could, but why should you 
 not? It will be a good deed, and there is no good deed 
 without a sacrifice." 
 
 *' And you want to sacrifice these books, which are so 
 valuable ! " 
 
 " No, it is no sacrifice to me, as I could easily prove to 
 you. Believe that it pleases me, and sacrifice your own 
 feelings by taking them." 
 
 " I don't see why you should ask me. It is too great a 
 present to make, and — oh, dear me, I am afraid I do not 
 know how to say what I mean ! But if you will give me 
 this one book, with my father's name in it, I will take it 
 from you, and thank you very much for it." 
 
 " I shall not be satisfied if I may not send the rest. 
 Miss Campion, I came to say " 
 
 Again he stammered and broke down. Lettice, who 
 thought that he had already deliveredhimself of his mental 
 burden, was a little startled now, especially as ne got up 
 and stood by her chair at the window. 
 
 ^' What a lovely little garden ! " he said. *' Why, you 
 are quite in the country here. What delightful roses ! I 
 — I want to say something else. Miss Campion ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Lettice, faintly, and doing her best to feel 
 indifferent. 
 
 " We have not known each other long, but it seems to 
 me that we know each other well — at any rate that I know 
 you well. Before I met you I had never made the 
 acquaintance of a woman who at the same time com- 
 manded my respect, called my mind into full play, and 
 
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 90 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 
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 ili'i 
 
 aroused my sympathy. Tliese last few months have been 
 the happiest of my life, because 1 have been lifted above 
 my old level, and iiave known for the first time what the 
 world might yet be to me. There is something more I 
 want to say to you. I think you know that I have been 
 married— thai my wife is — is no more. You may or may 
 not have heard iluU miserable story, of my folly, and " 
 
 " Oh, no ! " cried Lettice, impulsively. " It is true that 
 Mrs. Hartley told me of the great trouble which fell upon 
 you in the loss of which yon speak." 
 
 "The great trouble— }es; That is how Mrs. Hartley 
 would put it. And the Grahams, have they told you 
 nothing ? " 
 
 " Nothing more." 
 
 A look as of relief passed across his face, followed by a 
 spasm of *pain ; and he stood gazing wearily through the 
 window. 
 
 " Perhaps they do not know, for I have never spoken of 
 it to anyone. But I want to speak ; I want to get rid of 
 some of the wretched burden, and an irresistible impulse 
 has brought me here to you. I am utterly selfish ; it is like 
 taking your money, or your manuscripts, or your flowers, 
 or anything that you value, to come in this way and almost 
 insist on telling you my sordid story. It is altogether unjusti- 
 fiable — it is a mad presumption which I cannot account for, 
 except by saying that a blind instinct made me think that 
 you alone, of all the people in this world, could help me if 
 you would ! " 
 
 Lettice was deeply moved by various conflicting 
 emotions ; but there was no hesitation in the sympathy 
 which went out to meet this strange appeal. Even her 
 reason would probably have justified him in his unconven- 
 tional behavior ; but it was sympathy, and not reason, 
 which prompted her to welcome and encourage his confi- 
 dence. 
 
 '' If I can help you — if it helps you to tell me anything, 
 please speak." 
 
 " I knew I was not mistaken 1" he said, with kindling 
 eyes, as he sat down in a low chair op])osite to her. "1 
 will not be long — I will not tell you all ; that would be 
 useless, and needlessly painful. I married in haste, after a 
 week's acquaintance, the daughter of a French refugee, who 
 came to London in 1870, and earned a living by teaching 
 
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f '^ i 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 91 
 
 4 
 
 his language to the poorest class of pupils. Don't ask me 
 why I married her. No doubt I thought it was for love. 
 She was handsome, and even charming in her way, and for 
 some months I tried to think I was happy. Then, gradu- 
 ally, she let me wake from my fool's paradise. I found — 
 you will despise me for a dupe ! — that I was not the first 
 man she had pretended to love. Nay, it was to me that 
 she pretended — the other feeling was i)rol)al)ly far more of 
 a reality. Before the year was out she had renewed her 
 intimacy with my rival — a comi)atriot of her own. You 
 will suppose that we parted at once when things came to 
 tliis pass ; but for some time I had only suspicion to go 
 upon. I knew that she was often away from home, and 
 that she had even been to places of amusement in this man's 
 company ; but when I spoke to her she either lulled my 
 uneasiness or pretended to be outraged by my jealousy. 
 Soon there was no bond of respect left between us ; but as 
 a last chance, I resolved to break up our little home in 
 iMigland, and go abroad. I could no longer endure my 
 life with her. She had ceased to be a wife in any worthy 
 sense of the word, and was now my worst enemy, an object 
 of loathing rather than of love. Still, I remember that I 
 had a gleam of hope when I took her on the Continent, 
 thinking it just possible that by removing her from her old 
 associations, I might win her back to a sense of duty. I 
 would have borne her frivolity ; I would have endured to 
 be bound for life to a doll or a log, if only she could have 
 been outwardly faithful. 
 
 *' Well, to make a long story short, we had not been abroad 
 more than six weeks when this man I have told you about 
 made his appearance on the scene. She must have written 
 to him and asked him to come, at the very moment when 
 she was cheating me with a show of reviving affection ; 
 and I own that the meeting of these two one day in the 
 hotel gardens at Aix-les-Bains drove me into a fit of tem- 
 porary madness. We quarrelled ; I sent him a challenge, 
 and we fought. He was not much hurt, and I escaped un- 
 touched. The man disappeared, and I have never seen 
 him from that day to this, but I have some reason to think 
 that he is dead." 
 
 He paused for a moment or two ; and Lettice could not 
 refrain from uttering the words, " Your wife?" in a tone 
 of painful interest. 
 
 M 
 
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 ,* t ■ 
 
 i 
 
92 
 
 xWlME AX/) FAME. 
 
 illlil' 
 
 %ky 
 
 '•My wife?" he repeated slowly. "Ah yes, my wife. 
 Well, after a stormy scene wiili her, she became quiet and 
 civil. She even seemed anxious to please me, and to set 
 my mind at rest. But she was merely hatching her last 
 plot against me, and I was as great a fool and dupe at this 
 moment as I had ever been before." 
 
 And then, with averted face, he told the story of his last 
 interview with her on the hills beyond Culoz. " I will not 
 repeat anything she said," he went on — it was his sole re- 
 servation — "although some of her sentences are burned 
 into my brain for ever. I suppose because they were so 
 true." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " Lettice murmured involuntarily, and look- 
 ing at him with tear-dimmed eyes. She was intensely in- 
 terested in his story, and Alan Walcott felt assured by her 
 face that the sympathy he longed for was not withheld. 
 
 " My wound was soon healed," he said when the details 
 of that terrible scene were told ; " but I was not in a hurry 
 to come back to England. When I did come back, I 
 avoided as much as possible the few people who knew me ; 
 and I have never to this moment spoken of my deliverance, 
 which I suppose they talk of as my loss." 
 
 " They think," said Lettice, slowly, for she was puzzled 
 in her mind, and did not know what to say, '' that you are 
 a widower ? " 
 
 " And what am I ? " he cried, walking up and down the 
 room in a restless way. " Am I not a widower ? Has she 
 not died completely out of my life? I shal' never see her 
 again — she is dead and buried, and I am free? Ah, do 
 not look at me so doubtfully, do not take back the sym- 
 pathy which you promised me ! Are you going to turn 
 me away, hungry and thirsty for kindness, because you 
 imagine that my need is greater than you thought it five 
 minutes ago ? I will not believe you are so cruel ! " 
 
 " We need not analyze my feelings, Mr. Walcott. I 
 could not do that myself until I have had time to think. 
 But— is it right to leave other people under the conviction 
 that your wife is actually dead, when you know that in all 
 pr(;bal)ility she is not?" 
 
 " I never said she was dead I I never suggested or acted 
 a lie. May not a man keep silence about his own most 
 sacred affairs ? " 
 
 " Perhaps he may," said Lettice. " It is not for me to 
 judge you — and at any rate, you have told me ! " 
 
 She st 
 eyes, wli 
 
 " I an 
 to help 1 
 and I sh 
 cannot t 
 have tim 
 
 She h( 
 wanted 1 
 
 *' Goo^ 
 you are. 
 again — u 
 promise 
 
 And w 
 
 As soon 
 study. ^ 
 she begai 
 knew tha 
 what he 1 
 bound to 
 told hers( 
 to wear h 
 people w( 
 a desertec 
 wiles upo 
 
 The th 
 to liim ! 
 not implic 
 cealing wl 
 would he 
 point at 
 confidenci 
 blushed w 
 
 He was 
 did not gc 
 might ha^ 
 
NAME AND FAME. 93 
 
 She stood up and looked at him with her fearless grey 
 eyes, whilst his own anxiously scanned her face. 
 
 " 1 am very, very sorry for you. If I can do anything 
 to help you, I will. You must not doubt my sympathy, 
 aiul I shall never withdraw my promise. But just now I 
 cannot think what it would be best to do or say. Let me 
 have time to think." 
 
 She held out her hand, and he took it, seeing that she 
 wanted him to go. 
 
 *' Good-bye ! " he said. " God bless you for being what 
 you are. It has done me good to talk. When we meet 
 again — unless you write and give me your commands — I 
 promise to do whatever you may tell me." 
 
 And with that, he went away. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE POET SPEAKS. 
 
 As soon as her visitor was gone, Lettice fell into a deep 
 study. She had two things especially to think about, and 
 she began by wondering what Mrs. Hartley would say if she 
 knew that Alan Walcott's wife was alive, and by repeating 
 what he had said lo her that morning : that a man was not 
 bound to tell his private affairs to the world. No ! she 
 told herself, it was impossible for any man of self-respect 
 to wear his heart on his sleeve, to assume beforehand that 
 people would mistake his position, and to ticket himself as 
 a deserted husband, lest forward girls should waste their 
 wiles ui)on him. 
 
 The thought was odious ; and yet she had suggested it 
 to him ! Had she not done more than that ? Had she 
 not implied that he had done a dishonorable thing in con- 
 cealing what he was in no way bound to reveal? What 
 would he think of her, or impute to her, for raising such a 
 point at the very moment when he was displaying his 
 confidence in her, and appealing for her sympathy? She 
 blushed with shame at the idea. 
 
 He was already completely justified in her mind, for she 
 did not go so far as to put the case which a third person 
 might have put in her own interest. If Alan had been 
 
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 hi. 
 
 iki 
 
 94 
 
 .\-./j/A ./.vv; yjj/A'. 
 
 unfair or inconsiderate to anyone, it was surely to Lettice 
 herself. He had spoken familiarly to her, sought her com- 
 pany, confessed h s admiration in a more eloquent language 
 than that of words, and asked for a return of sentiment by 
 those subtle appeals which seem to enter the heart through 
 none of the ordinary and ticketed senses. It is true that 
 he had not produced in her mind the distinct impression 
 that she was anything more to him than an agreeable talker 
 and listener in his conversational moods ; but that was 
 due to her natural n: jdesly rather than to his self-restraint. 
 He had been impatient, at times, of her slowness to 
 respond, and it was only when he saw whither this im- 
 patience was leading him that he resolved to tell her all 
 that she ought to know. It was not his delay, however, 
 that constituted the injustice of his conduct, but the fact 
 of his appealing to her in any way for the response which 
 he had no right to ask. 
 
 Lettice was just as incapable of thinking that she had 
 been unjustly treated as she was of believing that Alan 
 Walcott loved her. Thus she was spared the humiliation 
 that might have fallen on her if she had understood that 
 his visit was partly intended to guard her against the danger 
 of giving her love before it had been asked. 
 
 Having tried and acquitted her friend, and having further 
 made up her mind that she would write him a letter to 
 assure him of his acquittal, she summoned herself before 
 the court of her conscience ; and this was a verv different 
 case from the one which had been so easily decided. Then 
 the presumption was all in favor of the accused ; now it 
 was all against her. The guilt was as good as admitted 
 beforehand, for as soon as Lettice began to examine and 
 cross-examine herself, she became painfully aware of her 
 transgressions. 
 
 What was this weight which oppressed her, and stifled 
 her, and covered her with shame ? It was not merely sor- 
 row for the misfortunes of her friend. That would not 
 have made her ashamed, for she knew well that compas- 
 sion was a woman's privilege, for which she has no reason 
 to blush. Something had befallen I.er this very morning 
 which had caused her to blush, and it was the first time in 
 all her life that Lcttice's cheek had grown red for anything 
 she had done, or thought, or said, or listened to, in respect 
 of any man whatever. Tutting her father and brother 
 
A A Mr. A XT) FAME, 
 
 95 
 
 ;tifled 
 y SOI - 
 not 
 mpas- 
 eason 
 
 rning 
 me in 
 
 thing 
 espect 
 rother 
 
 on one side, no man had liad the power, for very lew 
 had had the opportunity, to quicken the i)ulses in lier 
 veins as they were cpiickened now. She had not lived 
 to be six and twenty years old without knowing what 
 love between a man and woman really meant, but she 
 hod never approi)riated to herself the good things whicii 
 she saw others enjoying. It was not for wani of being 
 invited to the feast, for several of her father's curates had 
 been ready to grace their frugal boards by her presence, 
 and to crown her with the fillets of their dignity and self- 
 esteem. The prospect held up to her by these worthy 
 men had not allured her in any way; she had not loved 
 their wine and oil, and thus she had remained rich, accord- 
 ing to the promise of the seer, with the bread and salt of 
 her own imaginings. 
 
 It would be wrong to suppose that Lettice had no strong 
 passions, because she had never loved, or even tiiought 
 that she loved. The woman of cultivated mind is often 
 the woman of deepest feeling; her mental strength implies 
 her calmness, and the calm surface indicates the greatest 
 depth. It is in the restless hearts which beat themselves 
 against the shores of the vast ocean of womanhood that 
 passion is so quick to display itself, so vehement in its 
 shallow force, so broken in its rapid ebb. The real strength 
 of humanity lies deep below the surface ; but a weak woman 
 often mistakes for strength her irresistible craving for 
 happiness and satisfaction. It is precisely for this reason 
 that a liberal education and a full mind are even more 
 essential to the welfare of a woman than they are to the 
 welfare of a man. The world has left its women, with this 
 irresistible craving in their hearts, dependent, solitary, 
 exposed to attack, and unarmed for defence ; and as a 
 punishment it has been stung almost to death by the 
 scorpions which its cruelty generates. But a woman who 
 has been thoroughly educated, a woman of strong mind 
 and gentle heart, is not dependent for happiness on the 
 caprice of others, or on the abandonment of half the privi- 
 leges of her sex, but draws from an inexhaustible well to 
 which she has constant access. 
 
 So Lettice, with the passions of her kind, and the crav- 
 ings of her sex, had been as happy as the chequered 
 circumstances of her outer life would permit ; but now for 
 
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 I 1 1 
 

 liiiiifi 
 
 96 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 the first time her i)eacc of mind was disturbed, and she felt 
 the heaving of tlic aw.ikencd sea beiu-ath. 
 
 Wliy liad her heart grown cold when she heard that 
 Alan Walcott's wife was still alive ? Why had her thought 
 been so bitter when she told herself that she had no right 
 to give the man her sympathy? Why had the light and 
 warmth and color of life departed as soon as she knew 
 that the woman whom lie had married, however unworthy 
 she might be, was the only one who could ( laim his fidelity? 
 Alas, the answer to her questions was only too apparent. 
 The pain which it cost her to awake from her brief sum- 
 mer's dream was her first admonition that she had dreamed 
 at all. Not until she had lost the right to rejoice in his 
 admiration and respond to his love, did she comprehend 
 how nuich these things meant to her, and how far they JKid 
 been allowed to go. 
 
 The anguish of a first love which cannot be cherished 01 
 requited is infinitely more grievous when a woman is 
 ai)j)roaching the age of thirty than it is at seventeen or 
 twenty. The recoil is greater and the elasticity is less. 
 But if Lettice suffered severely from the sudden blow which 
 had fallen upon her, she still had the consolation of know- 
 ing that she could suffer in private, and that she had not 
 betrayed the weakness of her heart — least of all to him who 
 had tried to make her weak. 
 
 In the course of the evening she sat down and wrote to 
 him — partly because he had asked her to write, and partly 
 in order that she might say without delay what seemed 
 necessary to be said. 
 
 u 
 
 Dear Mr. Walcott, — After you were gone this morning I 
 thought a jrieat deil about all that you said to me, and as you asked 
 me for my opinion, and I promised to give it, perhaps I had better tell 
 you what I tliink at once. I cannot see tliat you are, or have Been, 
 under any nunal compulsion to repeat the painful events of your past 
 life, and I am sorry if I implied that I thought you were. Of course, 
 you may yourself hold that these facts impose a certain duty upon you, 
 or you may Hesire that your position should be known. In that case 
 you will do what you think right, and no one else can properly decide 
 for you. 
 
 '* I was indeed grieved by your story, I wish it was in my power to 
 lessen your pain; but, as it is not, I can only ask you to beHeve that if 
 I could do so, I would. 
 
 " You will b^ hard at work, like myself (as you told me), during the 
 next few months. Is not hard work, after ?.ll, the very best of ano- 
 
NAME AA'D FAME. 
 
 vt 
 
 dynes? I have found it so in the past, and I trust you have done »o 
 too, and will continue to do so. 
 " Believe me, ilcai Mr. Walcott, yours very sincerely, 
 
 "Lettice Campion.' 
 
 She hesitated for some time as to whether she had said 
 too inucli, or too little, or whether what she had said was 
 expressed in the right way. But in the end she sent it as 
 it was written. 
 
 Then, if slie had l)een a thorouglily sensible and philo- 
 sophical young woman, she would have forced herself to do 
 some hard work, by way of applying the anodyne of whi(h 
 slie had spoken. IJut that was too much to expect from 
 her in ihe circumstances. What she actually did was to go 
 to bed early and cry herself to sleep. 
 
 She had not considered whether her letter required, or 
 was likely to receive an answer, and she was therefore a 
 little surprised when the posth m brought her one on the 
 afternoon of the following day. Not without trepidation, 
 she took it to her room and read it. 
 
 / 
 
 ( 
 
 
 
 V 
 
 l 
 
 " Dear Mi.ss Campion " — so the letter began — " I thank 
 you very much for your kindness. I have learned to find 
 so much meaning in your words that I think I can tell 
 better than anyone else how to interpret the spirit from the 
 letter of what you say. So, when you lell me that no one 
 can decide for me what it is my duty to do, I understand 
 that, if you were in my position at this moment, you would 
 rather desire that it should be known. Henceforth I desire 
 it, and I shall tell Mrs. Hartley and Mrs. Graham as much 
 as is necessary the next time I see them. This will be 
 equivalent to telling the world — will it not? 
 
 " Two other things I understand from your letter. First, 
 that you do not wish to meet me so often in future ; and, 
 second, that though you know my pain would be diminished 
 by the frank expression of your sympathy, and though you 
 might find it in your heart to be frankly sympathetic, yet 
 you do not think it would be right, and you do not mean 
 to be actively beneficent. Am I wrong ? If I am, you must 
 forgive me ; but, if I am not, I cannot accept your decision 
 without entering my protest. 
 
 " Think, my dear friend — you will allow me that word I 
 — to what you condemn me if you take your stand upon 
 
 li 
 
 ' t 
 
 ii 
 
 
 
 i * ■ 
 
 h ij • 
 

 98 
 
 .VAME AXn FAME. 
 
 the extreme rUrtntos ofcoiiventiDiialil) . Voii rnnnot know 
 what it would mean lo iiic if ymi were lu hay, ' He is a 
 married man, and we liad better not meet so frecjuently in 
 lutiire.' To y(ni, that would be wo loss whatever. To me, 
 it would l)e the loss of happiness, cf consolation, of intel- 
 lectual life. Listen and have pity upon me \ 1 could not 
 say it to your face, b ii I will say il now, though you may 
 think it an unpardonable crime. Vou have become so 
 necessary to me thai I cannot cont'inphite existence with- 
 out you. Have you not seen it already — or, if you have 
 nut, can you doubt when you look back on the past six 
 months — that respect has grown into affection, and affection 
 into love ? Yes, I love you, Letticc ! — in my own heart I 
 call you Lettice every hour of the day — and I cannot live 
 any longer without telling you of my love. 
 
 "When I began this letter I did not mean to tell you — 
 at any rate not to-day. Think of the condition'of my mind 
 when I am driven l)y such a sudden impulse — think, and 
 make allowance for me ! 
 
 " I am not sure what I expected when I resolved to 
 make my sad story known to you. Perhaps, in my mad- 
 ness, I thought, 'Tlieie is a right and a wrong above the 
 right and wrong of society's judgments ; and she is oh the 
 higher levels of humanity, and will take pity on my mis- 
 fortunes.' I only say, ])erhai)s I thought this. I don't 
 know what I thought. But 1 knew I could not ask you to 
 be my wife, and I determined that you should know why 1 
 could not. 
 
 " Oh, how I hate that woman ! I believe that she is 
 dead. I tell myself every day that she is dead, and that 
 there is nothing to prevent me from throwing myself at 
 your feet, and praying you to redeem me from misery. Is 
 not my belief enough to produce conviction in you ? No 
 — you will not believe it ; and, perhaps, if you did, you 
 would not consent to redeem me. No I I must drag my 
 lengthening chain until I die ! I must live in pain and 
 disgust, bound to a corpse, covered with a leprosy, because 
 the angel whose mission it is to save me will not come 
 down from her heaven and touch me with her finger. 
 
 " You shall not see these words, Lettice — my dear Let- 
 tice ! They are the offspring of a disordered brain. I 
 meant to write you such a calm and humble message, tell- 
 ing you that your counsel was wise — that I would follow it 
 
NAME AND FAME. 99 
 
 that I knv. ' "ad your syin])alhy, and that I reverenced 
 
 you as a saint. If I go on writing what I do not mean to 
 send, it is only because the freedom of my words has 
 brought nic peace and conifort, and because it is good that 
 I should allow myself to write the truth, though 1 am not 
 allowed to write it to you I 
 
 " Not allowed to write the truth to you, Lettice? That, 
 surely, is a blasi)hcmy ! If I may not write the truth to 
 you, then I may not know you — I may not worship you — 
 I may not give my soul into your keeping. 
 
 " I will test it. My letter shall go. Vou will not answer 
 it — you will only sit still, and either hate or love me ; and 
 one day I shall know which it has been. " Alan." 
 
 Whilst Lettice read this wild and incoherent letter, she 
 sank on her knees by her bedside, unable in any other 
 attitude to bear the strain which it put upon her feelings. 
 
 "How dare he?" she murmured, at the first outbreak 
 of his passionate complaint ; but, as she went on reading, 
 the glow of pity melted her woman's heart, and only once 
 more she protested, in words, against the audacious can- 
 dor of her lover. 
 
 " How could he ? " 
 
 And as she finished, and her head was bowed upon her 
 hands, and upon the letter which lay betwee^n them, her 
 lips sought out the words which he had written last of all, 
 as though they would carry a message of forgiveness and 
 consolation to thewspirit which hovered beneath it. 
 
 *i 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 SYDNEY GIVES ADVICE. 
 
 > 
 
 The day after Sydney Campion had heard Brooke Dalton's 
 story of the disappearance of Alan Walcott's wife had been 
 a very busy one for him. He had tried to get away from his 
 work at an early hour, in order that he might i)ay one of 
 his rare visits to Maple Cottage, and combine with his 
 inquiries into the welfare of his mother certain necessary 
 cautions to his sister Lettice. It was indispensable that 
 
 \ ;i 
 

 \im 
 
 m 
 
 lOO 
 
 VAME AND FAME. 
 
 she should be made to understand what sort of man this 
 precious poet was known to be, and how impossible it had 
 become that a sister of his should continue to treat him as 
 a friend. 
 
 Why, the fellow might be — probably was — a murderer ! 
 And, if not that, at all events there was such a mystery 
 surrounding him, and such an indelible stain upon his 
 character, that he, Sydney Campion, could not suffer her 
 to continue that most objectionable acfiuaintance. 
 
 But his duties conspired with his dinner to prevent the 
 visit from being made before the evening, and it was nearly 
 eight o'clock when he arrived at Hammersmith. Me had 
 dined with a friend in Holborn, and had taken a Metropo- 
 litan train at Farringdon Street, though, as a rule, he held 
 himself aloof from the poison-traps of London, as he was 
 pleased to call the underground railway, and travelled 
 mostly in the two-wheeled gondolas which so lightly float 
 on the surface of the stream above. 
 
 As he was about to leave the station, his eye encountered 
 a face and figure which attracted him, and made him almost 
 involuntarily come to a standstill. It was Milly Harring- 
 ton, Lettice's maid, who^ having posted her mistress' letter 
 to Alan Walcott, had turned her listless steps in this direc- 
 tion. 
 
 Milly's life in London had proved something of a disap- 
 pointment to her. The cottage on Brook Green was even 
 quieter than the Rectory at Angleford, where she had at 
 least the companionship of other servants, and a large ac- 
 quaintance in the village. Lettice was a«kind and consid- 
 erate mistress, but a careful one : she did not let the young 
 country-bred girl go out after dark, and exercised an un- 
 usual amount of supervision over her doings. Of late, these 
 restrictions had begun to gall Milly, for she contrasted her 
 lot with that of servants in neighboring houses, and felt 
 that Miss Lettice was a tyrant compared with the easy- 
 going mistresses of whom she heard. Certainly Miss Lettice 
 gave good wages, and was always gentle in manner and 
 ready to sympathize when the girl had bad news of her old 
 grand^iother's health ; but she did not allow Milly as much 
 liberty as London servants are accustomed to enjoy, and 
 Milly, growing learned in her rights by continued compa- 
 rison, fretted against the restraints imposed upon her. 
 
 She might have " kept company " with the milkman, with 
 the policeman, with one of the porters at the station ; for 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 toi 
 
 »' 
 
 these, one and all, laid their hearts and fortunes at her 
 feet; but Milly rejected their overtures with scorn. Her 
 own pret^iness of form and feature had been more than 
 ever impresf^ed upon her by the offers which she refused ; 
 and she was determined, as she phrased it, " not to throw 
 herself away." 
 
 Her fancy that " Mr. Sydney "admired her had not been 
 a mistaken one. Sydney had always been susceptible to 
 the charms of a pretty face ; and Nature had preordained 
 a certain measure of excuse for any man who felt impelled 
 to look twice at Milly, or even to speak to her on a flimsy 
 pretext. And Milly was on Nature's side, for she did not 
 resent being looked at or spoken to, although there was 
 more inn'^cence and ignorance of evil on her side than men 
 were likely to give her credit for. Therefore Sydney had 
 for some time been on speaking terms with her, over and 
 above v hat might have been natural in an occasional visitor 
 to the Rectory and Maple Cottage. He saw and meant 
 no harm to her in his admiration, and had no idea at present 
 that his occasional smile or idle jesting compliment made 
 the girl's cheeks burn, her heart beat fast, made her nights 
 restless and her days long. He took it for granted that 
 gratified vanity alone made her receive his attentions with 
 pleasure. His gifts — for he could be lavish when he liked 
 — were all, he thought, that attracted her. She was a 
 woman, and could, no doubt, play her own game and take 
 care of herself. She had her weapons, as other women 
 had. Sydney's opinion of women was, on the whole, a low 
 one \ and he had a supreme contempt for all women of the 
 low^r class — a contempt which causes a man to look on 
 them only as toys — instruments for his pleasure — to be 
 used and cast aside. He believed that they systematically 
 preyed on men, and made profit out of their weakness. 
 That Milly was at a disadvantage with him, because she 
 was weak and young and unprotected, scarcely entered his 
 head. He v ould have said that she had the best of it. 
 She was pretty and young, and could make him pay for it 
 if he did her any harm. She was one of a class — a class of 
 harpies, in his opinion — and he did not attribute any par- 
 ticular individuality to her at all. 
 
 But Milly was a very real and individual woman, with a 
 nature in which the wild spark of passion might some day 
 be roused with disastrous results. It is unsafe to play with 
 
 I 
 
 
 
 \ \ 
 
 I 'i 
 
li 
 
 ; 
 
 
 . 
 
 I02 
 
 NAAf.^ AND FAME, 
 
 the emotions of a person who is simply labellt d, often 
 mistakenly and insufficiently, in your mind as belonging to 
 n, class, and possessing the characteristics of that class. 
 There is always the chance that some old strain of tendency, 
 some freak of heredity, m:.y develop in the way which is 
 most of all dangerous to you and to your career. For you 
 cannot play with a woman's physical nature without touch- 
 ing, how remotely soever, her spiritual constitution as well ; 
 and, as Browning assures us, it is indeed " an awkward 
 thing to play with souls, and matter enough to save one's 
 own." 
 
 Sydney Campion, however, concerned himself very little 
 with his own soul, or the soul of anybody else. He went 
 up to Milly and greeted her with a smile that brought the 
 color to her face. 
 
 '"• Well, Milly," he said, " are you taking your walks 
 abroad to-night ? Is your mistress pretty well ? I was 
 just going to Maple Cottage." 
 
 " Yes, sir, mistress is pretty well ; but I don't think Miss 
 Lettice is," said Milly, falling back into her old way of 
 speaking of the rector's daughter. " She mentioned that 
 she was going to bed early. You had better let me go 
 back first and open tiie door for you." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be best, Not well, eh ? What is the 
 matter?" 
 
 " I don't know, but I think Miss Campion his a bad 
 headache. I am sure she has been crying a great deal." 
 Milly said this with some hesitation. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear that." 
 
 " I am afraid Mr. Walcott brought her bad r'^ws in the 
 morning, for she has not been herself at :.ll since he left." 
 
 '• Do you say that Mr. Walcott was there this morn- 
 ing?" 
 
 Sydney spoke in a low tone, but with considerable eager- 
 ness, so that the girl knew she had not thrown her shaft in 
 vain. 
 
 " Milly, this concerns me very much. I must have a 
 little talk with you, but we cannot well manage it here. 
 See ! there is no one in the waiting-room , will you kindly 
 come with me for a minute or two ? It is for your mis- 
 tress' good that I should know all about this. Come ! " 
 
 So they weuL into the dreary room together, and they sat 
 down in a corner behind the door, which by this time was 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 103 
 
 almost dark. There Sydney questioned her about Alan 
 Walcott, with a view to learning all that she might happen 
 to know about him. Milly required little prompting, for 
 she V .s quite ready to do all that he bade her, and she told 
 him at least one piece of news which he was not prepared 
 to hear. 
 
 Five minutes would have sufficed for all that Milly had 
 to say ; but the same story may be very long or very short 
 according to the circumstances in which it is told. Half- 
 an-hour was not sufficient to-night: at any rate, it took 
 these two more than half-an-hour to finish what they had 
 to say. And even then it was found that further elucida- 
 tions would be necessary in the future, and an appointment 
 was made for another meeting. But the talk had turned 
 on Milly herself, and jMilly's hopes and prospects, before 
 that short half-hour had sped. 
 
 " Good-night, Milly," said Sydney, as they left the sta- 
 tion. " You are a dear little girl to tell me so much. Per- 
 ]iai)s you had better not say to your mistress that you saw 
 me to-night. I shall call to-morrow afternoon. Good-night, 
 dear." 
 
 He kissed her lightly, in a shadowy corner of the plat- 
 form, before he turned away ; and thought rather admir- 
 ingly for a miiuite or two of the half-frightened, half-ador- 
 ing eyes ' that were riveted upon nis face. " Poor little 
 fool ! " he said to himself, as he signalled a cab. For even 
 in that one short interview he had mastered the fact that 
 iMilly was rather fool than knave. 
 
 The girl went home with a light heart, believing that she 
 had done a service to the mistress whom she really loved, 
 and shyly, timorously joyous at the thought that she had 
 nici at \2cfX with an admirer — a lover, perhaps ! — such as 
 her heart desired. Of course. Miss Lettice would be angry 
 if she knew ; but there was nothing wrong in Mr. Sydney's 
 admiration, said Milly, lifting high her little round white 
 chin ; and if he told her to keep silence she was boimd to 
 hold her tongue. 
 
 This was a mean thing that Sydney had done, and he 
 was not so hardened as to have done it without a blush. 
 Vet so admirably does our veneer of civilization conceal 
 the knots and flaws beneath it that he went to sleep in the 
 genuine belief that he had saved his sister from a terrible 
 dinger, and the name of Campion from the degradation 
 which threatened it. 
 
 ^ijl 
 
 
 ) ! 
 
 I 1^1 
 
 ■■■ V 
 
 m I 
 
 «i 
 
I 
 
 ii* 
 
 104 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 On the next day he reached Maple Cottage between four 
 and five o'clock. 
 
 *' How is your mistress ? " he said to Milly. 
 
 She had opened the door and let him in with 1 vivid 
 blush and smile, which made him for a moment, and in the 
 broad light of day, feel somewhat ashamed of himself. 
 
 " Oh, sir, she is no better. She has locked herself in, 
 and I heard her sobbing, fit to break her heart," said Milly, 
 in real concern for her mistress' untold grief. 
 
 *' Let her know that I am here. I will go to Mrs. Cam- 
 pion's room." 
 
 " Well, mother ! " he said, in the hearty, jovial voice in 
 which he knew that she liked best to be accosted, " here is 
 your absentee boy again. How are you by this time ? " 
 
 " Not very bright to-day, Sydney," said his mother. '' I 
 never am very bright now-a-days. But what are you doing, 
 my dear? Are. you getting on well? Have they " 
 
 " No, mother, they have not made me Lord Chancellor 
 yet. We must wait a while for that. But I must not com- 
 plain ; I have plenty of work, and my name is in the papers 
 every day, and I have applied for silk, and — have you 
 found your spectacles yet, mother ? " 
 
 Details of his life and work were, as he knew, absolutely 
 unmeaning to Mrs. Campion. 
 
 " Oh, the rogue ! He always teased me about my si)ec- 
 cles," said Mrs. Campion, vaguely appealing to an unseen 
 audience. " It is a remarkable thing, Sydney, but I put 
 them down half an hour ago, and low I cannot find them 
 anywhere." 
 
 " Well, now, that is strange, Mrs. Campion ; but not 
 very unusual. If I remember riglit, you had lost your 
 spectacles when I was here last ; and as I happened to 
 pass a good shop this morning, it occurred to me thai you 
 would not object to another pair of pebbles. So here they 
 are ; and I have bought you something to test tliem with." 
 
 He produced a cabinet portm it of himself, such as the 
 stationers were beginning to hang on the line in their shop 
 windows. The fact marked a distinct advance in his con- 
 quest of popularity ; and Sydney was not mistaken in sui)- 
 posing that the old lady would appreciate this portrait of 
 her handsome and distinguished son. So, with her spec- 
 tacles and her pictun-, Mrs. ("ami)ion was lKipp>. 
 
 When Sydney' , knock came to the door, Lettice was 
 still crouching by her bedside over the letter which had 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 loS 
 
 reached her an hour before. She sprang up in nervous 
 agitation, not liaving recognized the knock, and began to 
 bathe her face and brush her hair. She was relieved when 
 Milly came and told her who the caller was ; but even 
 Sydney's visit at that moment was a misfortune. She was 
 inclined to send him an excuse, and not come down ; but 
 in the end she made up her mind to see him. 
 
 " My dear child," Sydney said, kissing her on the cheek, 
 "how ill you look ! Is anything the matter? " 
 
 " No, nothing. Don't take any notice of me," Lattice 
 said, with a significant look at her mother. 
 
 They conversed for a time on indifferent matters, and 
 then Sydney asked her to show him the garden. It was 
 evident that he wanted to speak to her privately, so she 
 took him into her study ; and there, without any beating 
 about the bush, he began to discharge his mind of its 
 burden. 
 
 '• I want to talk to you seriously, Lettice, and on what 
 I'm afraid will be a painful subject ; but it is my manifest 
 duty to do so, as I think you will admit before I go. You 
 are, t believe, on friendly terms — tolerably familiar terms 
 —with Mr. Wulcott? " 
 
 This was in true forensic style ; but of course Sydney 
 could not have made a greater mistake than by entering 
 solemnly, yet abruptly, on so delicate a matter. Lettice 
 was in arms at once. 
 
 " Stay a moment, Sydney. You said this was to be a 
 painful subject to me, and then you mention the name of 
 Mr. Walcott. I do i )t understand." 
 
 " Well ! " said Sydney, somewhat disconcerted ; " I don't 
 know what made me conclude that it would be painful. I 
 did not mean to say that. I am very glad it is not so." 
 
 He stopped to cough, then looked out of the window, 
 and softly whistled to himself. Lettice, meanwhile, cast 
 about hastily in her mind for the possible bearing of what 
 her brother might have to say. She was about to take 
 advantage of his blunder, and decline to hear anything fur- 
 ther; but for more than one reason whicii immediately oc- 
 curred tcher, she thought that it would be better to let him 
 speak. 
 
 " I do not think you could have any ground for supposing 
 that such a subject would be specially painful to me; but 
 never mind that. What were you going to say ? " 
 
 '"ft 
 
 W: 
 
 l\ 
 
! 
 
 1 !• 
 
 I 
 
 ill 
 
 
 106 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 Now it was Sydney's turn to be up in arms, for he felt 
 sure that Letiice was acting a part. 
 
 "What I know for a fact,'' he said, "is that you have 
 seen a good deal of Mr. Walcott during the past six months, 
 and that people have gone so far as to remark on your — on 
 his manifest preference for your company. I want to say 
 that there are grave reasons why this should not be per- 
 mitted to go on." 
 
 Lettice bit her lip sharply, but said nothing. 
 
 " Do you know," Sydney continued, becoming solemn 
 again as he prepared to hurl his thunderbolts, " that Mr. 
 Walcott is a married man ? " 
 
 " Whether I know it or not, I do not acknowledge your 
 right to ask me the question." 
 
 " I ask it by the right of a brother. Do you know that 
 if he is not a married man, he is something infinitely worse ? 
 That the last time his wife was seen in his company, they 
 went on a lonely walk together, and he came back again 
 without her ? " 
 
 " How do you know this ? " Lettice asked him faintly. 
 He set down her agitation to the wrong cause, and thought 
 that his design was succeeding. 
 
 " I know it from the man who was most intimately con- 
 nected with Walcott at the time. And I heard it at my 
 club — in the course of the same conversation in which your 
 name was mentioned. Think what that means to me ! 
 However, it may not have gone too far if we are careful to 
 avoid this man in future. He does not visit here, of 
 course ? " 
 
 " He has been here." 
 
 " You surely don't correspond ? " 
 
 " We have corresponded." 
 
 " Good heavens ! it is worse than I thought But you 
 will promise me not to continue the acquaintance?" 
 
 " No, I cannot promise that ! " 
 
 " Not after all 1 have told you of him ? " 
 
 *' You have told me nothing to Mr. Walcott's discredit. 
 I have answered your questions because you are, as you 
 reminded me, my brother. Does it not strike you that 
 you have rather exceeded your privilege ? " 
 
 Sydney was amazed at her quiet indifference. 
 I really cannot understand you, Lettice, Do you mean 
 
 ♦< 
 
 \ '■- >i L V 'im 
 
 ■i '•' iSit; 
 
Name and fame. 
 
 107 
 
 to say that you will maintain your friendship with this man, 
 although you know him to be a " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " At any rate, a possible murderer ? " 
 
 "The important point." said Letiice coldly, "seems to 
 be what Mr. Walcoit is actually, not what he is possibly. 
 Your ' possible ' is a matter of opinion, and I am very dis- 
 tinctly of opinion that Mr. Walcott is an innocent and 
 honorable mar." 
 
 " If you believe him innocent, then you believe that his 
 wife is living ? " 
 
 " I know nothing about his wife. That is a question 
 which does not concern me." 
 
 " Your obstinacy passes my comprehension." When Syd- 
 ney said this, he rose from the chair in which he had been 
 sitting and stood on the hearth-rug before the grate, with 
 his hands behind him and his handsome brows knitted in a 
 very unmistakable frown. It was in a lower and more 
 regretful voice that he continued, after a few minutes' 
 silence : " I must say that the independent line you have 
 been taking for some time past is not very pleasing to me. 
 You seem to have a perfect iLdifference to our name and 
 standing in the world. You like to fly in the face of con- 
 vention, to " 
 
 "Oh, Sydney, why should we quar^'el?" said Lettice, 
 sadly. Hitherto she had been standing by the window, 
 but she now came up to him and looked entreatingly into 
 his face. " Indeed, I will do all that I can to satisfy you. 
 I am not careless about your prospects and standing in the 
 world ; indeed, I am not. But they could not be injured 
 by the fact that I am earning my own living as an author. 
 I am sure they could not ! " 
 
 " You say that you will do all you can to satisfy me," 
 said Sydney, who was not much mollified by her tender- 
 ness. " Will you give up the acquaintance of that man ? " 
 
 " I am not certain that I shall ever see Mr. Walcott 
 again ; but if you ask me whether I will promise to insult 
 him if I do see him, or to cut him because he has been 
 accused of dishonorable acts, then I certainly say. No ! " 
 
 " How you harp upon his honor ! The honor of a 
 married man who has introduced himself to you under a 
 false name ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Lettice, starting and 
 coloring. '' Are there any more charges against him ? " 
 
 
 i \ 
 
 1^1: 
 •II. , 
 
 i 
 
 
 v\ 
 
 I ; i: 
 
 
 I \ 
 
(! 
 
 ,1 
 
 io8 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
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 [I i! 
 
 1> ,! 
 1 1 : ■ ■ 
 
 l > .:& : 
 
 m^m^ 
 
 '* You seem to be so well prepared to defend him that 
 perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that his name is 
 not Walcott at all, but Bundlecombe, and that his mother 
 kept a small sweet-stuff shop, or something of that kind, at 
 Thorley. Bundlecombe ! No wonder he was ashamed of 
 it ! " 
 
 This shaft told better than either of the others. Lettice 
 was fairly taken aback. The last story did not sound as if 
 it had been invented, and Sydney had evidently been 
 making inquiries. Moreover, there flashed across her 
 mind the remembrance of the book which Alan Walcott 
 had given her — only yesterday morning. How long ago it 
 seemed already ! Alan Bundlecombe ! What did the 
 name signify, and why should any man care to change the 
 name that he was born with ? She recollected Mrs. Bun- 
 dlecombe very well — the old woman who came and took her 
 first twenty pounds of savings ; the widow of the bookseller 
 who had bought part of her father's library. If he was 
 her son, he might not have much to be proud of, but why 
 need he have changed his name ? 
 
 Decidedly this was a blow to her. She had no defence 
 ready, and Sydney saw that she was uncomfortable. 
 
 " Well," he said, " I must not keep you any longer. I 
 suppose, even now" — with a smile — ''you will not give 
 me your promise ; but you will think over what I have told 
 you, and I dare say it will all come right." 
 
 Her eyes were full of wistful yearning as she put her 
 hand on his shoulder and kissed him. 
 
 " You believe that I mean to do right, don't you, 
 Sydney ? " she asked. 
 
 He laughed a little. " We all mean to do right, my 
 dear. But we don't all go the same way to work, I sup- 
 pose. Yes, yes ; I believe you mean well ; but do, for 
 heaven's sake, try to act with common-sense. Then, as I 
 said, everything will come right in the end." 
 
 He went back to his mother's room, and Lettice stood 
 for some minutes looking out of the window, and sighing 
 for the weariness and disillusion which hung like a cloud 
 upon her life. 
 
 " All will come right ? " she murmured, re-echoing 
 Sydney's words with another meaning. •' No. Trouble, 
 and sorrow, and pain may be lived down and forgotten ; 
 but without sincerity nothmg can come right ! " 
 
^ 
 
 IV 
 
 1i 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 '11 
 
 AMBITION. 
 
 " I count life just a stuff 
 To try the soul's strength on, educe the man, 
 Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve." 
 
 Robert Browning, 
 
 ii. 
 
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 written at 
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 equal faci 
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 loved was 
 The exa 
 himself to 
 depression 
 
^Mn 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 111 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ALAN WALCOTT. 
 
 Alan Walcott knew perfectly well that he hnd done a 
 mad, if not an unaccountable thing in writing his letter to 
 Miss Campion. He knew it, that is to say, after the letter 
 was gone, for when he was writing it, and his heart was 
 breaking through the bonds of common-sense which gene- 
 rally restrained him, he did not feel the difficulty of account- 
 ing either for his emotions or for his action. The wild 
 words, as he wrote them, had for him no*" only the impress 
 of paramount truth, but also the sanction of his convictions 
 and impulse at the moment. No stronger excuse has been 
 forthcoming for heroic deeds which have shaken the world 
 and lived in history. 
 
 Who amongst us all, when young and ardent, with the 
 fire of generosity and imagination in the soul, has not 
 written at least one such letter, casting reserve and pru- 
 dence to the winds, and placing the writer absolutely at 
 the mercy of the man or woman who received it ? 
 
 This man was a poet by nature and by cultivation ; but 
 what is the culture of a poet save the fostering of a dis- 
 tempered imagination ? I do not mean the culture of a 
 prize poet, or a poet on a newspaper staff, or a gentleman 
 who writes verses for society, or a i)rofessor of poetry, or 
 an authority who knows the history and laws of prosody in 
 every tongue, and can piny the bard or the critic with 
 equal facility. Alan Walcott had never ceased to work in 
 distemper, because his nature was distempered to begin 
 with, and his taste had not been modified to suit the con- 
 ventional canons of his critics. Therefore it was not much 
 to he wondered at if his prose poem to the woman he 
 loved was a distempered composition. 
 
 The exaltation of the mood in which he had betrayed 
 himself to Lettice was followed by a mood of terrible 
 depression, and almost before it would have been possibly 
 
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 NAME AND FAME, 
 
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 for an answer to reach him, even if she had sat down and 
 written to him without an iioiir's delay, he l)egan to assure 
 himself tiiat siie intended to treat him with silent contempt 
 — that his folly had cost him not only her sympathy but 
 her consideration, and that there was no hope left for him. 
 
 He had indeed told her that he did not expect a reply ; 
 but now he tortured himself with the belief that silence on 
 her part could have only one explanation. Either she 
 pitied him, and would write to prevent his despair, or she 
 was indignant, and would tell him so, or else she held him 
 in such contemi)t that she would not trouble herself to take 
 the slightest notice of his effusion. He craved for her 
 indignation now as he had craved for her sympathy before ; 
 but he could not endure her indifference. 
 
 A man of five-and-thirty whose youth has been spent 
 amongst the prodigal sons and daughters of the world's 
 great family, who has wasted his moral ])atrimony, and 
 served masters and mistresses whom he despised, is not 
 easily brought to believe that he can be happy again in the 
 love of a pure woman. He has lost confidence in his own 
 romantic feelin s, and in his power to satisfy the higher 
 needs of a woman's delicate and exacting heart. Usually, 
 as was once the case with Walcott, he is a cynic and a pro- 
 fessed despiser of women, affecting to judge them all by 
 the few whom he has met, in spite of the fact that he has 
 put himself in the way of knowing only the weakest and 
 giddiest of the sex. But when such a man, gradually 
 and with difficulty, has found a pearl among women, 
 gentle and true, intellectual yet tenderly human, with 
 whom his instinct tells him he might spend the rest of his 
 life in honor and peace, he is ready in the truest sense to 
 go and sell all that he has in order to secure the prize. 
 Nothing has any further value for him in comparison with 
 her, and all the roots of his nature lay firm hold upon her. 
 Alas for this man if his mature love is given in vain, or if, 
 like Alan Walcott, he is debarred from happiness by self- 
 imposed fetters which no effort can shake off! 
 
 For four-and-twenty hours he struggled with his misery. 
 Then, to his indescribable joy, there came a message from 
 Lett ice. 
 
 It was very short, and it brought him bad news ; but at 
 any rate it proved that she took an interest in his welfare, 
 and made him comparatively happy. 
 
NAME A^D FAME, 
 
 H3 
 
 "I think you should hear" — so it began, without any 
 introductory phrase — * that the story you told me of what 
 happened at Aix-les-Bains is known to men in this country 
 who cannot be your friends, since they relate it in their own 
 fashion at their clubs, and add their own ill-nalured com- 
 ments. Perhaps if you are forewarned you will be fore- 
 armed. 
 
 " Lettice Campion." 
 
 
 1 
 
 » 
 
 
 ki' 
 
 Not a word as to his letter ; but he was not much 
 troubled on this score. That she had written to him at all, 
 and written evidently because she felt some concern for his 
 safely, was enough to console him at the moment. 
 
 When he began to consider the contents of her note it 
 disturbed him more than a little. He had not imagined 
 that his secret, such as it was, had passed into the keep- 
 ing of any other man, still less that it had become club-talk 
 in London. He saw at once what evil construction might 
 be put upon it by malicious gossip-mongers, and he knew 
 that henceforth he was face to face with a danger which he 
 could do little or nothing to avert. 
 
 What should he attempt in his defence ? How should 
 he use the weapon which Lettice had put into his hand by 
 foiewarning him? One reasonable idea suggested itself, 
 and this was that he should tell the true story to those who 
 knew him best, in order that they might at any rate have 
 the power to meet inventions and exaggerations by his own 
 version of the facts. He busied himself during the next 
 few days in this melancholy task, calling at the house of 
 his friends, and making the best pretext he could for intro- 
 ducing his chapter of autobiography. 
 
 He called on the Grahams, amongst others, and was 
 astonished to find that they knew the story already. 
 
 " I have told the facts to one or two," he said, *' for the 
 reason that I have just mentioned to you, but I think they 
 understood that it would do me no good to talk about it, 
 except in contradiction of unfriendly versions. How did 
 you hear it? " 
 
 Graham took out of his pocket a copy of The Gadabout 
 and said, 
 
 " I'm afraid you have made enemies, Walcott, and if you 
 have not seen this precious concoction it would be no 
 
 \\: 
 
 f 
 
* 
 
 
 114 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 will see at a 
 
 kindness to you to conceal it. Here — you 
 glance how much they have embellished it." 
 
 Walcott took the paper, and read as follows : — 
 
 " It is probable that before long the public may be star- 
 tled by a judicial inquiry into the truth of a story which has 
 been told with much circumstantiality concerning the 
 remarkable disappearance of the wife of a well-known poet 
 some three or four years ago.'' 
 
 Then came the details, without any mention of ])ersons 
 or places, and the paragraph concluded in this fashion. 
 *' It is not certain how the matter will come into court, but 
 rumor states that there is another lady in the case, that 
 the buried secret came to light in a most dramatic way, 
 and that evidence is forthcoming from very unexpected 
 quarters." 
 
 The victim of this sorry piece of scandal gazed at the 
 paper in a state of stupefaction. 
 
 "Of course," said Graham, "it is not worth while to 
 notice that rag. Half of what it says is clearly a down- 
 right invention. If only you could get hold of ilie writer 
 and thrash him, it might do some good ; but these liars 
 are very hard to catch. As to the * other lady/ there is 
 rothing in that, is there ? " 
 
 Both Graham and his wife looked anxiously at Wa'cott. 
 They knew of his attentions to Lettice, and were jealous 
 of him on that account ; and they had been discussing with 
 each other the possibility of their friend's name being 
 dragged into a scandal. 
 
 Walcott was livid with rage. 
 
 "The cur ! " he cried ; " the lying hound ! He has en- 
 tirely fabricated the beginning and the end of this para- 
 graph. There is no ground whatever for saying that a case 
 may come into court. There is no ' lady in the case ' at 
 all. He has simply put on that tag to make his scrap of 
 gossip worth another half-crown. Is it not abominable, 
 Graham ? " 
 
 " It is something more than abominable. To my mind 
 this sort of thing is one of the worst scandals of the pre- 
 sent day. But I felt sure tliere was nothing in it, and the 
 few who guess that it refers to you will draw the same con- 
 clusion. Don't think any more about it ! " 
 
 " A lie sticks when it is well told," said Walcott, gloom- 
 ily. "There are plenty of men who would rather believe 
 it than the uninteresting truth." 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 J'S 
 
 But the Grahams, reHeved on the point that mainly con- 
 cerned them, could not see much gravity in the rest of the 
 concoction, and Walcott had scant pity from them. He 
 went home disconsolate, little dreaming of the reception 
 which awaited him there. 
 
 He occupied a iioor in ]\Iontagu Place, Bloomsbury, con- 
 sisting of three rooms : a drawing-room, a bed-room, and 
 a small study ; and, latterly, Mrs. Bundlccombe, whose 
 acquaintance the reader has already made, had used a bed- 
 room at the top of the house. 
 
 Alan's mother and Mrs. Bundlecombe had been sisters. 
 They were the daughters of a well-to-do farmer in Essex, 
 and, as will often ha])i)en with sisters of the same family, 
 brought up and cared fo'- in a precisely similar way, they 
 had exhibited a marked contrast in intellect, habits of 
 thought, and outward bearing. The one had absorbed the 
 natural refinement of her mother, who had come of an old 
 Huguenot family long ago settled on English soil ; the 
 other was moulded in the robust and coarse type of her 
 father. Bessy was by preference the household factotum 
 not to say the drudge of the family, with a turn for pud- 
 dings, poultry, and the management of servants. Lucy 
 clung to her mother, and books (though both were con- 
 stant students of TJie Family Herald)^ and was nothing 
 if not romantic. Both found some one to love them, and 
 both, as it happened, were married on the same day. Their 
 parents had died within a year of each other, and then the 
 orphaned girls had come to terms with their lovers, and 
 accepted a yoke of which they had previously fought shy. 
 Bessy's husband was a middle-aged bookseller in the neigh- 
 boring town of Thorley, who had admired her thrifty and 
 homely ways, and had not been deterred by her want of 
 intelligence. Lucy, though her dreams had soared higher, 
 was fairly happy with a schoolmaster from Southampton, 
 whose acquaintance she had made on a holiday at the 
 seaside. 
 
 Alan, who was the only offspring of this latter union, 
 had been well brought up, for his father's careful teaching 
 and his mother's gentleness and imagination supplied 
 the complementary touches which are necessary to form 
 the basis of culture. The sisters had not drifted apart 
 after their marriage so much as might have been expected. 
 They had visited each other, and Alan, as he grew up, 
 
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 XAME AND FAME. 
 
 conceived a strong affection for his uncle at Thorley, who 
 — a childless nian'liimself— gave him delightful books, and 
 showed him others still more delightful, who talked to him 
 on the subjects which chiefly attracted him, and was the 
 first to fire his brain with an ambition to write and be famous. 
 Aunt Bessy was tolerated for her husband's sake, but it was 
 Uncle Samuel who drew the lad to Thorley. In duv^ time 
 Alan began to teach in his father's school, and before he 
 was twenty-one had taken his degree at London University. 
 Then his mother died, and shortly afterwards he was left 
 comparatively alone in the world. 
 
 Now, school-keeping had never been a congenial occu- 
 pation to Alan, whose poetic temperament was chafed by 
 the strict and ungrateful routine of the business. His father 
 had been to the manner born, and thmgs had prospered 
 with him, but Alan by himself would not have been able 
 to achieve a like success. He knew this, and was proud of 
 his incapacity ; and he took the first opportunity of hand- 
 ing over the establishment to a successor. The money 
 which he received for the transfer, added to that which his 
 father had left, secured him an income on which it was 
 possible to live, and to travel, and to print a volume of 
 poems. For a short time, at least, he lived as seemed best 
 in his own eyes, and was happy. 
 
 When he was in England he still occasionally visited 
 Thorley ; and it was thus that Milly Harrington came to 
 know him by sight. Her grandmother did not know the 
 Bundlecombes, but Milly came to the conclusion that Alan 
 was their son, and this was the tale which she had told to 
 Sydney Campion, and which Sydney had repeated to his 
 sister. 
 
 The last visit paid by Alan to Thorley was some time 
 after his uncle's death, and he had then confided to his 
 aunt the story of his marriage, and of its unfortunate sequel. 
 He happened to have learned that the man with whom he 
 had fought at Aix-les-Bains was back in London, and it 
 seemed not improbable at that moment that he would soon 
 hear news of his fugitive wife. When he mentioned this 
 to the widow — who was already taking steps to sell her 
 stock-in-trade — she immediately conceived the idea that 
 her boy, as she called Alan, was in imminent danger, that 
 the wife would undoubtedly turn up again, Lud that it was 
 absolutely necessary for his personal safety that he should 
 
 iy»i;ni;' 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 117 
 
 ■: I 
 
 I ! 
 
 
 have an intrepid and watchful woman living in the same 
 house with him. So she proposed the arrangement which 
 now existed, and Alan had equabl}^ fallen in with her plan. 
 He did not see much of her wlien she came to London, 
 and there was very little in their tastes which was congenial 
 or compatible ; but she kept him straight in the matter of 
 his weekly bills and his laundress, and he had no desire to 
 quarrel with the way in \yhich she managed these affairs for 
 him. 
 
 When Alan came home after his call at the Grahams', 
 weary and disconsolate, with a weight on his mind of 
 which he could not rid himself, the door was opened by 
 bis aunt. Her white face startled him, and still more the 
 gesture with which she pointed upstairs, in the direction of 
 their rooms. His heart sank at once, for he knew that the 
 worst had befallen him. 
 
 " Hush ! " said his aunt in a hoarse whisper, " do not 
 go up. She is there. She came in the morning and would 
 not go away." 
 
 " How is she ? I mean what does she look like ? " 
 
 He was very quiet ; but he had leaned both hands upon 
 the hall table, and was gazing at his aunt with despairing 
 eyes. 
 
 " Bad, my boy, bad ! The worst that a woman can look. 
 Oh, Alan, go away, and do not come near her. Fly, im- 
 mediately, anywhere out of her reach ! Let me tell her 
 tliat you have gone to the other end of the world rather 
 than touch her again. Oh, Alan, my sister's child ! — go, 
 go, and grace abounding be with you." 
 
 '' No, Aunt Bessy, that will never do. I cannot run 
 away. Why, don't you see for one thing that this will 
 prove what lies they have been telling about me ? They 
 said I was a murderer — " he laughed somewhat wildly as 
 he spoke — " and here is the murdered woman. And they 
 said there was evidence coming to prove it. Perhaps she 
 will tell them how it happened, and how she came to life 
 again. There, you see, there is good in everything — even 
 in ghosts that come to life again 1 " 
 
 Then his voice dropped, and the color went out of his 
 face. 
 
 " What is she doing ? " he asked, in a sombre tone. 
 
 " She went to sleep on the sofa in the drawing-room. 
 She made me send qui for brandy, and began to rave at 
 
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 ii8 
 
 NAMi: AND FAME, 
 
 me in such a way that I was bound to do it, just to keep 
 her quiet. And now she is in her drunken sleep ! " 
 
 Alan shuddered. He knew wliat that meant. 
 
 " Come," he said ; " let us go up. AVe cannot stand 
 here any longer.'' 
 
 They went" into his study, which was on the same floor 
 as the drawing-room, and here Alan sank upon a chair, 
 looking doggedly at the closed door which separated him 
 from the curse of his existence. After a while he got up, 
 walked across the landing, and quietly opened the door. 
 
 There she lay, a repulsive looking woman, with the 
 beauty of her youth corrui)tcd into a hateful mask of vice. 
 She had thrown her arms above her head and seemed to 
 be fast asleep. 
 
 He returned to the study, shut the door again, and sat 
 down at the table, leaning his head upon his hands. Aunt 
 Bessy came and sat beside him — not to speak, but only 
 that he might know he was not alone. 
 
 " That," he muttered to himself at last, " is my wife ! " 
 
 The old woman at his side trembled, and laid her hand 
 upon his arm. 
 
 " I am beginning to know her/' he said, after another 
 long pause. *' Some mon discover the charms of their 
 wives before marriage ; others — the fools — find them out 
 after. In the first year she was unfaithful to me. , Then 
 she shot me like a dog. What will the end l)e ? " 
 
 " It can be nothing worse, my boy. She has ruined you 
 already; she cannot doit twice. Oh, why did you ever 
 meet her ! AVhy did not Keaven grant that a good 
 woman, like Lettice Cimpion " 
 
 *' Do not name her here ! " he cried sharply. *' Let 
 there be something sacred in the world 1 " 
 
 He looked at his aunt as he si)oke ; but she did not re- 
 turn his gaze. She was sitting rigid in her chair, staring 
 over his shoulder with affrighted eyes. Alan turned round 
 quickly, and started to his feet. 
 
 The woman in the other room had stealthily opened the 
 door,^ and stood there, disheveled and half-dressed, with a 
 cunning smile on her fiice. 
 
 " Alan, my 1. isband ! " she said^ in French, holding out 
 both hands to him, and reeling a step nearer, '' here we 
 are at last. I have longed for this day, my friend — let us 
 be happy. After so many misfortunes, to be reunited 
 once again ! Is it not charming ? " 
 
 --nCT«..^8fc.— a:-^ 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 119 
 
 She spoke incoherently, running her words into one 
 another, and yet doing her best to be understood. 
 
 Alan looked at her steadily. " What do you want? " he 
 asked. *' Why have you sought me out ? " 
 
 " My faith, what should 1 want ? Money, to begin 
 with." 
 
 " And then ? " 
 
 *'xVnd then — justice ! Bah ! Am I not the daughter of 
 Testard, who dispensed wit!i his own hand the justice of 
 Heaven against his persecutors ? " 
 
 " I have heard that before," Alan said. " It was at 
 Aix-les-J3ains. And you .9//// want justice ! " 
 
 " Justice, my clsild. Was it not at Aix-les-Bains that 
 you tried to kill Henri de Ilauteville ? Was it not in the 
 park hard by that you shot at me, and almost assassinated 
 me? But, have no fear ! All I ask is money — the half 
 of your income will satisfy mc Pay me that, and you are 
 safe — unless my rage should transport me one of these 
 fine days ! Refuse, and I denounce you through the town, 
 and plav the game of scandal — as I know how to play it ! 
 Which shall it be?" 
 
 " You are my wife. Perhaps there is a remedy for that 
 —now tliat you are here, we shall see ! But, meanwhile, 
 you h.ive a claim. To-morrow morning I will settle it as 
 you wish. You shall not be left to want." 
 
 '• It is reasonable. Good-night, my friend ! I am go- 
 ing to sleep again." 
 
 She went back into the drawing-room, laughing aloud, 
 whilst Alan, after doing his best to console Mrs. Bundle- 
 combe, departed in search of a night's lodging under 
 another roof. 
 
 ■ is ! 
 
 Vv 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 SIR JOHN PYNSENT PROPHESIES. 
 
 On a sultry evening in the middle of August a few choice 
 spirits were gathered together in one of the smoking-rooms 
 of the Oligarchy. 
 
 All but one were members of the Upper or Lower 
 House, and they were lazily enjoying the unusual chance 
 (for such b'lsy men, and at such a critical period of the 
 
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 ■11 
 
 1 20 
 
 A'/IMB AND FAME. 
 
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 session) which enabled them to smoke their cigars in Pall 
 Mall before midnight on a Tuesday. Either there had 
 been a counl-out, or tiiere was obstruction in the House, 
 which was no immediate concern of theirs, or they had 
 made an arrangement with their Whip, and were awaiting 
 a telegram which did not come ; but, whatever the reason, 
 here they were, lazy and contented. 
 
 There was our old friend, Sir John Pynsent ; and 
 Charles Milton, Q.C., certain to be a law officer or a judge, 
 as soon as the Conservatives had their chance ; and Lord 
 Ambermere ; and the Honorable Tom Willoughby, who 
 had been trained at Harrow, Oxford, and Lord's Cricket 
 Ground, and who was once assured by his Balliol tutor 
 that his wit would never make him a friend, nor his face 
 an enemy. The last of the circle was Brooke Dalton, of 
 whom this narrative has already had something to record. 
 
 '' So Tourmaline has thrown up tlie sponge, Pynsent? " 
 Charles Milton began, after a short pause in the conversa- 
 tion. " Had enough of the Radical crew by this time ! " 
 
 " Yes. Of course, he ha«? been out of sympathy with 
 them for a long while. So have twenty or thirty more, if 
 the truth were known." 
 
 " As you know it ! " Dalton interjected. 
 
 " Well, I know some things. The line of cleavage in 
 the Liberal party is tolerably well marked, if you have 
 eyes to see." 
 
 " Why does Tourmaline leave the House ? I hear he 
 would stand an excellent chance if he went to Vanebury 
 and started as an Independent." 
 
 " No doubt he would ; but in a weak moment he 
 pledged himself down there not to do it." 
 
 '' What hard lines ! " said Tom Willoughby. " Just one 
 pledge too many ! " 
 
 " And so," continued Pynsent, without noticing the in- 
 terruption, " we have had to look out for another candi- 
 date. I settled the matter this afternoon, and I am glad 
 to say that Campion has promised to go down." 
 
 '•' Just the man for the job," said Milton, who looked 
 upon Sydney as sure to be a formidable rival in Parlia- 
 ment, and more likely than any other young Conservative 
 to cut him out of the Solicitorship.. *' He has tongue, 
 and he has tact — and he has something else, Sir John, 
 which is worth the two put together — good friends ! " 
 
 i: 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 lii 
 
 '* We think "ery highly of Campion," said Sir John 
 Pynsent, " and I am very glad you confirm our opinion." 
 " 1 certainly think he will make his mark," said Dalton. 
 " He comes of a very able family." 
 
 Dalton found himself recalling the appearance and words 
 of Miss Lettice Campion, whom he had met so often of 
 late at the house of his cousin, Mrs. Hartley, and who had 
 made a deeper impression than ever on his mind. Impres- 
 sions were somewhat fugitive, as a rule, on Brooke Dalton's 
 mind ; but ne had come to admire Lettice with a fervor 
 unusual with him. 
 
 *' From all I can learn," said the baronet, '* we ought to 
 win the seat ; and every two new votes won in that way 
 are worth half-a-dozen such as Tom Willoughby's, for 
 instance, whose loyalty is a stale ;>nd discounted fact." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know that is how you regard us buttresses 
 from the counties ! I declare I will be a fifth party, and 
 play for my own hand." 
 
 "It isn't in you, my boy," said Lord Ambermere; "I 
 never knew you play for your owi] hand yet." 
 
 ''Then what am I in Parliament for, I should like to 
 know ? " 
 
 " For that very thing, of course ; to learn how to do it.'* 
 AVilloughby laughed good-naturedly. He did not object 
 to be made a butt of by his intimate friends. 
 
 "Seriously, Tom, there is p-lenty of work for a fellow 
 like you to do." 
 
 It was Pynsent who spoke, and the others were always 
 ready to lend him their ears when he evidently wanted to 
 be listened to. 
 
 " The main thing is to get hold of the Whigs, and work at 
 them quietly and steadily until the time comes to strike our 
 blow. The great Houses are safe, almost to a man. When it 
 comes to choosing between Democracy rampant, with Glad- 
 stone at its head, assailing the most sacred elements of 
 the Constitution, and a great National Party, or Union of 
 Parties, guarding Property and the Empire against attack, 
 there is no question as to how they will make their choice. 
 But if every Whig by birth or family ties came over to us 
 at once, that would not suffice for our purpose. What 
 
 we have to do is get at the the Decent Men of the 
 
 Liberal Party, such as the aldermen, the shipowners, the 
 great contractors and directors of companies, and, of 
 
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 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 \ 
 
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 course, the men with a stake in the land. No use men- 
 tioning names — we all know pretty well who they are." 
 
 " And when you have got at them ? " asked Willoughby. 
 
 " Why, lay yourself out to please them. Flatter them 
 — show them all the attention in your power ; take care 
 that they see and hear what is thought in the highest 
 quarters about the present tendency of things — about 
 Ireland, about the Empire, about the G. O. M. Let them 
 understand how they are counted on to decide the issue, 
 and what they would have to look for if we were once 
 in power. Above all, ride them easy ! It is impossible 
 that they should become Tories — don't dream of such 
 a thing. They are to be Liberals to the end of their days, 
 but Liberals with an Epithet." 
 
 " Imperi " 
 
 " No, no, no, no, my dear boy ! Any number of noes. 
 You must not live so much in the past. The great idea to 
 harp upon is Union. Union against a common enemy. 
 Union against Irish rebels. Union against Gladstone and 
 the Democracy ; but draw this very mild until you feel 
 that you are on safe ground. Union is the word, and 
 Unionist is the Epithet. Liberal Unionists. That is the 
 inevitable phrase, and it will fit any crisis that may arise." 
 
 " But suppose they dish us with the County franchise ? " 
 
 " We must make a fight over that ; but for my part I am 
 not afraid of franchises. . There is a Tory majority to be 
 picked out of manhood suffrage, as England will surely 
 discover some dav. Possibly the County franchise must 
 be cleared out of tlie way before we get our chance. What 
 will that mean ? W1iy, simply that Gladstone will think it 
 necessary to use his first majority in order to carry some 
 great Act of Confiscation ; to make Hodge your master ; 
 or to filch a bit of your land for him ; or to join hands with 
 Parnell and cut Ireland adrift. Then we shall have our 
 opportunity ; and that is what we have to prepare for." 
 
 Lord Ambermere, and Dalton, and Milton, Q.C., nodded 
 their heads. They had heard all this before ; but to Wil- 
 loughby it was new, for he had only just begun to put 
 himself into the harness of political life. 
 
 " How can we help ourselves," he said, '* if the laborers 
 have returned a lot of new men, and there is a big Liberal 
 majority } " 
 
 '* That is the point, of course. Well, put it at the worst. 
 Say that Gladstone has a majority of eighty, without Par- 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 123 
 
 nell, and say that Parnell can dispose of eighty. Say, 
 again, that the Irishmen are ready to support Gladstone, 
 in the expectation of favors to come. Now let the Old 
 Man adopt either a Nationalist p ilicy or an out-and-out 
 Democratic policy, and assume that the Union for which 
 we have been working takes effect. In order to destroy 
 Gladstone's majority of one hundred and sixty, at least 
 eighty of his nominal followers must come over. Of these, 
 the pure Whigs will count for upwards of forty, and another 
 forty must be forthcoming from the men I have just 
 described. That is putting it at the worst — and it is safer 
 to do so. Now the question is, Tom Willoughby, what 
 can you do, and whom can you tackle ? I don't want you 
 to give me an answer, but only to think it over." 
 
 " Oh, if you only want thinking, I'm the beggar to think. 
 But — suppose you land your alderman, and he don't get 
 re-elected in 1885 or thereabouts ? That would be a fright- 
 ful sell, don't you know ! " 
 
 " Why, that is just where the beauty of the plan comes 
 in ! A seat in the House of Commons will always be more 
 or less of a vested interest, however low the franchise may 
 descend ; and the men we are speaking of are precisely 
 those most likely to continue in the House. It is espe- 
 cially so in the case of very wealthy men, who have made 
 their own money ; for they look out for comfortable seats 
 to begin with, and then nurse their constituencies by large 
 charitable donations, so that the chances are all in their 
 favor. At any rate this is the best way of setting to work 
 — and who can tell whether the struggle may not come to 
 a crisis in the present Parliament ? " 
 
 " And you feel as confident as ever, Sir John, that this 
 Union will be effected ? " 
 
 " My dear Lord Ambermere, I assure you I am more 
 confident than ever, and if I were at liberty to say all I 
 know, and to show my private memoranda, you would be 
 astonished at the progress which has been made in this 
 Confederation of Society against the Destructive Ele- 
 ments." 
 
 It was a great comfort in listening to Sir John Pynsent, 
 that one could always tell where he wanted to bring in his 
 cai)ital letters. And there was no doubt at all about the 
 uncial emphasis with which he spoke of the Confederation 
 of Society against the Destructive Elements," 
 
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 124 
 
 AJM/t AND FAME. 
 
 At this moment Sydney Campion came in and the con- 
 clave was broken iij). 
 
 Sydney was full of excitement about his contest at Vane- 
 bury, and he received the congratulations and good wishes 
 of his friends with much complacency. He was already 
 the accej)led Conservative candidate, being nominated 
 from the Oligarchy Club in resp(;nse to an appeal from the 
 local leaders. He had even been recommended by name 
 in a letter from Mr, Tourmaline, the retiring member, whose 
 secession to the Conservative party had demoralized his 
 former friends in the constituency, and filled his old 
 opponents with joy. He was going down the next day to 
 begin his canvass, and to make his first speech ; and he 
 had come to tiie Club to-night for a final consultation with 
 Sir John Pynsent. 
 
 This Vanebury election would not, there was reason to 
 think, be so much affected by money-bags as the election 
 at Dormer was supposed to be, sixteen or eighteen months 
 before. Yet money was necessary, and Sydney did not on 
 this occasion refuse the aid which was pressed upon him. 
 He was responding to the call of his party, at a moment 
 which might be (though it was not) very inconvenient for 
 him : and, having put down the foot of dignity last year, 
 he could now hold out the hand of expediency with a very 
 good grace. 
 
 So he took his money, and went down, and before he 
 had been in Vanebury six hours the Conservatives there 
 understood hat they had a very strong candidate, wlio 
 would give a good accoilnt of himself, and who deserved 
 to be worked for. 
 
 His personal presence was imposing. Sydney was above 
 the middle height, erect and broad-shouldered, with a keen 
 and handsome, rather florid, face, a firm mouth, and pene- 
 trating steel-blue eyes. He was careful of his appearance, 
 too, and from his well-cut clothes and his well-trimmed 
 brown hair, beard, and whiskers, it was easy to see that 
 there was nothing of the slipshod about this ambitious 
 young emissary from the Oligarchy Club. 
 
 In manner he was very persuasive. He had a frank 
 and easy way of addressing an audience, which he had 
 picked up from a popular tribune — leaning one shoulder 
 towards them at an angle of about eighty degrees, and 
 rounding his periods with a confidential smile, which 
 
 
 ■% 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 "5 
 
 seemed to assure his hearers that they were as far above 
 the average audience as he was al)()ve the average candi- 
 date. He did not feel lliu slightest diHicuIty in talking 
 for an hour at a stretch, and two or three times on the 
 same day; and, indeed, it would have been strange if he 
 had, considering liis Union experience at Cambridge and 
 his practice at the Bar. 
 
 Sydney won upon all classes at Vanebury, ^ id the sport- 
 ing gentlemen in that thriving borough were soon giving 
 odds upon his chance of success. The Liberals were for 
 the most part careless and over-confident. Their man had 
 won every election for twenty years past, and they could 
 not believe that this Tory lawyer was destined to accom- 
 ])lish what all the local magnates had failed in attempting. 
 But a few of the wisest amongst them shook their heads, 
 for they knew too well that " Tourmaline the Traitor and 
 Turncoat " (as the posters described him) was by no means 
 alone in his discontent with the tendencies of the party. 
 
 The attention of the country was fixed upon the Vane- 
 bury election, and Sydney Campion had become at once 
 the observed of all observers. He knew it, and made the 
 most of the situation, insisting in his speeches that this was 
 a test-election, which would show what the cour .ry thought 
 of the government, of its bribes to ignorance and its capi- 
 tulation to rebellion, of its sacrifice of our honor abroad 
 and our interests at home. He well knew what the effect 
 of this would be on his friends in London, and how he 
 would have earned their gratitude if he could carry the 
 scat on these lines. 
 
 On the day before the poll, Sir John Pynsent came to 
 Vanebury, to attend the last of the public meetings. 
 
 " Admirably done, so far ! " he said, as he grasped Syd- 
 ney's hand at the station. " How are things looking?" 
 
 " It is a certain win ! " said Sydney. " No question 
 about it." 
 
 And a win it was, such as any old campaigner might 
 have been proud of. The numbers as declared by the 
 returning officer were : 
 
 .1 
 
 Campion (C.) 
 Hawkins (L.) 
 
 . . . 4765 
 . . . 4564 
 
 Majority 
 
 • • 
 
 201 
 
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 ia6 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 At the last election Tourmaline had had a majority of 
 six hundred over his Conservative o[)i)oiicnt, so that there 
 had been a turnover of about four hundred voters. And 
 no one doubted that a large number of" these had made up 
 their minds to turn since Campion had begun his can- 
 vass. 
 
 This was a complete success for Sydney. He was now 
 Mr. Campion, M.P., with both feet on the ladder of anil)i 
 lion. Congratulations i)oured in upon him from all sides, 
 and from that moment he was recognized by everybody as 
 one of the coming men of the Conservative party. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 SYDNEY MAKES A MISTAKE. 
 
 There was a social side to Sydney's success which he was 
 not slow to appreciate. A ])oor and ambitious man, bent 
 on climbing the ladder of i)romotion, he was willing to avail 
 himself of every help which came in his way. And Sir 
 John Pynsent was good naturedly ready to give him a help- 
 ing hand. 
 
 During the past season he had found himself welcome in 
 houses where the best society of the day was wont to con- 
 gregate. He had several invi ..ions for the autumn to 
 places where it was considered a distinction to be invited; 
 and, being a man of much worldly wisdom, he was disposed 
 to be sorry that he had made arrangements to go abroad 
 for two or three months. He was vague in detailing his 
 plans to his friends ; but in his own mind he was never 
 vague, and he knew what he meant to do and where he was 
 going to spend the vacation well enough, although he did 
 not choose to take club ac(juaintanccs into his confidence. 
 
 But one invitation, given by Sir John Pynsent, for the 
 Sunday subsequent to his election — or rather, from Satur- 
 day to Monday — he thought it expedient as well as pleasant 
 to accept. Vanebury was a very few miles distant from 
 St. John's country-house, and when the baronet, in capital 
 spirits over his friend's success, urged him to run over to 
 Culverley for a day or two, he could not well refuse. 
 
 " I am going for the Sunday," Sir John said confiden- 
 tially, " but my wife doesn't expect me to stay longer until 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 137 
 
 the session is over. I run down every week, you know, 
 except when she's in town ; but she always leaves London 
 ill jniie. My sister is under iier wing, and she declares 
 th it late hours and the heat of London in July arc very 
 bad for girls. Of course, I'm glad that she looks after my 
 sister so well." 
 
 Sydney recognized the fact that he had never before 
 been taken into Sir John's confidence with respect to his 
 domestic affairs. 
 
 " Juidy Pynsent asked me the other day whether I could 
 not get you to come down to us," Sir John coutinued. " I 
 am always forgetting her messages ; but if you can spare a 
 coui)le of days now, we shall be very glad to have you. 
 Indeed, you must not refuse," he said, hospitably. ** And 
 you ought to see something of the county." 
 
 Sydney had met Lady Pynsent in town. She was a 
 large, showy-looking woman, with fair hair and a very 
 aquiline nose ; a woman who liked to entertain, and who 
 did ii well. He had dined at the Wcntworths' house more 
 than once, and he began to searcli in his memory for any 
 face or figure which should recall Sir John's sister to his 
 mind. But he could not remember her, and concluded, 
 therefore, that she was in no way remarkable. 
 
 " I think I have not met Miss Pynsent," he took an 
 opportunity of saying, by way of an attempt to refresh his 
 memory. 
 
 '• No ? I think you must have seen her somewhere. 
 But she did not go out much this spring : she is rather 
 delicate, and not very fond of society. She's my half-sis- 
 ter, you know, considerably younger than I am — came out 
 the season before last." 
 
 Another acquaintance of Sydney's privately volunteered 
 the information later in the day that Miss Pynsent had 
 sixty thousand pounds of her own, and was reput<?d to be 
 clever. 
 
 " I hate clever women," Sydney said, w'th an inward 
 growl at his sister Lettice, whose conduct had lately given 
 him much uneasiness. " A clever woman and an heiress ! 
 Ve gods, how very ugly she must be." 
 
 His friend laughed in a meaning manner, and wagged his 
 head mysteriously , But what he would have said remained 
 unspoken, because at that moment Sir John rejoined 
 them 
 
 
 
 
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128 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 Sydney flattered himself that he was not impressible, or 
 at least that the outward trappings of wealth and rank did 
 not impress him. But he was distinctly pleased to hnd 
 that Sir John's carriage and pair, which met them at the 
 station, was irreproachable, and that Culverley was a very 
 fine old house, situated in the midst of a lovely park and 
 approached by an avenue of lime-trees, which. Sir John 
 informed him, was one of the oldest in the country. Syd- 
 ney had an almost unduly keen sense of the advantage 
 which riches can bestow, and he coveted social almost as 
 much as professional standing for himself. It was, per- 
 haps, natural that the son of a poor man, who had been 
 poor all his life, and owed his success to his own brains 
 and his power of continued work, should look a little envi- 
 ously on the position so readily attained by men of inferior 
 mental calibre, but of inherited and ever-increasing influ- 
 ence, like Sir John Pynsent and his friends. Sydney never 
 truckled : he was perfectly independent in manner and in 
 thought ; but the good things of the world were so desir- 
 able to him that for some of them — as he confessed to 
 himself with a half-laugh at his own weakness — he would 
 almost have sold his soul. 
 
 They arrived at Culverley shortly before dinner, and 
 Sydney had time for very few introductions before going 
 to the dining-room. He was surprised to find a rather 
 large party present. There were several London men and 
 women whom he knew already, and who were staying in 
 the house, and there was a contingent of county people, 
 who had only come to dinner. The new member for Vane- 
 bury was made much of, especially by the county folk ; and 
 as Sydney was young, handsome, and a good talker, he 
 soon made himself popular amongst them. For himself, 
 he did not find the occasion interesting, save as a means 
 of social success. Most of the men were dull, and the 
 women prim and proper : there were not more than two 
 pretty girls in the whole party. 
 
 " That's the heiress, I suppose/' thought Sydney, hear- 
 ing a spectacled, sandy-haired young woman wIk) looked 
 about five-and-twenty addressed as Miss Pynsent. " Plain, 
 as I thought. There's not a woman here worth looking at, 
 except Mrs. George Murray. I'll talk to her after dinner. 
 Not one of them is a patch on little Milly. I wonder how 
 she would look, dressed up in silks and satins. Pynsent 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 129 
 
 knows hosv to choose his wine and his cook better than his 
 company, 1 foncy." 
 
 But his supercilious contempt for the county was well 
 veiled, and the people who entered into conversation with 
 Sydney Campion, the new M.P. for Vanebury, put him 
 down as a very agreeable man, as well as a rising poli- 
 tician. 
 
 His own position was pleasant enough. He wa3 treated 
 with manifest distinction — flattered, complimented, well- 
 nigh caressed. In the drawing-room after dinner, Sydney, 
 surrounded by complacent and adulating friends, really 
 experienced some of the most agreeable sensations of his 
 life. He was almost sorry when the group gradually 
 melted away, and conversation was succeeded by music. 
 He had never cultivated his taste for music, but he had a 
 naturally fine ear, upon which ordinary drawing-room per- 
 formances jarred sadly. But, standing with his arms folded 
 and his back against the wall, in the neighborhood of Mrs. 
 George Murray, the prettiest woman in the room, he be- 
 came gradually aware that Lady Pynsent's musicians were 
 as admirable in their way as her cook. She would no more 
 put up with bad singing than bad songs ; and she probably 
 put both on the same level. She did not ask amateurs to 
 sing or play ; but she had one or two professionals staying 
 in the house, who were " charmed " to perform for her ; 
 and she had secured a well-known " local man " to play 
 accompaniments. In the case of one at least of the pro- 
 fessionals, Lady Pynsent pnid a very handsome fee for his 
 services ; but this fact was not supposed to transpire to the 
 general public. 
 
 When ihe professionals had done their work there was 
 a little pause, succeeded by the slight buzz that s])oke of 
 expectation. " Miss Pynsent is going to play," Mrs. Mur- 
 ray said to Sydney, putting up her long-handled eyeglass 
 and looking ex])ectantly towards tl .i grand piano. " Oh, 
 now, we shall have a treat." 
 
 "Sixty thousand pc ..ids," Sydney said to himself with 
 a smile ; but lie would not for the world have said it aloud. 
 "We must ))ut wv> with bad i)laying from its fortunate 
 possessor, I suppose." And he turned his head with 
 resignation in the direction of the little inner drawing- 
 room, in which the piano stood. This room should, per- 
 haps, be described as an alcove, rather than a separate 
 
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 130 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 apartment : it was divided from the great drawing-room 
 by a couple of shallow steps tliat ran across its whole 
 width, so that a sort of natural stage was formed, framed 
 above and on either side by artistically festooned curtains 
 of yellow brocade. 
 
 "Isn't it effective?" Mrs. Murray murmured to him, 
 with a wave of her eyeglass to the alcove. '' So useful for 
 tableaux and plays, you know. Awfully clever of Lady 
 Pynsent to use the room in that way. There used once 
 to be folding doors, you know — barbarous, wasn't it? 
 Who would use doors when curtains could be had? " 
 
 " Doors are useful sometimes," said Sydney. But he 
 was not in the least attentive either to her words or to his 
 own : he was looking towards the alcove. 
 
 Miss Pynsent — the young woman with sandy locks and 
 freckled face, on whicli a broad, good-humored smile was 
 beaming — was already seated at the piano and turning over 
 her music. Presently she began to play, and Sydney, little 
 as was his technical knowledge of the art, acknowledged at 
 once that he had been mistaken, and that Miss Pynsent, in 
 spite of being an heiress, played remarkably well. But the 
 notes were apparently those of an accompaniment only — 
 was she going to sing ? Evidently not, for at that moment 
 another figure slipped forward from the shadows of the 
 inner drawing-room, and faced the audience. 
 
 This was a girl who did not look more than eighteen or 
 nineteen : a slight fragile creature in while, with masses 
 of dusky hair piled high above a delicate, pallid, yet un- 
 mistakably beautiful, face. Tlic large dark eyes, the 
 curved, sensitive mouth, the exquisite modelling of the 
 features, the graceful lines of the slightly undeveloped 
 figure, the charming pose of head and neck, the slender 
 wrist bent round the violin which she held, formed a pic- 
 ture of almost ideal loveliness. Sydney could hardly 
 refrain from an exclamation of surprise and admiration. 
 He piqued himself on knowing a little about everything 
 that was worth knowing, and he had a considerable ac- 
 quaintance with art, so that the first thing which oc- 
 curred to him was to seek for a parallel to the figure 
 before him in the pictures with which he was acquainted. 
 She was not unlike a Sir Joshua, he decided ; and yet — in 
 the refinement of every feature, and a certain sweetness 
 and tranquillity of expression — she reminded him of a Dona- 
 
 ■l 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 131 
 
 tello that he had seen in one of his later visits to Florence 
 or Sienna. He had always thought that if he were ever 
 rich he would buy pictures ; and he wondered idly whe- 
 ther money would buy the Donatello of which the white- 
 robed violin-player reminded him. 
 
 One or two preliminary tuning notes were sounded, and 
 then the violinist began to play. Her skill was undoubted, 
 but the feeling and pathos which she threw into the long- 
 drawn sighing notes were more remarkable even than her 
 skill. There was a touch of genius in her performance 
 which held the listeners enthralled. When she had finished, 
 she disappeared behind the curtains as rapidly as she had 
 emerged from the shadows of the dimly-lighted inner room ; 
 and in the pause that followed, the opening and shutting 
 of a door was heard. 
 
 " Who is she ? " said Sydney to his neighbor. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Pynsent, of course," said Mrs. Murray. 
 " Delightful, isn't she?" 
 
 '' I don't mean Miss Pynsent," said Sydney, in some 
 confusion of mind ; '' I mean " 
 
 But Mrs. Murray had turned to somebody else, and 
 scraps of conversation floated up to Sydney's ears, and 
 gave him, as he thought, the information that he was seek- 
 ing 
 
 ".o devoted to Lady Pynsent's children! Now that 
 little Frankie has a cold, they say she won't leave him 
 night or day. They had the greatest trouble to get her 
 down to play to-night. Awfully luck)' for Lady Pynsent," 
 and then the voices were lowered, but Sydney heard some- 
 t'iiiig about " the last governess," and " a perfect treasure," 
 which seemed to reveal the truth. 
 
 '' The governess ! A violin-playing governess," he 
 thought, with a mixture of scorn and relief, which he did 
 not altogether understand in himself. " Ah ! that's the 
 reason she did not come down to dinner. She is a very 
 pretty girl, and no doubt Lady Pynsent keeps her in tlie 
 luiisery or school-room as much as ])0ssible. I should 
 like to see her again. Perhaps^ as to-morrow is Sunday, 
 she may come down with the children." 
 
 It will be evident to the meanest capacity that Sydney 
 was making an absurd mistake as to the identity of the 
 violinist. 'I'he most unsophisticated novel-reader in the 
 world would cast contempt and ridicule on the present 
 
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 NAME AND FAME. 
 
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 writers if they, in their joint capacity, introduced the 
 young lady in white as actually Lady Pynscnt's governess. 
 To avoid misunderstanding on the point, therefore, it may 
 as well be premised that she was in fact Miss Anna Pyn- 
 sent. Sir John's half sister, and that Mr. Campion's conchi- 
 sions respecting her position were altogether without 
 foundation. 
 
 Having, however, made up his mind about her, Sydney 
 took little further interest in the matter. One or two com- 
 plimentary remaiks were made in his hearing about Miss 
 Pynsent's playing ; but he took them to apply to the 
 sandy-haired Miss Pynsent whom he had seen at dinner, 
 and only made a silent cynical note of the difference wiili 
 which the violinist and the accompanist were treated. He 
 never flew in the face of the world hunself, and therefore 
 he did not try to readjust the balance of compliment : he 
 simply acquiesced in the judgment of the critics, and 
 thought of the Donatello. 
 
 A long conference in the smoking-room on political 
 matters put music and musicians out of his head ; and 
 when he went to sleep, about two o'clock in the morning, 
 it was to dream, if he dreamt at all, of his maiden speech 
 in Parliament, and that elevation to the woolsack which 
 his mother was so fond of prophesying. 
 
 Sydney was an early riser, and breakfast on Sundays at 
 Culverley was always late. He was tempted by the 
 beauty of the morning to go for a stroll in the gardens ; 
 and thence he wandered into the park, w^here he breathed 
 the fresh cool air with pleasure, and abandoned himself, as 
 usual, to a contemjilalion of the future. The park was 
 quickly crossed, for Sydney scarcely knew how to loiter in 
 his walking, more than in any other of his actions ; and lie 
 then plunged into a fir plantation which fringed a stretch 
 of meadow-land, now grey and drenched with dew and 
 shining in the morning sun. Even to Sydney's unimagin- 
 ative mind the scene had its charm, after the smoke of 
 London and the turmoil of the last few days : he came to 
 the edge of the plantation, leaned his elbows on the top 
 most rail of a light fence, and looked away to the blue 
 distance, where the sheen of water and mixture of light and 
 shade were, even in his eyes, worth looking at. A cock 
 crowed in a neighboring farmyard, and a far-away clock 
 struck seven. It was earlier than he had thought. 
 
 ■ffi^--*j-^?iata^v.%.t-MJii lirf^'.JHiMsvsisifi&'fz^s 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 133 
 
 Two or three figures crossing the meadow attracted his 
 attention. First came a laboring man with a pail. Sydney 
 watched him aimlessly until he was out of sight. Then a 
 (.hild — a gentleman's child, judging from his dress and 
 general appearance — a boy of six or seven, who seemed to 
 be Hying tumultuously down the sloping meadow to escape 
 from his governess or nurse. The field ran down to a 
 wide stream, which was crossed at one point by a plank, 
 at another by stepping-stones ; and it was towards these 
 stepping-stones that the boy directed his career. Behind 
 iiim, but at considerable distance, came the slender figure 
 of a young woman, wno seemed to be pursuing him. The 
 child reached the stream, and there stood laughing, his fair 
 curls floating in the wind, his feet firmly planted on one of 
 the stones that had been thrown into the water. 
 
 Sydney was by no means inclined to play knight-errant 
 to children and attendant damsels, and he would probably 
 have continued to watch the little scene without advancing, 
 had not the girl, halting distressfully to call the truant, 
 chanced to turn her face so that the strong morning light 
 fell full upon it. Why, it was the violinist ! Or was he 
 deceived by some chance resemblance.? Sydney did not 
 think so, but it behoved him instantly to go and see. 
 
 Indeed, before he reached the stream, his help seemed to 
 be needed. The boy, shouting and dancing, had missed 
 his fooling and fallen headlong in the stream, which, for- 
 tunately, was very shallow and not very swift. Sydney 
 quickened his pace to a run, and the girl did the same ; 
 but before either of them reached its bank the boy had 
 scrambled out again, and was sitting on the further side 
 with a sobered countenance and in a very drenched con- 
 dition. 
 
 " Oh, Jack ! " said the girl reproachfully, " how could 
 you ? " 
 
 '• I want some mushrooms. I said I would get them," 
 Jack answered, sturdily. 
 
 " You must come back at once. But — how are you to 
 get over?" she said, contemplating the slippery stones 
 with some dismay. For Jack's fall had displaced more 
 than one of them, and there was now a great gap between 
 the stones in the deepest part of the little stream. 
 
 'Can I be of any assistance?" said Sydney, availing 
 himself of his opportunity to come forward. 
 
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 134 
 
 .VAME AND FAME. 
 
 She turned and looked at him inquiringly, the color 
 deepening a little in her pale face. 
 
 " I am staying at Culveriey," he said, in an explanatory 
 tone. " I had the pleasure of hearing you play last night." 
 
 " You are Mr. Campion, I think? " she sn.id. '' Yes, I 
 shall be very glad of your liclp. I need not introduce my- 
 self, I see. Jack has been very naughty : he ran away 
 from his nurse this morning, and 1 said that I would bring 
 him back. And now he has fallen into the brook." 
 
 " We must get him back," said Sydney, rather amused 
 at her matter-of-fact tone. " I will go over for him." 
 
 " No, I am afraid you must not do that/' she answered. 
 "There is a plank a little further down the stream ; we will 
 go there." 
 
 But Sydney was across the water by this time. He 
 lifted the child lightly in his arms and strode back across 
 the stones, scarcely wetting himself at all. Then he set 
 the boy down at her side. 
 
 " There ! " he said, " that is better than going down to 
 the plank. Now, young man, you must run home again as 
 fast as you can, or you will catch cold." 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you," said the young lady, 
 looking at him, as he thought, rather earnestly, but with- 
 out a smile. "Jack, you know, is Sir John Pynsent's 
 eldesJ: son." 
 
 " So I divined. I think he would get home more quickly 
 if I took one of his hands and you took the other, and we 
 hurried him up the hill ; don't you think so ? " 
 
 He had no interest at all in Jack, but he wanted to talk 
 with this dark-eyed violin-playing damsel. Sydney had 
 indulged in a good deal of flirtation in his time, and he had 
 no objection to whiling away an hour in the company of 
 any pretty girl ; and yet there was some sort of digniiy 
 about this girl's manner which warned him to be a little 
 upon his guard. 
 
 *' You are member for Vanebury," she said, rather 
 abruptly, when they had dragged little Jack some distance 
 up the grassy slope. 
 
 " I have that honor." 
 
 " I hope," she said, with a mixture of gentleness and 
 decision which took him by surprise, " that you mean to 
 pay some attention to the condition of the working-classes 
 in Vanebury ? " 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 ns 
 
 *' Well, I don't know; is there any special reason ?" 
 
 "They are badly paid, badly housed, over-worked and 
 under-educated," sJie said, succinctly ; " and if the member 
 for Vanebury would bestir himself in their cause, I think 
 that something might be done." 
 
 " Even a member is not omnipotent, I'm afraid." 
 
 " No, but he has influence. You are bound to use it for 
 good," she returned. 
 
 Sydney raised his eyebrows. He was not used to 
 being lectured on his duties, and this young lady's remarks 
 struck him as slightly impertinent. He glanced at her 
 almost as if he v/ould have told her so ; but she looked so 
 very pretty and so very. young that he could no more check 
 her than he could have checked a child. 
 
 '* You have very pretty scenery about here," he said, by 
 way of changing the conversation. 
 
 The girl's face drooped at once ; she did not answer. 
 
 '• What an odd young woman she is," said Sydney to him- 
 self. " What an odd governess for the children ! " 
 
 Suddenly she looked up, with a very sweet bright look. 
 '• 1 am afraid I offended you," she said, deprecatingly. 
 '• 1 did not mean to say anything wrong. I am so much 
 interested in the Vanebury working people, although we 
 are here some miles distant from them, that when I heard 
 you were coming 1 made up my mind at once that I would 
 speak to you." 
 
 "You have — friends, perhaps, in that district?" said 
 Sydney. 
 
 " N — no — not exactly," she said, hesitating. " But I 
 know a good deal about Vanebury." 
 
 " Nan goes there very often, don't you. Nan ? " said little 
 Jack, suddenly interposing. " And papa says you do more 
 harm than good." 
 
 "Nan" colorcv.' high. ^' You should not repeat what 
 pr.pa says," she answered, severely. " You have often 
 l)een told that it is naughty." 
 
 " But it's true," Jack murmured, doggedly. And Sydney 
 could not help smiling at the discomfited expression on 
 " Nan's " face. 
 
 However, he was — or thought he was — quite equal to 
 the occasion. He changed the subject, and began talking 
 adroitly about her tastes and occupations. Nan soon be- 
 came at ease with him., and answered his questions cheer- 
 
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 Mil • 
 
1 
 
 •if 
 
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 K'l 
 
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 136 
 
 ^/4J/^ AND FAME. 
 
 fully, although she seemed puzzled now and then by the 
 strain of compliment into which he had a tendency to fall. 
 The house was reached at last ; and Jack snatched his 
 hands from those of his companions, and ran indoors. 
 Nan halted at a side-door, and now s])oke with the sweet 
 earnestness that impressed Sydney even more than her 
 lovely face. 
 
 ** You have been very kind to us, Mr. Campion. I 
 don't know how to thank you." 
 
 It was on the tip of Sydney's tongue to use some 
 badinage such as he would have done, in his light and easy 
 fashion, to a servant-maid or shop-girl. But something in 
 her look caused him, luckily, to refrain. He went as near 
 as he dared to the confines of love-making. 
 
 '• Give me the flower you wear," he said, leaning a little 
 towards her. " Then I shall at least have a remembrance 
 of you." 
 
 His tone and his look were warmer than he knew. She 
 shrank back, visibly surprised, and rather offended. Be- 
 fore he could add a word she had quietly taken the rose- 
 bud from her dress, handed it to him, and disappeared 
 into the house, closing the door behind her in a somewhat 
 uncompromising way. Sydney was left alone on the 
 gravelled path, with a half-withered rosebud in his hand, 
 and a consciousness of having made himself ridiculous. 
 
 " She seems to be rather a little vixen," he said to him- 
 self, as he strolled up to his rooms to make some change 
 in his clothes, which were damper than he liked. " What 
 business has a pretty little governess to take that tone? 
 Deuced out of place, I call it. I wonder if she'll be down 
 to breakfast. She has very fetching eyes." 
 
 But she was not down to breakfast, and nothing was 
 said about her, so Sydney concluded that her meals were 
 taken in the schoolroom with the children. 
 
 " Such a pity — poor dear Nan has a headache," he 
 heard Lady Pynsent saying by and by. *' I hoped that 
 she would come down and give us some music this even- 
 ing, but she says she won't be able for it." 
 
 Sydney consoled himself with pretty Mrs. Murray. 
 
 " The fair violinist is out of tune, it seems," he said, in 
 the course of an afternoon stroll with the new charmer. 
 
 "Who? Oh, Nan Pynsent." 
 
 ''Pynsent? No. At least, I don't mean the pianiste : 
 I mean the yorng lady who played the violin last night." 
 
 Uv 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 137 
 
 H 
 
 " Yes, Nan Pynsent, Sir John's half-sister. The heiress 
 — and some people say the beauty of the county. Why 
 do you look so stupefied, Mr. Campion ? " 
 
 " I did not know her, that was all. "" 'bought — who, 
 then, is the lady who played the ]:iiano ? '' 
 
 " Mary Pynsent, a cousin. You surely did not think 
 that she was the heiress ? " 
 
 " Why did not Sir John's sister come down to dinner ? " 
 said Sydney, waxing angry. 
 
 " She has a craze about the children. Their governess 
 is away, and she insists on looking after them. She is 
 rather quixotic, you know ; full of grand schemes for the 
 future, and what she will do when she comes of age. Her 
 pioj)erty is all in Vanebury, by the bye : you must let her 
 talk to you about the miners if you want to win her favor. 
 She will be of age in a few months." 
 
 " I shall not try to win her favor." 
 
 " Dear me, how black you look, Mr. Campion. Are 
 you vexed that you have not made her acquaintance ? " 
 
 " Not at all," said Sydney, clearing his brow. " How 
 could I have looked at her when you were ihere ? " 
 
 The banal compliment pleased Mrs. Murray, and she 
 began to talk of trivial matters in her usual trivial strain.* 
 Sydney scarcely listened : for once he was disconcerted, 
 and angry with himself. He knew that he v/ould have 
 talked in a very different strain if he had imagined for one 
 moment that Jack's companion was Miss Pynsent. He 
 had not, perhaps, definitely said anything that he could 
 regret ; but he was sorry for the whole tone of his conver- 
 sation. Would Miss Pynsent repeat his observations, he 
 wondered, to her sister-in-law ? Sydney did not often put 
 himself in a false position, but he felt that his tact had 
 failed him now. He returned to the house in an un- 
 usually disturbed state of mind \ and a sentence which he 
 overheard in the afternoon did not add to his tranquillity. 
 
 He was passing along a corridor that led, as he thought, 
 to his own room ; but the multiplicity of turnings had be- 
 wildered him, and he was obliged to retrace his steps. 
 While doing so, he*iDassed Lady Pynsent's boudoir. Al- 
 though he was unconscious of this fact, his attention was 
 attracted by the sound of a voice from within. Nan Pyn- 
 sent's voice was not loud, but it had a peculiarly penetrat- 
 ing quality ; and her words followed Sydney down the 
 corridor with disagreeable distinctness. 
 
 I \ 
 
 W 
 
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 I3» 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 ** Selina/' she was saying — Sclina was Lady Pynsciu's 
 name — " I thought you said liuit Mr. Campion was a 
 gentlema?i ! " 
 
 " Well, dear " Lady Pynsent was beginning ; but 
 
 Sydney, quickening his steps, heard no more. He was 
 now in a rage, and disposed to vote Miss Pynsent the 
 most unpleasant, conceited young person of his acquain- 
 tance. That anybody should doubt his " gentilhood " was 
 an offence not to be lightly borne. He was glad to re- 
 member that he was leaving Culverley next day, and he 
 determined that he would rather avoid the female Pyn- 
 sents than otherwise when they came to town. He could 
 not yet do without Sir John, and he was vexed to think 
 that these women should have any handle — however tri- 
 fling — against him. He thanked his stars that he had not 
 actually made love to IVIiss Anna Pynsent ; and he hur- 
 ried back to town next morning by the earliest train, with- 
 out setting eyes on her again. Li town, amidst the bustle 
 of political and social duties, he soon forgot the unpleasant 
 impression that this little episode of his visit to Culverly 
 had left upon his mind. 
 
 He went to Maple Cottage on the very day of his return 
 to London, to hear what his mother and sister had to say 
 about his success. And he took an opportunity also of 
 telling Milly Harrington something of the glories which he 
 had achieved, and the privilege which he enjoyed in being 
 able to absent himself from his native country for two or 
 three months at a stretch. 
 
 About the end of August, Lettice had to look out for a 
 new maid. Milly went away, saying that she had heard 
 of a better place. She had obtained it without applying to 
 her mistress for a character. She had not been so atten- 
 tive to her duties of late as to make Lettice greatly regret 
 her departure ; but remembering old Mrs. Harrington's 
 fears for her grand-daughter, Lettice made many inquiries 
 of Milly as to her new place. Siie received, as she thought, 
 very satisfactory replies, although she noticed that the girl 
 changed color strangely, and looked confused and anxious 
 when she was questioned. And whefi the time came for 
 her to go, Milly wept bitterly, and was heard to express a 
 wish that she had resolved to stay with Miss Lettice after 
 all 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 ■39 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 SOME UNEXPECTED MEETINGS. 
 
 Two or three montlis had passed smce Alan's wife came 
 back to him. 
 
 He had arranged, with the aid of a lawyer, to allow her 
 a certain regular income — with the consequence to himself 
 that he had been obliged to give up his floor in Montagu 
 Place and settle down in the humbler and dingier refuge of 
 Alfred Place. Meanwhile, he had taken steps to collect 
 sufficient evidence for a divorce. He had not yet entered 
 his suit, and he felt pretty certain that when he did so, 
 and Cora was made aware of it in the usual manner, she 
 would find some way of turning round and biting him. 
 
 But the desire to be free from his trammels had taken 
 possession of him with irresistible force, and he was pre- 
 pared to risk the worst that she could do to him in order 
 to accomplish it. Even as it was, he had reason to think 
 that she was not true to her undertaking not to slander or 
 molest him so long as she received her allowance. He 
 had twice received offensive post-cards, and though there 
 was nothing to prove from whom they came, he could have 
 very little doubt that they had been posted by her in mo- 
 ments when jealous rage or intoxication had got the better 
 of her prudence. 
 
 I'he scandal which began to fasten upon his name after 
 Sydney Campion had heard Brooke Dalton's story in the 
 smoking-room of the Oligarchy was almost forgotten again, 
 though it lurked in the memory of many a thoughtless re- 
 tailer of gossip, ready to revive on the slightest provocation. 
 
 More for Lettice's sake than his own, he lived in complete 
 retirement, and scarcely ever left his lodgings except to 
 spend a few hours in the Museum Reading Room. In this 
 way he avoided the chance of meeting her, as well as the 
 chance of encountering his wretched wife, concerning 
 whose mode of life he had only too trustworthy evidence 
 
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 140 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 |8. 
 
 from the lawyer to whom he had committed his interests. 
 
 Then there came a day when he could not deny himself 
 the pleasure of attending a c:onvcrsazione for which tickets 
 hud been sent him by an old friend. The subject to be dis- 
 cussed in the course of the 'evening was one in which he was 
 specially interested, and his main object in going was that 
 he might be made to forget for a few hours the misery of his 
 present existence, which the last of Cora's post-cards had 
 painfully impressed upon him. 
 
 He had not been there more than half-an-hour, when, 
 moving with the crowd from one room to another, he sud- 
 denly came face to face with Lettice and the Grahams. All 
 of them were taken by surprise, and there was a little con- 
 st»"aint in their greeting. Perhaps Lettice was the least 
 disturbed of the four — for the rest of them thought chiefly 
 of her, whilst she thought of Alan's possible embarrass- 
 ment, which she did her best to overcome, with the ready 
 tact of an unselfish woman. 
 
 Alan had grown doubly sensitive of late, and his ore 
 idea had been that Lettice must be preserved from all 
 danger of annoyance, whether by the abandoned woman 
 who had so amply proved the shrewdness of her malice, or 
 by himself — who had no less amply proved his weakness. 
 In pure generosity of mind, he would have contented him- 
 self with a few grave words, and passed on. But it seemed 
 to her as if he had not the courage to remain, taking for 
 granted her resentment at his unfortunate letter. To her 
 pure mind there was not enough, even in that letter, to 
 cause complete estrangement between them. At any rate, 
 it was not in her to impose the estrangement by any dis- 
 play of anger or unkindness. The sublime courage of inno- 
 cence was upon her as she spoke. 
 
 " See," she said, " the professor is going to begin. The 
 people are taking their seats, and if we do not follow their 
 example all the chairs will be filled, and we shall have to 
 stand for an hour. Let us sit down." 
 
 She just glanced at Alan, so that he could regard him- 
 self as included in the invitation ; and, nothing loth, he sat 
 down beside her. 7'he lecturer did not start for another 
 ten minutes, and Lettice occupied the interval by compar- 
 ing notes with Clara Graham : for these two dearly loved 
 a gossip in which they could dissect the characters of the 
 men they knew, and the appearance of the women they did 
 
 
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 i 
 
 Ill 
 
 \ 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 'i '•■ 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 141 
 
 not know. Tt was a perfectly harmless ])ractice as indulged 
 in by them, for their criticism was not malicious. The men, 
 after one or two commoni)laces, relai)sed into silence, and 
 Alan was able to collect his thoughts, and at the same time 
 to realize how much happiness the world might yet have 
 in sto;e for him, since this one woman, who knew the worst 
 of him, did not think it necessary to keep him at a* dis- 
 tance. 
 
 Then the professor began to speak. He was a small 
 and feeble man, wheezy in his delivciy, and, it must be 
 confessed, rather confused in his ideas. He had been in- 
 vited to make plain to an audience, presumably well read 
 and instructed, the historical bearings of certain recent 
 discoveries in Egypt ; and the task was somewhat difficult 
 for him. There were seven theories, all more or less 
 plausible, which had been started by as many learned 
 Egyptologists; and this worthy old gentleman, though 
 quite as competent to give an opinion, and stick to it, as 
 any of the rest, was so modest and self-depreciatory that 
 he would not go furth( r than to state and advocate each 
 theory in turn, praising its author, and defending him 
 against the other six. After doing this, he was bold to 
 confess that he did not altogether agree with any of the 
 seven. He was on the point of launching his own hypo- 
 thesis, which would have been incompatible with all the 
 rest, when his heart failed him. He therefore ended by 
 inviting discussion, and sat down, blushing unseen beneath 
 his yellow skin, exactly as he used to blush half a century 
 ago when he was called up to construe a piece of Homer. 
 
 Three of the seven Egyptologists were present, and they 
 now rose, one after another, beginning with the oldest. 
 Each of them stated his own theory, showing much defer- 
 ence to the lecturer as " the greatest living authority " on 
 this particular subject ; and then, after politely referring to 
 the opinions of the two rival savants whom he saw in the 
 audience, became humorous and sarcastic at the expense 
 of the absent four. 
 
 But, as the absent are always wrong in comparison with 
 the present, so youth is always wrong in comparison with 
 age. The youngest Egyptologist — being in truth a some- 
 what bumptious man, fresh from Oxford by way of Cairo 
 and Alexandria — had presumed to make a little feint of 
 sv/ord-play with one of the lecturer's diffident remarks. 
 
II 
 
 W~l' " 
 
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 142 
 
 ^^J/^ /4iVZ? Z'^^^. 
 
 This brought up the other two who had aheady spoken ; 
 and they withered that young man with infinite satisfaction 
 to themselves and the male part of the audience. 
 
 The victim, however, was not young and Oxford-bred 
 for nothing. He rose to deprecate their wrath. He was 
 not, he said, contesting the opinion of the lecturer, whose 
 decision on any detail of the matter under consideration he 
 would take as al)solutely final. But he pointed out that 
 the opinion he had ventured to examine was expressed by 
 his friend, Dr. A,, in a paper read before the Diatribical 
 Society, six weeks before, and it was manifestly at variance 
 with the canon laid down by his friend, Dr. E., as a fun- 
 damental test of knowledge and common-sense in the 
 domain of Egyptology. 
 
 Thus discoid was sown between Dr. A. and Dr. B., and 
 the seed instantly sprang up, and put an end to all that 
 was useful or amicable in that evening's discussion. 
 
 Yet everyone agreed that it had been a most interestmg 
 conference, and the audience dispersed in high good 
 humor. 
 
 It took nearly a quarter of an hour to clear the crowded 
 rooms, and as Alan had offered his arm to Lettice, in order 
 to guide her through the crush, he had an opportunity of 
 speaking to her, which he turned to good account. 
 
 '' I am glad to see that your brother is in ParHament," 
 he said. 
 
 " Yes ; of course we were pleased." 
 
 " He will make his mark — has made it already, indeed. 
 He is very eloquent ; I have heard him speak more than 
 once. He is a most skillful ad'^ocate ; if I were ever in 
 trouble I would rather have him on my side than against 
 me." 
 
 He was speaking lightly, thinking it must please her to 
 hear her brother praised. But she did not answer his last 
 remark. 
 
 " I hope Mrs. Campion is well? " 
 
 " Not very well, unfortunately. I am afraid she g:rows 
 much weaker, and her sight is beginning to fail." 
 
 " That must be very trying. I know what that means 
 to an old lady who has not many ways of occupying her- 
 self. I was making the same observation at home this 
 morning." 
 
 *' With regard to your mother ? " 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 143 
 
 *' Oh, no. My mother died when 1 was little more than 
 a boy. But I have an aunt living with me, who must be 
 nearly seventy years old, and she was telling me to-day 
 that she could scarcely see to read." 
 
 " Oh," said Lettice, with a rush of blood to her face, 
 "is Mrs. Bundlecombc your aunt? " 
 
 " Yes," he said, looking rather surprised, '' you spoke as 
 if you knew her. Did you ever see Mrs. Bundlecombe ? " 
 
 " I — I had heard her name." 
 
 "• At Anglcford ? Or Thorley ? " 
 
 " Of course, I heard of Mr. Bundlecombe there." 
 
 " Is it not strange," Alan said, after a short pause, " that 
 I never knew you came from Angleford until that morning 
 when I brought you one of your father's books ? Then I 
 asked my aunt all about you. I was never at Angleford 
 in my life, and if I had heard the rector's name as a boy I 
 did not recollect it." 
 
 " Yes, it is strange. One is too quick at coming tc con- 
 clusions. I have to beg your pardon, Mr. WalcoU for I 
 really did think that — that Mrs. Bundlecombe was your 
 mother, and that " 
 
 " That I was not going under my own name? That I 
 was the son of a bookseller, and ashamed of it ? " 
 
 He could not help showing a trace of bitterness in his 
 tone. At any rate, she thought there was bitterness. She 
 looked at him humbly — for Lettice was destitute of the 
 pride which smaller natures use in self-defence when they 
 are ])ioved to be in the wrong — and said, 
 
 '^ Yes, I am afraid I thought so at the moment." 
 
 "At what moment? " 
 
 " Do not ask me ! I am very sorry." 
 
 ''And glad to find that you were mistaken?" 
 
 " I am very glad." 
 
 He tried to meet her eyes, but she did not look at him 
 again. 
 
 " It was my own fault," he said. '" I was going to men- 
 tion my connection with your father's bookseller that 
 morning ; but — you know — my feelings ran away with me. 
 I told you things more to my discredit, did I not ? " 
 
 " I remember nothing to your discredit. Certainly what 
 you have told me now is not to your discredit." 
 
 " If you had met my aunt in London, of course you 
 Would have known. But slie does not visit or entertain 
 anyone. You knew she was in London ? " 
 
 M 
 
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 t 
 
 144 
 
 ATAME AND FAME, 
 
 \x 4 
 
 mi 
 
 
 lAH^^H 
 
 
 lL;^T!Wf 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " But you never saw her? " 
 
 *' Yes, once." 
 
 " Oil, I did not know that. When ? " 
 
 " A long time ago. It was quite a casual and unimpor- 
 tant meeting. Oh, Mr. Walcott, who is that terrible 
 woman? " 
 
 They were out of the building by this time, standing on 
 the pavement. Graham had called a cab, and whilst they 
 were waiting for it to draw up Lettice had become aware 
 of a strikingly-dressed woman, with painted face and bold 
 eyes^ who was planting herself in front of them, and staring 
 at her with a mocking laugh. 
 
 Alan was horrified to see that it was his wife who stood 
 before them, with the mad demoniac look in her eyes which 
 he knew too well. 
 
 " Alan, my dear Alan," she cried in a shrill voice, caus- 
 ing everyone to look round at the group, " tell her this 
 terrible woman's name ! Tell her that I am your wife, 
 the wife that you have plunged into misery and starvation 
 
 *' For heaven's sake ! " said Alan, turning to Graham, 
 " where is your cab ? Take them away quickly ! " 
 
 " Tell her," the virago screamed, " that I am the woman 
 whom you tried to murder, in order that you might be 
 free " 
 
 Here the harangue was cut short by a policeman, who 
 knew the orator very well by sight, and who deftly inter- 
 posed his arm at the moment when Cora was reaching the 
 climax of her rage. At the same instant the cab drew up, 
 and Lettice was driven away with her friends, not, how- 
 ever, before she had forced Alan to take her hand, and had 
 wished him good-night. 
 
 " That must have been his wife," said Clara, whose face 
 was white, and who was trembling violently. 
 
 " Yes, confound her ! " said her husband, much annoyed 
 by what had happened. 
 
 " Could you not stay to see what happens ? You might 
 be of some use to Mr. Walcott." 
 
 * What good can I do ? I wish we had not met him. I 
 have a horror of these scenes ; sonae people, apparently, 
 take them more coolly." 
 
 He was out of temper with Lettice, first for sitting by 
 Alan at the conversazione, and then for ostentatiously 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 145 
 
 shaking hands with him on the pavement. Her instinct 
 told her what he was thinking. 
 
 " I am sorry it ha])|)ened," she said ; " but when a man 
 is unfortunate one need not take the opportunity of punish- 
 ing hini. It was far worse for him than for us." 
 
 '* I don't see that," said Graham. " And everyone has 
 to bear his own troubles. Besides, why should a man with 
 such a frightful infliction attach himself to ladies in a 
 public place, and subject tlicni to insult, without so much 
 as warning them what they might expect to meet with ? " 
 
 " Were you unwarned ? " 
 
 " I was not thinking of myself. You were not warned." 
 
 '' I beg your pardon, I was." 
 
 " You knew his wife was alive — and — what she is ? " 
 
 *'Yes." 
 
 '• I must say I cannot understand it." 
 
 " You would not have me kind to a man who, as you 
 say, is frightfully afflicted ? It was for that very reason I 
 thought we ought to be kind to him to-night." 
 
 " My sense of duty does not lead me quite so far ; and 
 I do not wish that Clara's should, either !" 
 
 " I am sorry," said Lcttice, again. 
 
 Then there was silence in the cab ; but the undutiful 
 Clara was squeezing her friend's hand in the dark, whilst 
 licr lord and master fumed for five minutes in his corner. 
 After that, he pulled the check-string. 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " said Clara. 
 
 " Going back again," he said. " You women under- 
 stand some things belter than we do. All the same, I don't 
 know what would ha])pen if you always let your hearts 
 lead you, and if you had no men to look after you. I shall 
 take a hansom and follow on." 
 
 He was too late, however, to do any good. The stream 
 of life had swept over the place where Alan and his wife 
 had met, as it sweeps over all the great city's joys and 
 sorrows, glories and disgrace, leaving not a vestige be- 
 hind. 
 
 W \ 'I ' 
 
 10 
 
'46 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 H 
 
 ill i'^ 
 
 CHAPTER XVT. 
 
 
 
 ti''i 
 
 CONCEIVED IN SORROW. 
 
 Two days later, as Lettice was hard at work in her study 
 on a romance which she had begun in June, at the sugges- 
 tion of a friendly publisher, she was interrupted by a knock 
 at the door. It was a feeble knock, as of one who was 
 half afraid, and the voice, which she heard inquiring for 
 her immediately afterwards was a feeble voice, v/hich she 
 did not recognize. 
 
 Nor did she a^ first remember the face of Mrs. Bundle- 
 combe, when that lady was brought into her room, so much 
 had she changed since her last visit to Maple Cottage. 
 She looked ten years older than when she transferred to 
 her pocket the twenty pounds which Lettice had paid her, 
 though that was barely twelve months ago. 
 
 Lettice was better pleased to see lier this time ; but 
 there was a sinking at her heart as slie thought from whom 
 the old lady had come, and wondered what her coming 
 might mean. 
 
 Mrs Bundlecombe produced from her bag a little roll of 
 paper, and laid it on the table with trembling hands. 
 
 " There, Miss Campion," she said, taking the chair which 
 Lettice had put for her, ^' now I feel belter already, and 1 
 can answer your kind inquiries. I cannot say that I am 
 very well, but there is nothing you can do for me, except 
 take the money back that I came and asked you for a 3 ear 
 ago. Don't say anything against it, my dear, for my Alan 
 says it must be done, and there is no use in trying to turn 
 him. It is the right method for peace of conscience, as 
 the good Mr. Baxter said, and that must be my ajjology, 
 though I am sure you will not think it was nothing but 
 sinful self-seeking that made me come to you before." 
 
 '' I don't understand, Mrs. Bundlecombe ! I simply paid 
 you a debt, did I not? If it was right for my father to pay 
 (as he would have done if he had lived), it was right for 
 
 U 
 
NAME AND FAME 
 
 147 
 
 me to pay ; and as it was right for me to pay, it was riglit 
 for you to ask. And it gave me pleasure, as I told you at 
 the time, so that I object to taking the money back again." 
 
 " That is what I said to Alan, but he would not listen 
 to me. ' i\Iiss Campion was not bound to pay her father's 
 debt,' he said, ' any more than Mr. Campion, and there- 
 fore it was wrong for you to ask either of them. But to 
 go to a woman,' he said, 'was more than wrong, it was 
 mean ; and I can never look in her face again if you do 
 not take it back and beg her pardon.' He can be very 
 stern, my dear, when he is not pleased, and just now I 
 could not disobey him if he was to tell me to go on my 
 kn^es through London town." 
 
 " How did he know that I had paid you? " 
 
 " Well, it was yesterday ; we had been in great trouble " 
 — and here Mrs. Bundlecombe broke down, having been 
 very near doing it from the moment when she entered the 
 room. Lettice comforted her as well as she could, and 
 made her drink a glass of wine ; and so she gradually re- 
 covered her voice. 
 
 " Well, as I was saying, my dear, in the evening, when 
 we were quiet by ourselves, he said to me, ' Aunt Bessy, 
 I met Miss Cam^Dion last night, and I gather from what she 
 told me that you had seen one another in London. You 
 never mentioned that to me. When was it ? ' I did not 
 want to make a clean breast of it, but he has such a way 
 of cross-questioning one that I could not keep it back ; and 
 that is how it all came out. So you must put up with it, 
 for my sake. I dare not touch the money again, was it 
 ever so." 
 
 '•Then I must speak to Mr. Walcott about it myself, the 
 next time I see him, for I think he has not been just to 
 you," 
 
 '' Oh yes, my dear, he has ! He is always so just, poor 
 boy ! " There was an ominous quaver here. " And it is 
 not as if we wanted money. I had three or four hundred 
 from selling the business, and Alan has nearly that every 
 year — but now he gives two pounds a week " 
 
 Then there was another collapse, and Lettice thought it 
 best to let the old woman have her cry out. Only she went 
 over and sat by her side, and took one of the thin hands 
 between her own, and cried just a little to keep her com- 
 pany. 
 
 f 
 
 1i 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 I ' 
 
 f 
 
 Oh, my dear," said Mis. Biindlecombe at last, "it is 
 such a comfort to have a woman to talk to. I have not 
 had a good talk to one of my own sex since I came up to 
 London, unless it is the landlady in Montagu Place, and 
 she is a poor old antiquity like myself, with none of your 
 soft and gentle ways. It would do me good to tell you all 
 we have gone through since that bad creature found us out, 
 but I have no right to make you miserable with other peo- 
 ple's sorrows. No — I will go away before I begin to be 
 foolish again ; and my boy will be waiting for me." 
 
 " If you think Mr. Walcott would not object to your tell- 
 ing me, and if it will be any relief to you, do ! Indeed, I 
 think I would rather hear it." 
 
 So Mrs. Bundlecombe poured out her tale to sympathe- 
 tic ears, and gave Lettice an account of Alan's married life 
 so far as she knew it, and of the return of the runaway, 
 and of the compact which Alan had made with her, and of 
 the postcards, and the slandering and the threats. 
 
 " And the night before last he came home in a terrible 
 rage — that would be after seeing you, my dearie — and he 
 walked about the room for ever so long before he would 
 tell me a word. And then he said, 
 
 " * I have seen her again, Aunt Bessy, and she has mol- 
 ested me horribly out in the street, when I was with ' 
 
 '' And there he stopped short, and fell on the sofa, and 
 cried — yes, dear, he cried like a woman, as if his heart 
 would break ; and I guessed why it was, though he did not 
 mention your name. For you know," said Mrs. Bundle- 
 combe, looking at Lettice with mournful eyes, " or leastways 
 you don't know, how he worships the ground " 
 
 '' Don't," said Lettice, " don't tell me more than he 
 would like. I — I cp-nnot bear to hear it all ! " 
 
 " Maybe I have said too much ; but you must forgive 
 me if I have. And so, when he was a bit better he said 
 that he should go next morning and tell the lawyer that 
 she had broken her compact, and he would not pay her 
 any more money, but give her notice of the divorce. 
 
 " ' All the heart and all the mercy is crushed out of me,' 
 he said ; ' she has turned her venom on her, and she 
 shall suffer for it.' 
 
 " So in the morning he went to his lawyer. And it was 
 the day when she used to call for her money, and she must 
 have called for it and been refused, for early in the after- 
 
 noon 
 
 mad 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 149 
 
 noon she came round to our lodgings, and went on like a 
 mad woman in the street, sliricking and howling, and say- 
 ing the most horrible tilings you can imagine. I could not 
 tell you half she said, auout — about us all. Oh dear, oh 
 dear ! I had heard wi^at one of those Frenchwomen could 
 be, but I never saw anything like it before, and 1 hope I 
 never may again ! " 
 
 '' Was he there ? " 
 
 " Yes, he was there. And he said to me, * If I give her 
 in charge, it will have to go into the police court, and any- 
 thing is better than that ! ' But then she mentioned — she 
 began to say other things, and he said, * My God, if this is 
 not stopped, I shall do her an injury!' So I went out, 
 and fetched a policeman, and that put an end to it for the 
 time. 
 
 " You can fancy that my poor Alan is nearly out of his 
 mind, not knoAving what she may be up to next. One thing 
 he is afraid of more than anything : and to be sure I don't 
 think he cares for anything else. Ever since I let out your 
 name on that first night he has been dreading what might 
 iiappen to you through her spite and malice ! " 
 
 J.ettice was deeply moved b> Mrs. Bundlecombe's story, 
 and as the old woman finished she kissed her on the 
 cheek. 
 
 " Tell him," she said, " that I have heard what he has 
 suffered — that I asked you, and you told me. Tell him 
 not to think of me b^^causc I am forewarned, and am not 
 afraid of anything she can do. And tell him that he should 
 not think of punishing her, for the punishment she has 
 brought upon herself is enough." 
 
 " I will repeat it word for word, my dearie, and it will 
 comfort him to have a message from you. But I doubt he 
 will not spare her now, for she is more than flesh and 
 blood can bear." 
 
 Then Lettice took her visitor to her mother's room, and 
 made tea for her, and left the two to compare notes with 
 each other for half an hour. Thus Mrs. Bundlecombe went 
 away comforted, and took some comfort back with her to 
 the dingy room in Alfred Place. 
 
 It was hard for Lettice to turn to her work again, as 
 though nothing had happened since she last laid down her 
 pen. The story to which she had listened, and the pic- 
 ture which it brought so vividly before her mind of the 
 
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 NAME AND FAAfE, 
 
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 is 
 
 lonely, persecuted man who pined for her love wlicn she 
 had no right to give it, nor he to ask for it, compelled Jicr 
 to realize what she had hitherto fouglit away and kepi in 
 the background. She could no longer cheat herself with 
 the assurance that her heart was in her own kccjiing, and 
 that her feeling for Alan was one of mere womanly i)ily. 
 
 She loved him; and she would not go on lying to iicr 
 own heart by saying that she did not. 
 
 Her character was not by any means perfect ; but, as 
 with all of us, a mixture of good and ill — the evil and the 
 good often springing out of the same inborn qualities of 
 her nature. She had a keen sense of enjoyment in hearing 
 and seeing new things, in broaching new id^as and enter- 
 ing upon fresh fields of thought ; and her appetite in these 
 respects was all the stronger for tlie gloom and seclusion 
 in which the earlier years of her womanhood had becMi 
 spent. She was lavish in generosity to her i'riends, anil 
 did not count the cost when she wanted to be kind. l]::t 
 as the desire for enjoyment may be carried to the length (-f 
 self-indulgence, so there is often a selfishness in giving and 
 a recklessness in being over kind. Lcttice, moreover, was 
 extravagant in the further sense that she did not look 
 much beyond the present month or present year of ex- 
 istence. She thought her sun would always shine. 
 
 Her blemishes were quite compatible with her virtues, 
 with the general right-mindedness and brave performance 
 of duty which had hitherto marked her life. She v/as nei- 
 ther bad nor perhaps very good, but just such a woman as 
 Nature selects to be the instrument of her must mysterious 
 workings. 
 
 If Lettice admitted to herself the defeat wliich she had 
 sustained in one quarter, she was all the less disposed to 
 accept a check elsewhere. Her will to resist a hopeless 
 love was broken down, but that only increased the strengtli 
 of her determination to.conceal the weakness from every 
 eye, to continue the struggle of lite as though there wero 
 no flaw in her armor, and to work indefatigably for the 
 independence of thought and feeling and action which she 
 valued above all other possessions, 
 
 So she chained herself to her desk, and finished her ro- 
 mance, which in its later chapt(,M-s gained intensity ol 
 pathos and dramatic insight from the constant immolation 
 of her own heart as she imagined the martyrdoms and 
 sacrifices of others. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 iS« 
 
 The story which was to make lier famous had been con- 
 ceived in sorrow, and it hocame associated with tlie greatest 
 suffcrincjs of her life. Siic had scarcely sent it off to the 
 puhhshcr, in the montli of October, when her mother, who 
 liid been grndually failing both in body and in mind, quiet- 
 ly passed away in her sleep. No death could have been 
 easier, 'i'he heart had done its work, and ceased to beat; 
 bill though Letticc was sj)ared the grief which she would 
 have fell if her moiher had lingered long on a painful 
 death-bed. the shock was still very severe. For a time she 
 was entirely prostrated by it. The manifold strain upon 
 her mind had tried her too much, and fur several weeks 
 after the funeral Clara Graham was nursing her through a 
 dangerous illness. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 " TO THY CHAMBER WINDOW, SWEET I '* 
 
 a 
 
 The message which had been sent by Lettice to Alan, 
 by the mouth of Mrs. Bundleconibe, had not lost much in 
 its transit. 
 
 " Tell him," she had said, " that I have heard what he 
 has suffered. Tell him not to trouble for me because I am 
 forewarned, and am not afraid of anything she can do. 
 And tell him that he should not think of punishing her, for 
 the punishment she has brought on herself is enough." 
 
 It had consoled him greatly to have this assurance of 
 her sympathy. He did not presume too far on the mere 
 fact of her having sent him a message, and the words them- 
 selves did not amount to very much. But if she had cared 
 nothing at all, she would have said nothing at all ; and 
 perhaps the description which his aunt gave him of Lettice's 
 kindness to her, and of her interest in the story which she 
 had heard, did more to appease his heart than anything 
 else. 
 
 It was his full intention to do all that was possible to 
 deliver himself from the bondage of his unhappy marriage, 
 and in the meantime he would take every precaution to 
 prevent Lettice from being annoyed by this termagant of a 
 woman. But he rejoiced to think that Lettice herself was 
 
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 NAME AND FAME. 
 
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 in some manner prepared for wlial might happen to her, 
 and was on her guard against tlie danger. 
 
 There was a certain sweetness in the thought that thty 
 shared this danger between tliem, that liis enemy was hers 
 also, and that she had vohmtarily ranged herself by his 
 side. A feeling of satisfaction flashed through his mind at 
 this community of interests with tlie woman wliom he 
 loved, but it was merged at once in the conviction that he 
 could not be content for one single moment to leave her 
 exposed to the possibility of insult from Cora. 
 
 She had commanded him not to punish his wife. It was 
 very difficult for him to obey. This bitterness against llie 
 degraded wretch was roused to its highest pitch by her last 
 outbreak. If she would only die out of his life — die in any 
 sense, so that he might hear and see her no more — \\z 
 would not ask for her punishment. If she would cease 10 
 be his witc, and enable him to stand beside the pure and 
 steadfast woman whose gentle influence had transformed his 
 soul, he would forgive her. There was no way in whicii 
 this could be done except by exposing her before the 
 world, and depriving her of all right to look to him for 
 support, and in the doing of this he knew full well there 
 would be no room for weak pity and misgiving. 
 
 He could not forgive her if that was to mean that he 
 should keep her as his wife, and go on trying to buy her 
 rilence. He did not want to inflict pain upon her out of 
 mere resentment, and if he could have his way in ilic 
 matter of the divorce he was quite willing that she should 
 have some of his money. He would be so rich without her 
 that he would gladly go out into tlie street then and there, 
 stripped of everything that he possessed, if in that way he 
 could shake off the galling fetters that weighed upon hirii. 
 
 To-morrow he would tell his lawyer that she was to have 
 her weekly money again, on condition of her solemnly 
 renewing her engagement not to molest him in any way, 
 and not to interfere with any of his friends. She would 
 probably regard the offer as a sign of weakness, but at any 
 rate it would put her on her good behavior for a time. 
 He would do this for Lettice's sake, if not for his own. 
 
 He knew with whom he had to deal, and of what this 
 raving woman was capable. If she had been English, cr 
 German, and had gone utterly to the bad, she might I'y 
 this time have been lethargically besotted, and would have 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 »S3 
 
 given him very litllo trouble so long as she received lier 
 two i)oiinds a week. But Cora was Latin, and belonged 
 to the same race as the poet wiio drew the harpies, and 
 the Gorgons, and nuid Dido, and frenzied Camilla, who 
 had painted in a hundred forms the unrestrained fury of 
 his countrywomen, when the grace and tenderness of tlieir 
 sex had deserted them. She also was besotted at times, 
 but whenever she was not besotted her mind was full of 
 vivacity, and her anger was as a whirlwind, and neither 
 fear nor prudence could hold her in check. Alan knew 
 her only too well, even before she had tried to kill him in 
 France, and he had no doubt that the outbreak of the last 
 {q\v days was only^ the beginning of a persecution which she 
 would maintain so long as she had the power to injure 
 him. 
 
 For h'mself he had already resolved what to do. Even his 
 aunt must rot be subject to these annoyances, and he bade 
 her pack up her things and go to an old friend of hers in 
 the country. He would leave his present lodging and get 
 housed somewhere out of her reach. AVhy should he 
 remain at her mercy, when it did not matter to any one 
 where he lived, and when certainly no householder would 
 endure a lodger who was liable to be visited by a mad- 
 woman ? 
 
 But Lettice ? How could she be defended from attack? 
 It was clear that Cora was jealous of her, or at all events 
 maliciously set against her. It had required very little 
 to produce that cfT ct. Heaven knew that Lettice had 
 done nothing to excite jealousy even in the mind of a 
 blameless wife, entitled to the most punctilious respect and 
 consideration of her husband. If only Lettice could be 
 placed in safety, carried away from London to some happy 
 haven where no enemy could follow and torment her, and 
 where he might guard her goings and comings, he would 
 be content to play the part of a watch-dog, if by that 
 means he could be near her and serve her ! 
 
 Something impelled him to get up and leave the house. 
 It was dark by this time, and he wandered aimlessly 
 through the streets ; but by and by, without any conscious 
 intention, he found himself walking rapidly .n the direction 
 of Hammersmith. 
 
 Eight o'clock had struck when he left his lodgings in 
 Alfred Place, and it was after nine when he stood at the 
 
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 154 
 
 JVAM/': AND FAME. 
 
 corner where the main-road passes by the entnince lo 
 Brook (rrccn. He liad never once looked l)ehiii(l him; 
 and, even if he had, he would scarcely have deteete<l in the 
 darkness the figure which dogged his steps with obstinate 
 persistence. 
 
 He hesitated for a minute or more at tlie corner, and 
 then walked slowly round the Green. r)pj)osite to Maple 
 Cottage there was a large tree, and underneath it, barely 
 visible from the pavement, a low wooden seat. Here he 
 sat down, and watched the dimly-lighted windows. 
 
 Why had he come there ? What was in his mind when 
 he turned his face to Lettice's cottage, and sat patiently 
 looking out of the darkness ? He could not have answered 
 the questions if they had been put to him. But he felt a 
 sense of comfort in knowing that she was so near, and 
 pleased himself with the thought that e^en for these few 
 minutes he was guarding her from unseen dangers. 
 
 He may have been sitting there for half-an-hour — a 
 hundred images chasing each other through his disordered 
 brain — when suddenly a blind in the cottage was drawn up. 
 For a moment he saw the form of Lettice as she stood at 
 the window, with a lamp in her hand, framed like a picture 
 by the ivy which covered the wall. Then the shutters 
 closed, and he was left alone in the darkness. 
 
 Alone, as he thought : but he was not alone. 
 
 He had started to his feet when herfiice appeared at the 
 window, and stood with his arms extended, as tliough he 
 would reach through space to touch her. Then, as she 
 disappeared, he softly murmured her name. 
 
 "Lettice! My Lettice I" 
 
 A harsh laugh grated on his ears. It came from the 
 other side of the tree, and Alan sprang in the direction of 
 the sound. He need not have hastened, for his wife had 
 no desire to conceal her presence. She was coming for- 
 ward to meet him ; and there, in the middle of the Green, 
 shrouded in almost complete darkness, the two stood face 
 t^ face. 
 
 *' Tiens, mon ami ; te voila ! " 
 
 She was in her mocking mood — certain to be quiet for a 
 few minutes, as Alan told himself the moment he recognized 
 her. What was she doing here ? He had thought that she 
 did not know where Lettice lived ; how had she discovered 
 the place ? It did not occur to him that his own folly I'ad 
 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 »55 
 
 betrayed tlie secret ; on the contrary, he blessed the instinct 
 wliich liad brought him to the spot just when he was 
 wanted. " A si)irit in my feet hath led me to-tliy chamber 
 window, sweet ! " All this passed tiuough his mind in a 
 couple of seconds. 
 
 ** Yes, I am here. And you ! How came you liere ? " 
 
 "Nothing more simple. J came on my feet. But you 
 walked quick, my dear ; I could hardly keep u]) with you 
 at times." 
 
 " You followed mc ! " 
 
 " Yes, 1 followed you — all the way from Alfred Place. I 
 wanted so much to know where she lived, and I said, * He 
 shall show me. He, who would not for worlds that I 
 should know — he will be my sign-post.' Pouf! you men 
 are stupid creatures. I must be cunning with you, my 
 good husband who would leave me to starve — who would 
 divorce me, and marry this woman, and cut the hated Cora 
 out of your life. But no, my poor child, it shall not be. 
 So long as wc live, we two, Cora will never desert you. It 
 is my only consolation, that I sliall be able to follow every 
 step of your existence as I followed you to-night, without 
 your knowing where I am, or at what moment I may stand 
 before you." 
 
 " Let us walk," said Alan, " and talk things over. 
 Why stand here ? " 
 
 " You are afraid that I shall make another scandal, and 
 rouse the virtuous Lettice from her pillow, with the sound 
 of her name screamed out in tiie night? Ha, ha ! How 
 the poor coward trembles ! Have no fear ! Twice in a 
 week your brutal police have seized me, and I do not love 
 their kind attentions. Now and then I may defy them, 
 when I need an excitement of that kind ; but not to-night. 
 To-night I mean to be clever, and show you how I can 
 twist a cold-blooded Englishman round my finger. If you 
 go, then I will scream — it is a woman's bludgeon, my child, 
 as her tongue is her dagger. Bah ! be quiet and listen to 
 me. You shall not divorce mc, for if you try I will accuse 
 you of all sorts of things — basenesses that will blast your 
 name for ever." 
 
 " I am not afraid of you," said Alan. " For anything I 
 know, you have a pistol under your cloak — shoot me. I 
 look you to love and cherish, and you have made my life a 
 hell. What good is it ? Shoot 1 " 
 
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156 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 t. 
 
 
 "it 'llii 'it- ,■. 
 
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 " No ; that makes a noise. In Paris I would shoot you, 
 for it is you who have destroyed my Hfe. But in London 
 you do not understand these tilings, so that I must act 
 differently. Listen ! . If you try to divorce me, and do not 
 pay me my money, I have one or two little pistol-sliots a 
 I'anglaise which will s' t you perfectly. Shall I tell you 
 what I would say, to anyone who would listen to me — in 
 court, in the street, anywhere ? " 
 
 " As you please." 
 
 " First, that you fired at me at Culoz, and that I can 
 bring forward witnesses of the attempted assassination." 
 
 "That is pare nonsense; I am not to be frightened by 
 such child's play." 
 
 "Second, so far as the divorce is concerned, that what- 
 ever my offence may have been, you have condoned it. Do 
 you not understand, my friend? Did I not find shelter in 
 your rooms in Montagu Place ? I would have a good 
 lawyer, who would know how to make the most of that." 
 
 " Have you nothing stronger to rely on ? " 
 
 " Listen ; you shall tell me. My third pistol-shot is this 
 — that you were wont to make private assignations with 
 Miss Lettice Campion, and that you had been seen 
 dropping from her window, here in Brook Green, at 
 midnight. What do you think of that, for example?" 
 
 " Vile wretch ! " said Alan. " Your malice has robbed 
 you of your senses. Who would believe you ? " 
 
 " Do not be a child. Are you English, and do you ask 
 who would believe a woman telling these tales of a man ? 
 Do you not know that men are ruined every day in 
 England by the lies of women? The better the man, the 
 more abandoned the woman, the more incredible her lies, 
 so much the more certain is his condemnation. Bah, you 
 know it ! J she. id not hesitate about the lies, and, if I 
 made them sufficiently repulsive, your noble countrymen 
 would not hesitate to believe them. Do you doubt it? 
 What think you of my plan ? " 
 
 He made no answer ; he was trying to command him- 
 self. 
 
 " Now, tell me ! Shall I have my money as usual? " 
 
 " Before I left the house," he said, *• I had resolved that 
 the money ought to be paid to you. So long as you are 
 my wife, you ought not to starve." 
 
 ** Good ! It is an annuity for life ! " 
 
NAME AND J'AME, 
 
 IS7 
 
 you 
 
 "No. 
 
 I would give a hand or an eye to be free from 
 
 ' They would be useless to mc, my dear. Would you 
 give the fair fame of Lettice ? It will cost no less." 
 
 " Let that pass ! " 
 
 •'Yes, we will let that pass. Then, I receive my money 
 ixs usual? " 
 
 " Go to Mr. Larmer to-morrow ; he will pay it." 
 
 " I hate this Mr. Larmer — lie is an animal without 
 manners. But no matter. I am glad you are reasonable, 
 my friend. You buy a respite for a few weeks. I shall 
 forget you with all my heart — until I have a migraine, and 
 suddenly remember you again. But it is too cheap ; I 
 cannot live decently on this paltry sum. Good-bye, my 
 child — and gare aux migraines ! " 
 
 She was gone^ and Alan was left alone. He had dug his 
 nails into the palms of his hands, in the effort to restrain 
 himself, until the blood came ; and long after the mocking 
 liond had departed he sat silent on the bench, half-stupe- 
 ficd with rage and despair. 
 
 Was he really the coward that he felt himself, to listen 
 to her shameless threats, and tremble at the thought of her 
 machinations? Lettice had 'told him that she was not 
 afraid ; but ought he not to be afraid for her, and do all 
 that was possible to avert a danger from her which he 
 would not fear on his own account? 
 
 Ah, if he could only take counsel with her, how wise and 
 brave she would be ; how he would be encouraged by her 
 advice and strengthened by her sympathy ! But he knew 
 that it was impossible to call to liis aid the woman whom 
 i: v»as his first duty to protect from annoyance. She 
 should never know the torture he was enduring until it had 
 came to an end, and he could tell it with his own lips as an 
 indifferent story of the past. 
 
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 NAME AND FAME, 
 
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 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A SLEEPY NOOK. 
 
 Three miles from Anglcford, on the other side of the river, 
 and hidden away by trees on every side, sleeps the lazy 
 little village of Biichmead. So lazy is the place — so undis- 
 turbed have been its slumbers, from generation to genera- 
 tion, that it might puzzle the most curious to think why a 
 village should be built there at all. There is no ford 
 through the river, and, though a leaky ferryboat makes 
 occasioi.."' journeys from one side to the other, the path 
 which leads to the bank is too ])recipitous for any horse to 
 tread. The only route by which a cart can enter Birch- 
 mead branches off from the Dorminster Road, across a 
 qtiarter of a mile of meado^vs ; and when the gate of tlic 
 first meadow is closed, the village is completely slnit in on 
 every side. The world scarcely knows it, and it does not 
 know the world — its life is "but a sleep and a forgetting." 
 
 The place has a history of its own, which can be told in 
 a couple of sentences. Two hundred years ago. an 
 eccentric member of the family to which the country-side 
 belonged had chosen to set up here a little community on 
 his own account, shaped on a model which, universally 
 applied, would doubtless regenerate the world. He built. 
 out of stone, a farmhouse an.d barns, and a score of cotlagrs 
 for his working-men, and there he spent liis life and his 
 money, nursing for some thirty years his dream of hard 
 work and perfect satisfaction. Then he died, and a farm*, r 
 without his faith and wealth succeeded him, and the hamlet 
 lost its originality, and became as much like other hamlets 
 as its love of sleep and pride of birth would allow. 
 
 One thing saves it from desertion and extinction. It has 
 a reputation, over half a. coimly, for being one of the most 
 healthy and life-})rolonging spots in England. Tt certainly 
 contains a remarkable number of old men and women, 
 some of whom have come from the neighboring towns to 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 ^59 
 
 end their lives in the weatlier- proof stone cottages and 
 fertile allotments which remain at this day precisely as 
 they were built and measured out by the philanthropic 
 squire in the seventeenth century. Other cottages have 
 been run up in the meantime, and a few villas of a more 
 pretentious character ; but there is always a brisk com- 
 petition for the substantial domiciles, as snug and sound 
 as any almshouse, which encircle the village green of Birch- 
 mead. 
 
 In one of these cottages Mrs. Bundlecombe found a 
 refuge when Alan sent her away from London. It was in 
 the occupation of an old friend with whom she had been 
 on intimate terms at Thorley — a widow like herself, blessed 
 by Fleaven with a perennial love of flowers and vegetables, 
 and recognized by all her neighbors as the best gardener 
 and neatest housewife in the community. With Mrs. 
 Chigwin, Alan's aunt was happier than she had ever hoped 
 to be again, and the only drawback to her felicity was the 
 thought of her nephew's troubles and solitude. 
 
 The next cottage to Mrs. Chigwin's was inhabited by old 
 Mrs. Harrington, the grandmother of Lettice's first maid. 
 There had been no love lost between Mrs. Bundlecombe 
 and Mrs. Harrington, when they once lived in the same 
 town. The grudge had arisen out of a very small matter. 
 The bookseller's wife had sold a Bible to Mrs. Harrington, 
 in the absence of her husband, for twopence more than 
 Mr. Bundlecombe had demanded for the same book, from 
 some common acquaintance of both parties to the bargain, 
 on the previous day ; and this common acquaintance 
 having seen the book and depreciated it a few weeks later. 
 t'.ie purchaser had an abiding sense of having been out- 
 rageously duped and cheated. She had come to the shop 
 and expressed herself to this effect, in no moderate terms ; 
 and Mrs. Bundlecombe, whilst returning the twopence, had 
 made some disparaging remaiKS on the other lady's man- 
 ners, meanness, dress, age, and general inferiori'ty. The 
 affront had never been quite forgotten on either side, and 
 it was not without much ruffling of their mental plumage 
 that the two old bodies found themselves estabUshed within 
 a few yards of each other. 
 
 The squire's cottages at Birchmead were detached, but 
 their ample gardens had only a low wall between them, so 
 that the neighboring occupiers could not well avoid an oc- 
 
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 NAME AND FAME. 
 
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 casional display of their mutual disposition, whether good 
 or bad. It was close upon winter wh'jr Mrs. Bundlecombe 
 arrived in the village, and very wet weather, so that there 
 was no immediate clashing of souls across the garden wall ; 
 but in November there came a series of fine warm days, 
 when no one who had a garden could find any excuse for 
 staying indoors. Accordingly, one morning Mrs. Chigwin, 
 who knew what was amiss between her friends, seeing Mrs. 
 Harrington pacing the walk on the other side of the wall, 
 determined to bring about a meeting, and, if possible^ a 
 reconciliation. 
 
 " Elizabeth, my dear, that gravel looks perfectly dry. 
 You must come out in the sun, and see the last of my poor 
 flowers." 
 
 " Martha Chigwin," said her visitor, with a solemn face ; 
 " do you see that woman ? " 
 
 *' Yes, I see her. What then ? " 
 
 " I do not nurse wrath, my love, but I cannot abide 
 her." 
 
 " Are not six years long enough to remember a little 
 thing of that sort ? Come along, Elizabeth ; you will find 
 that she has grown quite civil and pleasant-spoken since 
 you used to know her." 
 
 So they went out into the garden, and the two ancient 
 foes sniffed and bridled at each other as they approached 
 through the transparent screen of tall yellow chrysanthe- 
 mums which lined Mrs. Chigwin's side of the wall. 
 
 " Mrs. Harrington," said the peacemaker, " there is no 
 need for me to introduce you to my old friend, Elizabeth 
 Bundlecombe, who ha.s come to pay me a nice long visit. 
 We shall be her neighbors and close friends, I hope, and if 
 you will do me the f^ivor to come in this afternoon and 
 drink a cup of tea with us, we shall be very glad to see 
 you." 
 
 ''Thank you kindly, Mrs. Chigwin. Good-morning to 
 you, Mrs. Bundlecombe. I hear you have been living in 
 London, ma'am, quite grand, as the saying is ! " 
 
 " No, Mrs. Harrington, not grand at all, ma'am. Don't 
 say so. I have known what trouble is since my poor dear 
 husband died, and I shall never feel like being grand 
 again." 
 
 " Never again, ma'am ? AVell, I am sure that Mrs. 
 Bundlecombe knows h.ow to bear her fortune, whether good 
 or bad. Did you say never again, ma'am ? " 
 
 IM 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 i6i 
 
 erand 
 
 The old lady seemed to take this phrase as a kind of 
 comprehensive and dignified apology for the past, which 
 ought to be met in a conciliatory manner. 
 
 " Well, well, Mrs. Bundlecombe, bygones is bygones, and 
 there's no more to be said about it. Not but \vhat jjiinciple 
 is principle, be it twopence or twenty pounds." 
 
 "Allowance must be made, Mrs. Harrington, for the 
 feelings of the moment." 
 
 '' On both sides, ma'am," said Mrs. Harrington. 
 
 " Like reasonable parties," said Mrs. Bundlecombe. 
 
 Then they nodded at each other widi much vigor, and 
 shook hands across the top of the wall Lhrough the branches 
 of the chrysanthemums. Thus vaguely, but with a clear 
 understanding on the part of L jth combatants, peace was 
 m.ide, and good relations were established. Mrs. Chigwin 
 was delighted at tlie easy way in which the ditftculty had 
 been overcome, and in the afternoon she treated her friends 
 in such a genuinely hospitable and considerate fashion 
 lliat they were soon perfectly at their ease. Indeed, the 
 three old people became very intimate, and spent their 
 Christmas together in peace and charity. 
 
 Alan came over one day early in February to see his 
 aunt, and make sure that she was as comfortable as slie 
 professed to be. It was a characteristic proceeding on his 
 part. Mrs. Bundlecombe, as the reader r: ly have observed, 
 was not very poetic in her taste, and not so refined in 
 manners as most of the women with whom Alan now asso- 
 ciated. But he always thought of her as the sister of his 
 mother, to whom he had been romantically attached; and 
 he had good reason, moreover, to appreciate her devotion 
 to himself during the last year or so. He found her fairly 
 I'appy, and said nothing which might disturb her peace of 
 mind. Lettice Campion, he told her, had recovered from 
 a serious illness, and had gone on the Continent for a few 
 weeks with Mrs. Hartley. He was bent on obtaining a 
 divorce, and expected the case to come on shortly. This 
 he treated as a matter for unmixed rejoicing ; and he 
 casually declared that he had not seen " the Frenchwoman " 
 for eight or ten weeks ; which was true enough, but only 
 because he was carefully keeping out of her way. And it 
 was a poor equivocation, as the reader will presently see. 
 
 So Mrs. Bundlecome flattered herself that things were 
 
 1 i 
 
 11 
 
I! itit 
 
 m. 
 
 ii! 
 
 162 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 going fairly well with her iie})hew, and she possessed her 
 soul in patience. 
 
 Now as Alan sat talking to his aunt in Mrs. Chigwin's 
 best room, looking out upon the garden on Mrs. Harring- 
 ton's side, he suddenly started, and stopped short in what 
 he was saying. 
 
 '•'■ Why, Aunt Bessy, who on earth is living next door to 
 you?" 
 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe looked where he pointed, and was 
 almost as much surprised as himself to see Lettice's former 
 maid, Milly, walking in the garden with all the airs and 
 graces of a grand lady. She h:!d on a fur cloak, and a 
 little cap to match, and she looked so handsome and well- 
 dressed that it would not have been surprising if Alan had 
 not recognized her. But Milly's pretty face, once seen, was 
 not easily forgotten ; and, as she was associated with 
 Lettice in Alan's mind, he had all the more reason for re- 
 caUing her features. 
 
 "That is the first I have seen of her in these parts,'" 
 said Mrs. Bundlecombe. " You remember that ^liss Cam- 
 pion had a Thorley girl at Maple Cottage, who left her five 
 or six months ago ? " 
 
 " I remember your telling me so — ]\Iilly, she used to be 
 called ? " 
 
 " Yes, Emily Harrington. That is the girl, without a 
 doubt. Her grandmotlicr lives over yonder; but I never 
 knew that she v/as expecting a visit from this fine lady. 
 Only last week she was telling me that slie had not heaid 
 from Milly for several months. There was a letter from 
 her before Christmas, to say that she was married and 
 traveling abroad." 
 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe shook her head dubious! v from side 
 to side, and continued the motion for some time. She was 
 thinking how much money it would have taken to buy that 
 sealskin cloak; but, however far her doubts may have car- 
 ried her, she did not give utterance to them in words. 
 
 " She is certainly very nice-looking," said Alan. " And 
 she seems to be getting on in the world. Perhaps she has 
 made a good marriage ; I should not at all wonder.'" 
 
 " Well, it is charitable to hope so," said Aunt Bessy, 
 with an expression in her face that was anything but hope- 
 ful. " I can't forgive her for leaving Miss Campion in 
 such a hurry. I sujipose she wanted to better herself, as 
 
NAME AKD FAME. 
 
 163 
 
 those minxes always say. As if anyone could be better off 
 
 than living wiih Jicr /" 
 
 Alan turned round to the window again, and looked out. 
 His aunt's words touched a chord in liis heart, which 
 vibrated strongly. To live with lier, in any capacity what- 
 ever — assuredly that would be the highest attainable good. 
 To draw from her gentle presence that bliss of absolute 
 rest and ease which he had never known until he came to 
 know her — to talk and listen without a shadow of reserve, 
 forgetting self, unashamed of any inferiority which his mind 
 might shiow in comparison with hers, unafraid of giving 
 offense to tliat sweet and wcll-poiscd nature — to look upon 
 her face, almost infantile in its ingenuous expression, yet 
 with indomitable strength in the clear grey eyes which 
 revealed the soul within — to live with her would indeed be 
 perfect happiness ! 
 
 And the more he felt this, the less hopeful he was of 
 realizing his aspiration. She had been ill, at the point of 
 death, and he could not be near her. He had iiiquired of 
 her progress at the Grahams' house, but always in fear lest 
 he should bring sorrow to her, or annoyance to tht-m. The 
 creature whom he had made his wife was never absen. from 
 his thoughts. In his most despondent moment.; he ceased 
 to believe that he would ever be able to shake her off. 
 She haunted Kim, asleep or awake, at his meals and at his 
 books, in his quiet lodging or when he stole out for a soli- 
 tary walk. He tried to persuade himself tluit he exagger- 
 ated his trouble, and that there were plenty of men under 
 similar circumstances who would not allow their i)eace of 
 mind to l)e disturbed, l^ut if he was weaker ihan others, 
 that did riOt make his })ain less bitter. He feared her, and 
 dreaded the fulfdment of her threats ; yet not so much on 
 his own account as because they were directed against Let- 
 tice. 
 
 It was no consolation to him to think that the law would 
 punish her — that the police would remove her as a 
 drunken brawler — that the courts could give him his 
 divorce, or perhaps shut her up as a madwoman. What 
 good would even a divorce be to him if she. had slandered 
 Leitice, blackened his character, alienated all whom he 
 loved, and remained alive lo be the curse and i)oison of his 
 existence ? 
 
 As he i)ondcred these things in his heart, the trouble 
 which he had fought off wh'cn he came down into the 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 'I'i 
 
 
I )] 
 
 :• ^M 
 
 
 164 
 
 J\rAME AND FAME. 
 
 country that morning returned upon him with renewed 
 force. He had fled from town to escape from the agony of 
 shame and disgust which she had once more inflicted on 
 him, and he groaned aloud as he thought of what had hap- 
 pened in the last few days. 
 
 " I think I must have a touch of the gout," he said, turn- 
 ing round to where his aunt was sitting, with a pleasant 
 smile on his face. *' It catches me sometimes with such a 
 sudden twi^':]fe thn^ I cannot help crying out like that." 
 
 Aunt Bes ■* ' . ied hard at him, and shook her head ; 
 but she said iu>y)ini^. 
 
 Soon after i , Ala't went away; and he had not been 
 gone half-an-hour, whca there came a gentle rap at the cot- 
 tage door. 
 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe opened it at once, and found, as she 
 had expected, that the visitor was none other than our old 
 friend Milly. Aunt Bessy had had a few minutes to pre- 
 pare herself for this scene, and was therefore able to com- 
 port herself, as she imagined, with proper dignity. Affect- 
 ing not to see the pretty hand which was held out to her, 
 she started back, looked inquisitively into the other's face, 
 and then cried out, as she turned her head round upon her 
 shoulders, " Well, Martha ! Martha Chigwin 1 Here is 
 an old acquaintance come to see us. Emily Harrington, 
 love, Mrs. Harrington's grand-daughter, who went to live 
 with Miss Campion in London. Well, you did surprise 
 me ! " she said in a more quiet voice. " Come in and sit 
 down, Emily Harrington ! " 
 
 " Granny told me you were here," said Milly, a little 
 taken aback by this reception, " so I thought I must come 
 in and see how you were." 
 
 " We are very well, thank you kindly, Milly. And how 
 are you ? But there is no need to ask you, for you look a 
 picture of health, and spirits, and — and good luck, Milly 
 Harrington ! " 
 
 " Oh yes, I am very well. You don't know that I have 
 been married since you saw me last. My name is Mrs. 
 Beadon now." 
 
 She drew off" her glove as she spoke, and let her long 
 hand fall upon her lap, so that the old ladies might liee her 
 wedding-ring and keeper. 
 
 " Well, my dear," said Mrs. Bundlecombe, in a mollified 
 voice, " if you are married to a good man, I am very glad, 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 165 
 
 indeed. And I hope he is well to-do, and makes you 
 hajjpy. You are nicely dressed, Milly, but nice clothes are 
 not everything, are they ?" 
 
 " No, indeed, they are not. Oh, yes, Mr. Beadon is 
 good to me in every way, so you need not trouble yourself 
 on my account." 
 
 After that preliminary sparring, they became friendly 
 enough. Milly was quite at lier ease when her position as 
 a wife was established, and she amused her hearers by a 
 lively account of her recent fortunes and adventures — some 
 of them, perhaps, slightly fictitious in character, others 
 exaggerated and glorified. Her husband, she told them, 
 was a great traveler, and was sometimes out of P^ngland 
 for six months or a year at a time. He ha jnst gone 
 abroad again, and she had taken the opportunity c oming 
 to see her grandmother — and even of liviiK >viti ler for 
 awhile, if she found Birchmead supportabl Hiey were 
 not rich, but Mr. Beadon allowed her quite en .igh to live 
 comfortably u])on. 
 
 So she played the grand lady ia the han . , to her own 
 infinite satisfaction. But now and again she had business 
 to transact in London, and then she would send to Thorley 
 for a cab, and take the afternoon train to Liverpool Street, 
 and return in about twenty-four hours, generally with some 
 little present in her bag for her grandmother, or grand- 
 mother's friends. 
 
 None the less did j)oor Milly find that time hung heavy 
 on her hands. She had not yet clipped the wings of her 
 ambition, and she still pined for a wider sphere in which to 
 satisfy her vague and restless longings. However she 
 might brave it out to others, she was very far from being 
 happy; and now and then she took herself to task, and ad- 
 mitted that all she had, and all she hoped for, would be 
 but a small price to give if she could purchase once more 
 the freedom of her girlhood. 
 
 ^ \ 1! 
 
 I \ 
 
 y*^.'. 
 

 ,. ■^■' ■■ -t 
 
 i 
 
 E;*:- 
 
 i66 
 
 hTAMK AND FAME. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 SIR John's gloxinias. 
 
 Whatever may have been the intention of Nature when 
 she produced Sir John Pynsent, there was no doubt as to 
 his own conception of the part which lie was fitted to play 
 in the world. 
 
 He considered himself, and indeed he was, above all 
 things, a manipulator of men. His talents in this direction 
 had been displayed at school and at college, and when he 
 settled down to poliiical life in London, and impulsively 
 began to suggest, to persuade, to contriv^e, and to organize, 
 everyone with whom he came in contact acknowledged a 
 superior mind, or, at any rate, a more ingenious and fertile 
 mind. He had refused to bind himself down to an office, 
 as his friends wanted him to do, or to take part in the 
 direction of a " Central Association " for dealing with men 
 in the lump. It was absurd to think of tying Sir John to 
 a place, or a routine, or a pledge of any kind. His art was 
 to be ubiquitous ; he aspired to be the great permeator 
 of the Conservative party; and by sheer force of activity 
 he soon became the best known and most popular of the 
 younger generation of Tories. 
 
 His triumphs as a manager of men were not confined to 
 public life. He was one of a numerous family, and he 
 managed them all. Every Pynsent deferred to Sir John's 
 opinion, not merely because he was the head of the house, 
 but because he had assumed the command, and justified 
 the assumption by his shrewdness and conmion-sense. 
 
 The one person in the family who gave most anxiety 
 was his half-sister, Anna. Sir John's father had married 
 a second time, when his son was a youth at Eton, and 
 Anna, the fruit of this union, inherited, not only her 
 mother's jointure of twenty thousand pounds, but a consid- 
 erable fortune from her mother's elder brother, who had 
 been a manufacturer in Vanebury. This fortune had been 
 
NAME AND J- A ME 
 
 167 
 
 allowed tu acciiiiuilaU: for the last eiglilcen years, as her 
 fa'Iier, aiul after him, her brother, had provided her wiih 
 a home, and disdained lo touch " Nnu's money." Sir John 
 was a very good brother lo her, and it was even rumored 
 that he had married early chieily for the nuri)osc of pro- 
 viding N;i". with an efficient chaj)eron. V/heliier this was 
 true or iiol, he had certainly married a woman who suited 
 liim admirably; ],ady Pynscnt sympathized in all his 
 tastes and ambitions, gave excellent dinner parties, and 
 l)eriodicalIy brought a handsome boy into the world to 
 inherit the family name and embarrass the family resources. 
 At present there weie five of these boys, but as the family 
 resources were exceedingly large, and Sir John was a most 
 affectionate parent, the advent of each had been hailed 
 with increasing satisfaction. 
 
 It was a great relief to Sir John's mind to lind that his 
 wife and his sister were such good friends. He might be 
 a manipulator of man, but he was not — he acknowledged 
 lo himself — always successful in his manipulation of 
 women, if Selina liad found Nan in the way, or if Nan 
 had been jealous of Selina and Selina's babies. Sir John 
 fjit that he would hav.e been placed on the liorns of a 
 <lilemma. Ihit this had not been the case. Nan was in 
 the schoolroom when Lady Pynsent first arrived at Cul- 
 \ crley, and the child had been treated with kindness and 
 discretion Nan rcjDaid the kindness by an extravagant 
 fondness for her little nephews, who treated her abomin- 
 ably, and the discretion by an absolute surrender of her 
 will to T.ady Pynsent's as far as her intercourse with the 
 outer world was concerned. With iier inner life, she con- 
 sidered that Lady Pynsent had not much to do, and it was 
 in its manifesialion that Sir John oijserved the signs which 
 made him anxi- nis. 
 
 Nan, he said lo himself, was a handsome girl, and one 
 wlioni manv men were sure to admire. Also, slie had 
 sixty thousand pounds of her own, of which she would be 
 absolute mistress wlien she was twenty-one. It was a sum 
 which was sure to attract fortunc-lumters ; and how could 
 he tell whether Nan would not accept her first offer, and 
 then slick to an unsuitable engagement with all the ob- 
 stinacy which she was ca})able of displaying ? Nan some- 
 times made odd friends, and W(>tiid not give them u]) at any- 
 body's bidding. How about the man she married ? She 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 i 
 
 
 'I 
 
 •■' 
 
i'il 
 
 168 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 y 
 
 (' ' 
 
 ■ ^x 
 
 would have her own way in that matter — Sir John was 
 sure of it — and, after refusing all the eligible young men 
 within reach, would (he told his wife repeatedly) end by 
 taking up with a crooked stick at last. 
 
 " I don't think she'll do that," said Lady Pynsent when 
 her husband appealed in this way to her. " Nan is very 
 difficile. She is more likely to remain unmarried than 
 marry an unsuitable man." 
 
 " Unmarried ! " Sir John threw up his hands. " She 
 must marry ! Why, if slic doesn't marry, she is just the 
 girl to take up a thousand fads — to make herself the laugh- 
 ing-stock ot the county I " 
 
 " She will not do that ; she has too much good taste." 
 
 " Good taste won't avail her ! You know what her 
 plans are already, to live in Vanebury as soon as she is 
 twenty-one, and devote herself to the welfare of the work- 
 ing-people ! Don't you call that a fad ? Won't she make 
 a laughing stock of herself and of us too ? Why, it's 
 worse than Radicalism — its's pu"e Socialism and Quixotry," 
 said poor Sir John, who was proud of his Toryism. 
 
 His wife only shook her head, and said, drily, that she 
 would not undertake to prophesy. 
 
 " Prophesy ? My dear Selina, I merely want you to 
 exert common caution and foresight. There is but one 
 thing to do with Anna. We must get her married as soon 
 as ever we can, before she is twenty-one, if possible. She 
 must marry a man on our own side, some years older than 
 herself — a man of the world, who will look after her prop- 
 erty and teach her common-sense — a man who can restrain 
 her, and guide her, and make her happy. I would givi a 
 thousand pounds to find such a man." 
 
 But in his own heart the baronet believed that he had 
 found him, for he thought of his friend, Sydney Campion. 
 
 Campion had small private means, if any ; he knew that ; 
 but then he seemed likely to be one of the foremost men of 
 the day, and if he could achieve his: present position at his 
 age, what would he not be in ten years' time? Quite a 
 match for Anna Pynsent, in spite of her beauty and her 
 sixty thousand pounds. If Nan had been a little more 
 commonplace. Sir John would have aspired higher for her. 
 But there was a strain of '' quixotry," as he called it, in 
 her nature, which made him always uncertain as to her 
 next action. And he felt that it would be a relief to him 
 
NAME AND JwtMP:, 
 
 169 
 
 to luivc her safely married lo a friend of his own, and one 
 whom he could inllucnce, if necessary, in the right direc- 
 tion, like Sydney Canii)ion. 
 
 CainpiDii was a handsome fellow, loo, and popular, Sir 
 John hclieved, with tlie Indies. It was all the more odd 
 nnd unaccountable that Nan seemed to have taken a dis- 
 like to him. She would not talk about his doings ; she 
 would go out if she thought that he was likely to call. Sir 
 John could not understand it. And Campion seemed shy 
 of coming to tiie house in Eaton Square when the Pynsents 
 returned to town ; he was pleasant enough with Sir John 
 at the Club, but he did not appear to wish for much soci U 
 intercourse with Sir John's wife and sister. The worthy 
 baronet would have bccii a little huffed, but for the ])re- 
 occupation of his mind with other matters, chiefly i)olitical. 
 
 But this was in November and December ; and he 
 knew that Cam])ion's mother had lately died, and that he 
 was anxious about that clever sister of his, who had lately 
 written a good novel, and then been ill, and had gone to 
 Italy. There was tliat Walcott affair, too, which had 
 lately come to Sir John's ears, a very awkward affair for 
 Campion to have his sister's name mixed up in. Probably 
 that was tlie reason why he was holding back. Very nice 
 of Cam])ion, very nice. And Sir John became doubly 
 cordial in his manner, and pressed Sydney to dine with him 
 next week. 
 
 \\\ih some reluctance, Sydney accepted the invitation. 
 He had been perilously near making a fool of himself with 
 Miss Pynsent, and he knew that she had found it out. It 
 was quite enough to makv'^ him feel angry and resentful, 
 and to wish to avoid her. At the same time, he was con- 
 scious of a feeling of regret that he had muddled matters so 
 c()m])letely — for ^[iss Pynsent was a lovely girl, her violin- 
 playinn vas delicious, she had sixty thousand pounds, and 
 Sir John was his friend. 
 
 Sydney lost himself for a moment in a reverie. 
 
 " Not very likely," he said, waking up with a rather un- 
 easy laugh. " At the best of times, I should never have 
 hud much chance. There are a good many reasors against 
 it now." And it was with a slight shade upon his brow 
 tliat he dismissed the matter from his mind and applied 
 himself to business. 
 
 I I 
 
m 
 
 170 
 
 .vajUb and fame. 
 
 
 f ,-. 
 
 He need not have troubled himself. Wjien he went 
 to dine m Eaton Square, Miss Pynsent was absent. She 
 had gone to spend the evening with a friend. Evidently, 
 thought Sydney, with an odd feeling of discomfiture, 
 because she wanted to avoid him. How ridiculous it was ! 
 What a self-conscious little fool she must be to take offense 
 at a compliment, even if is were rather obvious, r.nd not 
 in the best possible taste ! He began to feel argry with 
 Miss Pynsent. It did not occur to him for some time that 
 he was expending a great deal of unusual warmth and 
 irritation on a very trifling matter, Wluit were Miss Pyn- 
 sent and her opinions to him ? Other women admired 
 him, if she did not ; other women were ready enough to 
 accept his flattery. But just because there was one thing 
 out of his reach, one woman who showed a positive dis- 
 taste for his society, Sydney, like the spoiled child of the 
 world that he was, was possessed by a secret hankering for 
 that one thing, for the good opinion of the woman who 
 would have none of liim. Vanity was chiefly to blame for 
 this condition of things; but Sidney's \c.iity was a plant 
 of very long and steady growth. 
 
 He saw nothing more of the Pynsents, however, until 
 February, when, on the day of the first drawing-room, he 
 ran up against Sir John in Piccadillv. 
 
 ''Come along," said Sir John ins..intly, " I want you to 
 come to my wife's. I'm late, and she won't scold me if 
 you are with me. I shall use you as a butTcr," 
 
 Sydney laughed and shook his head. " Very sorry^ too 
 busy, I'm afraid," he began. 
 
 But Sir John would not be bafiled. He had put his 
 hand within Sydney's arm and was walking him rapidly 
 down Street. 
 
 " My dear fellow, we've not seen you for an age. You 
 may just as well look in this afternoon. Nan's been pre- 
 sented to-day, and there's a drawing-room tea going on — 
 a function of adoration to the dresses, I believe. The 
 women will take it as a personal com])liment if you come 
 and admire them." 
 
 Mentally, Sydney shrugged his shoulders. He had had 
 enough of oaying compliments to J\Iiss Pynsent. But he saw 
 that there was no help for it. Sir John would l)e offended 
 if he did not go, and really he had no engagement. And 
 he rather wondered how Miss Pynsent would look in Court 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 171 
 
 attire. She had worn a i)lain cotion and a flapping straw 
 hat when he saw Iter last. 
 
 Lady Pynscnt's drawing-room was crowded, but she 
 greeted her husband and Mr. Campion with great cor- 
 diality. She was wearing an elaborate costume of blue 
 velvet and blush-rose satin, and bore an indescribable 
 resemblance to a cockaUK). A dowager in black satin and 
 two debutantes in while, who belc^nged to some country 
 place and were resting at Lady Pynsent's house before 
 going home in the evening, were also present ; but at first 
 Sydney did not see Nan Pynscnt. She had entered a little 
 morning-room, with two or three friends of her own age, 
 who wanted to inspect her dress more narrowly ; and it 
 was not until Sydney had been in the room for five or ten 
 minutes that she reai)peared. 
 
 Was this stately and beautiful woman Nan Pynsent 
 indeed? Sydney was not learned in the art of dress, or he 
 miglit have appraised more exactly the effect produced by 
 the exquisite lace, the soft white ostrich feathers, the milk- 
 white pearls, that Nan was wearing on this memorable 
 occasion. He was well accustomed by this time to the 
 sight of pretty girls and pretty dresses ; but there was 
 something in Miss Pynsent's face and figure which struck 
 him with a new and almost reluctant sort of admiration. 
 
 He was looking at her, without knowing how intent his 
 gaze had become, when she glanced round and caught his 
 eye. She bowed and colored slightly ; then, after saying 
 a word to Lady Pynsent, she came towards him. Sydney 
 was uncomfortably conscious that her evident intention to 
 speak to him made her a little nervous. 
 
 She held out her long, slim hand, and favored him with 
 the pleasantest of smiles. 
 
 " How do you do, Mr. Campion ? I have not met you 
 for along time, I think. Plow good of you to come to-day ! 
 Lady Pynsent is so pleased." 
 
 There was nothing for Sydney to do but to respond in the 
 same gracious strain ; but he was certainly more reserved 
 than usual in his speech, and behaved with an almost 
 exaggerated amount of respect and formality. After the 
 first two or three sentences he noticed that her eyes began 
 to look abstractedly away from him, and thr.t she answered 
 one of his remarks at random. And while he was wonder- 
 ing, with some irritation, wliat this change might mean, 
 
 \< \ 
 
 i ! 
 1 j 
 
!i 
 
 172 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 she drew back into a bow window, and motioned to him 
 almost imperceptibly to follow her. A heavy window 
 curtain half hid them from curious eyes, and a bank of 
 flowers in the window- gave them an ostensible pretext for 
 their withdrawal. 
 
 " Look at John's gloxinias," said Nan. " They came 
 from Culverley, you know. Oh, Mr. Campion, 1 want to 
 tell you — I'm sorry that I was so rude to you at Culverley 
 last summer." 
 
 This proceeding was so undignified and so unexpected 
 that Sydney was stricken dumb with amaze. 
 
 *' Perhaps you have forgotten it," said Nan, coloring 
 hotly ; " but I have not. It all came from you not knowii g 
 who I was, I suppose — Mrs. Murray told me that she 
 believes you thought I was the governess ; and if I had 
 been, how odd it must have seemed to you that I should 
 talk about your duties tc the Vanebury laborers ! You 
 know I have some property there, and so " 
 
 " Oh, it was perfectly natural, and I never thought of 
 it again," said Sydney lamely. But she went on unheed- 
 ing— 
 
 " And then I felt vexed, and when you asked me for a 
 flower " — how innocently it was said ! — " I know I banged 
 the aoor in your face. Sclina said I must have been very 
 rude to you. And so I was." 
 
 But Selina had not meant that she should acknowledge 
 her " rudeness " to Mr. Campion, nor had Nan told her 
 of the bold admiration that she had read in Sydney's 
 eyes. 
 
 '* Will you forgive me, Mr. Campion ? You are such a 
 friend of John's that I should not like to think I had 
 offended you." 
 
 " You never offended me, Miss Pynsent. In fact, I'm 
 afraid — I — was very dense." He really did not know what 
 to say ; Miss Pynsent's naivete almost alarmed him. 
 
 " Then you are not angry with me ? " 
 
 How lovely were the eyes that looked so pleadingly into 
 his face ! Was she a coquette ? But he could only answer 
 as in duty bound — 
 
 " Not angry in the very least, Miss Pynsent." 
 
 " I am so glad. Because I want to talk to you about 
 Vanebury one day. But I must not stop now, for there 
 are all these people to talk to, you know." 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 '73 
 
 ''I may ask you to forgive the stupidity of my mistake, 
 tlieii? " said Sydney quickly. 
 
 " It was not stupid : how could you know who I was ? 
 
 There, John, I have been showing Mr. Campion your 
 
 gloxinias. Don't you think them lovely, Mr. Campion ? " 
 
 And she glided away with the sweetest smile, and 
 Sydney, after a few words with Sir John, took his departure, 
 with a feeling of mingled gratification and amusement 
 which he found rather pleasant. So she had not thought 
 him impertinent, after all? She did not seem to have 
 noticed the compliment that he had tried to pay her, and 
 which he now acknowledged to himself would have suited 
 for Milly Harrington better than Sir John Pynsent's sister. 
 Was she really as childlike as she seemed, or was she a 
 designing coquette ? 
 
 The question was not a very important one, but it led 
 Sydney to make a good many visits to Sir John's house 
 during the next few weeks, in order to determine the 
 answer. Miss Pynsent's character interested him, he 
 said to himself; and then she wanted to discuss the state 
 of the working-classes in Vanebury. He did not care very 
 much for the state of the working-classes, but he liked to 
 hear her talk to him about them. It was a pity that he 
 sometimes forgot to listen to what she was saying; but 
 the play of expression on her lovely face was so varied, 
 the lights and shadows in her beautiful eyes succeeded 
 each other so rapidly, that he was a little apt to look at 
 her instead of attending to the subject that she had in 
 hand. 
 
 This was quite a new experience to Sydney, and for 
 some time his mind was so much occupied by it that the 
 season was half over before he actually faced the facts of 
 the situation^ and discovered that if he wanted to pluck 
 this fair flower, and wear it as his own, Sir John Pynsent 
 was not the man to say him nay. 
 
 v^-w 
 
BOOK IV. 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 " Wer nie sein Brod mit Thranen ass, 
 Wer nie die kummervollen Nachte 
 Auf seinen Bette weinend sass, 
 Er keiint Euch nicht, ihr himmlische Machte ! " 
 
 Goethe. 
 
, - 
 
 1 i 
 
 'f 
 
 
 1.:^» ;<:':• 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 177 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 " I WAS THE MORE DECEIVED." 
 
 MiLLY Harrington bad passed two months at Bircbmead, 
 and her grandmother's neighbors were beginning to specu- 
 late on the probabiHties of her staying over the summe::. 
 
 " Poor soul ; it's lonely for her," Mrs. Chigwin said to 
 her friend, Elizabeth. " I do hope that Mr. Beadon, or 
 whatever her husband's name is, will come back before 
 very long. She must be fretting for iiim, and fretting's so 
 bad for her." 
 
 *' You think there is a husband to come, do you ? " asked 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe, mysteriously. 
 
 " Why not, Bessy ? Sb.e says she's married, and she 
 wears a wedding-ring ; and her clothes is beautiful." 
 
 " Fd like to see her marriage lines," said Mrs. Bundle- 
 combe. " But, tliere ! maybe Fm hard on her, poor thing, 
 which I ought not to be, seeing that I know what trouble 
 is, and how strangely marriages do turn out sometimes. 
 But if there is a husband in the case, it's shameful the way 
 he neglects her, never coming to see her, and going abroad 
 on business, as she says, while she stays with her grand- 
 mother ! " 
 
 " She pays Mrs. Harrington," remarked Mrs. Chigwin, 
 reflectively, "and she always seems to have plenty of 
 money ; but she do look sad and mournful now and then, 
 and money's not everything to those that want a little love." 
 
 As she concluded her moral observation, she started up, 
 for a shadow darkened the oj^en doorway : and on looking 
 up, she saw that Milly herself was standing just outside. 
 The girl's "beautiful face was pale and agitated \ and there 
 were tears in her eyes. The old woman noticed that she 
 was growing haggard, and that there were black lines 
 beneath her eyes ; they exchanged significant looks, and 
 then asked her to step in and sit down. 
 
 "You run about too much and fatigue yourself," said 
 Mrs. Chigwin. " Now you sit there and look at my flowers, 
 
 12 
 
c 
 
 ii 
 
 I'h 
 
 178 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 how still they keep ; tlicy wouldn'i be lialf so fine if I was 
 always transplanting them. You want a good, quiet home 
 for yourself: not to be moving about and staying wiih 
 friends, however fond of you they may l)e." 
 
 Milly had sunk into llic chair offered lo her, with a look 
 of extreme exhaustion and fatigue, but at Mrs. Chigwin's 
 words she sat up, and In r c}cs hf-;in lo grow l.iright again. 
 
 " I think so myself, Mrs. Chigwin. 1 shall be glad to get 
 back to my own nice quiet home again. As for looking 
 tired, it is only because I have been packing u}) my tilings 
 and getting ready to go. Mr. Beadon has written to nv 
 to join him in London, and I am going to start this very 
 afternoon." 
 
 The rosy color came back into her face : she smiled 
 triumphantly, but her lips quivered as she smiled. 
 
 "That's right, my dear. I don't approve of young hus- 
 bands and wives living separate, unless there's some very- 
 good cause for it," said Mrs. Bundlecombc, thinking of her 
 beloved Alan. " It always gives occasion to the enemy, 
 and I think you're very wise to go back. Perhaps you had 
 some little bit of a tiff or misunderstanding with Mr. 
 Beadon " 
 
 " Oh no," said Milly. The color in her face was pain- 
 fully hot now. " Mr. I'eadon is always very good and kind. 
 E('t," she continued, looking down and ])ushing her wed- 
 ding-ring to and fro, ''he is very busy indeed, and lie is 
 obliged to go abroad sometimes on business. He travels 
 — I think he calls it — for a great London house. He is 
 getting on very well, he says_, in his own particular line.'" 
 
 "Ah, that is nice!" said j\L-s. Chigwin, comfortably. 
 "And how glad you will be to see each other." 
 
 " Oh, yes," faltered Milly. There was a curiously 
 pathetic look in her great blue eyes such as we sometimes 
 see in those of a timid child. " Yes — very glad." 
 
 "And you'll bring him down here to see your grand- 
 mother, I suppose? She's not set eyes on him yet, has 
 she ? And how nice it will be for you to come down now and 
 then — especially when you have a family, my dear, Birc!;- 
 mead being so healthy for children, and Mrs. Harrington 
 such a good hand with babies " 
 
 Suddenly, and to Mrs. Chigwin's infinite surprise, Mill}' 
 burst into tears. The loud, uncontrolled sobs frightened 
 the two old women for a moment ; then Mrs. Chigwin got 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 in 
 
 uj) and fetched a glass of water, clicking her tongue against 
 the roof of her mouth, and audibly expressing her fear that 
 M lily's exertions had been " too much for her." But Mrs. 
 Ijundlccombe sat erect, with a look of something like dis- 
 approval upon her comely old face. She had her own 
 views concerning iMilly and her good fortune ; and soft and 
 kind-hearted by nature as she was, there were some things 
 that Aunt Bessy never forgave. The wickedness of Alan's 
 wife had hardened her a little to youthful womankind. 
 
 '■ I'm better, thank you," said Milly, checking her sobs 
 at last, and l)cginning to laugh hysterically. " I don't 
 know what made me give way so, I'm sure." 
 
 " You're tired, love," said Mrs. Chigwin, sympathetically, 
 "and you're not well, that's easy to see. ^'ou must just 
 take care of yourself, or you'll be laid up. You tell your 
 good husband that from me, who have had experience, 
 though without a family myself." 
 
 Mllly wiped the tears away, and rose from her chair. 
 
 "I'll tell him," she said. "But — oh, there's no need : 
 he takes an awful lot of care of me, you've no idea ! Why, 
 it was he that said I had better come to my grandmother 
 wliile he was away : he knew that granny would take care 
 of me ; and now, you see " — with hasty triumph — " lie 
 wants me home again ! " 
 
 She pocketed her handkerchief, and raised her head. 
 
 "I thought you said he had been abroad?" said Mrs. 
 Bundlecombe. 
 
 '• Of course I did, because he has been abroad," the 
 girl said, laughing nervously. "But he's in Loiidon now. 
 Well, good-bye, Mrs. Chigwin ; good-bye, Mrs. Bundle- 
 combe ; you'll go in and comfort granny a bit when I'm 
 gone, won't you ? She's been fretting this morning about 
 my going away." 
 
 '• Bless you, love," said Mrs. Chigwin. " I'll go in every 
 day if you think it will do her any good. And if you write 
 to her, Milly, she'll be pleased, I'm sure." 
 
 ■' I ivill write," said Milly, in rather a shame-taced way. 
 "I was so busy — or I'd have written oftener. Good-bye." 
 
 .She looked at them wistfully, as if reluctant to take her 
 leave ; and her expression so wrought upon Mrs. Chigwin's 
 feelings that she kissed the girl's cheek affectionately. 
 
 "•Good-bye, love," she said ; " you know where to find 
 I'S when you want us, you know." 
 
i8o 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 Milly departed, and the two friends remained silent until 
 her light figure had passed the window, and the click of iht 
 garden gate told them that she was well out of hearing. 
 Then Mrs. Chigwin began, in rather a puzzled tone : 
 
 " You weren't very hearty with her, Elizabeth. You 
 looked as if you had something against her." 
 
 " I've this against her," said Mrs. Bundlecombe, smooth- 
 ing down her black apron with dignity, ** that I believe 
 there's something wrong about that marriage, and that if I 
 were Mrs. Harrington I wouldn't be satisfied until I'd seen 
 her marriage lines." 
 
 " Perhaps she has seen them," said Mrs. Chigwin, the 
 pacific. " And we've nothing to go upon, Bessy, and I'm 
 sure the idea would never have entered my head but for 
 you." 
 
 " Why did she burst out crying when you talked of her 
 husband and children coming down here?" asked Mrs. 
 Bundlecombe, acutely. '' It may be that she isn't to blame ; 
 but there's something wrong somewhere. She's hurried 
 and flurried and worried." 
 
 And this was true. The summons which Milly had 
 received was of the briefest and least intelligible character. 
 It was in a handwriting that she knew well, and although 
 it was unsigned she was tremulously ready and eager to 
 obey it at once. " Come back to your old lodgings at 
 Hampstead," the writer said. " Do not stay any longer 
 at Birchmead : I want you in London." And that was 
 almost all. 
 
 Milly hovered all day long between alternations of wild 
 hope and wild despair. If she had been accustomed to 
 self-analysis, she herself might have been surprised to see 
 how widely her present moods differed from those which 
 had dominated her when she lived at Maple Cottage. She 
 was then a vain, self-seeking little damsel, affectionate and 
 uncorrupted, with an empty head, indeed, tut an innocent 
 heart. Now both self-seeking and vanity were being 
 scourged out of her by force of the love which she had 
 learnt to feel. She was little changed in manner, and an 
 observer might have said that she was as childishly pleased 
 as ever with a new gaud or a pretty toy ; but behind the 
 self-sufficiency of her demeanor, and the frivolity of her 
 tastes, there was something new — something more real and 
 living than mere self-indulgence and conceit. The faculty 
 
 1; 
 
 % 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 i8i 
 
 of giving and spending herself for others had sprung into 
 being with the first love she had known. For the man 
 wiih whom she had gone away from Letlice's house she was 
 willing to lay down her life if he would but accept the gift. 
 And when he seemed loath to accept it, AFiliy became con- 
 scious of a heart-sick shame and pain which had already 
 often brought tears that were not unworthy to her pretty 
 childish eyes. The strength of her own feelings frightened 
 her sometimes : she did not know how to resist the surging 
 tide of passion and longing and regret that rose and fell 
 within her breast, as uncontrollable by her weak will as the 
 waves by the Danish king of history. Poor Milly's soul had 
 been born within her, as a woman's soul is often born 
 through love, and the acquisition cost her nothing but pain 
 as yet, although it might ultimately lead her to a higher 
 life. 
 
 She arrived at the lodgings in Hampstead which had 
 formerly been hers, about five o'clock in the afternoon. 
 The landlady received her cordially, saying that " the 
 gentleman had bespoke the rooms," and Milly was taken 
 at once into the sitting-room, which looked west, and was 
 lighted by a flood of radiance from the setting sun. Milly 
 sank down on a sofa, in hopeless fatigue. 
 
 '^ Did he say that he would be home to-night ? ' 'she asked 
 of the landlady. 
 
 " No, Mrs. Beadon, he didn't ; but he said that he was 
 very busy in the city and would write or send if he couldn't 
 come himself." 
 
 •' How was he looking?" 
 
 *' Oh, very well, but a bit worried, I thought," said Mrs. 
 Capper. " Now let \\\q. take your things, ma'am, and then 
 rU bring up the tea : you don't look as if your stay in the 
 country had done you much good after all." 
 
 "Oh, I'm very well," said Milly, unfastening her mantle 
 and coloring with nervousness under the woman's sharp 
 eye. '• I daresay Mr. Beadon will come to-morrow, if he 
 doesn't come to-night." 
 
 But nobody came, although she sat up watching and 
 waiting for many hours after Mrs. Capper had betaken her- 
 self to her bed. What did this silence and absence mean ? 
 Her heart contracted with a curious dread. She loved, 
 but she had never believed herself capable of retaining 
 love. 
 
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 About eleven o'clock next day, she was informed ihai ii 
 gentleman wanted to speak to her. " A young-looking, 
 fair gentleman, like a clerk," said Mrs. Cupper. ''SIwill I 
 show him up? It's from your good 'usband, mosl likely. 
 I should think." 
 
 Milly started from the chair by the window, where she 
 had been sitting. *' Oh, show him up, nt once, ]^lensc."' 
 
 With one hand on the table, and her delicate face lluslitd, 
 she presented a i)ictiire of loveliness sucli as the man wlio 
 entered did not often see. He even i»aused for a niomnit 
 on tlie threshold as if too much amazed to enter, ai^.d his 
 manner was somewhat uneasy as he bowed to her, with his 
 eyes fixed in a rather furtive manner on her face. 
 
 He was a man of thirty-five, although his smooth-shavi'ii 
 face and fair hair made him look }oiinger than his \cmis. 
 It was a commf)nplace countenance, shrewd and intellig. in 
 enough, but not very attractive. There was a cei!;iin 
 honesty in his eyes, however, whicli redeemed the piaiiUK, s 
 of his insignificant and irregular features. 
 
 " Mrs. l^eadon, I think?" he said. " My name's Joim- 
 son. I come from Mr. — Mr. Beadon witii a messaij;e." 
 
 " Yes?" said Milly, her hand ui)on her side. " W'iiai i^ 
 it, please ? Tell me cjuickly — is he coming to-day ? " 
 
 The man looked at her oddly. There was something Hkc 
 pity in his eyes. 
 
 *' Not to-day, madam," he rei)licd. 
 
 Milly sank down on her chair again and sighed dee])ly. 
 The color left her cheeks. 
 
 " I have a communication to make, madam," ^aid the 
 clerk, rather hesitatingly, "which 1 am afraid may be a 
 little painful, though not, Mr. Beadon tells me, unexpected 
 by you. I hope that you will be prepuired "' 
 
 "Go on," said Milly, sharply. "What is it? Why 
 have you come ? " 
 
 " Air. IJeadon wishes you to understand, madam, that he- 
 is going abroad again very shortl\-. Me advises you to 
 inform the landlady of this fact, which will explain his ah- 
 sence. Pnit he also commissions me to ])ut into your hands 
 a sum for }Our present expenses, and to inform you that 
 he will be quite willing to assist you at any time if you 
 make application to him through me — at the address w hi(^h. 
 lam to give you, Any personal ai)plication lo hinisilf 
 will be disregarded." 
 
 "■■''•'■1 .,■ 
 
NAMF. AND FAME. 
 
 183 
 
 '• Hut, do you mean," said Milly, hercliccks growing very 
 while, *' that he is not coming — to say good bye — before he 
 i^^ocs ahioad ? " 
 
 •• He thinks it l)etler to spare you and liimsclf an inter- 
 view ilial iniL^ht W. unplensanl," said Mr. Joimson. "You 
 understand, I su|)i)ose — a — that Mr. IJeadon — my princi- 
 ])al. that is — wishes to close liis relations with you finally." 
 
 Milly started to her feet and drew herself to her full 
 hcii:hl. Her cheeks were bla/ing now, her eyes on fire. 
 '•]jut I am his wife I'' she cried. 
 
 fohnson looked ai h.-r for a moment in silent admiration. 
 He had not liked the errand on which he was sent, and he 
 liked it now less than ever. 
 
 '• P irdon me. madam," he said, in some embarrassment ; 
 '•hut Mr. Beadon is under tiie imj^ression that you under- 
 stand — that you have understood all along — that you were 
 not legally in that position " 
 
 " Vou moan," slie said, her whole form quivering in her 
 exciiement, " that what he told me was false?— that when 
 he said thai our declaration beff^re witnesses that we were 
 man and wife was a true marriage — you mean that that 
 was a lie ? " 
 
 Johnson looked at the wa]ls and the ceiling — anywhere 
 bin at poor Milly'b agonized face. 
 
 "It was not a marriage, madam," he said, in a regretftil 
 tone. 
 
 ''Then he — he — deceived me — purj")0sely? Oh, he is 
 n-icked ! lie is base ! And I thought myself — I thought 
 myself " 
 
 Her fingers clutched at the neck of her dress, as if to 
 tear it open, and so relieve the swelling of her throat. 
 
 " Does he think that he can make it up to me with 
 money? Oh, I'll take nothing from him any more. Let 
 him go if he will, and his money too — I shall die and be 
 forgotten — I won't live to bear the shame of it — the pain 
 -the " 
 
 She did not finish her sentence. Her slight form was 
 swaying lo and fro, like a reed shaken by the wind; her 
 face had grown whiter and whiter as she went on : finally 
 sill- flung up her arms and fell senseless to the floor. The 
 end q{ all her hopes and fears — of all her joys and longing 
 an I desire, was worse to her than death. 
 
 Johnson lifted her to the sofii, with a sort of awkward ten- 
 derness, which perhaps he would not have liked to acknow- 
 
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 1,;.-; .r«( . 
 
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 A'AM£ AND FAME, 
 
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 ledge to his master; and then, before summoning Mis. 
 Capper, he thrust into Milly's pocket the envelope contain- 
 ing the banknotes and the address which he had brought 
 with him. He knew that his master was " doing the thing 
 handsomely," as far as money was concerned, and he had 
 no doubt but that the forsaken woman would see, when she 
 had got over her first mad frenzy of despair, that she had 
 better accept and use his gifts. So he stowed the envelope 
 away in her pocket, so thiit it might not attract the curious 
 eyes of prying servant or landlady. 
 
 Then he called to Mrs. Capper, and gave her a brief 
 explanation of Milly's swoon. " The lady's a little over- 
 come," he said. '* Mr. Beadon has got to go abroad, and 
 couldn't find time to see her before he went." 
 
 " Hard-heated brute ! " said the landlady, as she chafed 
 Milly's hands, and held a smelling-bottle to her nose. 
 
 '* Oh, dear, no ! " said Mr. Johnson, briskly. " Family 
 ties must not stand in the way of business. I wish you 
 good-day, and hope the lady will soon be better." 
 
 And he left the house rather hurriedly, for he had no 
 desire to encounter the despairing appeal of Milly's eyes 
 when she recovered from her swoon. 
 
 " It is a little too bad to make me his messenger," he 
 said to himself. '* He may do his dirty work himself an- 
 other time. I thought she was quite a different sort of 
 person. Poor thing ! I wonder how he feels about her, or 
 whether he feels anything at all." 
 
 He had an apportunily of putting his master's equani- 
 mity to the test when he made his report of the interview 
 — a report which was made that very afternoon, in spite of 
 his representations that Mr. Beadon had already gone 
 abroad. 
 
 " Well, you saw her ? " he was asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir. I said what you desired, and gave her the 
 money." 
 
 "Any fuss?" 
 
 " She fainted — that was all," said Johnson, grimly. 
 
 " But she kept the money ? " 
 
 *' She had no choice. I put it into her pocket while she 
 was unconscious, and then summoned the landlady." 
 
 "Ah, yes, that was right. And she understands " 
 
 " Everything that you wish her to understand," said the 
 clerk, with a touch of disrespect in his manner, which his 
 employer noticed, and silently resented. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 185 
 
 '* Well, it had to be done, and the sooner the better," he 
 said, turning away. 
 " So I suppose," said Johnson. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 
 THE TONGUE OF SCANDAL, 
 
 Alan returned to town with the full knowledge that he 
 had something formidable to face and overcome. 
 
 He had gone to Birchmead partly in redemption of an 
 old promise to his aunt, not knowing when he might be 
 able to keep it if he did not do so now, and partly because 
 his mind had been distracted by a fresh outbreak of 
 violence in his wife, and he found it absolutely impossible 
 to sit still and endure in patience. 
 
 The country journey refreshed him, and he came back 
 stronfifer and braver than before. He was resolved to 
 press for his divorce, and as Lettice was in Italy, no time 
 could be better than the present for proving to the desper- 
 ate woman, who was tr}'ing to terrify him, that there were 
 laws in England to which she must yield obedience. He 
 assured himself that he was now prepared for any fate; 
 and yet that which had happened before he left town was 
 an earnest of what he had to expect. 
 
 What had happened was this. 
 
 A few days before Cora had been served with a notice 
 to appear and defend the suit for divorce which her hus- 
 band was bringing against her ; and this had set her inflam- 
 mable soul on fire. She had tried hard to discover his 
 whereabouts, without success. She had gone to Maple 
 Cottage and banged at the door in such furious style, that 
 a policeman, who happened to be passing, came up to see 
 what was wrong, just as the new occupants made their 
 appearance, in mingled alarm and indignation. 
 
 '• 1 want Miss Campion," said Cora, who was half- 
 intoxicated, but still more excited by rage and jealousy. 
 
 " She no longer lives here," said the man at the door, 
 
 " Where is she ? " 
 
 "I don't know. And I should not tell you if I did. 
 Policeman, take this v/oman in charge for annoying me ! 
 
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 JVAME AND FAME. 
 
 You must have seen her knocking like a fury— and now 
 she is evidently tii)sy." 
 
 Her rage increased rather than diminished wlien she 
 found that her intended prey had escaped her, she began 
 to declaim at the top of her voice, and to shriek hysteric- 
 ally ; and the policeman, regarding it as a simple case of 
 " drunk and disorderly," took her off to the station, where 
 she was locked up. 
 
 The first that Alan heard of it was from the papers next 
 morning. In one of these, which he was accustomed to 
 read after breakfast, he found the following report : — 
 
 ** At Hammersmith, a dissipated-looking woman, who 
 gave the name of Cora Walcott, was charged with being 
 drunk and disorderly on the previous day, and annoying Mr. 
 Peter Humphreys, of Maple Cottage, Brook Green. Ser- 
 geant T 14 stated that he had observed the prisoner 
 behaving in an extraordinary manner outside Mr. Hum- 
 phreys' house, and knocking at the door in a most violent 
 manner. As she would not go away, and her conduct was 
 a serious annoyance to the neighbors, he was compelled to 
 take her into custody. In reply to the prisoner, the wit- 
 ness said that she was undoubtedly drunk. She had asked 
 for Miss Campion, and he had ascertained that that lady 
 did previously live at Maple Cottage. She had told him 
 that she was the wife of Mr. Alan Walcott, who had de- 
 serted her, after making an attempt on her life. Tlie 
 magistrate here interposed, and said that the prisoner's 
 questions were totally irrelevant. What she had stated, 
 even if true, was no excuse whatever for the conduct of 
 which she had been guilty. Prisoner (excitedly) : ' This 
 Woman had taken my husband from me.' Magistrate : ' Ee 
 silent.' Prisoner : ' Am I to starve in the streets, whilst 
 they are living in luxury ? ' Magistrate : * You are fined 
 five shillings and costs. If you have grievances you must 
 find another way of remedying them. If you say any more 
 now, I shall have to send you to prison without the option 
 of a fine.' The money was paid by a gentleman in court." 
 
 As soon as Alan had read this he went to the solicitor 
 who knew all his affairs, and got him to go to the Hammer- 
 smith Police Court. The magistrate permitted him to 
 make a statement contradicting the lies told by Cora, and 
 the newspapers printed what he said. But how many 
 persons read the first report who never saw the second ? 
 
 1, 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 187 
 
 And how many of those who read both preferred to believe 
 the scandal, taking the contradiction as a matter of 
 course ? 
 
 The " gentleman in court " who paid Cora's fine was an 
 enterprising reporter, who thouglit it might be worth hij 
 while to hear what this deserted wife had to say. He 
 knew two or three papers wliich would welcome a bit of 
 copy dealing with the marital troubles of a well-known 
 literary man. The story of this French wife might be a 
 tissue of lies — in which case it would be a real advantage 
 to Mr. Walcott and Miss Campion to have it printed and 
 refuted. Or it might be partly or wholly true — in which 
 case it was decidedly in the interest of the public to make it 
 known. The argument is familiar to everyone connected 
 v/ith a popular newspaper, and it proves that sensational 
 journalists have their distinct place in the cosmogony of 
 nature, beiiig bound to print wliat is scandalous, either for 
 the sake of those who are libelled or out of simple justice 
 to those who start and spread the libel. This desire to 
 give fair play all round, even to slanderers and malefac- 
 tors, and the common father of these, is the crown and 
 apex of civilization. 
 
 The consequence of this gentleman's activity was that 
 Cora found plenty of assistance in her malicious design, to 
 take away the characters of Alan and Lettice. The 
 charges which she brought against her husband were 
 printed and commented on in some very respectable news- 
 papers, and were repeated with all kinds of enlargement 
 and embellishment wherever the retailers of gossip were 
 gathered together. If Alan had been under a cloud before, 
 he was now held up to scorn as a mean-spirited creature 
 without heart or conscience, who had allowed his lawful 
 wife to sink into an abyss of degradation. However bad 
 she might be, the blame certainly rested with him as the 
 stronger. If it was impossible to live with her now, he 
 might, at any rate, have stretched out his hand long ago, and 
 rescued her from the slough of despond into which she 
 had fallen. 
 
 This was not, of course, the universal judgment; but it 
 was the popular one. It migli^t not even have been the 
 popular judgment a year before, or a year after, but it was 
 the judgment of the day. The nuiltilude is without res- 
 ponsibility in such cases, it decides without deliberation, 
 
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 J\ 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 It: ' 
 
 j i 
 
 J \ 
 
 
i88 
 
 NAME AND FA MR, 
 
 •' *:t' 
 
 
 and it oftenmistal.es its instincts for the dictates of ecjuit)-. 
 Alan was judged without being heard, or what he did say 
 in his defence was received as tliougli it were the mcic 
 hard-swearing of a desperate mnn. 
 
 The storra had l)egun to rnge wlien he went to Birrli- 
 mead, and it reached its height soon after he returned. 
 His lawyer advised him to l)ring an action for libel against 
 one paper which had conniiitied itself more deeply than 
 the rest, and the threat of tliis had the effect of checking 
 public leferences to his case ; but the mischief was already 
 done. Nothing could make Iiim more disgusted and 
 wretched than he had been for some lime i)ast, so far as his 
 own interests were concerned. It was only the dragging 
 of Lettice's name into the miserable business which now 
 pained and tormented him. 
 
 But there was one who had more right tlian himself lo 
 come forward as the champion of Lettice's fairfimc, and 
 was able to do it with better effect. Wlien a man is a 
 Member of Parliament and a Queen's Counsel, he oc( u- 
 pies a position which his fellow-countrymen are inclined to 
 regard as one of very considerable dignity. Editors and 
 sub-editors think twice before they print unsubstantiated 
 rumors about the near relatives of such distinguished 
 individuals as Mr. Sydney Campion, Q.C., M.P. Thus. 
 after the first report of the proceedings at the police com :. 
 Lettice's name scarcely appeared again. She was, indeed, 
 referred to as " the lady who seems, reasonably or unrea- 
 sonably, to have excited the jealousy of the unfortunate 
 wife," or " the third party in this lamentable case, also 
 well-reputed in the world of letters, with whom the tongue 
 of scandal has been busy;" but she was not mentioned 
 by name. And therein the scandal-mongers exercised a 
 wise discretion, for Sydney had secured the assistance of 
 Mr. Isaacs, one of the smartest solicitors in London, who 
 found means to impress upon everyone whom it migiit 
 concern that it would be a very serious matter indeed to 
 utter anything approaching to a libel on Miss Leltice 
 Campion. 
 
 Moreover, the worthy Mr. Lsaacs had an interview with 
 Cora, whom he found in a sober mood, and so terrified 
 her by his warnings ancf menaces, but most of all by the 
 impressive manner and magnetic eye wherewith he wos 
 wont to overawe malefactors of every kind and degree, that 
 she ceased for a time to speak evil of Lettice. 
 
NAME Ah' I) J' A ME, 
 
 189 
 
 Yet in Letticc's case also the niiscliicf had been done 
 already. All who made a point of hearing and remember- 
 ing the ill that is sjjoken of th<ir fvllow-creatures, knew 
 what had been said of her, and lel lilcd il in ])rivate for 
 the amusement of their friends. 'I'he taint had spread 
 from Alan to her, and her character suffered before the 
 world for absolutely no fiiult of hers, but solely because 
 she had the misfortune to know him. That was Sydney's 
 way of putting it — and, indeed, it was Alan's way also, for 
 tlvjre was no other coiiclusion at which it was possible to 
 arrive. 
 
 It was a great consolation for both these men that I.et- 
 tice was out of the country at this time. Sydney wrote to 
 her, iiinting as delicately as he could that it was essential 
 to her interests and to his own that she should remain 
 abroad for at least two or three months longer. Alan 
 wrote about the same time to Mrs. Hartley, telling her in 
 detail what had happened, and entreating her to put off 
 her i-eturn to London as late as she could. It was not a 
 time, he thought, to hesitate as to whether anything could 
 justify him in making such a request. 
 
 Mrs. Hartley was treating Lettice very well at Florence, 
 and had no intention of letting her come back in a hurry. 
 She did not see fit to tell her of Alan's letter, for her re- 
 covery had been very slow, and fresh mental worry 
 appeared to be the last thing to which she ought to be sub- 
 jected. Nor was Lettice made aware of anything con- 
 nected with Alan and his troubles, although lier companion 
 heard yet more startling news within the next few weeks. 
 Mrs. Hartley had come to be very fond of Lettice, and 
 she guarded her jealously, with all the tyranny of an old 
 woman's love for a young one. The first thing, in her 
 mind, was to get rid of the nervous prostration from which 
 Lettice had been suffering, and to restore her to health and 
 strength. 
 
 "We shall not go back to London," she said, in answer 
 to a mild expostulation from her friend, " until you are as 
 well as ever you were. Why should we? You have no 
 tics there, no house, no friends who cannot spare you for 
 a month or two. By and by you can begin, to write, if you 
 must write; but we shall qunrrel if you insist on going 
 back. What makes you so rt sticss ? " 
 
 " 1 am idle; and 1 hiU to liiv ,■ noihing to do. Besides, 
 how can one tell what is going on, so far away from all 
 
 !tl 
 
 ii' ■! 
 
 > ■\< 
 
 I 
 
ii 
 
 : 
 
 190 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 one's friends and connections? If one of your friends 
 were in difficulties or danger, would you not wish to be 
 near him (or her), and do what you could to help ? " 
 
 "Of whom are you thinking, dear?" Mrs. Hartley 
 turned round on her quickly as she asked this question. 
 
 ** I put it generally," Lettice said, looking frankly at her 
 friend, but feeling hot and troubled at the same time. 
 
 " Oh, it was a mere hypothesis ? " 
 
 "Well, no ; it was not." 
 
 " I am not questioning you, my darling. At least. I 
 don't want to. IJut you can do no {.pod to anybody just 
 now — believe me ! You must get quite well and strong, 
 and then perhaps you can fight for yourself or for other 
 people. I don't dispute your title to fight, when and 
 where and how you like; and if ever [ am in trouble, the 
 Lord send me such a champion ! But get strong first. If 
 you went out with your shield this morning, you would 
 come back upon it to-night." 
 
 So Lettice had to be patient yet awhile. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 LETTICE TRIUMPHS. 
 
 But there was news of another kind which Mrs. Hartley 
 did not conceal from Lettice. Her novel had been pub- 
 lished, and it was a great success. The critics, who 
 already knew something of her literary powers, had with 
 one consent written long r.nd special articles about " Lau- 
 rels and Thorns," hailing it as a veritable triumph. It 
 was original, and philosophic, and irresistibly pathetic; 
 the style sufficed to mark its author as one of the few 
 novelists whose literary form was irreproachable. Perhaps 
 the praise was here and there extravagant, but it was prac- 
 tically universal. And it was not confined to the critics. 
 The reading world more than endorsed it. Second and 
 third editions of'the book were called for within a month. 
 Writers of leading articles and speakers on public platforms 
 began to quote and commend her. 
 
 Most remarkable of all; her novel made a conquest of 
 Jier brother Sydney. He did not care for novels as a rule, 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 191 
 
 but he read ** Laurels and Thorns," and was desperately 
 interested in it. Perhaps the phenomenal success which 
 had crowned it had some effect upon him ; irnd Lady Pyn- 
 scnt wrote him a nice letter of congratulation, expressing a 
 great desire to know his " distinguished sister." At all 
 events, the thing was done, and Lettice must now be defi- 
 nitely accepted as a writer of books. What chiefly puzzled 
 him was to think where she had learned her wisdom, how 
 slie came to be witty without his knowing it, and whence 
 l)roceeded that intimate acquaintance with the human 
 iicart of which the critics were talking. He had not been 
 accustomed to take much account of his sister, in spite of 
 her knack with the pen j and even now he thought that 
 she must have been exceedingly lucky. 
 
 It will readily be supposed that the breath of scandal 
 which had passed over Lettice was in no way a drawback 
 to the triumph of her book. The more she was talked 
 about in connection with that sorry business, the more her 
 novel came to be in demand at the libraries, and thus she 
 had some sort of compensation for the gross injustice which 
 had been done to her. One small-minded critic, sitting 
 down to his task with the preconceived idea that she was 
 all that Cora Walcott had declared her to be, and finding 
 in ** Laurels and Thorns " the history of a woman who 
 regarded the essence of virtue as somewhat more important 
 than the outward semblance, attacked her vehemently for 
 a moral obliquity which existed in his own vision alone. 
 This review also stimulated the run upon her book, and 
 carried it into a fourth edition. 
 
 Lettice*s fortune was made. She had nothing to do for 
 the remainder of her life but to choose where she would 
 live, to take a house, to fill it with furniture, to gratify every 
 reasonable want, on the one condition that she should 
 devote herself to honest hard work, and give to her fellow- 
 creatures the best that she was capable of producing. 
 
 It was all that her ambition had ever led her to desire, 
 and it came to her at a time of life when her enjoyment 
 was likely to be most keen and complete. Unless her own 
 hand put aside the cup, it was hers to drink and to be 
 satisfied 
 
 And what did Alan think of it ? She wondered dimly 
 now and then if he had read it, and what he thought of the 
 words that she had spoken out of a full heart to him and 
 
 r 
 
 ! i 
 
Am 
 
 
 
 
 
 IH 
 
 A^./.1//i .IXD FAAfR. 
 
 to him .'iloiic. Did bj guess it? And would he ever know ? 
 She would have l)'jcn answered if she could have seen him 
 on a certain day in April, when she was in Florence and 
 he in London t(nvn. 
 
 Alan VValcolt sat in his room, on the first floor of a house 
 between the Strand ;ind the Kiver Thames, reading Lettice 
 Campion's bo(jk. \\<i had read it once, from beginning to 
 end, and now he was turning back to the ]> issages which 
 had moved him most deeply, anxious not to lose the light 
 from a single facet of the gem thai sparkled in his hands. It 
 would have been a gem to Alan even if the world had not 
 seen its beauty, and he was jealous of those who could 
 lavish their praise on this woman whom he knew and 
 worshi[)ped, when his own hard fate compelled him to be 
 silent. 
 
 How well he recognized her thoughts and moods in every 
 page of the story ! How familiar were many of the reflec- 
 tions, and even the very words which she employed ! Hcie 
 and there the dialogue recalled to his mind conversations 
 which he had held with her in the happy days gone by. 
 In one case, at least, he found that slie had adopted a 
 view of his own which he had maintained in argument 
 against her, and which at the time she had not been willing 
 to accept. It rejoiced him to see the mark of his influence., 
 however slight, upon one who had so deeply impressed her 
 image on his mind. 
 
 The novel was a revelation to him in more ways than 
 one. It was as if she had spoken to him, for himself alone, 
 words of wisdom and comfort and encouragement. That, 
 indeed, was precisely what she had done — consciously and 
 of set purpose — though he did not know it. The plot went 
 home to his heart. When the heroine spoke to the hero 
 he seemed to catch the very tones of her voice, to see the 
 lips in motion, and to read in her eyes the spirit and con- 
 firmation of the words. Tliere was nothing in the incidents 
 of*' Laurels and Thorns " which resembled his own troubles 
 or the relations which had existed between them — except 
 the simple fact of the mutual intellectual and moral sym- 
 pathy of the two central characters. The hero had won his 
 crown of laurels and wore his crown of thorns ; the 
 heroine, who could not love him in his triumph, had loved 
 him in his humiliation. 
 
 Both descended in the scale of material prosperity to 
 rise in the scale of honor and mutual respect ; the glory of 
 
NAME AND I- A ME. 
 
 »93 
 
 ri 
 
 life was extinguished, but it gave pincc to tlic glory of love. 
 Aim read again and again the borrowed words with winch 
 JAltice's heroine conchided lier written confession of love 
 for the man wiiom she had once rejected, and who tiiought 
 liiuisclf precluded by his disgrace froui coming to iier 
 again. 
 
 ** He fixed thee tnid this dance 
 
 Of plastic circiimslaiice, 
 This Present, thou, forsooth, vvouldst fain arrest: 
 
 Macliinery just meant 
 
 To give tliy soul its bent, 
 Try thee, and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. 
 
 " Wiiat thougli the earlier grooves 
 
 That ran the laughing loves 
 Around thy base no loiiijer pause and press ? 
 
 What though, about thy rim, 
 
 Scull things in order grim 
 Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress ? 
 
 " Look not thou down but up 1 
 To uses of a cup. 
 The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, 
 The new wine's foaming flow, 
 The Master's lips a-glow ! 
 Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with 
 earth's wheel ? " 
 
 These were words of comfort to Alan, if only he dare 
 take them to himself, if he dare imagine that Lcttice had 
 had him in her mind as s!:e wrote, and had sent liim that 
 message to restore his self-respect and save him from de- 
 spair. 
 
 He sat for some time with the book before him, and then 
 another thought nme into his head. Why should he not 
 write to her, just a few words to let her know that what 
 slie had written had gone home to his heart, and that 
 amongst all her critics there was not one who understood 
 her better than he ? He was entitled to do tiiis ; it was 
 almost due to himself to do it. He would take care not to 
 make a fool of himself this time, as he had done in his first 
 letter to her. 
 
 So he took a pen and wrote : 
 
 " I have read your book. You would not expect to find 
 me amongst the critics : I only write to thank you for the 
 pleasure and the courage it has given me. Some parts'have 
 
 !■ 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
194 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 ■ V 
 
 «?■ 
 
 fitted my case so exactly that I have applied them and 
 made use of them, as any chance comer is permitted to do 
 with any work of art. 
 
 " This is a great work you have produced, and I always 
 knew that you would do great things. Count me not last 
 of those who praise you, and who look to see your future 
 triumphs. Alan Walcott." 
 
 He put the letter in an envelope, sealed and addressed 
 it. Then he leaned back in his chair, and began to muse 
 again. 
 
 What a failure his life had been ! He had told himself 
 so a hundred times of late, but the truth of the verdict was 
 more and more vivid every day. Surely he had set out 
 from the beginning with good intentions, with high mo- 
 tive?; with an honorable ambition. No man ever had a 
 more just father, a more devoted mother, a happier home, 
 a more careful and conscientious training. He had never 
 seen a flaw in either of his parents, and it had been his 
 single purpose to imitate their devotion to duty, their piety, 
 their gentle consideration for all with whom they had to 
 deal. It had struck him sometimes as almost strange (he 
 had suspected once that it was a trifle unpoetical) that he 
 had rather sought out than shunned his humbler relatives 
 in the little shop at Thorley, taking the utmost care that 
 their feelings should never be hurt by his more refined 
 education and tastes. Of these three friends of his youth 
 who were dead he could honestly say (but he did not say 
 all this), that he had been dutiful to them, and that he had 
 not wilfully brought sorrow upon any one of them. 
 
 Where had he gone so far astray as to merit, or even tc 
 bring about, the anguisii which had fallen upon him? 
 True, he had given himself to pleasure for the few years 
 whijh succeeded his father's death. He had traveled, he 
 had enjoyed the society of men and women, he had lived an 
 idle life — except inasmuch as he aspired to be a poet, and 
 wrote two or three volumes which the world had accepted 
 and thanked him for, but the standard of his boyhood had 
 never been rejected — he had been considerate of the feel- 
 ings of every man and woman (Lettice alone, perhaps, 
 having the right to deny it), and had not permitted himself 
 one pleasure, or action, or relaxation, which might give 
 pain to another. That had been his rule of life. Was it 
 not eiTough ? 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 J9S 
 
 He had teased himself, as thoughtful men and women 
 often have done, and more often will do, about the problem 
 of human morals. It had not occurred to him thai the 
 morals which have no conscious basis are likely to be more 
 sound and permanent than those which are consciously 
 built up ; and, as a matter of fact, his own were of that 
 kind, though he had his rule and considered himself to be 
 guided by it. " That which gives no pain to another, and 
 does not deteriorate another, or oneself, or any sentient 
 being, cannot be immoral, though circumstances may make 
 it inexpedient." He had written that sentence in his diary 
 before he was twenty, at an age when the expanding soul 
 craves for talismans and golden maxims, and he had clung 
 to it ever since. For what violation of the law did he suffer 
 now? 
 
 This was not Lettice's way of looking at it. The hero of 
 her story was an urn in the hands of a divine artist, and a 
 sterner stress was necessary for the consummate work. 
 But he, Alan, wa? no hero. Horace' verse was nearer 
 the mark with him. 
 
 h ;|| 
 
 i^ji 
 
 i \ 
 
 Amphorae coepit 
 Institui ; currente rota cur urceus exit ? 
 
 As water to wine were all the uses of his life henceforth, 
 compared with that which might have been. 
 
 But, sad as he was, if Lettice could have read within his 
 heart she would have been satisfied with her work. 
 
 Footsteps 
 
 thoughts, 
 there were 
 above it. 
 give made 
 " Coma 
 spoken the 
 pearance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 "AM I A MURDERER?*' 
 
 outside his door roused Alan from his train of 
 
 Only his landlady came along that passage, for 
 
 no lodgers on the same floor, nor on the one 
 
 A louder knock than Mrs. Gorman was wont to 
 
 him start from his seat. 
 
 in ! " he cried ; but before the words were 
 door was thrown open and Cora made her ap- 
 Alan turned sick at heart, and stood leaning 
 
 ill 
 
 : . I li 
 
 il', I 
 
 
19^ 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 :t . 
 
 on the end of the mantelpiece, gazing at her without a 
 word. 
 
 " Ah, my dear," she said, with a little laugh of amuse- 
 ment as she saw the disconccriod look on his face, " they 
 have not deceived me ! They did not offer to conduct me, 
 but they said I should find you here — first floor front — and 
 here you are! It is long since we met, is it not? You 
 have sent huissiers, and gendarmes, and police to bring me 
 your messages, as a king to his subject, or a judge to a 
 criminal. You should have come yourself, my friend, for 
 I have longed to see you. Are you not glad that we meet 
 thus, alone, face to face, without fear of intrusion ? " 
 
 She had shut the door behind her, and sat down in his 
 easy chair by the table, inviting him with a gesture to take 
 a seat by her side. 
 
 " Approach ! " she said, in a soft but mocking voice. 
 *' Be amiable ! Let us talk. I come for peace, not for 
 war. Let us make terms with each other. I am sick of 
 this farce of hostility between husband and wife — let us 
 arrange our little disagreements. Come ! " 
 
 Her familiar tone was odious to him. The sudden per- 
 version of his thoughts from Lettice to this creature, from 
 his dream of purity and elevation to this degrading reality, 
 filled him with disgust. Nay, something more than dis- 
 gust entered his mind as he saw the smile on her besotted 
 face. A demon of revenge seized upon him, and all but 
 gained the mastery. For one inst; nt he was perilously 
 near to springing on her where she sat, and strangling the 
 life out of her. All passions and all possibilities are in the 
 soul of every one of us, at every moment ; only the motive 
 power, the circumstance, the incitement, are needed to 
 make us cross the boundary of restraint. If Alan was not 
 a murderer, it was not because th? thing was impossible to 
 him, but becau'je at the crisis of temptation his heart had 
 been penetrated by the influence of the woman whom he 
 revered, aiid filled with higher thoughts — even through the 
 channel of humiliation and self-contempt. 
 
 He answered her calmly. 
 
 " There is no arranging what lias happened between us 
 two — nor do you wish it any more than I. Say what you 
 want to say, and go." 
 
 " Good ! I will say what I want to say — but I will not 
 go. I mean to stay with my husband; it is my right. Till 
 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 197 
 
 death do us part — are not ^.Iiose the pretty words of the 
 farce we played togcllier? " 
 
 •' Who made it a farce — did I ? " 
 
 " Listen, my friend. This is one thing I want to say. 
 Assuredly it was you, and no otlier, who made our mar- 
 1 i;ige a miseral^le failure. You took me from a life I loved, 
 from friends who loved me, from a freedom which I valued, 
 and you made no effort to study my tastes and accom- 
 modate yourself to my habits." 
 
 '• God knows 1 made llie effort. But what were those 
 tastes and habits ? Think of them — think of them all ! 
 Could I have accommodated myself to all — even to those 
 you concealed from me ? " 
 
 " Bah ! you should have known whom you had married. 
 You were so blind and foolish, that 1 had a right to think 
 you would never interfere with my liberty. I was the child 
 of liberty — and liberty is a sacred possession, which it is 
 an outrage to take away from any woman. You expected 
 me to change, to become all at once another being, cold 
 and impassive like yourself — while, as for you, you wereto 
 change in nothing ! It was your duty to come to my level 
 — at least to approach it. I would have met you halfway ; 
 we could have made our contract, and I would have kept 
 my part of the bargai \. You demanded too much, and 
 tiiat is why you lost everything. I condemn you — human- 
 ity condemns you. The ruin was your work ! " 
 
 " There is something novel in the theory, but I doii't 
 think many people would accept it." He was prepared 10 
 talk seriously with her, if she wished it, but no man could 
 he serious in view of such a prejjosterous claim. So lie 
 fell back upon the cold, ironical calmness which exasper- 
 ated Cora far more than a storm of rage would have done. 
 "At any rate," he said, "I did not deprive you of your 
 liberty. You retained that ! " 
 
 '* I kept it for myself You would have taken it away, 
 and you hated me for kee]'ing it. I keep it still. I have 
 been free to go where I would, free to \vander over this 
 terrible and desolate city, free now to come back to you, 
 and stgy with you, until you swear to cease your persecu- 
 tions, and swear to make a new compact on more eauitable 
 terms." 
 
 " It is impossible to make terms with you, for you do 
 not observe them. The law will bind you down more 
 
 1 t 
 i i 
 
 f * 
 
 I » 
 
 ! i. 
 
 M. I 
 
igS 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 strictly. Meanwhile you cannot remain here, as you pro- 
 pose." 
 
 " Do you mean to throw me into the street ? " she asked, 
 passionately. " Alive or dead, I stay here until the com- 
 pact is made." 
 
 " You need have no fear of me ; I am not going to kill 
 you." 
 
 " Fear ! Of you ! Do not flatter yourself, my friend ! " 
 
 With an insulting laugh she plucked a thin stiletto from 
 under her cloak, and brandished it before him. Alan recog- 
 nized it as one which he had missed after her visit to Mon- 
 tagu Place. 
 
 " Look there ! Would you like to feel if it is sharp, or 
 will you take my word for it ? We may want that before 
 we part. I do not much care whether you use it or I ; but 
 I will not leave this room unless you concede all that I ask. 
 Do not stand so far from me, coward. You smile, but you 
 are afraid ! " 
 
 "Why should I fear your play-acting? You will not 
 touch me, for so long as I live you hope to get money 
 from me, and if I were dead you would starve." 
 
 " Miserable hound ! Do you not think that hate is 
 stronger even than love of gold ? " 
 
 " Not your hate. Throw that useless toy away. Love 
 of gold and love of self make us both perfectly safe." 
 
 " Listen to my terms." 
 
 " No ; they are refused before you ask them. The law 
 is in motion — nothing shall prevent me from getting my 
 divorce." 
 
 " That you may marry this woman ! " she blazed forth, 
 jumping from her seat, with Lettice's book in her hand- It 
 had been lying before her, and the name had caught her 
 eye. "You shall never marry her — I swear it by my 
 father's grave. You shall never divorce me ! " 
 
 She flung the book in his face. 
 
 " Let me pass ! " he said, moving quietly to the door. 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 She seized the dagger, and stood before him, swaying 
 with her violent emotion. 
 
 ** Let me pass," he said again, still pressing forward. 
 
 She raised the weapon in her hand. Not a moment too 
 soon he grasped her wrist, and tried to take it from her 
 with his other hand. 
 
K ■•■ 
 
 jvame and fame. 
 
 199 
 
 There was a struggle — a loud scream — a heavy fall — and 
 silence. 
 
 A minute later Mrs. Gorman, attracted by the noise, 
 burst into the room. 
 
 Cora was lying on the floor, and Alan, with white face 
 and bloody hand, was drawing the fatal weapon from her 
 breast. 
 
 Mrs. Gorman's first act was to rush to the open window, 
 and call for the police. Then she knelt by Cora's body, and 
 tried to staunch the flowing blood. 
 
 A lodger from the floor beneath, who had come in behind 
 the landlady, was looking at the prostrate body. He was 
 a medical student, and perhaps thought it necessary to 
 give his opinion in a case of this sort. 
 
 " She cannot live ten minutes," he said ; but that did not 
 prevent him from assisting Mrs. Gorman in her work. 
 
 Alan had staggered back against the wall, still holding 
 the dagger in his hand. He scarcely knew what had hap- 
 pened, but the words of the last speaker forced themselves 
 upon him with terrible distinctness. 
 
 "My God," he cried, "am I a murderer?" 
 
 And he fell upon the chair, and buried his face in his 
 hands. 
 
 \ '' 
 
 t s 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 \ 
 
 HOPELESS. 
 
 ** If she dies," Graham said to his wife, in answer to Clara's 
 anxious questioning, on the morning after Alan Walcott's 
 arrest, " it will be a case of murder or manslaughter. If 
 she gets over it he will be charged with an attempt lo mur- 
 der, or to do grievous bodily harm, and as there would be 
 her evidence to be considered in that case the jury would 
 be sure to take the worst view of it. That might mean 
 five or ten years, perhap> more. The best thing that 
 could happen for him would be her death, then they might 
 incline to believe his statement, and a clever counsel might 
 get him off with a few months' imprisonment." 
 
 " Poor man," said Clara, " how very shocking it is ! " 
 She was thinking not of Alan alone, but of Alan's friends. 
 " Is there no hope of his being acquitted altogether? " 
 
 I \^'\'n 
 

 ', f* 
 
 u 
 
 200 
 
 JS'AMt AND I'AME. 
 
 " How could there be? The evidence is only too clear. 
 The landlady heard them quarrelling and struggling 
 together, then there was a loud scream, and just as she 
 entered the room the poor wretch was falling to the ground. 
 Walcott had his hand on the dagger, which was still in his 
 wife's breast. Then the otiier lodger came in, and he de- 
 clares that he heard Walcott say he was a murderer. It 
 seems as plain as it could possibly be." 
 
 " But think of the two, as we know them to have been, 
 and the relations which have existed between them for 
 years past. Surely that must tell in his favor ? " 
 
 "We are not the jury, remember. And, as for that, it 
 v/ould only go to show a motive for the crime, and make 
 a conviction all the more certain. No doubt it might* in- 
 duce them to call it manslaughter instead of murder, and 
 the judge might pass a lighter sentence." 
 
 " I do hope she will not die. It would be terrible to 
 have her death on his conscience." 
 
 " Well, of course, death is an ugly word, and no one has 
 a right to wish that another might die. At the same time, 
 I should say it would be a happy release for such a crea- 
 ture, who can have nothing but misery before her. But it 
 will make little difference to him. He is entirely ruined, 
 so far as his reputation is concerned. He could never 
 hold his ground in England again, though he might have 
 a second cliance at the other side of the world. What 
 Britain can't forget, Australia forgives. Heaven created 
 the Antipodes to restore the moral balance of Eurojje." 
 
 "That is a poor satisfaction," said Clara, "to a man 
 who does not want to live out of his own country." 
 
 " Unfortunately, my dear, we cannot always choose our 
 lot, especially when we have had the misfortune to kill or 
 maim somebody in a fit of passion." 
 
 " I cannot believe that it is even so bad as that. It 
 must have been an accident." 
 
 " I wish I could think so ; but if it is, no doubt the man 
 may have the courage of his conscience, and then there 
 will be nothing to prevent him from trying to live it down 
 in London. I should not care for that sort of thing my- 
 self. I confess I depend too much on other people's 
 opinions." 
 
 " It would be a terribe fight to live it down in London 
 — terrible, both for him and his friends." 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 20 1 
 
 " Ah," said Graham, quickly, "it is a good thing that 
 he has nobody in particular dci)cnding on him, no cpecially 
 iniiinate friends that we are aware of." 
 
 Clara looked steadily at the wall for two or three min- 
 utes, wliilst her husband finished his breakfast. 
 
 " I wrote to Lettice last night," hhe said at last, "but, 
 of course, I knew nothing of this business then." 
 
 •• J am very glad you did not. What on earth put Lettice 
 into your head? She has no conceivable interest in this 
 miserable affair." 
 
 " I think it is rather too much to say that she h.iS no in- 
 terest at all. We know that she was interested in him." 
 
 " \\t know that he is a married man." 
 
 Graham's tone was growing a little savage, as it did 
 sometimes, especially with his wife, whom he very sincerely 
 loved. But Clara did not heed the warning note. 
 
 " Facts arefiicts, and we should not ignore them. I am 
 sure they like each other, and his misfortune will be. a great 
 grief to her." 
 
 " It was just what was wanted, then, to bring her to her 
 senses. She may recognize now that Walcott is a man of 
 ungovernable pc^ssions. In all probability he will be a con- 
 victed felon before she comes back to England, and she will 
 see that it is impossible to know any more of him." 
 
 " Oh, James, how hard you are ! She will never think of 
 him as a felon. No moi > shall I ! " 
 
 '' He will be one, whatever you may think. As you said 
 yourself, facts are facts, and they will have their proper 
 influence upon you sooner or later." 
 
 '' But do you think that Lettice is the woman to change 
 her opinion of a man just because he is unfortunate, or to 
 despise him as soon as he gets into trouble ? I am perfectly 
 sure she is not." 
 
 " We shall see," said Graham. " I give her credit for 
 more sense. I don't think you recognize yet the sort of 
 offence which Walcott has committed, so we may as well 
 drop the subject for a time. I iiope, however, that you will 
 not do anything which might bring her home just now. 
 Clearly she could not do any good, and even on your own 
 showing it would be a needless vexation to her." 
 
 He went off to liis study, and Clara set about her house- 
 iiold tasks with a heavy heart. 
 
 The fact was that she could hardly doubt that Alan Wal- 
 cott had injured his wife in a moment of desperation, when 
 
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 202 
 
 JVAME AND FAME. 
 
 he was not fully responsible for his actions ; bii.; she cer- 
 tainly doubted the justice of any law which could condemn 
 him as a murderer ; or doom him to be an outcast amongst 
 his fellowmen. Her sense of equity might have suited the 
 Saturnian reign better than our matter-of-fact nineteenth 
 century, in which the precise more or less of criminality in 
 the soul of an accused man is not the only thing which has 
 to be taken into consideration. 
 
 Was there ever a malefactor condemned to imprisonment 
 or torment for whom the heart of some woman or other did 
 not plead in mitigation of his sentence ? Yet the man- 
 made laws against which untutored hearts will now and 
 again protest are often essentially merciful in comparison 
 with the wild and hasty judgments that outrun the law — 
 whether in mercy or in severity. 
 
 It was so in Alan's case. The popular opinion was evi- 
 dently against him. The great majority thought this case 
 of attempted wife-muider too clear for argument, and too 
 cold-blooded to warrant anything like sympathy for the 
 accused. Alan's private affairs had been made public 
 property for some time past, and he now suffered from a 
 storm of hostility and prejudice against which it was im- 
 possible to contend. His story, or the world's story about 
 him, had been current gossip for the last few months, as 
 the reader has already seen ; and a large number of people 
 appeared to have fixed upon him as a type of the respect- 
 able and hypocritical sinner, prosperous, refined, moving 
 in good society and enjoying a fair reputation, yet secretly 
 hardened and corrupt. It was not often that the under- 
 hand crimes of such men were plainly exposed to view, and, 
 when they were, an example ought to be made of the of- 
 fender as a warning to his class. Ever since Cora had 
 gained a hearing in the police-court at Hammersmith, 
 Alan was set down as a heartless libertine, who had grown 
 tired of his >vife, or, at any rate, as one who wanted to 
 wash his hands of her, and throw the burden of maintain- 
 ing her upon the rates. Thus it became quite a popular 
 pastime to hound down " Poet Walcott." 
 
 This is how the outcry originally began. One or two 
 newspapers with an ethical turn, which had borrowed from 
 the pulpit a trick of improving the sensational events of 
 the day for the edification of their readers, and which pos- 
 sessed a happy knack of writing about anything and any- 
 
 )M 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 203 
 
 body without perpetrating ;i libel or incurring a charge of 
 contempt of court, had printed articles on " The Poet and 
 the Pauper," " Divorce Superseded," and the like. Stirred 
 up by these interesting homilies, a few shallow men and 
 women, with too much time on their hands, began to write 
 inept letters, some of which were printed; and then the 
 editors, being accused of running after sensations, pointed 
 to their correspondents as evidence of a public opinion 
 which they could not control, and to which they were com- 
 pelled to give utteriince. They were, in fact, not dishonest 
 but only self-dcccived. They really persuaded themselves 
 that they wer^ responding to a general sentiment, though, 
 such as it was, their own reports and articles had called it 
 into existence. The " gentleman in court " who paid Cora's 
 fine at Hammersmith began the outcry in its last and 
 worst form, the editorials nursed and encouraged it, and the 
 correspondents gave it its malignant character. All con- 
 cerned in the business were equally convinced that they 
 were actuated by the best possible motives. 
 
 The news that Walcott had stabbed his wife with a dag- 
 ger did not take these charitable people by surprise, though 
 it added fuel to the fire of their indignation. What else 
 could be expected from a man who had first deserted and 
 then starved the unfortunate woman whom he had taken 
 to wife ? It was rily natural that he should try to get rid 
 of her ; but what a cruel wretch he was ! Hanging would 
 be too good for him if his poor victim should die. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say that a great deal of interest was 
 displayed by the public, when the case came on for hear- 
 ing at Bow Street ; but no real facts were elicited beyond 
 those which had already been in print. Two remands 
 were taken, in the hope that Cora mighi recover sufficiently 
 to give her evidence, but though she was at last declared 
 to be out of danger, the house-surgeon at the hospital would 
 not take the responsibility of saying that she could safely 
 attend at the police-court. Ultimately, the magistrate 
 having heard all the evidence that was forthcoming, and 
 Alan's solicitor reserving his defence, the accused was 
 committed to take his trial at the Central Criminal Court 
 on a charge of wounding with intent to inflict grievous 
 bodily harm. 
 
 Nevertheless, Alan was allowed to go out on bail. He 
 had not cared to claim this privilege, and would almost 
 
 
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 have preferred to stay in i)rison. His solicitor had made 
 much of the necessity of pre])aring iiis defence, and of the 
 indispensable conferences between iiimself and his client; 
 but Alan had not the slightest hope of being acquitted. He 
 told Mr. Larmer i)recisely how the whole thing had hap- 
 pened — how his wife had brought the dagger with her, how 
 she had raised it in her hand, how he seized her wrist, and 
 how he had never touched the weapon himself until he 
 drew it from the wound as she lay on the floor. 
 
 "They won't believe me," he said. '' You know what 
 a prejudice there is against n:e, and you will never per- 
 suade a jury to take my word against hers. She will cer- 
 tainly say tliat I stabbed her with my own dagger ; and it 
 was my dagger once : it has my name upon it." 
 
 " That is an awkward fact. If only we could prove that 
 she brought it with her, it would go a long way towards 
 acquitting you." 
 
 " But we can't prove it. Then, you see, Mrs. Gorman 
 says I had my hand on the weapon as she was falling." 
 
 " We can easily shake her in that." 
 
 "And Hipkins says that I admitted the crime — called 
 myself a murderer." 
 
 *• We can shake that too. You said, * Am I a murderer ? ' 
 It was an odd thing to say, but your nerves were unstrung. 
 Men in such predicaments have been knc.vn to say a great 
 deal more than that." 
 
 " I assure you Larmer, my mind is so confused about it 
 that I cannot remember whether I said ' Am I ' or * I am.' 
 I rather incline to think that I said ' I am a murderer ; ' 
 for I believed her to be as good as dead at the time, and I 
 certainly thought I had killed her." 
 
 " How could you think that ? You are clear in your 
 mind that you never touched the dagger." 
 
 " Yes, but I touched the hand that held the dagger." 
 
 Larmer looked at his friend and client in a dubious way, 
 as though he could not feel quite sure of his sanity. 
 
 " My dear Walcott," he said, " you are out of tune — 
 upset by all this miserable business ; and no wonder. You 
 say you touched the hand that held the dagger that stabbed 
 the woman. We know you did ; what then ? What moved 
 the fingers that touched the hand that held the dagger, et 
 cetera? Was it a good motive or a bad motive, tell 
 me!" 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 205 
 
 That is just what I can't tell you, for I don't know. 
 Perhaps it was an instinct of self-defence ; but I have no 
 recolleclion of being afraid that she would stab nie. 1 had 
 a confused notion that she was going to stab herself; per- 
 haps, I only got as fiir as thinking that the bodkin would 
 be better out of her hand." 
 
 " This is a touch of your old subtlety. I do believe you 
 could work yourself up to thinking that you actually wanted 
 to hurt her ! " 
 
 " Subtlety or no subtlety, these impressions are very 
 acute in my own mind. I can see the whole of that scene 
 as plainly as I see you at this mou»ent. It comes before 
 my eyes in a series of pictures, vivid and complete in every 
 twist and turn ; only the motives that guided me are 
 blurred and confused. I grasped her wrist, and she strug- 
 gled frantically to shake me off. Our faces were close 
 together, and there was a horrible fascination in her eyes 
 — the eyes of a madwoman at that moment, beyond all 
 question." 
 
 " I am convinced that she is mad, and has been so for 
 years," said Mr. Larmer, positively. 
 
 " She was mad then, foaming at the mouth, and trying 
 to bite me in her impotent fury. I could not hold her wrist 
 firmly — she plunged here and there so violently that one 
 or other of us was pretty sure to be hurt, unless I could 
 force her to drop the murderous weapon. I was ashamed 
 that I could not do it ; but she had the strength of a de- 
 mon, and I really wonder that she did not master me. 
 Then the end came. Suddenly her resistance ceased. The 
 desperate force with which I had been holding her hand 
 must have been fully exerted at the very instant when her 
 muscles relaxed — when the light went out of her eyes and 
 the body staggered to the ground. It all happened at once. 
 Did she faint ? At any rate, my fingers never touched the 
 dagger until after she was stabbed." 
 
 " It was a pure accident — as clear as can be ; and the 
 whole blame of it is on her own shoulders. She brought 
 the weapon, she held it, she resisted you when you tried to 
 prevent mischief. She, not you, had the disposition to 
 injure, and you have not an atom of responsibility." 
 
 " That is your view, as a friend. It is not the view of 
 the scandal-mongers outside. It will not be the view of 
 the jury. And it is not my view." 
 
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 NAME AND FAME, 
 
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 ** What do you mean ? " 
 
 "I really do not know where my responsibility began or 
 where it ended. I don't know if her strength failed her at 
 the critical moment, or if it was simply overcome by mine 
 — if, in fact, she was nijured whilst resisting my violence. 
 One thing I am sure of, and that is that my heart was full 
 of hatred towards her. There was vengeance in my soul 
 if not in my intention. Who is to discriminate between 
 motives so near allied ? Your friendship may acquit mc, 
 Larmer, but your instincts as a lawyer cannot ; and at any 
 rate, I cannot acquit myself of having entertained the feel- 
 ing out of which crimes of violence naturally spring. To 
 all intents and purposes I am on exactly the same footing 
 as many a man who has ended his life on the gallows." 
 
 " I suppose you think that tribulation is good for your 
 soul. I cannot see any other ground on which you tor- 
 ment yourself in this way about things you have not done 
 and acts you have never contemplated. I understand that 
 you entrusted me with your defence ! " Mr. Larmer was 
 waxing impatient — almost indignant — at his client's tone. 
 
 " So I do, entirely. Assuredly I have no desire to go to 
 piison." 
 
 " Then for goodness' sake don't talk to anyone else the 
 nonsense you have been talking to me ! " 
 
 ** I am not likely. I have known you since we were boys 
 together, and I wanted to relieve my mind. It seemed right 
 that you should know precisely what is on my conscience 
 in the matter." 
 
 *• Well, you have told me, and the effect of it has been 
 to convince me more than ever of your innocence. But 
 that sort of thing would scarcely convince anybody else. 
 Now take my advice, and think as little about the case as 
 possible. You cannot do any good — you will only demo- 
 ralize yourself still more. Everything depends on how the 
 judge and jury may be disposed to regard our story. I 
 shall give a brief to the best man that can be had, and then . 
 we shall have done all that lies in our power." 
 
 ** I know I could not be in better hands. If anyone could 
 get me off scot-free you are the man to do it, Larmer. But 
 I don't expect it, and I am not sure that I care for it." 
 
 Then they parted, and Alan went to Surrey Street and 
 cleared out his goods and chattels, very much to the relief 
 of Mrs. Gjrman, who assured Mr. Hipkins that she could 
 
 
NAME AND FA MR. 
 
 207 
 
 noi have slept comfortably at night with that outrageous 
 man under the same roof. 
 
 He found in his desk the message which he had written 
 li) Lettice on the day of his crowning misfortune. 
 
 " Thank heaven I did not send it," he muttered to him- 
 self, as he tore it in pieces. " One week has made all the 
 difference. Nothing could ever justify me in speaking to 
 her again." 
 
 % - 
 
 M\ 
 
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 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 MR. LARMER GIVES A BRIEF. 
 
 Mr. Larmer was not insensible to the notoriety which 
 attached to him as solicitor for the defence in a case which 
 was the talk of the town, And a topic of the sensational 
 press. Not that it gave him any satisfaction to make ca- 
 pital out of the misfortJmes of a friend ; but he would have 
 been something more than man and less than lawyer if he 
 had despised the professional chance which had come in 
 his way. 
 
 And in fact he did not despise it. There were one or two 
 inexact statements in the reports of the proceedings at Bow 
 Street — he had written to the papers and corrected them. 
 Several caterers for the curiosity of the public hashed \\\i 
 as many scandals as they could find, and served them hot 
 for the entertainment of their readers. It happened that 
 these tales were all more or less to the discredit of Alan 
 Walcott, and to print them before his trial was grossly un- 
 fair. Mr. Larmer wrote a few indignant words on this sub- 
 ject also, and made about two in a thousand of the scandal- 
 mongers ashamed of themselves. Not content with this 
 he supplied a friend with one or two paragraphs relating 
 to the case, which had the effect of stimulating the interest 
 already aroused in it. By this plan he secured the inser- 
 tion of a statement in the best of the society journals, 
 which put the matter at issue in a fair and unprejudiced 
 way, dwelling on such facts as the pending divorce-suit, the 
 fining of Mrs. Walcott at Hammersmith, her molestation 
 of her husband on various recent occasions, and her intru- 
 sion upon him in Alfred Place. This article, written with 
 
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 208 
 
 J\rAM£ AND FAME, 
 
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 manifest knowledge of the circumstances, yet with much 
 reserve and nioderation, was a very serviceable diversion in 
 Alan's favor, and did something to diminish the odium 
 into which he had fallen. 
 
 Mr. Larmer would not have selected trial by ordeal in 
 the columns of the newspapers as the best preparation for 
 a trial before an English judge and jury ; but the process 
 was begun by others before he had a word to say in the 
 matter, and his efforts were simply directed to making the 
 most of the situation which had been created. A mass of 
 prejudice had been introduced into the case by the worthy 
 gentlemen who maintain that in these evil days the press 
 is the one thing needful for moral and political salvation, 
 and who never lose an opportunity of showing how easy it 
 would be to govern a nation by leading articles, or to re- 
 deem humanity by a series of reports ind interviews. Alan 
 had given himself up for lost when he found himself in the 
 toils of this prejudice ; but Mr. Larmer saw a chance of turn- 
 ing it to good account both for his client and for himself, 
 and not unnaturally took advantage of the awakened curio- 
 sity to put his friend's case clearly and vividly before the 
 popular tribunal. 
 
 Alan nearly upset the calculation of the lawyer by his 
 impatience of the interviewing tribe. Half-a-dozen of them 
 found him out at different times, and would not take his 
 no for an answer. At last worried by the pertinacity of 
 one bolder and clumsier than all the rest, he took him by 
 the shoulders and bundled him out of his room, and the 
 insulted ambassador, as he called himself, wrote to his em- 
 ployer a particularly spiteful account of his reception, with 
 sundry embellishments perhaps more picturesque than 
 strictly accurate. 
 
 The next thing that Mr. Larmer had to do was to retain 
 counsel, and he determined to secure as big a man as pos- 
 sible to conduct the defence. The case had assumed great- 
 er importance than would attach to an ordinary assault 
 upon a wife by her husband. It was magnified by the 
 surrounding circumstances, so that the interest felt in it 
 was legitimate enough, apart from the spurious notoriety 
 which had been added to it. Alan's literary fame had 
 grown considerably within tlie last year, and his friends 
 had been terribly shocked by the first bald statement that 
 he had stabbed his unfortunate wife in a fit of rage. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 209 
 
 They had begun by refusing to believe it, tlicn they 
 trusted that he would be able to prove his innocence, but 
 by tiiis time many of his warmest admirers were assuring 
 each other that, "after all, the artistic merit of a poem 
 never did and never would dei)cnd upon the moral char- 
 acter of the poet." They iu-Jijed for the best, but were 
 quite prepared for the worst, and tluis they looked forward 
 to the trial with an anxiety not unmingled with curious 
 anticipation. 
 
 The indirect connection of Letticc Campion with a case 
 of this kind was ahother intelligible reason for the concern 
 of the respectable public. Lettice's name was in every- 
 body's mouth, as that of the young novelist wlio had made 
 such a brilliant success at the outset of her career, and all 
 wlio happeLed to know how she had been mixed up at an 
 earlier stage in the quarrel between Walcott and his wife, 
 were wondering if she would put in an appearance, will- 
 ingly or unwillingly, at the Central Criminal Court. 
 
 Mr. Larmer clearly saw that the business was sufficiently 
 important to justify the intervention of the most eminent 
 counsel. As he was running over the list and balancing 
 the virtues of different men for an occasion of this sort, 
 his eye fell on the name of Sydney Campion. He started, 
 and sank back in his chair to meditate. 
 
 The idea of having Mr. Campion to defend a man with 
 whom his sister's name had been unjustly associated was 
 a bold one, and it had not occurred to him before. Was 
 there any reason against it? Wiiat more natural than 
 that this rising pleader should come into court for the 
 special purpose of safeguarding the interests of Miss 
 Campion ? The prosecution would not hesitate to intro- 
 duce her name if they thought it would do them any good 
 — especially as they would have the contingency of the 
 divorce case in their" minds ; and C^impion was just the 
 man to nip any attempt of that kind in the bud. At all 
 events, the judge was more likely to listen to him on such 
 a point than to anyone else". But would not the practice 
 and etiquette of the bar put it absolutely out of the 
 question. 
 
 The thing was worth considering — worth talking over 
 with Campion himself. So Mr. Larmer put on his hat at 
 once, and went over to the Temple. 
 
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 14 
 
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 JVAM/^: A An FAME. 
 
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 " I have come to see you on a rather deHcate matter," 
 he said, by way of introduction, " as you will understand 
 if you happen to have seen my name in connection with 
 the Walcott assault case. There are sund.y matters 
 involved which make it difficult to keep ihe case within its 
 proper limits, and I thought that an informal consultation 
 on the subject, before I proceed to retain counsel, might 
 facilitate matters." 
 
 '* Perhaps it might ; but I hardly see how I can help 
 you." 
 
 "Well, it occurred to me that if you were in court 
 during the trial, you would have the opportunity of check- 
 ing anything that might arise of an irrelevant character — 
 any references- " 
 
 " And what do you propose ? " said Sydney, interrupting. 
 
 ** It would be hard that we should be prevented from 
 putting our case in the hands of such counsel as we con- 
 sider best calculated to bring it to a successful issue. If 
 there is no strong personal reason against it, but on the 
 other hand (as it seems to me) an adequate reason in its 
 favor, I trust that you will allow me to send you a brief." 
 
 " Let me ask you — did you come to me in any sense at 
 the instance of your client? " said Sydney, suspiciously. 
 
 " By no means. Mr. \Valcott does not know I have 
 thought of you in connection with his defence." 
 
 *'Nor at the instance of another?" 
 
 ** Certainly not. It is entirely my own idea." 
 
 Sydney looked relieved. He could not ask outright if 
 there had been any communication with his sister, but that 
 was what he was thinking about. 
 
 **I hope we may rely upon you," said Mr. Larmer. 
 
 " I don't know. I am not sure that you can. This is, 
 as you said, a perfectly informal conversation, and I may 
 frankly tell you that what you ask is out of the question. 
 I hope you will think no more about it." 
 
 Mr. Larmer was troubled. 
 
 " It seemed to me, Mr. Campion, that the idea would 
 commend itself at once. I fear you did not quite take my 
 meaning when I spoke of possible side issues ana irrele- 
 vant questions which might arise during the trial ? " 
 
 "Surely I did. You meant that counsel for the prosecu- 
 tion might think to advance his cause by referring to other 
 proceedings, past or future, and might even go so far as 
 
■I < 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 211 
 
 to name a lady who has been most wantonly and cruelly 
 maligned by one of the parties to this case ? " 
 
 " Exactly. You use the very words in regard to it which 
 I would have used myself. That is a contingency, I 
 imagine, which you would strongly desire to avoid." 
 
 " So strongly do I desire it, that you would not be 
 surprised if I had already taken measures with that end 
 in view." 
 
 " Decidedly not. But it will be only natural that the 
 prosecution should try and damage Walcott as much as 
 possible — showing the motive he would have for getting 
 rid of his wife, and going into the details of their former 
 quarrels. The question is whether any man can be 
 expected, in doing this, to abstain from mentioning the 
 names of third parties." 
 
 " Has it never occurred to you, Mr. Larmer, that there 
 is one way, and only one way, in which I could certainly 
 guaranteee that the name of the lady in question should 
 not be mentioned? Your plan, if you will excuse my 
 saying so, is clumsy and liable to fail. Mine is perfectly 
 secure against failure, and oerhaps a little more congenial." 
 
 Larmer's face fell. 
 
 " You do not mean," he said, " that you have taken a 
 brief from the prosecution ! " 
 
 " Jf I had, I should have stopped you as soon as 
 you began to speak, and told you so. But I may say 
 as much as this — if I am retained by them I shall go 
 into court ; and, if they retain anyone else, I shall have 
 good reason to knov/ that the case will be conducted pre- 
 cisely as I should conduct it myself. I imagine that this 
 matters very httle to you, Mr. Larmer. I have not done 
 much with this class of cases, and there will be no difH- 
 culty in finding a stronger man." 
 
 Mr. Larmer was silent for a minute or two. Sydney 
 Campion's manner took him aback. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear what you have said," he remarked at 
 last. " I fear it must inevitably prejudice my client if it 
 is known that you are on the other side." 
 
 " I don't see why it should," Sydney said, with manifest 
 indifference. " At any rate, with respect to the point you 
 were mentioning, it is clear that the lady's name will not 
 be introduced by the prosecution." 
 
 '' Let it be equally clear," said Larmer, ** that it will not 
 be introduced by the defence. This was the first instruc- 
 
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 212 
 
 JVAM£ AND FAME. 
 
 tion which I received from my client — wlio, I may say, was a 
 schoolfellow of mine, and in whose honor, and not only 
 honor, but technical innocence, I have the utmost con- 
 fidence." 
 
 " You have undertaken his defence, and I am sure he is 
 in very good hands," said Sydney with a rather cynical 
 smile. " But, perhaps, the less said the better as to the 
 honor of a married man who, under false pretenses, dares 
 to pay attentions to an unmarried lady." 
 
 " B lieve me you are mistaken ! Alan Walcott has done 
 nothing of the kind." 
 
 " He has done enough to create a scandal. You are 
 not denying that his attitude has beeen such as to bring 
 the name of the lady forward in a most objectionable 
 manner, without the slightest contribution on her part to 
 such a misfortune ? " 
 
 " I do deny it, most emphatically, and I beg you to dis- 
 abuse your mind of the idea. What possible ground can 
 you have for such a charge ? The mere tipsy ravings of 
 this unfaithful wife — whom I should probably have no 
 difficulty in proving insane, as well as unfaithful and in- 
 temperate. What is actually known is that she has been 
 heard by the police, on one or two occasions, referring 
 by name to this lady. How far would you as a lawyer, 
 Mr. Campion, allow that fact to have weight as evidence 
 in support of the charge ? And can you mention, beyond 
 that, one tittle of evidence of any kind ? " 
 
 Sydney shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "We are not considering evidence as you know very 
 well. We are talking as two men of the world, quite com- 
 petent to draw the right deduction from admitted facts. I 
 say that when a lady has been so grievously insulted as 
 Miss Campion has been^ under circumstances of such 
 great aggravation, the man who has bn ught that indignity 
 upon her, however indirectly, must be held directly re- 
 sponsible for his conduct." 
 
 " It is useless to argue the point — the more so as I fancy 
 that Mr. Walcott himself would be very much inclined to 
 agt-ee with you — which I am not. He most bitterly regrets 
 the annoyance to which Miss Campion has been subjected, 
 and regards it as the greatest of all the injuries inflicted 
 upon ^lim by his degraded wife. Having said this on his 
 behalf, let me add that any charge brought against him on 
 
NAME AND LAME. 
 
 213 
 
 this score, by that woman or by anyone else, is absolutely 
 without foundation, and that we shall know how to defend 
 his reputation, in or out of court, whenever and by whom- 
 soever it may be attacked." 
 
 *' Your warmth does you credit, Mr. Larmer. I will be 
 equally frank with you. You speak as a friend, I speak as 
 a brother. After all that has happened I do not hold my- 
 self bound, iior do I intend, to consider anyone or any- 
 thing in comparison with the credit of the name which has 
 been so foully aspersed. It is for me to protect that name 
 from discredit, and I shall adopt every expedient within 
 my reach to carry out my purpose." 
 
 '' No doubt you are perfectly justified in doing so. I 
 will merely remark that hostility to my client cannot assist 
 you in your o])ject." 
 
 ^'' Well," said Sydney, rising from his seat, " there c -^n 
 be no use in conj.nuing the conversation." And he ac ed, 
 in a lighter tone, " I am sorry, Mr. Larmer, that I should 
 be compelled to decline the first brief you have offered 
 me." 
 
 Larmer went back to his office a little crestfallen, but 
 not at all sorry that he had had this interview with Cam- 
 pion. He was better prepared now for the course which 
 the trial was likely to follow. He had no doubt that Cam- 
 pion would be bold enough to undertake the prosecution, 
 and that he would do his best to get a conviction against 
 Walcott, whom he manifestly disliked. He was less san- 
 guine from that moment as to the result of his efforts ; but, 
 of course, he did not relax them. He retained Mr. Charles 
 Milton, a man with an excellent reputation in criminal 
 business, and one who, as he thought, would do his utmost 
 to avoid losing a case to Campion. 
 
 Milton, in effect, took the matter up with much zeal. 
 He had (so far as his ]jrofessional instinct allowed him) 
 accepted the theory of Walcott's guilt, rather respecting 
 him, if the truth were known, for refusing to put up any 
 longer with the persecutions of a revolted wife. But he 
 had no sooner received his brief in the case than he was 
 perfectly convinced of Walcott's innocence. The story 
 told him by Mr. Larmer seemed not only natural but 
 trans})arently true, and when he heard that his club-mate 
 of the Oligarchy was actively interested for the other side, 
 he determined that no effort on his part should be wanting 
 to secure a verdict. 
 
 » 
 
 J 1 ! 
 
 : i 
 
 ! « 
 

 A ;,= |i 
 
 is; 
 
 !,|l) 
 
 214 
 
 J\rAAf£ AND FAME. 
 
 ' Not that he had any grudge against Sydney ; but they 
 belonged to the same profession, the same party, and the 
 same club — ihree conceivable reasons for Mr. Milton's 
 zeal. . 
 
 Thus Alan's defence was well provided for, and Mr. 
 Larmer began to feel more easy in his mind. 
 
 When Alan heard that the proser;ution was Tkely to be 
 conducted by Sydney Campion, he took the news quietly, 
 though it was a very serious matter for him. He did not 
 doubt its seriousness, but his heart had already fallen so 
 low that it could scarcely sink lower. He saw at once 
 that the motive of Lettice's brother in angling for this 
 brief (as Alan concluded that he must have done) was to 
 protect the interests of Lettice ; and so far, the fact was a 
 matter of congratulation. It was his own great desire, as 
 Larmer knew, to prevent her name from being mentioned, 
 and to avoid reference to anything in which she had been 
 indirectly concerned, even though the reference might 
 have been made without using her name. When Larmer 
 pointed out that this quixotism, as he called it, would 
 make it almost impossible for his counsel to show the ex- 
 treme malignity of his wife and the intolerable persecution 
 to which he had been subjected, he had answered shortly 
 and decisively, 
 
 " Let it be impossible. The first object is not my de- 
 fence, but hers." 
 
 '' Your vision is distorted," Larmer had said angrily. 
 "This may seem to you right and generous, but I tell you 
 it is foolish and unnecessary." 
 
 " I will not be guided in this particular thing," Alan re- 
 joined, " by your reason, but by my feeling. An acquit^'^l 
 at her cost would mean a Hfelong sorrow." 
 
 " If I know anything of women, Miss Campion, who 
 does not quite hate you, would insist on having the whole 
 story told in open court. Perhaps she may return to 
 England in time for the trial, and then she can decide the 
 point herself." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " Alan had said. And he meant it. 
 Worse than that, he tortured himself with the idea, which 
 he called a firm belief, that Lettice had heard, or would 
 hear, of his disgraceful position, that she would be unahle 
 to doubt that he had struck the fatal blow, and that he 
 would be dropped out of her heart and out of her life, as a 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 aiS 
 
 matkr of course. How coUld it be otherwise? What 
 was he to her, that she should beHeve him innocent in 
 spite of appearances ; or that, believing him merely unfor- 
 tunate and degraded, she should not think less well of him 
 than when he held his name high in the world of letters 
 and in society ? 
 
 *' That dream is gone," he said. " Let me forget it, and 
 wake to the new life that opens before me. A new life — 
 born in a police cell, baptized in a criminal court, suckled 
 in a prison, and trained in solitary adversity. That is the 
 fate for which I have been reserved. I may be nearly 
 fifty when I come out — a broken-down man, without repu- 
 tation and without a hope. Truly, the dream is at an end ; 
 and oh, God of Heaven, make her forget me as though we 
 had never met ! " 
 
 So, when Mr. Larmer frankly told him all that Sydney 
 Campion had said, Alan could not find it in his heart to 
 blame Lettice's brother for his hostility. 
 
 r 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 IN COURT. 
 
 No doubt it was from some points of view an unprofe ^ 
 sional act of Sydney Campion to appear in court as 
 counsel for the prosecution of Alan Walcott. Sydney knew 
 that he was straining a rule of etiquette, to say the least of 
 it; but, under the circumstances, he held himself justified 
 in fishing for the brief. 
 
 The mitter had been taken up by the Treasury, and 
 Sydney had asked an intimate friend, who was also a 
 friend of the Attorney-General, to give the latter a hint. 
 Now Sir James was, above all things, a suave and politic 
 man of the world, who thought that persons of position 
 and influence got on best in the intricate game of life by 
 deftly playing into each other's hands. When one gentle- 
 man could do something for another gentleman, to oblige 
 and accommodate him, it was evidently the proper course 
 to do it gracefully and without fuss. Campion's motives 
 were clearly excellent. As he understood the business 
 (although the ambassador put it very delicately indeed), a 
 

 :m\-§fi 
 
 2l6 
 
 JV^MJi AND FAME, 
 
 lady's reputation was at stake ; and if Sir James prided 
 himself on one thing more than another, it was his gal- 
 lantry and discretion in matters of this kind. So he told 
 his friend to go back and set Mr. Campion's mind at rest; 
 and in the course of a day or two Sydney received his 
 brief. 
 
 " Who is going to defend ? " he asked his clerk, when he 
 had glanced at his instructions. 
 
 " I heard just now that Laimer had retained Mr. Charles 
 Milton." 
 
 '* Charles Milton ! The deuce ! It will be a pretty little 
 fight, Johnson ! " 
 
 " They don't seem to have a leg to stand on ; the evi- 
 dence is all one way, even without the wife. I don't know 
 what his story is, but it caimot have any corroboration 
 — and hers is well supported." 
 
 " I am told she will be able to appear. She seems to be 
 a terrible talker — that is the worst of her. I must keep 
 her strictly within the ropes." 
 
 " The other side will not have the same motives," said 
 Johnson, who knew all about the scandal which had pre- 
 ceded the assault, and who wanted to get his employer to 
 speak. 
 
 *' You think Mr. Milton will draw her on ? " 
 
 " Sure to, I should say. If I were defending (since you 
 ask me), I would not loose my grip until I had p^ot her into 
 a rage ; and from all I hear that would make tne jury be- 
 lieve her capable of anything, even of stabbing herself and 
 swearing it on her husband." 
 
 ** But, my good fellow, you are not defending him ! And 
 I'll take care she is not worked up in that fashion. Thanks 
 for the suggestion, all the same. They will contend that 
 it was done in a struggle." 
 
 •' Against that, you have her evidence that the blow was 
 deliberate ; and I think the jury will believe her." 
 
 " They can't help themselves : motive, incitements, favor- 
 ing circumstances, are all too manifest. And that just 
 makes the difficulty and delicacy of the case for me. I 
 want the jury to see the whole thing impartially! that they 
 may do justice, without bias and without foolish weakness ; 
 and yet there are certain matters connected with it which 
 need not be dwelt upon — which must, in fact, be kept 
 in the background altogether. Do you see?" 
 

 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 217 
 
 " I think I do." Johnson was a good deal \\\ S) d-iey's 
 confidence, being a man of much discretion, and with con- 
 siderable knowledge of tlie law. He felt that his advice 
 was being asked, or at any rate his opinion, and he met 
 Mr. Campion's searching gaze with one equally cool and 
 serious. 
 
 " I have no doubt you know as much about it as I could 
 tell you. You seem to hear everything from one source or 
 another. Do you understand why it is that I am going 
 into court? It is not altogether a regular thing to do, is 
 it?" 
 
 " I suppose you wish to keep the evidence well in hand," 
 Johnson replied, readily. " A lady's name has been used 
 in a very unwarrantable manner, and — since you ask me — 
 you have undertaken to see that there is no unnecessary 
 repetition of the matter in court." 
 
 '* Precisely so — no repetition at all." 
 
 " You will examine your own witness, and, of course, you 
 need not go behind the scene in Surrey Street, at which 
 the crime was actually committed — except in opening your 
 case. What the jury will say is this : husband and wife 
 on bad terras, separated, and divorce pending ; wife comes 
 to husband's rooms, reproaches him ; recriminations ; 
 dagger handy on the table (very bad for him that) ; a sud- 
 den temptation, a sudden blow, and there's an end of it. 
 No need to prove they were on bad terms, with all those 
 facts before you." 
 
 '* But then comes the defence." 
 
 " Well, sir, what is their line going to be? If they want 
 to persuade the jury that she did it herself, or that it was 
 an accident, they will not dwell upon all the reasons which 
 might have tempted him to take her life. That would be 
 weakening their own case." 
 
 " And Milton is capable of doing it ! " said Sydney, 
 talking to hii »self. 
 
 " But if they think the jury will be bound to believe that 
 he stabbed her, no doubt they would go in for blackening 
 her, and then they might cross-examine her about those 
 other things." 
 
 "That is where the danger comes in." 
 
 Sydney's words were equivalent to another question, but 
 Johnson preserved a perfectly stolid face. It was all very 
 well for him to advise his employer, and work up his cases 
 
 :i:i 
 
 I A 
 
 ^:m 
 
 :! ; 
 
3l8 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 I! 
 
 for him if necessary. He was accustomed to do both these 
 things, and his help had been invaUiable to Sydney for 
 several years past. But it was out of his line to display 
 more confidence than was displayed in him, or to venture 
 on delicate ground before he had received a lead. 
 
 " Yes, that's were the danger comes in," Sydney re- 
 peated. *' I have reason to believe that there is a disposi- 
 tion on their part to keep the lady's name out of the case ; 
 but they are not pledged to it ; and if they find things 
 looking very bad for Walcott, they may show fight in that 
 direction. Then there is Mr. Milton — no instructions can 
 altogether gag counsel. I don't know that I have ever 
 given him cause of offence, but I have an instinctive feeling 
 that he would rather enjoy putting me in a hole." 
 
 " I think you would have the judge with you in any 
 objection which you might take." 
 
 " But it would be a misfo'-tune, as things stand, even to 
 have to take objection. Nut only do I want to avoid the 
 introduction of these extraneous matters, but I should 
 strongly object to figure in any way as watching Miss 
 Campion's interests. It would be very bad indeed for me 
 to have to do that. What I desire is that her interests 
 should at no moment of the trial appear, even to those 
 who know the circumstances, to be involved." 
 
 " I quite see," said Johnson. " And since you ask me, 
 I don't think you have much to fear. It is a delicate posi- 
 tion, but both sides are of t\e same mind on the particular 
 point, and it is most improbable that any indiscretion will 
 occur. Prosecution and defence both want to avoid a 
 certain pitfall — when they won't struggle on the edge of it. 
 What do you say, Mr. Campion, to setting forth in your 
 opening statement all that is known about their previous 
 quarrels, not concealing that the woman has been rather 
 outrageous, in her foreign fashion, but quietly ignoring the 
 fact of her jealousy ? " 
 
 " That would be too bold — it would excite her, and pos- 
 sibly move the defence to needless retorts." 
 
 " As for exciting her, if she is thoroughly convinced that 
 his conviction will spoil his chance of a divorce, she will 
 take the whole thing coolly enough. My idea was that by 
 opening fully, and touching on every point, you would 
 escape the appearance of shirking anything. And at the 
 same time you would be suggesting these motives for 
 
NAME AKD JAME, 
 
 ai9 
 
 violence on Walcott's part which, as you said, it would be 
 their business to avoid." 
 
 " There is a good deal in that," said Sydney, reflectively. 
 " It is worth considering. Yes, two heads are certainly 
 better than one. I see that I am instructed to ask about 
 the attempt on her life at Aix-les-Bains. Why, what a 
 rascal the man has been to her ! No wonder she is vene- 
 mous now." 
 
 When the trial took place, the court was crowded with 
 men and women who were anxious to see the principal 
 actors in what was popularly known as the Surrey Street 
 Mystery. They were both there — Alan pale and haggard 
 from his long suspense, and Cora, much pulled down by 
 what she had gone through. Of the two, she was, perhaps, 
 the more interesting. Illness and loss of blood had done 
 something to efface the dissipated look which had become 
 habitual with her ; she was languid and soberly dressed ; 
 and, moreover, she understood, as Mr. Johnson had said 
 she would, that the conviction of her husband would put 
 his divorce out of the question, at any rate for some time 
 to come. So it was her business to look interesting, and 
 injured, and quiet ; and she was cunning enough to play 
 this part successfully. 
 
 Alan, on the other hand, was completely indifferent as to 
 the opinion which might be formed of him, and almost in- 
 different as to the verdict. When he came into court he 
 looked carefully round at the women who were present 
 among the spectators, but, not seeing the one face which 
 he had both dreaded and hoped to see, he fell back into 
 his former lethargy, and took very little interest in the pro- 
 ceedings. 
 
 Sydney Campion opened the case for the prosecution in 
 a business-like way, just glancing at the unhappy relations 
 which had existed between the prisoner and his wife for 
 several years past, and freely admitting that there appeared 
 to have been faults on both sides. He took the common- 
 sense view of a man of the world speaking to men of the 
 world, and did not ask the sympathies of the jury for the 
 injured woman who had come straight from the hospital to 
 that court, but only their impartial attention to the evidence 
 which would be brought before them, and the expression 
 of their deliberate opinion on the innocence or guilt of the 
 accused. 
 
 1 I- 'f 
 
 -m 
 
Cf'l 
 
 3 20 
 
 /V.'ljlf/i AND FAME, 
 
 • Notliing could be more fair than liis observations — or so 
 it appeared to the majority of Campion's hearers. No 
 doubt he liad referred to the affair at Aix-les-Bains as 
 though it were a matter of evidence, instead of mere alle- 
 gation, and to the recent quarrels in lOngland as though 
 the "faults on both sides " had been clearly established. 
 But he was supposed to be speaking in strict accordance 
 with his instructions, and, of course, it was open to the 
 defence to question anything which he had said. 
 
 Then came the evidence for the prosecution, the sub- 
 stance of which is already known to the reader ; but Cora's 
 account of the quarrel in Surrey Street was so ingeniously 
 colored and distorted that Alan found himself listening 
 with something like genuine amusement to the questions 
 of counsel and the replies of his lying wife. 
 
 " And so," said Mr. Campion, after she had spoken of 
 her earnest appeal for the renewal of friendship, and of her 
 husband's insulting refusal, " you came to high words. 
 Did you both keep the same positions whilst you were 
 talking ? " 
 
 " For a long time, until I lost patience, and then — yes, 
 let me speak the whole truth — I threw a certain book at 
 him." 
 
 Cora was on the point of saying why she threw the book, 
 and whose name was on the title-page, but she checked 
 herself in time. 1:^ had been very difficult to persuade her 
 that her interests v. ..e safe in the hands of Lettice's bro- 
 ther, and even now she had ocasional misgivings on that 
 point. Sydney went on quickly. 
 
 " A book lying close to your hand, you mean ? " 
 
 " She said a certain book," Mr. Milton interjected. 
 
 " You must make allowance for her," said the judge. 
 *' You know she is French, and you should follow her in 
 two languages at once. No doubt she meant ' some book 
 or other.' The point has no importance." 
 
 " And then," said Sydney, " you altered your posi- 
 tions ? " 
 
 " We stood facing each other." 
 
 ** What happened next ? " 
 
 "Suddenly — I had not moved — an evil look came in his 
 face. He sprang to the table, and took from the drawer 
 a long, sharp poignard. I remembered it well, for he had 
 it when we were married." 
 
 :fi;'' ■■ ): 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 321 
 
 " What did he do then ? " 
 
 " He raised it in his hand ; but I had leaped upon him, 
 and then began a terrible strug'glc." 
 
 The court was excited. Alan and his counsel were 
 almost the only persons who remained perfectly cool. 
 
 " It was an unequal struggle ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes I I became exhausted, and sank to the 
 ground." 
 
 " Before or after you were stabbed ? " 
 
 " He stabbed me as I fell." 
 
 " Could it have been an accident? " 
 
 " Impossible, for I fell backward, and the wound was in 
 front." 
 
 After Sydney had done with his witness, Mr. Milton took 
 her in hand ; and this was felt by every one to be the most 
 critical stage of the trial. Milton did his best to shake 
 Cora's evidence, not without a certain kind of success. He 
 turned her past life inside out, made her confess her infi- 
 delity, her intemperance, her brawling in tlie streets, her 
 conviction and fine at the Hammersmith Police Court. 
 It was all he could do to restrain himself from getting her 
 to acknowledge the reason of her visit to Maple Cottage ; 
 but his instructions were too definite "to be ignored. He 
 felt that the introduction of Miss Campion's name would 
 have told in favor of his client — at any rate, with the jury ; 
 and he would not have been a zealous pleader if he had 
 not wished to take advantage of the point. 
 
 By this time Cora was in a rage, and she damaged her- 
 self with the jury by giving them a specimen of her ungov- 
 ernable temper. The trial had to be suspended for a 
 quarter of an hour, whilst she recovered from a fit of 
 hysterics ; but it said much for her crafty shrewdness that 
 she was able to adhere, in the main, to the story which she 
 had told. She was severely cross-examiiied about the 
 scene in Surrey Street, and especially about the dagger. 
 She feigned intense surprise at being asked and pressed as 
 to her having brought the weapon with her ; but Mr. 
 Milton could not succeed in making her contradict her- 
 self. 
 
 Then the other witnesses were heard and counsel had an 
 opportunity of enforcing the evidence on both sides. Mr. 
 Milton was very severe on his learned friend for introducing 
 matter in his opening speech, on which he did not intend 
 
 il: 
 
 I • 
 
 
Hi 
 
 I }>!\ii 
 
 ' ' V-': 
 
 22i 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 I,: 
 
 to call witnesses; but in his own mind he had recognized 
 the fact that there must be a verdict of guilty, and he 
 brought out as strongly as he could the circumstances 
 which he thought would weigh with the court in his client's 
 favor. Sydney was well content with the result of the 
 trial as far as it had gone. There had been no reference of 
 any kind to his sister Lettice ; and, as he knew that this was 
 due in some measure to the reticence of the defence, it 
 would have argued a want of generosity on his part to talk 
 6f the cruelty of the prisoner in stopping his wife's allow- 
 ance because she had molested him in the street. 
 
 The judge summed up with great fairness. He picked 
 out the facts which had been sworn to in regard to the 
 actual receiving of the wound, which, he said, were com- 
 patible with the theory of self-infliction, with that of wilful 
 infliction by the husband, and with that of accident. As 
 for the first theory, it would imply that the dagger had 
 passed from the prisoner's hands to those of his wife, and 
 back again, and it seemed to be contradicted by the 
 evidence of the landlady and the other lodger. Moreover, 
 it was not even suggested by the defence, which relied 
 upon the theory of accident. An accident of this kind 
 would certainly be possible during a violent struggle for 
 the possession of the dagger. Now the husband and wife 
 virtually accused each other of producing this weapon and 
 threatening to use it. It was for the jury to decide which 
 of the two they would believe. There was a direct conflict 
 of evidence, or allegation, and in such a case they must 
 look at all the surrounding circumstances. It was not 
 denied that the dagger belonged to the prisoner, but it was 
 suggested in his behalf that the wife had purloined it some 
 time before, and had suddenly produced it when she came 
 to her husband's apartments in Surrey Street. If that 
 could be proved, then the woman had been guilty of per- 
 jury, and her evidence would collapse altogether. Now 
 there were some portions of her evidence which were most 
 unsatisfactory. She had led a dissolute life, and was 
 cursed with -an ungoveiiable temper. But, on the other 
 hand, she had told a consistent tale as to the occurrences 
 of that fatal afternoon, and he could not go so far as to 
 advise the jury to reject her testimony as worthless. 
 
 His lordship then went over the remaining evidence, 
 and concluded as follows : — 
 
 \ :': L' 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 223 
 
 " Gentlemen, I may now leave you to your difficult task. 
 It is for you to say whether, in your judgment, the wound 
 which this woman received was inflicted by herself or by 
 her husband. If you find that it was inflicted by her 
 husband, you must further decide, to the best of your 
 ability, whether the prisoner wounded his wife in the 
 course of a struggle, without intending it, or whether he 
 did at the moment wittingly and purposely injure her. 
 The rest you will leave to me. You have the evidence 
 before yon, and the constitution of your country imposes 
 upon you the high responsibility of saying whether this 
 man is innocent or guilty of the charge preferred against 
 him." 
 
 The jury retired to consider their verdict, and aftei* 
 about three-quarters of an hour they returned into court. 
 
 ' Gentlemen of the jury," said the clerk, " are yoil 
 agreed upon your verdict ? " 
 
 " We are," said the foreman. 
 
 " Do you find the prisoner guilty or not guilty ? " 
 
 " We find him guilty of wounding, with intent to inflict 
 grievous bodily harm." 
 
 Alan turned his face to the judge. The whole thing had 
 been so precisely rehearsed in his mind that no mere detail 
 would take him by surprise. He had expected the verdict, 
 and it had come. Now he expected the sentence ; let it 
 come, too. It would hardly be worse than he was 
 prepared for. 
 
 To say that Mr. Justice Perkins was dissatisfied with the 
 verdict would be going a little too far ; but he almost 
 wislied, when he heard it, that he had dwelt at greater 
 length upon the untrustworthy character of Mrs. Walcott's 
 evidence. However, he had told the jury that this was a 
 matter for their careful consideration ; and he had always 
 been wont, even more than some of his brother judges, to 
 leave full responsibility to his juries in matters of opinion 
 and belief. 
 
 *' Alan Walcott,' he said to the convicted man, "you 
 have h"d a fair trial before twelve of your peers, who have 
 heard all the evidence brought before them, whether 
 favorable to you or the reverse. In the exercise of their 
 discretion, and actuated as they doubtless have been by the 
 purest motives, they have found you guilty of the crime laid 
 to your charge/ No words of mine are necessary to make 
 
 ■I <i 
 
'» 
 
 224 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 you appreciate this verdict. Whatever the provocation 
 which you may have received from this miserable woman, 
 however she may have forgotten her duty and tried you 
 beyond endurance — and I think that the evidence was 
 clear enough on these points — she was still your wife, and 
 had a double claim upon your forbearance. You might 
 well have been in a worse position. From the moment 
 when you took that deadly weapon in your hands, every- 
 thing was possible. You might have been charged with 
 wilful murder, if she had died, or with intent to murder. 
 You have been defended with great ability ; and if the 
 jury believed, as they manifestly did, that your defence, so 
 far as concerns the introduction of the dagger, could not 
 be maintained, then they had no alternative but to find as 
 they actually did find. It only remains for me to pass 
 upon you such a sentence, within the discrcJtion left me by 
 the law, as seems to be appropriate to your offence, and 
 that is that you be imprisoned and kept to hard labor for 
 the term of six calendar months." 
 
 Then the prisoner was removed ; the court and the 
 spectators dispersed to dine and amuse themselves ; the 
 reporters rushed off to carry their last copy to the evening 
 newspapers; and the great tide of life swept by on its 
 appointed course. No foundering ship on its iron-boun'i 
 coast, no broken heart that sinks beneath its waves, 
 disturbs the law-abiding ebb and flow of the vast ocean 
 of humanity. 
 
 Vi ; ; I li 
 
■!1 
 
 : I I 1 
 ii M 
 
 f i. 
 
 BOOK V. 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 " Let us be unashamed of soul, 
 
 As earth lies bare to heaven aborre ! 
 How is it under our control 
 To love or not to love ? " 
 
 Robert Brownino, 
 
 
 
 
 
 ' 1' 
 
 1 
 
 1 i 
 
 
NAME Ax\D FAME^ 
 
 2Z1 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 COURTSHIP. 
 
 h] 
 
 Busy u; Sydney Campion was, at this juncture of iiis 
 career, public affairs were, on the whole, less engroiising 
 to him than usual ; for a new ele'^.ient had entered into his 
 private life, and bade fair to change many of its currents. 
 
 The rector's education of his son and daughter had pro- 
 duced effects which would have astonished him mightily 
 could he have traced their secret workings, but which 
 would have been matter of no surprise to a psychologist. 
 
 He himself had been in the main an unsuccessful man, 
 for, although he had enjoyed many years of peace and 
 quiet in his country parish, he had never attained the 
 objects with which he set out in life. Like many another 
 man who has failed, his failure led him to value nothing on 
 earth so highly as success. It is your fortunate man who 
 can afford to slight life's prizes. The rector of Angleford 
 was never heard to utter soothing sentiments to the effect 
 that " life may succeed in that it seems to fail," or that 
 heaven was the place for those who had failed on earth. 
 He did not believe it. Failure was terrible misfortune in 
 his eyes : intellectual failure, greatest of all. Of course he 
 wanted his children to be moral and religious ; it was 
 indeed important that they should be orthodox and respec- 
 table, if they wanted to get on in the world ; but he had 
 no such passion of longing for their spiritual as he had for 
 their mental development. Neither was it money that he 
 wished them to acquire, save as an adjunct; no man had 
 more aristocratic prejudices against trade and pride of 
 purse than Mr. Campion ; but he wanted them — and esi)e- 
 cially he wanted Sydney — to show intellectual superiority 
 to the rest of the world, and by that superiority to gain the 
 good things of life. And of all these good things, the best 
 was fame — the fame that means success. 
 
 1 1 
 
 W' 
 
 it;: 
 
h 'y:,^ L 
 
 1 m 
 
 M '; 
 
 
 saS 
 
 JVAME AND FAME, 
 
 Thus, from the very beginning of Sydney's life, his father 
 sedulously cultivated ambition in his suliI, and taught, him 
 that failure meant disgrace. The spur that he applied to 
 the boy acted with equal force on the girl, but with different 
 results. For with ambition the rector sowed the seeds of 
 a deadly e;;»otism, and it found a favorable soil — at least in 
 Sydney's heart. That the boy should strive for himself 
 and his own glory — that was the lesson the rector taught 
 him ; and he ought not to have been surprised when, in 
 later years, his son's absorption in self gave him such bitter 
 pain. 
 
 Lettice, with her ambition curbed by love and pity, 
 accepted the discipline of patience and self-sacrifice, set 
 before her by the selfishness of other people ; but Sydney 
 gave free rein to his ambition and his pride. He could not 
 make shift to content himself, as his father had done, with 
 academic distinction alone. He wanted to be a leader of 
 men, to take a foremost place in the world of men. He 
 sometimes told himself that his father had equipped him to 
 the very best of his power for the battle of life,' and he was 
 grateful to him for his care ; but he did not think very 
 much about the sacrifices made for him by others. As a 
 matter of fact, he thought himself worth them all. And for 
 the prize he desired, he bartered away much that makes 
 the completer man : for he extinguished many generous 
 instincts and noble possibilities, and thought himself the 
 gainer by their loss. 
 
 In Lettice, the love of fame was also strong, but in a 
 modified form. Her tastes were more literary than those 
 of Sydney, but success was as sweet to her as to him. The 
 zest with which she worked was also in part due to the 
 rector's teaching ; but, by tlie strange workings-out of 
 influence and tendency, it had chanced that the rector's 
 carelessness and neglect had been the factors that d's- 
 ciplined a nature both strong and sweet into forgetfulness 
 of self and absorption in work rather tlian its rewards. 
 
 But already Nature had begun with Sydney Campion her 
 grand process of amelioration, which she applies (when we 
 let her have her way) to all men and women, most system- 
 atically to those who need it most, securing an entrance 
 to their souls by their very vices and weaknesses, and inva- 
 riably supplying the human instrument or the effective 
 circumstances which are best calculated to work her pur- 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 299 
 
 pose. Such beneficent work of Nature may be called, as it 
 was called by the older writers, the Hand of God. 
 
 Sydney's great and overweening fault was that form of 
 "moral stupidity" which we term selfishness. Something 
 of it may have come with the faculties whicii he liad in- 
 herited — in tendencies and inclinations mysteriously asso- 
 ciated with his physical conformation ; much had been 
 added thereto by the indulgence of his parents, by the 
 pride of his university triumphs, and by the misfortune of 
 his association in London with men who aggravated instead 
 of modifying the faults of his natural disposition. The 
 death of his father had produced a good effect for the time, 
 and made him permanently more considerate of his mother's 
 and sister's welfare. But a greater and still more i^r- 
 manent effect seemed likely to be produced on him now, 
 for he had opened his heart to the influences of a pure and 
 elevating affection ; and for almost the first time there 
 entered into his mind a gradually increasing feeling of con- 
 trition and remorse for certain past phases of his life which 
 he knew to be both unworthy in themselves and disloyal 
 (if persisted in) to the woman whom he hoped to make his 
 wife. By a determined effort of will, he cut one knot which 
 he could not untie, but, his thoughts being still centred 
 upon himself, he considered his own rights and needs 
 almost entirely in the matter, and did not trouble himself 
 much about the rights or needs of the other person con- 
 cerned. He had broken free, and was disposed to 
 congratulate himself upon his freedom ; vowing, mean- 
 while, that he would never put himself into any bonds 
 again except the safe and honorable bonds of marriage. 
 
 Thus freed, he went down with Dalton to Angleford for 
 the Easter recess, which fell late that year. He seemed 
 particularly cheery and confident, although Dalton noticed 
 a slight shade of gloom or anxiety upon his brow from time 
 to time, and put it down to his uncertainty as to the Pyn- 
 sents' acceptance of his attentions to Miss Anna Pynsent, 
 which were already noticed and talked about in society. 
 Sydney was a rising man, but it was thought thai Sir John 
 might look higher for his beautiful young sister. 
 
 The Parliamentary success of the new member for Vane- 
 bury had been as great as his most reasonable friends 
 anticipated for him, if not quite as meteoric as one or two 
 flatterers had predicted. Meteoric success in the House of 
 
 k 
 
; *!■ 
 
 230 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 Commons is not, indeed, so rare as it was twenty years ago, 
 for the studied rhetoric which served our great-grandfathers 
 in their ambitious pursuit of notoriety has given place to 
 the arts of audacity, innovation, and the sublime courage 
 of youthful insolence, which have occasionally worked 
 wonders in our own day. 
 
 Sydney had long been a close observer of the methods 
 by which men gained the ear of the House, and he had 
 learned one or two things that were very useful to him now 
 that he was able to turn them to account. 
 
 " We have put the golden age behind us," he said one 
 day to Dalton, with the assured and confident air which 
 gave him so much of his power amongst men, " and also 
 the silver age, and the age of brass. We are living in the 
 great newspaper age, and, if a public man wan*s to get into 
 a foremost place before he has begun to lose his teeth, he 
 must play steadily to the readers of the daily journals. In 
 my small way I have done this already, and now I am in 
 the House, I shall make it my business to study and humor, 
 to some extent, the many-faced monster who reads and 
 reflects himself in the press. In other times a man had to 
 work himself up in Hansard and the Standing Orders, to 
 watch and imitate the old Parliamentary hands, to listen for 
 the whip and follow close at heel ; but, as I have often 
 heard you say, we have changed all that. Whatever else a 
 man may do or leave undone, he must keep himself in 
 evidence ; it is more important to be talked and written 
 about constantly than to be highly praised once in six 
 months. I don't know any other way of working the oracle 
 than by doing or saying something every day, clever or 
 foolish, which will have a chance of getting into print." 
 
 He spoke half in jest, yet he evidently more than half 
 meant what he said. 
 
 " At any rate, you have some recent instances to support 
 your theory," Dalton said, with a smile. They were light- 
 ing their cigars, preparatory to playing a fresh game of 
 billiards, but Sydney was so much interested in the conver- 
 sation, that, instead of taking up his cue, he stood with his 
 back to the fire and continued it. 
 
 " Precisely so — there can be no doubt about it. Look 
 at Flumley, and Warrington, and Middlemist — three of our 
 own fellows, without going any further. What is there in 
 them to command success, except not deserving it, and 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 231 
 
 knowing that they don't? The modest mciit and per- 
 severance business is quite played out for any man of sDirit. 
 Tlie only line to take in these days is that of cheek, p.uck, 
 and devil-may-care." 
 
 " Do you know, Campion, you have grown very cynical 
 of late?" said Brooke Dalton, rather more gravely tlian 
 usual. " I have been rather disposed to take some blame 
 to myself for my share in the heartless kind o^ talk that 
 used to go on at the Oligarchy. I and Pynseni were your 
 sponsors there, I remember. You may think this an odd 
 thing to say, but the fact is I am becoming something of a 
 fogy, I suppose, in my ideas, and I daresay you'll tell me 
 that the change is not for the better." 
 
 ** I don't know about that," said Sydney, lightly. " Per 
 haps it is for the better, after all. You see, you arc n; 
 laying yourself out to persuade your fellow-men that yoii 
 can cure them of all the ills that flesh is heir to ! But 11! 
 tell you what I have noticed, old man, and what others 
 beside me have noticed. We miss you up in town. You 
 never come to the Club now. The men say you must be 
 ill, or married, or breaking up, or under petticoat govern- 
 ment — all stuff and nonsense, you know ; but that is what 
 they say." 
 
 "They can't be all right," said Brooke, with a rather 
 embarrassed laugh, " but some of them may be." He made 
 a perfectly needless excursion across the room to fetch a 
 cue from the rack that he did not want, while Sydney 
 smoked on and watched him with amused and rather curious 
 eyes. '* I suppose I am a little under petticoat govern- 
 ment," said Dalton, examining his cue with interest, and 
 then laying it down on the table, " as you may see for 
 yourself. But my sister manages everything so cleverly 
 that I don't mind answering to the reins and letting her 
 get me well in hand." 
 
 " No one ever had a better excuse for submitting to 
 petticoat government. But you know what is always thought 
 of a man when he begins to give up his club." 
 
 " I am afraid it can't be helped. Then again — perhaps 
 there is another reason. Edith, you know, has a little place 
 of her own, about a mile from here, and she tells me that 
 she will not keep house for me much longer — even to 
 rescue me from club life. The fact is, she wants me to 
 marry." 
 
 I 
 
 i-li' 1' 
 
I 
 
 ^3^ 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 ** Oh, now I see it all ; you have let the cat out of the 
 bag ! And you are going to humor her in that, too ? " 
 
 " Well, I hardly think I should marry just to humor my 
 sister. But — who knows ? She is always at me, and a con- 
 tinual dropping^ " 
 
 " Wears away the stony heart of Brooke Dalton. Why, 
 what a converted clubbist you will be I " 
 
 *' There was always a corner of my heart, Campion, in 
 which I rebelled against our bachelor's paradise at the Oli- 
 garchy — and you would have opened your eyes if you could 
 have seen into that corner through the smoke and gossip 
 of the old days in Pall Mall." 
 
 ** The old days of six months ago 1 " said Sydney, good- 
 humoredly. 
 
 " Do you know that Edith and I are going abroad next 
 week ? " 
 
 The question sounded abrupt, but Dalton had not the air 
 of a man who wants to turn the conversation. 
 
 '* No," said Sydney, in some surprise. " Where are you 
 going ? " 
 
 " Well, Edith wants to go to Italy, and I should not 
 wonder if we were to come across a cousin of mine, Mrs. 
 Hartley, who is now at Florence. You know her, I be- 
 lieve ? " 
 
 ** I hardly know her, but I have heard a good deal about 
 her. She has been very kind to my sister — nursed her 
 through a long illness, and looked after her in the most 
 generous manner possible. I am under great obligations 
 to Mrs. Hartley. I hope you will say so to her if you 
 meet." 
 
 "All right. Anything else I can do for you? No doubt 
 we shall see your sister. We are old friends, you know. 
 And I have met her several limes at my cousin's this winter." 
 
 " At those wonderful Sunday gatherings of hers ? " 
 
 ** I dropped in casually one day, and found Miss Cam- 
 pion there — and I admit that I went pretty regularly after- 
 wards, in the hope of improving the acquaintance. If I 
 were to tell you that I am going to Florence now for pre- 
 cisely the same reason, would you, as her brother, wish me 
 good speed, or advise me to keep away ? " 
 
 " Wish you good speed ? " 
 
 " Why, yes ! Is not my meaning clear ? " 
 
 " My dear Dalton, you have taken me absolutely by 
 surprise," said Sydney, laying down his cigar. " But, if I 
 
 yg..:^ :,^. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 233 
 
 understand you aright, I do wish you good speed, and with 
 all my heart." 
 
 '' Mind," said Dahon hurriedly, '* I have not the least 
 idea what my reception is likely to be. I'm afraid 1 have 
 not ihc ghost of a chance." 
 
 " 1 hope you will be treated as you deserve," said Syd- 
 ney, rather resenting this constructive imputation on his 
 sister's taste. Privately, he thought there was no doubt 
 ;ihout the matter, and was delighted with the prospect of so 
 effectually crushing the gossip that still hung about I^ettice's 
 name. The memory of Alan Walcott's affairs was strong in 
 the minds of both men as they paused in their conversation, 
 but neither chose to allude to him in words. 
 
 " I could settle down here with the greatest pleasure 
 imaginable, undersome circumstances," said Brooke Oalton, 
 will) a faint smile irradiating his fair, placid, well-featured 
 countenance. " Do you think your sister would like to be 
 so near her old home ? " 
 
 " I think she would consider it an advantage. She was 
 always fond of Angleford. Your wife will be a happy 
 woman, Daiton, whoever she may be — sua si bona norit ! " 
 
 "Well, I'm glad I spoke to you," said Brooke, with an 
 air of visible relief. " Edith knows all about it, and is 
 delighted. How the time flies ! We can't have a game 
 before dinner, I'm afraid. Must you go to-morrow. Cam- 
 pion ? " 
 
 " It is necessary. The House meets at four; and be- 
 sides, I have arranged to meet Sir John Pynsent earlier in 
 the day. I want to have a little talk with him." 
 
 " To put his fate to the touch, I suppose," meditated 
 Brooke, glancing at Sydney's face, which had suddenly 
 grown a little grave. " I suppose it would be premature 
 to say anything; — I think," he said aloud, " that we almost 
 ought to be dressing now." 
 
 '' Yes, we've only left ourselves ten minutes. I say, 
 Daiton, now I think of it, I'll give you a letter to my sister, 
 if you'll be kind enough to deliver it." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 " There will be no hurry about it. Give it to her when- 
 ever you like. I think it would be serviceable, and I sup- 
 pose you can trust my discretion ; but, understand me — 
 you can deliver the letter or not, as seems ^ood to you 
 when you are with her. I'll write it to-night, and let you 
 have it to-morrow morning before I go." 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 t 
 
 ' r 
 1 
 
i^^f^i^ 
 
 , ii 
 
 234 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 It would not have occurred to Brooke Daltun to ask for 
 a letter of recommendation when he went a-courting, but 
 Sydney's words did not strike him as incongruous at the 
 time, and he vas simple enough to believe that a brother's 
 influence would weigh with a woman of Lettice's calibre in 
 the choice of a partner for life. 
 
 Sydney delivered the letter into his keeping next day, 
 and then went up to town, where he was to meet Sir John 
 Pynsent at the Club. 
 
 Dalton had been mistaken when he conjectured that 
 Sydney's intentions were to consult Sir John about his pre- 
 tension to Miss Pynsent's hand. Sydney had not yet got 
 so far. He had made up his mind that he wanted Anna 
 Pynsent for a wife more than he had ever wanted any 
 woman in the world ; and the encouragement that he had 
 received from Sir John and Lady Pynsent made him con- 
 scious that they were not very likely to deny his suit. And 
 yet he paused. It seemed to him that he would like a 
 longer interval to pass before he asked Nan Pynsent to 
 marry him — a longer space in which to put away certain 
 memories and fears which became more bitter to him every 
 time that they recurred. 
 
 It was simply a few words on political matters that he 
 wanted with Sir John ; but they had the room to themselves, 
 and Sydney was hardly surprised to finc^ that the conversa- 
 tion had speedily drifted round to personal topics, and that 
 the baronet was detailinj^^ his plans for the autumn, and 
 asking Sydney to form one of his house-party in September. 
 Sydney hesitated in replying. He thought to himself that 
 he should not care to go unless he was sure that Miss 
 Pynsent meant to ae cept him. Perhaps Sir John attributed 
 his hesitation to its real cause, for he said, more heartily 
 than ever. 
 
 ** We all want you, you know. Nan is dying to talk over 
 your constituents with you. She has got some Workmen's 
 Club on hand that she wants the member to open, with an 
 appropriate speech, so you had better prepare yourself." 
 
 " Miss Pynsent is interested in the Vanebury workmen. 
 I shall be delighted to help at any time." 
 
 "Too much interested," said Sir John, bluntly. ** I'll tell 
 her she'll be an out and out Radical by and by. You know 
 she has a nice little place of her own just outside Vanebury, 
 and she vows she'll go and live there when she is 
 
NAhfE AND I' A ME. 
 
 235 
 
 twcn'.y-one, and work for tlie good of the people. My 
 authority over her will cease entirely when she is of age." 
 
 ** Jiiit not your influence," said Sydney. 
 
 " Well — I don't know that I have very much. The proper 
 person to influence Nan will be her husband, when she has 
 one." 
 
 " If I were not a poor man — — " .Sydney began impul- 
 sively, and then stopped short. But a good-humored curl 
 of Sir John's nio.iih, an in(piiring twinkle in his eye, told 
 him that he must proceed. So, in five minutes, his proposal 
 was made, and a good deal earlier than he had expected it 
 to be. It must be confessed that Sir John had led him on. 
 And Sir John was unfeignedly delighted, though he tried 
 to pretend doubt and indifference. 
 
 '* Of course 1 can't answer for my sister, and she is full 
 young to make her choice. But I can assure you, Campion, 
 t.iere's no man living to whom I would sooner see her 
 married than to yourself," he said at the conclusion of the 
 intervi w. And then he asked Sydney to dinner, and went 
 home to pour the story into the ears of his wife. 
 
 Lady Pynsent was not so much pleased as was he. She 
 had had visions of a title for her sister-in-law, and thought 
 that Nan would be throwing herself away if she married 
 Sydney Campion, although he was a rising man, and would 
 certainly be solicitor-general before long. 
 
 *' Well, Nan will have to decide for herself," said Sir John, 
 evading his wife's remonstrances. "After all, I couldn't 
 refuse the man for her, could I ? " He did not say that he 
 had tried to lead the backward lover on. 
 
 " Yes, you could," said Lady Pynsent. " You cou.d 
 have told him it was out of the question. But the fact is, 
 you want it. You have literally thrown Nan at his head 
 ever since he stayed with us last summer, You are so 
 devoted to your friend, Mr. Campion ! " 
 
 " You will see that he is a friend to be proud of," said 
 Sir John, with conviction. ** He is one of the cleverest 
 men of the day, he will be one of the most distinguished. 
 Any woman may envy Nan " 
 
 *' If she accepts him," said Lady Pynsent. 
 
 " Don't you think she will? " 
 
 " I have no idea. In some ways. Nan is so childish ; in 
 others, she is a woman grown. I can never answer for 
 Nan. She takes such idealistic v.'.2ws of things." 
 
 w 
 
4 
 
 236 
 
 J\rAME AND FAME. 
 
 vm 
 
 r :■' 
 
 " She's a dear, good girl," said Sir John, rather objecting 
 to this view of Nan's character. 
 
 " My dear John, of coarse she is ! She's a darling. But 
 she is quite impracticable sometimes, as you know." 
 
 Yes, Sir John knew. And for that very reason, he wanted 
 Nan to marry Sydney Campion. 
 
 He warned his wife against speaking to the girl caithe 
 subject : he had promised Campion a fair field, and he was 
 to speak as soon as he got the opportunity. *' He's com- 
 ing to dinner next Wednesday ; he may get his chance 
 then." 
 
 But Sydney got it before Wednesday. He found :hat 
 the Pynsents were invited to a garden party — a social 
 function which he usually avoided with care — for wiich 
 he also had received a card. The hostess lived at Fulham, 
 and he knew that her garden was large and shady, slopiig 
 to the river, and full of artfully contrived sequestend 
 nooks, where many a flirtation was carried or. 
 
 " She won't like it so well as Culverley," Fuid Sydney 
 himself, with a half smile, ** but it will be better than a 
 drawing-room. 
 
 He did not like to confess to himself how nervous he 
 felt. His theory had always been that a man should not 
 propose to a woman unless he is sure that he will be ac- 
 cepted. He was not at all sure about Nan's feelings towards 
 him, and yet he was going to propose. He told himself 
 again that he had not meant to speak so soon — that if he 
 saw any signs of distaste he should cut short his declara- 
 tion altogether and defer it to a more convenient season \ 
 but all the same, ne knew in his own heart that he would 
 be horribly disappointed if fate deprived him of the chance 
 of a decisive interview with Anna Pynsent. 
 
 Those who saw him at Lady Maliphant's party that 
 afternoon, smiling, handsome, debonnair, as usual fault- 
 lessly attired, with a pleasant word for everyone he met 
 and an eye that was perfectly cool and careless, would have 
 been amazed could they have known the leap that his heart 
 gave when he caught sight of Lady Pynsent's great scarlet 
 parasol and trailing black laces, side by side with Nan's 
 dainty white costume. The girl wore an embroidered 
 muslin, with a yellow sash tied loosely round her slender 
 waist; the graceful curve of her broad-brimmed hat, fast- 
 ened high over one ear like a cavalier's, was softened by 
 
AHM«*IMW«tk«. . 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 m 
 
 drooping white ostrich feathers ; her lace parasol had a 
 knot of yellow ribbon at one side, to match the tint of her 
 sash. Her long tan gloves and the Marechal Niel roses at 
 her neck were finishing touches of the picture which Syd- 
 ney was incompetent to grasp in detail, although he felt 
 its charm on a whole. The sweet, delicate face, with its 
 refined features and great dark eyes, was one which might 
 v^ell cause a man to barter all the world for love ; and, in 
 Sydney's case, it happened that to gain its owner meant to 
 gain the world as well. It spoke well for Sydney's genuine 
 affection that he had ceased of late to think of the worldly 
 fortune that Nan might bring him, and remembered only 
 that he wanted Nan Pynsent for herself. 
 
 She greeted him with a smile. She had grown a little 
 quieter, a little more conventional in manner of late : he 
 did not like her any the worse for that. But, although she 
 did not utter any word of welcome, he fancied from her 
 face that she was glad to see him; Pid it was not long 
 before he found some pretext for stro' Lig off with her to a 
 shadowy and secluded portion of the grounds. Even then 
 he was not sure whether he would ask her to be his wife 
 that day, or whether he would postpone the decisive mo- 
 ment a little longer. Nan's bright, unconscious face was 
 very charming, undisturbed by fear or doubt : what if he 
 brought a shadow to it, a cloud that he could not dispel ? 
 For one of the very few times in his life, Sydney did not 
 feel sure of himself. 
 
 " Where are you going this summer ? " she asked him, as 
 they stood beside the shining water, and watched the 
 eddies and ripples of the stream. 
 
 " I usually go abroad. But Sir John has been asking me 
 to Culverley again." 
 
 " You do not mean to go to Switzerland, then ? You 
 spoke of it the other day." 
 
 *' No, I think not. I do not want to be so far away from 
 — from London." 
 
 "You are so fond of your work : you do not like to be 
 parted from it," she said smiling. 
 
 " I am fond of it, certainly. I have a good deal to do." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Nan. innocently, " I thought people who 
 were in Parliament did nothing but Parliamentary business 
 —like John." 
 
 " I have other things to do as well. Miss Pynsent. And 
 in Parliament even there is a good deal to study and pre- 
 
338 
 
 NAME AND "^AME. 
 
 pare for, if one means to take up a strong position from 
 the beginning." 
 
 '* Which, I am sure, you mean to do," she said quickly. 
 
 " Thank you. You understand me perfectly — you un- 
 derstand my ambitions, my hopes and fears " 
 
 She did not look as if she understood him at all. 
 
 " Are you ambitious, Mr. Campion ? But what do you 
 •wish for more than you have already ? " 
 
 " Many things. Everything." 
 
 " Power, I suppose," said Nan doubtfully ; then, with a 
 slightly interrogative intonation — " and riches ? " 
 
 *' Well— yes." 
 
 " But one's happiness does not depend on either." 
 
 " It rarely exists without one or the other." 
 
 " I don't know. I should like to live in a cottage and 
 bu quite poor, and bake the bread, and work hard all day, 
 and sleep soundly all night " 
 
 " Yes, if it were for the sake of those you loved," said 
 Sydney, venturing to look at her significantly. 
 
 Nan nodded, and a faint smile curved her lips : her eyes 
 grew tender and soft. 
 
 *• Can you not imagine another kind of life ? where you 
 spent yourself equally for those whom you loved and who 
 loved you, but in happier circumstances ? a life where two 
 congenial souls met and worked together ? Could you not 
 be happy almost anywhere with the one — the man — you 
 loved ? " 
 
 Sydney's voice had sunk low, but his eyes expressed 
 more passion than his voice, which was kept sedulously 
 steady. Nan was more aware of the look in his eyes than 
 of the words he actually used. She cast a half-frightened 
 look at him, and then turned rosy-red. 
 
 " Could you be happy with me ? " he asked her, still 
 speaking very gently. " Nan, I love you — I love you with 
 all my heart. Will you be my wife ? " 
 
 And as she surrendered her hands to his close clasp, and 
 looked half smilingly, half timidly into his face, he knew 
 that his cause was won. 
 
 But, alas, for Sydney, that at the height of his love- 
 triumph, a bitter drop of memory should suddenly poison 
 his pleasure at the fount 1 
 
NAME AND FAxME. 
 
 339 
 
 CHAPTER XXVni. 
 
 A SLUMBERING HEART. 
 
 Time had hung heavily on Lettice's hands during the first 
 month or two of her stay on the Continent. No one could 
 have been kinder to her than Mrs. Hartley, more consider- 
 ate of her needs and tastes, more anxious to please and 
 distract her. But the recovery of her nerves from the 
 shock and strain to which they had been subjected was a 
 slow process, and her mind began to chafe against the 
 restraint which the weakness of the body imposed upon 
 it. 
 
 The early spring brought relief. Nature repairs her own 
 losses as she punishes her own excess. Lettice had suf- 
 fered by the abuse of her energy and power of endurance, 
 but three months of idleness restored the balance. The 
 two women lived in a small villa on the outskirts of Flo- 
 rence, and when they were not away from home, in quest 
 of art or music, scenery or society, they read and talked to 
 each other, or recorded their impressions on paper. Mrs. 
 Hartley had many friends in England, with whom she was 
 wont to exchange many thousand words ; and these had 
 the benefit of the ideas which a winter in Florence had 
 excited in her mind. Lettice's confidant was her diary, 
 and she sighed now and then to think that there was no 
 one in the world to whom she could write the inmost 
 thoughts of her heart, and from whom she could expect an 
 intelligent and sympathetic response. 
 
 No doubt she wrote to Clara, and gave her long accounts 
 of what she saw and did in Italy; but Clara was absorbed 
 in the cares of matrimony and motherhood. She had 
 nothing but actualities to offer in return for the idealities 
 which were Lettice's mental food and drink. This had 
 always been the basis of their friendship ; and it is a basis 
 on which many a firm friendship has been built. 
 
 Lettice had already felt the elasticity of returning health 
 in every limb and vein when the news reached her of the 
 
I 'i 
 
 
 n It: 
 
 ■;■ ^ 'i'.; A 1. 
 
 * vT-'i:-'h^'\' 
 
 
 240 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 success of her novel; and that instantly completed the 
 cure. Her publisher wrote to her in high spirits, at each 
 demand for a new edition, and he forwarded to her a hand- 
 some cheque " on account," which gave more eloquent tes- 
 timony of his satisfaction than anything else. Graham 
 sent her, through Clara, a bundle of reviews which he had 
 been at the pains of cutting out of the papers, and Clara 
 added many criticisms, mostly favorable, which she had 
 heard from her husband and his friends. Lettice had a 
 keen appetite for praise, as for pleasure of every kind, and 
 she was intoxicated by the good things which were spoken 
 of her. 
 
 " There, dear," she said to Mrs. Hartley one morning, 
 spreading out before her friend the cheque which she had 
 just received from Mr. MacAlpine, "you told me that my 
 stupid book had given me nothing more than a nervous 
 fever, but this has come also to pay the doctor's bill. Is 
 it rot a great deal of money? What a lucky thing that I 
 went in for half profits, and did not take the paltry fifty 
 pounds which they offered me ? " 
 
 '* Ah, you need not twit me with what I said before I 
 knew what your book was made of," said Mrs. Hartley 
 affectionately. " How was I to know that you could write 
 a novel, when you had only told me that you could trans- 
 late a German philosopher ? The two things do not sound 
 particularly harmonious, do they ? " 
 
 " I suppose I must have made a happy hit with my sub- 
 ject, though I never thought I had whilst I was writing. I 
 only went straight on, and had not the least idea that 
 people would find much to like in it. Nor had Mr. Mac- 
 Alpine either, for he did not seem at all anxious to publish 
 it." 
 
 " It was in 70U, my darling, and would come out. You 
 have discovered a mine, and I daresay you can dig as 
 much gold out of it as will suffice to make you happy." 
 
 " Now, what shall we do with this money ? We must 
 have a big treat ; and I am going to manage and pay for 
 everything myself, starting from to-day. Shall it be Rome, 
 or the Riviera, or the Engadine ; or what do you say to 
 returning by way of Germany? I do so long to see the 
 Germans at home." 
 
 Mrs. Hartley was downcast at once. 
 
 " The first thing you want to do with your wealth," she 
 said, ** is to make me feel uncomfortable ! Have we not 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 241 
 
 been happy together these six months, and can you not 
 leave well alone ? You know that I am a rich woman, 
 through no credit of my own — for everything I have came 
 from my husband. If you talk of spending your money on 
 anyone but yourself, I shall think that you are pining for 
 independence again, and we may as well pack up our 
 things and get home." 
 
 " Oh dear, what have I said ? I did not mean it, my 
 dearest friend — my best friend in the world ! I won't say 
 anything like it again : but I mast go out and spend some 
 money, or I shall not believe in my good fortune. Can you 
 lend me ten pounds ? " 
 
 " Yes, that I can ! " 
 
 " Then let us put our things on, and go into paradise." 
 
 " What very dissolute idea, to be sure ! But come along. 
 If you will be so impulsive, I may as well go to take care 
 of you." 
 
 So they went out together — the woman of twenty-six and 
 the woman of sixty, and roamed about the streets of Flo- 
 rence like a couple of school-girls. And Lettice bought 
 her friend a brooch, and herself a ring in memory of the 
 day ; and as the ten pounds would not cover it she bor- 
 rowed fifteen ; and then they had a delightful drive through 
 the noble squares, past many a venerable palace and lofty 
 church, through richly storied streets, and across a bridge 
 of marble to the other side of the Arno ; so onward till 
 they came to the wood-enshrouded valley, where the trees 
 were breaking into tender leafage, every shade of green 
 commingling with the blue screen of the Apennines 
 beyond. Back again they came into the city of palaces, 
 which they had learned to love, and alighting near the 
 Duomo sought out d, pasticceria in a street hard by, and 
 ate a genuine school-girl's meal. 
 
 " It has been the pleasantest day of my life here ! " said 
 Lettice as they reached home in the evening. " I have not 
 had a cloud upon my conscience." 
 
 " And it has madt the old woman young," said Mrs. 
 Hartley, kissing her friend upon the cheek. " Oh, why are 
 you not my daughter ! " 
 
 ** You would soon have too much of me if I were your 
 daughter. But tell me what a daughter would have done 
 for you, and let me do it while I can." 
 
 \\ 
 
 I V 
 
 ■■I' 
 
 
 16 
 
i.-' if. 
 
 242 
 
 JVAA/£: AND FAME. 
 
 " It is not to do, but to be. Be just what you are and 
 never desert me, and then I will forget that I was once a 
 childless woman." 
 
 So the spring advanced, and drew towards summer. 
 And on the first of May Mrs. Hartley, writing to her cousin, 
 Edith Dalton, the most intimate of all her confidants, gave 
 a glowing account of Lett ice. 
 
 *' My sweetheart here (she wrote) is cured at last. Three 
 months have gone since she spoke about returning to 
 England, and I believe she is thoroughly contented. She 
 has taken to writing again, and seems to be fairly absorbed 
 in her work, but you may be sure that I shall not let her 
 overdo it. The death of her mother, and the break-up of 
 their home, probably severed all the ties that bound her to 
 London ; and, so far as I can see, not one of than remains. 
 I laughed to read that you were jealous of her. When 
 you and Brooke come here I am certain you will like her 
 every bit as much as I do. What you tell me of Brooke is 
 rather a surprise, but I know you must be very happy 
 about it. To have had him with you for six months at a 
 time, during which he has never once been up to his club, 
 is a great triumph, and speaks volumes for your clever 
 management, as well as for your care and tenderness. We 
 shall see him married and domesticated before a year has 
 passed ! I am impatient for you both to come. Do not 
 let anything prevent you." 
 
 It was quite true that Lettice had set to work again, and 
 that she appeared to have overcome the home-sickness 
 which at one time made her long to get back to Lon- 
 don. Restored health made her feel more satisfied with 
 her surroundings, and a commission for a new story had 
 found her just in the humor to sit down and begin. She 
 was penetrated by the beauty of the Tuscan city which had 
 been her kindly nurse, which was now her fount of inspira- 
 tion and inexhaustible source of new ideas. A plot, char- 
 acters, scenery, stage, impressed themselves on her im- 
 agination as she wandered amongst the stones and can- 
 vasses of Florence ; and they grew upon her more and more 
 distinctly every day, as she steeped herself in the spirit of 
 th " place and time. She would not go back to the pic- 
 turesque records of other centuries but took her portraits 
 from men and women of the time, and tried to recognize 
 in them the descendants of the artists, scholars, philoso- 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 243 
 
 phers, and patriots, who have shed undying fame on the 
 queen-city of northern Italy. 
 
 Entirely buried in her work, and putting away from her 
 all that nj.ght interfere with its performance, she forgot for 
 a time l.oth herself and others. If she was selfish in her 
 isolation it was with the selfishness of one who for art's 
 sake is prepared to abandon her ease and pleasure in the 
 laborious pursuit of an ideal. Mrs. Hartley was content 
 to leave her for a quarter of the day in the solitude of her 
 own room on condition of sharing her idleness or recrea- 
 tion during the rest of their waking hours. 
 
 Had Leitice forgotten Alan Walcott at this crisis in the 
 lives of both ? When Mrs. Hartley was assuring her 
 cousin that all the ties which had bound the girl to Lon- 
 don were severed, Alan was expiating in prison the crime 
 of which he had been convicted, which, in his morbid 
 abasement and despair he was almost ready to confess that 
 he had committed. Was he, indeed, as he had not very 
 sincerely prayed to be, forgotten by the woman he loved? 
 
 It is no simple question for her biographer to answer off- 
 hand. Lettice, as we know, had admitted into her heart 
 a feeling of sympathetic tenderness for Alan, which, 
 under other circumstances, she would have accepted as 
 worthy to dominate her life and dictate its moods and 
 duties. But the man for whom this sympathy had been 
 aroused was so situated that he could not ask her for her 
 love, whilst she could not in any case have given it if she 
 had been asked. Instinctively she had shut her eyes 
 to that which she might have read in her own soul, 
 or in his, if she had cared or dared to look. She 
 had the book before her, but it was closed and sealed. 
 Where another woman might have said, " I must forget 
 him — there is a barrier between us which neither can 
 cross," she said nothing; but all her training, her instinct, 
 her delicate feeling, even her timidity and self-distrust, led 
 her insensibly to shun the paths of memory which would 
 have brought her back to the prospect that had allured 
 and alarmed her. 
 
 Be it remembered that she knew nothing of his later 
 troubles. She had heard nothing about him since she left 
 England ; and Mrs. Hartley, who honestly believed that 
 Alan had practically effaced himself from their lives by his 
 own rash act, was sufficiently unscrupulous to keep her 
 friend in ignorance of what had happened. 
 
 
 \ I 
 
 i" i * 
 
,; tt' 
 
 
 
 -■' ' ifl 
 
 244 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 So Lettice did not mention Alan, did no^ keep him in 
 her mind or try to recall him by any active exercise of her 
 memory ; and in this sense slie had forgotten him. Time 
 would show if the impression, so deep and vivid in its 
 origin, was gradually wearing away, or merely hidden out 
 of sight. No wonder if Mrs. Hartley thought that she was 
 cured. 
 
 Lettice heard of the arrival of the Daltons without any 
 other feeling than half-selfish misgiving that her work was 
 to be interrupted at a critical moment, when her mind was 
 full of the ideas on which her story depended for its suc- 
 cess. She had created by her imagination a little world of 
 human beings, instinct with life and endowed with vivid 
 character ; she had dwelt among her creatures, guided 
 their steps and inspired their souls, loved them and walked 
 with them from day to day, until they were no mere 
 puppets dancing to the pull of a string, but real and 
 veritable men and women. She could not have de- 
 serted them by any spontaneous act of her own, and 
 if she was to be torn away from the world which hung 
 upon her fiat, she could not submit to the banishment with- 
 out at least an inward lamentation. Art spoils her vota- 
 ries for the service of society, and society, as a rule, takes 
 its revenge by despising or patronizing the artist whilst 
 competing for the possession of his works. 
 
 Brooke Dalton and his sister were lodged in an old 
 palace not far from Mrs. Hartley's smaller and newer resi- 
 dence; and frequent visits between the two couples soon 
 put them all on terms of friendly intimacy. Lettice had 
 always thought well of Mr. Dalton. He reminded her of 
 Angleford, and the happy days of her early youth. In 
 London he had been genial with her, and attentive, and 
 considerate in every sense, so that she had been quite at 
 her ease with him. They met again without constraint, and 
 under circumstances which enabled Dalton to put forth 
 his best efforts to please her, without exciting any alarm 
 in her mind, to begin with. 
 
 Edith Dalton captivated Lettice at once. She was a 
 handsome woman of aristocratic type and breeding, tall, 
 slender, and endowed with the graceful manners of one 
 who has received all the polish of refined society without 
 losing the simplicity of nature. A year or two younger 
 than her brother, she had reached an age when most 
 
 UMt. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 245 
 
 women have given up the thought of marriage; and in her 
 case there was a sad and sufficient reason for turning her 
 back upon such joys and consolations as a woman may 
 reasonably expect to find in wedded life. She had been 
 won in her girlhood by a man thoroughly fitted to make 
 her happy — a man of wealth and talent, and honorable 
 service in the State ; who, within a week of their marriage 
 day, had been thrown from his horse and killed. Edith 
 had not in so many words devoted herself to perpetual 
 maidenhood ; but that was the outcome of the great sorrow 
 of her youth. She had remained single without growing 
 morose, and her sweet and gentle moods endeared her to 
 all who came to know her. 
 
 With such a companion Lettice was sure to become inti- 
 mate; or at any rate, she was sure to respond with warmth 
 to the kindly feeling displayed for her. Yet thtre were 
 many points of unlikeness between her and Edith Dalton. 
 She too was refined, but it was the refinement of mental 
 culture rather than the moulding of social influences. She 
 too retained the simplicity of nature, but it was combined 
 with an outspoken candor which Edith had been taught to 
 shun. Where Lettice woulcj be ready to assert herself, 
 and claim the rights of independence, Edith would shrink 
 back with fastidious alarm ; where the one was fitted to 
 wage the warfare of life, and, if need be, to stand out as a 
 champion or pioneer of her sex, the other would have suf- 
 fered acutely if she had been forced into any kind of 
 aggressive combat. 
 
 When Brooke told his sister that he had met a woman 
 whom he could love, she was unfeignedly glad, and never 
 thought of inquiring whether the woman in question was 
 rich, or well-connected, or moving in good society. Per- 
 haps she took the last two points for granted, and no doubt 
 she would have been greatly disappointed if she had found 
 tliat Brooke's choice had been otherwise than gentle and 
 refined. But when she saw Lettice she was satisfied, and 
 set herself by every means in her power to please and 
 charm her new friend. 
 
 As Mrs. Hartley knew and backed the designs of the 
 Daltons, Lettice was not very fairly matched against the 
 wiles and blandishments of the three. Brooke Dalton, in- 
 deed, felt himself in a rather ridiculous position, as though 
 he were proceeding to the siege of Lettice's heart relying 
 
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 - :• \ 
 
 
 .'! 1 
 
346 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 upon the active co-operation of his sister and cousin, to 
 say nothing of her brother's letter which he carried in his 
 pocket. But, after all, this combination was quite fortui- 
 tous. He had not asked for assistance, and he knew very 
 well that if such assistance were too openly given it would 
 do his cause more harm than good. 
 
 Dallon was one of those good-tempered men who are 
 apt to get too much helj) in spite of themselves from the 
 women-folk of their family and household, who are sup- 
 posed to need help when they do not, and who have only 
 themselves to thank for their occasional embarrassment of 
 wealth in this particular form. Nature intends such men 
 to be wife-ridden and happy. It is not alien to their dis- 
 position that they should spend their earlier manhood, as 
 Dalton had done, amongst men who take life too easily and 
 lightly ; but they generally settle down before the whole 
 of their manhood is wasted, and then a woman can lead 
 them with a thread of silk. 
 
 It was for Lettice, if she would, to lead this gentle- 
 hearted English squire, to be the mistress of his house and 
 fair estate, to ensure the happiness of this converted bache- 
 lor of Pall Mall, and to bid good-bye to the cares and 
 struggles of the laborious life on which she had entered. 
 
 The temptation was put before her. Would she dally 
 with it, and succumb to it ? And could anyone blame her 
 if she did ? 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 " IT WAS A LIE ! 
 
 »» 
 
 Up the right-hand slopes of the Val d'Arno, between Flo- 
 rence and Fiesole, the carriage-road runs for some distance 
 comparatively broad and direct between stone walls and 
 cypress-hedges, behind which the passer-by gets glimpses 
 of lovely terraced gardens, of the winding river far below 
 his feet, of the purple peaks of the Carrara mountains far 
 away. But when the road reaches the base of the steep 
 hill on which the old Etruscans built their crow's-nest of a 
 city — where Catiline gathered his host of desperadoes, and 
 under whose shadow, more than three centuries later, the 
 lasc of the Roman deliverers, himself a barbarian, hurled 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 HI 
 
 back the liordes of Radegast — it winds u. narrow and tor- 
 tuous way from valley lo crest, from terrace to terrace, 
 until the crowning stage is reached. 
 
 Here in the shadow of the old Etruscan fortifications, 
 the wayfarer might take his stand and look down upon the 
 wondrous scene beneath him. " Never," as Hallam says, 
 " could the .sympathies of the soul with outward nature be 
 more finely touched ; never could more striking suggestions 
 be presented to the philosopher and the statesman " 
 than in this Tuscan cradle of so much of our modern civil- 
 ization, which even the untraveled islander of the northern 
 seas can picture in his mind and cherish with lively affec- 
 tion. For was it not on this fertile soil of Etruria that the 
 art and letters of Italy had birth ? and was it not in fair 
 Florence, rather than in any other modern city, that they 
 were born again in the ^ulness of time ? Almost on the 
 very spot where Stilicho vainly stemmed the advancing 
 tide which was to reduce Rome to a city of ruins, 'le new 
 light dawned after a millennium of darkness. And there, 
 from the sacred walls of Florence, Dante taught our ear- 
 lier and later poets to sing ; Galileo reawoke slumbering 
 science with a trumpet-call which frightened the Inquisition 
 out of its senses ; Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, Da Vinci, Del 
 Sarto created models of art for all succeeding time. Never 
 was there in any region of the world such a focus of illu- 
 minating fire. Never will there live a race that does not 
 own its debt to the great seers and creators of Tuscany. 
 
 Late on an autumn afternoon, towards the close of the 
 September of 1882, four English friends have driven out 
 from Florence to Fiesole, and, after lingering for a time in 
 the strange old city, examining the Cathedral in the Piazza 
 and the remains of the Roman Theatre in the garden behind 
 it, they came slowly down the hill to the beautiful old villa 
 which was once the abode of Lorenzo the Magnificent. 
 The carriage waited for them in the road, but here, on the 
 terrace outside the villa gates, they rested awhile, feasting 
 their eyes upon the lovely scene which lay below. 
 
 They had visited the place before, but not for some 
 months, for they had been forced away from Florence 
 by the fierce summer heat, and had spent some time in 
 Siena and Pis^oja, finally taking up their residence in a 
 cool and secluded nook of the Pistojese Apennines. But 
 when autumn came, and the colder mountain breezes began 
 
n 
 
 :in 
 
 248 
 
 JV/tAf/i AND FAME, 
 
 to blow, Mrs. Hartley hastened her friends back to In 1 
 comfortable liitle Florentine villa, proposing to sojourn 
 there for the autumn, and then to go with Lettice and per- 
 haps with the Daltons also, on to Rome. 
 
 '* We have seen nothing so beautiful as this in all our 
 wanderings," Lettice said at last in softened tones. 
 
 She was looking at the clustering towers of the city, ui 
 Brunelleschi's magnificent dome, and the slender grace of 
 Giotto's Campanile, and thence, from tiiose storied iroplucs 
 of transcendant art, her gaze wandered to the rich valley 
 of the Arno, with its slopes of green and grey, and iis dis- 
 tant line of purple peaks against an opalescent sky. 
 
 ** It is more beautiful in spring. I miss the glow and 
 scent of the flowers — the scarlet tulips, the sweet violets," 
 said Mrs. Hartley. 
 
 " I cannot imagine anything more beautiful," Edith 
 Dalton rejoined. " One feels oppressed with so much 
 loveliness. It is beyond expression." 
 
 " Silence is most eloquent, perhaps, in a place like this," 
 said Lettice. " What can one say that is worth saying, or 
 that has not been said before?" 
 
 She was sitting on a fragment of fallen stone, her hands 
 loosely clasped round her knees, her eyes fixed wistfully 
 and dreamily upon the faint amethystine tints of the distant 
 hills. Brooke Dalton looked down at her with an anxious 
 eye. He did not altogether like this pensive mood of hers ; 
 there was something melancholy in the drooping curves of 
 her lips, in the pathos of her wide gaze, which he did not 
 understand. He tried to speak lightly, in hopes of recall- 
 ing her to the festive mood in which they had all begun 
 the day. 
 
 " You remind me of two friends of mine who are just 
 home froiji Egypt. They say that when they first saw the 
 Sphinx they sat down and looked at it for two hours without 
 uttering a word." 
 
 ** You would not have done that, Brooke," said Mrs. 
 Hartley, a little maliciously. 
 
 *' But why not ? I think it was the right spirit," said 
 Lettice, and again lapsed into silence. 
 
 ** Look at the Duomo, how well it stands out in the 
 evening light ! " exclaimed Edith. " Do you remember 
 what Michael Angelo said when he tu'ned and looked at 
 
J^AME AND FAME, 249 
 
 it before riding away to Rome to build St. Peter's ? ' Come 
 tc non voglio : mcglio di tc non posso.' " 
 
 " I am always struck by his generosity of feeling towards 
 other artists," remarked Mrs. Hartley. *' Except towards 
 R.ifiaelle, perhaps. But think of what he said of Santa 
 Maria Novella, that it was beautiful as a bride, and that 
 the Baptistery gates were worthy of Paradise. It is only 
 the great who can afford to praise so magnificently." 
 
 Again there was a silence. Then Mrs. Hartley and 
 Edith professed to be attracted by a group of peasant 
 children who were offering flowers and fruil for sale ; and 
 they strolled to some little distance, talking to them and 
 to a black-eyed cantadinaj whose costume struck them as 
 unusually gay. They even walked a little in the shade of 
 the cypresses, with which the palazzo seemed to be guard- 
 ed, as with black and ancient sentinels ; but all this was 
 more for the sake of leaving Brooke alone with Lettice 
 than because they had any very great interest in the Italian 
 woman and her children, or the terraced gardens of the 
 Villa Mozzi. For the time of separation was at hand. 
 The Daltons were returning very shortly to England, and 
 Brooke had not yet carried out his intention of asking 
 Lettice Campion to be his wife. He had asked Mrs. 
 Hartley that day to give him a chance, if possible, of haif 
 an hour's conversation with Lettice alone ; butth('ir excur- 
 sion had not hitherto afforded him the coveted opportunity. 
 Now, however, it had come ; but while Lettice sat looking 
 towards the towers of Florence with that pensive and 
 abstracted air, Brooke Dalton shrank from breaking in 
 upon her reverie. 
 
 In truth, Lettice was in no talkative mood. She had 
 been troubled in her mind all day, and for some days pre- 
 viously, and it was easier for her to keep silence than for 
 any of the rest. If she had noticed the absence of Mrs. 
 Hartley and Edith, she would probably have risen from 
 her seat and insisted on joining them ; but strong in the 
 faith that they were but a few steps away from her, she had 
 thrown the reins of restraint upon the necks of her wild 
 horses of imagination, and had been borne away by them 
 to fields where Brooke's fancy was hardly likely to carry 
 him — fields of purely imaginative joy and ideal beauty, in 
 which he had :io mental share. It was rest and refresh- 
 ment to her to do this, after the growing perplexity of the 
 
 i 1 
 
 i 
 
 ■■ 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 ? 
 
 1 i 
 
 . 
 
 
 1 
 
 y 
 
y 
 
 ! !tl 
 
 if 
 
 950 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 last few days. Absorbed in her enjoyment of the lucent 
 air, the golden and violet and emerald tints of the land- 
 scape ; conscious also of the passionate joy which often 
 thrills the nerves of Italy's lovers when they find them- 
 selves, after long years of waiting, upon that classic ground, 
 she h? \ for the time put away the thoughts that caused her 
 perplexity, and abandoned herself to the sweet influences 
 of the time and place. 
 
 The Daltons had been in Italy since May, and she had 
 seen a great deal of Edith. Brooke Daiton had sometimes 
 gone off on an expedition by himself, but more frequently 
 he danced attendance on the women j and Lettice had found 
 out that when he was absent she had a great deal more of 
 him than when he was present. So much had Edith and 
 Mrs. Hartley to say about him, so warmly did they praise 
 his manners, his appearance, his manly and domestic vir- 
 tues, and his enviable position in the world, that in course 
 of time she knew all his good points by heart. She had 
 actually found herself the day before, more as a humorous 
 exercise of memory than for any other reason, jotting them 
 down in her diary. 
 
 " B. D.—teslibus E. D. et M. H. 
 
 *' He is handsome, has a manly figure, a noble head, blue 
 eyes, chestnut hair (it is turning grey — L. C), a dignified 
 presence, a look thai shows he respects others as much as 
 himself. 
 
 " He is truthful, simple in tastes, easily contented, 
 lavishly generous (that I know — L. C), knows his own 
 mind (that I doubt — L. C), is fond of reading (?), a 
 scholar (? ?), with a keen appreciation of literature (? ? ?). 
 
 " He has one of the most delightful mansions in Er gland 
 (as 1 know — L. C), with gardens, conservatories, a park, 
 -^'ght thousand a year. 
 
 ** He is altogether an enviable man, and the woman who 
 marries him will be an enviable woman (a matter of opmion 
 — L. C), and he is on the look-out for a wife (how would 
 he like to have that said of him ? — L. C.)." 
 
 Lettice had sportively written this in her diary, and had 
 scribbled it out again ; but it represented fairly enough 
 the kind of ideas which Brooke Dalton's sister and cousin 
 had busily instilled into her mind. The natural consequence 
 was that she had grown somewhat weary of listening to 
 the praises of their hero, and felt disposed to consider him 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 251 
 
 as either much too superior to be thoroughly nice, or 
 much too nice to be all that his womenfolk described him. 
 
 Of some of his estimable qualities, however, she had had 
 personal experience ; and, notably of his lavish generosity. 
 A few days ago he had taken them all to the shop of a . 
 dealer of old-fashioned woi-ks of art and rare curiosities, 
 declaring that he had brought them there for the express 
 purpose of giving them a memento of Florence before they 
 left the city. 
 
 Then he bade them choose, and, leaving Edith and Mrs. . 
 Hartley to make their own selection, which they did 
 modestly enough, letting him off at about a sovereign 
 apiece, he insisted on prompting and practically dictating 
 the choice of Lettice, who, by constraint and cajolery to- 
 gether, was made to carry away a set of intaglios that must . 
 have cost him fifty pounds at least. 
 
 She had no idea of their value, but she was uneasy at 
 having taken the gift. What would he conclude from her 
 acceptance of such a valuable present ? It was true that 
 she was covered to some extent by the fact that Edith and 
 Mrs. Hartley were with her at the time, but she could not 
 feel satisfied about the propriety of her conduct, and she 
 had a subtle argument with herself as to the necessity of 
 returning the gems sooner or later, unless she was prepared 
 to be compromised in the opinion of her three friends. 
 
 She had for the present, however, banished these un- 
 pleasant doubts from her mind, and the guilty author of 
 her previous discomfort stood idly by her side, smoking 
 his cigar, and watching the people as they passed along 
 the road. The other ladies were out of sight, and thus 
 Brooke and Lettice were left alone. 
 
 After a time she noticed the absence of her friends, and 
 turned round quickly to look for them. Brooke saw the 
 action, and felt that if he did not speak now he might never 
 get such a good opportunity. So, with nothing but in- 
 sthict for his guide, he plunged into the business without 
 further hesitation. 
 
 " I hope you will allow, Miss Campion, that I know 
 how to be silent when the occasion requires it ! I did not 
 break in upon your reverie, and should not have done so, 
 however long it might have lasted." 
 
 " I am sorry you have had to stand sentinel/' said Let- 
 lice ; " but you told me once that a woman never need 
 
 
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11 M 
 
 >.i-!:". 
 
 II, ! 
 
 \ VS 
 
 252 
 
 A.IA//': AND FAME, 
 
 pity a man for being kept waiting so long as he had a cigar 
 lo smoke." 
 
 " That is quite true ; and I have not been an object for 
 pity at all. Unless you will jiity me for having to bring 
 my holiday to an end. You know that Edith and I are 
 leaving Florence on Monday ? " 
 
 '* Yes, Edith told me ; but she did not speak as though 
 it would end your holiday. She said that you might go on 
 to Rome — that you had not made up your mind what to 
 do." 
 
 " That is so — it depends upon circumstances, and the 
 decision does not altogether rest with us. Indeed, Miss 
 Campion, my future movements are quite uncertain until 
 I have obtained your answer to a question which I want 
 to put to you. May I put it now? " 
 
 " If there is anything I can tell you — " said Lettice, 
 not without difficulty. Her breath came quick, and her 
 bosom heaved beneath her light dress with nervous rapidity. 
 What could he have to say to her ? She had refused all 
 these weeks to face the idea which had been forcing itself 
 upon her ; and he had been so quiet, so unemotional, 
 that until now she had never felt uneasy in his presence. 
 
 " You can tell me a great deal," said Brooke, looking 
 down at her with increased earnestness and tenderness in 
 his eyes and voice. Her face was half averted from him, 
 but he perceived her emotion, and grew more hopeful at 
 the sign. " You can tell me all I want to know; but, un- 
 less you have a good message for me, 1 shall wish I had 
 not asked you my question, and broken through the 
 friendly terms of intercourse from which I have derived so 
 much pleasure, and which have lasted so long between us." 
 
 Why did he pause ? What could she say that he would 
 care to hear? 
 
 '' Listen to me ! " he said, sinking down on the seat be- 
 side her, and pleading in a low tone. '' I am lot a very 
 young man. I am ten or twelve years older than yourself. 
 But if 1 spoke with twice as much passion in my voice, 
 and if I had paid you ten times as much attention and 
 court as I have done, it would not ])rove me more sincere 
 in my love, or more eager to call you my wife. You can- 
 not think how I have been looking f Mward to this mo- 
 ment — hoping and fearing from day to day, afraid to put 
 my fate to the test, and yet impatient to know if I had any 
 
i ! 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 253 
 
 chance of happiness. I loved you in London — I believe 
 I loved you as soon as I knew you ; and it was simply 
 and solely in order to try and win your love that I followed 
 you to Italy. Is there no hope for me? " 
 
 She did not answer. She could not speak a word, for a 
 storm of conflicting feelings was raging in her breast. 
 Feelings only — she had not begun to think. 
 
 '* If you will try to love me," he went on, " it will be as 
 much as I have dared to hope. If you will only begin by 
 liking me, I think I can succeed in gaining what will per- 
 fectly satisfy me. All my life shall be devoted to giving 
 you the happiness which you deserve. Lettice, have you 
 not a word to say to me ? " 
 
 " I cannot — " she whispered at length, so faintly that he 
 could scarcely hear. 
 
 " Cannot even like me ! " 
 
 " Oh, do not ask me that ! I cannot answer you. If 
 liking were all — but you would not be content with that." 
 
 '' Say that you like me. Lettice^ have a little pity on 
 the heart that loves you ! " 
 
 " What answer can I give ? An hour ago I liked you. 
 Do you not see that what you have said makes the old 
 liking impossible ? " 
 
 " Yes — I know it. And I have thrown away all because 
 I wanted more ! I spoke too suddenly. But do not, at 
 any rate, forbid me still to nurse my hope. I will try 
 and be patient. I will come to you again for my answer 
 —when ? In a month — in six months ? Tell me only 
 one thing — there is no one who has forestalled me ? You 
 are not pledged to another ? " 
 
 Lettice stood up — the effort was necessary in order to 
 control her beating heart and trembling nerves. She did 
 not reply. She only looked out to the sunlit landscape 
 with wide, unseeing eyes, in which lurked a secret, un- 
 spoken dread. 
 
 "Tell me before we part," he said, in a voice which was 
 hoarse with suppressed passion. " Say there is no one to 
 whom you have given your love ! " 
 
 "There is no one!" — But the answer ended in a 
 gasp that was almost a sob. 
 
 " Thank God !" said Brooke Dalton, as a look of infi- 
 nite relief came into his face. "Then a montli to-day I 
 will return to you, wherever you may be, and ask for my 
 answer again." 
 
 
 * V 
 
 i' 
 
 ,1 w 
 
aS4 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 -'t „,L 
 
 it 
 
 Mrs. Hartley and Edith came back from the garden 
 terraces. With kindly mischief in their hearts, they had 
 lefi these two together, watching them with half an eye 
 until they saw that the matter had come to a climax. When 
 Lettice stood up, they divined that the moment had come 
 for their reappearance. 
 
 Lettice. advanced to meet them, and when they were 
 near enough Edith passed her hand through her friend's 
 still trembling arm. 
 
 ''Those dear little Italian children !" said Mrs. Hart- 
 ley. "They are so beautiful — so full of life and spirits, I 
 could have looked at them for another hour. Now, good 
 people, what is going to be done ? We nuist be getting 
 honle. Brooke, can you see the carriage ? You might 
 find it, and tell the driver to come back for us." 
 
 Brooke started off with alacrity, and the women were 
 left alone. Then Edith began co chatter about nothing, 
 in the most resolute fashion, in order that Lettice might 
 have time to pull herself together. 
 
 She was glad of their consideration, for indeed she 
 needed all her fortitude. What meant this suffocation of 
 the heart, which almost prevented her from breathing ? It 
 ached in her bosom as though someone had grasped it 
 with a hand of ice ; she shuddered as chough a ghost had 
 been sitting by her and pleading with her, instead of a 
 lover. Her own name echoed in her ears, and she re- 
 membered that Brooke Dalton had called her " Lettice." 
 But it was not his voice which was calling to her now. 
 
 Dalton presently reappeared with the i\ews that the 
 carriage was waiting for them in the road below. 
 
 So in an hour from that time they were at home again, 
 and Lettice was able to get to her own room, and to think 
 of what had happened. 
 
 If amongst those who read the story of her life Lettice 
 Campion has made for herself a few discriminating friends, 
 they will not need to be reminded that she was not by any 
 means a perfect character. She was, in her way, quite as 
 ambitious as her brother Sydney, although not quite so 
 eager in pursuit of her own ends, her own pleasure and satis- 
 faction. She was also more scrupulous than Sydney to the 
 means which she would adopt for the attainment of her 
 objects, and she desired that others should share with her 
 the good things which fell to her lof^ ; but she had never 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 255 
 
 ])een taught, or had never adopted the rule, that mere self- 
 denial, for self-denial's sake, was the soundest basis of 
 morality and conduct. She was thoroughly and keenly 
 human, and she did but follow her natural bent, with- 
 out distortion and without selfishness, in seeking to give 
 happiness to herself as well a" to others. 
 
 Brooke Dalton's offer of marriage placed a great temp- 
 tation before her. All the happiness that money, and po- 
 sition, and affection, and a luxurious home could afford was 
 hers if she would have it ; and these were things which 
 she valued very highly. Edith Dalton had done her best 
 to make her friend realize what it would mean to be the 
 mistress of Brooke's house ; and poor Lettice, with all her 
 magnanimity, was dazzled in spite of herself, and did not 
 quite see why si >. should say No, when Brooke made her 
 his offer. And yet her heart cried out against accepting 
 it. 
 
 She had needed time to think, and now the process was 
 already beginning. He had given her a month to decide 
 whether she could love him — or even like him well enough 
 to become his wife. Nothing could be more generous, 
 and indeed she knew that he was the soul of generosity 
 and consideration. A month to make up her mind whe- 
 ther she would accept from him all that makes life pleasant, 
 and joyful, and easy, and comfortable; or whether she 
 would turn her back upc the temptation, and shun de- 
 lights, and live laborious days. 
 
 Could she hesitate ? What woman with nothing to de- 
 pend upon except her own exertions, and urged to assent 
 (as she would be) by her only intimate friends, would have 
 hesitated in her place ? Yet she did hesitate, and it was 
 necessary to weigh the reasons against accepting, as she 
 had dwelt upon the reasons in favor of it. 
 
 If it was easy to imagine that life at Angleford Manor 
 might be very peaceful and luxurious, there could be no 
 doubt that she would have to purchase her pleasure at the 
 cost of a great deal of her independence. She might be 
 able to write, in casual and ornamental fashion ; but she 
 felt that there would be little real sympathy with her lite- 
 rary occupations, and the zest of effort and ambition which 
 slic now felt would be gone. Moreover, independence of 
 action counted for very little in comparison with inde- 
 dence of thought — and how could she nurse her somewhat 
 
 li^hj i^i 
 
 m^\ 
 
 
 , :i 
 
256 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 in" : 
 
 
 heretical ideas in the drawing-room of a Tory High 
 Church squire, a member of the Oligarchy, whose friends 
 would nearly all be like-minded with himself? She had no 
 right to introduce so great a discord into his life. If she 
 married him, she would at any rate try (consciously or 
 mn'onsciously) to adopt his views, as the proper basis of the 
 partnership ; and therefore to marry him unquestionably 
 meant the sacrifice of her independent judgment. 
 
 So much for the intellectual and material sides of the 
 question. But, Lettice asked herself, was that all? 
 
 No, there was something else. She had been steadily 
 and obstinately, yet almost unconsciously, trying to push 
 il away from her all the time — ever since Brooke Dalton 
 began to betray his affection, and even before that when 
 Mrs. Hartley, unknown to her, kept her in ignorance of 
 things which she ought to have known. She had refused 
 to face it, pressed it out of her heart, made believe to her- 
 self that the chapter of her life which had been written in 
 London was closed and forgotten — and how nearly she 
 had succeeded ! But she had not quite succeeded. It was 
 there still — the memory, the hope, the pity, the sacrifice. 
 
 She must not cheat herself any longer, if she would be 
 an honest and honorable woman. She would face the truth 
 and not palter with it, now that the crisis had really come. 
 What was Alan Walcott to her? Could she forget him, and 
 dismiss him from her thoughts, and go to the altar with 
 another man? She went over the scenes which they had 
 enacted together, she recalled his words and his letters, she 
 thought of his sorrows and trials, and remembered how he 
 had appealed to her for sympathy. There was good reason, 
 she thought, why he had not written to her, for he was 
 barred by something more than worldly conventionality. 
 When she, strong-minded as she thought herself, had 
 shrunk from the display of his love because he still had 
 duties to his lawful wife, she had imposed upon him her 
 demand for conventional and punctilious respect, and had 
 rather despised herself, she now remembered, for doing it. 
 He had obeyed her, he had observed her slightest wishes 
 — 'it was for her, not for him, to break through the silence. 
 How had she been able to remain so long in ignorance of 
 his condition, to live contentedly so many miles away from 
 him ? 
 
 As she thought of all these things in the light of her new 
 experience, her heart was touched again by the old sym- 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 aS7 
 
 pathy, and throbbed once more with the music which it 
 had not known since her ilhiess began. It was a harp 
 which had been laid aside and forgotten, till the owner, 
 coming by cliance into the disused room, strung it anew, 
 and bade it discourse the sym])honies of the olden time. 
 
 Not until Lettice had reached this point in her retro- 
 spect did she perceive how near she had gone to the divid- 
 ing line which separates honor from faithlessness and truth 
 from falsehood. She had said, " There is no one to whom 
 my love is pledged." Was that true ? Which is stronger 
 or more sacred — the pledge of words or the pledge of feel- 
 ing? She had tried to drown the feeling, but it would not 
 die. It was there, it had never been absent ; and she had 
 profaned it by listening to the temptations of Brooke Dal- 
 ton, and by telling him that her heart was free. 
 
 " It was a lie !" 
 
 She sank on the sofa as she made the confession to her- 
 self. Alan's letters were in her hand ; she clasped them to 
 her breast, and murmured, 
 
 *' It was a lie — for I love you ! " 
 
 If the poor wretch in his prison cell, who, worn out at 
 last by daily self-consuming doubts, lay tossiiig with fever 
 on a restless bed, could have heard her vords and seen her 
 action, he might have been called b^^ck to life from the 
 borderland of the grave. 
 
 
 » 
 
 
 < 
 
 Ji 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 AWAKENED. 
 
 " What is it, darling ?" Mrs. Hartley said to her friend when 
 they met the next morning at the late breakfast which, out 
 of deference to foreign customs, they had adopted. She 
 looked observantly at the restless movements of the girl, 
 and the changing color in her cheeks. "You have not 
 ealen anything, and you do nothing but shiver and sigh." 
 Mrs. Hartley was quite convinced in her own mind that 
 Lettice had received an offer of marriage from her cousin 
 Brooke Dalton. Possibly she had already accepted it. She 
 should hear all about it that morning. The symptoms over- 
 night had not been too favorable, but she put down the dis- 
 
 17 
 
2s8 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 
 U;, 
 
 turbancc which Lctlicc liad sliown to nn excess of nervous 
 excitement. Women do not all receive a sentence of hap- 
 piness for life in precisely the same manner, she reflected : 
 some cry and some hiugh, some dance and sing, others col- 
 lapse and are miserable. Letlice was one of the latter kind, 
 and it was for Mrs. Hartley to give her a mother's sym- 
 pathy and comfort. So she awaited the word wjiich should 
 enable her to cut the dykes of her affection. 
 
 Lettice turned white and cold, and her grey eyes were 
 Tixed with a stony look on the basket of flowers which 
 •Jecorated the breakfast table. 
 
 " I am not well," she said, " but it is worse with the 
 •nd than the body. I have done a wicked thing, and to 
 atCi. for it I am going to do a cruel thing ; so how could 
 you expect me to have an ap})etite?" 
 
 " My dear pet ! " said Airs. Hartley, putting out her 
 hand to touch the fingers of her friend, which she found as 
 cold as ice, " you need not tell me that you have done 
 anything wicked, for I don't believe it. And I am sure 
 you would not do anything cruel, knowing beforehand that 
 it was cruel." 
 
 " Is it not wicked to tell a lie? — for I have done that." 
 
 " No, no ! " 
 
 "And will it not be cruel to you and to Edith that I 
 should cause pain to your cousin, and make him think me 
 insincere and mercenary ? " 
 
 " He could not possibly think so," said Mrs. Hartley with 
 decision. 
 
 " He must." 
 
 " What are you going to do, Lettice ? " 
 
 " I am going to tell him that I was not honest when I 
 allowed him to say that he would come for my answer in 
 a month, and to think it possible that the answer might 
 be favorable — when God knows that it cannot." 
 
 Brooke has asked you to be his wife? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And you told him to come for his answer in a 
 month ? " 
 
 " I agreed to it." 
 
 " Well, darling, I think that was very natural — if you 
 could not say ' yes' at once to my cousin." 
 
 There was a touch of resentment in the words "my 
 cousin," which Lettice felt. Mrs. Hartley could not under- 
 
NAME AM) FAME, 
 
 259 
 
 lest when I 
 y answer in 
 
 ,nswer in a 
 
 . t i' he first time you have 
 th,. s part of my punish- 
 
 r cliair, and looked as 
 
 Stand that Brooke Dalton sliould liave to offer himself twice 
 over — even to her Lettice. 
 
 "Wait this month," she went on, "and we shall see 
 what you think at the end of it. You arc evidently "^ set 
 now — taken by surprise, little innocent as you are, i he 
 fact is, you liave never really recovered from your \ ess, 
 and I believe you set to work again too soon. A hard- 
 working life would not have suited \nu ; but, thank Hea- 
 ven, there is an end of that. You will never have to make 
 yourself a slave again ! " 
 
 "Dear, you do not understand. I did a wicked thing 
 yesterday, and now I must tell Mr. Dalton, and ask him 
 to forgive me." 
 
 " Nonsense, child ! " 
 
 ^'Ah !" said Lettice, sadly, '' 
 ever spoken sharply to me, an ' 
 ment ! " 
 
 Mrs. Hartley sank back in \ 
 though she was about to tak' retuge in a quiet lit of weep- 
 ing. 
 
 " I can't comprehend it," she said ; ** I thought we 
 were going to be so happy ; and I am sure you and Brooke 
 would suit each other exactly.'' 
 
 *' Oh no, indeed ; there are thousands of women who 
 will make him a better wife than I could ever have done." 
 
 *' Now, do listen to me, and give yourself at least a week 
 to think it over, before you say all this to liiookc ! That 
 cannot make th-ini's worse, either for him or for vourself. 
 Why should you be so rash about it? " 
 
 " I wish I could see any other way out of it — but I can- 
 not ; and I have been thinking and thinking all the night 
 It is a case of conscience with me now." 
 
 "You cannot expect me to see it, dear," said Mrs. 
 Hartley, rising from her chair. " It is simply incom])re- 
 hensible, that you should first agree to wait a montli, and 
 then, after a few hours, insist on giving such a pointed re- 
 fusal. Think, think, my darling ! " she went on, laying a 
 caressing hand on Lettice's shoulder. " Sui)pose that 
 Brooke should feel himself insulted by such treatment. 
 Could you be surprised if he did ? " 
 
 Lettice buried her face in her hands, mutely despairing. 
 Her punishment was very hard tt) bear, and the tears 
 which trickled through her fingers showed how much she 
 
 long. 
 
 aC 
 
.'■ 
 
 m 
 
 
 
 a6o 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 felt it. With an effort she controlled herself, and looked 
 up again. 
 
 •' I will tell him all," she said. " He shall be the judge. 
 If he still wishes to renew his question in a month, I will 
 hold myself to that arrangement. I shall claim nothing 
 and refuse nothing; but if he voluntarily withdraws his 
 offer, then, dear, you will see that there could be no alterna- 
 tive." 
 
 Mrs. Hartley bent to kiss her. 
 
 " I suppose that is all that can be done, Lettice. I am 
 very sorry that my darling is in trouble ; but if I could help 
 you, you would tell me more." 
 
 Then she left the room, and Lettice went to her desk and 
 wrote her letter. 
 
 •'Dear Mr. Dalton, — When you asked me yesterday if there was 
 any one to whom I had given my love, I said there was no one. I 
 ought to have thought at the time that this was a question which I 
 ccatd not fairly answer. I am obliged now to confess that my answer 
 was not sincere. You cannot think worse of me than I think of my- 
 self ; but 1 should be still more to blame if I allowed the mistake to 
 continue after I have realized how impossible it is for me to give you 
 the answer that you desire. 1 can only hope that you will forgive me 
 for apparently deceiving you, and believe that I could not have clone it 
 if I had not deceived myself. Sincerely yours, 
 
 <' Lettice Campion." 
 
 It was written ; and without waiting to criticize her own 
 phrases, she sent it to the Palazzo Serafini by a special 
 messenger. 
 
 Brooke Dalton knew that he did not excel in letter writ- 
 ing. He could indite a good, clear, sensible business 
 epistle easily enough ; but to express love or sorrow or any 
 of the more subtle emotions on paper would have been im- 
 possible to him. Therefore he did not attempt the task. 
 He at once walked over to Mrs. Hartley's villa and asked 
 to see Miss Campion. 
 
 He was almost sorry that he had done so when Lettice 
 came down to him in the little shaded salon where Mrs. 
 Hartley generally received visitors, and he saw her face. 
 It was white, and her eyes were red with weeping. Evi- 
 dently that letter had cost her dear, and Brooke Dalton 
 gathered a Httle courage from the sight. 
 
 She came up to him and tried to speak, but the words 
 would not come. Brooke was not a man of very quick 
 
Campion." 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 961 
 
 intuitions, as a rule ; but in tliis case love gave Iiini sharp- 
 ness of siglit. He took her hand in bulli his own and held 
 it tenderly while he spoke. 
 
 •' There is no need for you to say anything," he said ; 
 '*no need for you to distress yourself in ll)is way. 1 have 
 only come to say one thing to you, because I felt tluU I 
 could say it better than I could wrile U. Of course, 1 was 
 grieved by your note this morning — terribly grieved and — 
 and — disappointed ; but I don't think that it leaves me 
 quilc wilhoul hope, after all." 
 
 " Oh," Lettice was beginning in protest ; but he luislied 
 her with a pressure of his hand. 
 
 " Listen to me one moment. My last question yester- 
 day was unwarrantable. I never ought to iiave asked it ; 
 and I beg you to consider it and your answer unsj)oken. 
 Of course, I should be filled with desjjair if I believed — 
 but I don't believe -1 don't conclude anything from the 
 little you have said. 1 sliall still come to you at the end 
 of the month and ask for my answer then." 
 
 " It will be of no use," she said, sadly, with averted face 
 and downcast eyes. 
 
 " Don't say so. Don't deprive me of every hope. Let 
 me beg of you to say nothing more just now. In a montii's 
 time I will come to you, wherever you are, and ask for 
 your final decision." 
 
 He saw that Lettice was about to speak, and so he 
 went on hastily, " I don't know if I am doing right or 
 wrong in handing you this letter from your brother. He 
 gave it me before I left England, and bade me deliver it 
 or hold it back as I saw fit." 
 
 " He knew ? " said Lettice, trembling a little as the 
 thought of her brother's general attitude towards her 
 wishes for independence and her friendship for Alan Wal- 
 colt. '' You had told him ? " 
 
 " Yes, he knew when he wrote it that I meant to ask 
 you to be my wife. I do not know what is in it ; but I 
 should imagine from the circumstances that it might con- 
 vey his good wishes for our joint happiness, if such a 
 thing could ever be ! I did not make up my mind to give 
 it to you until I had spoken for myself." 
 
 Lettice took the letter and looked at it helplessl>, the 
 color flushing high in her cheeks. Dalton saw her embar- 
 rassment, and divined that she would not like to open the 
 letter when he was there. 
 
 * [' 
 
 " 
 
 ! ' ; 
 
 1 
 
 
 11 
 
 
 
 r 
 
 i 
 
 
 ; I 
 
H 
 
 l:i-3 
 
 262 
 
 J\rAME AND FAME. 
 
 " T am going now,** he said. " Edith and I leave Flo- 
 rence this afternoon. Wc are going to Rome — I shall not 
 go back to England until I have your answer. For the 
 present, good-bye." 
 
 Lettice gave him her hand again. He pressed it warmly, 
 and left her w ithout another word. She was fain to ac- 
 knowledge that he could not have behaved with more deli- 
 cacy or more generosity. But what should she say to him 
 when the month was at an end? 
 
 She sat for some time with Sydney's letter in her laj), 
 wishing it were possible for her to give Brooke Dalton the 
 answer that he desired. But she knew that she could not 
 do it. It was reserved for some other woman to make 
 Brooke Dalton hapi)y. She, probably, could not Inve 
 done it if she had tried ; and she consoled herself by think- 
 ing that he wouKl live to see this himself. 
 
 Sydney's handwriting on the sealed envelope (she 
 noticed that it was Dalton's seal) caught her eye. ^^'iult 
 could he have to say to her in his friend's behalf? What 
 was there that might be said or left unsaid at Mr. Dalton's 
 pleasure ? She had not much in common with Sydney 
 now-a-days ; but she knew that he was just married, and 
 that he loved his wife, and she thought that he might i)ci- 
 haps have only kindly words in store for her — words writ- 
 ten perhaps when his heart was soft with a new sort of 
 tenderness. Lettice was hungering for a word of love and 
 sympathy. She opened the letter and read : 
 
 ** Angleford, Easter Tuesday. 
 *' Mv Dear Lettice, 
 
 '* I am writing this at the close of a short country holiday at Brooke 
 Dalton's place. You know that Brooke has always been a good friend 
 to me, and I owe him a debt of gratitude which I cannot easily repay, 
 
 " It would be impossible to express the pleasure with which I hc;ml 
 from him that he had become attached to my only sister, and that he 
 was about to make her an ofter of marriage. You would properly re- 
 sent anything I might say to you in the way of recommendation (and 1 
 am sure that he would resent it also), on the ground of his wealth, his 
 excellent worldly position, and his ability to surround his w ife with all 
 the luxuries which a woman can desire. I will not suggest any con- 
 siderations of that kind, but it is only right that I should speak of my 
 friend as I know him. The woman who secures Brooke Dalton for a 
 husband will have the love and care of one of the best men in the 
 world, as well as the consideration of society. 
 
 " I look forward, therefore, to a very happy time when you will be 
 settled down in a home of your own, where I can visit you from time 
 
M 
 
 NAME .l.VD FAME, 
 
 963 
 
 to lime, ami where you will be free from the hnrass and anxieties of 
 your present existence. My own anxieties of late have bl>en heavy 
 enough, for the wear and tear of I'iirliamer.l.iry life, in addition to tlie 
 oidiiKuy labors of my profession, are by no' means iiicon,-,iderabIe. 
 And 1 have recently had some worrying cases. In one of these 1 was 
 called upon to prosecute a man with -vhom you were at one time un- 
 foitunately brought into contact — Wulcott by name, lie was accused 
 of wounding his wife with intent to do her grievous bodily harm, and 
 it was proved that he almost murdered her by a savage blow with a 
 dagger. There could nt)t be a doubt of his guilt, and lie was sentenced 
 (very mercifully) to six months' hard lal)or. That illusi rales the 
 strange vicissitudes of life, for, of course, he is absolutely ruined in the 
 eyes of all right-minded persons. 
 
 *' Urooi'p Dalton will probably give you this when you meet, and I 
 shall no doubt hear from you before long. Meanwhile I need not do 
 any more than wish you every possible happiness. 
 
 " Believe me, youi affectionate brother, 
 
 " Sydney." 
 
 Mrs. Hartley was busy in the next room, arranging and 
 nmnbcring a large collection of pictures whicii she had 
 bought since she came to Florence, and thinking how very 
 useful they would be at her Sunday afternoon and evening 
 receptions, when she went back to London in October. 
 Tiuit was the uppermost thought in her mind when she 
 began her work, but Brooke's visit had excited her 
 curiosity, and she was longing to know wliether it would 
 succeed in removing her friend's incomprehensible scruples. 
 
 Suddenly slie was startled by a cry from the other room. 
 It was like a cry of pain, sharp at the beginning, but 
 stifled immediately. Mrs. Hartley ran to the door and 
 looked in. Lettice, with an open letter in Jier hand, was 
 lying back in her chair, half unconscious, and as white in 
 the face as the letter itself. A glance sliowed Mrs. Hartley 
 that this letter was not froir Brooke ; but her only 
 concern at the moment was fo- her friend. 
 
 Poor Lettice had been stunned by Sydney's blundering 
 missive ; and yet it was not altogether Sydney's fault that 
 the statement of facts came upon her with crushing force. 
 It was Mrs. Hartley herself who was mainly responsible 
 for the concealment of what had happened to Alan ; and 
 she, no doubt, had done her pa'i with the best intentions. 
 But tb.e result was disastrous ;:.) far as lier intrigue and 
 wishes were concerned, 
 
 VVith a little care and soothing, Lettice presently reco- 
 vered from the shock, at any rate sufficiently to stand up 
 and speak. 
 
264 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 " Read this," she said faintly to Mrs. Hartley, steadying 
 herself against the table. " Is it true ? Is Alan Walcott in 
 prison ? Did you know it ? " 
 
 " Yes, my darling, I knew it ! " 
 
 " And never told me ? When was it ? " 
 
 Lettice looked at her friend reproachfully, yet without a 
 trace of anger. 
 
 ** My dearest Lettice, would it have been wise for me to 
 tell you at the time — the trial was in April — when you 
 were still drmgerously weak and excitable ? It was not as 
 if I had known that it would be — what shall I say ? — a 
 matter of such great concern to you. Remember that we 
 had never mentioned his name since we left England, and 
 I could not assume that the old friendly interest in him 
 survived." 
 
 " I do not blame you, dear," said Lettice faintly. " I do 
 not blame Sydney — unless it is for prosecuting him. I 
 cannot think or reason about it — I can only feel ; and I 
 suppose that what I ^f^e\ amounts to my own condemna- 
 tion." 
 
 " Don't talk of condemnation ! Your kind heart makes 
 you loyal to everyone wliom you have called a friend — and 
 what can be more natural ? I was terribly grieved for the 
 unfortunate man when I heard of the trouble he had 
 brought on himself. But we cannot bear each other's 
 sorrows in this world. Each one must reap as he has 
 sown." 
 
 *' And do you think that Alan has sown what he is reap- 
 ing? Do you believe that he stabbed his wife ? " 
 
 " My dear, I must believe it. Everyone believes it." 
 
 ** Alan ! " said Lettice, half raising her hand, and gazing 
 out through the open window, over the banks of the yellow, 
 flowing Arno, with a look of ineffable trust and tenderness 
 in her face_, *' Alan, did you try to kill the woman who has 
 cursed and degraded you ? Did you strike her once in 
 return for her thousand malicious blows ? Did you so much 
 as wish her ill to gratify your anger and revenge? No ! — 
 there is one, at least, who does not beUeve you guilty of 
 this crime ! " 
 
 " Lettice, darling ! " 
 
 " I hear no voice but that of Alan, calling to me from his 
 prison cell." She sprang to her feet and stood as if listen- 
 ing to a fiiroff call. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 265 
 
 steadying 
 Valcott ill 
 
 for me to 
 vhen you 
 as not as 
 5ay ?— a 
 that We 
 and, and 
 St in him 
 
 irt makes 
 end — and 
 2d for the 
 \ he had 
 h other's 
 s he has 
 
 e is reap- 
 
 Ts it." 
 
 id gazing 
 
 e yellow. 
 
 inderness 
 
 who has 
 
 once in 
 
 1 so much 
 No!- 
 
 guilty of 
 
 from his 
 if listen- 
 
 " Lettice, for Heaven's sake, do not give way to delu- 
 sions. Think of those who love you best, who will be in 
 despair if ill should befall you." 
 
 " Yes, I will think of tliose who love me best ! I must 
 go to him. Dear Mrs. Hartley, I am not losing my senses, 
 but the feeling is so strong upon me that I have no power 
 to resist it. I must go to Alan." 
 
 " My child, cor older ! You cannot go to him. He is in 
 prison." 
 
 " I will go and live at the gates until he comes out." 
 
 '' You must not talk Hke this. I cannot let you go — 
 you, a woman! What would the world think of you ? " 
 
 '' What does the world think of him ? It says he is 
 guilty — when I know that he is not I " 
 
 " You cannot know, IvCttice. All that was proved 
 against him is that in some way or other, goaded by her 
 reproaches^ he stabbed her with his dagger. But that was 
 })roved, and you cannot get over it. I can quite l)clicve 
 that he is more unfortunate than maliciously guilty ; yet, 
 surely, you must admit that he is ruined." 
 
 " Never ! " said Lettice, passionately. She could 
 almost have stamped her foot with rage to hear another 
 say what was already in her own mind. But old habits of 
 self-restraint came to her aid. She raised her head proudly 
 as she replied: "A man is never ruined. Alan Walcott 
 has a future." 
 
 " He may have a future, dear, but it is one in which we 
 cannot be concerned. Listen to me, Lettice — I do so 
 strongly feel that this is the crisis and turning point of your 
 life ! There are lines beyond which no woman who respects 
 licrsclf, or who would be resi)ected by the world, can go. 
 a you do not act with prudence and common sense to-day, 
 you may have to repent it all the rest of your life. You 
 are strt)ng — use your strength to good purpose, and think, 
 for Heaven's sake think, of the courage and self-sacrifice 
 which are expected from women of your breeding and 
 ])Osition." She ended with tears in her eyes, for although 
 she si)oke conventionally, and as conventional women 
 speak, her heart was full of the truest anxiety and tender- 
 ness for her friend. 
 
 Lettice was looking out of the window again, as though 
 fur inspiration in her difficulty. When she answered, it was 
 with inexp.-essible sadness and regret. 
 
 I \\ 
 
 I \\ 
 
 >jj 
 
?■ 
 
 L 
 
 III 
 
 ill 
 
 266 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 "You have been so good and kind to me that it cuts my 
 heart to disagree with you in any way. Have I reached 
 such a turning point as you say ? Perhaps it is so — but I 
 have been brought to it ; I have not wilfully walked up to 
 it. You said that Alan's future was one in which we 
 could not be concerned. What I feel at this moment, 
 more vividly than I ever felt anything in my life, is that. T 
 am concerned and involved in his future. I have fought 
 against^this, and put it aside, as you, my dear friend, must 
 know. I have tried to forget him — and my shame of ihe 
 past few weeks has been that I tried to care for some one 
 else. Well, I failed ; and see how the very trying has 
 brought me to this clear and irresistible knowledge of my 
 own heart ! If I were superstitious, I should say that it 
 was my fate. I don't know what it is — I don't know if my 
 view or your view of my duty is right — but I am quite sure 
 of this, that I shall have to act on my own view. Courage 
 and self-sacrifice — yes ! They are primary virtues in a 
 woman ; but courage for what ? Self-sacrifice for whom 1 " 
 
 " For society ! For the world in general I " 
 
 " But the world in general has the world to help it. If 
 one man needs a woman's sacrifice, he has only one woman 
 to look to. I am very, very sorry that I cannot go my own 
 way without giving you pain, and if only I could think that 
 by any act which it is in my power to do " 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by going your own way, 
 child ; but I hope you will come to a better mind before 
 you take a decided step." Mrs. Hartley was growing 
 thoroughly alarmed. 
 
 " Indeed, I have come to the best, the only possible 
 resolution \ and the question is, how soon I can be in 
 London. We have been in Italy a long time, have we 
 not?" 
 
 " Eleven months." 
 
 " Do you wish to stay much longer ? " 
 
 " I see very plainly, Lettice, that, if I did want to stay, 
 it would end in my being here alone. But I shall not let 
 you travel by yourself If your interest in Italy has gone, 
 so has mine. We will start on Saturday." 
 
 Mrs. Hartley was sorely disappointed, and even angry 
 with T,-"'cc ; but she thought that at any rate she ouglil 
 1 ot to 1 .1 ; v/ilh her until they were back again in London. 
 .\;h] ■, • --v,i> at least a hope that she would be more 
 pru(kni a week hence than she was to-day. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 tliat it cuts my 
 ^'-^ve I readied 
 It IS so— but I 
 [y walked up to 
 in which we 
 ^his nioiiient, 
 'y life, is that f 
 I have fought 
 ar friend, must 
 ly shame of the 
 for some one 
 ry trying has 
 pwJedge of my 
 'uld say that it 
 n't know if my 
 am quite sure 
 ew. Courage 
 ' virtues in a 
 ^ for whom ?" 
 
 to help it. If 
 
 ily one woman 
 'ot go my own 
 '"Id think that 
 
 our own way, 
 
 r mind before 
 
 was growing 
 
 only possible 
 I can be in 
 tie, have we 
 
 As for Lettice, she found it very liard to wait. If she 
 had been alone she would have left Florence within an 
 hour of reading Sydney's letter, for her heart was on fire 
 v;ith impatience. 
 
 She did not speak to Brooke Dalton again, except in the 
 presence of her friends ; but after he and Edith had gone 
 she wrote him another letter to the address which he had 
 given them. In this letter she begged him, as kindly as 
 she could, to consider her last answer as final. " Sydney's 
 note," she said, " has only strengthened my decision. 
 Indeed, it has made me ten times more decided. My 
 heart is not mine to give. You will not ex'^ect that I 
 should say more than this. The best thing X can hope 
 from you is that you will judge me charitably, and that if 
 others reproacli me you will not join in the chorus." 
 
 Poor Brooke Dalton kissed the letter quietly, and said 
 nothing about it ; nor did he openly give utterance to the 
 words which entered his mind in reference to Sydney's in- 
 tervention. Mrs. Hartley silently resolved to see Sydney 
 Campion as soon as she got back to London, and beg hipi 
 to reason with Lettice, and, if possible, bring her to a better 
 mind. But she was disappointed to find that Sydney was 
 not in town. His marriage had taken place in September 
 and he had gone to Scotland with his wife. She knew that 
 he was on fairly good terms with Lettice, and had pressed 
 her to be present at the wedding, also that Miss Pynsent 
 had sent a very charming and affectionate letter to her 
 future sister-in-law. But whether Lettice had written to 
 him and told him of her intentions and opinions, Mrs. 
 Hartley did not know. 
 
 i 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 vant to stay, 
 shall not let 
 ly has gone, 
 
 even angry 
 e she ought 
 '^Vi I,ondon. 
 Id be more 
 
 AMBITION AT THE HELIT. 
 
 Sydney Campion and Anna Pynsent were married early in 
 September, while Lettice was still in Italy. There had 
 been a death in the Pynsent family since the death of 
 Sydney's mother, and Nan was no', sorry to make this a 
 pretext for arranging every thing in the simplest possible 
 manner. She h.^d no bridesmaids, and did without a wed- 
 
268 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 ding-feast ; and, strange to say, Sydney was perfectly well 
 content. 
 
 For it might have been expected that Sydney — with 
 whom the roots of worldliness and selfishness had struck 
 very deep — would desire a wedding that would make a 
 noise in the world, and would not be satisfied with a bride 
 in a severely simple white dress and a complete absence 
 of all display. But it seemed as if all that was good in his 
 character had been brought to the surface by a marriage 
 which his club-friends chuckled over as so absolutely un- 
 exceptionable from a worldly point of view. For almost 
 the first time in his life he was a little ashamed of his world- 
 liness. His marriage with Nan Pynsent was making — or 
 so he thought — everything easy for him ! His selfishness 
 was pampered by the girl's adoring love, by her generosity, 
 even by her beauty and her wealth j and it recoiled upon 
 itself in an utterly unexpected way. Finding life no longer 
 a battle, Sydney became suddenly asliamed of some of his 
 past methods of warfare ; and, looking at his betrothed, 
 could only breathe a silent and fervent aspiration that she 
 might never know the storv of certain portions of his 
 life. 
 
 He was thoroughly in love with his wife ; and — what was 
 more important in a man of his temperament — he admired 
 as well as loved her. Her personal charm was delightful 
 to him, and the high-bred quietness of her manner, the 
 refinement of I'cr accent, the aroma of dignity and respect 
 which surrcaiMJ.;^^. the Pynsent household in general, were 
 elements of hi^; iVeling for her as strong as his-sense of her 
 grace and beauty. With his high respect for position and 
 good birth, it would have been almost impossible for him 
 to yield his heart for long to a woman in a lower grade of 
 society than his own ; even a woman who might be consi- 
 dered his equal was not often attractive to him ; he pre- 
 ferred one— other considerations apart — who was socially 
 a little his superior, and could make a link for him with the 
 great families of England. Had Nan been the pretty 
 governess whom he thought her at first, not all her charm, 
 her talent and her originality of character, would have pre- 
 vailed to make him marry her. 
 
 T]ut in spite of these defects, when once his judgment 
 had assented, he gav<: free rein to his heart. Nan satisfied 
 Ms taste, and his intellect, to begin with ; his senses were 
 
 J 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 269 
 
 equally well content with her beauty"; and then — then — 
 another kind of emotion came into play. He was a little 
 vexed and impatient with himself at first, to find tlie differ- 
 ence that she made in his life. She interested him pro- 
 foundly, and he had never been profoundly interested in 
 any woman before. Her earnestness charmed while it 
 half-repelled him. And her refinement, her delicacy of 
 feeling, her high standard of morality, perpetually aston- 
 ished him. He remembered that he had heard his sister 
 Lettice talk as Nan sometimes talked. With Lettice he had 
 pooh-poohed her exalted ideas and thouglit them woman- 
 ish; in Nan, he was inclined to call them beautiful. Of 
 course, he said to himself, her ideas did not affect him ; 
 men could not guide their lives by a woman's standard ; 
 nevertheless, her notions were pretty, although puritanical; 
 and he had no desire to see them changed. He would not 
 have Nan less conscientious for the world. 
 
 An appeal to Sydney's self-love had always been a direct 
 appeal to his ht art. It was sometimes said of him that he 
 cared for otheis chiefiy in proportion as they conferred 
 benefits and advantages upon himself ; but he was certainly 
 capable of warm affection when it had b^'U caVied into 
 existence. He began to display a verv real and st'ong 
 affection for Nan. She had found the way to liis heart — 
 though she little suspected it — through his very w- ak- 
 nesses : she had conquered the man she loved Iv mean i of 
 his selfishness. The worldly advantages -he conferred 
 took his nature by storm. It was not a higi. -minded way 
 of contracting an engagement for life ; but, a*: a fragrant 
 flower may easily grow upon very unpleasant dui ghill, 
 so the sweet flower of a true ure love began to liourish 
 on the heap of refuse with which tiie good in Sydney's 
 nature had been overlaid. 
 
 Sydney was treated with considerable generosity by 
 Nan's guardian and truste- . Her fortune was of course 
 to remain largely at her own disposal ; but an ambitious 
 man like Sydney Campion was certain to profit by it in 
 some degree. Sir John Pynsent had alway? known that he 
 was not likely to possess the management of it for long, 
 and the next best thing was that it should be utilized for a 
 member of the Conservative ■'•arty, one of his ow.i special 
 connection, whose future carc.;r he should be able to watch 
 over and promote. Campion must clearly understand that 
 
 I - 
 f 
 
 X i 
 
 ■i 
 
370 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 he owed his position and prospects to the Pynsents. He 
 was apt to be somewhat off-hand and independent, but he 
 would improve witli a little judicious coaching. A man 
 cannot be independent who owes his seat to the Oligarchy, 
 his introduction in Parliament to individual favor, and his 
 private fortune to the daughter of a house which had al- 
 ways been devoted to the interests of a particular party. 
 This was Campion's position, and Sir John felt that his 
 brother-in-law would soon fall into line. 
 
 Sydney was made the proprietor of the London house in 
 which they were to live — the house at Vanebury was let 
 for the present ; but the whole of the domestic charges 
 were to be borne by his wife. His professional income 
 would be at his own disposal ; and by special arrangement 
 the sum of twenty thousand pounds was set apart as a 
 fund to be drawn upon from time to time, by their joint 
 consent, for the advancement of his purely political inter- 
 ests, in such a manner as might be deemed most expe- 
 dient. 
 
 This was a better arrangement than Sydney had allowed 
 hhnself to anticipate, and he was naturally elated by his 
 success. He was so grateful to Nan for the good things 
 she had brougnt him that he studied her tastes and con- 
 sulted her inclinations in a way quite new to him. No 
 doubt there was selfishness even in the repression of self 
 which this compliance with her habits imposed upon him; 
 but the daily repression was a gain to him. 
 
 And Nan recompensed his considerate behavior by 
 giving him that incense of love and esteem and intellectual 
 deference which is desired by every man ; and by convinc- 
 ing him that his ambitions — as she knew them — had in her 
 the most complete sympathy, and the most valuable aid. 
 This she did for him, and satisfied all the wishes of his 
 heart. 
 
 They had a delightful honeymoon in the Tyrol, and 
 returned to town late in October. The house in Thurloe 
 Square, where they were to reside, had been newly decor- 
 ated and furnished for them, and was pronounced by critics 
 to be a marvel of luxury and beauty. Sydney, though lie 
 did not pretend to be well acquainted with aesthetic fashions, 
 recognized that the rooms had an attractive appearance, 
 and set off Nan's beauty to the best advantage. He fell 
 easily and naturally into the position which his good for- 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 VJl 
 
 tune had marked out for him, and thought, in spite of 
 certain bitter drops, in spite of a touch of gall in the honey, 
 and a suspected thorn on the rose, in spite of a cloud no 
 bigger than a man's hand in an otherwise clear sky, that 
 Fate had on the whole been very kind to him. 
 
 Nan's first appearance as a bride was at her brother's 
 house. Lady Pynscnt's wliole soul was wrapped up in the 
 art and mystery of entertaining, and she hailed this oppor- 
 tunity of welcoming the Campions into her ''set" with 
 unfeigned joy. Her gifts as a liostess had been her chief 
 reconnnendation in Sir John's eyes when he married her; 
 he would never have ventured to espouse a woman who 
 could not play her part in the drawing-rooin as well as he 
 could play his i)art in the club. 
 
 A few days after the Campions' arrival in town, there- 
 fore, the Pynsents gave a dinner at their own house, to 
 which Lady Pynsent had invited a number of men, Sydney 
 Campion amongst the number, whom Sir John desired to 
 assemble together. The Benedicts came with their wives, 
 and Nan made her first entry into the charmed circle of 
 matrons, where Sydney hoped that she would one day lead 
 and rule. 
 
 Sir John h-id an object in gathering these half-dozen 
 congenial spirits round his table. He always had, or in- 
 vented, an object for his acts, whatever they might be ; a 
 dinner party at home would have bored him grievously if 
 he could not have invested it with a distinct politicol pur- 
 pose. And, indeed, it was this power of throwing fine 
 dust in his own eyes which first made his party regard him 
 as an important social factor, worthy of being taken 
 seriously at his own valuation. The spirit of the age was 
 just as strong in him, though in a somewhat different sense, 
 as it was in Lord Montagu Plumley, one of his guests on 
 the present occasion, who had shot up like a meteor from 
 the comparative obscurity of cadetship in a ducal family to 
 the front rank of the Tory pretenders, mainly by ticketing 
 his own valuation on his breast, and keeping himself per- 
 petually front foremost to the world. The fault was not 
 so much Lord Montagu's as that of the age in which he 
 lived. He had merit, and he felt his strength, precisely as 
 Sir John felt his strength as a social pioneer, but in a gene- 
 ration of talented mediocrities he had no chance of making 
 his merit known by simply doing his duty. At any rate, 
 
 vs 
 
 \% 
 
Ill^ 
 
 272 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 he had given up the attempt in despair, and on a memor- 
 able evening, of which the history shall one day be written 
 full and fair, he had expounded to a select group of his 
 intimate friends his great theory on the saving of the 
 Commonwealth, and his method of obtaining tlie sceptre 
 of authority, which implied the dispensation of honors to 
 all who believed in him. 
 
 A very good fellow in his way was Montagu Plumley, 
 and Sir John was anxious that Sydney Campion, now a 
 connection as well as a friend, should be brought within 
 the influence of one whom the baronet had always regarded 
 as the Young Man of the future. Sydney had been wont 
 to sneer a little, after his fashion, at the individuals who 
 interpreted the new ideas, though he accepted the ideas 
 themselves as irrefragable. The nation must be saved by 
 its young men — yes, certainly. As a young man he saw 
 that plainly enough, but it was not going to be saved by 
 any young man who could be named in his presence. He 
 had said something like this to Sir Jolin Pynsent, not many 
 days before his marriage, and Sir John, who had taken 
 Sydney's measure to a nicety, had resolved that his pro- 
 mising brother-in-law should be converted at the earliest 
 possible opportunity into a faithful follower and henchman 
 of Lord Montagu Plumley. 
 
 Another old friend of the reader was amongst the guests 
 who sat over their wine round Sir John's hospitable board. 
 This was the Honorable Tom W'illoughby, whoili his host 
 bad initiated at the Oligarchy into the art of fishing for 
 men in the troubled waters of Liberalism. Tom Willough- 
 by was, and always would be, a light weight in the political 
 arena, but ne was very useful when put to work that he 
 could do. He was the spoiled child of Sir John Pynsent, 
 and was fast earning a character as the chartered libertine 
 of the House of Commons, where his unfailing good humor 
 made him friends on both sides. Sir John told him one 
 day that he was cut out to be an envoy extraordinary from 
 the Conservative to the Liberal ranks, whereupon the Hon- 
 orable Tom had answered that he did not rnind discharging 
 the function for his party to-day if he could see his way to 
 doing the same thing for his country hereafter. Whereat 
 Sir John laughed, and told him tliat if he wanted a mission 
 of ihat kind he must bow down to the rising sun ; and it 
 was then that he asked his friend to come and dine with 
 Lord Montagu. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 273 
 
 on, now a 
 
 a mission 
 
 Gradually, after the ladies had gone, the conversation 
 sliiftcd round to politics, and Sir John began to draw his 
 guests out. People had been talking a good deal during 
 the last few days about the resignation of Mr. Bright, 
 which, coming in the same session with that of Mr. Forster, 
 had made something of a sensaiioii. 
 
 " How long will you give them now, Lord Montagu?" 
 said the baronet. '* Two of their strongest men are gone 
 — one over Ireland and the other over Egypt. If the 
 country could vote at this moment, I verily believe that we 
 should get a majority. It almost makes one wish for an- 
 nual Parliaments." 
 
 " I have more than once thought, Sir John, that the 
 Tories would have had a much longer aggregate of power 
 in the past fifty years if there had been a general election 
 every year. When we come into office we make things 
 perfectly pleasant all round for the first twelve month. 
 When they come in, it rarely takes them a year to set their 
 friends at loggerheads. As it is, they will stick in to the 
 last moment — certainly until they have passed a Franchise 
 Act." 
 
 " I suppose so. We must not go to the country on the 
 Franchise." 
 
 " Rather not." 
 
 '' And it will be too late to rely on Egypt." 
 
 " Heaven only knows what they are yet capable of in 
 Egyi)t. But we shall have something stronger than that to 
 go upon — as you know very well." 
 
 " Ireland/' said Campion. 
 
 " Not exactly Ireland, though the seed may spring up 
 on Irish soil. The main thing to do, the thing that every 
 patriotic man ought to work for, is to break down the pre- 
 sent One Old Man system of government in this country. 
 The bane of Great Britain is that we are such hero-wor- 
 shippers by nature that we can only believe in one man at 
 a time. We get hold of a Palmerston or a Gladstone, and 
 set him on a pedestal, and think that everybody else is a 
 pygmy. It may be that our idol is a tolera])ly good one 
 — that is, not mischievously active. In that case he can- 
 not do much harm. But when, as in the case of Gladstone, 
 you have a national idol who is actively mischievous, it is 
 impossible to exaggerate tlie evil which may be done. 
 Therefore the object which we should all pursue in the first 
 
 18 
 
 i' 
 

 Mii 
 
 liH 
 
 274 
 
 ,\'AME AXn r-AME, 
 
 instance is to throw off ihe old man of tl.e sea, and not 
 merely to get the better of liim in i)arliament, but to cover 
 him with so mucli discredit that he cannot wliecdle another 
 majority from the country. It docs not signify whether 
 we do this through Irish or Egyi)tian nffiairs, so long as we 
 do it. Mr. Campion has shown us how seats are to be 
 won. We want fifty or sixiy men at least to do the same 
 thing for us at the next election." 
 
 " There is no doubt," said Campion, that with the pre- 
 sent electorate we might safely go to the poll at once. 
 Liberalism, minus Bright, Forster, and Goschen, and plus 
 Alexandria and Phoenix Park, is no longer what it was in 
 1880. I had the most distinct evidence of that at Vane- 
 bury." 
 
 " There was a considerable turnover of votes, I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 *' Unquestionably, and amongst all classes." 
 
 ** Yes, that is encouraging, so far. But in view of the 
 new franchise, it does not go nearly far enough. The 
 idol must be overthrown." 
 
 "Who is to do it?" Sydney asked. 
 
 " That is hardly for me to say. But it will be done." 
 
 " The idol is doing it very fairly," said Willoughby, " on 
 his own account, especially in London. Wherever I go his 
 popularity is decidedly on the wane amongst his old sup- 
 porters." 
 
 " Let that go on for a year or two," said Lord Montagu, 
 " and then, when the inevitable compact is made with Par- 
 nell, the great party which lias had its own way in England 
 for so many years, at any rate up to 1874, will crumble to 
 pieces." 
 
 The talk was commonplace as beseemed the occasion ; 
 but Sir John's object in bringing his men together was 
 practically gained. Before the evening was over, Lord 
 Montagu was favorably impressed by Campion's ability and 
 shrewdness, whilst Sydney was more disposed from thai 
 time to regard Plumley as one of the most likely aspirants 
 for the leadership of his party. 
 
 In the di iwing-room, Nan had made herself as popular 
 as her husband was making himself in the dining-room. 
 She was greatly improved by her marriage, many of the 
 matrons thought ; she was more dignified and far less 
 abrupt than she V;sed to be. She had always been con- 
 
J^'AME AND FAME. 
 
 275 
 
 occasion 
 
 siderod pretty, and her manners were gaining the finish 
 that they had once perhaps lacked ; in fact, she had found 
 out that Sydney set a high vakie on social distinction and 
 prestige ; and, resolving to please him in this as in every- 
 thing else, she had set herself of late to soften down any 
 girlish harshness or brusquerie, such as Lady Pynsent used 
 sometimes to complain of in her, and to develop the gra- 
 cious softness of manner which Sydney liked to see. 
 
 " She will be quite the grande dame^ by and by," said 
 one lady, watching her that night. " She has some very 
 stately airs already, and yet she is absolutely without 
 affectation. Mr. Campion is a very lucky man." 
 
 Nan was asked to play ; but, although she acknowledged 
 that she still kept up her practising, she had not brought 
 her violin with her. She was half afraid, moreover, that 
 Sydney did not like her to perform. She fancied that he 
 had an objection to any sort of display of either learning 
 or accomplishment on a woman's part ; she had gathered 
 this impression from the way in which he spoke of his sis- 
 ter Lettice. And she did not want to expose herself to the 
 same sort of criticism. 
 
 One of the younger ladies at Lady Pynsent's that night 
 was a Mrs. Westray, wife of the eminently respectable 
 member for Bloomsbury, who, as a city merchant of great 
 wealth and influence, was one of the invited guests. Mrs. 
 Westray was by way of being a literary lady, having 
 printed a volume of her " Travels." Unfortunately she 
 had only traveled in France, over well-worn tracks, and 
 her book appeared just after those of two other ladies, 
 with whom the critics had dealt very kindly indeed ; so 
 that the last comer had not been treated quite so well as 
 she deserved. Nevertheless she keenly enjoyed her repu- 
 tation as a woman of letters ; and having found on inquiry 
 that Sydney Campion was the brother of the lady whose 
 novel had gained such a brilliant success in the spring, 
 she asked her husband to bring him to her. 
 
 ''Oh, why does Miss Campion live out of England?" 
 Mrs. Westray asked him, after gushing a little about his 
 sister's " exquisite romance". " Surely she does not mean 
 to do so always ? " 
 
 '^ No," said Sydney. " I hope not. She was rather 
 seriously ill last Christmas, and we thought it best for her 
 to live in Italy until she quite recovered. I trust that we 
 
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 shall have her back again bcfure the end of the year." He 
 was as yet unacquainted with the history of his sister's 
 movements. 
 
 " I am so glad to hear it. I want very much to make 
 her acquaintance." 
 
 " We hope that my sister will come to stay with us for 
 a time," said Sydney, '* and in that case you will be sure 
 lo see her." 
 
 "That will be so very nice," said the lady; ** I am quite 
 certain I shall like her immensely." 
 
 Sydney felt a little doubtful whether Lettice would like 
 Mrs. Westray ; and he also doubted whether his wife and 
 his sister would be found to have much in common. But 
 he was more or less consciously building on the hope tliat 
 Dalton's suit would prosper, and that Lettice would settle 
 down quietly as the mistress of Angleford Manor, and so 
 be weaned from the somewhat equivocal situation of a 
 successful author. It did not so much as enter his mind, 
 by the way, that there was anything equivocal in Mrs. 
 Westray's authorship. Her book had failed, and her 
 husband was very wealthy, so that she could not be sus- 
 pected of having earned money by her pen. But Lettice 
 had cheques for /ler romances ! 
 
 The dinner was very successful, and the Pynsents were 
 charmed with the result. " It is a most suitable union," 
 said Sir John, alluding to Nan's marriage to Sydney Cam- 
 pion, and hoping lo crush his wife a little, seeing that she 
 had objected to it : * it does great credit to my discernment 
 in bringing them together. I always knew that Campion 
 would get on. Lord Montagu was very much pleased 
 with him." 
 
 *' Nan looked lovely," said Lady Pynsent, ignoring her 
 husband's innuendo. " She tells me that Sydney is very 
 particular about her dress, and she seems perfectly happy." 
 
 Meanwhile, as Sydney and his wife were driving home, 
 Nan nestled up to him and said coaxingly, 
 
 " Now tell me, dear, just what you were thinking of to- 
 night." 
 
 '* I was thinking that my wife was the most beautiful 
 woman in the room." 
 
 " Oh, I did not mean anything of that kind. When you 
 were talking at dinner-time, and after we had gone up 
 stairs, what was really the uppermost thought in your 
 mind ? " 
 
 
NAME A AD FAME. 
 
 •77 
 
 " Well," said Sydney laughing, " you deserve all my can- 
 dor, Nan. I was ihinkii.g, if you must know, that I could 
 meet any one of those men in debate, or in council, and 
 hold my own against liim. There's vanity for you ! Now 
 it is your turn." 
 
 '* Mine ? " she said. " Why, it was just the same as 
 your own. That you were as wise and great as any of 
 them " 
 
 «'Ah, I didn't say that." 
 
 " — And that when you are a Minister of State, and I 
 throw open my drawing-room, we will challenge com- 
 parison with any other house in London. Do you like the 
 idea ? " 
 
 He put his arm round her and kissed her very fondly. 
 She had assimilated his ambitions to a remarkable degree, 
 and he was as surprised as he was delighted to find her 
 almost as eager for his success as he himself could be. 
 The two were by no means destitute of that community 
 of interests and pursuits which has been said to constitute 
 the best hope of wedded bliss. But Nan's hopes were less 
 material than Sydney's. It was as yet a doubtful matter 
 whether he would draw her clown from her high standard, 
 or whether she would succeed in raising him to ^ers. At 
 present, satisfied with themselves and with each other, 
 they were a thoroughly happy couple. 
 
 % 
 
 fl 
 
 ! r^ 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 AT MRS. CHIGWIN'S COTTAGE. 
 
 BiRCHMEAD in the summer and autumn is a very different 
 place from the Birchmcad which Alan Walcott saw when 
 he came down to visit his aunt in the early days of Feb- 
 ruary. Then the year had not begun to move ; at most 
 there was a crocus or a snowdrop in the sheltered corners 
 of Mrs. Chigwin's garden ; and, if it had not been for a 
 wealth of holly round the borders of the village green, the 
 whole place would have been destitute of color. 
 
 But, in the summer, all is color and brightness. The 
 blue sky, the emerald lawns, the dull red earth, the many- 
 hued masses of foliage, from the dark copper beech to 
 
278 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 i-i • .|i 
 
 I' ' I 
 
 ^M 
 
 • I 
 
 the light greys of the limes and poplars, mingle their 
 broad effects upon their outspread canvas of Nature, and 
 in the foreground a thousand flowers glow warmly from 
 the well-kept gardens or the fertile meadow-side. Nowhere 
 do the old-fashioned flowers of the field and garden seem 
 to flourish more luxuriantly than at Birchmead, or come 
 to fuller bloom, or linger for a longer season. Here, as 
 elsewhere in the south of England, June and July are the 
 richest months for jjrofusion and color ; but the two 
 months that follow July may be made, with very little 
 trouble, as gay and varied in their garden-show, if not so 
 fragrant and exquisite. The glory of the roses and lilies 
 has departed, but in their place is mnch to compensate all 
 simple and unsophisticated lovers of their mother-earth. 
 
 In the second week of October, Mrs. Chigwin was at 
 work in her garden, with her dress tucked up, a basket in 
 her left hand, and a large pair of scissors in her right. 
 Every flower that had begun to fade, every withered leaf 
 and overgrown shoot fell before lliose fatal shears, and was 
 caught in the all-devouring basket ; and from time to time 
 she bore a fresh load of snippets to their last resting-place. 
 Her heart was in her work, and she would not rest until 
 she had completed her round. From the clematis on the 
 cottage wall and the jessamine over the porch she passed 
 to a clump of variegated hollyhocks, and from ihem to the 
 hedge of sweet peas, to the fuchsias almost as high as the 
 peas, the purple and white phlox, the yellow evening prim- 
 rose, and the many-colored asters. Stooping here and 
 there, she carefully trimmed the rank-growing geraniums 
 and the clusters of chrysanthemums, cut off the straggling 
 branches of the mignonette and removed every passing 
 bloom of harebell, heartsease, and heliotrope. 
 
 The euthanasia of the fading blossoms filled her shallow 
 skep half-a-dozen times over, and, to anyone ignorant (to 
 his shame) of the art which our first ancestor surely learned 
 from his mother, and loved, it might have seemed that Mrs. 
 Chigwin used her scissors with a too unsparing hand. But 
 the happy old soul knew what she was about. The even- 
 ing was closing in, and s' e had cut both the flowers whose 
 beauty had passed away and those which would have been 
 wrinkled and flabby before the morning, knowing full well 
 that only so can you reckon on the perfection of beauty 
 from day to day. 
 
 ! i 
 
 B« I, 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 379 
 
 " There, now," she said, when her last basketful was 
 disposed of, " I have done. And if old Squire Jcrmyn, 
 who first laid out this garden, was to come to life again to- 
 morrow, there would be nothing in Martha Chigwin's little 
 plot to make his hair stand on end." 
 
 She threw her eyes comprehensively round the ring of 
 cottages which encircled the village green, with a snifif of 
 defiant challenge, as though she would dare any of her 
 neighbors to make the same boast ; and then she came and 
 sat down on the garden-seat, and said to her old friend and 
 companion, 
 
 " What do you think about it, Elizabeth ? " 
 
 "You are right, Martha; right as you always are," said 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe, in a feeble voice. " And I was think- 
 ing as you went round, cutting off the flowers that have 
 had their day, that if you had come to me and cut me off 
 with the rest of them, there would have been one less poor 
 old withered thing in the world. Here have I been a 
 wretched cripple on your hands all the summer, and surely 
 if the Lord had had any need for me He would not have 
 broken my stalk and left me to shrivel up in the sunshine." 
 
 " Now, Bessy," said Mrs. Chigwin, severely, '* do you 
 want 10 put out the light of peace that we have been enjoy- 
 ing for days past? Fie, for shame ! and in a garden, too. 
 Where's your gratitude — or, leastways, where's your 
 patience ? " 
 
 " There, there, Martha, you know I did not mean it. 
 But I sit here thinking and thinking, till I could write 
 whole volumes on the vanity of human wishes. Cut me 
 off, indeed, just at this moment, when I am waiting to see 
 my dear boy once more before I die !" 
 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe was silent again, and the other did 
 not disturb her, knowing by experience what the effort to 
 speak would be likely to end in. 
 
 Things had not gone well at Birchmead in the last six 
 months. The news of Alan's arrest on the charge of wife- 
 nuirder — that was the exaggerated shape in which it first 
 reached the village — was a terrible blow to poor Aunt 
 Bessy. She was struck down by paralysis, and had to 
 keep to licr bed for many weeks, and even now she had only 
 tlie parli.ii rs^ of her limbs. Mrs. Chigwin, buckling to 
 her nev.- tis': " iih heroic cheerfulness, had nursed and com- 
 fort-. ,1 h -: : i! lightened the burden of her life so far as 
 
28o 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 n v\s 
 
 ■^ I'll 
 
 ,.! '1 
 
 that was possible. As soon as the cripple could be dressed 
 and moved about, she had bought for her a light basket- 
 chair, into which she used to lift her bodily. Whenever 
 the weather was fine enough she would wheel her into the 
 garden ; and she won the first apology for a laugh from 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe when, having drawn her on the grass 
 and settled her comfortably, she said, 
 
 *' Now, Bessy, I have repotted you and put you in the 
 sun on the same day as my balsams, and I shall expect you 
 to be ready for planting out as soon as they are." 
 
 But that was too sanguine a hope, for Mrs. Bundlecombe 
 was still in her chair, and there was not much chance of 
 her ever being able to walk again. As it had been im- 
 possible for her to go and see her nephew, either befc.rc 
 his trial or since, Mrs. Chigwin had written a letter for hci , 
 entreating Alan to come to Birchmead as soon as he was 
 free \ and the writer assured him on her own account thai 
 there was not a better place in England for quiet rest and 
 consolation. They heard from the prison authorities that 
 the letter had been received, and that it would be given lo 
 the prisoner ; and now Aunt Bessy was counting the days 
 until his time had expired. 
 
 There had been other changes at Birchmead in the 
 course of the year. Mrs. Harrington no longer occupied 
 the adjoining cottage, but lay at peace in the churchyard 
 at Thorley. Her grand-daughter had written once to the 
 old ladies from London, according to her promise ; after 
 which they had heard of her no more, although they sent 
 her word of her grandmother's death, to the address which 
 she had given them. 
 
 The sun was sinking low in the sky, and it was time for 
 Mrs. Bundlecombe to be taken indoors. So Martha Chig- 
 win wheeled her hito the house, rapidly undressed her, and 
 lifted her into bed. Then there was a chapter to be read 
 aloud, and joint prayers to be repeated, and supper to be 
 prepared ; and Mrs. Chigwin had just made the two cups 
 of gruel which represented the last duty of her busy day's 
 routine, when she heard a noise of wheels on the gravel 
 outside. 
 
 It was not a cart but a cab, and it stopped at the door. 
 Cabs were not very familiar in Birchmead, and the appear- 
 ance of this one at Mrs. Chigwin's cottage brought curious 
 eyes to almost every window looking out upon the green. 
 
NAME ^IND FAME. 
 
 281 
 
 There was not much to rcv/ard curiosity— only a lady, 
 dressed in a long fur-lined cluak, with a quiet little bonnet, 
 and a traveling-bag in her hand, who knocked at Mrs. 
 Chigwin's door, and, after a short confabulation, dismissed 
 the cabman and went in. At any rate it was something for 
 Birchmead to know that it had a visitor who had come in 
 a Dorminster cab. That was an incident which for these 
 good souls distinguished the day from the one which went 
 before and the one which came after it. 
 
 It was Lettice Campion who thus stirred the languid 
 pulse of Birchmead. She had found her way like a minis- 
 tering angel to the bedside of Alan's aunt, within three or 
 four days of her arrival in England. 
 
 Mrs. Chigwin felt the utmost confidence in her visitor, 
 both from what she had heard of her before and from what 
 she saw of her as soon as she entered the cottage. Lettice 
 could not have been kinder to her mother than she was to 
 the poor crippled woman who had no claim upon her ser- 
 vice. She told Mrs. Chigwin that so long as she was at 
 Birchmead she should be Mrs. Bundlecombe's nurse, and 
 she evidently meant to keep her word. Aunt Bessy was 
 comforted beyond measure by her aj ■ carance, and still 
 more by the few words which Lettice whispered to her, in 
 response to the forlorn appeal of the old woman's eyes — 
 so unutterably eloquent of the thoughts that were throb- 
 bing in the hearts of both — 
 
 " I shall wait for hirr. when he comes otit ! " 
 
 " God bless you i " said Aunt Bessy. 
 
 " The world has been cruel to him. He has only us two ; 
 we must try to comfort him," whispered Lettice. 
 
 " I am past it, dearie. He has no one but you. You 
 are enough for him." 
 
 And she went on in the slow and painful way which had 
 become habitual to her. 
 
 " I have been tortured in my heart, thinking of his com- 
 ing out upon the weary world, all alone, broken down may 
 be, with none to take him by the hand, and me lying here 
 upon my back, unable to help him. Ch, it is hard ! And 
 sometimes in a dream I see his mother, Lucy, my own little 
 sister that died so many years ago, floating over the walls of 
 his prison, and signing to me to fetch him out. But now she 
 will rest in her grave, and I myself could die to-night and be 
 happy, because you will not forsake him. My dear, he loves 
 you like his own soul ! " 
 
 \\' 
 
 i:,i; 
 
 V\ 
 
'iiii m 
 
 k 
 
 M>i 
 
 '> 1 
 
 3tl 
 
 I ! 
 
 1,3; 
 
 
 «i! 
 
 til J\r/IM/£ AND FAME. 
 
 Lettice did not reply, but she kissed the cheek of Alan's 
 aunt, and bade her try to sleep. 
 
 It was growing dark. Through the window she could 
 trace the outlines of the garden below. She was templed 
 by thebalmy night, and went out. 
 
 *' He loves you like his own soul 1 " Was not that how 
 she loved him, and was she not here in England to tell him 
 so? 
 
 The question startled her, as though some one else had 
 put it to her, and was waitiivg for an answer. That, surely, 
 was not her object ; and yet, if not, what was ? From the 
 hour when she read Sydney's letter at Florence she seemed 
 to have had a new motive power within her. She had 
 acted hitherto from instinct, or from mere feeling ; she 
 could scarcely recall a single argument which she had held 
 with herself during the past ten days. She might have 
 been walking in a dream, so little did she seem to have used 
 her reason or her will. Yet much had happened since she 
 left Italy. 
 
 On Thursday she had arrived in London with Mrs. Hart- 
 ley. 
 
 On Saturday she went out by herself, and managed to 
 see the governor of the gaol where Alan was lodged. From 
 him she learned, to her dismay, that " Number 79 " had 
 had a severe and almost fatal illness. He was still very 
 weak, though out of danger, and it was thought that with 
 the careful attention which he was receiving in the infirm- 
 ary he would probably be able to leave on the 29th of 
 October. 
 
 Captain Haynes told her that his prisoner appeared to 
 have no relatives " except the wife, who was not likely to 
 give herself much trouble about him, and an aunt in the 
 country who was paralyzed." So, Lettice arranged to 
 bring a carriage to the prison gates on the morning of the 
 29th, and to fetch him away. 
 
 Having learned Mrs. Bundlecombe's address, thanks to 
 the letter which had been written to the governor by Mrs. 
 Chigwin, she came to Birchmead on Monday— lingering an 
 hour or two at Angleford in order that she might see her 
 native place n jain, and recall the image of the father whom 
 she had loved and lost. 
 
 Now, at length, her heart was in a measure contented 
 and at rest. Now she could think, and reason with herself 
 
 
NAME AKJ) lAME, 
 
 383 
 
 Mrs. Hart- 
 
 if need be. What did she mean to do ? What had she 
 done already ? How had she committed herself? She was 
 only too painfully aware that she had taken a step which 
 there was no retracing. Had she not virtually broken with 
 Mrs. Hartley, with the Daltons, with Sydney and his wife ? 
 They would doubtless think so, whether she did or not. 
 She had no illusions in the matter. Not one of them 
 would forgive her — not even Mrs. Hartley — for her treat- 
 ment of Brooke Dalton, for her independent action since 
 she left Italy^ and for her association with Alan Walcott. 
 
 As for that — it was true that she had not yet gone too 
 far. She had not coupled her name with Alan's in any 
 public manner, or in any way at all, except that she had 
 used her own name when calling on Captain Haynes. He 
 would not talk, and, therefore, it was not too late to act 
 with greater secrecy and caution. She need not let anyone 
 know that she had taken an interest in him, that she had 
 been to his prison, and had promised to bring him away 
 when he was released, Beyond that point of bringing 
 him away she had not yet advanced, e" " in her own mind. 
 What was to prevent her from sending a carriage, as though 
 it had been provided by Aunt Bessy, and letting him find 
 his way to Birchmead, or wherever he wished to go, like 
 any other discharged prisoner. Then she would not shock 
 her friends — she would not outrage the feelings of poor 
 Sydney, who thought so much of the world's opinion and 
 of the name they held in common. 
 
 That was a strong argument with her, for, to some 
 extent, she sympathized with her brother's ambitions, 
 although she did not greatly esteem them. She would do all 
 thc^.t she could to avoid hurting him. How much could 
 she do ? Was it possible for her now, when she was calm 
 and collected, to form a strong resolution and draw a clear 
 line beyond which she would not let her pity for Alan Wal- 
 cott carry her ? What she thought right, that she would do 
 — no more, but certainly no less. Then what was right ? 
 
 There was the difficulty. Within the limits of a good 
 conscience, she had been guided almost entirely by her 
 feelingb, and they had led her so straight that she had never 
 been prompted to ask herself such questions as What is 
 right ? or What is the proper thing to do ? She had done 
 good by intuition and nature ; and now it was out of her 
 power to realize any other or stronger obligation than that 
 
 ^\ 
 
H 
 
 i> !, 
 
 ii 
 
 ir 
 
 El 
 
 l li 
 
 
 ,1" ', 
 
 It 
 
 15 -i 
 
 if'ti 
 
 284 
 
 J\r..'IAf£ AND FA mi:. 
 
 of acting as nature bade her. Oi\e thing only was plain to 
 her at the moment — that she musl. be kind to this man who 
 had been persecuted, betrayed, and unjustly punished, and 
 who, but for her, would be absolutely alone in the world. 
 Could she be kind without going to meet him at the prison 
 gates ? 
 
 She was trying to persuade herself that she could : and 
 so deeply was she absorbed by the struggle which was 
 going on in her mind that she did not notice the feeble 
 wailing sound which ever and anon came towards her on 
 the silent night air. But, at last, a louder cry than before 
 disturbed her quiet reverie, and startled her into attention. 
 
 It seemed to be close at hand — a cry like that of a little 
 child ; and she stood up and peered into the shadow be- 
 hind her. She could see nothing, but the wailing came 
 again, and Lettice groped her way across the flower border, 
 and stood by the low garden wall. 
 
 There was just enough light to enable her to distinguish 
 the form of a woman, crouching on the rank grass in what 
 used to be Mrs. Harrington's garden, and vainly attempt- 
 ing to soothe the baby which she held in her arms. 
 
 It was too dark to see the woman's features, or to judge 
 if she were in much distress, but Lettice could not be satis- 
 fied to leave her where she was. 
 
 *' Who are you ? " she asked ; and, at the sound of her 
 voice the little child was hushed, as though it knew that a 
 friend was near. But the mother did not answer. 
 
 " What do you want? Why are you sitting there? Have 
 you no home ? " 
 
 A very weak " No " reached her straining ears. 
 
 " Can you walk ? Come here, if you can." 
 
 The figure did not move. 
 
 " Then I must get over the wall and come to you.** 
 
 She was beginning to do as she had said, when the other 
 slowly rose to her feet, and drew unwillingly a step nearer. 
 
 ** Come," said Lettice, kindly, but firmly. She felt that 
 this was a woman over whom it would not be hard to exer- 
 cise authority. 
 
 ' Gradually the mother approached, with her baby in her 
 arms, until she was within half-a-dozen yards of the wall. 
 Then she leaned against the trunk of an old apple-tree, and 
 would not come any further. 
 
 *• Are you ill ? " said Lettice, gently. 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 28s 
 
 was plain to 
 Ills man who 
 inished, and 
 1 the world. 
 \i the prison 
 
 could ; and 
 which was 
 ;e the feeble 
 'ards her on 
 than before 
 to attention, 
 lat of a little 
 shadow be- 
 wailing came 
 Dwer border, 
 
 ) distinguish 
 rass in what 
 nly attempt- 
 arms. 
 
 , or to judge 
 not be satis- 
 
 ound of her 
 knew that a 
 wer. 
 here? Have 
 
 irs. 
 
 you." 
 en the other 
 step nearer. 
 She felt that 
 ard toexer- 
 
 baby in her 
 of the wall. 
 Die-tree, and 
 
 Again the half-heard " No," but this time accompanied 
 by a sob. 
 
 '* Then why are you out at this time, and with your poor 
 little baby, too ? Have you valked far to-day ? " 
 
 " From Thorley." 
 
 " Do you live at Thorley ? " 
 
 <' Not now." 
 
 " Where do you come from ? " 
 
 " London." 
 
 " Let me see your baby. Is it hungry, or cold? Why 
 do you keep so far away from me ? and why are you cry- 
 ing? Oh, Milly, Milly ! Is it you? Dear child, come to 
 me I " 
 
 Then the girl came from amongst the branches of the tree, 
 and tottered to the wall, and laid her child in the arms 
 stretched out to receive it. 
 
 " Why did you not come to the door, Milly, instead of 
 wai^'lng out here ? You might have been sure of a wel- 
 come 1 
 
 She laid her hand on the head which was bowed down 
 upon the wall, and which shook with the poor girl's sobs. 
 Her bonnet had fallen off, and hung on her back ; and 
 Lettice noticed that the long hair of which the girl used to 
 be so proud was gone. 
 
 " I did not come to the village till it was dark," Milly 
 said, as soon as she could speak. " Then I should have 
 knocked, but I saw you looking out at the window — and I 
 was ashamed 1 " 
 
 ** Ashamed ? " said Lettice, in a low voice. There was 
 one thing, she thought, of which Milly could be ashamed. 
 She looked from the weeping mother to the l)aby's foce, and 
 back again to Milly. " My poor girl," she said, with a 
 sudden rush of tender feeling for the woman who had per- 
 haps been tempted beyond her strength — so Lettice thought 
 — '* my poor child, you don't think / should be unkind to 
 you ! " 
 
 ** No, no ! you were always so kind to me, miss. And 
 I — I was so wicked — so ungrateful — so deceitful " 
 
 And with that she broke down utterly. Lettice's arms 
 were round her neck, and the young mother, feeling herself 
 in the presence of a comforter at last, let loose her pent-up 
 misery and sobbed aloud. 
 
 "Where is — he? your husband? " said Lettice, remem- 
 bering that she had heard of Milly's marriage from Mrs. 
 
 ' I 
 
 ■p<*«m*iM^ 
 

 B^ 
 
 '>i> 
 
 A ti,' 
 
 !'' i . . . .. 
 
 •i 
 
 ■«. 
 
 
 U'' 
 
 « li ' !'* 
 
 386 
 
 -y/liViF AND FAME. 
 
 Bundlecoinbe some time ago, and conjecturing tha^ 
 thing had gone wrong, but not yet guessing the whole 
 truth. 
 
 Milly sobbed on for a minute or two without replying. 
 Then she said, somewhat indistinctly, 
 
 " He's gone away. Left me." 
 
 " Left you? But — for a time, you mean ? To look for 
 work, perhaps ? " 
 
 " No, no ; he has left me altogether. I shall never see 
 him again — never!" said the girl, with sudden ))assion. 
 "Oh, don't ask mc any more, Miss Leltice, I can't bear 
 it ! " 
 
 ** No, no," said Lettice, pitifully, '' I will ask you nn 
 questions, Milly. You shall tell me all about it or nothing, 
 just as you like. We must not keep the baby out in the 
 night air any longer. Come round to the door, and Mrs. 
 Chigwin will let you in. I will tell her that you want a 
 night's lodging, and then we wiW arrange what you are to 
 do to-morrow." 
 
 Milly did not move, however, from her position by the 
 wall. She had ceased to sob; and was twisting her hand- 
 kerchief nervously between her fingers. 
 
 " Do you think Mrs. Chigwin would let me in," she said 
 at last, in a very low voice, ** if she kneiv 1 " 
 
 Lettice waited ; she saw there was more to come. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Lettice," said the girl, with a subdued agony 
 in her tone which went to Lettice's heart ; " it wasn't all 
 
 my fault I believed in him so I thought lie 
 
 would never deceive me nor behave unkindly to me. But 
 I was deceived : I never was his wife, though I thought— 
 I thought I was ! " 
 
 " My dear," said Lettice, gently, " then you were not to 
 blame. Mrs. Chigwin would only be sorry for you if she 
 knew. But we will not tell her everything at once ; you 
 must just come in, if only for baby's sake, and get some 
 food and rest. Come with me now." 
 
 And Milly yielded, feeling a certain comfort and relief 
 in having so far told the truth to her former mistress. 
 
 Mrs. Chigwin's surprise, when she saw Lettice coming 
 back with the baby in her arms, may well be imagined. 
 But she behaved very kindly : she at once consented to take 
 in Milly for the night and make her comfortable j and, 
 after one keen look at the girl's changed and downcast 
 face, she asked no questions. 
 
 
 m....M 
 
 i*? ' 
 
J\/AME AND FAI\tE. 
 
 2%^ 
 
 iring thav 
 
 sing the whole 
 
 ithoiit replying. 
 
 11 ? To look for 
 
 [ shall never see 
 siiddcMi ])assi()n. 
 ce, I can't bear 
 
 vill ask you no 
 lilt it or nothing, 
 baby out in the 
 \ door, and Mrs. 
 that you want a 
 what you are to 
 
 position by the 
 listing her hand- 
 
 it 
 
 me in," she said 
 
 e to come. 
 
 a subdued agony 
 " it wasn't all 
 . I thought lie 
 
 ndly to me. But 
 
 ugh I thought— 
 
 you were not to 
 ry for you if she 
 ng at once ; you 
 e, and get some 
 
 ►mfort and relief 
 ler mistress. 
 kT Lettice coining 
 -11 be imagined, 
 onsented to take 
 imfortablc ; and, 
 and downcast 
 
 For Milly was wonderfully changed — there ' s no doubt 
 of that. Her pretty fair hair was croi)ped close to her 
 hc.ul ; her eyes were sunken, and the lids were red with 
 tears ; the bloom had faded from her cheeks, and the 
 rouiulncss of youth had passed from face end form alike. 
 HI health and sorrow had gone far to rob her of her fresh 
 young beauty ; and the privations which she confessed to 
 having experienced during the last few days had hollowed 
 her eyes, sharpened her features, and bowed her slender 
 form. Her dress was travel-stained and shabby ; her 
 boots were down at heel and her thin hands were glove- 
 less. Lettice noticed that she still wore a wedding-ring. 
 But the neat trim look that had once been so characteristic 
 was entirely lost. She was bedraggled and broken down ; 
 and Lettice thought with a thrill of horror of what might 
 have happened if Mrs. Chigwin had left Birchmead, or 
 refused to take the wayAirer in. For a woman in Milly's 
 :tate there would probably have remained only two ways 
 open — the river or the streets. 
 
 " I've never had five in my cottage before," said Mrs. 
 Chigwin, cheerfully; *' but where there's room for two there's 
 room for half-a-dozen; at least, when they're women and 
 children." 
 
 " You must have wondered what had become of me all 
 this time," said Lettice. 
 
 " Nay, ma'am ; you were in the garden, and that was 
 enough for me. I knew you couldn't be in a better place, 
 whether you were sorrowing or rejoicing. Nought but 
 good comes to one in a garden." 
 
 They set food before Milly, and let her rest and recover 
 herself. The child won their hearts at once. It was clean, 
 and healthy, and good to look at ; and if Lettice had 
 known that it was her own little niece she could not have 
 taken to it more kindly. Perhaps, indeed, she would not 
 have taken to it at all. 
 
 Lcttice's visit had greatly excited Mrs. Bundlecombe, 
 who had for some time past been in that precarious state 
 in which any excitement, however slight, is dangerous. She 
 was completely happy, because she had jumped to the 
 conclusion that Lettice would henceforth do for Alan all 
 that she herself would have done if she had been able, but 
 which it was now impossible for her to do. And then it 
 was as though the feeble vitality which remained to her 
 

 288 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 had begun to ebb away from the moment when her need 
 for keeping it had disappeared. 
 
 In the early morning, Lettice was roused from her sleep 
 by the restlessness of her companion, and she sat up and 
 looked at her. 
 
 " Dearie," said the old woman, in a whisper, " my time 
 is come." 
 
 " No, no ! " said Lettice, standing by her side. " Let me 
 raise you a little on the pillow ; you will feel better pre- 
 sently." 
 
 " Yes — better — in heaven ! You will take care of my 
 Alan ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, dear !" 
 
 ** And love him?" 
 
 " And love him." 
 
 " Thank God for that. It will be the saving of him. 
 Call Martha, my dear ! " 
 
 Lettice went and roused Mrs. Chigwin, who came and 
 kissed her friend. Then, with a last effort. Aunt Bessy 
 raised her head, and whispered, 
 
 " ' Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in 
 peace ! * " 
 
 The watchers scarcely heard 
 sank back upon her pillow, and 
 found the peace which passes 
 that she had gone. 
 
 Lettice stayed on at Birchmead until she had seen Alan's 
 aunt carried to the church-yard, and laid under the shadow 
 of the great yew trees. 
 
 Aunt Bessy's death changed her plans. It was no longer 
 necessary for Alan to undertake so long a journey, and in 
 his weak condition it might be better that he should not 
 attempt it. But what was to be done ? She had promised 
 Aunt Bessy to " take care of him." How could she do it ? 
 How do it, at least, without outraging the feelings of her 
 brother and her friends ? She loved Sydney, although she 
 had long ago ceased to be greatly in sympathy with him, 
 and she Lad looked forward to the day when she could 
 make friends with his wife and — by and by — interest her- 
 self in their children. She knew that Sydney would be 
 against her in this. Ought she to consider him ? Should 
 his opinion weigh with her or not ? 
 
 She was still pondering this question on the day after the 
 funeral, when something happened which went far towards 
 
 the words ; but when she 
 
 smiled as though she had 
 
 understanding, they knew 
 
 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 289 
 
 hen her need 
 
 Tom her sleep 
 ihe sat up and 
 
 )er, " my time 
 
 side. " Let me 
 ;el better pre- 
 
 Le care of my 
 
 aving of him. 
 
 vho came and 
 t, Aunt Bessy 
 
 .nt depart in 
 
 but when she 
 hough she had 
 ng, they knew 
 
 ad seen Alan's 
 ier the shadow 
 
 : was no longer 
 
 ourney, and in 
 
 he should not 
 
 had promised 
 
 uld she do it ? 
 
 feelings of her 
 
 ^, although she 
 
 athy with him, 
 
 len she could 
 
 -interest her- 
 
 ney would be 
 
 him ? Should 
 
 le day after the 
 mt far towards 
 
 
 removing her hesitation. She was sitting in Mrs.Chigwin's 
 garden, which was warm and dry in the afternoon sun. 
 Mrs. Chigwin was indoors, vigorously *• straightenina " the 
 house. Milly was sewing a frock for her child, and the 
 cliild itself was tumbling about on a soft rug at her feet. 
 
 During the past few days, little had been said respecting 
 Milly's future. Mrs. Bundlecombe's death had thrown hi r 
 history into the background, and she had not seemed e.7ger 
 to obtrude it on any of her friends. Lettice's assurance 
 that she might safely stay where slie was at present seemed 
 to satisfy her. She had lost her briskness — -her occasional 
 pertness — of manner : she was quiet and subdued,, attach- 
 ing herself with dog-like fidelity to Lettice's steps, and 
 Si'iO'.ving that no satisfaction was so great as that of being 
 allowed to wait on her. But her submissiveness had some- 
 thing in it which pained Lettice, while it touched the 
 deepest fibres of pity in her heart. 
 
 She was vaguely wondering what it was that pained her 
 — why there siiouldbe that touch of something almost like 
 subserviency in Milly's manner, as if to make up for some 
 ])ast mjuiy — when her eyes were arrested by a locket, 
 which, tied by a black ribbon round Milly's neck, had 
 escaped from the bosom of her dress, and now nuug 
 exposed to view. 
 
 It contained a portrait of Sydney's face, evidently cut 
 from a phott graph by the girl herself 
 
 A flood of light entered Lettice's mind ; but she took 
 her discovery wiih outward calmness. No thought of 
 accusing or upbraiding Milly ever occurred to her. Why 
 should it? she WDuld have said. It was not Milly who 
 hnd been to blame, if the girl's own sto'-y were true. It 
 was Sydney wiio had been guilty of the blackest treachery, 
 the basest of all crimes. She thought for a moment of his 
 wife, with pity ; she looked with a new interest and tender- 
 ness at the innocent child. She had no certainty — that 
 was true ; but she had very little doubt as to the facts of 
 the case. And, at any rate, she allowed her suspicion to 
 decide her own course of action. Why need she care any 
 longer what Sydney desired for her? His standard was 
 not hers. She was not bound to think of his verdict — 
 now. He had put himself out of court. She was not sure 
 that she should even love him again, for the whole of her 
 
 19 
 
 ai 
 
 V I 
 
I! Ij ] 
 
 li'fi 
 
 
 A- ■ 
 
 J, .. it' I 
 
 5, 
 
 390 
 
 ATAME AND FAME, 
 
 pure and generous nature rose up in passionate repudia- 
 tion of the man who could basely purchase his own 
 pleasure at the expense of a woman's soul, and she knew 
 that he had thenc jfortli lost all power over her. No 
 opinion of his on any matter of moral bearing could ever 
 sway her again. The su])reme scorn of his conduct which 
 she felt impelled her to '^.hoose her own line of action, to 
 make — or mar — for herself her own career. 
 
 It was one of those moments in which the action of 
 others has an unexpectedly vivifying result. We mortals 
 may die, but our deed lives after us, and is immortal, and 
 bears fruit to all time, sometimes evil and sometimes good. 
 If the deed has been evil in the beginning, the fruit is often 
 such as we who did it would give our lives, if we had the 
 power, to destroy. 
 
 Thus Sydney's action had far-off issues which he could 
 not foresee. It ruled the whole course of his sister's after- 
 life. 
 
 There was a light shawl on Milly's thin shoulders. 
 Lettice took one end of it and drew it gently over the tell- 
 tale locket. Then, unmindful of Milly's start, and the 
 feverish eagerness with which her trembling hand thrust 
 the likeness out of sight, she spoke in a very gentle tone ; 
 
 " You will take cold if you are not more careful of your- 
 self. Have you thought, Milly, what you are to do now ? 
 You want to earn a living for yourself and the child, do you 
 not?" 
 
 Milly looked at her with frightened, hopeless eyes. Had 
 Miss Lettice seen the locket, and did she mean to cast her 
 off for ever? She stammered out some unintelligible words, 
 but the fear that was uppermost in her mind made her 
 incapable of a luore definite reply. 
 
 "You must do son.\ething for yourself. You do not 
 expect to hear from your child's father again, I supppose? " 
 said Letiice. 
 
 " He said — he said — he would send me money — if I 
 wanted it," said Milly, putting up one hand to shade her 
 burning face \ " but I would rather not ! " 
 
 " No, you are quite right. You had better take nothing 
 more from him— unless it is for the child. But I am think- 
 ing of yourself. I am going back to London the day after 
 to-morrow, and perhaps I may take a small house again, as 
 I did before. Will you come with me, Milly ? ' 
 
^i 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 291 
 
 late repudia- 
 a,se his own 
 nd she knew 
 :r her. No 
 g could ever 
 >nduct which 
 of action, to 
 
 he action of 
 ^\^e mortals 
 nmortal, and 
 etimes good, 
 fruit is often 
 f we had the 
 
 ich he could 
 sister's after- 
 
 n shoulders, 
 over the tell- 
 ;art, and the 
 ; hand thrust 
 gentle tone : 
 reful of your- 
 \ to do now ? 
 child, do you 
 
 ss eyes. Had 
 m to cast her 
 ligible words, 
 nd made her 
 
 You do not 
 supppose? " 
 
 money — if I 
 to shade her 
 
 take nothing 
 It I am think- 
 the day after 
 Duse again, as 
 ?' 
 
 This offer was too much for the girl's equanimity. Slie 
 burst into tears and sobbed vehemently, with her head 
 upon her hands, for two or thret minutes. 
 
 " I couldn't," she said at last, " Oh, you're very good. 
 Miss Lettice — and it isn't that I wouldn't work my fingers 
 to the bone for you — but I couldn't come." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " I deceived you before. I — I — should be deceiving 
 you again. If you knew — all, you would not ask me." 
 
 " I think I should, Milly. Perhaps I know more of your 
 story than you have told me. But — at present, at any rate 
 — I do not want to know more. I am not going to ques- 
 tion you about the past. Because you cannot undo what 
 is pastj dear, however much you try, but you can live as 
 if it h^d never happened ; or, better still, you can live a 
 nobler life than you had strength to live before. Sorrow 
 makes us stronger, Milly, if we take it in the right way. 
 You have your little one to live for ; and you must be 
 brave, and strong, and good, for her sake. Will you not 
 try ? Will it not be easier now to look forward than to 
 look back? I used to teach you out of an c.d Book that 
 speaks of 'forgetting the things th?t are behind.' You 
 must forget the things that lie behind you, Milly, and press 
 forward to the better life that lies before ycu now." 
 
 The jirl listened with an awed look upon her face. 
 
 " I am afraid," she murmured. 
 
 " Forget your fear, dear, with the other things that you 
 have to forget, and gather up your strength to make your 
 little girl's life a good and happy one. In that way, good 
 will come out of evil — as it so often does. Will you 
 try?" 
 
 "Yes," said Milly, *' I'll try— if you will help me— and 
 — forgive me." 
 
 ^" You will come with me, then," Lettice rejoined, in a 
 more cheerful tone. " You can bring your child witli you, 
 and you shall have money enough to clothe her and your- 
 self; but you know, Milly, you must be ready to work and 
 not to be idle. Then I shall be able to help you." 
 
 Milly was glad enough to be persuaded. She had learned 
 a sad and bitter lesson, but she was the wiser for 't. 
 
 " I shall be able to work better for you than I did at 
 Maple Cottage," she said, with touching humility. " You 
 see I know more than I did, and I siiall have more heart 
 
 F ii 
 
 I k 
 
 i ■ ti 
 
293 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 in ray work. And — " with sudden vehemence — " I would 
 work for you, Miss Lettice, to my life's end." 
 
 So it was arranged that they were to go up to London 
 together. Mrs. Chigwin moaned a little about her pros- 
 pect of loneliness. " But there," she said, " I am not going 
 to make the worst of it. And nobody that has a garden 
 is ever really lonely, unless she has lost her self-respect, or 
 taken to loving herself better than her fellow-creatures. 
 By which," she added, " I do not mean snails and spar- 
 rows, but honest and sensible flowers." 
 
 li 
 
 r ^ 
 
I' 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 SUCCESS. 
 
 " May I reach 
 That purest heaven, be to other souh 
 The cup of strength in some great agony. 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love. 
 Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffused 
 And in diffusion ever more intense. 
 So shall I join the choir invisible 
 Whose gladness is the music of the world.'' 
 
 George Euot. 
 
 Ul 
 

 & 
 
 mK 
 
 
 flBKHyuSt ^- r 
 
 
 I^HHMR'I'^' ';! 
 
 
 f^mt 
 
 
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 fl^n^^H ' 
 
 iiSf 
 
 ^Um '• ^' 
 
 
 l^^B^^a^Mi '' 
 
 
 ^^^jil 
 
NAJUJi Ax\D FAME, 
 
 295 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 AT THE PRISON ".ATE. 
 
 Months had passed since Lettice nad written a page of 
 her story. The arrival of the Dallons at Florence had in- 
 terrupted her at a critical point. She had not yet acquired 
 the mechanic art of stopping and going on again as at the 
 turn of a handle, in obedience to a law of demand and 
 supply ; and she would probably have been unable to 
 gather up her threads and continue the old woof, even if 
 she had made the effort. But she had not made the effort, 
 and now that she was back in London again it seemed less 
 possible than ever that she should sit down and make it. 
 
 This was a serious matter, for the book was to have been 
 done to ord^r. She had undertaken to furni.sh the whole 
 of the manuscript by the middle of November, and now 
 the time had come when she was obliged to admit that 
 this was q lite impracticable. She had hoped to put such 
 a constraint upon herself at Birchmead as would have 
 enabled her to fulfil her promise in the spirit, and to ask a 
 fortnight's grace for the completion of the manuscript. 
 But circumstances had prevented her from writing a single 
 Hne, and she gave up the idea as hopeless. 
 
 So vvlien she came up to London, three days before the 
 end of October, she called upon tlie publisher with whom 
 she had made her agreement, and confessed her inability 
 to keep her word. Mr. MacAlpine was polite, but at the 
 same time evidently vexed. If Miss Campion had been 
 ill he was very sorry to hear it, but he liked to be able to 
 rely on the engagements which he made. 
 
 " Pray don't let it trouble you," he said, seeing that her 
 face had begun to fall. " When do you think you can be 
 ready ? I must have your next story, at any rate. Take 
 another three months." 
 
 " That is very good of you," said Lettice. '' I think I 
 can promise it before the end of January." 
 
,'i 
 
 I 
 
 
 1 t 
 
 .>1 
 
 Hi, ; 
 
 'W 
 
 296 
 
 aV/iiT/i? AND FAME. 
 
 So it was settled, and Lettice went away contented. 
 
 The discovery which she had made in regard to Sydiuy 
 and Emily Harrington had destroyed her former scruples 
 as to the displeasure which Sydney might feel if he were to 
 hear what she now contemplated. Siie had no wish lo 
 punish her brother. She thought he had been cruel, and 
 indifferent to the suffering which he had caused ; but slie 
 was not moved by anything like a vindictive feeling towards 
 him. She had simply lost the scruples which had beset 
 her, and there was no longer a desire in her mind to 
 avoid a mere semblance of unconvcntionality for his 
 sake. 
 
 She had chosen three rooms on the ground-floor of a 
 house in a long and dreary terrace, the windows of whicli 
 looked across an intervening waste to the walls of Alan's 
 prison ; and here she watched and waited. 
 
 The time hung heavy on her hands. She could do 
 nothing, read nothing, think of nothing — except of the un- 
 happy man within those walls, who had been brought to 
 death's door, and who must have known a living death for 
 the past six months. To her, merely looking at the walls 
 and thinking of their victim, every minute seemed an hour, 
 and every hour a day of blank despair. What must the 
 minutes and hours have seemed to him, buried alive in that 
 hideous pile of bricks, and in the yet more hideous pile of 
 false accusations and unmerited disgrace ? 
 
 She had found out the date of the trial, and procured 
 the papers in which it was reported. The whole wretched 
 story was before her now. She saw how the web had been 
 weaved round him ; she understood the pains which had 
 been taken to keep her own name from being mentioned ; 
 and she noted with burning indignation the persistency 
 with which Sydney had labored, apparently, to secure a 
 conviction. 
 
 She was on the point of seeking out Mr. Larmer, in order 
 to learn from him the assurance of innocence which Alan 
 must have given to his solicitor ; but she refrained. It 
 would look as though she wanted evidence of what she 
 believed so absolutely without any evidence ; and besides, 
 was it not one of the pleasures which she had promised 
 herself, to hear from Alan's own lips all that he cared for 
 her to hear ? 
 
 She stood by her window in the evening, and saw the 
 lights spring up one by one about the frowning gates of 
 
NAME AND FA MIC, 
 
 297 
 
 the prison. She was quite alone, Milly having gone out 
 with her baby to buy her some clothes. Lettice was mis- 
 erable and depressed, in spite of her good i' 'en'tions ; and 
 as she stood, half leaning against the shutter in unc(;nscii)us 
 weariness of body, yet intent with all her mind upon the 
 one subject that engrossed her, she heard the distant stroke 
 of a tolling bell. 
 
 Dong! — dong ! — dong ! it sounded, with long intervals 
 between the notes. Straight across the vacant ground, 
 from the shrouded walls of Alan's dungeon, and into the 
 contracting fibres of her own tortured heart, it smote with 
 sudden terror, turning her blood to ice and her cheeks to 
 livid whiteness. 
 
 Great heaven, it was a death-knell. Could it be Alan 
 who was dead ! 
 
 For a moment she felt as if she must needs rush into the 
 street and break open those prison gates, must ascertain 
 at once that Alan was still alive. She went out into the 
 hall and stood for a moment hesitating. Should slie go? 
 and would they tell her at the gates if Alan was alive or 
 dead ? 
 
 The landlady heard her moving, and came out of a little 
 apartment at the back of the house, to see what was going 
 on. 
 
 " Were you going out, ma'am ? " she asked, curiously. 
 
 "I? no 
 utterance, 
 and " 
 
 " Oh, that's a bell from the church close by. Sounds 
 exactly like a passing-bell, don't it, ma'am ? And appro- 
 priate too. For my son, who is one of the warders, as I 
 think I've mentioned to you, was here this afternoon, and 
 tells me that one of the prisoners is dead. A gentleman, 
 too : the one that there was so much talk about a little 
 while ago." 
 
 Lettice leaned against the passage wall, glad that in the 
 gathering darkness her face could not be seen. 
 
 " Was his name — Walcott ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes, that was it. At least I think so. I know it was 
 Wal — something. He was in for assault, I believe, and 
 a nicer, quieter-spoken gentleman, my son says he never 
 saw. But he died this afternoon, I understand, between 
 five and six o'clock— just as his time was nearly out, too, 
 poor man." 
 
 , at least," said Lettice, with somewhat difficult 
 '' I was only wondering what that bell was, 
 
-tf ^\ 
 
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 m 
 
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 \ 
 
 Jli;;' 
 
 
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 298 
 
 iV//.]//s ./AV; /v/JM". 
 
 Lettice made no answer. She stole back into her sitting- 
 room and shut the door. 
 
 So this was the end. The prisoner 'vas released, indeed ; 
 but no mortal voice had told him he was free, no earthly 
 friend had met him at the door. 
 
 She fell on her knees, and prayed that the soul which 
 had been persecuted might have rest. Then, when the 
 last stroke of the bell had died away, she sat down in mute 
 despair, and felt that she had lost the best thing life had lo 
 give her. 
 
 Outside upon the pavement men and women were pass- 
 ing to and fro. There was no forecourt to the house ; 
 passers-by walked close to the windows ; they could look 
 m if they tried. Lettice had not lighted a candle, and had 
 not drawn her blinds, but a gas-lamp standing just in front 
 threw a feeble glimmer into the room, which fell upon her 
 where she sat. As the shadows deepened the light grew 
 stronger, and falling direct upon her eyes, r -used her at 
 last from the lethargy into which she had sunk. 
 
 She got up and walked to the window, intending to close 
 the shutters. Listlessly for a moment she looked out into 
 the street, where the gas-light flickered upon the meeting 
 streams of humanity — old folk and young, busy and idle, 
 hopeful and despaiiiiig, all bent on their own designs, 
 heedless like herself of the jostling world around them. 
 
 She had the shutter in her hand, and was turning it upon 
 its hinges, when a ftice in the crowd suddenly arrested her. 
 She had seen it once, that ghastly painted face, and it had 
 haunted her in her dreams for weeks and months after- 
 wards. It had tyrannized over her in her sickness, and only 
 left her in peace when she began to recover her strength 
 under the bright Italian skies. And now she saw her again, 
 the wife who had wrecked her husband's happiness, for 
 whom he had lingered in a cruel prison, who flaunted her- 
 self in the streets whilst Alan's brave and generous heart 
 was stilled for ever. 
 
 Cora turned her face as she passed the window, and 
 looked in. She might not in that uncertain light have 
 recognized the woman whose form stood out from the dark- 
 ness behind her, but an impulse moved Lettice which she 
 could not resist. At the moment when the other turned 
 her head she beckoned to her with her hand, and quickly 
 threw up the sash of the window. 
 
NAME Ah'P FAME. 
 
 200 
 
 ff 
 
 into her sitliniz. 
 
 "Mon Dieii !" .said Cora, coming up close to her, *' is it 
 really you ? What do you waiU with uie ? " 
 
 ** Come in ! I must speak to you." 
 
 " I love you not, Leltice Campion, and you love not me. 
 What would you ? " 
 
 "■ T have a message for you — come inside." 
 
 '' A message : Saprisii : Then I must know it. Open 
 your door." 
 
 Lettice closed the window and the shutters, and brought 
 her visitor inside. 
 
 The woman of the study and the woman of the pave- 
 ment looked at each other, standing face to face for some 
 minutes without sp^..king a word. They were a contrast 
 of civilization, whom nature had not intended to contrast, 
 and it would have been difficult to find a stronger antagon- 
 ism between two women who under identical training and 
 circumstances might have been expected to develop simi- 
 lar tastes, and character, and bearing. Both had strong 
 and well-turned figures, above the middle height, erect and 
 striking, both had noble features, natural grace and vivacity, 
 constitutions which fitted them for keen enjoyment and 
 zest in life. But from tiicir infancy onward they had been sub- 
 jected to influences as different as it is possible to imagine. 
 To one duty had been the ideal and the guide of existence ; 
 the other had been taught to aim at pleasure as the su- 
 preme good. One had ripened into a self-sacrificing 
 woman, to whom a spontaneous feeling of duty was more 
 imperative than the rules and laws in which she had been 
 trained ; the other had degenerated into a wretched slave 
 of her instincts, for whom the pursuit of pleasure had be- 
 come a hateful yet inevitable servitude. Perhaps, as they 
 stood side by side, the immeasurable distance which divid- 
 ed th^m mind from mind and body from body was apparent 
 to both. Perhaps each thought at that moment of the man 
 whose life they had so deeply affected — perhaps each 
 realized what Alan Walcott must have thought and felt 
 about the other. 
 
 " Why have you brought me here ? " said Cora at last 
 in a defiant voice. 
 
 " It was a sudden thought. I saw you, and I wanted to 
 speak to you." 
 
 " Then you have no message as you pretended? You 
 are very polite, mademoiselle. You are pleased to amuse 
 yourself at my expense ? " 
 
300 
 
 J^AME AND J'AME, 
 
 Mk 
 
 iV ' 
 
 
 
 " No, I am not amusing myself," said Lettice. There 
 was a ring of sadness in her tones, which did not escape 
 Cora's attention. She argued weakness from it, and grew 
 more bold. 
 
 '* Are you not afraid ? " she said, menacingly. " Do you 
 not think that I have the power to hurt — as 1 have hurt 
 you before — the power, and, still more, the will ? " 
 
 ** 1 am not afraid." 
 
 " Not afraid ! You are hatefully quiet and impassive, 
 just like — ah, like all your race ! Are you always so cold 
 and still? Have you no blojd in your veins? " 
 
 " If you will sit down," said Lettice steadily, *'Iwill 
 tell you something that you ought to know. It is useless 
 trying to frighten me with your threats. Sit down and rest 
 if you will; I will get you food or coffee, if you care for 
 either. But there is something that I want to say." 
 
 Cora stared at her scornfully. " Food ! Coffee 1 Do you 
 think I am starving?' she asked, with a savage little 
 laugh. " I have as much money as I want — more than you 
 are ever likely to have, mademoiselle. You are very naive, 
 mon enfant. You invite me into your room — Lettice Cam- 
 pion invites Cora Walcott into her room ! — wliere nobody 
 knows us, nobody could trace us — and you quietly ask me 
 to eat and drink ! Eat and drink in this house? It is so 
 likely ! How am I to tell, for exam^-le, if your coffee is not 
 poisoned ? You would not be very sorry if I were to die ! 
 Parbleu, if you want to poison me, you should tempt me 
 with brandy or champagne. Have you neither of those to 
 offer me ? " 
 
 Lettice had drawn back at the first hint of this insinua- 
 tion, with a look of irrepressible disgust. She answered 
 coldly, "I have neither brandy nor champagne to. give 
 you." 
 
 " Allons, done ! Why do I stay here then ? " said Cora 
 jumping up from the chair where she had seated herself. 
 " This is very wearisome. Your idea was not very clever, 
 Mademoiselle Lettice ; you should lay your plans better if 
 you want to trick a woman like me." 
 
 '' Why should I wish to trick you ? " said Lettice, with 
 grave, quiet scorn. " What object could I have in killing 
 you ? " 
 
 ** Ma foi, what object should you not have? Revenge, 
 of course. Have I not injured you ? have I not taken 
 
 ,|i3;frr 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 301 
 
 .iway your good name already? All who know you have 
 heard my story, and many wlio do not know you ; and near- 
 ly every one uf them believes it to be true. You robbed me 
 of my husband, mademoiselle, you know it ; and you have 
 but too good reason to wish me dead, in order that you may 
 take a wife's place at the convict's side." 
 
 " You are mad. Listen to me " 
 
 '• I will listen to nothing. I will speak now. I will give 
 you a last warning. Do you know what this is ? " 
 
 She took a bottle from her pocket, a bottle of fluted, 
 dark-colored glass, and held it in her hand. 
 
 ** Look ! This is vitriol, the friend of the injured and 
 the defenceless. I have carried it with mc ever since I 
 followed my husband to your house at Brook Green, and 
 saw you making signals to him at midnight. I came once 
 after that, and knocked at your door, intending then to 
 avenge my wrongs ; but you had gone away, and I was bru- 
 tally treated by your police. Bui if I could not punish you 
 I could punish //////, for he belonged to me and not to you, 
 and I had a right to make liim suffer. I have made him suffer 
 a little, it seems to me. V/ail — I have more to say. Shall I 
 make him suffer more ? I have punished you through him ; 
 shall I punish him through you? For he would not like you 
 to be maimed and disfigured through life : his sensitive soul 
 would writhe, would it not? to know that you were suffer- 
 ing pain. Do you know what this magic water is ? It 
 stings and bites and eats away the flesh — it wiP blind you 
 so that you can never see him again ; and it will mar your 
 while face so that he will never want to look at you. This 
 is what I carry about for you." 
 
 Lettice watched the hand that held the bottle ; but in 
 truth she thought very little of the threat. Death had 
 done for her already what this woman was talking about. 
 Alan was past the love or vengeanceof either of them, and 
 all her pleasure in life was gone for ever. 
 
 " I thought I should find you here," Cora went on, 
 " waiting at the prison for your lover ! But I am waiting 
 for him, too. I am his wife still. I have the right to wait 
 for him, and you have not. And if you are there when he 
 comes out, I shall stay my hand no longer. I warn you ; 
 so be prepared. But perhaps "—and she lifted the bottle, 
 while her eyes flamed with dangerous light, and her voice 
 sank to a sharp whisper—'* perhaps it would be better to 
 settle the question now I " 
 
 <:f> 
 
 t 
 
'^i^w 
 
 
 
 :ii t 
 
 302 
 
 J\rAME AND FAME. 
 
 " The question," said Lettice, with almost unnatural 
 calm of manner, " is settled for us. Alan has left his pri- 
 son. Your husband is dead." 
 
 The woman gazed at her in stupefaction. Her hand fell 
 to her side, and the light died out of her bold black eyes. 
 
 ** Alan dead ! What is it you say ? How do you 
 know ? " 
 
 " He had a fever in the jail to which you sent him. He 
 has been at death's door for many weeks. Not an hour 
 ago a warder came here and said that he was dead. Are 
 you satisfied with your work ? " 
 
 "My work?" said Cora, drawing back. "I have not 
 killed him!" 
 
 ** Yes," said Lettice, a surge of bitter anger rising in her 
 heart, " yes, you have killed him, as surely as you tried to 
 kill him with your pistol at Aix-les-Bains, and with his own 
 dagger in Surrey Street. You are a murderess, and you know 
 it well. But for you, Alan Walcott would still be living an 
 honorable, happy life. You have stabbed him to the heart, 
 and he is dead. That is the message I have to give you — to 
 tell you that you have killed him, and that he is gone to a 
 land where your unnatural hate can no longer follow him ! " 
 
 Lettice stood over the cowering woman, strong and un- 
 pitying in her stern indignation, lifted out of all thought of 
 herself by the intensity of her woe. Cora shrank away 
 from her, slipping the bottle into her pocket, and even 
 covertly making the sign of the cross as Lettice's last words 
 fell upon her ear — words that sounded to her untutored ima- 
 gination like a curse. But she could not be subdued for 
 long. She stood silent for a few moments when Lettice 
 ceased to speak, but finally a forced laugh issued from the 
 lips that had grown pale beneath her paint. 
 
 " Tiens ! " she said. " You will do the mourning for us 
 both, it seems. Well, as I never loved him, you cannot 
 expect me to cry at his death. And I shall get his money, 
 I suppose ; the money that he grudged me in his life-time : 
 it will be mine now, and I can spend it as I choose. I 
 thank you for your information, mademoiselle, and I par- 
 don you the insults which you have heaped upon my head 
 to-night. If I have my regrets, I do not exhibit t)iem in 
 your fashion. Good-night, mademoiselle : il me faui abso- 
 lument de i'eau de vie — I can wait for it no longer. Bon 
 soir 1 " 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 303 
 
 : have not 
 
 She turned and left the house as rapidly as she had come. 
 Lettice sank down upon a couch, and hid her face in the 
 cushion. She could not shed a tear, but she was trembling 
 from head to foot, and felt sick and faint. 
 
 As Cora sauntered along the pavement, turning her head 
 restlessly from side to side, her attention was caught ?jy a 
 young woman carrying a child, who went in at Lettice's 
 door. Mrs. Walcott stopped short, and put her finger to 
 her forehead with a bewildered air. " Now where have I 
 seen that face ? " she muttered lo herself. 
 
 After a moment's reflection, she burst into a short, harsh 
 laugh, and snapped lier fingers at the blind of Lettice's 
 room. " I know now," she said. " Oh yes, I know where 
 I have seen that face before. This will justify me in the 
 eyes of the world as nothing else has done. Bon soir, 
 Madame Lettice. Oh, I have a new weapon agaix^st you 
 now." 
 
 And then she went upon her way, leaving behind her 
 the echo of her wicked laugh upon the still night air. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 A BRAVE PURPOSE. 
 
 If Lettice had not seen Cora when she did, she would pro- 
 bably have gone to the prison that evening, to ask whether 
 she could not arrange for Alan's funeral, as she could not 
 arrange for his release. Her spirit was crushed ^^^y the 
 blow which had fallen on her, but she could not give way 
 so long as his body was there to receive the last token of 
 her love. When the Frenchwoman left her it was too late 
 to see Captain Haynes, even if she had been physically 
 able to make the attempt. 
 
 It never occurred to her to think that any mistake could 
 have been made in the information she had received from 
 her landlady. The struggle which had been goingon in 
 her mind, the consciousness that she had broken with all 
 her old friends, the exaltation which had possessed h.cr 
 since she resolved to give to Alan all that was possible for 
 her to give, or seemed lobe \\\)x\\\ her giving, the death of 
 his aunt and the thought of his loneliness, Irid combined 
 
 tl 
 
 
 1 f? 
 
 il: 1.4 
 
M 
 
 
 ^ii 
 
 I 
 
 It "^i 
 t 
 
 i 
 
 n'l 
 
 n'.i 
 
 304 
 
 .^AME AND FAME. 
 
 to make her nervously apprehensive. As soon as she had 
 settled down under the shadow of the prison walls, the idea 
 took hold of her with unaccountable force that the life of 
 Alan was hanging by a thread, and the news of his death 
 came to her only as the full confirmation of her fears. 
 
 But, as it happened, there was another man in the prison 
 named Walters, who had been convicted of an assault upon 
 his wife some time previously, and had been ill for many 
 months of an internal complaint which was certain, sooner 
 or later, to end fatally. 
 
 A sleepless night brought Lettice no ray of hope, and it 
 was with a heavy and despairing heart that she went to the 
 governor's residence next morning, and sent up to him the 
 note v.'hich she had written before leaving her room. 
 
 Captain Haynes remembered her former visit, and being 
 disengaged at the moment, he came down at once. 
 
 " My dear lady," he said, bustling into the room, " what 
 is the meaning of this letter ? What makes you talk of 
 burying your friend ? He has been in this tomb of stone 
 long enough to purge him of all his offenses, and 1 am sure 
 you don't want to bury him al-'ve again ! " 
 
 Lettice started to her feet, gazed at the speaker with 
 straining eyes, and pressed her hands upon her tumultuous 
 heart. 
 
 " Is — he — alive ? " she gasped, in scarcely audible 
 words. 
 
 ** Of course he is alive ! I told you when you were here 
 before that he was out of danger. All he wants now is 
 careful nursing and cheerful company ; and I must say 
 that you don't quite look as if you could give him either." 
 
 " Alive— alive ! Thank God ! " 
 
 A great wave of tenderness swept through her heart, and 
 gushed from her eyes in tears that were eloquent of hap- 
 piness. 
 
 " I was told that he was dead ! " She looked at the 
 governor with a smile which disarmed his bluff tongue. 
 
 "I am on the border-land of a romance," he thought, 
 " and a romance of which the ending will be pleasanter than 
 the beginning, unless I am much mi'^^aken. This is not 
 the wife ; it is the woman he was writing his verses to 
 before he took the fever. The doctor says she has written 
 the best novel of the year. Novels and poetry — umph 1 
 not much in my line." 
 
NAME AND KIME, 
 
 305 
 
 Then aloud, " you are under a mistake. A man named 
 Walters died yesterday ; perhaps that is how you have 
 been misled. Some rumor of his death must have g^t 
 abroad. Mr. Walcott is getting over his iUness ver^ 
 nicely ; but he will need a good rest, good food, and as 
 much cheerfulness as you can give him. I told him, just 
 now, that you had arranged to meet him to-morrow, and I 
 fancy it roused him more than anything Dr. Savill has done 
 for him. I must wish you good-morning, madam ! — but 
 let me impress upon you again, before you go, that he is 
 to be kept perfectly quiet, free from anxiety, and as cheer- 
 ful as you can manage tc make him." 
 
 Captain Haynes was rather ashamed of the laxity into 
 which Miss Campion had drawn him. He was not accus- 
 tomed to display so much sympathy with his prisoners, 
 whatever he may have felt in his own mind. But, to be sure, 
 the case was quite exceptional. He did not ave prisoners 
 like Alan or visitors like Lettice every Jay. So he had no 
 difficulty in finding excuses for himself. 
 
 Lettice walked on air as she came out of the precincts 
 of the jail, which had now lost all its terrors. In less than 
 twenty-four hours she was to come again, and transport 
 her hero — whom the dense and cruel world had branded as 
 a criminal — from slavery to freedom, from misery to peace 
 and joy. The world had cast him out ; well, then, let the 
 world stand aside, that she might give this man what was 
 his due. 
 
 What would she say to him ? Ah, she dare not think of 
 that beforehand ! 
 
 What would she do for him ? For one thing, she would 
 give him back his self-respect. He had been the object of 
 scorn and the victim of lying scandals. He should find 
 that the woman he loved intended from henceforth to take 
 those paltry burdens on herself, and to know no other 
 praise or merit than that which came to her from him. 
 
 He had borne troubles and suffered injuries which before 
 now had driven men to suicide, or madness, or self-aban- 
 donment. In order to save him from any of these things 
 she meant to give herself into his hands, without terms or 
 conditions, in order that the wrong-doing of the world 
 might be righted by her act, were it ever so little. 
 
 Who could call that a sacrifice which made her heart so 
 light, her step so elastic, her eyes so bright with hope and 
 
 20 
 

 ul|IW';i;i 
 
 306 
 
 ^^AA/£ AND FAME. 
 
 satisfaction ? It was no sacrifice, but a triiimi)h and 
 reward of the highest kind that she was preparing for her- 
 self. How should she not be happy ? 
 
 There was no time to be lost if she was to provide all 
 that was necessary for the well-being and comfort of her 
 patient before to-morrow morning. Everything had to be 
 done at the last moment. Slie had been so long in coming 
 to a definite and final resolution to treat this friendless dis- 
 charged prisoner as a hero and a king, that it was almost 
 too late to make any arrangements. Wliy had she not 
 done yesterday something of what she had left to be done 
 to-day? She scarcely realized to herself that her mind was 
 only just made up. That facile belief in the report of 
 Alan's death was only the outcome of her distress and per- 
 plexity — of the failure of her courage on the threshold of 
 decision and action. 
 
 With a cold shudder she thought of the dust which she 
 had unwittingly thrown in Cora's eyes. She had told her 
 that her husband was dead, and the tale had been readily 
 believed, for the very opposite reason to that which had 
 prevailed with herself. She had been convinced by her 
 fears — Cora by her hopes and greed. And nov/ she could 
 not undeceive the woman, for she did not know where to 
 find her. Would she if she could ? Perhaps it was the 
 the best thing which could have happened ; for it would 
 be terrible if Alan were to step out of his prison back into 
 the hell on earth which that woman liad created for him. 
 
 Well, now, at :",ny rate, she must devote herself to the 
 task which she had undertaken. She felt as a sister might 
 feel who had been suddenly commissioned to provide a 
 home within twenty-four hours for an invalided traveler ; 
 and she set about the work with enthusiasm. 
 
 She began by taking Milly in some measure into her 
 confidence, and giving her a number of directions as to 
 what she was to do in tl'3 course of tlie day. Then she 
 hired a cab, and went to a house-agent whose name she 
 remembered. That seemed the quickest way of getting 
 what she wanted — a small furnished house, cheerful and 
 yet retired, which she could take at any rate for a month, 
 and for longer if she needed it. The agent by good chance 
 had the very thing she asked for. He turned over the 
 leaves of his register, and presently came upon "a desir- 
 able bijou residence, plainly but adequately furnished, con- 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 307 
 
 taining three reception rooms and five bedrooms, conser- 
 vatory, with large and well-stocked garden^ lawn and 
 shrubbery, coach-house and stable. Vacant for three 
 months ; very moderate terms to a suitable tenant." That 
 sounded well. The ^^ very moderate terms " came to some- 
 thing more than Lettice wanted to give ; but she had a 
 hundred pounds in her pocket, and a spirit which disdained 
 to grudge in such a service. 
 
 So, having journeyed to Chiswick, and found Bute 
 Lodge to be, if not precisely a jewel amongst lodges, at 
 any rate clean and comfortable, she came back to the agent 
 with an offer to take it from month to month, and with a 
 roll of notes ready to clinch the bargain. Money is the 
 best reference, as she found when she paid a month's rent 
 on the spot, and promised that all her payments should be 
 in advance. But, as the agent had asked her for a reference 
 of another kind, Lettice, who had expected this demand, 
 and was prepared for it, gave the na;. of James Graham. 
 She ought not to have made use of hnn without asking him 
 beforehand. She might have referred to the owner of 
 Maple Cottage, where she had lived when last in London, 
 or even to her publisher. But she wanted to go and see 
 her old friend Clara ; and, woman-like, did a more impor- 
 tant thing to serve as a pretext for a less important. 
 
 Clara Graham was delighted to see her again, and the 
 two women had a long and confidential talk. 
 
 " I, at any rate," said Clara, '' have nevor doubted his 
 innocence, and I was sure that you would not." 
 
 " Yet you never told me what troubles had fallen upon 
 him ! " 
 
 " My dear, I thought you must have heard about it all. 
 But the fact was that James asked me not to mention the 
 trial. Remember, you were not well at the time ; and it 
 was a difficult case. I could not quite assume that your 
 interest would be strong enough to justify me in risking the 
 loss of your health — perhaps of your life. Really, it is a 
 hard question to deal with — like one of those cases of con- 
 science (didn't they call them ?) which men used to argue 
 for the sake of having something to do. I stood up for 
 poor Mr. Walcott with my husband ; but you know it is 
 useless to argue against him." 
 
 ** He believfes with the rest of them ? ' 
 
 " Everybody believes alike. I never heard of one who 
 thought that he did not do it." 
 
 -i 
 
 \ A 
 
 ;; 1 
 
[m^i 
 
 til. l:!- If! 
 u ,; ,' r 
 
 
 
 308 
 
 JVAM£ AND FAME, 
 
 « 
 
 Only yourself ! " 
 
 " Yes, and that was, perhaps, for your sake," said Clara, 
 affectionately. 
 
 '* And I suppose that I believe in him for his own 
 sake." 
 
 " That is natural ; but will people think that it is logi- 
 cal ? " 
 
 " No, they won't," said Lettice, " at all events, not at 
 first. But, gradually perhaps, they will. I am perfectly 
 convinced that Alan did not stab his wife — because I feel 
 it with a force that amounts to conviction. You see, I 
 know his character, his past history, the character and his- 
 tory of his wife, the circumstances in which they were 
 placed at the time. I am sure he is innocent, and I am 
 going to act up to it. Alan will Hve down this horrible 
 accusation and punishment — he will not give way, but will 
 keep his self-respect, and will do infinitely better work for 
 all the torture he has gone through. And our hope must 
 be this — that when the world sees him stronger than ever, 
 stronger in every way, and doing stronger work in his 
 vocation, it will come to believe in him, one by one, begin- 
 ning with us, until his vindication is brought about, not by 
 legal proof, which is impossible, but by the same feeling 
 and conviction which to-day only draw two weak women 
 to the side of an unhappy and discredited man." 
 
 " Are you calling yourself a weak woman ? You have 
 the strength of a martyr, and in days when they used to 
 burn women you would have chosen to be a martyr." 
 
 " I am not so sure. It is one thing to do what one likes, 
 but quite another thing to burn, which no one likes." 
 
 " Weil, you are very brave, and you will succeed as you 
 deserve. But not at first." 
 
 *' No, not at first. The hardest task will be with Alan, 
 who has been in despair all these months, and at death's 
 door with fever. He will come out weak, helpless, hope- 
 less ; there will be constant danger of a relapse ; and, even 
 if he can be made to forget his despair, it will be very diffi- 
 cult to restore him to cheerfulness." Her eyes filled with 
 pitying tears as she spoke. 
 
 " Only one thing can do that ! " Clara stroked her 
 friend's bright brown hair, and kissed her on the cheek. 
 " With you for his doctor he will soon be well." 
 
 " Only two things can do it — a joy greater than his sor- 
 row, and a self-respect greater than his self-abasement." 
 
N'AME AND FAME. 
 
 309 
 
 Lattice stood up ; and tlie far reaching look that Clara 
 knew so well came into the true and tender grey eyes, 
 strong with all the rapt purpose of a devoted woman. Her 
 resolutions were forming and strengthening as she went on. 
 She had been guided by instinct and feeling, but they were 
 guiding her aright. 
 
 There was one thing more in which Clara was a help to 
 her. She took her to an old woman, the mother of her 
 own parlor-maid, exceptionally clean and respectable, whom 
 Lettice engaged to go at once to Bute Lodge, taking a 
 younger daughter with her, and make everything ready for 
 the morrow. 
 
 " I shall come and see you soon," said Clara, as they 
 wished each other good-bye. 
 
 " Do ! And if you can convert your husband " 
 
 " Tf not, it wiii not be for want of trying." 
 
 It was evening before Lettice was at her lodging again. 
 She had done all that she could think of — made every pre- 
 paration and taken every precaution — and now there was 
 nothing left but to wait until the appointed hour should 
 strike, and Alan should be a free man again. 
 
 One concession she made to Mrs. Graham's sense of pro- 
 priety. There was an old lady who had once been Clara's 
 governess — a gentle, mild-tongued, unobservant person, 
 who was greatly in want of a home. Mrs. Alison was easily 
 induced to promise the support of her presence to Lettice 
 during the days or weeks which Lettice hoped to spend at 
 Bute Lodge. She was a woman of unimneachable decorum 
 and respectability, and her presence in t j house would, in 
 Clara's opinion, prove a bulwark against all dangers ; but, 
 although evil tongues might be silenced by the fact of her 
 presence, the old lady was singularly useless in the capa- 
 city of chaperon. She was infirm, a little deaf, and very 
 shy ; but her presence in the house was supposed to be a 
 sop to Cerberus, in the person of Mrs. Grundy, ar d Clara 
 was less afraid for her friend than she had been before 
 Mrs. Alison was installed at Bute Lodge. 
 
 I 
 
3IO 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 CHAPTER XXXY. 
 
 FROM PRISON TO PARADISE. 
 
 r, ^ 
 
 >''-,! 
 
 tl'r 
 
 PUNCTTTALLY at ten o'clock on the 29th of October a 
 brougham drove up to the gates of the prison in which 
 Alan Walcott had spent his six months of retreat from the 
 world j and almost immediately Alan made lils appearance, 
 leaning on the arm of a warder. 
 
 Lettice hurried to meet him, displacing the warder with 
 a few words of thanks, and repressing with an effort the 
 painful throbbing of her heart and throat. I'iie sight of 
 his shrunken form and hollow eyes, as he looked at her 
 with pathetic and childlike trust, for a moment took away 
 all her strength ; but when his hand was laid upon her arm, 
 and she accommodated her steps to his slow and unsteady 
 movements, he found in her no trace of the weakness siie 
 had overcome. 
 
 It was clear that he had not yet made a good recovery 
 from his fever. Lettice's last little qualm of doubt as to 
 the use or need for what she had done disappeared as she 
 saw this wreck of the man whom she loved — whom she 
 believed to be innocent of offense and persecuted by an 
 evil fate. What might have become of him if he had been 
 left to crawl out of his prison into the cold and censorious 
 world, without a friend, a hope, or an interest in life ? 
 What lowest depth of desi)air might he not ]i:„vc touched 
 if in such a plight as this he sliould be found and tortured 
 anew by his old enemy, whose cruelty was evidently not 
 assuaged by tlie sufferings she had heaped upon him ? 
 Who now would say that he had no need of succor, that 
 her service was unasked, unwarranted, unwomanly, that 
 the duty of a pure and delicate soul was to leave him 
 either to his own wife or to the tender mercies of strangers ? 
 
 The carriage was piled with cushions and shawls, the 
 day was bright and warm, Lettice was full of li.^iit gossip 
 and cheerfulness, and Akin had reason to think that he 
 had never had a more delightful drive. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 3" 
 
 ** Where arc you taking mo ? " he said, with a smile of 
 restful gratitude, which clearly implied, " I do not care 
 where it is, so long as I am taken by you ! " 
 
 " You arc going to a convalescent home, where you will 
 be the only patient. If you obey the rules, you may get 
 well in a month, and the first rule is that you are not to 
 ask questions, or to think about unpleasant things." 
 
 " Are you my nurse ? " 
 
 '' That is the first breach of rules ! They are very strict 
 at this home, 1 can tell you ! " 
 
 She spoke in a playful mood, but it left him with the 
 impression that he ^\as really being taken to a " home " of 
 some kind, where he was to be nursed until he was well. 
 He had no objection to make. He would have gone any- 
 where with equal pleasure, if he could be sure that she 
 would be there to look after him. His one thought in 
 prison, when he lay in the grip of fever, was that he must 
 surely die before his sentence had run out. That was his 
 hope and belief from day to day ; and only when he heard 
 that Lettice had come and made inquiries about him, and 
 promised to fetch him as soon as he was released, did any 
 real desire for life return to him. Now, in her presence, 
 he was so completely happy that he forgot all his former 
 sufferings and despair. 
 
 Weak as he was, he would have found words to tell her 
 of his gratitude — and of much more than gratitude ; but 
 this because of, not in spite of, weakness — if she had not 
 carefully checked him whenever he tried to speak. For- 
 tunately, it was not at all hard to check him. He was in- 
 firm in mind as in body. Apart from the illness, which 
 sapped his energies and paralyzed his power of thought, he 
 had never thrown off the cloud of callous and despairing 
 indifference which fell upon him after the fatal scene in 
 Surrey Street. Add to this that the surrender of his inde- 
 pendence to Lettice was in itself a pleasure to him, and 
 we need not wonder that her self-imposed task seemed to 
 her fairly easy of accomplishment. 
 
 At Bute Lodge they found everything very nice and 
 comfortable. Mrs. Jermy and Mrs. Beadon (as Milly was 
 to be called), who had come earlier in the morning with a 
 cabful of yesterday's purchases, had carried out Lettice's 
 instructions to the letter. The best room in the house 
 looked out upon a delightful garden landscape — two bor- 
 
 ii 
 
 m 
 

 
 ? - 1 
 
 
 312 
 
 A^/^yl/A' AJVD FAME, 
 
 ders, backed by well-grown box and bay-trees, holly, Irish 
 yews, and clambering roses, with a lessening crowd of her- 
 baceous plants in front, dwindling down to an edge of 
 brilliant annuals on either side ; and between these a long 
 and level lawn, broken near the house by a lofty deodara, 
 and ending in a bowling green, and a thickly-planted bank 
 of laurels, beyond which lay a far-off vista of drooping 
 fruit-trees. The garden was reached through a small con- 
 servatory built outside a French window at one end of the 
 room, and a low verandah ran along the remainder of the 
 garden front. 
 
 Inside, all was as Lettice had planned it. A square 
 writing table in front of the window was covered with a 
 dozen of the books which had made most noise during the 
 past season, with the November magazines, and the 
 weekly papers which Alan had been wont to read. Milly 
 had cut them all over night, and here they lay, with an 
 easy-chair beside them, ready to tempt the student when 
 he felt inclined and able to read. That was not just yet; 
 but Alan saw the pile, and darted at his guardian angel 
 another look of gratitude from his lustrous, melancholy 
 eyes. 
 
 " Why, here," he said, looking round the room and out 
 upon the garden, " a man must get well only too soon ! I 
 shall steadily refuse to mend." 
 
 ** You will not be able to help yourself," said Lettice. 
 *' Now you are going to be left alone " 
 
 " Not alone ' " 
 
 " For half an-hour at the very least. All this floor be- 
 longs to you, and you are to have nothing to do with 
 stairs. When you want anything you are to ring this bell, 
 and Milly, whom you saw when we came in, will attend on 
 you. Here, on this sideboard, are wine, and biscuits, and 
 jelly, and grapes. Sit down and let me give you a glass of 
 wine. We will have some lunch at one, tea at four, and 
 dinner at seven — but you are to be eating grapes and 
 jelly in between. The doctor will come and see you every 
 morning." 
 
 " What doctor ? " 
 
 " Why, the doctor of the Establishment, to be sure I " 
 
 ** Oh, this is an Establishment ^ " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 31; 
 
 h\ 
 
 said Lettice. 
 
 " It is more rational in its plan than some I have heard 
 of, since it takes in your nurse and your nurse's maid. 
 Will this precious doctor dine with us? " 
 
 " This precious ! You are to have great faith in your 
 doctor ; but I am sorry to say he will not be able to dine 
 with us. He has other occupations, you see ; and for 
 company I am afraid you will have to be content with such 
 as your nurse may be disposed to give you ! " 
 
 Before he co"M say anything else, she had left the room. 
 
 He was alone — alone and happy. 
 
 Straight from prison to paradise. That was what tlie 
 morning's work meant for him, and he could not think 
 with dry eyes of the peri who had brought him there. 
 
 Oh, the bitterness of that dungeon torture, wh mi his 
 heart had been branded with shame and scared wim hu- 
 miliation ; when he had sworn that life had no more hope 
 or savor for him, and the coming out from his cell had 
 seemed, by anticipation, worse than the going in ! 
 
 This was the coming out, and he was already radiant 
 with happiness, oblivious of suffering, hopeful of the future. 
 It was enough, he would not probe it, he would not peer 
 into the dark corners of his prospect; he would simply 
 realize that his soul had been lost, that it had been found 
 by Lettice, and *'iat it was hers by right of trover, as well 
 as by absolute surrender. 
 
 The midday sun shone in at his window and tempted 
 him to the verandah outside. Here he found one of those 
 chairs, delightful to invalids and lazy men, which are con- 
 structed of a few crossed pieces of wood and a couple of 
 yards of sacking, giving nearly all the luxury of a ham- 
 mock without its disturbing clement of insecurity. And 
 by its side, wonderful to relate, there was a box of cigar- 
 ettes and some matches. Since they were there, he might 
 as well smoke one. His last smoke was seven or eight 
 months ago— quite long enough to give a special relish to 
 this particular roll of Turkish tobacco. 
 
 As he lay back in his hammock chair, and sent one 
 ring chasing another to the roof of the verandah, he heard 
 a step on the gravel beneath him. Lettice, with a basket 
 ill one hand and a pair of scissors in the other, was col- 
 lecting flowers and leaves for her vases. Unwilling to 
 leave him too much alone, until she saw how he would bear 
 his solitude, she had come out into the garden by a door 
 
h ' 
 
 
 3'4 
 
 NAME AA'V I A ME, 
 
 at the other end of the liouse, and i)rcscntly, seeing him in 
 the verandah, approaclicd with a smile. 
 
 ** Do I look as if I were making myself at home ? " he 
 said. 
 
 ♦* Quite." 
 
 '* Ab soon as I began to smoke, all kinds of things came 
 crowding into my mind." 
 
 "Not unpleasant things, I hope?" She said this 
 quickly, being indeed most afraid lest he should be tempted 
 to dwell on the disagreeable past. 
 
 " No, almost all pleasant. And there are things I want 
 to say to you — that I must say to you, very soon. Do 
 you think I can take for granted all you have done, and 
 all you are doing for me ? Let me come down and join 
 you ! " 
 
 " No ! " she said, with a great deal of firmness in her 
 gesture and tone. '* You must not do anything of the 
 kind until the doctor has seen you ; and besides, we can 
 speak very well here." 
 
 The verandah was only a few feet above the ground, so 
 that Lettice's head was almost on a level with his own. 
 
 " There is no difficulty about speaking," she went on, 
 "but I want you to let me have the first word, instead of 
 the last. This is something I wanted to say to you, but I 
 did not know how to manage it before. It is really very 
 important that you should not fatigue or excite yourself by 
 talking, and the doctor will tell you so when he comes. 
 Now if vou think that you have anything at all to thank 
 me for, you will promise not to speak to me on any per- 
 sonal matters, not even your own intentions for the future, 
 for one clear month from to-day ! Don't say it is impossi- 
 ble, because, you see, it is as much as my place (as nurse) 
 is worth to listen to you ! If you wiU promise, I can stay ; 
 and if you will not promise, I must go away." 
 
 " That is very hard ! " 
 
 " But it is very necessary. You promise ? " 
 
 " Have I any choice ? I promise." 
 
 " Thank you ! " She said this verj^ earnestly, and looked 
 him in the eyes with a smile which was worth a faggot of 
 promises. 
 
 " But you don't expect me to be deaf and dumb all the 
 time ? " said Alan. 
 
 ,(|[t, 
 
 L ^ 
 
 
 iiiH 
 
NAMh AAD J- A ME, 
 
 3»S 
 
 % 
 
 lumb all the 
 
 " No, of course not ! I have been told that you ought 
 to be kept as cheerful as possible, and 1 mean to do what 
 I can to make you so. Do you like to be read to I " 
 
 ** Yes, very much." 
 
 '' Then I will read to you as long as you please, and 
 write your letters, and— if there were any game " 
 
 '* Ah, now, if ]>y good luck you knew chess ? ' 
 
 " I do know chess. I nlaycd my father nearly every 
 evening at Angleford." 
 
 " Wliat a cliarming discovery! And that reminds me 
 of something. Is there any reason why I should not write 
 to Mr. Larmer? He has some belongings of mine, for 
 one thing, which I should like him to send me, including a 
 set of chess-men." 
 
 " No reason at all. But you ougnt not to write or talk 
 of business, if you can help it, until you are quite strong." 
 
 " Well, then, I won't. I will ask him to send what I 
 want in a cab ; and then, when I am declared capable of 
 managing my own affairs, I will go into town and see him. 
 But the fact is, that I really feel as well as ever I did in my 
 life!" ' 
 
 " You may feel it, but it is not the case." 
 
 And later in the day, Alan was obliged to confess that he 
 had boasted too soon, for there was a slight return of fever, 
 and the doctor whom Lettice had called in was more 
 emphatic than she had been as to the necessity for com- 
 plete rest of mind and body. 
 
 So for the next week he was treated quite as an invalid, 
 to his great disgust. Then he fairly turne he corner, and 
 things began to change for the better agai;' Lettice read 
 to him, talked, played chess, found out his tastes in music 
 and in art (tastes in some respects a little primitive, but 
 singularly fine and true, in spite of their want of training), 
 and played his favorite airs for him on the piano — some of 
 Mendelssohn's plaintive Lieder, the quainter and statelier 
 measures of Corelli and Scarlatti, snatches of Schumann 
 and Grieg, and several older and simpler melodies, for most 
 of which he had to ask by. humming a few bars which had 
 impressed themselves on his memory. 
 
 As the month wore itself out, the success of Lettice's 
 experiment was in a fair way of being justified. She had 
 charmed the evil spirit of despair from Alan's breast, and 
 had won him back to manly resistance and courageous 
 
p$ 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 1.U 
 
 ^in 
 
 
 IfPiJ 
 
 
 
 
 i I 
 
 effort. With returning bodily strength came a greater 
 robustness of mind, and a resolution — borrowed, perhaps, 
 in the first instance, from his companion — to be stronger 
 than his persecutors, and rise superior to his troubles. 
 
 In the conversations which grew out of their daily read- 
 ings, Lettice was careful to draw him as much as possible 
 into literary discussions and criticisms, and Alan found 
 himself dwelling to an appreciative listener on certain of 
 his own ideas on poetic and dramatic methods. There is 
 but a step from methods to instances ; and when Lettice 
 came into his room one morning — she never showed her- 
 self before mid-day — she saw with delight on the paper 
 before him an unmistakable stream of verses meandering 
 down the middle of the sheet. 
 
 He had set to work ! Then he was saved — saved from 
 himself, and from the ghouls that harbor in a desolate and 
 outraged mind. 
 
 If, beyond this, you ask me how she had gained her end, 
 and done the good thing on which she had set her heart, I 
 cannot tell you, any more than I could make plain the 
 ways in which nature works to bring all her great and mar- 
 velous mysteries to pass. Lettice's achievement, like her 
 resolution, argued both heart and intellect. Alan would 
 not have yielded to anyone else, and he yielded to her 
 because he loved her with the feelings and the understand- 
 mg together. She had mastered his affections and his 
 intelligence at the same time : she left him to hunger and 
 thirst up to the moment of his abject abasement, and then 
 she came unasked, unhoped, from her towering height to 
 his lowest deep, and gave him — herself! 
 
 " Do you remember," he said to her once, when he had 
 got her to talk of her successful story, " that bit of Brown- 
 ing which you quote near the end ? Did you ever think 
 that I could be infatuated enough to apply the words to 
 myself, and take comfort from them in my trouble ? " 
 
 She blushed and trembled as he looked at her for an 
 answer. 
 
 *' I meant you to do it ! " 
 
 " And I '-new you meant it ! " he said, not without a 
 dangerous touch of triumph in his voice. " If I were a 
 little bolder than I am, I would carry you to another page 
 of the poet whom we love, and ask if you ever remem- 
 bered the words of Constance — words that you did not 
 quote " 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 317 
 
 Ten times more deeply she blushed at this, knowing 
 almost by instinct the lines of which he thought. Had he 
 not asked her to read " In a Balcony" to him the night 
 before, and had she not found it impossible to keep her 
 voice from trembling when she read Constance's passionate 
 avowal of her love ? 
 
 il 
 
 " I know the thriftier way 
 Of giving — haply, 'tis the wiser way ; 
 Meaning to give a treasure, I might dole 
 Coin after coin out (each, as that were all, 
 With a new largess still at each despair), 
 And force you keep in sight the deed, preserve 
 Exhaustless till the end my part and yours, 
 My giving and your taking ; both our joys 
 Dying together. Is it the wiser way ? 
 I choose the simpler ; 1 give all at once. 
 Know what you have to trust to, trade upon I 
 Use it, abuse it— anything, but think 
 Hereafter, * Had I known she loved in? so. 
 And what my means, I might have thriven with it,' 
 This is your means. I give you all myself." 
 
 And in truth, that was the gift which Lettice offered to 
 him — a gift of herself without stint or grudging, a gift com- 
 plete, open-handed, to be measured by his acceptance, not 
 limited by her reservation. Alan knew it ; knew that 
 absolute generosity was the essence of her gift, and that 
 this woman, so far above him in courage, and self-command, 
 and purity, scorned to close her fingers on a single coin of 
 the wealth which she held out to him. And he, like Noi- 
 bert, answered reverently : " 1 take you and thank God." 
 
 For just because he knew it, and was penetrated to the 
 core by her munificence, he took the draught of love as 
 from a sacred chalice, which a meaner nature would have 
 grasped as a festal goblet. He might have grasped it thus, 
 and the sacramental wine would have been a Circe's potion, 
 and Lettice would have given her gift in vain. But nature 
 does not so miscalculate her highest moods. " Spirits are 
 not fir.L'ly touched but to fine issues." Lettice's giving was 
 an act of faith, and her faith was justified. 
 
 This was the true source of Alan's self-respect, and from 
 self-respect there came a strength greater and more endur- 
 ing than he had ever known before. Redeemed from the 
 material baseness of his past when he changed the prison 
 cell for Lettice's ennobling presence, lie was now saved 
 
 n 
 
318 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 
 It/' 
 
 ■M 5! 
 
 W'. 
 
 •v',^ ' 
 
 
 from the mental and moral feebleness to which he might 
 have sunk by the ordeal through which his soul had passed. 
 
 Lettice felt that her work was accomplished, and she was 
 supremely happy. When Clara Graham kept her promise, 
 and came to see her friend — though she had not been able 
 to bring her husband with her — she was struck by the 
 blithe gaiety of Lettice's looks and words. 
 
 " There is no need to tell me that you are satisfied 1 " 
 she said, kissing the tender cheeks, and gazing with wistful 
 earnestness into the eyes that so frankly and bravely met 
 her own. 
 
 "Satisfied?" Lettice answered, with something like a 
 sigh. " I never dreamed that satisfaction could be so com- 
 plete." 
 
 When Alan came in, and Clara, who had expected to see 
 a face lined and marred with sorrow, found that he too had 
 caught the radiance of unblemished happiness, she felt that 
 Lettice had not spent her strength in vain. And she went 
 home and renewed her efforts to make her husband see 
 things as she saw them, and to give Alan Walcott his 
 countenance in the literary world. 
 
 But that was a task of no slight difficulty. James 
 Graham had always believed Walcott guilty of a barbarous 
 attack on his wife ; he thought that he had been lightly 
 punished, and would not admit that he was ~) be received 
 when he came out of prison as though he hau never been 
 sent there. When Clara told him of Lettice's audacity he 
 was terribly shocked — as indeed were all who Jieard the 
 story — and his resentment against Alan increased. The 
 news that they were happy together did not produce the 
 good effect upon his temper which Clara thought it might 
 have done. 
 
 It was Lettice herself who tackled Mrs. Hartley. She 
 wrote her a long and candid letter, very apologetic as re- 
 garded her conduct in Italy, but quite the opposite when 
 she spoke of what she had done since she came back to 
 London. The answer was short, but much to the point. 
 
 ** I thought you would write to me," Mrs. Hartley said, 
 in her note. " I should hardly have forgiven you if you 
 had not. There is some of your letter which I cannot 
 understand, and some wliich I do not quite agree with. But 
 come and explain it to me. I am an old woman, and have 
 no time to be angry with those I love. Come on Thursday 
 afternoon — alone — and we will have a good talk." 
 
NAME AKD FAME, 
 
 319 
 
 So Lettice went, and made her peace witli her old friend, 
 and was admitted to her favor again. But Alan was on 
 probation still. The last thing which he would have ex- 
 pected, or indeed desired, was that he should be received 
 and treated by his former acquaintance as though nothing 
 had happened since he was a welcoiiie guest in their houses. 
 Especially as he and Lettice had not yet settled the question 
 which all their friends were asking : *' How would it end ? *' 
 
 c 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 
 
 Poor Milly Harrington had faithfully kept her promise of 
 amendment. She was as loyal and serviceable to her 
 mistress as any one could be, and evidently did her utmost 
 to show her gratitude to Lettice, studying her tastes, and, 
 as far possible, anticipating her wishes. But it was plain 
 that she was not happy. When not making an effort to 
 be cheerful as part of her daily duty, she would sit brood- 
 ing over the past and trembling for the future ; and, though 
 she tried to conceal her hopeless mood*::, they had not 
 altogether escaped notice. 
 
 Lettice was troubled by Milly's unhappiness. She had 
 taken deep pity on the girl, and wanted, for more reasons 
 than one, to save her from the worst consequences of her 
 mistakes. To see her, in common parlance, " going to the 
 bad " — ruined in body and in soul — would have been to 
 Lettice, for Sydney's sake, a burden almost heavier than 
 she could bear. For this reason had she brought the girl 
 up to London and taken her into her own service again ; 
 and from day to day she watched her with kindly interest 
 and concern. 
 
 Milly's good looks could scarcely be said to have come 
 back to her, for she was still thin and haggard, with the 
 weary look of one to whom life has brought crushing 
 sorrow and sickness of heart. But her eyes were pretty, 
 and her face, in spite of its worn expression, was interesting 
 and attractive. Lettice was hardly surprised, although a 
 little startled, to find her talking one day in a somewhat 
 confidential manner to a man of highly respectable appear- 
 
320 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 I'i- 
 
 ance wlio was walking across the Common by her side as she 
 came home one day from a shopping expedition. It was, 
 perhaps, natural that Milly should have acquaintances. 
 But Lettice felt a sudden pang of anxiety on the girl's 
 account. She did not know whether she had been seen, 
 and whether it was her duty to speak to her maid about 
 it ; but her hesitation was ended by Milly herself, who came 
 to her room that night, and asked to speak with her. 
 
 ''Well, Milly?" 
 
 •' I saw you to-day, Miss Lettice, when I was out," said 
 Milly, coloring v/ith tlie effort of speech. 
 
 "Did you? Yes? You were with a friend — I sup- 
 pose ? " 
 
 " I wanted to tell you about him," said Milly, nervously. 
 " It's not a friend of mine, it was a messenger — a mes- 
 senger from Zj/w." 
 
 Lettice sat speechles.s. 
 
 " He does not know what has become of me ; and he 
 set this man — his clerk — to find out. He wants to send 
 me some money — not to see me again. He was afraid 
 that I might be — in want." 
 
 " And what have you done, Milly ? '* 
 
 " I said I would not take a penny. And I asked the 
 clerk — Mr. Johnson, they cab him — not to say that he had 
 seen me. 1 didn't tell him where I lived." 
 
 " Did he say that he would not tell his master? ** 
 
 "Yes, he promised. I think he will keep his word. He 
 seemed — kind — sorry for me, or something." 
 
 " You wore quite right, Milly. And I would not speak 
 to the man again if I were you. He may not be so kind 
 and friendly as he seems. I am glad you have told me." 
 
 " I couldn't rest till I had spoken. I was afraid you 
 might think harm of me," said the girl, flushing scarlet 
 again, and twisting the corner of her apron. 
 
 '* I will not think harm of you if you always tell me 
 about your acquaintances as you have done to-day," said 
 Lettice with a smile. '* Don't be afraid, Milly. And — if 
 you will trust to me — you need not be anxious about the 
 future, or about the child. I would rather that you did 
 not take money from anyone but myself for your needs 
 and hers. I have plenty for you both." 
 
 Milly could not speak for tears. She went away sobbing, 
 and Lettice was left to think over this new turn of affairs. 
 
NAME AND FAMF. 
 
 321 
 
 Was Sydney's conscience troubling him, she wondered, 
 after all ? 
 
 This was early in November, soon after she came to 
 Bute Lodge, and as the time went on, she could not but 
 notice that the signs of troul^le in Milly's face increased 
 rather than diminished. Let lice had a suspicion also that 
 she had not managed to get rid of the man with whom she 
 had been walking on the Common. She was sure that 
 she saw him in the neighborhood more than once, and 
 although he never, to her knowledge, S})oke to ]\Ii!ly cr 
 came to the house, she saw that Milly sometimes looked 
 unusually agitated and distressed. It was gradually borne 
 in upon Lettice's mind that she had better learn a little 
 more of the girl's story, fo: her own sake ; and coming 
 upon her one day vn'th tlie signs of trouble plainly written, 
 on her face, Lcttice could not forbear to speak. 
 
 Milly was sitting in a little dressing-room, with some 
 needlework in her hand. The baby was sleeping in a 
 cradle at her side. She si)rang up when Lcttice entered ; 
 but Lettice made her sit down again, and then sat down 
 as well. 
 
 " What is it, Milly ? Is there anything wrong that I 
 don't know of? Come, don't give way. I want to help you, 
 but how can I do that unless you tell me evcr\ tiling? " 
 
 " There is nothing to tell except what y(;u ki^ov,-," said 
 Milly, making an effort to command Jierself. "But, some- 
 times, when 1 think of '\i all, I can't help giving way. I 
 did not mean you to see it though, miss." 
 
 ''I have never asked you aviy questions, Milly, about all 
 that haj^pened after you left me, and 1 do not want to 
 know more than you wish to tell me. But don't you think 
 I might do something to place matters on a belter footing, 
 if I knew your circumstances a little better? " 
 
 "Oh, I could never— never tell you all!" said Milly 
 hiding her face. 
 
 '^ Don't tell me all then. You have called yourself Mrs. 
 Beadon so far. You have heard nothing of Vlx. Beadon 
 lately except what you told me the other day? " 
 
 " Only wh.at Mr. Johnson said." Milly averted her head 
 and looked at her child. '' 'J"he name,' she went on in a 
 low voice, " the name— is not — not Beadon." 
 
 " Never mind the name. Perhaps it is as well that you 
 should not tell me. When did you see him last?" 
 
 21 
 
!i 
 
 1 
 
 
 f 
 
 • 'l 
 
 1 ' 'r 
 
 
 ! , 
 
 
 r, 
 
 
 
 322 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 "In May." 
 
 " Never since May ? " 
 
 " Not once." Milly hung her head and played with the 
 ring on her finger, "He does not want to see me again ! " 
 she broke out ahiiost bitterly. 
 
 " Perhaps it is better for you both that he should not. 
 But I will not ask aiiy more," said Lettice. " I can under- 
 stand that it must be very painful; citlicr to tell me your 
 story or to conceal it." 
 
 " I hate to conceal it from you I " Milly said passionately. 
 " Oh, I wish I had never seen him, and never listened 
 to him ! Yet it was my fault — I have nobody to blame 
 but myself. I have never forgiven myself for deceiving 
 you so ! " 
 
 " Ah, if that were the worst, there would not be much to 
 grieve about ! " 
 
 " I almost think it is the worst. Miss Lettice, may I 
 really tell you my stor}' — all, at least, that it would be right 
 for you to hear ? " 
 
 " If you would like to tell me. do ! Perhaps I can help 
 you in some way when I know more." 
 
 " There are some things I should like you to under- 
 stand," said Milly, hesitatingly, " though not because it 
 will take away tlie blame from me — nolhii^g can do that. 
 When I first knew Mr. Beadon {V\\ call him so, please), I 
 was very giddy and foolish. I longed to see the world, 
 and thought that all would go well with me then. I don't 
 know where I picked up the idea, but I had read stories 
 about beautiful women who had had wonderful good for- 
 tune, through nothing at all but their looks — and people 
 had told me I was beautiful — and I was silly enough to 
 think that I could do great things, as well as those I had 
 read about. I suppose they must have been vtry clever 
 and witty — or, perhaps, they had more luck. I wanted 
 to be free and independent ; and I am afra'"d 1 was ready 
 to listen to any one who would flatter my vanity, a^: — as 
 Mr. Beadon did." 
 
 "When did he first begin to say these things to you? 
 Was it after you came to London ? " 
 
 '' Yes — not long after. He was above me in station, 
 and very handsome, and proud ; and when he began to 
 speak to me, though I was all the time afraid of him, and 
 uneasy when 1 spoke to him, my head was fairly turned. 
 
NAME AXD FAME, 
 
 3*3 
 
 yed with the 
 i me again ! " 
 
 2 should not. 
 
 ' I can under- 
 
 lell me your 
 
 passionately, 
 ever Hslened 
 Ddy to blame 
 for deceiving 
 
 Dt be much to 
 
 ^ettice, may I 
 vouldbe right 
 
 ,ps I can help 
 
 ou to under- 
 ot because it 
 \ can do that, 
 so, please), I 
 ee the world, 
 hen. I don't 
 .d read stories 
 rful good for- 
 5 — and people 
 illy enough to 
 as those I had 
 en very clever 
 k. I wanted 
 d 1 was ready 
 /anity, as — as 
 
 hings to you? 
 
 ne in station, 
 he began to 
 
 d of him, and 
 fairly turned. 
 
 It shows I was not meant to shine in the world, or I 
 should not have been so uneasy when I si^okc to him. 
 For some lime he said nothing out of the way — only kind 
 words and flattery ; but when he found what I had set my 
 heart on, he was always telling me that I was fit to be a 
 great lady, and to make a noise in the world. That set me 
 all on fire, and I could not rest for thinking of what I 
 might do if I could only find my way into society. It 
 makes me mad to remember what a fool I was ! 
 
 " But I was not quite bad, >,Iiss Lettice. When he 
 said that he would give me what T wanted — make me a 
 lady, and all the rest of it — I shrank from doing what I 
 knew to be wrong ; or perhaps I was only afraid. At any 
 rate, I would not listen to him. Then he declared that he 
 loved me too well to let me go — and he asked me to be his 
 wife." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Lettice. It was an involuntary sound, and 
 Milly scarcely heard it. 
 
 " If you knew," she said, " what a proud and dignified 
 gentleman he was, you would laugh at me thinking that he 
 really meant what he said, and believing that he would 
 keep his word. But I did believe it^ and I agreed at 
 length to leave you and go away with him." 
 
 " Did you think that I should have anything to say 
 against ycur marriage, iVIilly ? " said Lettice, mournfully. 
 
 " I — I thought you might. And Mr. Beadon asked me 
 not to mention it." 
 
 << Well ! — and so you trusted him. And then, poor girl, 
 your dream soon came to an end? " 
 
 *' Not very soon. He kept his word " 
 
 '*What?" 
 
 " He married me, on the day when I left you. Not in a 
 church, but somewhere — in Fulham, I think. It looked 
 like a private house, but he said it was a registrar's. Oh, 
 Miss Campion, are you ill ? " 
 
 Lettice was holding her side. She had turned white, 
 and her heart was throbbing painfully ; but she soon over- 
 came the feeling or at least concealed it. 
 
 " No. Go on— go on ! He married you ! " 
 
 "And we went on the Continent together. I was very 
 happy for a time, so long as he seemed happy ; but 1 
 could never shake off that uncomfortable fear in his 
 presence. After a while we came back to London, and 
 
 %\ 
 

 1m. ' ' 
 
 h < 
 
 t, '/' 
 
 
 324 
 
 J\r.tME AND FAME, 
 
 then I had to live alone, which of course 1 did not like. 
 He had taken very nice rooms for me at Hampstead, 
 where he used to come now and llien ; and lie offered to 
 bring some friends to visit me ; but I did not want him to 
 do that — I cared for nobody but him ! " 
 
 " Poor Milly ! " said Lctticc, softly. 
 
 " I had been suspicious and uneasy for some time, 
 especially when he told me I had better go to Birchmead 
 and stay with my grandmother, as he was too busy to come 
 and see me, and tlic rooms at Hampstead were expensive. 
 So I went to Birchmead ai^.d told them that Mr. Beadon 
 was abroad. He was not — he was in London — and I went 
 up to see him every now and then ; but I wanted to -put 
 the best face on everything. It would have been too hard 
 to tell my grandmother that I did not think he cared for 
 
 me. 
 
 »> 
 
 She stopped and wiped the tears away from her eyes. 
 
 " There was worse than that," she said. " I began to 
 believe that I was not his lawful wife, or he would not 
 behave to me as he did. But I daren't ask, I was so afraid 
 of him. And I felt as if I could not leave him, even if I 
 was not his wife. That's where the badness of me came 
 out, you see, Miss Lettice. I would have stayed with him 
 to the end of my days, wife or no wife, if he had wanted 
 me. But he tired of me very soon." 
 
 "Did he tell you so, Milly?" 
 
 " He wrote to me to go back to the Hamj^stead rooms, 
 miss. And I tliought that everything was going to be right 
 between us. T had something to tell him wliich I thought 
 would i)lease him ; and I hoped — I hoped — even if things 
 had not been quite right about the marriage — that he 
 would put them straight before my baby came. For the 
 child's sake I thought maybe he wouldn't give me up. I 
 had been dreadfully afraid; but when lie sent for me to 
 London again, I thought that he loved me still, and that 
 we were going to have a happy time together. 
 
 '' So I went to Hampstead ; but he was not there. He 
 sent his clerk instead — the man you saw me walking with 
 
 the other day. And he told me that Mr. Beadon did 
 
 not wish to see me again, that I had been deceived by the 
 mock-marriage, and that he sent me twenty pounds, and I 
 might have more by writing to his clerk. Not to him ! I 
 was never to see him or speak to him again." 
 
NAME AAD lAME. 
 
 325 
 
 [id not like. 
 Hampstead, 
 c offered to 
 want him to 
 
 some time, 
 D Birchmead 
 )usv to come 
 e expensive. 
 Mr. Beadon 
 —and I went 
 anted to -put 
 sen too hard 
 he cared for 
 
 I her eyes. 
 " I began to 
 e would not 
 was so afraid 
 im, even if I 
 
 of me came 
 yedwith him 
 
 had wanted 
 
 stead rooms, 
 ig to be right 
 ch I thought 
 ven if things 
 ige — that he 
 e. For the 
 ^e me up. I 
 it for me to 
 till, and that 
 
 t there. He 
 walking with 
 —Beadon did 
 ceived by the 
 )Ounds, and I 
 3t to him ! I 
 
 •• And what did you do tlien, ^^'lly ? " 
 
 " It was very hard for nic. 1 laniled, aiul when I came 
 to myself Mr. Johnson v/as g >ne, and ihe money was 
 stuffed into niv pocket. Perhaps it was mean of me to 
 keep it, but I adn't the heart or tlic sj-irit to send it back. 
 1 did not know wiia,t 1 should do without it, for 1 luidn't a 
 penny of my own. I stayed for a little time at the Hami- 
 stead lodgings, but the landlady gr,t an idea of the true 
 state of things and abused me .hamefully one day for 
 having come into her house ; so I was forced to go. I 
 don't know what I should have done if I hadn't met Mr, 
 Johnson in the street. lie was really kind, though he 
 doesn't look as if he would be. Me told me of nice cheap 
 lodgings, and of some one who would look aficr me ; and 
 he offered me money, but I wouldn't t;ike it." 
 
 " How long (lid your money last? " 
 
 " It was all gone befcn-e baby came. I lived on the 
 dresses and presents that Mr. Beadon had given x\v\ I 
 heard nothing from Birchmead — I did not know ihat my 
 grandmother was dead, and I used to think sometimes that 
 I would go to her; but I did not dare. [ knew that it 
 would break her heart to see me as I was." 
 
 " Poor girl ! " said Letiice again, beh.AV her breath. 
 
 " You must despise me ! " cried Miily, bursting into 
 tears. " And you would despise me still more — if I told 
 you — everything." 
 
 '' No^ Alilly, it is not for me to despise you. I am very, 
 very sorry for you. You have suffered a great deal, for 
 what was not all your fault." 
 
 " Yes, I /lave suffered, Miss Lettice — more than I can 
 tell you. I had a terrible time when my baby was born. 
 I had a fever too, and lost my hair ; and when I recovered 
 I had nothing left. I did not know wliat to do. I though.t 
 of throwing myself into the rive; and I think I slioiild 
 have done it when T came to Birclmiead and found that 
 grandmother was dead, if it had not been for you. You 
 found me in the garden that night, just as I had made up 
 my mind. There's a place across the meadows where one 
 could easily get into a deep pool under the river-bank, and 
 never come out again. That was where I meant to go.'' ^ 
 
 *' No wonder you have looked so ill and worn," said 
 Lettice, compassionately. " What you must have endured 
 before you brought yourself to that 1 Well, it is all over 
 
 €\ 
 
 i.f 
 
i 
 
 fi ?'l 
 
 Jl 
 
 326 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 'I 
 
 ^i^i'^' 
 
 f \ u9 
 
 Ct'.T ;,:;!. ill 
 
 
 ti (« v^ 
 
 
 now, and you must live for the future. Put the past 
 behind you ; forget it — lliink of it only with sorrow for 
 your mistakes, and a determination to use them so that 
 your child shall be better guarded than you have been. 
 You and your baby have your own lives to live — good and 
 useful lives they may be yet. No one would blame you if 
 they knew your story, and there is no reason why you 
 should be afraid. I will always be your friend, Milly, if 
 you will work and strive — it is the only way in which you 
 can regain and keep your self-respect." 
 
 Milly bent her head and kissed Lettice's hand with an- 
 other outburst of tears. But they were tears of gratitude, 
 and Lettice did not try to check them now. 
 
 Whilst they were still sitting thus, side by side, the ser- 
 vant knocked at the door with a message for her mistress ; 
 and her voice broke strangely through the sympathetic 
 silence that had been for some time maintained between 
 mistress and maid. 
 
 " Mr. Campion wishes to see you, ma'am." 
 
 Lettice felt the face which still rested on her hand flush 
 with sudden heat ; but when Milly raised it it was as white 
 as snow. The baby in its cradle stirred and began to 
 wake. 
 
 '* I will come at once, Mrs. Jermy," said Lettice. 
 ** Milly, you had better finish your work here, and let me 
 give baby to Mrs. Jermy for a few minutes. She will be 
 quite good if I take her downstairs." 
 
 She did not look at Milly as she spoke ; or, if she did, 
 she paid no heed to the muie pain and deprecation in the 
 mother's eyes. Folding the baby in the white shawl that 
 had covered it, she took it in her arms, and with slow, 
 almost reluctant steps, went down to meet her brother. 
 
 Sydney had come upon what he felt to be a painful 
 errand. 
 
 Although the session had begun, and the House of Com- 
 mons was already hard at work on a vain attempt to thresh 
 out the question of Parliamentary Procedure, he was not 
 yet able to devote himself to the urgent affairs of the nation, 
 or to seek an opening for that eloquent and fiery speech 
 which he had elaborated in the intervals of his autumn 
 rest. Before he could set his mind to these things there 
 was an equally urgent question of domestic procedure 
 which it was necessary for him to arrange — a question for 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 327 
 
 lit the past 
 sorrow for 
 ;hem so that 
 have been, 
 e — good and 
 blame you if 
 o\\ why you 
 ■nd, Milly, if 
 in which you 
 
 and with an- 
 of gratitude, 
 
 side, the ser- 
 
 her mistress ; 
 
 sympathetic 
 
 ned between 
 
 .er hand flush 
 t was as white 
 nd began to 
 
 said Lettice. 
 
 e, and let me 
 
 She will be 
 
 Dr, if she did, 
 ecation in the 
 lite shawl that 
 nd with slow, 
 ler brother, 
 be a painful 
 
 louse of Com- 
 empt to thresh 
 re, he was not 
 5 of the nation, 
 d fiery speech 
 )f his autumn 
 e things there 
 >tic procedure 
 a question for 
 
 which he had been more or less prepared ever since he 
 heard of the flight of Lctlice from Florence, but which 
 had assumed tlie gravest possible importance within tiie 
 last few hours. 
 
 A terrible and incredible thing had come to the know- 
 ledge of Sydney Campion. That morning he liad looked 
 in at his chambers in the Temple, and he had found there, 
 amongst other letters, one written about Lhree weeks before 
 by Cora Walcott, which had made his blood run cold. 
 
 " Sir," — the letter ran — *' you were just and bold on that day when 
 you vindicated my character in the Criminal Court, and procured a 
 well-deserved punishment for the husband wlio had outraged me. 
 Therefore it is that 1 write to give you warning, and to tell you tliat the 
 man Walcott, discharged from prison, has ben secretly conveyed 
 away by one wliom you know, after I had been deceived in a most 
 shameful manner with a story of his death in prison. I ^aw her on tlie 
 day before his release — lier and his child — waiting to appropriate him, 
 and like an idiot I believed her lies. I know not where they hide to- 
 gether, l)ut .... I seek until I find. If you know, take my advice, 
 and separate them. I go prepared. You proved last time that my 
 husband stabbed me. That was very c jveron your part ; but you will 
 not be able to prove the like thing agam, if I should meet my husband 
 and your sister together. 
 
 "Cora Walcott." 
 
 This letter had exasperated Sydney beyond endurance. 
 He did not know Lettice's address ; but, thinking it possi- 
 that Mrs. Graham migh have it, he went tlie same after- 
 noon to Edwardes Square. Clara, being at home, was able, 
 though in some trepidation, to tell him what he wanted ; 
 and thus it was that he found himself at Bute Lodge. 
 
 Letlice came into the room where he liad been waiting, 
 intrepid, and yet boding something which could not be 
 entirely pleasant for him, and might be very much the re- 
 V Tse. Slie did not want to quarrel wilh Sydney — she had 
 made many efforts in the past to please him, without much 
 effect, and had been pained by tlie increasing intervnl wliich 
 separated them from each otncr. But she believed that to 
 earn his good word would imply the forsaking of nearly all 
 that she valued, and the bowing down to images which she 
 could not respect ; and therefcu-e she was content that his 
 good word should be a tiling beyond lier reach. 
 
 Slie carried the bal)y on her left arm, and held out her 
 right to Sydney. He barely touched her fingers. 
 
 -'ji-' 
 
 A\ 
 
[irl, . 
 
 M'ffi 
 
 tilii 
 
 328 
 
 AV/J//'; //AV; /./JM". 
 
 ^^ 
 
 ♦' Yo.i are back again," she said. '■* I hope you had a 
 pleasant liine, and that ycnir wife is well" 
 
 " She is pretty well, thank you. We should have gone 
 on to Florence if you had remained there, as we expected. 
 You have taken your fate in your hands, liCltice, and cut 
 yourself adrift from those who care for you ! " 
 
 " Not willingly, .Sydney. Vou might believe that at 
 every step I have done what seemed to be my duty." 
 
 " How can one believe that ? I only wish I could. 
 Read this letter ! " 
 
 She looked at him first, and her eyes flashed at his ex- 
 pression of unbelief. She drew herself up as she took 
 Cora's letter in her hands, and read it through witli a curl 
 of contem[)t upon her lips. Then she dropped the paper, 
 and, clasjjing Milly's child to her breast, looked long and 
 steadily at her brother. 
 
 " Why did you give me that to read ? " she said quietly. 
 
 " There could be only one reason," he replied ; *' to ask 
 you if it is true ? " 
 
 *' You ask me ? You expect an answer ? " 
 
 " I don't see why you should object to say * yes ' or *no ' 
 to a charge which, if true, must destroy all brotherly and 
 sisterly feeling between us." 
 
 " But you are my brother ! Ask me your own questions, 
 and I will answer. I will not answer that woman's ! " 
 
 She stood in front of him, by far the more proud and 
 dignified of the two, and wa.ccd for him to begin. 
 
 " Did you bring that man with you here from the pri- 
 son ? " 
 
 " I brought Mr. Walcott here." 
 
 " And is he here now ? " . 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What more is there to be said ? Wretched woman, it 
 is well for you that your parents are beyond the reach of 
 this disgrace ! " 
 
 Whether he meant it or not, he pointed, as he spoke, to 
 the infant in her arms. 
 
 Lettice heard a step outside. She went to the door, and 
 spoke in a low voice to Mrs. Jermy. Then she came back 
 again, and said, 
 
 " What do you mean, Sydney, by ' this disgrace ' ? " 
 
 " Can yon say one word to palliate what you have 
 already admitted? Can you deny the facts which speak 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 329 
 
 you had a 
 
 have gone 
 eexpeclod. 
 ce, and cut 
 
 ve that at 
 
 duty." 
 
 li I could. 
 
 d at his ex- 
 s she took 
 witli a curl 
 the paper, 
 d long and 
 
 laid quietly, 
 d; •' to ask 
 
 ^es * or * no * 
 otherly and 
 
 n questions, 
 nan's ! " 
 proud and 
 jin. 
 om the pri- 
 
 d woman, it 
 lie reach of 
 
 le spoke, to 
 
 le door, and 
 came back 
 
 ace ' ? " 
 t you have 
 hich speak 
 
 for themselves ? Great Heaven ! that such a slumiclul 
 tiling should fall upon us ! The name of Campion has 
 indeed been dragged through the mire of calumny, but 
 never until now has so dark a slain been cast upon ii I '' 
 
 Theatrical in his words, Sydney was even moiv llicalri- 
 cal in his action. He stood on the hearthrug, raised his 
 hands in horror, and ])owed his head in grief and self-pity. 
 
 " You pointed at the child just now," said Lettice, stead- 
 ily; '* what do you mean by that? " 
 
 " Do not ask me what 1 mean. Is not its very existence 
 an indelible disgrace ? " 
 
 *' Perhaps it is," she said, kissing the little face which 
 was blinking and smiling at her. " But to whom ? " 
 
 " To whom ! " Sydney cried, with more of real indigna- 
 tion and anger in his voice. " To its miserable mother — 
 to its unscrupulous and villainous father 1 " 
 
 Lettice's keen ears caught the sound of light and hesi- 
 tating footsteps in the pas'sage outside. She opened the 
 door quickly, and drew in the unfortunate Milly. 
 
 Sydney started back, and leaned for support upon ;he 
 mantelpiece behind him. His face turned white to the 
 very lips. 
 
 " Milly," said the remorseless Lettice, " tell Mr. Cam- 
 pion who is the father of this child ! " 
 
 The poor mother who had been looking at her mistress 
 in mute appeal, turned her timid eyes on Sydney's face, 
 then sank upon the floor in an agony of unrestrained 
 weeping. 
 
 Except for that sound of passionate weeping, there was 
 complete silence in the room for two or three minutes, 
 whilst Sydney's better and worse self strove together for 
 the mastery. 
 
 " Milly ! " he ejaculated at last, in a hoarse undertone, 
 " I did not know ! Good God, I did not know." Then, 
 to his sister — " Leave us alone." 
 
 So Lettice went out, but before she went she sa". nim 
 stride across the floor to Milly and bend above her as if to 
 raise and perhaps to comfort her. He did not ask 'o see 
 his sister again. In a short ten minutes, she saw him 
 walking hastily across the Common to the station, and she 
 noticed that his head was bent, and that the spring, Uie 
 confidence of his usual ga't and manner had deserted him. 
 Milly locked herself with lier baby in her room^ and 
 sobbed until she was qtiieted by sheer exhaustion. 
 
 
330 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 But there was on her face next day a look of peace and 
 quietude which Lettice had never seen before. She said 
 not a word about her interview, and Lettice never knew 
 what had passed between her brother and the woman 
 whom he had wronged. But she thought sometimes, in 
 after years, that tlie extreme of self-abasement in man or 
 woman may prove, to natures not radically bad or hope- 
 lessly weak, a turning-point from which to date their best 
 and most persistent efforts. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIL 
 
 " COURAGE ! " 
 
 
 The reawakening of Alan's mind to old tastes and old 
 pursuits, though fitful in the first instance, soon developed 
 into a steady appetite for work. ]\Iuch of his former fresh- 
 ness and elasticity returned ; ideas and forms of expression 
 recurred to him without trouble. He had seized on a 
 dramatic theme suggested in one of the books which Let- 
 tice had been reading, and a few days later admitted to 
 her that he was at work on a poetic drama. She clapped 
 her hands in almost childlike glee at the news, and Alan, 
 without much need for pressing, read to her a wliole scene 
 which had passed from the phase of thought into written 
 words. 
 , Lettice had already occupied her mornings in writing 
 the story which she had promised to Mr. MacAlpine. 
 Fortunately for her, she now found little difficulty in taking 
 up the threads of the romance which she had begun at 
 Florence. The change of feeling and circumstance which 
 had taken place in her own heart she transferred, witli due 
 reservation and appropriate coloring, to the characters in 
 her story, which thus became as real to her in the London 
 fog as it had been under the fleckless Tuscan sky. 
 
 So long as Alan was out of health and listless, it was 
 not easy for her to apply herself to this regular morning 
 work. But now that he was fast recovering his spirit and 
 energy, and was busy with work of his own, she could 
 settle down to her writing with a quiet mind. 
 
 Alan had not accepted the hospitality of Lettice without 
 concern or protest, and, of course, he had no id. a of let- 
 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 331 
 
 peace and 
 She said 
 lever knew 
 he woman 
 ne limes, in 
 
 in man or 
 id or hope- 
 2 their best 
 
 ting her be at the expense of finding food and house-rent 
 for him. 
 
 <( 
 
 :es and old 
 
 developed 
 )rmer fresh- 
 " expression 
 ieized on a 
 which Let- 
 idmitted to 
 >he chipped 
 , and Alan, 
 vh.ole scene 
 nto written 
 
 i in writing 
 VlacAlpine. 
 ;y in taking 
 i begun at 
 ance which 
 i, with due 
 laracters in 
 he London 
 
 ess, ii was 
 
 ir morning 
 
 spirit and 
 
 she could 
 
 cc without 
 :].'a of let- 
 
 Why do you not bring me the weekly bills? " he said, 
 with masculine bluntness, after he had been at Chiswick 
 for nearly three weeks. 
 
 She looked at him with a pained expression, and did not 
 answer. 
 
 "You don't think that I can live on you in this cool 
 way much loiif.;cr? You are vexed with me! Do not 
 be vexed — do not think that I value what you have done 
 for me according to a wretched standard of money. If I 
 pay everything, instead of you, I shall be far more grate- 
 ful, and more truly in your deb^." 
 
 '* But think of my feelings, toe ! " she said. " I have had 
 my own way so far, because you could not help it. If you 
 are going to be unkind and tyrannical as soon as you get 
 well, I shall find it in my heart to be almost sorry. Do 
 not let money considerations come in ! You promised 
 that you would not say anything of the kind before the end 
 of the month." 
 
 "I promised somethi g ; but I don't think I am break- 
 ing my promise in spirit. Look here ; I have not been in 
 retreat for six months without a certain benefit in the way 
 of economy. Here's a cheque for a hundred pounds. I 
 want you to get it cashed, and to use it." 
 
 " I have plenty of money," Lattice said, patting im- 
 patiently with her foot on the floor. " I cannot take this ; 
 and until the month is out I will not talk about any kind 
 of business whatsoever. There, sir ! " 
 
 Alan did not want to annoy her, and let the subject 
 drop for the time. 
 
 '^ You shall have your way in all things, except that 
 one," he said; *'but I will not mention it again until you 
 give me leave." 
 
 The truth is that Lettice did not know what was to hap- 
 pen at the end of tlic month, or whenever her tenancy of 
 Bute Lodge might be concluded. How was she to leave 
 Alan, or to turn him out of doors, when the object of her 
 receiving him should have been accomplished ? Was 
 it already fully accomplished ? He had been saved 
 from despair, and from the danger of a physical re- 
 lapse ; was he now independent of anything she 
 could do for him? It gave her a pang to think of that 
 
fi'tri 
 
 •III'.'' Il 
 
 
 k:.^ 
 
 I' 
 
 
 t ^' 
 
 
 
 h 'V: 
 
 IK. 
 
 332 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 possibility, but she woulJ have to think of it and to act 
 upon it very soon. She could not put off the evil day 
 much beyond the end of November ; before Christmas 
 they must come to aii understanding — nay, she must come 
 to an understanding with her own heart ; for did not 
 everything depend on her firmness and resolution ? 
 
 Not everything ! Though she did not know it, Alan 
 was thinking for her just what she could not think for her- 
 self. He could not fail to see that Lettice had staked her 
 reputation to do as she had done for him. As his percep- 
 tion grew more keen, he saw with increasing clearness. A 
 man just recovering from serious ilhiess will accept sacri- 
 fices from his friends with little or no demur, which in full 
 health he Nvould not willingly permit. Alan could not 
 have saved Lettice from the consequences of her own act, 
 even if he had realized its significance from the first — 
 which he did not. But now he knew that she was giving 
 more as a woman than he, as a man, had ever thought of 
 taking from her ; and he also, with a somewhat heavy 
 heart, perceived tliat a change in their relations to one 
 another was drawing near. 
 
 Lettice was sitting in her little study one morning, turn- 
 ing over in her mind the question which so deeply agitated 
 her, and trying to think that she was prepared for the only 
 solution which appeared to be possible or acceptable. 
 Alan and she were to go their separate ways : that was, 
 she told herself, the one thing fixed and unalterable. 
 They migiit meet again as friends^ and give each other 
 help and sympathy ; but it was their irrevocable doom that 
 they should live apart and alone. That which her heart 
 had sanctioned hitherto, it would sanction no longer; the 
 cause and the justification were gone, and so were the 
 courage and the confidence. 
 
 Lettice had appropriated to her own use as a study a 
 little room on the ground floor, opening upon the garden. 
 In warm weather it was a particularly charming place, for 
 the long windows then always stood open, and pleasant 
 scents and sounds from the flower-beds and leafy trees 
 stole in to cheer her solitude. In winter, it was a little 
 more difficult to keep the rooms warm and cosy ; but Let- 
 tice was one of the women who have the knack of making 
 any place where they abide look home-like and inviting, 
 and in this case her skill had not been spent in vain, even 
 
NAME AND- FAME. 
 
 333 
 
 ; and to act 
 lie evil day 
 
 Christmas 
 
 must come 
 or did not 
 on ? 
 
 )w it, Alan 
 ink for her- 
 
 staked her 
 his percep- 
 earness. A 
 ccept sacri- 
 hich in full 
 
 could not 
 er own act, 
 
 tlie first — 
 was giving 
 
 thought of 
 vhat heavy 
 >ns to one 
 
 rning, turn- 
 ply agitated 
 or the only 
 acceptable, 
 that was, 
 inalterable, 
 each other 
 doom that 
 her heart 
 ongerj the 
 
 were the 
 
 3 a study a 
 he garden. 
 
 1 place, for 
 d pleasant 
 leafy trees 
 as a little 
 ; but Let- 
 of making 
 
 id inviting, 
 vain, even 
 
 upon a room for the furniture of which she was not alto- 
 gether responsible. Heavy tapestry curtains excluded the 
 draught ; a soft rug lay before the o'ld-fashioned high brass 
 fender, and a bright fire burned in the grate. Lcttice's 
 writing-table and library chair half filled the room ; but 
 there was also a small table heaped high with books and 
 papers, a large padded leather easy-chair, and a book-case. 
 The walls were distempered in a soft reddish hue, and such 
 part of the floor as was not covered with a bordered 
 tapestry carpet of divers tints had been stained dark brown. 
 One of Lettice's favorite possessions, a large autotype of 
 the Sistine Madonna, hung on the wall fronting her writ- 
 ing-table, so that she could see it in the pauses of her 
 work. 
 
 It was at the door of this room that Alan knocked one 
 stormy December day. The month which Lattice had 
 fixed as the period of silence about business affairs had 
 passed by ; but Alan was so very far from strong when 
 November ended that she had managed, by persuasion 
 and insistence, to defer any new and definite arrangement 
 for at least another fortnight. But he had gained much 
 physical and mental strength during those two weeks, and 
 he had felt more and more convinced from day to day that 
 between himself and Lettice there must now be a com- 
 plete understanding. He knew that she had taken the 
 house until the end of December; after that date she 
 would be homeless, like himself. What were they both to 
 do } It was the question which he had come to put. 
 
 Lettice received him with a touch of surprise, almost of 
 embarrassment in her manner. She had never made him 
 free of her study, for she felt it better that each should 
 have a separate domain for separate work and a separate 
 life. She had no wish to break down more barriers than 
 circumstances demanded ; and the fact that she had utterly 
 outraged the laws of conventionality in the eyes of the 
 world did not absolve her from the delicate reticence 
 which she had always maintained in her personal relations 
 with Alan. He saw the doubt in her face, and hastened 
 to apologize for his intrusion. " But I could not work 
 this morning," he said, '* and I wanted to speak to you. 
 Milly told me you were here, and " 
 
 " Oh, I am very glad to see you. Come and sit down." 
 
 " You are not too busy for a little talk ? " 
 
 IS 
 
 l.i 
 
 \ I 
 
 
334 
 
 NAiflE AND FAME, 
 
 
 b. ^ 1 
 
 %- 
 
 '* Not at all." 
 
 She wheeled the leather-covered chair a little nearer to 
 the fire, and made him sit down on it. He cast his eye 
 round the cheery room, noting the books and papers that 
 she was using, the evidences of steady work and thought. 
 The firelight leaped and glanced on the ruddy walls, and 
 the coals crackled in the grate ; a dasli of rain against the 
 window, a blast of wind in the distance, emphasized the 
 contrast between the warmth and light and restfulness 
 within the house, the coldness and the storm without. 
 
 Alan held his hands to the blaze, and listened for a mo- 
 ment to the wind before he spoke. 
 
 " One does not feel inclined," he said, '* to turn out on 
 such a day as this." 
 
 " Happily, you have no need to turn out," Letlice an- 
 swered, taking his words in their most literal sense. 
 
 " Not to day, perhaps ; but very soon. Lettice, the time 
 has come when we must decide on our next step. I cannot 
 stay here any longer — on our present terms, at least. But 
 I have not come to say good-bye. Is there any reason 
 why I should say good-bye — save for a time ? " 
 
 He had risen from liis chair as he spoke, and was stand- 
 ing before her. Lettice shaded her eyes with her hands. 
 Ah, if she could only give way to the temptation which she 
 felt vaguely aware that he was going to raise ! If she could 
 only be weak in spite of her resolution to be strong, if she 
 could onlv take to herself at once the one consolation and 
 partnership which would satisfy her soul, how instantly 
 would her depression pass away ! How easily with one 
 word could she change the whole current and complexion 
 of life for the man who was bending over her ! He was 
 still only half-redeemed from ruin ; he might fall a prey to 
 despair again, if she shrank in the supreme moment from 
 the sacrifice demanded of her. 
 
 Alan did not know how her heart was pleading for him. 
 Something, indeed, he divined, as he saw her trembling and 
 shaken by the strife within. His heart bounded with 
 sudden impulse from every quickened vein, and his lips 
 drew closer to her hidden face. 
 
 " Lettice ! " 
 
 There was infinite force and tenderness in the whispered 
 word, and it pierced her to the quick. She dropped her 
 hands, and looked up. 
 
NAME AND l-AME, 
 
 335 
 
 e nearer to 
 ast his eye 
 papers that 
 lid thought. 
 J walls, and 
 against the 
 hasized the 
 restfulness 
 nthout. 
 2d for a mo- 
 turn out on 
 
 Let lice an- 
 ense. 
 
 ice, the time 
 ). I cannot 
 Lt least. But 
 
 any reason 
 
 d was stand- 
 1 her hands. 
 )n which she 
 
 If she could 
 ;trong, if she 
 3olation and 
 DW instantly 
 ily with one 
 
 complexion 
 T ! He was 
 fall a prey to 
 [loment from 
 
 iing for him. 
 rembling and 
 Dunded with 
 and his lips 
 
 le whispered 
 dropped her 
 
 But one responsive word or glance, aad he would have 
 taken her in his arms. He understood her face, her eyes, 
 too well to do it. She gave him no consent ; if he kissed 
 her, if he pressed her to his breast, he felt that he should 
 dominate her body only, not her soul. And he was not of 
 that coarse fibre which could be satisfied so. If Lettice did 
 not give herself to him willingly, she must not give herself 
 at all. 
 
 " Lettice ! " he said again, and there was less passion 
 but more entreaty in his tone than before he met that 
 warning glance, " will you not let me speak? " 
 
 ^' Is there anything for us to say," she asked, very gently, 
 " except good-bye ? " 
 
 " Would you turn me away into the cold from the warmth 
 and brightness of your home, Lettice > Don't be angry 
 with me for saying so. I liave had very little joy or comfort 
 in my life of late, and it is to you that I owe all that I know 
 of consolation. You have rescued me from a very hell of 
 despair and darkness, and brought me into paradise. Now 
 do you bid mc go ? Lettice, it would be cruel. Tell me to 
 stay with you .... and to the lasfhour of my life I will 
 stay." 
 
 He was standing beside her, with one hand on the 
 wooden arm of lier circular chair. She put her hand over 
 his fingers almost caressingly, and looked up at him again, 
 with tears in lier sweet eyes. 
 
 " Have I not done what I wanted to do ? " she said. " I 
 found you weak, friendless, ill ; you have got back your 
 strength, and you know tliat you have at least one friend 
 who will be faithful to you. My task is done ; you must 
 go away now and fight the world — for my sake." 
 
 " For your sake ? You care what I do, then : Lettice, 
 you care for me } Tell me that you love me — tell me, at 
 last ! " 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and he felt that the hand 
 whicli rested on his own fluttered as if it would take itself 
 away. Was she offended ? Would she with.draw the mute 
 caress of tliat soft pressure? Breathlessly he waited. If 
 she took her hand away, he thought that he should almost 
 cease to hope 
 
 But the hand setded once more into its place. It even 
 tightened its pressure upon his fingers as she replied— 
 
 *' I love you with all my heart," she said ] '' and it is 
 just because I love you that I want you to go away. 
 
 m 
 
 it 
 
336 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 SB 
 
 IP' (1? ' i ■ •'- i ■' 
 
 With a quick turn of his wrist he seized the hand that 
 had hitherto lain on his, and carried it to his hps. They 
 looked into each other's eyes with the long silent look 
 which is more expressive even than a kiss. Soul draws 
 very near to soul when the eyes oi man and woman meet 
 as theirs met then. The lips did not meet, but Alan's face 
 was very close to hers. When the pause had lasted so long 
 that Lettice's eyelids drooped, and the spell of the look 
 'Was broken, he spoke again. 
 
 " Why should I go away ? Why should the phantom of 
 a dead past divide us ? We belong to one another, you and 
 I. Think of what life might mean to us, side by side, hand 
 in hand, working, striving together, you,, the stronger, 
 giving me some of your strength, I ready to give you the 
 love you need — the love you have craved for — the love 
 that you have won ! Lettice, Lettice, neither God nor man 
 can divide us now ! " 
 
 '* Hush ! you are talking wildly," she answered, in a 
 very gentle tone. " Listen to me, Alan. There is one 
 point in wliich you are wrong. You speak of a dead past. 
 But the past is not dead, it lives for you still in the person 
 of — your wife." 
 
 " And you think that she should stand in our way? After 
 all that she has done ? Can any law, human or divine, bi'nd 
 me to her now ? Surely her own acts have set me free. 
 Lettice, my darling, do not be blinded by conventional 
 views of right and wrong. I know tliat if we had loved 
 each other and she had been a woman of blameless life, I 
 should not be justified in asking you to sacrifice for me all 
 that tlie world holds dear ; but think of the life she has led 
 — the sliame she has brought upon me and upon herself. 
 Good God ! is anyone in the world narrow-minded enough 
 and base enough to think tliat I can still be bound to her ? " 
 
 " No, Alan ; but your course is clear. You must set 
 yourself free." 
 
 " Seek my remedy in the courts ? Have all the miser- 
 able story bandied about from lip to lip, be branded as a 
 wretched dupe of a wicked woman on whom he had 
 already tried to revenge himself? That is what the world 
 would say. And your name would be brought forward, 
 my dearest ; it would be hopeless to keep it in the back- 
 ground now. Your very goodness and sweetness would be 
 made the basis of an accusation, ... I could not bear it, 
 
 ^ !■'■:■ 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 337 
 
 hand that 
 ips. They 
 silent look 
 Soul draws 
 oman meet 
 
 Alan's face 
 ted so long 
 of the look 
 
 phantom of 
 ler, you and 
 ^ side, hand 
 stronger, 
 ive you the 
 )r — the love 
 od nor man 
 
 wered, in a 
 lere is one 
 1 dead past, 
 the person 
 
 • way ? After 
 divine, bi'nd 
 set me free, 
 conventional 
 e had loved 
 [■neless life, I 
 Lce for me all 
 e she has led 
 Lipon herself, 
 nded enough 
 imd to her? " 
 ou must set 
 
 ill the miser- 
 branded as a 
 horn he had 
 lat the world 
 ight forward, 
 in the back- 
 less would be 
 d not bear it, 
 
 I could not see you pilloried, even if 1 could bear the shame 
 of it myself." 
 
 He sank on his knees beside her, and let his head sink 
 almost to her shoulder. She felt that he trembled, she saw 
 that his lips were pale, and tluit tlic dew stood on his fore- 
 head. His physical strength hid not yet returned in full 
 measure, and the contest with Lattice was trying it to the 
 utmost. 
 
 Lettice had turned pale too, but she spoke even more 
 firmly than before. 
 
 " Alan," she said, *' is this brave ? " 
 
 "Brave? no!" he answered her. " I might be brave 
 for myself, but how can I be brave for you ? You will suffer 
 more than you have any conception of, when you are held 
 up to the scorn — the loathing — of the world. For you 
 know she will not keep to the trutli — she will s[)it her 
 venom upon you — she will blacken your character in ways 
 that you do not dream " 
 
 " I think I have fathomed the depths," said Lettice, with 
 a faint, wan smile. " I saw her myself when you were in 
 prison, and she has written to my brother Sydney. Oh, 
 yes," as he lifted his face and looked at her, " she stormed, 
 she threatened, she has accused . . . what does it 
 matter to me what she says, or \vhat the world says, either? 
 Alan, it is too late to care so much for name and fame. I 
 crossed the line which marks the boundary between con- 
 vention and true liberty many weeks ago. The best thing 
 for me now, as well as for you, is to fice our accusers gal- 
 lantly, and have the matter exposed to the light of day." 
 
 ''I have brought this upon you ! " he groaned. 
 
 " No, I have brought it on myself Dear Alan, it is the 
 hardest thing in the world to be brave for those we love — 
 we are much too apt to fear danger or pain for them. Just 
 because it is so hard, I ask you to do tin's thing. Give me 
 courage — don't sap my confidence with doubts and fears. 
 Let us be brave together, and for one another, and then 
 we shall win the battle and be at peace." 
 
 " It will be so hard for you." 
 
 " Not harder tlum it has been for you these many years. 
 My poor dear, my heart has bled so many times to think 
 how you have suffered ! I am proud to have a share in 
 your suffering now. I am not ashaiaed to tell you that I 
 love you, for it is my love that is to make you strong and 
 
 22 
 
 '% 
 
ry^f 
 
 '■'.'• 
 
 ■'X 
 
 
 M»: 
 
 
 
 '4 
 
 338 
 
 A'.L)//- AA'D FAME. 
 
 brave, so that wc may conquer tlie wo- id logellier, despise 
 its scorn, and meet its sneers with si iilcs I AV'c will not run 
 away from it, like cowards ! 1 come of ;i fi;^^]uing nice on 
 my mother's side, tlie very siiggL'stion of llight makes my 
 blood boil, Alan ! No, we wiil die Tighting, if need be, but 
 we will not run away." 
 
 " Yes, yes, my brave d.uling, you are liglii. We will 
 stand or fall together. It was not for myself liiat I hesit- 
 ated." 
 
 " I know — I know. So you see, dear, that we must 
 part." 
 
 '* For a time only." 
 
 "You will see Mr. Larmer to-morrow? " 
 
 " I will." 
 
 They were silent for a while. Her arm was round his 
 neck, and his head was resting against her wearily. It was 
 Letticc who first roused herself. 
 
 " This must not be," she said, drawing back her arm. 
 "Alan, let us be friends still — and nothing else. Let us 
 have nothing to reproach ourselves with by and by." 
 
 He sighed as he lifted his head from its resting place. 
 
 " I will go to Larmer to-day," he said. " There is noth- 
 ing to be gained by waiting. But — have you thought of 
 all that that woman may do to us ? Lett ice, I tremble 
 almost for your life." 
 
 " I do not think she would attempt that." 
 
 ** She threatened you ? " 
 
 "With vitriol. She said that she would blind me so that 
 I could not see you — scar me so that you would not care 
 to look upon my face. Ought I to have told you ? Alan, do 
 not look so pale ! It was a mere foolish threat.' 
 
 " I am not so sure of that. She is capable of it — or of 
 any other fiendish act. If she injured you, Lcttice " 
 
 " Don't think of that. You say you will j^o 10 Mr. Lar- 
 mer this afternoon." 
 
 " Yes. And then I will look out for lodgings. And you 
 — what will you do? Stay here ? " 
 
 She shook her head. " I shall go into lodgings too. I 
 have plenty of work, and yoti — you will come to see me 
 sometimes." 
 
 '* As often as you will let me. Oh, Lettice, it is a hard 
 piece of work that you have given me to do ! " 
 
 She took his hand in hers and jDressed it softly. " I shall 
 be grateful to you for doing it," she said. 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 339 
 
 t we must 
 
 ) lo Mr. Lar- 
 
 There was a long silence. Alan stood by the fire-place, 
 his head resting upon his hand. Finally he spoke in a low 
 uncertain tone — 
 
 " There is one point I must mention. I think there may 
 be a difficulty in getting the divorce. I believe she claims 
 that I condoned her — her faults. I may find insuperable 
 obstacles in my wa}'*." 
 
 Lcttice drew a quick breath, and rose suddenly to her 
 feet. 
 
 " We have nodiing to do with that just now, Alan. You 
 must try." 
 
 And then they said no more. 
 
 But when tlie afternoon came and Alan was ready to 
 depart — foi when once he had made up his mind that he 
 must go, he thought it better not to linger — he drew 
 Lettice inside her little study again, and looked her full in 
 the face. 
 
 "Lettice, before I go, will you kiss me once?" 
 
 She did not hesitate. She lifted her face, calmly and 
 seriously, and kissed him on the mouth. 
 
 But she was not prepared for the grip in which he seized 
 her, and the passionate pressure of her lips which he 
 returned. " Lettice, my dearest, my own love," he said, 
 holding her close to him as he spoke, " suppose I fail ! If 
 the law will not set me free, what will you do ? " 
 
 She was silent for a minute or two, and he saw that her 
 face grew pale. 
 
 " Oh," she said at last, in a sighing voice, broken at last 
 by a despairing sob, " if man's law is so hard, Alan, 
 surely then we may trust ourselves to God's ! " 
 
 ' Promise me," he said, " that you will never give me up 
 — that, whatever happens, you will one day be mine ! " 
 
 " Whatever happens," she answered, " I am yours, Alan, 
 in life or death — in time and for eternity." 
 
 And with this assurance he was fain to be content. 
 
 ■ i 
 
34rt 
 
 NAME AMD FAME. 
 
 f: 
 
 %f 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 SYDNEY PAYS HIS DEBTS. 
 
 The fight which Sydney Campion had had to wage with 
 hip creditors was bitter enough up to the time of his mar- 
 riage. Then there had been a lull for a few months, during 
 which it was confidently said and believed that he was 
 about to touch a large sum of money, and that all who had 
 put their trust in him would be rewarded. 
 
 Month after month went by, and there was no realiza- 
 tion of the prospect. Sydney touched no money but 
 what he earned. He might, no doubt, have touched some 
 of his wife's money, even for the payment of his old debts, 
 if he had told her the distress that he was in. But it had 
 never occurred to him to be thus sincere with Nan. He 
 had thought to figure before her as one who was not depen- 
 dent on her fortune, who could very comfortably play with 
 his hundreds, though not able, like herself, to be generous 
 with thousands. He would, in fact, have been ashamed 
 to own his rotten financial condition, either to Nan or to 
 any of his social or political friends ; and he fancied that 
 he was concealing this condition in a very ingenious man- 
 ner when he made a liberal outlay in connection with their 
 quiet marriage, the honeymoon abroad, and the subsequent 
 arrangements of their household in London. 
 
 This was all the more unfortunate because Nan, just of 
 age, with her fortune in her own hands, would have given 
 him anything without demur or question, if she had for a 
 moment suspected that he needed it. His concealment was 
 so effectual that it never entered her unsophisticated mind 
 that this barrister in good practice, this rising politician, 
 who seemed to have his feet on the ladder of success, 
 could be crushed and burdened with debt. Sydney, how- 
 over, was by no means blind. He knew well enough that 
 he could have had the few thousands necessary to clear 
 him if lie had asked his wife for a cheque ; but he did not 
 
 Ik 
 
N^IME AiXD I'AX'E, 
 
 341 
 
 irage with 
 his mar- 
 hs, during 
 It he was 
 1 who had 
 
 10 rcaliza- 
 loney but 
 ched some 
 old debts, 
 But it had 
 ^^an. He 
 not depen- 
 ' play with 
 i generous 
 1 ashamed 
 Nan or to 
 ncied that 
 lious man- 
 with their 
 iubsequent 
 
 an, just of 
 liave given 
 i had for a 
 ilment was 
 ;ated mind 
 politician, 
 )f success, 
 iney, how- 
 Liough that 
 •y to clear 
 he did not 
 
 trust her love sufficienlly to believe that she would think 
 as well of liini fiom that d;iy forward as she had done be- 
 fore, and he was not ]ai\i;c-nuii(lod enough to conceive 
 himself as ever shaking off tl;e source of obligation which 
 her gift in such a form would impose upon him. 
 
 He had therefore drifted, in the matter of his debts, 
 from expedient to exi)cdient, in the hope that by good for- 
 tune and good management he might avoid the rocks that 
 beset Jiis course, and reach smooth water by his own 
 exertion. But, as ill luck would have it, he had given a 
 bill for six hundred pounds, due on the 23rd of November, 
 to a certain Mr. Copley, a man who had been especially 
 disgusted by Sydney's failure to obtain ready money at the 
 time of his marriage, and who for this and other reascjns 
 had worked himself uj) into a malicious frame of nu"nd. 
 But on the 23rd of November, Sydney and his wife had 
 run over to Paris for a {'cw days with Sir John and La ly 
 Pynsent, and then Nan had been so seriously indisposed 
 that Sydney could not leave her with'" it seeming unkinJ- 
 ness ; so that they did not reach London again until the 
 26th. This delay oi)ened a chapter of incidents which 
 ended as Sydney had not foreseen. 
 
 He had not forgotten ilie date of the bill, and knew that 
 it was important to provide for it ; but he did not anticipate 
 that the last day of grace would have expired before he 
 could communicate with the man who held his signature. 
 
 Early on the morning of the 27th, he set out for Mr. 
 Copley's office ; and it so hapj^ened that at the same mo- 
 ment Mr, Copley set out also for Sydney's private house. 
 
 '' IMaster in ? " said Mr. Copley, who was a man of few 
 words. 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 ''Lady in?" 
 
 " My mistress does not receive any one so early." 
 
 " Take that up — answer important — bearer waiting." 
 
 The footman condescended so far as thi-s, and gave Mr. 
 Copley's letter into the charge of INIrs. Campion's maid. 
 
 In less than ten minutes Nau sent for the unwelcome 
 visitor. She was very pale when she received him, and 
 she looked so young and fair that Mr. Copley was a little 
 taken aback. Me knew that Sydney had married an 
 heiress, and it was from her, therefore, ihat he had deter- 
 mined, if possible, to get the money ; but he half repented 
 
34« 
 
 NAME AXn FAME, 
 
 !??' i 
 
 
 ^4A A 
 
 \v> 
 
 ifvv 
 
 his resolve when he saw Mrs. Campion's face. ** Too 
 young to know anything about business," lie said to him- 
 self. 
 
 But Nan was more busiwcss-liko than he expected. She 
 had for some time insisted on knowing a good deal about 
 her own money matters, and she was well aware of her 
 powers. 
 
 " Where is this paper — this acceptance you mention in 
 your letter?" she began. 
 
 Mr. Copley silently took il from his notebook, and laid 
 it on the table. 
 
 " Why did you bring this here ? or, rather, why did you 
 send it in to me? Mr. Campion is not difficult to find 
 when he is wanted. This is, of course; hh business." 
 There was a little indignation in her tone. 
 
 "Beg y6ur pardon, madam. You will observe the date 
 of the acceptance. I presented it yesterday." 
 
 " At the bank ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Nan bit her lip. She knew what this signified, and she 
 would have given a thousand pounds to undo what had 
 happened. 
 
 She went to a drawer in her writing-table and quietly 
 took out a cheque-book. " We were delayed in returning 
 to England by my illness," she said, as indifferently as she 
 could. " Mr. Campion has gone out for the purpose of 
 seeing to this." Her heart smote her for making a state- 
 ment which she could not vouch for, but as Mr. Coi)ley 
 only bowed and looked uninterested, slie went on rapidly, 
 " As you have the paper with you, it will save time — it 
 will be satisfactory, I suppose — if I give you a cheque for 
 it?" 
 
 " Amply satisfactory." 
 
 She sat down before the table and took the pen in her 
 hand, hesitating a moment as to whether she ought to ask 
 for further details. Her tears and her curiosity were alike 
 aroused, and Mr. Copley divined the question, which she 
 hardly knew how to put into words. He produced a sheet 
 of notepaper, containing a few memoranda, and passed it 
 across the table. 
 
 " That was to refresh my memory if necessary ; but hap- 
 pily it isn't, Mr. Campion nay like to see it, however. 
 He will find it is all correct. I knew I was right in asking 
 to see you, ma'am." 
 
c. " Too 
 (1 to him- 
 
 ctcd. She 
 leal about 
 Lie of her 
 
 ncntion in 
 
 , and laid 
 
 ly did you 
 lilt to find 
 business." 
 
 ^e the date 
 
 d, and she 
 ) what had 
 
 uid quietly 
 u returning 
 :ntly as she 
 purpose of 
 ing a statc- 
 ^Ir. Coi)ley 
 on rapidly, 
 ve time — it 
 cheque for 
 
 pen in her 
 
 ught to ask 
 y were alike 
 1, which she 
 uced a sheet 
 id passed it 
 
 y ; but hap- 
 it, however, 
 ht in asking 
 
 AT/iAfr: AS^D FAME, 
 
 343 
 
 Nan did not look at the memoranda. She was satisfied 
 that she had the details before her for her own or Sydney's 
 consideration if necessary. She signed her cheque and 
 took i)ossession of the dishonored bill ; and then Mr. 
 Coi)ley dei>arted. 
 
 When he was gone, she caught up the sheet of paper and 
 liastily glanced at it. 
 
 " i88o— studs, pin, money advanced ;^5o. i88i — ring, 
 money advanced ^loo; bracelet, necklace, pendant, mo- 
 ney advanced ^150 " and so on. Further down the 
 
 page, Nan's eye was caught by the words : " Diamond and 
 sapphire ring." 
 
 " Ah ! " slie said, cp^ching ncr breath as if she were in 
 pain, and laying the paper down on the table, ^^ that was 
 mine ! " 
 
 Tlie ring was on her finger as she spoke. It had been 
 her ep.gageinent ring. She looked at it for a minute or 
 two, then slowly took it off and put it into the drawer. 
 
 Next, with an absent look upon her face, she took up a 
 small taper, and lighted it ; and, holding Mr. Copley's 
 paper by one corner, she raised it to the flame and oii- 
 verted it into ashes. One line escaped. A fragment of 
 the paper was scorched but not consumed, and as she 
 took it up to make her work more thorough, the words 
 and a date caught her attention once again. 
 
 " Bracelet, necklace, pendant, bought after we knew 
 each other," she murmured with a v urious smile "Thosj 
 were not for me. I wonder " 
 
 But she did not go on. It was the hrst time that a 
 shadow from Sydney's past had crossed her life ; and she 
 dared not investigate it too closely. She put the bill and 
 her cheque-book out of sight, and sat down to think over 
 the present position of affairs. 
 
 Sydney came home just before lunch-time, and, hearing 
 that she was in her own little sitting-room (she would not 
 have it called a boudoir), went up to her. He looked 
 vexed and anxious, as Nan was quick to notice, but he 
 came up to her side and kissed her affectionately. 
 
 '' Better, Nan ? " She had not been very well when he 
 left her : indeed, the delicacy of her health had lately been 
 more marked, and had several times given him cause for 
 uneasiness. 
 
 ** Yes, thank you. But you don't look well, Sydney." 
 
344 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 r > ' 
 
 She hoped that he would tell her what was wrong. To 
 her disappomtment, lie smiled, and answered lightly. 
 
 *' I'm all riglit, Nan. I have a good deal to do just now, 
 and am rather tired — that is all." 
 
 "Tired — and anxious? " she said, looking at him with 
 r'ore keenness than he had thought her soft eyes capable 
 ot' expressing. 
 
 " Anxious ! no, I have not much to be anxious about, 
 have I ? " 
 
 He spoke with a laugh ; but, to her fancy, there was 
 something half-alarmed and half-defiant in the pose of his 
 lifted head, the glance of his handsome bright eyes. Her 
 heart sank a little : it seemed to her that it would have 
 been nobler in her husband to tell her the whole truth, and 
 it had never occurred to her before to think of him as 
 ignoble in any way. 
 
 " I suppose you do not want to tell me for fear of 
 troubling me," she said, with a tremor in her voice ; " but 
 I think I know what you are anxious about, Sydney." 
 . He gave a little start as he turned towards her. 
 
 " Some man has been here whilst you were out, and he 
 sent up this letter with a request that it should be opened. 
 Look ! " she said, giving him the bill, " yoi, can tear it up 
 now. I was sure you liad gone out lO see about it, but I 
 thought it better that I sliould settle it at once. I hope " 
 — with a little girlish nervousness — "you don't mind?" 
 
 He had sat down on a chair when she showed him Mr. 
 Copley's letter, with the look of a man determined to bear 
 a blow, but he sprang up again at the sight of his dishon- 
 ored acceptance. 
 
 " And you have paid it, Nan ? " he cried. 
 
 "Yes, I paid it. Oh, Sydney, it was a little thing to 
 do ! If only you had told me months ago ! " 
 
 Her eyes brimmed over with tears at last. She had 
 been smarting under a sense of terrible humilinHon ever 
 since Mr. Copley's visit, but hitherto she had not wept. 
 Now, when her husband took her in his arms and looked 
 into her eyes, the pain at her heart was somewhat assuaged, 
 although the tears fell swifdy down her pale cheek?. 
 
 " Nan, I ne\er dreamed that I should find your kindness 
 so bitter to me," Sydney said. 
 
 He was profoundly moved by her gentleness and by her 
 generosity alike. But inasmuch as it r^^quires more gene- 
 
 If.!;'; . 
 
NAME ANJ-) FAME. 
 
 34S 
 
 ong. To 
 
 luly. 
 just now, 
 
 him with 
 is capable 
 
 (US about, 
 
 there was 
 
 iQse of his 
 
 ^es. Her 
 
 ^ould have 
 
 truth, and 
 
 of him as 
 
 for fear of 
 )ice ; *' but 
 iney." 
 ^r. 
 
 >ut, and he 
 be opened. 
 Li tear it up 
 ut it, but I 
 I hope " 
 mind ? " 
 ^d him Mr. 
 led to bear 
 his dishon- 
 
 le thing to 
 
 . She had 
 in lion ever 
 i not wept, 
 and looked 
 It assuaged, 
 leek?. 
 ur kindness 
 
 ; and by her 
 more gene- 
 
 rosity of nature to accept a gift nobly than to make it, he 
 felt himself shamed in her eyes, and his wife was in her 
 turn pained by the consciousnt^is of his shame. 
 
 " Why should you be afraid to trust me ? " she said. 
 *' All that concerns you concerns me as well ; and I am 
 only setting myself free from trouble and anxiety if I do 
 anything for you. Don't you understand? And as far as 
 my money is concerned, you know very well that if it had 
 not been for John and those tiresome lawyers, you should 
 have had it all and spent it, if you chose, without the 
 slightest reference to me. What grieves me, dearest, is 
 that you should have been suffering without taking me into 
 your confidence." 
 
 " I ought to have done so," said Sydney, rather reluct- 
 antly, " but I felt as if I could not lell you all these paltry, 
 sordid details. You might have thought " 
 
 Then he paused, and the color rose darkly in his face. 
 
 " I should have thought nothing but what was honorable 
 to you," said Nan, throwing back her graceful head with a 
 gesture of natural pride and indignation. 
 
 " And now you think the worse of me? " 
 
 '' No, no ! " she cried, stealing one arm round his neck, 
 " I think nothing bad of you — nothing I Only you will 
 trust me, now, Sydney ? You will not hide things from me 
 again ? " 
 
 " No, my darling, nothing that you ought to know," he 
 said. There was a touch of new but restrained emotion 
 in his voice. It struck him for almost the first time how 
 much of his life he had hidden from her frank and innocent 
 eyes. 
 
 Presently, when he had kissed her tears away, she begged 
 him to tell her what he still actually owed, and, after some 
 little demur, he consented. The amount of the debt, which 
 lay heavily on his conscience, was comparatively a trivial 
 thing to her. But when he had told her all, she looked at 
 him with eyes v hich, although very loving, were full of 
 wonder and dismay. 
 
 " Poor Sydney ! " she said caressingly. " My poor boy ! 
 As if you could give your mind properly to anything with 
 this heavy burden on it ! To-morrow we can get the 
 money, and pay off all these people. Then you will be able 
 to work without any disturbance." 
 
 " Thanks to you. Nan," said her husband, with bowed 
 head. She could not understand why he did not look more 
 
346 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 
 4ii 
 
 > 
 
 Pr'f' 
 
 relieved. She never suspected that his mind was biirdened 
 with another debt, that money could not pay. 
 
 Slie had not asked him for any explanation of the items 
 in the paper that she had read. The momentary wonder 
 that had flitted across her mind passed as quickly as it 
 came. The gifts that were not for her had been intended 
 perhaps for his sister Lettice, perhaps for the wedding pre- 
 sent of a friend. She did not like to ask. But a slightly 
 uncomfortable sensation remained in her mind, and she 
 never again wore the ring for which, as it now turned out, 
 she herself had had to pay. 
 
 Sydney's position was certainly a painful one just then. 
 But he was at any rate relieved of the burden of his debts, 
 and he hoped, with some compunction of heart, that no 
 other secret of his life would ever come to his wife's ears. 
 It was about this time that he received the letter from Cora 
 Walcott and had the interview with Lettice, of which men- 
 tion has been made ; and Nan fancied that it was anxiety 
 about his sister that caused him to show signs of moodiness 
 and depression. He had told her nothing more of I-ettice's 
 doings than he was obliged to tell, but other friends wer^ 
 not so reticent, and Lady Pynsent had enlightened Nan's 
 mind very speedily with respect to the upshot of " the 
 Walcott affair." Nan made some reference to it shortly 
 afterwards in conversation with her husband, and was 
 struck by the look of pain which crossed his face as he 
 replied, 
 
 ** Don't talk about it, Nan, my dear." 
 
 " He must be much fonder of his sister than I thought," 
 Nan said to herself. She made one niore effort to speak. 
 
 " Could I do nothing, Sydney ? Suppose I went to her, 
 and told her how grieved you were " 
 
 " You, Nan ! For heaven's sake, don't let me hear of 
 your crossing the threshold of that house ! " cried Sydney, 
 with vehemence, which Nan very naturally misunderstood. 
 
 It waSj on the whole, a relief to her t. find that he did 
 not want lier to take any active steps in any direction. 
 She was not very strong, and was glad to be left a good 
 deal at peace. Sydney was out for a great part of the day, 
 and Nan took life easily. Lady Pynsent came to sit with 
 her sometimes, or drove in the Park with her, and other 
 friends sought her out : she had tender hopes for the 
 future which filled her mind with sweet content, and she 
 
 
biivdened 
 
 the items 
 ly wonder 
 lickly as it 
 11 intended 
 dding pre- 
 t a slightly 
 i, and she 
 ;urned out, 
 
 just then, 
 f his debts, 
 rt, that no 
 wife's ears. 
 
 from Cora 
 which men- 
 vas anxiety 
 
 moodiness 
 of I-ettice's 
 iends wer" 
 ened Nan's 
 ot of " the 
 D it shortly 
 1, and was 
 
 face as he 
 
 I thought," 
 rt to speak, 
 kvent to her, 
 
 me hear of 
 •ied Sydney, 
 understood. 
 
 that he did 
 ly direction. 
 
 left a good 
 t of the day, 
 e to sit with 
 r, and other 
 pes for the 
 snt, and she 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 347 
 
 would have been happy but for that slight jar between Syd- 
 ney and herself. That consciousness of a want of trust 
 which never ceased to give her pain. Sydney liimself was 
 the most attentive of liusbands when he was at home : he 
 brought lier flowers and fruit, he read aloud to her, he 
 hung over her as slic lay on the softi, and surrounded her 
 with a hundred little marks of his affection— sucli as she 
 would liave thought delicious while her confidence in him 
 was still unshaken. She still found pleasure in them ; but 
 her eyes were keener than they had been, and she knew 
 that beneath all tlie manifestations of his real and strong 
 attachment to her there ran a vein of apology and mis- 
 giving — a state of things inexpressibly unsatisfactory to a 
 woman wlio knows how to love and how to trust. 
 
 Sydney, only half-conscious that something was wrong, 
 had no idea how to mend matters, and was, therefore, in a 
 fair way to make them worse. Frankness would have 
 appeared brutal to him, and he did not see how subtly 
 jDoisonous was the effect of his habits of concealment upon 
 his wife's mind. Gifted with the instinct of discernment, 
 which in sensitive women is almost like a sort of second- 
 sight, she kneW; without knowing how she knew, that he 
 had trouble which he did not confide to her, secrets which 
 his tongue would never tell. He could deceive her as to 
 their existence so long as tlie period of illusion lasted ; but 
 as soon as lier eyes were opened her sight became very 
 keen indeed. And lie, believing himself always successful 
 in throwing dust in her eyes, fancied that her wistful look, 
 her occasional unresponsiveness to his caresses, proceeded 
 from physical causes only, and would with them also pass 
 away. 
 
 Thus December left them, and the dark foggy days of 
 January flew apace. It was close upon February before 
 Nan recovered from a severe cold which had assailed her 
 about Christmas time, and left her very weak. For a week 
 or two she was confined entirely to lier room, and when 
 she came downstairs she was forced for a time to keep to 
 the warm atmosphere of one sitting-room. But one day, 
 when February was close at hand, and tlie fogs had begun 
 to clear away, she felt so much stronger that she resolved 
 to make a new departure and show Sydney that she was 
 really belter. Instead of going into the drnwing-room, 
 therefore, she came down another flight of stairs, and re- 
 
348 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 
 im 
 
 111 
 
 /: ill 
 
 solved to establish herself in Sydney's study, ready to 
 greet him on his return. 
 
 But Sydney was late, and slie was rather weaker than 
 she knew. She had her tea, and ordered lights to be 
 brought in, and the curtains drawn, but still he did not 
 come. Then she found that the lights hurt her eyes, and 
 she had them extinguished — all but one small silver lamp 
 which stood on a centre-table, and gave a very subdued 
 light. Her maid came and put a soft fur rug over her, 
 and at her orders moved a screen of carved woodwork, 
 brought from an Arab building in Algeria, between her and 
 the fire before she left the room. Thus comfortably in- 
 stalled, tlie warmth and the dimness of the light speedily 
 made Nan sleepy. She forgot to listen for the sound of 
 her husband's latchkey ; she fell fast asleep, and must 
 have remained so for the greater part of an hour. 
 
 The fire went down, and its flickering flame no longer 
 illuminated the room. The soft light of the lamp did not 
 extend very far, and the screen, which was tall and dark, 
 threw the sofa on which Nan lay into deep shadow. The 
 rug completely covered the lower part of her dress, and as 
 the sofa stood between the wall and the fire-place on that 
 side of the room furthest removed from the door, any one 
 entering might ea-iily believe that the room was empty. 
 Indeed, unless Nan stirred in her sleep, there was nothing 
 at all to show that she was lying on the couch. 
 
 Thus, when Sydney entered his study about a quarter to 
 seven, with a companion whom he had found waiting for 
 him on the door-step, it would have been impossible for 
 him to conjecture the j)resence of his wife. He did not 
 light another lamp. The first words of his visitor had 
 startled him into forgetting that the room was dark — per- 
 haps, as the interview went on, he was glad of ilie obscurity 
 into which his fiice was thrown. And the "ounds of the 
 low-toned conversation did not startle Niintiom her slum- 
 ber all at once. She had heard several sentences before 
 she realized where she was and what she was listening to, 
 and then very natural feelings kept her silent and motion- 
 less. 
 
 " No, I've not come for money," were the first words 
 she heard. " Quite a different errand, Mr. Campion. It 
 is some weeks since I left you now, and I left you because 
 I had a competency bequeathed to me by an uncle." 
 
 r,-V 
 
 ?P 
 
 lit 
 
NAME AND FAME, 
 
 349 
 
 ready to 
 
 ;aker than 
 
 hts to be 
 
 le did not 
 
 eyes, and 
 
 ilver lamp 
 
 J subdued 
 
 \ over her, 
 
 woodwork, 
 
 en her and 
 
 brtably in- 
 
 it speedily 
 
 sound of 
 
 and must 
 
 no longer 
 mp did not 
 1 and dark, 
 low. The 
 ess, and as 
 ace on that 
 or, any one 
 was empty, 
 vas nothing 
 
 a quarter to 
 . waiting for 
 possible for 
 He did not 
 visitor had 
 dark — per- 
 le obscurity 
 mds of the 
 m her slum- 
 mces before 
 listening to, 
 and motion- 
 first words 
 unpion. It 
 you because 
 mcle." 
 
 "Pleased to hear it, I am sure, Jolinson," was Sydney's 
 response. " As you menlioned the name of another per- 
 son, I thought that you had perhaps had a letter from 
 her " 
 
 " I have seen her, certainly, several times of late. And 
 I am the bearer of a message from her. She has always 
 regretted that she took a certain sum of money from you 
 when she first found out how you had deceived her ; and 
 she wishes you to understand that slic wants nothing more 
 from you. The fact is, sir, I have long been very sorry 
 for her misfortunes, and now that I am independent, I have 
 asked her to marry me and go with me to America." 
 
 ^ There was a little silence. " I am quite willing to pro- 
 vide for the child," said Sydney, " and " 
 
 "No," said the man, almost sternly; "hear me out 
 first, Mr.* Campion. She owes her misery to you, and, no 
 doubt, you have always thought that money could make 
 atonement. But that's not my view, nor hers. We would 
 rather not give you the satisfaction of making \\\\7sX. yqu 
 call restitution. Milly's child — your child, too — will be 
 mine now; I shall adopt it for my own when I marry her. 
 You will have nothing to do with either of them. And I 
 have brought you back the twenty pounds which you gave 
 her when you cruelly deserted her because you wanted to 
 marry a rich woman. In that })arcel you will find a locket 
 and one or ivvo other things that you gave her. I liave 
 told her, anj Miss Campion, who has been the best of 
 friends to us both, has told her that she must henceforth 
 put the memory of you behind her, and live for those whom 
 she loves best." 
 
 "Certainly ; it is better that she should," said Sydney. 
 
 " That is all 1 have to say," Johnson remarked, " exce})t 
 that I shall do my best to help her to forget the past. But 
 if t\<it\ you can forget your own cruelty and black treachery 
 and villainy towards her " 
 
 " That will do. I will not listen to insult from you or 
 any man." 
 
 " You should rather be grateful to me for not exposing 
 you to the world," said Johnson, drily, as he moved to- 
 wards the door. "If it knew all that I know, what would 
 your career be worth, Mr. Campion? As it is, no one 
 knows the truth but ourselves and your sister, and all I 
 want to remind you of is, that if we fcjrger it, and if you 
 
350 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 \y-\ 
 
 l^V' 
 
 forget it, I believe there is a God somewhere or other wlio 
 never forgets." 
 
 ** I am much obliged to you for the reminder/' said Syd- 
 ney, scornfully. But he could not get back the usual 
 clearness of his voice. 
 
 Johnson went out without another word, and a minute 
 later the front door was heard to close after him. Sydney 
 stood perfectly still until tliat sound was heard. Then lie 
 moved slowly towards the table, wliere an envelope and a 
 sealed packet were lying side by side. He looked at them 
 for a minute or two, and flung himself into ;in arm-chair 
 beside the table with an involuniary groan of pain. He 
 was drawing the packet towards him, when a movement 
 behind the screen caused him to spring desperately to his 
 feet. 
 
 It was Nan, who had risen from the sofa aitd stood 
 before him, her face white as the gown she wore, her eyes 
 wide with a new despair, her fingers clutching at the collar 
 of her dress as if the swelling throat craved the relief of 
 freedom from all bands. Sydney's heart contracted with a 
 sharp throb of pain, anger, fear — he scarcely knew which 
 was uppermost. It flashed across his mind that he had 
 lost everything in life which he cared for most — that Nan 
 would despise him, that she would denounce him as a 
 sorry traitor to his friends, tluit the story — a sufficiently 
 black one, as he knew — would be published to the world. 
 Disgrace and failure had always been the things that he 
 had chiefly feared, and they lay straight before him now. 
 
 " I heard," Nan said, with white lips and choking utter- 
 ance. '' I was asleep when you came, but I think I heard 
 it all. Is it true ? There was some one — some one — that 
 you left — for me ? — some one who ought to have been your 
 wife ? " 
 
 '* I swear I never loved anyone but you," he broke out, 
 roughly and abruptly, able neither to repel nor to plead 
 guilty to the charge she made, but miserably conscious 
 that his one false step might cost him all that he held most 
 dear. To Nan, the very vagueness and — as she deemed 
 it — the irrelevance of his answer constituted an acknow- 
 ledgment of guilt. 
 
 *' Sydney," she murmured, catching at the table for sup- 
 port, and speaking so brokenly that he had difiiculty in 
 distinguishing the words, '* Sydney — I cannot pay this 
 debt I" 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 35t 
 
 And then she fell at his feet in a swoon, which at first he 
 mistook for death. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 " so SHALL YE ALSO REAP." 
 
 For some time Nan's life hung in the balance. It seemed 
 as though a straw either way would suffice to turn the 
 scales. Dead silence reigned in the house in Thurloe 
 Square : the street outside was ankle-deep in straw : 
 doctors and nurses took possession of Nan's pretty rooms, 
 where all her graceful devices and gentle handicrafts were 
 set aside, and their places filled with a grim array of 
 medicaments. The servants, who loved their mistress, 
 went about with melancholy faces and muffled voices ; and 
 the master of the house, hitherto so confident and self- 
 reliant, presented to the world a stony front of silent deso- 
 lation, for which nobody would have given Sydney Campion 
 credit. 
 
 '' Over-exertion or mental shock must have broUj,.it it 
 on," said the doctor, vvl.in questioned by Lady Pynsent as 
 to the cause of Mrs. Campion's illness. 
 
 " She can't have had a mental shock," said Lady Pynsent, 
 decidedly. '* She must have over-excited herself. Do you 
 know how she did it, Sydney ? " 
 
 *' She fainted at my feet almost as soon as I saw her," 
 said Sydney. '• I don't know what she had been doing 
 all the afternoon." 
 
 Nobody else seemed to know, either. The maid bore 
 witness that her mistress had insisted on going downstairs, 
 and it was generally supposed that this expedition had 
 been too much for her strength. Only Sydney knew better, 
 and he would not confide his knowledge to Lady Pynsent, 
 although he si)oke with more freedom to the doctor. 
 
 " Yes, she had bad news which distressed her. She 
 fainted upon hearing it." 
 
 " That did the mischief. She was not in a condition to 
 bear excitement," said the doctor, rather sharply ; but he 
 was sorry for his words, when he noted the distressed 
 look on Sydney's face. He was the more sorry for him 
 
3Sa 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 
 •if-. 
 
 I'fe' 
 
 ■:? 
 
 .1; 
 
 when it was discovered that he could not be admitted to 
 the sick-room, for his appearance sent Nan's pulse up to 
 fever-heiglit at once, although she did not openly confess 
 her agitation. The only thing that Sydney could do was 
 to retire, baffled and disconsolate, to his study, where he 
 passed the night in a state of indescribable anxiety and 
 excitement. 
 
 When the fever abated. Nan fell into such prostration of 
 strength that it was difficult to believe she would ever rise 
 from her bed again. Weaker than a baby, she could move 
 neither hand nor foot : she had to be fed like an infant, at 
 intervals of a few minutes, lest the flame of life, which had 
 sunk so low, should suddenly go out altogether. It was at 
 t"is point of her illness that she fainted when Sydney once 
 persuaded the doctor to let him enter her room, and the 
 nurses had great difficulty in bringing her back to conscious- 
 ness. After which, there was no more talk of visits from 
 her husband, and Sydney had to resign himself to obtain- 
 ing news of her from the docior and the nurses, who, he 
 f^mcied, looked at him askance, as blaming him in their 
 hearts for his wife's illness. 
 
 ** I can't make Nan out," said LadyPynsent to him one 
 day. ''She is so depressed — she cries if one looks at her 
 almost — and yet the very thing that I expected her to be 
 unhappy about does not affect her in the least." 
 
 ** What do you mean ? " said Sydney. 
 
 " W^iy, her disappointment about her baby, of course. 
 I said something about it, and she just whispered, ' I'm 
 very glad.' I suppose it is simply that she feels so weak, 
 otherwise I should have thought it unnatural in Nan, who 
 was always so fond of children." 
 
 Sydney made no answer. He was beginning to find this 
 state of things intolerable. After all, he asked himself, 
 what had he done that his wife should be almost killed by 
 the shock of finding out that he had behaved — as other 
 men behaved ? But that sort of reasoning would not do. 
 His behavior to Milly had been, as he knew, singularly 
 heartless ; and he had happened to marry a girl whose 
 greatest charm to him had been her tenderness of heart, 
 her innocent candor, and that purity of mind which comes 
 of hatred — not ignorance — of sin. A worldlier woman 
 would not have been so shocked ; but he had never 
 desired less crystalline transparency of mind — less exqui- 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 353 
 
 site whiteness of soul, for Nan. No ; that was the worst 
 of It : the very quahlies that he admired and respected in 
 her bore witness against him now. 
 
 He remembered the last hours of his father's life— how 
 they had been embittered by his selfish anger, for which 
 he had never been able to make ai- nds. Was his wife 
 also to die without giving iiim a v.ri of forgiveness, or 
 hearing him ask her pardon ? If sh. Jied, he knew that he 
 would have slain her as surely as if he had struck her to 
 the ground with liis strong right hand. For almost the 
 first time in his life Sydney found himself utterly unnerved 
 by his anxiety. His love for Nan was the truest and 
 strongest emotion that he had ever felt. And that his love 
 for her should be sullied in her eyes by comparison with 
 the transient influence which Milly had exercised over him 
 was an intoleral . outrage on his best and holiest affections 
 and on hers. '- W- t must she think of me? " he said to 
 himself; and ' ^ w fain to confess that she could not 
 think much " 'oi ^e of him than he deserved. It was a 
 bitter harvest t! ,,t he was reaping from seed that he him- 
 self had sow 1. 
 
 He was a .. 3t incapable of work during those terrible 
 day^: when he did not know whether Nan would live ordiel 
 He got through as much as was absolutely imi)crative ; 
 but he dreaded being away from the house, lest that 
 '* change," of which the nurses spoke, should come during 
 his absence ; and he managed to stay at home for n.^aiy 
 hours of the day. 
 
 But at last the corner was turned : a little return of 
 strength was reported, and by and by the doctor assured 
 him that, although his patient still required very great care, 
 the immediate danger was past, and there was at least a 
 fair hope of her ultimate recovery. But he might not see 
 her — yet. 
 
 So much was gained ; but Sydney's spirits did not rise at 
 once. He was conscious of some relief from the agony of 
 suspense, but black care and anxiety sat behind him still. 
 He was freer to come and go, however, than he had been 
 for some time, and the first use he made of his liberty was 
 to go to the very person whom he had once vowed never 
 to see again — his sister Letticc. 
 
 She had written to liim since his interview with her at 
 Bute Lodge. She had told him of Alan's departure, and — 
 
354 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 IV- 
 
 
 to some extent — of its cause : she had given him the 
 address of the lodgings to wliich she was now going (for a 
 continued residence at Bute Lodge was beyond her means), 
 and she sent him her sisterly love — and that was all. She 
 had not condescended to any justification of her own con- 
 duct, nor had she alluded to the accusations that he had 
 made, nor to his own discomfiture. But there had been 
 enough quiet warmth in the letter to make him conscious 
 that he might count on her forgiveness and affection if he 
 desired it. And he did desire it. In the long hours of 
 those sleepless nights and weary days in which he had 
 waited for better news of Nan, it was astonishing to find 
 how clearly the years of his boyhood had come back to 
 him — those quiet, peaceful years in which he had known 
 nothing of the darker sides of life, when the serene atmos- 
 phere of the rectory and the village had been dear to his 
 heart, and Lettice had been his cherished companion and 
 trusty comrade in work or play. It was like going back 
 into another world — a purer and a truer world than ihe one 
 in which he lived now. 
 
 And in these hours of retrospect, he came to clearer and 
 truer conclusions respecting Lettice's character and course 
 'of action than he had been able to do before he was him- 
 self smitten by the hand of Fate. Lettice was interpreted 
 to him by Nan. There were women in the world, it seemed, 
 who had consciences, and pure hearts, and generous 
 emotions : it was not for bim to deny it now. And he 
 had been very hard on Lettice in days gone by. He 
 turned to her now with a stirring of affection which he had 
 not known for years. 
 
 But when he entered Lettice's room, and she came to 
 meet him, gravely, and with a certain inquiry in her look, 
 he suddenly felt that he had no reason to give for his 
 appearance there. 
 
 " Sydney ! " she had exclaimed in surprise. Then, after 
 the first long glance, and with a quick change of tone : 
 " Sydney, are you ill ? " 
 
 For he was haggard and worn, as she had never seen 
 him, with dark lines under his eyes, and an air of prostra- 
 tion and fatigue. 
 
 " No, I'm very well. It's Nan — my wife," he said, 
 avoiding her alarmed gaze. 
 
 *' I am sorry — very sorry. Is she " 
 
 
m the 
 
 ; (for a 
 iieans), 
 1. She 
 n\ con- 
 he had 
 d been 
 nscious 
 n if he 
 ours of 
 he had 
 to find 
 )ack to 
 known 
 atmos- 
 r to his 
 ion and 
 ig back 
 ihe one 
 
 rer and 
 . courGC 
 as him- 
 irpreted 
 jcemed, 
 enerous 
 A.nd he 
 y. He 
 he had 
 
 came to 
 
 er look, 
 
 for his 
 
 ;n, after 
 if tone : 
 
 ^er seen 
 prostra- 
 
 le said, 
 
 N^liW'! AND FAME. 
 
 355 
 
 *' She has been on the brink of death. There is some 
 hope now. I don't kni)W why I came here unless it was to 
 tell you so," said Sydney, with an odd abri.ptncss which 
 seemed to be assumed in order to mask some unusually 
 strong feeling. " I suppose you know that the man John- 
 son came to sec me " 
 
 " Yes : they have gone," said Lettire, quickly. " They 
 were married yesterday, and sailed this morning." 
 
 ** Ah ! Well, sJie was in the room when he — made his 
 communication to me. I did not know it — Johnson never 
 knew it at all. She had been asleep — but she woke and 
 heard what he said. She fninted — and she has been ill 
 ever since." He added a few words concerning the 
 technicalities of his wife's case. 
 
 " Oh, Sydney ! — my poor Sydney ! I am so sorry," said 
 Lettice, her eyes full of tears. For she saw, by his changed 
 manner, something of what his trouble had been, and she 
 instantly forgot all causes of complaint against him. He 
 was sitting sideways on a chair, with his head on his hand ; 
 and when she put her arms round his neck and kissed him, 
 he did not repulse her — indeed, he kissed her in return, 
 and seemed comforted by her caress. 
 
 '* I can't even see her," he went on. " She faints if I 
 go into the room. How long do you think it will last, 
 Lettice ? Will she ever get over it, do you think ? " 
 
 ** If she loves you, I think she will, Sydney. But you 
 must give her time. No doubt it was a great shock to 
 her," said Lettice. 
 
 He looked at her assentingly, and then stared out of the 
 window as if absorbed in thought. The result of his reflec- 
 tions seemed to be summed up in a short sentence which, 
 certainly, Lettice had never expected to hear from Sydney's 
 lips : — 
 
 " I can't think how I came to be such a damned fool. 
 I beg your pardon, Lettice ; but it's true." 
 
 " Can I be of any use to you — or to her ? " 
 
 '' Thank you, I don't think so— just yet. I don't know—" 
 heavily — '^ whether she will want you some day to tell her 
 all you know." 
 
 " Oh, no, Sydney ! " 
 
 "You must do just what you think best about it. I 
 shall put no barriers in the way. x erhaps she had better 
 know everything now." 
 
3S6 
 
 NAMli AND FAME, 
 
 < JdtUi 
 
 W 
 
 r 
 
 11 
 
 % 
 
 m 
 
 Then he roused himself a little and looked at her 
 kindly. 
 
 " How are you getting on ? " he said. " Writing as 
 usual ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am busy, and doing very well," 
 
 " You look thin and fagged." 
 
 " Oh, Sydney, if you could but see yourself I " 
 
 He smiled at this, and then rose to go. 
 
 ** But you will stay and h.ave tea with me ? Do, Sydney — 
 if only," and Lctticc's voice grew low and deep, " if only in 
 token that there is peace between us." 
 
 So he luiyed ; and, although they si)oke no more of the 
 matters that were dearest to their hearts, Lettice's bitter- 
 ness of feeling towards her brother disappeared, and Sydney 
 felt vaguely comforted in his trouble by her sympathy. 
 
 She did not tell him of the strange marriage-scene which 
 she nad wimessed Llic day bc^oii. — when Milly, almost 
 hysterical from over-wrought feel'ng, had vowed to be a 
 true and faithf'd wife to the man \\\\o had pitied and suc- 
 cored her in the time of her sorest need : of Johnson's 
 stolid demeanor, covering a totally unexpected fund of 
 good-feeling and romance ; or of his extraordinary desire, 
 which Lettice had seen carried out, that the baby should 
 be present at its mother's wedding, and should receive — 
 poor little mite — a fatherly kiss from him as soon as he 
 had kissed the forlorn and trembling bride. For Milly, 
 although she professed to like and respect Michael Johnson, 
 shrank somewhat from the prosj)ect of life in another 
 country, and was nervous and excitable to a degree which 
 rather alarmed her mistress. Lettice confessed on reflection, 
 however, that Johnson knew exactly how to manage poor 
 little Milly ; and that he had called smiles to her face in the 
 very midst of a last flood of tears ; and that she had no 
 fear for the girl's ultimate happiness. Johnson had behaved 
 in a very straightforward, manly and considerate way ; and 
 in new surroundings, in a new country, with a kind husband 
 and good prospects, Milly was likely to lead a very happy 
 and comfortable life. Lettice was glad to think so ; and 
 was mere sorry to see the baby go than to part from Milly. 
 Indeed, she had offered to adopt it ; but Johnson was so 
 indignant, and Milly so tearful, at the idea, that she had 
 been forced to relinquish her desire. All this, h^nvever, 
 she withheld from Sydney ; as also her expedition to the 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 357 
 
 st.ilion lo sec the lilllc jKirty start for Liverpool, and Milly's 
 grief al parting with tlie forl)earing mistress wiioiii she had 
 once deceived, and wiio had been, after all, her truest 
 friend, 
 
 Nan began, very slowly, but surely, to amend ; and 
 Sydney, going back to his usual pursuits, seemed busier 
 than ever. 
 
 Jiut, in spite of himself, he was haunted night and day 
 by the fear of what would hapi)en next; of what Nan 
 meant to do when she grew strong. Would she ever for- 
 give him? And if she did not forgive him, what would 
 she do ? Tell the whole story to Sir John, and insist on 
 returning to her brother's house? That would be an 
 extreme thing, and Sir John — who was a man of the world 
 — would probably pooh pooh her virtuous indignation ; 
 but Nan had a way of carry nig out her resolves whether 
 Sir John pooh-poohed them or not. And siipjjosing that 
 Nan separated herself from him, Sydney could not but see 
 that a very serious imputation would be thrown on his 
 character, even if the true story were not known in all its 
 details. That mock marriage — which he had not at first 
 supposed that Milly had taken seriously — had a very ugly 
 sound. And he had made too many enemies for the thing 
 to be allowed to drop if once it came to the light. 
 
 His career was simply at the mercy of two women — the 
 Johnsons were not, he thought, likely to break silence — 
 and if either of them should puove to be indiscreet or 
 vindictive, he was a ruined man. He had injured and 
 insulted his sister : he had shocked and horrified his wife. 
 What Nan thought of him he could not tell. He had always 
 believed that women were too small-minded to forget an 
 injury, to forgive an insult, or to keep silence regatding their 
 husbands' transgressions. If Nan once enlisted Sir John's 
 sympathies on her side, he knew that, although he might 
 ultimately recover from the blow inflicted by his brother- 
 in-law's offense and anger, his chance of success in life 
 would be diminisl-ed. And for what a cause? He 
 writhed as he thought of the pcissing, contemptuous fancy, 
 for the 'iiiJMhrence of which he might have to sacrifice so 
 much and had already sacnficea part of what was dearest in 
 life to hin'i. Yes, he told himself, he was at Nan's mercy, 
 and he had not hitherto found women very ready to hold 
 
SiJfll^^ill 
 
 .1 ■'• 
 
 3S8 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 % 
 
 their hands when weapons had been put into them, and all 
 the instincts of outraged vanity made them strike. 
 
 Sydney Campion prided himself on a wide experience 
 of men and women, and a large acquaintance with human 
 nature. But he did not yet know Nan. 
 
 The story which had been so suddenly unfolded to her had 
 struck her to the earth with the force of a blow, for more 
 than one reason, but chiefly because she had trusted Sydney 
 so completely. She was not so ignorant of the ways of men 
 as to believe that their lives were always free from stain ; 
 indeed she knew more than most girls of the weakness and 
 wickedness of mankind, partly because she wa'^ well ac- 
 quainted with many Vanebury working-people, who were her 
 tenants, partly because Lady Pynsent was a woman of the 
 world and did not choose that Nan should go about with her 
 eyes closed, and partly because she read widely and had 
 never been restricted in the choice of books. She was not 
 a mere ignorant child, shrinking from knowledge as if it 
 were contamination, and blindly believing in the goodness 
 and innocence of all men. But this theoretical acquaint- 
 ance with the world had not saved her from the error into 
 which women are apt to fall — the error of setting up her 
 lover on a pedestal and believing that he was not as other 
 men. She was pu lished for her mistake, she told herself 
 bitterly, by finding that he was even worse, not better, 
 than other men, whose weakenesses she had contemned. 
 
 For there had been a strain of meanness and cruelty 
 in Sydney's behavior to the girl whom he had ruined which 
 cut his wife to the heart. Slie had been tauglit, and she 
 had tried — with some misgiving — to believe that she ought 
 to be prepared to condone a certain amount of levity, of 
 '* wildness," even, in her husband's past ; but here she 
 saw deliberate treachery, cold-blooded selfishness, which 
 startled her from her dream of happiness. Nan was a 
 little too logical for her own peace of mind. She could 
 not look at an action as an isolated fact in a man's life : it 
 was an outcome of character. What Sydney had done 
 showed Sydney as he was. And, oh, what a fall was there : 
 how different from the ideal that she had hoped to see 
 realized in him ! 
 
 It never once occurred to Nan to take either Sir John 
 or Lady Pynsent into her confidence. Sydney was quite 
 
 • 
 
XAME AND FAME. 
 
 359 
 
 
 mistaken in thinking that she would fly to them for consola- 
 tion. She would have shrunk sensitively from telling them 
 any story to his discredit. Besides, she shrewdly suspected 
 that they would not share her disappointment, her sense 
 of disillusion; Sir John had more than once laughed in an 
 oddly amused way when she dropped a word in praise of 
 Syd'iey's high-mindedncss and generous zeal for others. 
 ''Campion knows which side his bread's buttered," he had 
 once made her angry by saying. She had not the slightest 
 inclination to talk to them of Sydney's past life and 
 character. 
 
 Besides, she knew well enough that she had no actual 
 cause of complaint in the eyes of the world. Her husband 
 was not bound to tell her all that happpened to him before 
 he met her ; and he had severed all connection with that 
 unhappy young woman before he asked her, Anna Pynsent, 
 to be' his wife. Nan's grievance was one of those intangi- 
 ble grievances which bring the lines into so many women's 
 faces and the pathos into their eyes— the grieva.ice of having 
 set up an idol and seen it fall. The Sydney Campion who 
 had deceived and wronged a trusting girl was not the man 
 that she had known and loved. That was all. It was 
 nothing that could be told to the outer world, nothing that 
 in itself constituted a reason for her leaving him and 
 making him a mark for arrows of scandal and curiosity ; 
 but it simply killed outright the love that she. had hitherto 
 borne him, so that lier heart lay cold and heavy in her 
 bosom as a stone. 
 
 So frozen and hard it seemed to her, that she could not 
 bring herself to acknowledge that certain words spoken to 
 her husband by the stranger had liad any effect on her at 
 all. In the old days, as she said to herself, tlicy would 
 have hurt her terribly. " You cruelly deserted her because 
 you wanted to marry a rich woman.'' She, Nan, was the 
 rich woman for whom Sydney Campion had deserted 
 anotlier, It was cruel to have made her the cause of 
 Sydney's treachery— the instrument of his fall. She had 
 never wished to wrong anyone, nor that anyone should be 
 wronged for her sake. She would not, she thought, have 
 married Sydney if she li.ul known tiiis story earher. Why 
 had he married her ?— ah, there came in the sting of the 
 sentence which she had overheaid : - Von wanted to marry 
 a rich woman." Yes, she was rich. Sydney had not even 
 
360 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 mA 
 
 paid her the very poor compliment of deserting another 
 woman because he loved her l3est — he had loved her wealth 
 and committed a base deed to gain it, that was all. 
 
 She was unjust to Sydney in this ; but it was almost 
 impossible that she should not be unjust. The remem- 
 brance of his burden of debt came back to her, of the bill 
 that he could not meet, of the list of his liabilities which 
 he had been so loath to give her, and she told herself that 
 he had desired nothing but her wealth and the position 
 that she could give him. To attain his own ends he had 
 made a stepping-stone of her. He was welcome to do so. 
 She would make it easy for him to use her money, so that 
 he need never know the hmniliation of applying to her for 
 it. Now that she understood what he wanted, she would 
 never again make the mistake of supposing that he cared 
 for her, "But it was hard on her — hard to think that she 
 had given the love of her youth to a man who valued her 
 only for her gold ; hard to know that the dream of happi- 
 ness was over, and that the brightness of her life was gone. 
 
 It was no wonder that Nan's recovery was slow, when 
 she lay, day after day, night after night, the slow tears 
 creeping down her cheeks, thinking such thoughts as these. 
 The blow seemed to have broken her heart and her will to 
 live. It would have been a relief to her to be told that she 
 must die. 
 
 Her weakness was probably responsible for part of the 
 depth and darkness of her desj^air. She was a puzzle to 
 her sister-in-law, who had been used to find in Nan a never- 
 failing spring of brightness and gentle mirth. Lady Pyn- 
 sent began to see signs of something more tlian a physical 
 ailment. She said one day, more seriously tlian usual, 
 
 " I hope, Nan, you have not quarreled with your hus- 
 band." 
 
 "Oh no, no," said Nan, starting and flushing guilty; 
 " I never quarrel with Sydney." 
 
 " I fancied there was somctlnng amiss. Take my advice, 
 Nan, and don't stand on your dignity with your husband. 
 A man is ready enough to console himself with somebody 
 else if his wife isn't nice to him. I would make it up if I 
 were you, if there has been anything wrong." 
 
 Nan kept silence. 
 
 " He is very anxious about you. Don't you think you 
 are well enough to see him to-day? " For Sydney had no: 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 361 
 
 entered Nan's room since that unlucky time when slie 
 fainted at his appearance. 
 
 ''Oh no, no — not to-day," said Nan. And tlien, col- 
 lecting herself, she added, " At least — not just yet — a little 
 later in the afternoon, I mean." 
 
 " I'll tell him to look in at four," said Lady Pynsent. 
 
 So at four Sydney was admitted, and it would have been 
 hard to say whether husband or wife felt the more embar- 
 rassment. Sydney tried hard to behave as though nothing 
 were amiss between them. He i-.issed her and asked after 
 her well-being ; but he did so with an inward tremor and 
 a great uncertainty as to the reception that he should meet 
 with. But she allowed him to kiss her; she even kissed 
 him in return and smiled a very little, more than once, 
 while he was talking to her ; and he, feeling his heart grow 
 lighter while she smiled, fancied that the shadow of sadness 
 m her eyes, the lifelcssness of her voice and hand, came 
 simply from bodily weakness and from no deeper cause. 
 
 After this first visit, he saw her each day for longer inter- 
 vals, and realized very quickly that she had no intention 
 of shunning him or punishing him before tlie world, as he 
 had feared that she would do. She was so quiet, so gentle 
 to him, that, with all a man's obtuseness where women are 
 concerned, he congratulated himself on being let off so 
 easily, and thought that the matter was to be buried in 
 oblivion. He even wondered a little at Nan's savoir-faire^ 
 and felt a vague sense of disappointment mingling with his 
 relief Was lie to hear no more about it, although she had 
 been struck down and brought almost to death's door by 
 the discovery of his wretched story ? 
 
 It seemed to be so, indeed. For some time he was kept 
 in continual suspense, expecting her to speak to him on the 
 subject ; but he wailed in vain. Then, with great reluct- 
 ance, he himself made sone slight approach, some sliglit 
 reference to it \ a reference so slight that if, as he some- 
 times fancied, her illness had destroyed her memory of the 
 conversation wliieh she had overheard in the study, he nee -:^ 
 not betray himself. Cut there was no trace of lack or 
 memory ii^ Nan's face, when he brought out the words 
 which he hoped would lead to some fuller understanding 
 between them. She turned scarlet and then white as snow, 
 mg her face aside, she said, in a low but very distinct 
 
 r ■ \ 
 
 / '■. 4« JW} 
 
362 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 *' I want to hear no more about it, Sydney." 
 
 ** But, Nan " 
 
 " Please say no more," she interrupted. And something 
 in her tone made him keep silence. He looked at her for 
 a minute or two, but she would not look at him, and so he 
 got up and left her, with a sense of mingled injury and 
 defeat. 
 
 No, she had not forgotten : she was not oblivious ; and 
 he doubted whetlier she had forgiven him as he thought. 
 The prohibition to speak on the subject chafedhim, although 
 he had previously said to himself that it was next to im- 
 possible for him to mention it to her. And he was puzzled, 
 for he had not followed the workinL-; •■ of Nan's mind in the 
 least, and the words concerning his marriage with her and 
 his reasons for it had slipped past him unheeded, while his 
 *houghts were fixed upon other things. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 WHO WITH REPENTANCE IS NOT SATISFIED- 
 
 i> 
 
 Before the summer came, Mrs. Sydney Campion was well 
 enough to drive out in an open carriage, and entertain 
 visitors , but > was painfully apparent to her friends that 
 her health hn-l r ceived a shock from which it had not by 
 any means recovered. She grew better up to a certain 
 point, and there she seemed to stay. She had lost all 
 interest in life. Day after day, when Sydney came home, 
 he would find her sitting or lying on a sofa, white and still, 
 with book or work dropped idly in her lap, her dark eyes 
 full of an unsi)oken sorrow, her mouth drooping in mourn- 
 ful '^urves, her thin cheek laid against a slender hand, where 
 the veins looked strangely blue through the delicate white- 
 ness of the flesh. But she never complained. When 'ler 
 husband brought her flowers and presents, as he still liked 
 to do, she took them gently and thanked him ; but he 
 noticed that she laid thcrn aside and seldom looked at them 
 acain. The spirit seemed to have gone out of her. And 
 in his own heart Sydney raged and fretted — for why, lie 
 said to himself, should she not be like other women ? — 
 why, if slie iiacl a grudge against him, should she not tell 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 363 
 
 him so ? She might reproach him as bitterly as she pleased ; 
 the storm would spend itself in time and break in sun- 
 shine ; but this terrible silence was like a nightmare about 
 them both ! He wished that he had the courage to break 
 through it,' but he was experiencing the truth of the saying 
 that conscience makes cowards of us all, and he dared not 
 break the silence that she had imposed. 
 
 One day, when he had brought her some flowers, she put 
 them away from her with a slight unusual sign of im- 
 patience. 
 
 " Don't bring me any more," she said. 
 
 Her husband looked at her intently. '' You don't care 
 for them ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 *• I thought," he said, a little mortification struggling with 
 natural disappointment in his breast, •' that I had heard 
 you say you liked them — or, at any rate, tliat you liked me 
 to bring them " 
 
 '^ That was long ago," she answered softly, but coldly. 
 She lay with her eyes closed, her face very pale and weary. 
 
 "One would think," he went on, spurred by puzzled 
 anger to put a long unspoken t-hought into bare words, 
 *' that you did not care for mciiow — thai you did not Icve 
 me any longer ? " 
 
 She opened her eyes and looked at him steadily. There 
 was something almost like pity in her iV<,ce. 
 
 *' 7 am afraid it is true, Sydrey. I ?ra very sorry." 
 
 He stood staring at her a ii' i'j longer, as if he could not 
 believe liis ears. The red blood slowly mounted to his fore- 
 head. She retur: \ his gaze with the mme look of almcjt 
 wistful pity, in ^^ ich thei-e was an aloofness, a coldness, 
 that showed him as nothing else had ever done the extent 
 of her estrangement from himself. Somehow he felt as 
 though she had struck hmi on the lips. He walked away 
 from her with it another word, and shut himself into his 
 study, wliere ne sat for some minutes at his writing-table, 
 seeing nothing, thinking of nothing, dumbly conscious that 
 he was, on the whole, more wretclied than he had ever been 
 in the course of a fiiirly prosperous and successful life. 
 
 He loved Nan. and Nan did not love him. Vy'ell, there 
 was an end of \ '"^ domestic happiness. Fortunately, there 
 was work to be >.one still, success to be achieved, p izes to 
 win in the world of men. He was not going to sit down 
 
Z^>A 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 is.- 
 
 r- '^i 
 
 
 ■1 
 
 
 and despair because he had lost a woman's love. And so, 
 with set lips and frowning brow he once more set to work, 
 and this time with redoubled vigor ; but he knew all the 
 while that he was a very miserable man. 
 
 Perhaps if he had seen Nan crying over the flowers that 
 she had just rejected, he might have hoped that there was 
 still a chance of recovering the place in her heart which he 
 had lost. 
 
 But after this short conversation life went on in the old 
 ways. Sydney appeared to be more than ever engrossed in 
 his work. Nan grew paler and stiller every day. Lady 
 Pynsent became anxious and distressed. 
 
 "Sydney, what are you doing? what are you thinking 
 about? " she said to him one day, when she managed to 
 catch him for five minutes alone. '* Don't you see how ill 
 Nan is ? " 
 
 " She looks ill j but she always says there is nothing the 
 matter with her." 
 
 " That is a very bad sign. I hope you have made her 
 consult a good doctor? There is Burrows — I should take 
 her to him." 
 
 *' Burrows ! Why, he is a specialist ! " 
 
 " Nan's i-xOther died of decline. Burrows attended 
 her." 
 
 Sydney went away with a new fear implanted in his 
 heart. 
 
 Dr. Burrows was sent for, and saw his patient ; but he 
 did not seem able to form any definite opinion concerning 
 her. He said a few words to Sydney, however, which gave 
 him food for a good deal of reflection during the next day 
 or two. 
 
 At the end of that time, he came to Nan's sitting-room 
 with a look of quiet purpose on his face. " May I speak 
 to you for a minute ? " he began formally — he had got into 
 the way of speaking very formally and ceremoniously to 
 her now. '* Can you listen to me ? " 
 
 '' Certainly. Won't you sit down?" 
 
 But he preferred to remain standing at an angle where 
 she could net see his face without turning her head. 
 
 " I have been talking to Dr. Burrows abo^t you. He 
 tells me, I am sorry to say, that you are still very weak ; 
 bui. he thinks that there is nothing wrong but weakness, 
 though that is bad enough in itself. But he wishes rae 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 3«>5 
 
 so. 
 
 also to say— you will remember tliat it is he who speaks, 
 not I— that if you could manage to rouse yourself, Nan, if 
 you would made an effort to get stronger, he thinks you 
 might do it, if you chose." 
 
 " Like Mrs. Dombey," said Nan, with a faint, cheerless 
 smile. 
 
 " He is afraid," Sydney went on, with the air of one who 
 repeats a_ lesson, '' that you are drifting into a state of 
 hopeless invalidism, which you might siill avoid. Once in 
 that state you would not die. Nan, as you might like to 
 do: you would live for years in helpless, useless," suffering. 
 Nan, my dear, it is very hard for me to say this to you " — 
 his voice quivering — " but I promised Burrows, for your 
 own sake, that I would. Such a life Nan, would be torture 
 to you ; and you have it still within your power — you can 
 prevent it if you chose." 
 
 ** It seems to me very cruel to say so," Nan answered, 
 quietly. " What can I do that I have not done ? I have 
 taken all the doctors' remedies and done exactly as they 
 bade me. I am very tired of being ill and weak, I assure 
 you. It is not my fault that I should like to die." 
 
 She began to cry a little as she spoke. Her mouth and 
 chin quivered : the tears ran slowly over her white cheeks. 
 Sydney drew a step nearer. 
 
 " No, it isn't your fault," he said, hoarsely, " it is mine. 
 I believe I am killing you by inches. Do you want to 
 make me feel myself a murderer.!* Could you not — even 
 for my poor sake — try to get stronger. Nan, try to take an 
 interest in something — something healthy and reasonable? 
 That is v/hat Dr. Burrows says you need ; and I can't do 
 this thing for you ; I, whom you don't love any longer," 
 he said, with a sudden fury of passion which stopped her 
 tears at once, '' but who love you with all my heart, as I 
 never loved in all my life before — I swear it before God ! " 
 
 He stopped short : he had not meant to speak of his love 
 for her, only to urge her to make that effort over her lan- 
 guor and her indifference which the great physician said she 
 must make before her health could be restored. Nan lay 
 looking at him, the tears drying on her pale checks, her 
 lips parted, her eyes unusually bright ; but she did not 
 speak. 
 
 * " If there was anything I could do to please you," her 
 husband went on in a quieter lone, '' I would do it. Would 
 
. s 
 
 ( 
 
 7 
 
 
 3«6 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 you care, for instance^ lo live abroad ? Burrows recom- 
 mends a bracing air. If you would go with me to Norway 
 or Switzerland — at once ; and then pass the winter at 
 Davos, or any place you liked ; perhaps you would care 
 for that? Is there nothing you would like to do? You 
 used to say you wanted to sec India " 
 
 '* But your work!" she broke in suddenly. ^^ You 
 could not go : it is useless to talk of an impossibility." 
 
 " If it would make you better or happier, I would go." 
 
 '' But the House ? " 
 
 " Nothing easier than to accept the Chiltern Hundreds," 
 said Sydney. 
 
 " And your profession ? " said Nan, raising herself on 
 one arm and looking keenly at him. 
 
 She saw that he winced at the question, but he scarcely 
 paused before he replied. 
 
 " I have thought it well over. I could go on practising 
 
 when I came back to England ; and in the meantime 
 
 I suppose you would have to take me abroad, Nan : I 
 could not well take you," he said with a grim sort of jocu- 
 larity, which she could not help seeing was painful to him. 
 " If it did you good, as Burrows thinks it would, I should 
 be quite prepared to give up eveiything else." 
 
 " Give up everything else," Nan murmured. " For 
 me?" 
 
 He drew a long breath. " Well, yes. The fact is I have 
 lost some of my old interest in my work, compared with 
 other things. I have come to this. Nan — I would let my 
 career go to the winds, if by doing so I could give you 
 back strength and happiness. Tell me what I can do : 
 that is all. I have caused you a great deal of misery, I 
 know : if there is any way in which I can atone " 
 
 He did not go on, and for a few moments Nan could not 
 speak. There was color enough in her cheeks now, and 
 light in her eyes, but she turned away from him, and would 
 not let him see her face. 
 
 " I want to think over what you have said. Please don't 
 think me ungracious or unkind, Sydney. I want to do 
 what is best. We can talk about it another time, can we 
 not?" 
 
 " Any time you like." 
 
 And then he ieft her, and she lay still. 
 
 Had she been wrong all the while? Had she of her own 
 free will allowed herself to drift into this state of languor, 
 
 4 
 
 i 
 
 
recom- 
 ^J" or way 
 liter at 
 Id care 
 ? You 
 
 " Vou 
 ty." 
 i go." 
 
 dreds," 
 
 rself on 
 
 carcely 
 
 actising 
 
 me 
 
 Nan : I 
 
 of jocu- 
 
 to him. 
 
 should 
 
 AV/il/A AA7) I'AME. 
 
 3^7 
 
 (( 
 
 For 
 
 I have 
 ed with 
 
 let my 
 ve you 
 an do : 
 
 isery, 
 
 I 
 
 111 Id not 
 )w, and 
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 to do 
 
 can we 
 
 lerown 
 nguor, 
 
 M 
 
 \ 
 
 and weakness, and indifference to everything ? Wi}at did 
 these doctors know— what did Sydney himself know— of 
 the great wave of disgust and sliame and scorn that liad 
 passed over her soul and sul)mcrgcdall that was good and 
 fair } They could not understand : she said to herself 
 passionately that no man could understand the recoil of a 
 woman's heart against sensual passion and impurity. In 
 her eyes Sydney had fallen as much as the woman whom 
 he had betrayed, although she knew that the world would 
 not say so ; and in his degradation she felt herself included. 
 She was dragged down to his level — she was dragged 
 through the mire : that was the thoiiglit that scorched iier 
 from time to time like a darting flame of fire. P'or Nan 
 was very proud, although she looked so gentle, and she had 
 never before come into contact w^ith anything that could 
 stain her whiteness of soul. 
 
 She had told Sydney that she loved him no longer, and 
 in the deadncss of emotion which had followed on tlic first 
 acuteness of her grief for her lost idol, and the physical 
 exhaustion caused by her late illness, she had thought she 
 spoke the truth. But, after all, what was this yearning 
 over him, in spite of all his errors, but love ? what this con- 
 tinual thoi:^;ut of him, this aching sense of loss, even this 
 intense d-jsire that he should suffer for his sin, but an 
 awakening within her of the deep, blind love that, as a 
 woman has said, sometimes 
 
 " Stineth deep below " 
 the ordinary love of common life, with a 
 
 <' Hidden beating slow, 
 And the blind yearning, and the long-drawn breath 
 Of the love that conquers death " ? 
 
 For the first time she was conscious of the existence of 
 love that was beyond the region of spoken words, or 
 caresses, or the presence of the beloved : love that inter- 
 twined itself with the fibres of her whole being, so that if 
 it were smitten her very life was smitten too. This was 
 the explanation of her weariness, her weakness, her distaste 
 for everything : the best part of herself was gone when her 
 
m 
 
 
 
 368 
 
 N^Mli AXD FAME. 
 
 love seemed to be destroyed. The invisible cords of love 
 which bind a nKjlher to her child aie explicable on natural 
 grounds ; but not less strong, not less natural, though less 
 common, are those which hold a nature like Nan's to the 
 sonl of the man slie loves. That Sydney was unworthy of 
 such a love, need not be said; but it is the office of the 
 higher nature to seek out the unworthy and '* to make the 
 low nature better by its throes'." 
 
 Nan lay still and looked her love in the face, and was 
 startled to find that it was by no means dead, but stronger 
 than it had been before. '' And he is my husband," she 
 said to herself; ''I am bound to be true to him. I am 
 ashamed to have faltered. What does it matter if he has 
 erred? I may be bitterly sorry, but I will not love him 
 one whit the less. I could never leave him now." 
 
 But a thought followed which was a pain to her. If she 
 loved him in spile of error, what of her own sense of" right 
 and wrong ? Was she not in danger of paltering with it in 
 order to excuse him ? would she not in time be tempted to 
 say that he had not erred, that he had done only as other 
 men do ? — and so cloud the fair outlines of truth which had 
 hitherto been mapped out with ethereal clearness for her 
 by that conscience which she had always regarded, vaguely 
 but earnestly, as in some sort the voice of God ? Would she 
 ever say that she herself had been an ignorant little fool in 
 her judgment of men and men's temptations, and laugh at 
 herself for her narrowness and the limitation of her view? 
 Would she come to renounce her high ideal, and content 
 herself with what was merely expedient and comfortable 
 and " like other people" ? In that day^ it seemed to Nan 
 that she will be selling her own soul. 
 
 No, the way out of the present difficulty was not easy. 
 She could tell Sydney that she loved him, but not that she 
 thought him anything but wrong — wrong from beginning 
 to end in the conduct of his past life. And would he be 
 content v/ith a love that condemned him? How easy it 
 would be for her to love and forgive him if only he would 
 give her one little sign by which to know that he himself 
 was conscious of the blackness of that past ! Repentance 
 would show at least that there was no twist in his con- 
 science, no flaw in his ethical constitution ; it would set 
 him riglit with the universe, if not with himself. For the 
 moment ther* was nothing Nan so passionately desired as 
 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 369 
 
 of love 
 natural 
 ugh less 
 s to the 
 Drthy of 
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 ake the 
 
 and was 
 
 jtronger 
 id," she 
 . I am 
 f he has 
 ive him 
 
 If she 
 of right 
 ;ith it in 
 ipted to 
 IS other 
 lich had 
 for her 
 vaguely 
 Duld she 
 I fool in 
 augh at 
 r view ? 
 content 
 fortable 
 to Nan 
 
 Dt easy, 
 that she 
 iginning 
 d he be 
 
 easy it 
 e would 
 
 himself 
 entance 
 his con- 
 Duld set 
 For the 
 sired as 
 
 to hear him own liimsclf in the wrong-— not for any ])ersonal 
 satisfaction so much as for his own sake ; also that she 
 might then put him ui)on a higher pedestal than ever, and 
 worship hun as a womnn is always able to worship the 
 man who has sinned and repented, rather than the man 
 who has never fallen from liis high estate; to rejoice over 
 him as angels rejoice over the penitent more than over the 
 just that need no repentance. 
 
 Sydney was a good deal startled when his wife said to 
 him a few days later, in rather a timid way : 
 
 "Your sister has never been here. May I ask her to 
 come and see me ? " 
 
 " Certainly, if you wish it." He had not come to ap- 
 prove of Lettice's course of action, but he did not wish his 
 disapproval to be patent to the world. 
 
 '* I do wish it very mucli." 
 
 Sydney glanced at her quickly, but she did not lookback 
 at him. She only said : 
 
 " I have her address. I will ask her to come to-morrow 
 afternoon." 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 So Nan wrote her note, and Lettice came. 
 
 As it happened, the two had never met. Lettice's pre- 
 occupation with her own affairs, Sydney's first resentment, 
 now wearing off, and Nan's subsecpient illness, had com- 
 bined to prevent their forming any acquaintance. But the 
 two women had no sooner clasped hands, and looked into 
 each other's eyes, than they loved one anotlier, and the 
 sense of mental kinship made itself plain between them. 
 
 They sat down together on the couch in Nan's private 
 sitting-room and fell into a little aimless talk, which was 
 succeeded by a short, significant silence. Then Nan put 
 out her hand and look Lettice's in her own. 
 
 " You know /" she said, in a whisper.' 
 
 " I know— what ? " 
 
 " You know all that is wrong between Sydney and myself. 
 You know what made me ill." 
 
 " Yes.'^ 
 
 ''And you know too— that T love him— very dearly," 
 The words were broken l)y a sob. 
 
 *' Yes, dear — as he loves you." 
 
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 " You think so — really ? " 
 
 ** I am quite sure of it. How could you doubt that ? " 
 
 *' I did doubt it for a time. I heard the man say that he 
 married me because I was — rich." 
 
 " And you believed it ? " 
 
 " I believed anything — everything. And the rest," said 
 Nan, with a rising color in her face, " the rest was true." 
 
 " Dear," said Lettice, gently, " there is only one thing 
 to be said now — that he would be very glad to undo the 
 past. He is very sorry." 
 
 " You think he is ? " 
 
 " Can you look at him and not see the marks of his sor- 
 row and his pain upon his face ? He has suffered a great 
 deal ; and it would be better for him now to forget the 
 past, and to feel that you forgave him." 
 
 Nan brushed away some falling tears, but did not speak 
 at once. 
 
 " Lettice," she said at last, in a broken whisper, '* I 
 believe I have been very hard and cold all these long 
 months. I thought I did not care — but I do, I do. Only 
 — I wish I could forget — that poor girl— and the little 
 child " 
 
 She burst into sudden weeping, so vehement that Lettice 
 put both her arms round the slight, shaken figure, and tried 
 to calm her by caresses and gentle words. 
 
 "Is there nothing thit I could do? nothing Sydney 
 could do — to make amends? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Lettice gently, but with decision. 
 " They are happy now, and prosperous ; good has come 
 out of the evil, and it is better to forget the evil itself. 
 Don't be afraid ; I hear from them, and about them, con- 
 stantly, and if ever they were in need of help, our hands 
 would be the ones stretched out to help them. The good 
 we cannot do to them we can do to others for their 
 sakes." 
 
 And Nan was comforted. 
 
 
 Sydney came home early that evening ; anxious, dis- 
 quieted, somewhat out of heart. He found that Lettice 
 had gone, and that Nan was in her sitting-room. He gen- 
 erally went up to her when he came in, and this time he 
 did not fail \ though his lips paled a little as he went up- 
 
NAME AND J^AME. 
 
 37t 
 
 at?" 
 ;hat he 
 
 t," said 
 true." 
 e thing 
 [ido the 
 
 his sor- 
 a great 
 jet the 
 
 t speak 
 
 )er, " I 
 ;e long 
 Only 
 le little 
 
 Lettice 
 id tried 
 
 Sydney 
 
 ecision. 
 as come 
 il itself. 
 ;m, con- 
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 he good 
 Dr their 
 
 ►us, dis- 
 ; Lettice 
 He gen- 
 time he 
 vent up- 
 
 
 I 
 
 stairs, for the thought forced itself upon him that Lettice 
 might have made things worse, not belter, between himself 
 and his wife. 
 
 The daylight was fading as he entered the room. Nan 
 was lying down, but she was not asleep, for she turned her 
 head towards him as he entered. He noticed the move- 
 ment. Of late she had always averted her face when he 
 came near her. He wished that he could see her more 
 plainly, but she was wrapped in shadow, and the room was 
 almost dark. 
 
 He asked after her health as usual, and whether Lettice 
 had been and gone. Then silence fell between them, but 
 he felt that Nan was looking at him intently, and he did 
 not dare to turn away. 
 
 "Sydney," she said at last. "Will you come here? 
 Close to me. I want to say something " 
 
 " Yes, Nan ? " 
 
 He bent down over her, with something like a new hope 
 in his heart. What was she going to say to him ? 
 
 " Sydney — will you take me to Switzerland ? " 
 
 " Certainly." Was that all ? " When shall we go? " 
 
 *' When can you leave London ? " 
 
 " To-morrow. Any time." 
 
 ** You really would give up all your engagements, all 
 your prospects, for me?" 
 
 " Willingly, Nan." 
 
 " I begin to believe," she said, softly, " that you do care 
 for me — a little." 
 
 " Nan ! Oh, Nan, have you doubted it ? " 
 
 Her hand stole gently into his ; she drew him down 
 beside her. 
 
 " Dear Sydney, come here. Put your arm right round 
 me — so. Now I can speak. I want to tell you something 
 — many things. It is Lettice that has made me think I 
 ought to say all this. Do you know, I have felt for a long, 
 long time as if you had killed me — killed the best part of 
 me, I mean — the soul that loved you, the belief in all that 
 was good and true. That is why I have been so miserable. 
 I did not know how to bear it. I thought that I did not 
 love you ; but I have loved you all the time ; and now — 
 now " 
 
 " Now? " said Sydney. She felt that the arm on which 
 she leaned was trembling like a leaf. 
 
 \'\ 
 
 ■It 
 
 iiii 
 
 ■p 
 
372 
 
 NAME AND FAMR. 
 
 
 li; ■' 
 
 " Now I could love you better than ever — if I knew one 
 thing — if I dared ask " 
 
 " You may ask what you like," he said, in a husky 
 voice. 
 
 " It is not such a very great thing," she said, simply ; 
 " it is only what you yourself think about the past : whe- 
 tlier you think with me that it is something to be sorry 
 about, or something to be justified. I feel as if I could 
 forget it if I knew that you were sorry ; and if you justified 
 it — as some men would do — oh, I should never reproach 
 you, Sydney, but I would much rather die ! " 
 
 There was a silence. His head was on the cushion be- 
 side her, but his face was hidden, and she could gather 
 only from his loud, quick breathing that he was deeply 
 moved. But it was some time before he spoke. 
 
 " I don't try to justify myself," he said, at last. " I was 
 wrong — I know it well enough — and — well if you must have 
 me say it — God knows that I am — sorry." 
 
 " Ah," she said, " that is all I wanted you to say. Oh 
 Sydney, my darling, can anything now but death come 
 between you and me ? " 
 
 And she drew his head down upon her bosom and let it 
 rest there, dearer in the silent shame that bowed it before 
 her than in the heyday of its pride. 
 
 So they were reconciled, and the past sin and sorrow 
 were slowly blotted out in waters of repentance. Before 
 the world, Sydney Campion is still the gay, confident, suc- 
 cessful man that he has always been — a man who does not 
 make many friends, and who has, or appears to have, an 
 overweening belief in his own powers. But there is a 
 softer strain in him as well. Within his heart there is a 
 chamber held sacred from the busy world in which he 
 moves : and here a woman is enshrined, with all due 
 observance, with Hghts burning and flowers blooming, as 
 his patron saint. It is Nan who presides here, who knows 
 the inmost recesses of his thought, who has gauged the ex- 
 tent of his failures and weakness as well as his success, 
 who is conscious of the strength of his regrets as well as 
 the burdensome weight of a dead sin. And in her, there- 
 fore, he puts the trust which we can only put in those who 
 know all sides of us, the worst side even as the best : on 
 her he has even come to lean with that sense of uttermost 
 
 ^ 
 
A'.IMK .IXD 1 AaME. 
 
 373 
 
 new one 
 
 a husky 
 
 simply ; 
 t : whe- 
 be sorry 
 f I could 
 justified 
 reproach 
 
 ;hion be- 
 d gather 
 IS deeply 
 
 , '' I was 
 
 oust have 
 
 say. Oh 
 ith come 
 
 and let it 
 it before 
 
 d sorrow 
 Before 
 lent, suc- 
 does not 
 have, an 
 lere is a 
 there is a 
 which he 
 all due 
 3ming, as 
 lo knows 
 :d the ex- 
 success, 
 IS well as 
 ler, there- 
 lose who 
 best : on 
 uttermost 
 
 dependence, that feeling of repose, which is given to us 
 only in the presence of a love that is more than half 
 divine. 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLL 
 
 A FREE PARDON. 
 
 St. James* Hall was packed from end to end one summer 
 afternoon by an eager mob of music lovers — or, at least, of 
 those who counted themselves as such. The last Phil- 
 harmonic Concert of the season had been announced ; and 
 as one of its items was Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, the 
 crowd was, as usual on such an occasion, a great and 
 enthusiastic one. 
 
 Even the dark little gallery near the roof, fronting the 
 orchestra, was well filled, for there are music lovers (most- 
 ly tliose whose purse is lean) who declare that, though the 
 shilling gallery is hot, and close, and dark, there is in all 
 the room no better place for hearing the great waves of 
 sound rolled out by tlie orchestra from the Master's mighty 
 scores. And it was for this reason that Lettice Campion 
 came up the narrow stairs that afternoon at ten minutes to 
 three, and found, as she might have expected, that only a 
 few seats against the wall remained empty. Into the near- 
 est of these she dropped, rather exhausted by her climb 
 and the haste that she had made ; and then she noticed, as 
 her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, that some 
 one beside her had half turned round, and was looking 
 earnestly into her face. 
 
 *' Alan ! " . 
 
 The color sprang into Lettice's face : the roll of music 
 that she carried dropped from her lap as she held out her 
 hand. Alan returned her greeting, and then dived for her 
 music, thus giving her a moment in which to recover her 
 self-possession. When he came up again, she was still a 
 little flushed, but she was smiling tranquilly. 
 
 
 % 
 
374 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 W.i'< 
 
 " I am so glad to see you," she said simply. 
 
 " I don't kn^w what impelled me to come this afternoon. 
 I never thought that I should have this happiness." Then, 
 in a lower tone, '* You don't mind my being here ? You 
 don't want me to go away ? " 
 
 " No, no, wliy should I ? It does not matter — here." 
 
 They had not seen each other at all for weeks, itnd had 
 met only two or three times, and then for a few minutes 
 only, since Alan left Bute Lodge in December. They cor- 
 responded freely and frankly, but Lettice had decreed, in 
 spite of some murmurs from Alan, that they should not 
 meet. Scandal had been busy with her name, and, until 
 Alan obtained his divorce, it seemed belter to her to live 
 a very retired life, seeing almost nobody, and especially 
 guarding herself against accusations of any close associa- 
 tion with Alan Walcott. 
 
 " I had just posted a letter to you before I came out," 
 he said. They were at the end of the last row of scats and 
 could talk, before the music began, without any fear of 
 being overheard. " It is as I expected, Lettice. There 
 are great difficulties in our way." 
 
 She looked an niterrogation. 
 
 " The length oi time that has elapsed is an obstacle. We 
 cannot find any proof of worse things than drunkenness and 
 brawling during the last year or two. And of the events 
 before that time, when I know that she was untrue to me, 
 wq scarcely see how to obtain absolute proof You must 
 forgive me for mentioning these things to you, but I am 
 obliged." 
 
 ** Yes, and there is no reason why you should not tell 
 me everything," she said, turning her quiet eyes upon him 
 with a look of such perfect trust that the tumult in Alan's 
 mind was suddenly stilled. " But you knew that there 
 would be difficulties. Is there anything else ? " 
 
 " I hardly know how to tell you. She has done what I 
 half expected her to do — she has brought a countercharge 
 against me — against " 
 
 " Ah, I understand. All the more reason, Alan, why 
 we should fight it out." 
 
 " My love," he said, in the lowest possible tone that 
 could reach her ears, " if you knew how it grieves me that 
 you should suffer ! " 
 
NAME AND FAME. 
 
 375 
 
 moon. 
 
 Then, 
 
 » You 
 
 »» 
 
 ere. 
 .nd bad 
 iiinutes 
 ley cor- 
 reed, in 
 lid not 
 id, until 
 r to live 
 ipccially 
 associa- 
 
 me out," 
 eats and 
 y fear of 
 , There 
 
 icle. We 
 mess and 
 le events 
 le to me, 
 low must 
 but I am 
 
 i not tell 
 ipon him 
 in Alan's 
 mt there 
 
 le what I 
 er charge 
 
 Uan, why 
 
 tone that 
 s me that 
 
 "But 1 am suff'iing with you," she answered tenderly; 
 "and don't you think that \ would rather do that than see 
 you bear your suffering alone?" 
 
 Here tlic first notes of the orchestra fell upon their ear^ 
 and the conversation had to cease. For the next hour or 
 so they had scarcely time to do more than interchange a 
 word or two, but they sat side by side rapt in a strange 
 content. The music filled their veins with intoxicating 
 delight; it was of a kind that Letlice rejoiced in exceed- 
 ingly, and that Alan loved without quite knowing why. 
 The Tannhauser Overture, the Walktiren-Ritt, two of 
 Schubert's loveliest songs and the less exciting but more 
 easily comprehensible productions of an earlier classical 
 composer, were the chief items of the first part of the con- 
 cert. Thei^came an interval, after which the rest of tlve 
 afternoon would be devoted to the Choral Symphony. But 
 during this interval Alan hastened to make the most of his 
 opportunity. 
 
 " We shall have a bitter time," he murmured in her ear, 
 feeling, nevertheless, that nothing was bitter which would. 
 bring him eventually to her side. 
 
 She smiled a little. '' Leave it alone then," she said, 
 half mockingly. " Go your own way and be at peace." 
 
 " Lettice ! I can never be at peace now without you." 
 
 " Is not that very unreasonable of you ? " sh«' asked, 
 speaking lightly because she felt so deeply. The joy of 
 his presence was almost oppressive. She had longed for 
 it so often, and it had come to her for these two short hours 
 so unexpectedly, that it nearly overwhelmed her. 
 
 " No, dearest, it ismo^t natural. I have nobody to love, 
 to trust, but you. Tell me that you feel as I do, that you 
 want to be^uTne — mine wholly, and then I shall fight with 
 a better heart, and be as brave as you have Always been." 
 
 " Be brave, then," she said with a shadowy smile. ** Yes, 
 Alan, if it is any help to you to know it, I shall be glad 
 when we need never part." 
 
 "I sometimes wonder," he murmured, "whether that 
 day will ever come ! " 
 
 " Oh, yes, it will come," she answered gently. '* I think 
 that after our long days of darkness there is sunshine fbr 
 us — somewhere — by and by." 
 
 And then the music began, and as the two listened to 
 the mighty harmonies, their hands met and clasped each 
 
376 
 
 NAME AND FAME. 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 Other under cover of tlic l)ook which Lettice held, and 
 their hearts seemed to beat in unison as the joyous choral 
 music pealed out across the hall — 
 
 " Freude, schoncr Gotterfunken, 
 
 Tochter aus Elysium, 
 Wir betrcten A-u^rtrunken, 
 
 Himnilische, dcin lleiligthuRif 
 Deine Zaubcr biiulcn wieder, 
 
 Was die Mode stieng ^elheilt; 
 AUe Menschen werden ii ruder. 
 
 Wo dein sanfter FlUgel weilt." 
 
 " I feel," said Alan, as they lingered for a moment in 
 the dimness of the gallery when the symphony was over, 
 and the crowd was slowly filing out into Regent Street 
 and Piccadilly, " I feel as if that hymn of joy were the 
 prelude to some new and hap'jier life." 
 
 And Lettice smiled in answer, but a little sadly, for she 
 saw no happier life before them but one, which must be 
 reached through tortuous courses of perplexity and pain. 
 
 The dream of joy had culminated in that brief, imjjul- 
 sive, unconscious transmigration of soul and soul ; but with 
 the cessation of the music it dissolved again. The reali- 
 ties of their condition began to crowd upon them as they 
 left the hall. But the disillusion came gradually. They 
 still knew and felt that they were supremely happy ; and 
 as they waited for the cab, into which Alan insisted on 
 putting her, she looked at him with a bright and grateful 
 smile. 
 
 " I am so glad I saw you. It has been perfect," she 
 said. 
 
 He had made her take his arm — more for -the sake of 
 closer contact than for any necessity of the crowd — and 
 he pressed it as she spoke. 
 
 " It is not quite over yet,' he said. *' Let me take you 
 home." 
 
 ** Thank you, no. Not to-day, Alan. See, there is an 
 empty hansom." 
 
 He did not gainsay her, but helped her carefully into 
 the cab, and, when she was seated, leaned forward to clasp 
 her hand and speak a parting word. But it was not yet 
 spoken when, with a sharp cry, Lettice started and cast 
 herself in front of him. as though to protect him from a 
 danger which he could not see. 
 
 hi 
 
 th 
 
NAME AJVD FAME, 
 
 317 
 
 I, and 
 choral 
 
 nent in 
 s over, 
 i Street 
 'ere the 
 
 , for she 
 must be 
 nd pain, 
 f, impul- 
 but with 
 rhe reali- 
 n as they 
 k They 
 
 ►py 
 
 and 
 isted on 
 grateful 
 
 4 
 
 4 
 
 "ect," she 
 
 sake of 
 )wd— and 
 
 take you 
 
 lere is an 
 
 ifully into 
 id to clasi) 
 as not yet 
 i and cast 
 lim from a 
 
 In the confused press of men ;ind women, horses and 
 carriages, wliich filled the street at this hour from side to 
 side, she hat! suddenly (:au[;hl sight of a never-forgotten 
 face — a hungry face, full of malice, full of a wicked exulta- 
 tion, keen for revenge. 
 
 Cora Walcott, crossing the road, and halting for a mo- 
 ment at the central landing-place, was gazing at the people 
 as they poured out of St. James' Hall. As Alan helped 
 Lettice into the hansom and bent forward to speak to her, 
 she recognized him at once. 
 
 Without a pause she ])lunged madly into the labyrinth 
 of moving carriages and cabs ; and it was then that Let- 
 tice saw her, less than three yards away, and apparently in 
 the act of hurling a missile from her uplifted hand. 
 
 It was all the work of an instant. The woman shrieked 
 with impotent rage; the drivers shouted and stormed at 
 her; men and women, seeing her danger, cried out in their 
 excitement ; and, just as she came within reach of her 
 husband's cab, she was struck by the shaft of a passing 
 • brougham, and fell beneath the horse's hoofs. 
 
 It was Lettice's hands that raised the insensible body 
 from the mire. It was Alan who lifted her ir, an empty 
 cab, and took her to the nearest hospital — whence she 
 never emerged again until her last narrow home had been 
 made ready to receive her. 
 
 Cora did not regain consciousness before she died. 
 There was no death-bed confession, no clearing of her 
 husband's name from the dishonor which she had brought 
 upon it, no reawakening of any kind. Alan would have 
 , to go through the world unabsolved by any justification 
 that she was capable of giving. But, with Lettice at his 
 side, he was strong enough, brave enough, to hear Society's 
 verdict on his character with a smile, a:nd to confront the 
 world steadily, knowing what a coward thing its censure 
 not unfrequently is, and how conscious courage and purity 
 can cause it to slink away abashed. 
 
 On a certain evening, early in the session of 1885, some 
 half-dozen men were gathered together in a quiet angle of 
 the members' smoking room at the Oligarchy Club. 
 
 During the past day or two there had been unwonted 
 jubilation in every corner of the Oligarchy, and with rea- 
 son, as the Oligarchs naturally thought ; for Mr. Glad- 
 
37« 
 
 NAME AM) FAME, 
 
 \ :ii^ Til 
 
 :*J 
 
 %■ 
 
 Stone's second Administration had suddenly come to an 
 end. It had puzzled many good Conservatives to under- 
 stand how that Administration, burdened by an accumu- 
 lation of blunders and disasters, was able to endure so 
 long ; but at any rate the hour of doom had struck at last, 
 and jubilation was natural enough amongst those who 
 were likely, or thought they were likely, to profit by the 
 change. 
 
 Sir John Pynsent and his friends had been discussing 
 with much animation the probable distribution of the 
 patronage which the see-saw of party government had now 
 placed in the hands of the Conservative leader. Sir John, 
 whose opinion on this subject was specially valued by his 
 political associates, had already nominated the Cabinet 
 and filled up most of the subordinate offices ; and he had 
 not omitted to bestow a place of honor and emolument 
 upon his ambitious relative, Sydney Campion. 
 
 The good-natured baronet was due that evening at the 
 house of Lord Montagu Plumley, and he hurried away to 
 keep his appointment. When he had gone the conversa- 
 tion became less general and more unrestrained, and there 
 were even a few notes of scepticism in regard to some of 
 Sir John's nominations. 
 
 " Plumley is safe enough," said Mr. Charles Milton. 
 ** He has worked hard to bring about this result, and it 
 would be impossible for the new Premier to pass him over. 
 But it is quite another matter when you come to talk about 
 Plumley's friends, or his friends' friends. I for one shall 
 be very much surprised if Campion gets the solicitorship." 
 
 " He's not half a bad sort," said Tom Willoughby, " and 
 his name is being put forward in the papers as though 
 some people thought he had a very good chance." 
 
 " Ah, yes, we knovr how that kind of thing is worked. 
 The point most in his favor is that there are not half-a- 
 dozen men in Parliament good enough for the podt." 
 
 ** What is the objection to him? " 
 
 ** I don't say there is any objection. He is not a man 
 who makes many friends : and I fancy some of his best 
 cases have been won more by luck than by judgment. 
 Then he has made one or two decidedly big mistakes. 
 He will never be quite forgiven for taking up that prosecu- 
 tion of Walcott for a purely personal object. I know the 
 late Attorney was much put out when he found how he 
 had been utilized in that affair." 
 
 \ 
 
NAME Ah'D I'AME. 
 
 379 
 
 " Pynsenl seems to think him pretty sure of the offer." 
 
 "Just so ; and if anyone can help him to it, Pynsent is 
 the man. That marriage was the best thing Campion ever 
 did for himself, in mere ways tha i one. He wants hold- 
 ing in and keeping straight ; and his wife has him well in 
 hand, as everybody can see " 
 
 *' They seem a very happy couple." 
 
 ** He is devoted to her, that is plain enough ; and I 
 never thought lie had it in him to care for anybody but 
 himself. I met them last Easter at Dalton's place. They 
 seemed to hit off extremely well." 
 
 *'0h, she has improved him; there is no doubt about 
 that. She is a very charming woman. What on earth 
 does Dal ton do with himself at Anglcford ? " 
 
 " He has become an orchard man on a grand scale," 
 said Willoughby " Three years ago he planted nearly a 
 hundred acres with the best young stocks he could find, 
 and he ays he has every apple in the Pomona worth eat- 
 ing or cooking." 
 
 '* He has got over that affair with Campion's sister, I 
 .suppose ? " 
 
 " I don't know that he has. Brooke Dalton's one of 
 the finest fellows in existence : there's a heart in him some- 
 where, and he docs not easily forget. I came upon him 
 and Campion one day in the garden, and though they 
 knew I was clo^e to them they went on talking about her 
 and her husband. *You were always too hard on her, 
 Sydney,' Brooke was saying, * and now you have admitted 
 as much.' ' I don't wish to be hard on her^ but I can't 
 bear that man,' Campion said — meaning Walcott, of 
 course. * Well,* Dal ton said, * I am perfectly sure that 
 she would not have stuck to him through thick and thin, 
 so bravely and so purely, unless she had been convinced 
 of his innocence. As I believe in her, I am bound to be- 
 lieve in him. Don't you think so ? ' he said, turning to me. 
 * I hope every one who knows her will show her the re- 
 spect and reverence that she deserves. Now that they 
 have come back to England, Edith is going to call on her 
 at once.' Edith is his sister, you know : and she tells my 
 mother that she called immediately." 
 
 " How did Campion take it ? " 
 
 '* Very well, indeed. He said, * You were alwaysa good 
 fellow, Brooke, and I may have been mistaken.' New 
 thing to hear Campion owning up, isn't it? " 
 
380 
 
 NAME AND FAME, 
 
 m 
 
 'm ■■',- 
 
 
 " So the Walcotts liave come back?" said Milton, wit? 
 some excitement. " By Jove, I sliall leave my card to- 
 morrow. Of course, he was innocent. I knew all about 
 it, for I defended him at tiie Old Bailey. No wonder 
 Campion is uncomfortable about it." 
 
 The idea seemed to divert Milton very much, and he 
 chuckled over it for two or three minutes. 
 
 ** From what my mother says," Willoughby continued, 
 "people seem disposed to take them up. Her books; 
 you know, are awfully popular — and didn't you see how 
 well the papers spoke of his last poems? You mark my 
 words — there will be a run upon the Walcotts by and by." 
 
 " Just the way of the world ! " said Charles Milton. 
 " Three or four years ago they would have lynched him. 
 Poor devil ! I remember when I was about the only man 
 in London who refused to believe him guilty." 
 
 " One thing is plain enough," said Tom Willoughby. 
 '* He would have gone to the dogs long ago if it had not 
 been for her. I have not come across many heroines in 
 my time, though I have heard of plenty from other people ; 
 but I am bound to confess that I never heard of one who 
 deserved the name better than Mrs. Walcoti. 
 
 The world bestowed its free pardon upon Alan Walcoti, 
 and for the sake of her who had taught him to fight against 
 despair and death he accepted graciously a gift which 
 otherwise would have been useless to him. Inspired by 
 her, he had built a new life upon the ruins of his past ; 
 and if, henceforth, he lived and labored for the world, it 
 was only with the new motives and the new energy which 
 she had implanted in him. 
 
 The house at Chiswick is now their own. There Alan 
 and Lettice crown the joys of a peaceful existence by re- 
 membering the sorrows of other days ; and there, in the 
 years to come, they will teach their children the faith of 
 human sympathy, the hope of human effort, and the charity 
 of service and sacrifice. 
 
 THE END. 
 
Milton, with 
 
 my card to- 
 
 ivf all about 
 
 No wonder 
 
 luch, and he 
 
 )y continued, 
 Her booky, 
 you see how 
 :'ou mark my 
 5 by and by." 
 arles Milton, 
 lynched him. 
 the only man 
 
 V Willoughby. 
 if it had not 
 ly heroines in 
 I other people ; 
 rd of one who 
 
 •1 
 
 Alan Walcott, 
 to fight against 
 y a gift which 
 1. Inspired by 
 lis of his past ; 
 or the world, it 
 A' energy which 
 
 n. There Alan 
 existence by re- 
 jd there, in the 
 ren the faith of 
 , and the charity 
 
 )