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A NEW ED/T/ON CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY 1885 \.T/i.e fight 0/ translation is n'serz'cci] i" < • i ■ CONTENTS. CHAPTEn I. Children op Light . II. The Coasts of the Gentiles III. Magdalen Quad .... IV. A Little Music .... V. Askelon Villa, Gath VI. Down the River .... VII. Ghostly Counsel VIIL In the Camp of the Philistines IX. The Women op the Land. X. The Daughters of Canaan . XL Culture and Culture XII. The More Excellent Way . XIII. Ye Mountains of Gilijoa . XIV. What do these Heuuews here . XV. Evil Tidings .... XVI. Flat Rebellion .... XVII. Come ye out and be ye Separate I XVIII. A Quiet Wedding .... XIX. Into the Fire XX. Literature, Music, and the Drama XXL Off 'vith the Old Love . XXII. Th) i iiiLisTiNES Triumph . XXIII. The Streets op Askelon . XXIV. The Clouds begin to fiUEAK XXV. Uaud Pressed PAGE 1 i:^ 25 3.-J 42 50 61 70 81 87 98 107 11(5 ILM i:V2 139 l.-jQ 158 16:? lOlt 17« 184 1116 205 217 i>* 'JiJ lli H l i i l ii » i i rii l' i nB<'»>»»» I " "*'*»* ' VI I IIAIMKR • XXVI XXVII. XXVITI XXIX XXX. XXXI XXXII. xxxiii. XXXIV. XXXV. XXXVI XXXV II CONTENTS. IKIIICCI-AIMAULK • • ' ' ' llONALD COMES OF AfiL TKI-I. it not rN GATH . • • ' A Man and a Maid . • • * THK KNV.UONMKNf nNAU-V T.UrMPHS. DK I'HOFIINDIS .•••'• I'UKCONTUACT OF MARUIAGB . • A GLKAM OF HUNSHINF, HOFK .■••■*' THK Tide Turns Orr OF THE HAND OF THE rniLISTlNKS LAND AT last: BUT \VaAT LAND? • fAOR •.'21 228 2H 25:i 2r)7 2()7 27r> 2 so 2 SI) 300 307 311 .'?) I'Ar.E ■)■>] • • 'JL'S • • ' 'J4l 2.5:? MPHS. . 2:.7 • • • 2()7 ■ • ' 2''> • . 2S0 • * •jS'.t . 300 [STISF.a . 307 J? . . 311 P H I L I S T I A. CHAPTER I. CHILDKEN OF LIGHT. It was Sunday evening, and on Sundays Max Scliurz, the cliifif of the London Socialists, always held his weekly receptions. That night his cosmopolitan refugee friends were all at liberty ; his French disciples could pour in from the little lanes and courts in Solio, where, since the Com- mune, they had plied their peaceful trades as engravers, picture-framers, artists'-colourmen, models, pointers, and so forth — for most of them were hangers-on in one way or another of the artistic world ; his German adherents could stroll round, pipe in mouth, from their ]>rinting-houses, their ham-and-beef shops, or their naturalists' chambers, where they stufi'ed birds or set up exotic butterflies in little cabinets — for most of them were more or less literary or scientific in their pursuits ; and his few English sympa- thisers, chiefly dissatisfied philosophical Radicals of the upper classes, could drop in casually for a chat and a smoke, on their way home from the churches to wliich they had been dutifully escorting their un-eniancipated wives and sisters. Max Schurz kept open house for all on Sunday evenings, and there was not a drawing-room in London better filled than his with the very .v Ivanced and not undis- tinguished set who alone had the much-prized entree of his exclusive sedan. The salon itself did not form any component part of Max Schurz's own private residence in any way. The great Socialist, the man whose mandates shook the thrones of Riissia and Austria, whose movements spread terror in Paris and Berlin, whose dictates were even obeyed in Kerry and in Chicago, occupied for his own use two small rooms at the top of a shabby composite tenement in a doubtful district of P 2 PIIILISTIA. Marylcbone. The little parlour where he carried on his trade of a luicroscope-lens grinder would not have snfiiced to hold one-tenth of the eager half-washed crowd that pressed itself enthusiastically np(jn him every Sunday, But a large room on the ground Hoor of the tenement, opening towards tlie main street, was used during the week by one of his French roTngee friends as a dancing-saloon; and in this room on every ^.-luiday evening the uncrowned king of the pro- letariate ^Socialists was permitted to hold his royal levees. Thither all that was best and truest in the socially rebellious classes domiciled in London used to make its way ; and there men calmly talked over the ultimate chances of social revolutions which would have made the hair of respectable Philistine Marylebone stand stiffly on end, had it only known the rank political heresies that were quietly hatching in its unconscious luidst. While INIax Schurz's hall was rapidly filling with the polyglot crowd of democratic solidarists, Ernest Le Breton and his brother were waiting in the chilly little drawing- room at Epsilon Terrace, BaysAvater, for the expected arrival of Harry Oswald, Erne it had promised to introduce Oswald to Max Schurz's reception; and it was now past eight o'clock, getting rather a late hour for those simple-minded, early-rising Connnunists. 'I'm afraid, Herbert,' said Ernest to his brother, ' he forgets that Max is a working-man who has to be at his trade again punctually by seven o'clock to- morrow. He thinks he's going out to a regular society At Homo, where ten ct'clock'.s considered just the beginning of the evening. Max won't at all like his turning up so late ; it smells of non-pr(jductivity.' * If Herr Schurz wants to convert the world,' Herbert answered chillily, rolling himself a tiny cigarette, ' he must convince the unproductive as well as the proletariate before he can set things fairly on the roll for better arrangement. The proletariate's all very well in its way, no doubt, but the unproductive happen to hold the key of the situation. One coir ert like you or me is worth a thousand ignorant East- enl labourers, with nothing but their hands and their votes to count upon.' ' But you are not a convert, Herbert.' ' I didn't say I was. I'm a critic. There's no necessity to throw oneself open-armed into the end)race of either liarty. The wise man can w ait and watch the progress of the game, b.acking the winner ft)r the time being at all the critical moments, and hedging if necessary when the chances turn momentarily against the favourite. Tliere's a ring at the bull ; that's Oswald : let's go down to tho door to meet him.' %*.! m CHILDREN OF LIGHT. i carried on his have sufliced to ivd that pressed ;vy. But a lart^e )pening towards k by ijiie of his find in this room :ing of the pro- ds royal levees, jcially rebellious e its way ; and hances of social ir of respectable tid, had it oidy quietly hatching filling with the rnest Le Breton (T little drawing- expected arrival ntroduce Oswald now past eight ! simple-minded, 3ert,'said Ernest rorking-man who seven o'clock to- igular society At the beginning of :ning tip so late ; world,' Herbert javette, ' he must 'oletariate before ter arrangement, lo doubt, but the ; situation. One d ignorant East- Is and their votes re's no necessity ubrace of either le progress of the at all the critical the chances turn e's a ring at the uur Lu meet hiui.' Ernest ran down the stairs rapidly, as was his wont ; Herbert followed in a more leisurely fashion, still rolling the cigarette between his delicate finger and thumb. ' Good- ness gracious, Oswald ! ' Ernest exclaimed as his stepped in, 'why, you've actually come in evening A white tie and all ! What on earth will Max say \ be perfectly scandalised at such a shocking; and friend dress ! He'll unpre- This will never do ; you must dissemble cedented outrage someliow or other.' Oswald laughed. ' I had no idea,' he said, * Herr Schurz was sucli a triicident sans-cnluttc as that comes to. As it was an evening reception I thought, of course, one ought to turn up in evening clothes.' * Evening clothes ! My dear fellow, how on earth do you suppose a set of poor Leicester Square outlaws are going to get themselves correctly set up in black broadcloth coats and trousers ? They might wash their white ties them- selves, to be sure ; they mostly do their own washing, I believe, in their own basins,' ('And not nuich at that either,' put in Herbert, parenthetically.) 'But as to evening clothes, why, they'd as soon think of arraying themselves for dinner in full court drc'^s as of putting on an obscurantist swallow-tail. It's the badge of a class, a distinct aristocratic outrage ; we must alter it at once, I assure you, Oswald. 'At any rate,' said Oswald laughing, 'I've had jileasure of findin my - the _ myself accused for the first time in the course of my existence of being aristocratic. It's quite W(jrth while going to MaL jhurz's once in one's life, if it were only for the sake of tiiat single new sensation,' ' Well, my dear fellow, we must rectify you, anyhow, before you go. Let mo see ; luckily you've got your dust- coat on, and you needn't take that oil' ; it'll do .splendidly to hide your coat and waistcoat. I'll lend you a blue tie, which will at once transform your upper man entirely. But you show the cloven hoof below ; the ti-ousers Avill surely becray you. They're absolutely inadmissible under any circumstances whatsoever, as the Cuurt (Jlrcalar says, and you must positively wear a coloured pair of Herbert's instead o. them. Run upstairs .'luickly, there's a good fellow, and get rid of the mark of the Beast as fast as you can.' Oswald did as he was told without demur, and in abmit a mnuite more presented himself again, with the mark (.f the Beast certainly most eltectually obliterated, at least so far as outer appearance went. His blue tie, light dust-coat, and borrowed grey trousers, made up an v.iisnnhk much moro like an ouunbus conductor out for a holiday than a g.^ntlo- man of the p^sriod in correct evening dres.si 'NowTnind,' b2 i 'j PniLISTlA. a e oS n e y dose and hot, I can assure ^^^-^^^^^^ ^^^th mc fir uiodally introducing a plutocratic traitor xnto ''"TlTy'vled Sg briskly in the direction of Maryle- hone and op ed at last at a dull, yellow-washed lu)use, 'S W on Ss door a vexy dingy f-^l^t^rSs" rpd letters 'M. et Mdlle. Tirard. Salon de Danse. J^rnest ononed b^ door without ringing, and turned down the ms V e to wards the mlon. ' Remember,' he said turn mg to Hxrrv Os^^kl by way of a last warning, with his hand on Ui'^iimerTo r-handle, ' coU, que coMe, my dear fe low, don t on VraccS open your dust-coat. No anti-social opmions ; ^ucH^i^Se boar'in mind that Max is, in his own way, a P'^The bi^ hall, badly lighted by a few contribution candles (foi tt whole colony subscribed to the best of its abdity or the support of the weekly entertainment) was all alive with eterXmres and the mingled busy hum of earnest conversa- timi A few chairs ranged round the ,^^'-^Vr^ 7^1 ^ occupied by Mdlle. Tirard and the other ladies of the SodE party ; but the mass of the guests were men and they weii aim St all smoking, in utter indifference to the sc'tntv ii'c, ence of the fair sex. Not that they were inten- tiona ly nidT or boorish ; that they never were ; except wheJe an euperor or an aristocrat is concerned, there is no bd;;^onear}h more courteous, ^^^^.^J^t"^^ the feelia.'S of others than your exiled bocialist. _ lie 1 as 8 tferedumch himself in his own time, and so vusenY'^c ^reZt. Emperors he mentally classes with cobras, :;::;;^las, and s.4ions, as outside the piU. o^ j!--^;;;;: syinpatliies altogethor ; but, with this slight l'''\itical e^^^^^^^^ tion he is the broadest and tenderest and most catholic in h feelii .'s of all living breathing creatures However the ■ lies f his party have all been brought up from their child- hid onward^ in a mingled atmosphere of smoke and donio- cmcy so that he no more thinks of abstaining rom tobacco in the r presence than he thinks of commiserating the poor fish for being so dreadfully wet, or the unfortunate mole for his unpleasantly slimy diet of live earthworms * liuvr Schurz,' «aid Ernest, singling out the aroai leader in the gloom immediately, ' I've brought my brother Herbeit ih , 'whatever you , Schurz's rooms you — don't for jat. If you do clothing, and I 3 turn and rend y much annoyed ;atic traitor into :tion of Maryle- v-washed bouse, late, inscribed in Danse.' Ernest iirned down the 3 said, turning to yith his hand on dear fellow, don't ti-social opinions ; his own way, a itribution candles b of its ability for was all alive with earnest conversa- wall were mostly ler ladies of the its were men, and ndifference to the b they were intun- ver were ; except jerned, there is no nd considerate for Socialist. He has md so mherls snc- asses Avith cobras, ,le of humanitarian rht political excep- A most catholic in •es. However, the ip from their child- F smoke and demo- liuiiig from tobacco laiserating the poor nfortunate mole for orms. lut the groat leader niv brother Herbert 7 I CHILDREN OF LIGHT, 5 here, whom you know already, to see you, as well as anotlie* Oxford friend of mind, Mr. Harry Oswald, Fellow and Lec- turer of Oriel. He's almost one of us at heart, I'm happy to say, and at any rate I'm sure you'll be glad to make his acquaintance.' The little spare wizened- up grey man, in the threadbare brown ve'v , n jacket, who stood in the middle of the hall catight Er;.. 'a hand warmly, and held it for a moment fettered in ius iron grip. There was an honesty in that grip and in those hazy blue-spectacled eyes that nobody could for a second misunderstand. If an emperor had been introduced to Max Schurz he might have felt a little abashed one minute at the old Socialist's royal disdain, but he could not have faded to say to himself as he looked at him from head to foot, 'Here, at least, is a true man.' So Harry Oswald felt, as the spare grey thinker took his hand in his, and grasped it firmly witx. a kindly pressure, but less friendly than that with which he had greeted his known admirer, Ernest Le Breton. As for Herbert, he merely bowed to him politely from a little distance ; and Herbert, who had picked up at once witli a Polish exile in a corner, returned the bow frigidly without coming up to the host himself at all for a moment's welcome. ' I'm always pleased to meet friends of the cause from Oxford,' Herr Schurz said, in almost perfect English. ' We want recruits most of all among the thinking classes. If we are ever to make headway against the banded monopolies— against the place-holders, the land-grabbers, the labour- taxers, the robbers of the poor— we must first secure the perfect undivided confidence of the brain-workers, the thinkers, and the writers. At present everything is against us ; wo are but a little leaven, trying vainly in our helpless fashion to leaven the whole lump. The capitalist journals carry oft all the Avriting talent in the world ; they are timid, as capital must always be ; they tremble for their tens of thousands a year, and their vast circulations among the pro- pertied classes. We cannot get at the heart of the people, save by the Archimedean lever of the thinking world. For tliat reason, my dear Le Breton, I am always glad to muster here your Oxford neophytes.' 'And yet, Herr Schurz,' said Ernest gently, 'you know we must not after all despair. Look at the history of your own people! When the cause of Jehovah seemed most hopeless there were still seven thousand left in Israel who had not bowed the knee to Baal. We are gainuig strenath every day, while tlicy are losing it.' ^ & b •Ah yes, my friend, I know that too,' the old man ■ PR il^^kt^am-- g . PIITLISTTA. answered, with a solemn sliake of the head ; 'but the wlieels !^!ovr^1nvlv tliev move slowly— very surely, but oh, so Xw^ You Ir?young, frien/ Ernest and I am growing ^ old \ou look forward to the future with hope ; I \ook back to the past with regret: so many years gone, so little, so very Titdtf done. It will come, it will come as surely as the no7t.laclal period, but I shall not live to see it I stand 1^^ M ses on Pisgah ; I see the premised land before me ; I od. down npon^he equally allotted vineyards, and he de e liowing with milk and honey m the distance ; but I Bhdl not lead you into it ; I shall not even lead j^u agajnst the Canaanites ; another than I must lead you m. Biit 1 am ai old man, Mr. Oswald, an old man now, and I am Sk^ . a about n,yself-an anti-social trick we have m- hiiLd from our fathers. What is your friend's special hne at Oxford, did you say, Ernest i' ^ nPrhins ' Oswald is a mathematician, sir,' said Ernest, perliaps the greatest mathematician among the younger men m tlie "'^IhVSt well. We want exact science. We want clenr and definite thinking. Biologists and physicists and xiat lematicians, those are our best recruits, you may depend upon it. We need logic, not mere gas. Our French friends and ou; Irish friends-I have nothing in the woiM o say a-ainst them ; they are useful men, ardent men, full ot t^re, fidl of enthusiasm, ready to do and dare anythuig-but they lack ballast. You can't take the kingdom of heaven by storm The social revolution is not to be accomphshed by violence, it is not even to be carried by the most vivid elo- quence ; the victory will be in the end to the clearest brain and the subtlest intellect. The orthodox political economists are clever sophists ; they mask and confuse the t^uth very speciously ; we must have keen eyes and sharp noses to spy out and scent out their tortuous fallacies. I m glad yoa le a mathematician, Mr. Oswald. And so you have thought on socia^problemsr ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ Proletariate,"' Oswald answered modestly, 'and I learned much from it and thought more. I won't say you have quite f^nv^rted mt Heri° Schurz, but you have given me plenty of food for future retlection.' . i • i „ ' That is well, said the old man, passmg one skinny brown hand gently up and down over the other That is well. There's no hurry. Don't make up your mind too fast Don t iumi) at conclusions. It's intellectual dishonesty to do that. Wait till you liave eonvincod ynurP.^lf. Spell out your pro- bloum slowly ; thoy are not easy ones ; try to see how the CHILDREN OF LIGHT. I ; * but the wheels lurely, but oh, so and I am growing hope ; I look back gone, so little, so me as surely as the I to see it. I stand . land before me ; I /ineyards, and the he distance ; but I en lead you against ad you in. Biit I an now, and I am trick we have in- friend's special line d Ernest, ' perhaps ,'ounger men in the science. We want and physicists and its, yon may depend Our French friends in the world to say silt men, full of fire, anything— but they [rdom of heaven by "be accomplished by the most vivid elo- to the clearest brain I political economists ifuse the truth very id sharp noses to spy J, I'm glad you're a i^ou have thought on )letariate," ' Oswald much from it, and r^uite converted me, ) plenty of food for ing one skinny brown ther. ' That is n/ell. uiind too fast. Don't iishonesty to do that. Spell out your pro- trv to see how the present complex system works ; try to probe its inequalities and injustices ; try to compare it with, tlie ideal common- wealth : and you'll find the light in the end, you'll hnd the light.' As he spoke, Herbert Le Breton lounged up quietly from his farther cornier towards the little group. 'Ah, your brother, Ernest ! ' said Max Schurz, drawing himself up a little more stiflly ; ' he has found tlie Vight already, I believe, but he neglects it ; still he is not witli us, and he that is not with us is against us. You hold : i;.of always, Mr. Herbert, is it not so { ' ' Well, not quite aloof, Herr Schurz, I'm certain, but not on your side exactly either. I like to look on and Jiuld the balance evenly, not to throw my own weight too lightly into either scale. The objective attitude of the mere spectator is after all the right one for an impartial philosopher to take u}:).' ' Ah, Mr. Herbert, this philosophy of your Oxford con- templati ve Radicals is only another name for a kind of social seltishness, I fancy,' said the old man solemnly, ' It seems to me yuur head is with us, but your heart, your heart is elsewhere.' Herbert Le Breton played a moment quietly with the Roman aureus of Domitian on his watch-chain ; tlien he said slowly in his clear cold voice, ' There may be something in that, no doubt, Herr Schurz, for each of us has his own game to play, and while the world remains unreformed, he must play it on his own gambit to a great extent, without reference to the independent game of others. We all agree that the board is too full of counters, and as each counter is not res{)onsible for its own presence and position on the board, having been put there without previous, consultation by the players, we must each do the best we can for ourselves ni our own fashion. My sympatliies, as you say, are on your side, but perhaps my interests lie the other Avay, and after all, till you start your millennium, wo nnist all rattle along as well as we can in the box together, jarring against one another in our old ugly round of compctitiun, and supply and demand, and survival of the fittest, and mutual accom- modation, and all the rest of it, to the end of the chapter. Every man for himself and Cod for us all, you know. You have the logic, to be sure, He-r Schurz, but the monopolists have the law and the money.' ' Ah, yes,' said the old Socialist grimly ; ' Demas, Demas ; he and his silver- mine ; you remember your Bunyan, don't you \ Well, all faiths and systems have their Demasea, Thu cares of this world and tJio deceitfulnesa of x-iches. He's h> '-t ■"''-mmit^ 8 PHILISTIA. bursar of liia colleoje, isn't he, Ernest ? I thought so. "He had the bag, and bare what was put therein." A dangerous office, isn't" it, Mr. Oswald ? A very dangerous office. You can't touch pitch or property without being defiled.' ' You at least, sir, said Ernest, reverentially, ' have kept yourself unspotted from the world.' The old man sighed, and turned for a moment to speak in French to a tall, big-bearded new-comer who advanced to meet him. 'Impossible!' he said quickly; 'I am truly distressed to hear it. It is very imprudent, very un- necessary.' * What is the news ? ' asked Ernest, also in French. The new-.^nier answered him with a marked South Russian accent. ' There has been another attempt on the life of Alexander Nicolaiovitch.' ' You don't mean to say so ! ' cried Ernest in surprise. * Yes, I do,' replied the Russian, ' and it has nearly succeeded too,' ' An attempt on whom ? ' asked O&wald, who was new to the peculiar vocabulary of the Socialists, and not particularly accustomed to following spoken French. ' On Alexander Nicolaiovitch,' answered the red-bearded stranger. ' Not the Czar ? ' Oswald inquired of Ernest. 'Yes, the one whom you call Czar,' said the stranger, quickly, in tolerable English. The confusion of tongupfi seemed to be treated as a small matter at iNIax Schurz's receptions, for everybody appeared to speak all languages at once, in the true spirit of solidarity, as though Babel had never been. Oswald did not attempt to conceal a slight gesture of horror. The tall Russian looked down upon him coni- miseratingly. ' He is of the Few \ ' he asked of Ernest, that being the slang of the initiated for a member of the aristo- cratic and capitalist oligarchy. 'Not exactly,' Ernest answered with a smile; 'but he has not entirely learned the way we here regard these penal measures. His sympathieo are one-sided as to Alexander, no doubt. He thinks merely of the hunted, wretched life the raan bears about with him, and he forgets poor bleeding, groaning, down-trod benevolent despot e Bulgarian. They ledom and jjrivileges for in vain; they do not bear in mind that he has only to sign his name to a con- stitutKjn, a very little constitution, and he might walk abroad as light-hearted in St. Petersburg to-morrow as you and I walk in Regent Street to-day. We are mostly lop- sided, we English, but you must bear with us in our obliquity ; we have had freedom ourselves so long that we hardly know how to make due allowance for those unfortunate folks who are still hi search of it.' ' If you had an Alexander yourselves for half a day,' the Russian said fiercely, turning to Oswald, 'you would soon see the difference. You would forget your virtuous indignation against Nihilist assassins in the white heat of your anger against unendurable tyranny. You had a King Charles in England once— the mere shadow of a Russian Czar— and you were not so very ceremonious with hnn, you order-loving English, after all.' 'It is a foolish thing, Borodinsky,' said Max Schurz, looking up from the long telegram the other had handed him ; and I told Toroloff as much a fortnight ago, when he spoke to me about the matter. You can do no good by these constant att,>cks, and you only rouse the minds of the oligarchy agamst you by your importunity. Bloodshed will avail us nothing ; the world cannot be regenerated by a baptism like that. Every peasant won over, every student enrolled every mother engaged to feed her little ones on the gospel of Socialism together with her own milk, is worth a tliousand times more to us and to the people than a dead Czar. If ycur friends had really blown him up, what then ? Yoii would have had another Czar, and another Third teection, and another reign of terror, and another raid and massacre ; and we should have lost twenty good men from our poor little side for ever. We must not waste the salt of the earth m that reckless fashion. Besides, I don't like this dynanntt It s a bad argument, it smacks too much of the JnJ% , repressive method. You know the motto 1.0U1S Quatorze used to cast on liis bronze cannon-" Ul.ima ratio regum " AVell, we Socialists ought to be able to find better logac for our opponents than that, oughtn't we ? ' , But 111 Russia,' cried the bearded man hotly, 'in poor itlffV 7 groaning Russia, what other argument have they left us? Are we to be hunted to death without reat law or trial, tortured into sham confessions, deluded with ZaL^tTT,^'''"'i^''''^ before hypocritical tribunals, en- feritli^of tl^ft'T''^' ^"^ ^y^"»' ^""^ treachery and r>r^l ofn 1 1 ''•^, ^^"^^'\"^racy, with its spies, and its are WP ; '' i ' k»'^"t;b«-"-ving police-agents ; aud then axe we not to make war the only way we can-open war. n ■ lor^ ,0 PltlLISTIA. miiid you, with fair declaration, and due formalities, and proper warning beforehand— against the irresponsible auto- crat and Ins wire-pulled office-puppets who kdl us ofi merci- lessly \ You are too hard upon us, Herr Schurz ; even you yourself have no sympathy at all for unhappy Russia. The old man looked up at him tenderly and regretfully. * My poor Pxn-odinsky.' he said in a gentle tremulous voice, 'I iiave indeed sympathy and pity in abundance for you. 1 do not bin me vou ; you will have enough and to spare to do that, even here in free England ; I would not say a harsh word against you or vour terrible methods for all the world. You ha°ve been hard-driven, and you stand at bay like tigers. But I think you are going to work the wrong way, not using your ener'nt's t(j the best possible advantage for +1ie pro- letariate. What we have really got to do is to gain t)ver every man, woman, and child of the working-classes individually, and to array on our side all the learning and intellect and economioal science of the thinking classes individually ; and then we can i)resent such a grand united front to the banded monopolists that for very shame they will not dare to gain- say us. Indexed, if it comes to that, we can leave them quietly alone, till for pure hunger they will come and beg our assistance. When we have enticed away all the work- men from their masters to our co-operative factories, the masters may keep their rusty empty mills and lornus and en-dnes to themselves as long as tliey like, but they must come to us in tlie end, and ask us to give them the bread they used to refuse us. For my part, I would kill no man and rob no man ; but I would let no man kill or rob another either.' .1,1 1) ' And how about Alexander Nicolaiovitch, then k per- sisted the Russian, eagerly. 'Has he killed none m his loathsome priscjns and in his Siberian quicksilver mines? Has he robbed none of their own hardly got earnings by his poisoned vodki and his autocratically imposed taxes and imposts \ Who gave him an absolute hereditary right to put us to death, to throw us in prison, to take our money from us against our will and without our leave, to treat us as if we existed, body and sold, and wives and children, only as chattels ft)r the greater glory of his own orthodox imperial majesty \ If we may justly slay the highway robber who meets us, arms in hand, in the outskirts of the city, and demands of us our money or our life, may we not justly slay Alexander Nico]ai(.vitch, who comes to our homes m the person of his tax-gatherers to take the bread out of our children's n.iouths and tu help himself to whatever he chooses by the divine right of his Romanoif heirship % 1 tell you, CHILDREN OF LIGH7. tl ilue formalities, and 3 irresponsible auto- ,'ho kill us off merci- rr Schurz ; even you liappy Russia.' lei'ly and regretfully, itle tremulous voice, )undance for you. I ;li and to spare to do juld not say a harsh ods for all the world. Lud at bay like tigers, vrong Avay, not using vantage for ♦^^le pro- ) is to gain over every [-classes individually, ing and intellect and ses individually ; and d front to the banded will not dare to gain- we can leave them ;y will come and beg cl away all the work- erative factories, the mills and looms and ^ like, but they must give them the bread , I woidd kill no man an kill or rob another aiovitch, then?' per- e killed none in his in quicksilver mines? [ly got earnings by his y imposed taxes and lereditary right to put take our money from save, to treat us as if and children, only as )wn orthodox imperial ! highway robber who kirta of the city, and may we not justly slay to our homes in the the bread out of our to whatever he chooses heirship ? 1 tell you, Hcrr Max, we may blamelessly lie in wait for him wherever we find him, and whoso says us nay is siding with the wolf against the lambs, with tlie robber and the slayer against the honest representative of right and justice.' ' I never met a Nihilist before,' said Oswald to Ernest, in a half-undertone, 'and it never struck me to think what they miglit have to say for themselves from their own side ^ of the question.' 4 ' That's one of the user, of coming here to Hcrr Scliurz's,' % Ernest answered quickly. ' You may not agree with all you hear, but at least you learn to see others as they see them- selves; whereas if you mix always in English st)ciety, and read only English papers, you will see them only as we English see them.' ' But just fancy,' Oswald went on, as they both stood back a little to make way for others who wished for inter- views with the great man, ' just fancy that this Borodinsky, or whatever his name may be, has himself very likely helped in dynamite plots, or manufactured nitro-glycerine cart- ridges to blow up the feir ; and yet we stand here talking Avith him as coolly as if he were an ordinary respectable innocent Engli.shnuxn.' ' What of that ?' Ernest answered, smilin'^-. 'Didn't we meet Prince Strelinotlsky at Oriel last term,^and didn't we talk with him too, as if he was an honest, hard-working, bread-earning Christian? and yet we knew he was a member of the St. Petersburg office clique, and at the bottom of half the trouble in PoLuid for the last ten years or so. Grant even that Borodinslcy is quite wrong in his way of dealing with noxious autocrats, and yet which do you think is the worst criminal of the two— he with his little honest glazier's shoii in a back slum of Paddington, or Strelinotfsky with his jewelled fingers calmly signing accursed warrants to send clulding Polish women to die of cold and hunger and ill- treatment on the way to Siberia ? ' 'Well, really, Le Breton, you know I'm a passably good Radical, but you're positively just one stage too Radical even for me.' 'Come here oftener,' answered Ernest; 'and perhaps you 11 begin to think a little diflferently about some things.' An hour later in the evening Max Schurz found Ernest alone m a quiet corner. ' One moment, my dear Le Breton ' he said; 'you know I always like to find out all about people s political antecedents ; it helps one to fathom the potentiahties of their characters. From wbat social stratum, now, do we get your clever friend, Mr. Oswald?' 'His father's a petty tradesman in a country town in ,2 nilLISTIA. Devonshire, I believe,' Ernest answered; 'and he himself is a goi.d general democrat, without any very pronounced socialistic colouring.' -r i i tt i. 'A i^etty tradesman! Hum, I thought so. He has rather the mental bearing and equipment of a man from the fdiU honrocni^ie. I have been talking to him, and drawing him out. Clever, very, and with good instincts, but not wholly and entirely sound. A fibre wrong somewhere, socially speaking, a false note suspected in his ideas of life ; too much accpiiescence in the thing that is, and too little faith or enthusiasm for the thing that ought to be. But we shall make sumetliing of him yet. He has read " Gold' and understands it. That is already a beginning. Bring him a"ain. I sliall always be glad to see him here.' " 'I will,' said Ernest, 'and I believe the more you know him, Hurr IMax, the better you will like him.' ' And what did you think of the sons of the prophets '( asked Herbert Le Breton of Oswald as they left the salon at the close of the reception. . ' Frankly speaking,' answered Oswald, looking half aside at Ernest, ' I didn't (piite care for all of them— the Nihilists and Communards took my breath away at first ; but as to Max Schurz himself I think there can be only one opinion possible about him.' * And that is ? ' ( n^ A\iit he's a mairnilicent old man, Avith a genuine apostolic inspiration. I don't care twopence whether he is right or wrong, but he's a perfectly splendid old fellow, as honest and transparent as the day's long. He believes in it all, and w . \l ot eSu " - chance of the muverse Zt '"^'^^Z^^^^ peaco-lovin,, old-world tiw'^'i* 1, «oo..t,.-ii for a while from the great * V. Lonu net who esc'-^'"*^ { V''f,,,,.,y lanes and solid U^en.ing huxu.u -"'•l'^"'^. \f a r v ," "^^^^^^ unadulterated ttnnamtn.tof huivgmy^"' '1^«>^^^^^ j.imself landed by a iM-^pherc ^^t Calcon^be 1 ome i^y^^^^ ^ ^^^^t^,,,,, twelve the riyuumth ^l-^I^..^^^ from his tinal destination. jiiilcs by cross-country '''fl/"? J, time-tables asacommo- 11, Ji^i grc7 box descrii^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^ t of his dioutt .. '^bus, which takes umi „, ilea to the summit -iZiey: . rawls slowly up the ^fc^^^.^ToVes Inn, and jolts if the intervemng range at the Ore ^^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^,^^^^ swiftly down the other six "^'.If ' ^'^^^^.^ to topple over sheer and groaning IVS^^-^^J^^J^'^Hi^^hSt^et of tli old borough, into the seaattheclambeimgUi.^j'^ at the Cross Foxes, As you turn to descend f^^^^fXtrial Eng^'^^^^^ =nvl the nine- you appear to leave modern mdustuai ^^^^^ ienth century well belund you on t^^^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ down into a little ^^^^^^/^^M Vf .' , ,t . rds it round on every Suter world by the l^jf "^^f ^^X', front towards the side and turned only on tlie soul ^, ,j ^own the ::^Sra, uel and ^J^^^'^^^Jv^^^ steep cobble-paved High btr xt ^ left-hand side bears dull russet church, a «"^^^^1 «^^%„«^^ r^.^vald, Family Grocer a.signboavd with tl|e Pan tod egend ^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^ . and Provision Dealer 1" JI17J" ^he shop, Harry Oswald, brick house, built ^^^^ 3"^t over ^i^ ^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ i,,^. Fellow and Lecturer of yi^^VX he mi-ht be seen reading Schurz's Smulay -vennig receptions ^,iity_yours is 'Two pounds of be^i^ black te^,^ 1 ^j^j,,^ ^^^ generally atrocious, Mrs Oswa^^^ ^^^^^^^^^ tl,, the list,' said Poo^V^'T^ ^^'i;dy wi«^ Scpiire's sister, a P^^^^i^^^^.^^^J^S of best black tea, and ]ous, raspmg voice. T « P"^^^' ^^^..^^Hy do. IN o good nnnd you don't ^'^'f^i^^^^J^ll^y to^^ the'duties off and t.a to be got ^^"7'^^^y^,' Tx^'gee a t'^11 y^^"^^ ^^'^'^ lounging ruined the country. And 1 see a ^ b ^^.^ ^^^^^ ^,^ :^t ou2l^ trr yS "^ 1-0 no .anners in .u.. THE COASTS OF THE GENTILES. 1$ times Mrs. Oswald, as they used to have when you and I were young. Your son, I suppose, come homo from sea or something 1 He's in the lish-cunng Ime, isn t he, I thnik I've heard yo\x say ? ' _,. ^ ,. „ , ' I don't ri"htly know who 'ce may mean, Miss Luttrell, rcpHed the mother proudly, * by a young man loungnig al-mt the place ; hut my son's at homo l om Oxford at pres, j>x .. t his vacations, and ho isn'tin thefis'u-curmghne at all, _ m, but he's a Fell.. • of his college, as I've fold 'ee more than onco already ; but you're getting old I see. Miss Luttrel und your memory isn't just what it had used to be, dost "'^'^Oh at Oxford, is he ? ' Miss Luttrell chimed on vacantly, wa<-dn'' her wrinkled old head in solemn deprecation of the evin.nren. She knew it as well as Mrs. ( »swald herself did havin" heard the fact at least a thousand times before ; but she made it a matter of principle never to encourage these upstart pretensions on the part of the lower orders and just to keen them rigorously at their proper level she alvvays mn'le u :\.int of forgetting any steps m advance which they nrdit have been bold enough to take, without humbly ob- taining her previous permission, out of their original and natm-al obscuritv. 'Fellow of his college is J^^j really ? Fellow of a college! Dear me, how completely Oxford is m.in- to the dogs. Admitting all kinds of odd people into the University, I understand. Why, my second brother- the Archdeacon, you know-was a Fellow of Magdalen for some tiaie in his younger days. You surprise me, quite Fellow of a college ! You're perfectly sure heisn t a National schoolmaster at Oxford instead, and that you and his father haven't got the two things mixed up together m your heads, Mrs. Oswald^' ^ ., . , ,, 'No ma'am, we'm perfectly sure of it, and we haven t go. the things mixed up in our heads at all, no more nor you have, I^Iiss Luttrell. H^ was a scholar of Trinity first, and now he's got a Fellowship at Oriel. You must mmd hearing all about it at the time, only you're getting so forgetful like now, with years and such like.' Mrs. Oswald knew there was nothing that annoyed the old lady so much as any allusion to her increasing age or infirmities, and she tools: her revenge out of her in that simple retributive fashion. ' A scirolar of Trinity, was he 1 Ah, yes, patr.mage will do a great deal in these days, for certain. The Rector took a wonderful interest in your boy, I think, Mrs Oswald. He went to Plymouth Grammar School, I remember novy, with a romination no doubt ; and there, I dare say, he attracted some attention, being a decent, hard-workmg lad, and got l-f- ,5 PHILISTIA. Bent to Orford with a sfership, °^.f "t'l'':if theUnivcr'i- *r' \'f The*: rerrfSn,S"o"r uSrf in Jhe end, "i^rSgel'^^^y looTsalaries, considering everytlung, I'm *°"'-There you're wrong, '^^in ma'am,' puUn Mr, 0|wa^ rtontly. • ll, .».*ancl. y/JI "^^^^".re'Xbit' tm at our own expense; and atf V 1;^ T tlnnk thev call it, at tl.e school, and an ^Pf ^^^^^^^^jf J^ ^Iho to ^^^^ ^^^t^ yo 'b^oS re TrcMetTwas, n'or for the niaam, than youi uiutn^x .,,^^ . i-^„T5„p „i,vavs understood matter o' that "ot - much ne. W^^^^^^^^^^ ^„, „ft,,. the olilS„?„" if ^^y come, a smash, they run away to Amenca and you have^y^^^^^^^ '^'"^^''*"" nVs '• '"it; w. fiT d':L.rrSs'^^^^^^ ^X;;;'l?,;wV;l: dausMethy the way-Jemlma I thn.ic you "''^'l%i';mrta;don, MirLuttrell, but hor name's not ■'"":';;;? •Mwl'tlt l WeU to he sure ! The paml «™» ,.irl3 have danaling about with them nowadays I My name THE COASTS OF THE GENTILES. 17 plain Ciitherine, aivl it's good enough for me, thank good- ness. But these young ladies of the new style must be Editlis and Eleanoi's and Ophelias, and all tliat heathenish kind of thing, as if th^y were princesses of the blood or play- actressis. instt.-ad of being good Christian Susans and Janes and Betties, like their grandmothers were before them. And Miss Edith, now, wh:it is .s7i,e doing I ' ' She's doing nothing in particular at this moment. Miss Luttrell, leastvvn.ys not so far as I know of ; but she's gohig up to Oxford part of this term on a visit to her brother.' 'Going up to Oxford, my good woman ! Wliy, heaven bless the girl, she'd much better stop at home and leain her catechism. She should try to do her duty in that station of life to which it has pleased Providence to call her, instead of running after young gentlemen above her own rank and place in society at Oxford. Tell her so from me, xdrs. <.)swald, and mind you don't send the tea dusty. Two pounds of your best, if you please, as soon as you can send it. Good- morning. ' And Miss Luttrell, having discovered the absolute truth of the shocking rumour which had reached her about Edith's projected visit, the confirmation of which was the sole object of her colloquy, wagged her way out of the shop again successfully, and was duly assisted by the page-boy into her shambling little palsied donkey-chair, ' That was all the old cat came about, you warr'nt you,' nuittered Mr. Oswald himself from behind las biscuit-boxes. 'Must have heard it from the Rector's wife, and wanted to lind out if it was true, to go and tell Mrs. Walters o' such a bit o' turble presumptiousness.' Meanwhile, in the little study with the bow-window over the shop, Harry and Edie Oswald were busily discussing tlie necessary preparations for Edie's long-promised visit to the University. ' I hope you've got everything nice in the ^yay of dress, you know, Edie,' said Harry. ' You'll Avant a decent dinner dress, of cotirse, for you'll be asked t>ut to dine at least (nice or twice ; and 1 want you to have everything exceedingly proper and pretty.' ' 1 think I've got all T need in that way, Harry ; I've my dark poplin, cut S([uare in the bodice, for one dinner dress, and my high black silk to fall back upon for another. Worn open in front, Avith a lace handkeichief and a locket, it does really very nicely. Then I've gut three afternoon dresses, the grey yon gave lue, the sage-greeny a'sthetic one, and the peac(jck-bliie Avith the satin box-pleats. It's a charming dress, the peacock-blue ; it looks as if it might have stepi)ed straight out of u genuine Titian. It came home from Miss SI ! U i 'fm^' PHILISTIA, Wait five minutes, like a dear boy, i8 Wells's this morning, vvaii "J "''"^e^i^e in it.' and I'll xuu and put xt on and le^. you se^^^^^ ^^^^^ , ^ ' That's a good girl, do i m -^^ p^p^y. Though all your clothes the ^-^^^^^^ J"!ft£\?^^ matter-if you vvere yourself.' ^. ^ . ^^^ ... ^.^r own room, and soon re- ^ Edie ran lightly ^P "'f,^^^^^^ appeared clad rc^Pj^"*^^^" ^^^^a a little creamy lamb's-wod hU and parasol to ffl^i^'.^.^eas around her pretty neck scarf thrown with artful ca|ti\^3bne33 '^^^.^^^^ they irresistibly luVl-vo tl-n'^1;.^^ -"V thel'tinct m^^^ ,[ UissabiUty. 8u -nested to a critical eye the USUI ^ ^^^ admired Tr she stood tl-e, famtyb^^^^^^^^^ , ,, i er by her brother m ^l^'^, "ff;^ , i eld carelessly at her side, 4. half 1-rted aiu le a u^ ^..^ure as it is given blush deepen ; ' it s simply delicious. you get the ide:v of ,t I , , ^.^^^ Edie; 'but I 'Well, it's Pf tly t e pre^^^^^^^^^ • I veiuciiinei, . — — . . >Kuw lust turn rounu. plating hor with an admiring eye. £now j THE COASTS OF THE GENTILES. 19 and show me liovv it sits behind, Edie. You recollect The'ophile Gautier says the one great advantage which a beautiful woman possesses over a beautiful statue is this, that while a man has to walk round the beautiful statue in order to see it from every side, he can ask the beautiful woman to turn herself round and let him see her, without requiring to take tliat trouble.' ' Tlieophile Gautier was a horrid man, and if anybody but my brother quoted such a tiling as that to me I should be veiy angry with him indeed.' ' Tlieophile Gautier was quite as horrid as you consider him to be, and if you were anybody but my sister it isn't probable I should have quoted him to you. But if there is any statue on earth prettier or more graceful than you are in that dress at this moment, Edie, then the Venus of Milo ouglit immediately to be pulverised to ultimate atoms for a rank artistic impostor.' 'Thank you, Harry, for the compliment. What pretty things you must be capable of saying to somebody else's sister, wlien you're so polite and courtly to your own.' 'On the contrary, Popsy, when it comes to somebody else's sister I'm much too nervous and funky to say anything of tlie kind. But you must at least do Gautier the justice to oljserve that if I had described a circle round you, instead of allowing you to revolve once on your own axis, I shouldn't have been able to get the gloss on the satin in the sunlight as I do now that you turn the panniers toward the wintlow. That, you must admit, is a very important aesthetic consider- ation.' ' Oil, of course it's essentially a sunshiny dress,' said Edie, smiling. ' It's meant to be worn out of doors, on a line afternoon, when the light is falling slantwise, you know, just as it does now through the low window. That's the light painters always choose for doing satin in.' ' It's certainly very pi'etty,' Harry went on, musing ; ' but I'm afraid Le Breton would say it was a serious piece of economic hnhrifi.^ ' Piece of wliat 1 ' asked Edie quickly. ' Piece of hubris — an economical outrage, don't you see ; a gross anti-social and individualist demonstration. Jlnhriti, you know, is Greek for insolence ; at least, not quite inso- lence, but a sort of pride and overweening rebelliousness against tlie gods, the kind of arrogance that brings Nemesis after it, you understand. It was Inilnia in AgauieiiUKJii and Xerxes to go swelUng about and rulHing themselves like tm'key-coeks, because they were great conquerors and all that sort of thing ; and it was their Nemesis to get murdered c 2 I -aMHHBj !;'. M^^^l j$m-i^.ve PIIILISTIA. 20 many things socially ^^^'i'^^y Y,^^,^ \ I'^Uon, or a mere vulgar partftke. of the na Uu'e of a ;^l'^^«^^f ^ , ^f J'yood, serviceable, ostentation of wealth, m- a u.acssj.Bt^^^ ,^^ .^ ^^ ^^^^^ labom-g..tten f '^^^^J, .^^^^.^e w kUo just as well ; or to .silver spoons when ^^'^'^^^•^'1*''^*^.^^ , Uendant, making one keep a valet for your own P^^^""'V/,,f 'S or to buy mai into the mere bodily W^"^ «^ ; ;X^^^^ .f T^:^^^^^^^^ -^ -^^^ --'''-'' '^ takes the world as he hnds it. , ^^ ^ , ':^'^-^^^^zr^tt^\ E.-fs up in '^"^S f s eS £"'voSa"thinU my dre. a piece of what-you-niiiy-call-it I ' \c3, Ernest.' j ^^^^^^^ insist upon 'Then I'm ^uro I shan t Uke mm ^^^ ^^ every woman's natural right to wear .lie bonnet that «"itB Jicr con.plexion best^^ ^ ricrht he does, and sticks to it. o __ . , ii,:«i^ How '^'^^?xv\\ Traio deir I don't quite know what my own 'Well, Euie (tar, ^ " \. I'm not an economist, .pinions are --^^I^^ ^^ """^ I lok at you, standing you see, 1 ma ^"^^ii;^^^'; ,'^J;^' n_gg i feel inclined to say to there so pretty m that 1>\^ fy^V^^'^'^ j^ei^est t.. make herself myself, " Every woman «"« ^*, to do hei ue delectation of all j.^U '-.J>-}^^i^ -^^^ '^^^Imld have said, is a gift i^r l^gods^^; twe ought all gratefully to make '^^^^^.^^!^- ^-'re in your politest hnmouv this J^ft^'^"';'^"'' , ,^^ , ^,.,1 t i^now if Le Breton were ' But then, on the other hand, 1 know i ^^ . here he'd soon argue ine "^^^y^"^/^^^, "f,i^, that you can't ^^'^^'iSSle were "here you'd probably make me put away THE COASTS OF THE GENTILES. 21 the peacock-blue, for fear of liiihru and Nemesis and so forth, and go up to Oxford a perfect fright in my shabby old Indian tussore ! ' ' I don't know that I should do that, even then, Edie. In the tirst place, notliing on earth could make you hiok a perfect fright, or anything like one, Popsy dear; and in the second i)lace, I don't know that I'm Socialist enough myself ever to liave the courage of my opinions as Le Breton has. Certainly, I should never attempt to force them unwillingly upon others. You must remember, Edie, it's one thing for Le Breton to be so communistic as all that comes to, and quite another thing for you and me. Le Breton's father was a general and a knight, you see ; and people will rever forget that his motlier's Lady Le Bretoij still, whatever he does. He may do what he likes in the way of social eccentricities, and the world will only say he's such a very strange advanced young fellow. But if I were to take you up to Oxford batUy dressed, or out of the fashion, or looking peculiar in any way, the world wouldn't put it down to our political beliefs, but would say we were mere country tradespeople by birth, and didn't kn.^w any better. That makes a lot of difierence, you know.' ' You're quite right, Harry ; and yet, do you know, I think there must be sometliing, too, in sticking to one's own opinions, like Mr. Le Breton. I should stick to mine, I'm sure, and wear whatever dress I liked, in spite of anybody. It's a sweet thing, really, isn't it % ' And she turned lierself round, craning over her shoulder to look at the ellect, in a vain attempt to assume an objective attitude towards her own back. ' I'm glad I'm going to Oxford at last, Harry,' she said, after a short pause. 'I /tare so longed to go all these years while you were an undergraduate ; and I'm dying to have got there, now the chance has really come at last, after all. I shall glory in the place, I'm certain ; and it'll be so nice to make the acquaintance of all your clever friends.' ' Well, Edie,' said her brother, smiling gently at the light, joyous, treiuulous little figure, ' I think I've done right in putting it off till now. It's just as well you haven't gone up to Oxford till after your trip on the Continent with me. That three months in Paris, and Switzerhind, and Venice, and Florence, did you a lot ui good, you see ; improved you, and gave you tone, and supplied you with things to talk about. ' ' Why, vou oughtn't to think I needed any improvement ' I'm at all, sir,' Edie answered, pouting; 'and as not aware I had ever any dearth of subjects for convoraatiou to talking, ■aM ^■: WM \ 1 rTTTintnifnifafrtif— -' 22 PHILISTIA. ^ 'f?lT«PnvPr much su"-estive matter for conversation n a wt before P es nSy she said'something casually abou Sg'-n in Brazil. I "fke^ her ^^^at sort of p W ^^^^^^ was " Oh." shH said, " it's dreadfully hot. I told her i a Wd tl^t too. By-and-by she began to t^k^gam about Birbadoes. " What did you think of the \V est incl es . x S d '' Oh," said she, '' they're terribly hot, really. I to Id her I had gathered as much from previous travellers. And thlt was positively all in the end I ever got out of her, ^'' ' Mv' dear'Edie, I've always admitted that , you .were simply'^l.Xt,' Hmy said, glancing at her with visdole admuyion, ' and I dott think anything on earth could pos- SbW improve you-except perhaps a udicious course of d^SjreiSal ImUntegral calculus, which might possibly serve Tton" d^wn slightly your exuberant and ---- vjtali^^ Still vou know, from the point of view of society, winch is a forc^ we have always to reckon with-a constant, in fact that wrmav call Pi-there can be no doubt in the world that to have Won the Continent is a difFerentiating factor m one's social position. It doesn't matter in the least what your own private evaluation of Pi may be ; if yo" ^^^ ^ happen to know the particular things and places that Pi knows. Pi's evaluation of you will be approximately a mini- mum, of that you may be certain.' 4. t>; „„ 'Well, for my part, I don't care twopence about Pi as you call it,' saicl Edie, tossing her pretty little head con- temptuously ; ' but I'm very glad indeed to have W on the Continent for my own sake, because of the pictures and palaces, and mountains, and waterfalls we've seen, and not because of Pi's opinion of me for having seen them I would have been the same person really whether I'd seen them or not; but Pm so mich the richer mysef for that view from the top of the Col de Balme, and for that MuriUo-oh do you remember the flood of light on that Murillo]-in the tar corner of that delicious K-'dlery at Bologna. Why, mother darlmg, what on earth has been vexing you I' THE COASTS OF THE GENTILES. 23 of • Nothing at all, Edie dear ; leastways, that is, nothing to speak of,' said her motlier, coming up from the shop hot and flurried from her desperate encounter with the redoubtable Miss Luttrell. 'Oh, I know just what it is, darling,' cried the girl, putting her arm around her mother's waist caressingly, and drawing her down to kiss her face half a dozen times over in her outburst of sympathy. ' That horrid old Miss Catherine has been here again, I'm sure, for I saw her going out of the shop just now, and slie's been saying something or other spiteful, as she always does, to vec my dearie. What diu she say to you to-day, now do tell u-^, duckie mother l ' ' Well, there,' said Mrs. Oswald, half laughing and half crying, ' I can't tell 'ee exactly what she did say, but it was just the kind of thing that she mostly does, impudent like, just to hurt a body's feelings. She said you'd better not go to Oxford, Edie, but stop at home and learn your catechism.' ' You might have pointed out to her, mother dear,' said the young man, smoothing her hair softly with his hand, and kissing her forehead, ' that in the most advanced intellectual centres the Church catechism is perhaps no longer regarded as the absolute idtimatum of the highest and deepest economical wisdom.' ' Bless your heart, Harry, what'd be the good of talking that way to the likes of she ? She wouldn't understand a single word of what you were driving at. It must be all plain sailing with her, without it's in the way of spite, and then she sees her chance to tack round the hardest corner with half a wind in her sails only, as soon as look at it. Her sharpness goes all oft" toward ill-nature, that it do. Why, she said you'd got on at Oxford by good patronage ! ' 'There, you see, Edie,' cried Harry demonstratively, ' that's an intinitesimal fraction of Pi ; that's a minute decimal of this great, sneering, ugly aggregate "society" that we have to deal with whether we will or no, and that rends us and grinds us to powder if only it can once get in the thin end of a chance. Take shaky bitter old Miss Catherine for your unit, multiply her to the n^^, and there you see the irreducible power we have to fight against. All one's political economy is vpry well in its way ; but the practical master of the situation is Pi, sitting autocratically in many-headed judgment-. -^t haw- thorn-pattern vases.' ' At any rate, Berkeley, you always manage to gee your money's worth of amusement out of your money.' ' Of course, because I lay myself out to do it. Buy a bottle of champagne, drink it off, and there you have to show for your total permanent investment on the transaction the memory of a noisy evening and a headache the next morning. Buy a flute, or a book of poems, or a little pic- ture, or a Palissy platter, and you have something to turn to with delight and admiration for half a lifetime.' ' Ah, but it isn't everybody who can isolate himself so utterly from the workaday world and live so completely in MAGDALEN QUAD. „ his own little paradise of art as you can, my clear fellow iSon ovinia pos^ivnw. nnwps. You seem to hi .u ■ nottheVJano m^^af oSSu^'r T' "^"" y^"'- played only before Saur^^fo'' hl^ of couJse aTlZ^r ^ '^ in his own gift, no doubt. I've -ot a npw +1.,S. ^''''"^'' n^y head this very n.inute that you shanhJartEr^^f,;" x;Xinnu:^ ':]^:if i' ^^^^^^ posted by thJir^^jiSr^^ti^Lr iSiSs t- Have you seen Miss Butterfly yet " Butterfly. ' Oh* tY/,1'^* "''"""' ^^ ""''y. ^''^*«- Who is she ? ' au-vent! I rLai "ti:iLirbir?'^*i""i- Mademoiselle Vol- Devonshire, 0^1 J^ ^^^^^^S^^^^^^^ ^^^ theHi.hon%CsHv '^^'"'* '?>'^^* ''^ ^''^"^^^^^ <^f ^^r in as a hmnmrng-St ^" "'^ P'""^' '^^^^"^y- ^"^ as airy If youwS bov'anT'^f ^^^^.^^ ^"-^ this morning. Berkeley ; t V, fht\^ ^"r*^'^^ 'n^it'l su,,ose, virtue, i^ is that yo^ ''; tch a 5ef dZ wT Sn^-'-f-Soi a siderate critic I'll nn-^l ff f ^^hciously frank and yet con- your lunch n spite of it Jr?]^'^?^^ '^"^"°^' ^"^ eat as stand-oft- as hlr bi^fther /' "**''^^' "^ ^^^ ^^" h^^' ' VerVrSrict;!)"'? "'■'■^'^^■^^«^<^ *« ^^^ last degree.' water ? HoSon .bsoltp?v^^''~J '.'T^'^ ^*^^ "^ t^^^ fir«t her nativf partsh ? ' ^ ^''""^"'^ ^^ *^« ^"gh hedges of b.;^ nf ^;;',u^2^2iaX^^" '^^^'^ ^^^^ ^- ~a.t.n-hohng his own waistcoat; 'but he's spoilt~by" two i gg PIIILISTIA. ba.1 trait. In the ar,t place. W» -.iJ-Sr::^^^ the fact that he has n.en fm m a "•>;:■■*''' ,,„ t,,„,„atieal. 5? «;;;a!:i:;» t:^;-"^'^ ".•""^^^^'^- -' '° "^"^ ivii, ^"" " J. 1 ,„i,;i,> VP+ lift abode in x iiuisii«i» ^"f^r" h^^u'a;s.So^ati^i;ct;:n. Ho scd^Uus under ^l'« 1'} >.\V'\ ' !,, of a treatise on elementary trigo- way out of CJuth by "^'^^^^J /J't^ ,vin,'s of an undulatory noiuetry. and evaded A^'-^.^l*'","^"., , ' ',, i,i,„sv, who have theory of light. It :s •Wl.renyu^^^^ ub > m .nosv^^ ^^^ emerged froni the l'^"*! ^J/^'^^'^^"^, ,7r ,^elais°^^^^ liurton ; and literary highway. ^^ e f^*;^\"l*^* ^^ the theory of be Hits caivlesHly from flower to ^ ^^^^ "\i^;^. jlossetti, he ^^^'t;^nt^^i':tX^-'^t2:f:^u^ would pa mt gieat dlie„ i dream, ana intro- ;HXt uiih^^^^^^^^^ '" >"" '•"■-*'"■-'» ""'t' uSeiey spoke, « rap sounded on the oat, andErncst P'^TSSi7ir:*ed ."erC-aua lunch .Hh hin,, if ""V\v"'taIi'bo"ToU; a party,' said Ernest toting 1™-", »d lookitahstraltodiy -nd ti. r.,o,^ .^ ^ --e'i^S as his eyo fell ui'"" the ^"""i^S^'S^el-, isn't it ! Eli!' Sr^S^'T^^lir^.MS^ll^ri.ttlo piece of Tjerfect. I wish 1 knew :^^^^f 7,, Sometimes 1 think b^-^t^rlS S'a^lrhySn ;'s„n.etnues I think white tie straighc at I^^"^ ""/ ^ -^ ^ hundred and eighty "pSilfdsT^^ST^xces^^eCnSone personto spend upon "'' rS'^'p 'so, as expose, - a-non,. ,. V sa^ S™riV:x;:S«a;S";f a \^S^^ wltU a .ife and family.' « ^ MAGDALEN QUAD. »9 .Very well, tl,af» the very ontaWe I '^er .pcnd up.m ,„y.,rS au/o„o year, '- the "cc-^-t ™-n t ut ,t . .11 :C iXitf TTthe thiig» that di^ppear at once and ""■nC filt S i:. the.KoM^i---f -n^:f i looking at tl,o curate hxc, v^ J^ . ,,7,T,, f, r bread ) A„d t„ „,,c„d ». nu.cl, wbcn * "» 'J^ Xr p„„plo work at nr„- ■'"'"IL 7,o« Lc Br>*m; «d the par,,.,, ,,»»,„.„,,,,! a ,„.,ro d,„.-t,Di.,d di>.cu>.„,a ,h.» l'"--^' ' " a*^u vrant t,. ^eo „„ ctWcil fou„f ^"j^ J^,,,^^ ^^^^^^^^^ anythng for u didn t care f f ^^ ^^ ^^f^S a world. I won't countenance wouldn t. I don J^"* ^m;n^ ^^,,^1,,^ or advance such a such a world, i 11 clo noiuui^ t ban sh it, as world. It's utterly repugnant to me, ana i nam ThemistoclcH banished j^^^^ ^t^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^^^^ ' But consider,' said M^^ ^^^ ^^ ^^^„^. rr^j^:;::^s:cr^&^^ opprcsins my poor dif atMed «>n3c.ence itaut^£icSi:^o^;;1^7sTeC^S;Usori»^^^^^^^^ ; Am-.^^^^^ 30 PHILISTIA, action of natural selection. Simple, but not consolatory. Still, look at the other side of the question. Suppose you and everybody else were to give up all superfluities, and confine all your energies to the unhmited production of bare necessaries. Suppose you occupy every acre ot land with your corn-fields, or your piggeries ; and sweep away all the parks, and woods, and heaths, and moorlands in Encdand. Suppose you keep on letting your population multiply as fast as it chooses— and it will multiply, you know, in that ugly, reckless, anti-Malthusian fashion of its own— till every rood of ground maintains its man, and only iust maintains him ; and what will you have got theiW ' A dead level of abject pauperism,' put in Herbert blandly; 'a m«»td/o ad ahmnhmi of all your visionary Schurzian pluU)sophy, my dear Ernest. Look at it another wav, now, and just consider. Which really and tru y matters most to you and me, a great work of art or a liighly resiiectable horny-handed son of toil, whose acquaintance we have never had the pleasure of personally making I Suppose you read in the Tiuld^ that the respectable horny-handed one has fallen off a scaffolding and broken his neck ; and that the Dresden Madonna has been burnt by an unexpected accident ; which of the two items of intelligence affects you the most acutely? My dear fellow, you may push your humanitarian enthusiasm as far as ever you like ; but in your heart of hearts you know as well as I do that you 11 d.>eply re«n-et the loss of the Madonna, and ^ ou 11 never think again about the fate of the respectable horny-handed, his wife or children.' a i. ^^ Ernest's answer, if he had any to make, was effectually nipped in the bud by the entrance of the scout who came in to announce Mr. and Miss Oswald and Mrs. Martnickle Edie wore the grey dress, her brother s present, and flitted into the room after her joyous fashion, full of her first fresh dtdight at the cloistered (piad of IVIiigdalen. . , , , , \\-hat a delicious college, Mr. Berkeley !' she said, hold- ing out her hand to him brightly. ' Good-mm-ning, Mr. Le Bieton • this is your brother, I know by the likeness, i thou.dit New College very beautiful, but nothing 1 ve seen is .luTte as beautiful as Magdalen. What a privilege to live always in such a place ! And what an exquisite view from your window here ! ' • , 1 r *i ' Yes,' said lierkeley, moving a few music-bo()ks from the seat in the wimlow-sill ; ' come and r^it by it, Miss Osvvald. Mrs. Martindale, won't you put your shawl down f How 8 the I'rotessor to-day \ So soriy he couldn't cohr:. ' Ah he had to go to sit on one of las Boards, said tUo MAGDALEN QUAD. 3« old lady, seating herself. 'But you know I'm quite ac- customed to going out without him.' Arthur Berkeley knew as much ; indeed, being a person of minute strategical intellect, he had purposely looked out a day on which the Professor had to attend a meeting of the delegates of something or other, so as to secure Mrs. Martin- dale's services without the supplementary drawback of that prodigious bore. Not that he was particularly anxious for Mrs. Martindale's own society, which was of the most strictly negative character ; but he didn't wish Edie to be the one lady in a party of four men, and he invited the Professor's wife as an excellent neutral figure-head, to keep her in countenance. Ladies were scarcer then in Oxford than they are nowadays. The married fellow was still a tentative problematical experiment in those years, and the invasion of the Parks by young couples had hardly yet begun in earnest. So female society was still at a considerable local premium, and Berkeley was glad enough to secure even colourless old Mrs. Martindale to square his party at any price. ' And how do you like Oxford, Miss Oswald % ' asked Ernest, making his way towards the window. ' My dear Le Breton, what a question to put to her ! ' said Berkeley, smiling. * As if Oxford were a place to be appraised ofl'li.md, on three dfiys' acquaintance. You remind me of the American who went to look at Niagara, and made an approving note in his memorandum book to say that he found it really a very elegant cataract.' ' Oh, but you muni form some opinion of it at least, at first sight,' cried Edie ; ' you can't help having an impression of a place from the first moment, even if you haven't a judg- ment on it, can you now \ I think it really surpasses my expectations, Mr. Le Breton, which is always a pleasant surprise. Venice fell below them ; Florence just came up to them ; but Oxford, I think, really surpasses them.' 'We have throe beautiful towns in Britain,' Berkeley said. ('As if he were a Welsh Triad,' suggested Herbert Le Breton, parenthetically. ) ' Torquay, Oxford, Edin- burgh. Torquay is all nature, spoilt by what I won't call art ; Oxford is all art, superimposed on a swamp that I won't call nature ; Edinburgh is both nature and art, working pretty hariuoniouisly together, to make up a unii^uo and exquisite picture.' 'Just like Naples, Venice, and Heidelberg,' said Edie, half to herself ; but BerkeUiy caught at the words quickly as she said them. * Yes,' be answered ; ' a very good parallel, only Oxford has a triifle more nature about it +1) A' OPICO, The lagoon, without the palaces, would be simply hideous 33 PHILISTIA. the Or,eney flats, without the colleges, would be nothing worse than mei^ly^duU.|^^^^ deal,' said Ernest, gazing out towards the quadrangle, ' to the forgotten nuiss of labouring humanity whoVled all those blocks of shapeless stone into beautifu forms for us who come after to admire and worship. 1 otteu wonder, when T sit here in Berkeley's window-seat and ook across the ..uad to the carved pinnacles on the Foundei s Tower there, whether any of us can ever hope to leave behind to our successors any legacy at all comparable to the one eft us 1)V those nameless old mediieval mas.ins. It's a very saddening thou'ditthat we for whom all these beautiful things have been put to<'ether-we whom labouring humanity has pampered uul petted from our cradles upward, feediug us on its whitest bread, and toiling for us with all its weary sinews-that ^ e piobal.lv will nev'er do anything at all for it and for the world u return, but will simply eat our way through life aimlessly, unci die forgotten in the end like the beasts that perish. It ought to luake us, as a class, terribly ashamed of our own utfer and abject inutility.' , , , i •„„ . .i,,. E.lie looked at him with a sort of hushed surprise ; she was accustomed to hear Harry talk radical talk enough after his own fashion, but radicalism of this particular pensn^e tin<'e she was not accustomed to. It interested hei, and ,mde her wonder what sort of man Mr. Le Breton might '''"'\\^li, you know, Mr. Le Breton,' said old Mrs Martin- dale, complacently, ' we must remend^er that Providence has ^visely ordained that we shouldn't all of us be masons or car- penters. Some of us are clergymen, now, and look whc^fc a useful, valuable life a clergyman's is, after all, isnt it, Mr. Berkeley \ ' Berkeley smiled a faint smile of amusement, but said nothing. ' Others are squires and landed gentry ; and I'm sure the landed gentry are very desirable in keeping „p the tone of the country districts, and setting a pattern o V rtue and rotinemeiit to their poorer neighbours, \\hat would the country vdlages be, for example, if it wercn or the centres of culture atrorded by the rectory and the h dl, eh I^Iiss ()swal MAGDALEN QUAD. 33 tliat exact moment endeavouring to supplant it. If I were to visit Central Africa, I sliould confidently expect to be told by the rain-doctors that Providence had ordained the absolute power of the chief, and the custom of mass; cing his wives and slaves at his open grave side. I believe ii Ilussia it's usually allowed that Providence has placed the orthodox Czar at the head of the nation, and that any attempt to obtain a consti- tution from him is simply fiat rebellion and flving in the face of Providence. In England we had a King John once, and we extracted a constitution out of him and sundry other kings by main force ; and here, it's acquiescence in the present limited aristocratic government that makes up obe- dience to the Providential arrangement of things apparently. But how about America \ eh, Mrs. Martindale \ Did Provi- dence ordain that George Washington was to rebel ao-ainst Ins most sacred majesty King George III., or did it' not? And did it ordain that George Washington was to knock his most sacred majesty's troops into a cocked hat, or did It not? And did it ordain that Abraham Lincoln was to free the slaves, or did it not? What I want to know is t.iis : can it be said that Providence has ordained every class distinction in the whole world, from Dahomey to San Fran- cisco \ And has it ordained every Government, past and l)resent, from the Chinese Empire to the French Convention ? Did it ordain, for example, the revolution of '89 \ That's the (luestion I should like to have answered.' 'Dear me, Mr. Oswald,' said the old lady meekly, taken aback by Harry's voluble vehemence : ' I suppose Providence Iiermits some things and ordains others.' 'And does it permit American democracy or ordain it?' asked the merciless Harry. 'Don't you see, Mrs. Martindale,' put in Berkeley, coming gently to her rescue, ' your principle amounts in efiect to saying that whatever is, is right.' 'Exactly,' said the old lady, forgetting at once all about Dahomey or the Convention, and coming back mentally to her scpures and rectors. 'The existing order is wisely arranged by Providence, and we mustn't try to set ourselves uj) ag;uast it.' T'^^y^ whatever is, ia right,' Edie said, laughing, 'then Mr. Le Breton's socialism must be right too, you see, because it exists in him no doubt for some wise purpose of Providence ; and if he and those who think with him can succeed in chang- nig things generally according to their own pattern, then the new system that they introduce will be the one that Provi dence has shown by the result to be the favonrod one=' 'In short,' said Ernest, musingly, 'Mrs. Martindale's r| 34 pi: [LIS TI A. It's the r rather, if I were a good analytical psychologist, perhaps I uiight more correctly to say I am, in love with her already.' ^He sat down idly at the piano and played a few bars A LITTLE MUSIC. 39 softly to himself — a beautiful, airy sort of melody, as it sliiiped itself vaguely in his head at the moment, with a little of the new wine of first love running like a trill through the midst of its fast-flowing quavers and dainty undulations. ' That will do,' he said to himself api)rovingly. ' That will do very well ; that's little Miss Butterfly. Here she flits, flits, flits, flickovg sip, sip, sip, at her honeyed flowers ; twirl away, whirl iway, oft" in tlie sunshine— there you go, IMiss Jiiitterrty, edciying and circling w4th your painted mate. Flirt, flirt, flirt, coquetting and curvetting, in your pretty rliythnucal aerial quadrille. Down agair )wn to the hare- bell on tlie hill side ; sip at it, sip at it, sip at it, sweet little honey-drops, clef'.r little honey-drops, bright little honey- drops ; oh, for a song to be set to the melody ! Tra-la-la, tro-lo-lo, up again. Butterfly. Little silk handkerchief, little lace neckerchief, fluttering, fluttering ! Feathery wings of her, bright little eyes of her, flit, flit, flicker ! Now% she blushes, bluslics, blushes ; deep crimson ; oh, what a colour ! Paint it, painter i Now she speaks. Oh, what laughter ! Silvery, silvery, treble, treble, treble ; trill away, trill away, silvery treble. Musical beautiful ; beautiful, musical ; little Miss Butterfly— fly— fly— fly away ! ' And ne brought his Angers down upon the gamut at last, with a hasty, flickering touch that seemed really as delicate as Edie's own. 'I can never get words for it in English,' he said again, half speaking with his parted lips ; ' it's too dactylic in rhythm f(jr English verse to go to it. Beranger might have written a lilt for it, as far as mere syllables go, but Beranger to write about Miss Butterfly! — pho, no Frenchman could possibly catch it. Swinburne could fit the metres, I dare say, but he couldn't fit the feeling. It shall be a song v.dthout words, unless I write some Italian lines for it myself. Animula, blandula vagula — that's the sort of ring for it, but Latin's mostly too heavy. lo. Hymen, Hymeiuee, lo ; lo. Hymen, Hymena^e ! What's that? A wedding song of Catullus — absit omen. I must be in love with her indeed.' He got up from the piano, and paced quickly and feverishly up and down the room. ' And yet,' he went on, * if only I weren't bound down so by this unprofitable trade of parson ! A curate on eiglity pounds a year, and a few pupils ! The presumptuousness of the man in venturing to think of falling in love, as if he were actually one of the beneficed clergy ! What are deacons coming to, I wonder ! And yet, hath not a deacon eyes ; hath not a deacon hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, pas-^ions ? If you prick us, do we not bleed ? If you tickle us, do wo .W'ipSUN*'. Bi^ ■;tf^»»^..i' 40 PHILlSriA. iK.t liingh \ And if you show us a little Miss ButttTtly, l.ciuitifiTl to tlie tinyer-euds, do we not fall in love with her at least as unaffectedly as- if we were canons residentiary or rural deans \ Fancy little INIls.s IJutterlly a rural deaiiess ! the notion's too ridiculous. Fly away, little Miss Buttertly ; Hy away, sweet little frolicsome, lauglisoine creature. I won t try to tie you down to a man in a black clerical coat with a very distant hypothetical reversionra'y prospect of a dull and din-^'y country parsonage. Flit elstnvhere, little Miss Butter- tly,rtit elsewhere, and iind yourself a gayer, gaudier- coloi< red mate 1 ' 1 c 1 ■ He sat down again, and strummeil a few more bars ot Jus half-composed, half-extemporised melody. Then lie leant back on the music-stool, and said gently to himself once more : ' Still, if it were possible, how happy I should try to make her ! Bright little IMiss Buttertly, I would try never to let a cold cloud pass chillily over your sunshiny head ! I would live for you, and w(n-k for you, and write songs for your sake, all full of you, you, you, and so all full of lite and grace and thrilling music. What's my life good for, to me or to the world \ "A clergymairs life is such a useful oiie, that amiable old conventionality gurgled out this mornuig : what's the good of mine, as it stands now, to its owner in Upper Clapton or Stoke Newington. But Lady Le BreMn was a tlroroughly and conscientiously religi-nis woman, who in all things con- sulted tirst and foremost the esoteric interests of her in- grained creed. It was a prime article of this cherished social faith that nobcjdy with any shadow of personal self- respect could endure to live under any other postal letter ASK'ELON VILLA, GATH. 43 than W. or S.W. Better not to be at all than to drag out a miserable existence in the painful obscurity of N. or S.E. Happily for peoi)le situated like Lady Le Breton, the metro- politan house-contractor (it would be gross flattery to de- scril)e him as a builder) has divined, with his usual practical sagacity, the necessity for supplying this felt want for eligible family residences at once comparatividy cheap and relatively fashionable. ]'>y driving little c}ils-de-suc. and re- entrant alleys at the back of his larger rows of shoddy mansions, he is enabled to run up a smaller terrace, or crescent, or place, as the case may be, composed of tiny shallow cottages with the narrowest possible frontage, and the tallest possible elevation, wliich will yet entitle their occupiers to feel themselves within the sacred pale of social salvation, in the blest security of the mystic \V. Narrowest, shallowest, and tallest of these marginal Society residences is the little block of blank-faced, stucco-fronted, porticoed labbit-hutcliL'S, which blazons itself forth in the Court Guide under the impc^sing designaticjii of Ei)silon Terrace, Bays- water. The irxterior of No. 28 in this eminently respecUible back alley was quite of a piece, it must be confessed, with the vacant Philistinism of its naked exterior. ' Mother has really an immense amount of taste,' Herbert Le Breton used to say, blandly, ' and all of it of the most atrocious description ; she picked it up, I believe, when my poor father was quartered, at Lahore, a station absolutely fatal to the testhetic faculties ; and she will never get rid of it again as long as she lives.' Indeed, when once Lady Le Breton got anything whatsoever into her head, it was not easy for axiybody else to get it out again ; you might much more readily expect to draw one of her double teeth than to eliminate one of her pet opinions. Not that she w;' a stupid or a near-sighted woman — the mother of clever s never is — but she was a perfectly invnovable rock of social ;ind political orthodoxy. The three Le Breton boys — for there was a third at home — wouM ' ' have reformed the terrors of that awful drawin,L' m if they had dared ; but they knew it was as much as their places were worth, Herbert said, to attempt a renKmstrance, and they wisely left it alone, and said notliing. Of course the house was not vulgarly furnished, at least in the conventional sense of the word ; Lady Le Breton was lar too rigid in her s-'cial orthodoxy to have admitted into her rooms anything that savoured of what she considert-d bad form, according to her lights. It was only vulgar with the underlying vulgarity of mere tasteless fashionable uni- 44 PIIILISTIA. forniity. There w.as nothing in it that any well-bred foot- man could object to ; nothing that anybody with one grain of genuine originality could \v ssibly tolerate. The little occasional chairs and tables set casually about the room were of the strictest neglige Belgravian type, a sort of studied ])rotest against the formal stiffness of the ordinary unused middle-class drawing-room. The portrait of the late Sir Owen in tlie Avee library, presented by his brother-othcers, was painted by that distinguished R. A. , Sir Francis Thomson, a light of the middle of this century ; and an excellent work of art it was too, in its own solemn academic kind. The dining-room, tiny as it was, possessed that inevitable Cana- letti without which no gentkman's dining-room in England is ever considered to be complete. Everything spoke at once the stereotyped Scjciety style of a dozen years ago (before ]\Ir. Morris had reformed the outer aspect of the West End), entirely free from anything so startling or indecorous as a gleam of spontaneity in the possessor's mind. To be sure, it was very far indeed from the centre round-table and brilliant-tlowered-table-cc)ver style of the utter unregenerate Philistine household ; but it was further still from the sim[)le natuial taste and graceful fancy of Edie Oswald's cosy little back parlour behind the village grocer's shop at Calcombe-Pomeroy. The portrait and the Canaletti were relics of Lady Le Breton's best days, when Sir Owen was alive, and the boys were still in their first babyhood. Sir Owen was an Indian otiicer of the old school, a simple-minded, gentle, brave man, very religious after his own fashion, and an excellent soldier, with the true Anglo-Indian faculty for adjiiiuistration and organisati(jn. It was partly from him, no doubt, that the boys inherited their marked intelligence ; and it was wholly from him, beyond any doubt at all, that Ernest aiul his younger brother Ilonald inherited their moral or religions sincerity — for that was an element in which poor formally orthodox Lady Le Urcton was wholly deticient. The good OeiuM'al had been broiight \\\> in the strictest doctrines of the Cliipham sect ; he had gone t(j India young, as a cadet from Haileybury ; and he had a])plied his intellect all his life long rather to the arduous task of extending ' the blessings of lintish rule ' to Sikhs and Ghoorkas, than to those abstract ethical or theological questiims which agitated the souls of a later generation. If a new district had to be assimilated in settlement to the established model of the British n»/, if a tribe of hill-savages had to be conciliated by gentler means than rifles or bayimets, if a difficult bit of diplomatic duty liad to bo performed on the debateable frontiers, Sir Owen ASKELON VILLA, GATE. 45 Le Breton was always the person chosen to undertake it. An earnest, honest, God-fearing man he remained to the end, impressed by a profound sense of duty as he under- stood it, and a firm conviction that his true business in life consisted in serving his Queen and country, and in bringing more and more of the native populations within the pale of the Company's empire, and the future evangelisation that was ultimately to follow. But during the great upheaval of the Mutiny, he fell at the head of his own unrevoked regiment in one of the hottest battles of that terrible time, and my Lady Le Breton found herself left alone with three young children, on little more than the scanty pension of a general officer's widow on the late Company's establishment. Happily, enough remained to bring up the boys, with the aid of their terminable annuities (which fell in on their attaining their majority), in decent respect for the feelings and demands of exacting Society ; and as the two elder were decidedly clever boys, they managed to get scholar- ships at Oxford, which enabled them to tide over the danger- ous intermediate period as far as their degree. Herbert then stepped at once into a fellowship and sundry other good things of like sort ; and Ernest was even now trying to follow in his brother's steps, in this particular. Only the youngest boy, Konald, still remained quite unprovided for. Ronald was a tall, pale, gentle, weakly, enthusiastic young fellow of nineteen, with so marked a predisposition to lung disease that it had not been thought well to let him run the chance of over-reading himself ; and so he had to be content with remaining at home in the uncongenial atmosphere of Epsilon Terrace, instead of joining his two elder brothers at the university. Uncongenial, because Ronald alone followed Sir Owen in the religious half of his natui-e, and found the ' worldliness ' and conventionality of his unflinching mother a serious bar to his enjoyment of home society. 'Ronald,' said my lady, at the l)roakfast-tablo on the very morning of Arthur Berkeley's little luncheon party, ' here's a letter for you from Mackenzie and Anderson. No doubt your Aunt Sarah's will has been recovered and proved at last, and I ho{)e it'll turn out satisfactory, as we wish it.' 'For my part, I really almost hope it won't, mother,' said Ronald, turning it over ; * for I don't want to be com- pelled to profit by Ernest's excessive generosity. He's too good to me, just because ho thinks me the weaker vessel ; l)ut though we must l>ear one another's burdens, you know, wo should each bear his own cross as well, shouldn't wc, niotli.T I' ' Well, it can't be much in any case,' said his mother, a 46 nilLISTIA. little testily, ' whoever gets it. Open the envelope at once, my boy, and don't stand looking at it like a gooae in that abstracted way.' ' Oh, mother, she was my father's only sister, and I'm not in such a hnrry to tind out how she has disposed of her mere perishing worldly goods,' answered Ronald, gravely. 'It seems to me a terrible thing that before poor dear good Aunt Sarah is cold in her grave almost, we should be specu- lating and conjecturing as to what she has done with her poor little tritie of earthly riches.' ' It's always usual to read the will immediately after the funeral,' said Lady Le Breton, firmly, to whom the ordinary usage of society formed an absolutely unanswerable argu- ment ; ' and how you, Ronald, who haven't even the coirmon decency to wear a bit of ci'ape ar unprovided for. But Ernest said he could fight the w ■ / * for himself, while I couldn't ; and that unearned Avealt' ■ t only to be accepted in trust for those who were incapacitated by nature or misfortune from earn- ing their own liread. I don't always cpiito agree with all Ernest's theories any more than you do, but we nmst both admit that at least he always conscientiously acts up to them himself, mother, mustn't we l ' ' It's a very extraordinary thing,' Lady Le Breton went on, 'that Aunt Srrah invariably encouraged both you bo_,3 in all your absurdities and Quixotisms. She was Quixotic herself at heart, that's the truth of it, just like your poor dear fatlier. I rememljor once, when we were quartered at Meean Meer in the Punjaub, poor dear Sir Owen nearly got into disgrace with the colonel— ho was only a sub. in those days— because he wanted to go trying to convert his syeca, which was a most imprudent thing to do, and directly opposed to the Company's orders. Aunt Sarah was just the 48 PHILTSTIA. same. Herbert's the only one of you three who has never given me one moment's anxiety, and of course poor Herbert must be passed over in absolute silence. However, I'm very glad she's left the money to you, Ronald, as you need it the most, and Mackenzie and Anderson say it'll come to about a liundred and sixty a year.' ' One can do a great deal oi good with that much money,' said Ronald meditatively. I mean, after arranging with you, mother, for the expenses of my maintenance at "home, which of course I shall do, aa soon as the pension ceases, and after meeting one's own necessary expenditure in the way of clothing and so forth. It's more than any one Christian man ought to spend upon himself, I'm sure.' ' It's not at all too much for a young man in your position in society, Ronald , but there— I know you'll want to spend half of it on indiscriminate charity. However, there'll be time enough to talk about that when you've actually got it, thank goodness.' Ronald murmured a few words softly to himself, of which Lady Le Breton only caught the last echo—' laid them down at the apostles' feet ; and distribution was made unto every man according as he had need.' 'Just like Ernest's communistic notions,' she murmured in return, half audibly. ' I do declare, between them both, a plain woman hardly knows whether she's standing on her head or on her heels. I Uve in daily fear that one or other of them will be taken up by the police, for being implicated in some dynamite jilot or other, to blow up the Queen or destroy the Houses of Parliament.' Ronald smiled again, gently, but answered nothing. ' There's another letter for you there, though, with the Exmoor coronet upon it. Why don't you open it ? I hope it's an invitation for you to go down and stop at Dunbude for a week or two. Nothing on earth would do you so much good as to get away for a while from your ranters and canters, and mix occasionally in a little decent and rational society .' Ronald took up the second letter with a sigh. He feared as much himself, and had doleful visions of a painful fortnight to be spent in a big country house, where the conversation would be all concerning tlio slaughter of pheasants and the torture of foxes, which his soul loathed to listen lo. ' It's from Lady Hilda,' he said, glancing through it, 'and it isn't an invitation after all.' He could hardly keep down a faint tone of gratification aa he discovered this rej>rieve. ' Here's what she says : — ' " Dear Mk. Le Breton,— Mamma wishes me to write ASKELON VILLA, GATH, 49 and tell you that Lynmouth's tutor, Mr. Walsli, is le revolutionist. For my part, 1 believe I rather like revolutionists, jirovided, of co'use, they don't cut otl" people's heads. Harry made me rcatl Carlyle, and I positively fell in love with Camille Desn.oulins ; only I don't really think he ought to have approved of (i\i\te so much guillotining, do you \ But why shcaldn't you take the tutorship at the Exmoors' \ ' 'Oh, because it isn't a very useful woik in the world to prepare a young hereditary loafer like Lynmouth for going to Christ Church. Lynmouth will be just like his father when he grows up — an amiable wholesale partridge-slayer ; and I don't see that the world at large will be any the better or the worse off for his being able to grope his way somehow through two plays of Sophocles and the first six books of Euclid. If only one were a shoemaker now ! What a delightful thing to sit down at the end of a day and say to oneself, " I have made two pairs of good, honest boots for a fellow-mortal this week, and now I deserve to have my supper ! " Still, it'll be better, anyway, than doing nothing at all, and living off my mother.' ' If you went to Dunbude, when would you go ? ' ' After the Christmas vacation, I suppose, from what Lady Hilda .says.' ' Lady Hilda ? Oh, so there's a sister, is there 1 ' ' Yes. A very pretty girl, about twenty, I should say, and rather clever too, I believe. My mother knows them a little.' Poor little Edie ! What made her heart jump so at the mere mention of Lady Hilda ? and what made the last few strokes at the top of the broken yew-tree look so very weak and shaky ? How absurd of herself, she thought, to feel so muoli moved at lioarin'" that there was another f^irl in the world whom Ernest might possibly fall in love with ! And DOlVy THE RIVER. 55 yet she had never even seen Ernest only ten days ago ! Lady Hilda I What a grand name, to be sure, and what a grand person she must he. And tlien Ernest himself be- longed by birth to the same class ! For in poor little Edie'a mind, innocent as she was of the nice distinctions of the peerage, Lady So-and-So M'as Lady So-and-kSo still, whoever she might be, from the wife of a premier marcpiis to the wife of the latest created knight bacheloi*. To her, Lady Hilda Tregellis and Lady Le Breton were both ' ladies of title ' ; and the ditference between their positions, whitdi seemed so inmiense to Ernest, seemed nothing at all to the merry little country girl who sat sketching beside him. After all, how could she ever have even vaguely fancied that such a young man as Ernest, in spite of all his socialistic whims, would ever dream of caring for a girl of the pet)[)lo like her ] No doubt he would go to the Exmoors', fall naturally in love with Lady Hilda, and marry decorously in what Edie con- sidered hid own projier s[)hure of life ! She went on with the tinishing touches of her little picture in silence, and folded it up into the tiny portfolio at last with a half-uttered sigh. 80 her poor wee castle in the air was knocked down before she had begun to build it up in any real seriousness, and she turned to join Harry in the boat almost without speaking. ' I hope youll get the PemViroke fellowship,' she said again, a little later, as they row^ed onward down the river to Nuneham. ' But in any case, Mr. Le Breton, you mu.stn't forget you've half promised to come and look lis up at Calcombe Pomeroy in the Christmas vacation.' Ernest smiled, and nodded acipiiescence. Meanwhile, on that same Thursday afternoon. Arthur Berkeley had gone up from Oxford by the fast train to Pad- dington, as was his weekly wc'"t, and had dived quickly down one of the small lanes that open out from the left-hand side of Praed Street. He walked along it for a little way, humming an air to himself as he w 1 . and then stopped at last in front of a small, decent brick hou- ■, with a clean nuislin blind across the wiiulow (clean ii.uslin forms a notable object in most. London back streets), and a printed card hanging from the central pane, bearing the inscription, ' G. Berkeley, Working Shoemaker. — TIih Trade supplied with Ready-closed Uppers.' At the window a beaming face was w-atching ft)r his appearance, and Arthur said to himself as he saw it through the curtain, ' The dear old Progenitor's looking better again this week, God bless him I ' In a moment he had opened the door, and greeted hi.« father in f".^"*!^ old bfivish f.-ip.nion. with an honHRt kiss i^w f^ither cheek. They had kissed one another so whenever they met 56 PHILISTIA. from Ai'thnr's childhood upward ; and the Oxford curate hnd iit^vor felt himself t-rovvn ttio much of a man to ket-p ui) a habit which seemed to him by far the most sacred thing in his whole existence. ' Well, father dear, I needn't ask you how you are to-day,' said Arthur, seating; himself comfortably in the second easy-chair of the trim little workshop parlour. 'I can see at once you're a j,ood deal bettiT. Any more pain in tlie head and eyes, eh, or any trouble about the fore- head ? ' The old shoemaker iiassed his hand over his bice, bulfrins: brow, bent outward as it is so oiten in men of his trade l)y the constant habit of stooping over their work, and said briskly, ' No, Artie, my boy, not a sign of it this week — not a single sign of it. I've been taking a bit of holiday, you see, and it's done me a lot of good, I can tell yf)U — made nie feel am ler man entirely. I've been playing my violin till tlie neighbours began to complain of it ; and if I hadn't asked them to come and hear lue tune up a bit, I reaby believe they'd h.ive been having me up before the magistrate for a public nuisance.' ' That's right. Daddy dear ; I'm always glad when you've been having a little music. It does you more good than an} thing. And the jelly— I hope you've eaten the jelly V ' Oh, I've eaten it right enough, Artie, thank your dear heart ; and the soup too, dearie. Came by a boy from Waltcrs's every day, addressed to "Berkeley, Esquire, 42 Whalley Street ; " and the boy wouldn't leave it tlie first da3% because he thought there must have been a mistake about the address. His contention was that a journeyman shoemaker wasn't an escpiire ; and my contention was that the "Berkelej'" was essential, and the " Esipiire " acci- dental, which was beyond his logic, bless you, Artie ; for I've often noticed, my son, that your errand-boy is a naturally illogical and contradictory creature. Now, shoemakers aren't, you know. I've always taken a just pride in the profession, and I've always asserted that it develops logic ; it develops logic, Artie, or else why are all cobblers good Liberals, I sliould like to know? Eh, can you tell me tliat ; with all your Oxford training, sir, can vou tell me that?' =' . .r 'It develops logic beyond the possibility of a doubt. Daddy ; and it develops a good kind heart as well,' said Arthur, smiling. ' And it develops musical taste, and literary talent, and a marked predilection for the beautiful in art and nature. In fact, whenever I meet a good man of any sorr, anywhere, I always begin now by inquiring which of his im- DOIV.V THE RIVER. 57 merliato ancestors can have been a jmirneyman shoemaker. Dopeiul upon it, Daddy, there's notliiug like lejither.' ' Thci-'j you are, linking fun at your poor old Progenitor again,' .said the old cobbler, with a merry twinkle in the corner of his eye. 'If it weren't for the jelly, and the natural atfcctions always er.gendered by shoemuking, I think 1 .should almost feel inclincil to cut you otf with a shilling, Artie, my boy — to cut you off with a shilling. Well, Artie, I'm (juite convalescent now (don't you call it \ I'm afraid of my long shoemaker's words beftjre you, n(.wadays, you've grown so literary ; for I suppose par.sons are more literary than even shoemakers). I'm ([uite convalescent now, and I think, my boy, 1 nmst get to work jiuain this week, and have no more of your expensive soups and jellies. If 1 didn't keep a sharp look-out ui^on you, Artie, lad, I believe you'd starve yourself outright up there at Oxford to pamper your poor old useless father here with luxuries he's never been accustomed to in his whok life.' 'My dear simple old Progenitor, you don't know how utterly you're mistaken,' cried Arthur, eagerly. ' I believe I'm really the most selHsh and unnatural son in all Christen- dom. I'm positively rolling in wealth up there at ]M;igdalen ; I've had my room papered again since vou saw it last hnig vacation ; and I live like a prince, a' oi.iu '/ like a Russian prince, upon my present income. J assui "i you on my solenm word of honour. Father, tlu i \ eat rot tt for lunch — that's my dinner— every day; and .n > :;g for .ea as regular as clockwork. I often think when I lo 'k a'''t.nd my palatial rooms in college, what a shame it is tli:.. 1 should let you, who are worth ten of me, any day, live any longer in a back street up here in London ; r.nd 1 won t alloi.' it, Daddy, I really won't allow it from this day forth, I'm determined. I've come up especially to speak to you about it this after- noon, for I've made up my mind tliat this abnoruial state of things can't continue.' — 'Very gootl word, abnormal,' mur- mured his father. — ' And I've also made up my mind,' Arthur said, almost firmly, for him, ' that you shall come up and live at Oxford. I can't bear having you so far away from me, now that you're weaker than you used to be. Father dear, and so often ailing.' The old shoemaker laughed aloud. ' Oh no, Artie, my boy,' he said cheerily, shaking his head with a continuous series of merry chuckles. ' It won't do at all, it won t do, I assure you. I may be a terrible free-thinker and all that kind of thing, as the neighbours say I am — poor bodies, they nttver read a word of modern critieism in their lives, heaven bless 'eiu — stragglers from the march of intellect, mere 58 rinusTTA, stracrglers— but I've too much respect for the cloth to bring a cu.iite of St. Fretlegond's into such disgrace as that would nieiin tor you, Artie. You sliairt have your career at Oxford spi^iled by its being said of you tliat your father was a work- ing shoemaker. Wluit with the ready-closed uppers, and Avliat with your ten shillings a week, and what with all the presents you give nie, and what with the hire of the piano, I'm as comfortable as ever I want to be, growing into a gentleman in my old age, Artie, and I even begin to have my dcjiibts as to Avhether it's quite consistent in me as a good Radical to continue my own aeipiaintance with myself— I'm getting to be such a regular idle do-nothing aristcjcrat ! Go to Oxford and mend shoes, indeed, with you living there as a full-Hedged parson in your own rooms at Magdalen ! No, no, I wont hear of it. I'll come \\\) for a day or two in long vacation, my boy, as I've always done hitherto, and take a room in Holywell, and look in upon you a bit, accidentally, BO as not to sliame you before the scouts (who are a servile set of tlunkeys, incapable of understanding the elevated feel- ings of ii journeyman shoemaker) ; l)ut I wouldn't dream of going to live in the place, any more than I'd dream of asking to be presented at court on the occasion of my receiving a commission for a pair of evening shoes for the Queen's head footman.' 'Father,' said Arthur, smiling, 'you're absolutely in- corrigible. 8uch a dreadful old rebel against all constituted authority, human and divine, I never did meet in the course of my existence, 1 believe you're really cai)altle of arguing A point of theology against an archbishop. Hut I don't want you to come ui) to Oxford as a shoemaker ; I mean you to come up and live with me in rooms of our own, out of college. Whenever I think of you, dear Father— you, who are so inlinitely nobler, and better, and truer, and more really a gentleman than any other man I ever knew in my life—whenever 1 think of you, coming secretly up to Oxford as if you were ashamed of yourself, and visiting your own son by stealth in liis rooms in college as if you were a dun coming to ask him for iiumey, instead of the person whom he delights to honour— whenever I think of it. Father, it makes my cheeks burn with shame, and I loathe myself for ever allowing you so to bemean your own frank, true, nol)le nature. I oughtn't to permit it, Father, 1 oughtn't to permit it ; and I won't permit it any longer.' 'Well, you never would have permitted it, Artie, if I hadn't compelled you ; for I've got all the prudence and common, sense of th» family Ijot.tb'd \\v horo in my own foreliead, said the old man, tapping his bulging browsignili- DOWN THE RIVER. 59 cantly. ' I don't deny that Oxford may be an excellent school for Greek and Latin, and i)liil<3sopliy, and so forth ; hut if you wantprud.ncu ;.nd sa;,'acity and couuuon-gense it's ji well-known fact that there's nothing like tlie practice of making ready-closed uppers, air, to develop 'em. If I'd taken your advice, my )>ov, I'd have come up to visit you when you were an undergraduate, and ruined your prospects at the very outset. No, no, Artie, I sliall stop here, and stick to my last, my dear boy, stick to my hist, to the end of all things.' ' You shall do nothing of the sort, Daddy ; that I'm determined upon,' Arthur cried vehemently. ' I'm not going to let you do any more shoemaking. The time has come when you must retire, and devote all your undivided energies to the constant study of modern criticism. Whether you come to Oxford or stop in London, I've made up my mind that you slian't do anotlur .stroke of work as long as you live. Look here, dear old Daddy, I'm getting to be a perfect millionaire, 1 assure you. Do you see this fiver? well, I got that for knocking out that last trashy little song for Fradelli ; and it cost me no more trouble to compose it tluin to sit down and write the score out on a sheet of ruled paper. I'm as rich as Crcesus — mnde a hundred and eighty pounds last year, and expect to make over two hundred this one. Now, if a man with that ]ierfectly prodigious fortune can't atibrd to keep his own father in comfort and affluence, what an absolute fc^ybarite and gourmand of a fellow he must be himself.' ' It's a lot of money, certainly, Artie,' said the old shoe- maker, turning it over thouglitfidly. ' two hundred pounds is a lot of money ; but I doubt very much whether it's more than enough to keep you up to the standard of your own society, up there at Oxford. As John Stuart IVIill says, these tilings are all comparative to the^tandard of comfort of your class. Now, Artie, I believe you have to stint your- self of tilings that everybody else about you has at Oxford, to keep me in luxuries 1 was never used to.' ' My (bar Dad, it's cmly of the nature of a repayment,' cried Arthur, earnestly. ' You slaved and sacrificed and denied yourself when I was a boy to send me to .school, without which I would never have got to Oxfoid at all ; and you taught mo music in your spare hours (when you had any) ; and 1 owe everything I have or am or ever will be to your xuiceasing and indefatigable kindness. So now you've got to take repayment whether you will or not, for 1 insist upon it. And if yuu won't o»>ine up to Oxford, vdiich jieriiaps would be an uncongenial place for you in nuiny ways, I'll 6o PIIILISTIA. tell you what I'll do, Daddy ; I'll look out for a curacy some- whero in London, and we'll take a little house together, and I'll furnish it nicely, and there we sLall live, sii^, whatever you say, so not another word about it. And now J want you to listen to the very best thing I've ever composed, and tell me what you think of it.' He sat down to the little hired cottage piano that occupied tlie corner of tlie neat small room, and began to run his deft fingers liglitly o\er the k»ys. It was the IJutterfly fantada. Ihe father sat back in his red easy-chair, listening with all his ear.s, first critically, then admiringly, at last entlni- siastically. As Arthur's closing notes died away softly towards the end, the old shoemaker's delight ci^uld be restrained no longer. 'Artie,' he cried, ghating over it, ' that's music ! That's real music ! You're quite right, my boy ; that's far and away the best thing you've ever written. It's ex !jfo of ec.<^tatic spirituality, and never troubling tliemselvts. .via v bit abo'h- theological controversy or established religions c-njttitutions. As long as Ronald Le Bretoi) could read li' Greek Testament every morning, and talk face to face iv t'reir own tongue with the Paul of First Corinthituii » x the Jtdm of the Epistles, in the solitude of his own bediMoni, iio was supremely inditrerent about the serious question of fre-.-will and fore-knowledge, or about the important (juestion of apostolical succession, or even about that oiitor burning question of eternal punishment, Avhich was just then setting his own little sect of Apostolic I'hristian Missioiiors roundly by the ears. These things I'.emed t.) his enthusiastic mind mere fading echoes of an alien language ; all that he himself really cared for in religion was ( ',e constant .sense of essential peisimal connuunion with that higher I'ower which spoke din^ctly to his soul all day h)ng and always ; or the ejy a^.f^.. Lady Le Breton,' Arch- deacon Luttrell used often to say, • is, 1 foar, too purely emo- GHOSTLY COUXSEL. 65 tional. He cannot be made to feel aiifliciently the necessity for a ,s( lund practical grasp of doctrinal Christianity.' To Ronald Imasolf, he niight as well have talked al)out the necessity for a snmul practical grasp of doctrinal Buddhism. And if Ronald had really met a devout Buddhist, he would doubtless have found, after half an hour's conversation, that they were at one in everything save the petty matter of dialect and vocabulary. At Cswald's lodging, Ernest found his friend ready and waiting for him. They went on together to the same street in Marylebone as before, and mounted the stair till they reached Herr 8churz's gloomy little work-room on the tiiird fl"'>r. The old apostle was seated at his small table by the hiiif-open window, grinding the e 66 rniLisTiA. German, smiling and waiting to see whether Ernest would detect what from their own standpoint he regarded as the ethical fallacy of Harry Oswald's argument. ' Well, to toll you the truih, Merr Schurz,' answered Ernest, in his delihurate, quiet way, ' I don't think I've envi- saged the subject to myself from qu'te the same point of view as Oswald has done. I have rather asked myself wluither it was right of a man to accept a function in which he would really be doing nothing wortliy for humanity in retiwii for his daily board and lodgiaig. It isn't so much a (jucsticm who exactly is to get certain sums out of the Exmoors pockets, which ought no doubt never to have been in them ; it's more a question whether a man has any right to live otl'the collective labour of the world, and do nothini i any good to the world on his own part by way of repayment. 'That's it, friend Ernest,' cried the old man, with a pleased nod of his big grey head ; ' the socialistic Iliad in a nutshell ! That's the very root of the question. Don't be deceived by capitalist sophisms. So long as we go on each of us trying to get as much as we can individually out of the world, instead of asking wliat the world is getting out of us, in return, there will be no revolution and no millennium. We must make sure that we're doing some good ourselves, instead of sponging upon the people perpetually to feed us for nothing. \\ hat's the first gospel given to man at the creation in your popular cosmogonies \ Why, that in the sweat of his face shall he eat bread, and till the ground from which he Avas taken. That's the native gosiiel of the toiling inany, always ; your doctrines of fair exchange, and honest livelihoods, and free contract, and all the rest of it, are only the artificial gospel of the political economists, and of the bovvfjeuiHie and the aristocrats into whose hands they play — the rascals I ' 'Then you think I oughtn't to take the post?' asked Ernest, a little ruefully. ' I don't say that, Le Breton— I don't say that,' said Herr Schurz, more (luietly than before, still grinding away at his lens. 'The question's a broad one, and it has many aspects. The best work a man can do is undoubtedly the most useful work — the work that conduces most to the general happiness. But we of the i>roletariate can't take our choice always , as your English pvuverb plainly puts it, with your true English bluntness, " beggars mustn't be choosers." We must, each in his place, do the work that's set before us by the privileged classes. It's impossible for us to go nicely discriminating between work that's useful for the community, work that's merely harmlefea, and work that's positively detrimental. GHOSTLY COUNSEL. 67 as How can we insure it ? A man's a printer, say. There's a generally useful trade, in which, on the whole, he labours for the good and enlightenment of the world— for he may print scientific books, good books, useful books ; and most printing, on tlie average, is useful. But how's he to know what sort of thing he's printing ? He may be printing " Gold and the Proletariate," or he may be printing obscurantist and retro- gressive treatises by the enemies of humanity. Lf)()k at my own trade, again. You'd say at first siglit, Mv. Oswald, that to make microscopes must be a good thing in the end for the world at large : and so it is, no doubt ; but half of them — ay, more than half of them— are thrown away : mere wasttd labour, a goos\vald, half the best hooiv-, half the best appai'atus, half the best a]»pliance8 in all Eur(jpe, are lucked uji idle in rich men's cabiiutts, eject- ing no gf)0(l, begt>tting no discoveries, bringing forth no in- terest, doing nothing but foster the anti-social jiritle of their wealthy possessors. l!ut that isn't what friend Ernest wants to ask me about to-day. H« wants to know about his oAvn course in a difiiciilt case ; a-^ usieail r' answering him, lure am ], mauHl-p +^ ■• job tho cajiitiiiists imiiose, if he can get nothing ■ •iiiiier co do else- where. Now, if yon (hm't teach this young Tregellis, what alternative have y(ju I \N hy, to become a matter in a school — Eton, perhivs, or Rugby, or Marlborough — and t-'ach «jther e(piall\ useless members of ])ros[)e'.tive aristocratic society. That l)eing so, I think you ought to do what's l)est for yourself ani^ your family for the present — for the present — till the t.itae of di'liveranco comes. You see, there is one member of your family to whom the matter is of inuuediate nnportanee.' 'J^onald,' said Ernest, interrupting him. * Yes, IJoiiald. A good boy; a socialist, too, though he doesn't know it — one of us, born of us, and only a])art from us in bare externals. Well, would it be most comfortab'e for poor Konald that you should go to these Exmoor people, or that you .should tiske a mastership, get rooms somewhere, find let him live with „• ou ? He's not V(>ry haptiiy with your mother, you say. Wouldn't he be happier with you % What think you % Charity begins at home, you know : a good proverb— a good, sound, sensible, narrow-minded, pract'-al English i^roverb ! ' 'I've thought of that,' Ernest said, 'and I'll ; ' him about it. whichever he prefers, then, 1" ' better »iecide upon, had I \ ' ' Do so,' Herr Max ansA\ led, with a non. ' Othci things equal, our first rivileges as 1 have I " The one type begets aggressive self-a , 'ntion, the other type begets a certain gentle spirit of self-etlivienient. You don't often find men of the aristocratic class w.rii any ethical element in tliem--their hereditary an- tecedents, their ■ reeding, their environment, are all hostile to it ; but vrhen you do tind them, mark my words, Uta, they make 1' o trm st and most earnest friends (jf the popular cause of j. Th ir sympathy and interest in it is all un- seltish.' ' And yet,' L siswered firmly, ' I still prefer Mr. Os- wald. And if you care f ^ my opinion, I should say that the aristocrat does all the draining, but the bourgeois does all tlietigliting ; and that's the most important thing practically, after all.' .\ii hour later, Efiicnt v.Tis talking his future plans over with hia brother Ronald. Would it b west for llonald that he 70 PIliriSTIA. Blumkl take a mastorsliip, and both should live together, or that he shniiUl ^o for tlie piesont to the PJxniooi-s", and leave the ([iie.slion of roiiald's home arrangementa still unsettled ? ' It's .so good of you to think of uie in thu matter, Ernest,* Ronald s;)id, pressing hia hand gently ; ' but I don't thin!< I ought to go away from mother before I'm twenty-one. To tell you the truth, Ernest, 1 hardly tlatter mysilf she'd be really scary to get rid of me ; I'm afraid Im a dreadful thorn '.n her side at jircsent ; she doesn't understand my ways, and perhaps I don't sympathise enough with hers ; but still, if I were to i)ropose to go, I feel sure she'd be very mueh an- noyed, and treat it as a serious act of insubordination on my part. While I'm a minor, at least, I ought to remain wirh her ; the Apostlu tells us to obey our pai-ents, in the Lord ; and as long as she reciuires nothing from me that doesn't in- volve a dereliction of principle I think I must bear with it, tliough I acknowledge it's cross, a heavy cross. Thank yon so much for thinking of it, dearest Ernest.' And his eyes tilled once more with tears as he spoke. So it was finally arranged that for the present at least Ernest should accept Lady Exmoor's ofl'er, and that ;is soon as Konald was tw.nty-one he should look about for a suitable niastership, in or.ier for the two brothers to go immediately into rooms together. Lady Le Breton was surprised at the decision ; but as it was in her favour, she wisely abstained from gratifying her natural desire to make some more un- complimentary references to the snult'y old German socialist. Suthcient unto the day was the triumi)h thereof ; and she had no doubt in her own mind that if once Ernest could be induced to live for a while in really good society the well- known charms and graces ' f that society must finally tame his rugged breast, and wean him away from his unaccount- able devotion to those horrid continental coiiununists. CHAPTER VIII. IN THE CAMP OP THE PUILISTIXES. DuNBUDE Castle, Lord Exmoor's last spurs of the great North De the steep glen of a little boulder commanding a distant view of the outlines of the blue Welsh hills house, a castle only by courtesy (on by which every bishop lives 'in a family seat, stands on the von uplands, overlooking -encumbered stream, and Severn Sea and the dim beyond it. Behind the the same principle as that palace), rises the jagged 11^ THE CAMP OF THE PHILISTINES. 71 summit of the Cleave, a great weather-worn granite hill, 8ciilpt\ire(l on top by wind and rain into those fantastic lichen-covered pillars and tuis and lo-uns in whicli anti- quarian fancy used so long to tind the visible monuments of Driiidical worship. All around, a wide brown waste of heather luidulates and tosses wildly to the sky ; and on the summit of the rolling moor where it rises and swells in one of its many rounded bosses, the antlficd heads and shoulders of the red deer mav often be seen etched in bold relief ai,'ainst the clear sky-line to tli.> west, on sunny autumn evenings. But the castle itself and the surrounding grounds are not planned to harmonise with the rou.;h moorland English scenery into whose midst they were unceremoniously pit.^hforked by the second earl. That distinguished man ot tastt;, a light of the artistic world in his own day, liad brought back from his CJrand Tour his own ideal of a strictly classical do.nestic building, formed by impartially com- pounding a Palladian pahace, a Doric temple, and a scpiare redbrick English manor-house. After pulling down the oriLiinal fourteenth-century castle, he had induced an eminent architect of the time to conspire with him in giving polid and permanent reality to this his awful imagining ; and when he had completed it all, from portico to attic, he had extorted even the critical praise of Horace Walpole, who described it in one of his letters as a ' singular triumph of classical taste and architectural ingenuity.' It still remains unrivalled in its kind, the ugliest great country-seat in the county of Devon— some respectable authorities even say in the whole of England. In front of the house an Italiau gftrden, with balustrades of very doubtful marble, leads down by successive terraces and broad flights of steps to an artificial octagonal pool, f.)imed by carefully destroyinsj; the whole natural beauty of the wild and rocky little English glen b.iieath. To feed it by fitting a conduit, the moss-grown boulders that strew the bed of tiie torrent above and below have been carefully re- moved, atid the unwilling stream, as it runs into the pool, has been coerced into a long straight channel, bordered on either side by l.edded turf, and planed off at meanired intervals so as to produce a series of eminently regular and classical cascades. Even Lord Exmoor himself, who was a hunting man, without any pretence to that stupid rubbish about tfste, did not care for the hopeless exterior of Dunbude Castle : he frankly admitted that the place was altogether too doosid artificial for the line of country. If they'd only left it alone, he said, in its own native condition, it would have been really pretty ; but as they'd doctored it and spcilt 72 PIIILISriA. it, why. tliore was nothing up with It iuul wlii.stl ui earth to be done btit just put the m()rtya<'os, and the e over it. Wlmt with the lioiii'ids. aiul sottlenienis, und the red deer, and («<.odwo..d, the estate couhhi't possibly allbrd any nioneVfur •""'■■ ^'--' " ' nvn in the ganhns. in waiting at the station to carry Erne'^t oor, Lndy making alterations d Tlie do'-cart was npto the castle; and as he reached the front dw„., ..... ilda Iregellis str..lled tip the br<.ad flight of steps fr..n.t! H garden to meet 1 , , ^ ''"'; l"-"ly llihla was tall and deci.l.diy handsome, as Ernest had rightly t..l. ' You can't think what a time uv have .>. here half the year ! I'm always longing for the s.as '; o * "'^•. I'.'M'--^ ;^''''> •"•« ^^--'-'tl.v Hl<" them. Mr. ., ;i,''^l'- that s Lj nmouth'H last tutor - he was a perfect stick Cambridge man; Cambridge men always \u. stici I if it h^l 'M r"'f' ""''^ '"N''^*''' ""^''^'^-V' f"^ f "^^"•''> von, tciik to, fvoiu yeurh end to year's end. So when Mr -#;■—-- IN THE CAMP OF THE PIUUSIINES. 73 "Walsh was going to leave us, I paid to luannna, " Why not ask one of the Mr. Le Bretons \ " I wanted to have souie- bt.dy sensible here, and so 1 got her to let uie write to your brother Ronald about the tutorship. Did he send you the letter i I hope you didn't think it was mine. Maunna dictated it, for 1 don't write such formal letters as that on my own acct)uut, I can tell you. I hate conventionality of any sort. At Dunbude we're all convi'utional, except nie ; but I won't be. Come uj) into the billiard-room, here, and sit down awhik* ; William will see about your portiuanteau and thing.s. Pa})a'a out, of course, and so's Lynmouth ; and mamma's somewhere or other, I don't know wliere ; and so there's nobody in ]>articular at home for you to rejiort your- self to. You may as well come in here while 1 ring for them to get you some lunch reautting in my letter that he was a dreadful pickle (that's a good stroke olfthe red ; just enough Bide tm), though mamma didn't want me to; because 1 thought you ought to know about it beforehand. But you remember him at Marlborough, of course ; he was only a little fellow then, but still a pickle. He always was and ho always will be. He's out shooting, now, with papa ; and you'll never get him to settle down to anything, as long as there's a snij)e or a plover hanging about on the moor any- where. He's ((uito incorrigible. Do you play at all i Won't you take a cue till your lunch's ready I' ' No, I don't !)lay,' Ernest answered, half hesitating, * or ut least very little.' If- ---I ^^K ' 1 1 •iim 74 rnnjsTiA. ' Oh, then j'ou'll learn here, because you'll find nothing else to do. Do you slioot / ' ' Oh no, never. I don't think it right.' ' Ah, yes, I remember. How delightful ! Lady Lo Breton told me all about it. You've got notions, haven't you I You're a Nihilist or a Fenian or something of that sort, and you don't shoot anything but czava and grand dukes, do you \ 1 believe yim want to cut all our heads otf and have a nd republic. Weil, I'm sure that's very refresh- ing ; for wn here we're all as dull as sticks together; Tories, every one of us to a Uiaii ; perfect unanimity ; no dillL'rences of opinion ; all as conventional and proper as the vicar's sermons. Now, to have somebody who wants to cut your head oll",^ in the house, is really deliglitful. I love originality. Not tliat I've ever seen anybody original in all my life, for I haven't, but I'm sure it would be delightful if I did. One reads about original people in novels, you know, Dickens and that sort of thing; and I often think I should like to meet some of them (good stroke again ; legs, legs, legs, if you please— no, it hasn't legs enough) ; but here, or for the matter of that, in town either, we never see anybody but the same eternal round of Algies, and Monties, and lierties, and Hughs — all very nice young men, no doubt; exceedingly proper, nothing against them ; good shots, capital pai-tners. excellent families, tiverything on earth that anybody could desire, except a single atom of personal originality. I assure you, if they were all shaken up in a bag together and well mixed, in evening clothes (so as not to tell them aj^art by the tweeds, you know), their own niothers wouldn t be able to 8ei»arate them afterwards. But if ycm «lon't .shoot and don't play billiards, I'm sure I don't know what you'il ever lind to do with yourself here at Dunbude.' 'Don't you think,' Ernest said «iuietly, taking down a cue, 'one ought to have something better to lo with one's time than shooting and i)laying billiards I In a world where so many lal)ouring people ure toiling and slaving in ]K>verty and misery on our behalf, don't you think we should bo trying to do something or other in return for universal humanity, to whom we owe so nnieh for our board and h»dging and clothing and amusenuuit T ' Wi'll, now, that's just what I mean,' said Hilda ecstati- cally, with a mat shot otT the cushion against the red and into the middle pocket ; ' that's sucli a delightfully origimil way of looking at things, you see. We all of us hero talk always about the partridges, and the red dear, and the ttir- nips, ana the Church, and dear Lady This, and that odious IN THE CAMP OF THE PHILISTINES. 75 Lady TliJit, and the growing insolence of the farmers, and tlie slidckiug insubordiiialitin of the lower classes, and the diHiculty of getting iLUily good servants, and the dreadful way those horrid Irisli aie sh-^-oting their kind-hearted in- dulgent landlonls ; or else we ;.alk— the women especially— about how awfully bored we arc. Lawn-tennis, you know, and dinners, and "what a bad match Ethel Tliingumbob has made. But you talk another kind of slang; I dare say it doesn't mean much ; you know you're nt)t \yf>rking at any- thing very much more serious than wo are ; still it's a novelty. "When we go to a coursing meeting, we're all on the hounds ; but you're on the hare, and that's so delightfully original. I liaven't the least doubt that if we were to talk about the Irish, you'd say you thou'jjlit they ought to slntot their land- lords. I i'emembi>r you shocked mannua by saying something like it at the Dolburys'. Now, of course, it doesn't matter to me a bit which is right ; you say the poor tenants are starving, and papa says the poor landlords can't get ia theii' rents, and actually have to give up tlieir hounds, poor feUows ; and 1 don't know which of you is the most to be believed ; only, vhat i)apa says is just the same thing that everybody says, and what you say has a certain charming frebhness and variety about it. It's so funny to be told that one ought really to t;ike the tenants into consideraticm. Exactly like your brother Ronald's nothnis about servants !' 'Your lunch is ready in the dining-n>om, sir,' said a voice at tlie door. ^ ' Come back here when you've finished, Mr. Le Bretf)n, Hilda called after him. 'I'll teach you how to make that cannon you missid just now. If you mean to exist at Dunbude at all, it s absolutely necessary for you to learu billiards.' Ernest turned in to lunch with an uncomfortable mis- giving on his mind already that Dunbude was not exactly the iT^ht place for such a man as he to live in. During the afternoon he saw nothing more of the family, save Lady Hilda ; and it was not till tlie party assembled in the drawing-room before dinner that he met Lord and Ltidy Exmoor and his future pupil. Lynmoutli had grown into a tall, handsome, manly-looking boy since Ernest last saw him ; but he certainly looked exactly what Hilda had culled him— a pickle. A few minutes' introductory conversation Hulticod to show Ernest tliat whatever miml ho possessed was wludly given over to horses, dogs, and partridges, and that the post of tutor at Dunbude Castle was not likely to prove • Seen the paper, Connomara I ' Lord Exmoor asked of 76 PHILISTIA. one of his guests, as they sat down to dinner. ' I haven't had a moment myself to snatch a look at the ''Times "yet this evening ; I'm really too busy almost even to read the daily impers. Anytliim,' fresh from Ireland '\ ' 'Haven't seen it tither,' Lord Connemara answered, glancing towards Lady Hilda. ' Perhaps somebody else has looked at tlie pai)ers { ' Nobody answered, so Ernest ventured to remark that the Irish news was rather worse again. Two bailitFs had been murdered near Castlebar. ' That's bad,' Lord Exmoor said, turning towards Ernest 'I'm afraid there's a deal of distress in the West.' 'A great deal,' Ernest answered ; ' positive starvation, I believe, m some parts of County Galway.' ' Well, not quite so bad as that,' Lord Exmoor replied a little startled. 'I don't think any of the laudloids are actually starving yet, though I've no doubt many ..f them are put to very great straits indeed by their inability to <'et m their rents.' Ernest couldn't forbear gently smiling to himsrlf at the misapprehension. 'Oh, I didn't mean tlie landlords,' ho said quickly: *I meant among the poor people.' As he Bjioke ho was aware that Laily Hilda's eyes were tixed keenly upon him, and that she was immensely delighted at the temerity and originality dis])layed in the notion of his publicly taking Irish tenants into consideration at her father's table. 'Ah, the poor people,' Lord Exmoor answered with a sbglit sigh of relief, as who should say that their condition didn't much matter to a philosophic mind. ' Yes, to bo sure ; I've no doubt some of them are very badly oH", poor souls. But then they're such an idle im{)rovideiit lot. 'Why don't they emigrate now, I should like t(. know \' Ernest rellected silently that tlie inmates of Dunbude Castle did not exactly set them a model of patient industry ; and that Lady Hilda's numerous allusions during tlie after- noon to the fact that the Dunbude estates were ' mort- gaged up to the eyelids' (a condition of allhir.i to which sho always alluded as though it were rather a. subject of pride and congratulation than otherwise) did not speak very highly for their provident economy either. lint even EriPest Lo Breton had a solitary grain .■)f worldly wisdom laid up sf»iiie- whero in a eoruc-r of his brain, and he didn't Miiiik it advis- able to give them the beneht of his own views upon the Hubjeet. 'There's a L'ront di'.'d oF vul>1>i>''> t^'li'id •"•> t?..(-1-"-.i .,u...,* Jnsh allairs, you know, Exmoor,' said Lord Coiiiiomara con- IN THE CAMP OF THE PHILISTINES. 77 fidonilv ' People never understand Ireland, I'm sure, initil they've actually lived there. Would you believe it DOW the corrt'spondcnt of one of the London papers was nuite indignant the other day because my aycnt had to evict u man for three years' rent at Ballyiiamara, and the imm nnfortunatelv went and died a week later on the pub he loud-ide. We produced medical evidisnce to show that lie had suii'.red for years from heart disease, and would have died in any case, wherever he had been ; but tlie editor follow waiitVd to make pcditioal cai)ital out of it, and kicked up eono»ucal problems; but, by a perfect miracle, he said nothing. . ^ l ^ ^ * You wouldn't believe the straits we're put to, i^ady Exmoor.'the Iri.sh Earl went on, 'through this hor-idno- reiit business. Absolute pi)verty, I assure you— absolute downright p.nerty. I've had to sell the Maid of (huunda this week, you know, and three others of the best horses in my stable, iust to raise mvio. A marvellous bargain ! ' . . . ,. , ,.„ 'diulio Clovio,* said Lord Exmoor, 'KMii.iiuiiy. ->-vno was he \ Never heard of him in my life before.' I ^-^ 78 PHILISTIA, . Nevor heard of Giulio Clovio ! ' cried Lord Connemara seizing the opportunity with well-atfected surprise ^S im .f.n' T"f'^ 'T .^f ^"^-^ ^ ^^"*ti»"' I believe, or an IJynan-I forgot wh,ch-and he studied at Rome under (xmlio Romano. Wonderful drau;.'htsnmn in tlie nude l"lh?' 'sr""'*r l'"', ^?'' f'"i" ^^^^i^'^^^i -'J mSi Cicolan and being a distinguished connoisseur, liad made amentalnoto of the facts at once, for future r'eproduS tor L.u; n^° i, "^vneley volume, you see,' he went on thaf i^r ? ''f 1^"'^'"^ *\^^'^ '''''-'^^^ ^^itl' information on that subject--' was given by the Car.Iuial to the R,„e of that n„e -Paul the Third, wasn't it, Mr. Le Breton ?iand 8.) Sut into the possession of okl Christopher Towneley the d'in.';/"'''^n "i\*'"^' companion folio, it seems, tliTcr- Z .r;" ? ''* ^'^ 'f ''^ '^*« "^^" possession ; 'and so it's con J p' "■" '" *"' "^^■" ^'""^'y (^ith a bar sinister, of couse, Exmoor-you remember the story of Beat -ice IVIidatesta to the present time. It's verv existence « -."n't suspected tilt Cicolari -wonderfully smS^f:^:^'^^^: !! n neuthed ,t the other day from a descendant of the Malatestas, m a little village in the Campayna. He offered 1,;;.'^.': i'n 1 ^Y'\ '''' ^^ friendship, for three thousand guineas , indeed he begged mo not to h;t Menotti knovv how cheap lie was selling it. for fear he miglit interfere and ask a hgher ]>riee for it. Well, I naturally conldn-t let sudi a chance si,,, ,ue-for the credit of the family, ,t ou.d.t to be m the collection -mid the oonse.p.enee w,,s thou° I w s aw uy sorry to part with her, 1 Van abs.b.'tely obli,4 o f , 'k ' ^'" l"';'^>t",oney, Lady H,lda--I assure you, for pocket-money. JMy tenants w.m't piv up, and nothi,,' w, I "mke them They've got the cash Ltua b' in tie la kl th H ^:''^';\}^'''''^ ^^'ting for a set of sentimentalists tlie Hou.se of Commons to interfere between us, and make em a present of uxy property. RoHm. u, inon^y, some of fl^rVn ^'"? T" ^V"- ''"'' """^' f k""^^' '^^^-^ positive fact, sold a pig la«t week, and yet pretends he can't pay me! IN THE CAMP OF THE PHILISTINES. 79 All the fault of these horrid communists that you were speaking of, Lady Exmoor— all the fault of these horrid connnunists.' ' You're ratlier a communist yourself, aren't you, Mr. Le Breton?' asked Lady Hilda boldly from across the table. ' I remember you told me something once about cutting the throats t)f all the landlords.' Lady Exmoor looked as though a bomb-shell had dropped into the drawing-room. ' My dear Hilda,' she said, ' I'm sure you must have misunderstood Mr. Le Breton. You can't have meant anything so dreadful as that, Mr. Le Breton, can you V ' Certainly not,' Ernest answered, with a clear con- science. ' Lady Hilda has put her own interpretation upon my casual words. I haven't the least desire to cut any- body's throat, even metaphorically.' Hilda looked a little disappointed ; she had hoped for a good rattling discussion, in which Ernest was to shock the wliole table — it does people such a lot of good, you know, to have a nice round shocking ; but Exniest was evidently not inclined to show fight for her sole gratification, and so she proceeded to her alternative amusement of getting Lord Connemara to display the full force of his own inanity. Thin was an easy and unending source of innocent enjoy- ment to Lady Hilda, enhanced by the fact that she knew her father and mother were anxious to see her Countessi of Connemara, and that they would be annoyed by her public exposition of that eligible young man's intense selfishness and empty-head*j(l ness. Altogether, Ernest did not enjoy hie first week at the Exmoors'. Nor did he enjoy the second, or the third, or the fourth week much better. The society was profoundly distasteful to him : the world was not his wurld, uor the talk his talk ; and he grew so sick of the perpetual discussion of horses, dogs, pheasants' dances, and liiwn tennis, with occasional digressions on JiJi gallery, that he found even knew and eared for nothing, out liked to chat with him because he was ' so original ') a pleasant rehef, by comparison, from the eternal round of Lord Exnnjor's an»xJ. tes about famous risers or celebrated actresses. T^ui worst of f\\ he did not like his work ; he felt that, useless as *ie conf*''dered it, ho was not succcssruUy performing oven th ■ u;^eles8 func- tion he was paid to fulfil. Lynmouth couldn't Ifii ^n, \S(>uldn't learn, and wasn't going to learn. Ernest might as well have tried to din the necessary three plays of Euripides into the nearest lamp-post. Nobody encouraged him tu learn in any Jlovio and the Connemara a ■;hat with Lady Hilda (who 80 rHTLlSTIA Wiiy, indoetl Lord Exmoor rt'iiicnibored that he himself had scraped througli somehow at Clirist (Jliiirch, with the aid of a private tutor and tlie ma^Mo of liis title, and he liadn't the least doubt that Lynmouth woidd scrai>e throu!,di in his turn in like manner. And so, tIionu:h most younl,' men would Jiave found the Dunbude tutorship the very acme of their wishes— plenty of anuisements and nothing,' to do for them— Ernest Le IJreton found it to the last degree irksome and unsatisfactory. Not that he had ever to complain of any unkuidliness cm the part of the P^xmoor family ; they were really in their own way very kind-hearted, friendly sort of Iieo])le— that is to say, towanls all members of tiieir own circle ; ami as they considered Ernest one of themselves, in virtue of their ac(|U;iintance with his mother, they really did their best to make him as happy and comfortable as was in their power. But then he was such a very strange young man ! ^'For whatcm earth can you do, ' as LordExmoor justly asked, 'with a young fellow who won't shoot, and who won't I'ish, and who won t hunt, and wlu) won't even play l;ms(nu«net \ ' Such a case wa-< ch'iirly hopeless. He would have liked to see more of Miss AFerivale, little Lady Sv])irs governess (for there were three children in the family) ; but Miss Merivale was a timid, sensitive girl, and she did not often encourage his advances, lest luy lady should say she was .sotting her cap at the tutor. Tlie consetpunce was that he wa.s necessarily thrown much upon Lady Hilda's society ; and as Lady Hilda was laudably eager to instruct him in billiards, lawn teiniis, and sketching, lie rapidly grew to be quite an adept at those relatively moral and innocuous amusementa, under her const;uit instruction and supervision. ' It seems to me,' said that acute observer. Lord Lyn- mouth, to his s])ecial friend and confidante, the lady'.s-nuud, 'that Hilda makes a doocid sight too free with that fellow Le J^reton. Don't you think so, Euphemia ? ' '1 sliould hope, my lord.' Euphemia answered demurely, 'that Lady Hilda would know her own place too well to demc'in herself with such as your lordship's tutor. If I didn't feel sure of that, 1 should have to mention the matter seriously to my lady.' Nevertheless, the liuly's-maid inmiediately stored up a mental note on the subject in the lasting tablets of her memory, and did not fail gcjitly to itisinuate her views upon the (piestion to Lady Ex-noor, as .she arranged the pearls in the false pluita for dinner that very evening. THE WOMEN OF THE LAND. 8i CHAPTER IX. THE WOMEN OP THE LAND. ♦ Mr. Le Breton ! Mr. Le Breton ! Papa says Lynmouth luiiy go out trout-fishing witli liim this afternoon. Come up with nie to the Clatter. I'm gt)ing to sketch there.' ' Very well, Lady llikhv ; if you want my criticism, I don't mind if I do. Let me carry your things ; it's rather a pull up, even for you, with your box and easel ! ' Hilda gave him lier sketch-book .d colours, and they turned together up the Cleave behina 'Ka Castle. A Clatter is a peculiar Devonshire feature, composed of long loose tumbled granite blocks piled in wild di8t)rder along the narrow summit of a saddle-backed hill. It dilfers from a tor in being less high and castellated, as well as in it.s longer and narrower contour. Ernest and Hilda followed the rough path up through the gorse and heather to the top of the ridge, and then scrambled over the grey lichen-covered rocks together to the big logan-stone whose evenly-poised and tilted mass crowned the actual siuiimit. The granite blocks were very high and rather slippery in places, for it WHS rainy April weather, so that Ernest had to take his companion's hand more than once in his to help her over the tallest boulders. It was a small delicate hand, though Hilda was a tall well-grown woman ; ungloved, too, for the Hiike of the sketchinj/ ; and Hilda didn't seem by any means unwilling to acce[)t Ernest's protlered helj), though if it lutd been Lord Connemara who was with her instead, she would have scorned a.ssi.stance, and scaled the great mossy mas.se.s by herself like a mountain antelope. Light-footed and liiho of limb was Lady Hilda, as befitted a Devonshire lass accu-*- tomed to following the Exmoor stag-hounds across their wild country on her own hunter. Yet she seemed to find a great deal of dirticulty in clambering up the Clatter on that par- ticular April niornuig, and more than once Ernest half fancied to himself that she leaned on his arm longer than was ab.so- lutoly necessary for support or assistance over the htifiest places. ' Here, by the logan, Mr. Le Breton,' she said, motioning him where to put her camp-stool and papers. ' That's a good point of view for the rocks yonder. You can lie down on the rug and give me the benefit of your advice and U.-isistiiuCC. 'My advice ia not worth taking,' said Ernest. 'I'm a Q i 83 rii/rrsriA. regular duffer at pamtinsr and skett ' jr. You should ask Lord Connoniara. He knows all about art and that sort of thing. ' ' Lord Connemara ! ' echoed Hilda rontemptuonsly. ' He has a lot of picture s in his gallery at home, and he*s been told by sensible niun what's the right thing for him to say about them ; but he knows no more about art, really, than he knows about tiddlesticks.' 'Doesn't ho, indeed r Ernest answered languidly, not feeling any burning desire to discuss Lord Conneniara's artiitic attainments or doticu-ncies. ' No, he doesn't,' Hilda went on, rather defiantly, as though Ernest had been Lady Exmoor ; 'and most f thesi- pe(»i)lo that come here don't either. They have galleries, and they get artists and people who understand about pictures to talk with them, and so they learn what's con- sidered the proper thing to say of each of thfin. But as to saying anything spontaneous or original of their own about a picture or any other earthly thing- why, you know, Mr. Le Breton, they couldn't possibly do it to save their lives.' ' Well, there I should think you do them, as a class, a great injustice,' said Enu-st, quietly; 'you're evidently jaejudiced against your own peojjlo. a itly I should think that if there's any subject on which our old families really do know anything, it's art. Look at their great advantages.' 'Nonsense,' Hilda answered, decisively. ' F'iddlesticks for their advantages. What's the good of advantages with- out a head on your shoulders, I should like to know. And they haven't got heads on their shoulders, Mr. Le Breton ; you know they haven't.' ' Why, surely,' said Ernest, in his simple fashion, look- ing the question straight in the face as a matter of abstract truth, * there must be a great deal of ability among peers and peers' si^ns. All hintory shows it ; and it would be absurd if it weren't , > ; for the mass of peers have got their peerages by conspi > ..;;s abilities of one sort or another, as barristers, or sohl; r . ;if politicians, or diplomatists, and they would natundiv irmd on their powers to their different descendants.' *()h, yes, there are some of them with brains, I suppose,' Hilda answeied, as one who makes a gnat concession. 'There's Htrbert Alderney, who's member for somewhere •"' "tlicr Church «tretton, I think— and makes speeches in the House ; he's clever, they say, but such a conceited fellow to talk to. And there's Wilfrid Faunthorp, who writes poems, and gets them printcid in the niaLrazines. too because he knows tlie editors." And there's Randolph Hast- THE WOMEN OF THE LAND. ?3 in"a, whfi goes in foi j^ainting, .11.. I has Iktle rol and Vilui- (liuibs at the fJroavenor by special invitation of the director. I'.ut soinehow tiiey none of them strike me as beinL' really oriirinal. Whenever 1 meet anybody worth talking any- wheie— in a railway train or so ^nx— \ t**! sure at once he's an ordinary commontr, not even Honourable ; and he is invjriabi , yon ni;iy depend upon it.' 'That would n.iturally li:ipp«m on theaverai^e of instances, ' Ernest put in, sniilm^', 'n.-iideiing the n-Iative frequency •t peorsand comuionerb t this ! '"Ini of England, Peer you know, or t ven Honomablea ;i not common objects the country, numerically peaking.' 'They are to me, un. .rtunately,' Hilda replied, looking at him iiuiuirirgly. ' I hardly ever meet anybody else, you know, and I'm positively bored to death by them, and that's the truth, really. It's most uiducky, under the circum- stances, that 1 should hapi)en to be the daughter of one i.etr, and be offered promiscuously as wife to the highest bidder among half a dozen others, if only I would have them. But I won't, Mr. Le Breton, I really won't. I'm not goin-.' to marry a fool, just to please my mother. NothuiL; on earth would induce mo to marry Lord C(mnem »•». foi e.\ample.' Ernest looked at her and smiled, but said nothmi Lady Hilda i)ut in a stroke or two more to her pc line, and th< 11 icmtinued her unsolicited cpose to me. I suppose a'l women would say it's awfully unwomanly of me to lead up to his cards in thic way— thnnving myself at his head they'd call it; but what does that matter? I won't marry a fool, and I mil marry a man of some originality. That's the only thing in the world worth troubling one's head about. Wliy on earth doesn't he take my hand, I wonder % What further can he be waiting for ? ' Lady Hilda was perfectly accustomed to the usual preliminaries of a de- claration, and only awaited Ernest's first step to proceed in due order to the second. Strange to say, her heart was actually beating a little by anticipation. It never even uccurred to her— the belle of three seasons— that possibly Ernest mightn't wish to marry her. So she sat looking pensively at her picture, and sighed again quietly. But Ernest, wholly unsuspicious, only answered, 'You will do quite right, liady Hilda, to marry the man of your own choice, irrespective of wealth or station.' Hilda glanced up at him curiously, with a half-disdainful smile, and was just on the point of saying, ' But suppose the man of my own choice won't propose to me ? ' However, us the words rose to her lips, she felt there was a point at which even she should yield to convention : and there were l)lenty of opportunities still before her, without displaying her whole hand too boldly and immediately. So she merely turned with another sigh, this time a genuine one, to her half-sketched outline. 'I shall bring him round in time,' she said to herself, blushing a little at her unexpected dis- comfiture. ' I shall bring him mund in time ; I shall make him propose to me ! I don't care if 1 ha'^e to live in a lodging with him, and wash up my own ;_ lings ; I shall marry him ; that I'm resolved upon. 1' as mad as a March hare about his Communism and hi;^ theories and things ; but I don't care for that ; I could live with him in comfort, and I couldn't live in comlort with the Algies and Monties. In fact, I believe— in a sort of way- 1 believe I'm almost in love with him. I h:ivo a kind of jumpy feeling in my hi-art wlien I'm talking with him that I UHvor feel when I'm talking with other young men, even the nicest of tLem. THE WOMEN OF THE LAND. 87 He's not nice ; he's a bear ; and yet, somehow, I should like *' "m? Le' Breton,' she said aloud, 'the sun's all wrong for sS^hing tday; and besides it's too of Y , ^-^ '^- S;veen her fingers. Ernest jumped up to follow her ; and Clatter, and talking on less dangerous subjects than Lady Hilda's matrimonial aspirations. . , j .^ rrn^a thought ' Still I shall make him ask me yet, ^^^^J ™f f*^^^^^ to herself, as she parted from him to go up and dress tor dinner ' I shall manage to marry him, somehow ; or if I d^t marry him, at any^rate I'll m>u-ry somebody ike him. F..r it was really the principle, not the person, that Lady Hilda specially insisted upon. CHAPTER X. THE DAUGHTERS OF CANAAN. May, beautiful May, had brought the g«l\«- ^^^^^^^ trees in the valley behind the sleepy old town ot ^.aicomD. Pomerov were decking themselves in the first wan green of fheireari^Bpring foliage. The ragged robins were hanging out Dhikv red from the hedgerows ; the cuckoo was callmg ?romTe copse beside the mill stream ; and the merry wee For Ernest ad ?ally made up his mind by this tune what t SSfLwSowrwU the wee strewn tuiid^eU^^^^^^^^^^ upon the big slow-turning vanes of the overshot miii ""^""hot us sit down a bit on the bank here. Mis. Oswald ' he said to his airy little companion, as they ref 1^«^. *^« Jf ^^W 4 crosses the «-- ps^ be^- ^e^-^J houi ;e iiiire tnat crosses uio Btictmi j""- - — . - 4t^a Bucli a lovely day one feels loath to miss any of 8S PHILISTIA. it, and the scenery here looks so bright and cheerful after the endless brown heather and russet bracken about Dun- bude. Not that Exnioor isn't beautiful in its way, too— all Devonshire is beautiful alike for that matter ; but then it's more sombre and woody in the north, and much less s;jring- like than this lovely quiet South Devon country.' ' I'm so glad you like Calcombe,' Edie said, with one of lier unfailing blushes at the indirect flattery to herself im- plied in praise of her native county ; ' and you think it prettier than Dunbude, then, do you ? ' 'Prettier in its own way, yes, though not so grand of course ; everything here is on a smaller scale. Dunbude, you know, is almost mountainous.' ' And the Castle 1 ' Edie asked, bringing round the con- versation to her own quarter, ' is that very line ? At all like Warwick, or our dear old Arlingford ? ' 'Oh, it isn't a castle at all, really,' Ernest answered ; 'only a very big and ugly house. As architecture it's atrocious, though it's comfortable enough inside for a place of the sort.' ' And the Exmoors, are they nice people ? What kind of girl is Lady Hilda, now?' Poor little Edie? she asked the question shyly, but with a certain deep beating in her heart, for she had often canvassed with herself the vague possibility that Ernest might actually fall in love with Lady Hilda. Had he fallen in love with her already, or had he not? She knew she would be able to guess the truth by his voice and manner the moment he answered her. No man can hide that secret from a woman who loves him. Yet it was not without a thrill and a flutter that she asked him, for she thought to herself, what must she seem to him after all the grand people he had been mixing with so lately at Dun- bude ? Was it possible he could see anything in her, a little country village girl, coming to her fresh from the great ladies of that unknown and vaguely terrible society ? ' Lady Hilda ! ' Ernest answered, laughing— and as he said the words Edie knew in her heart that her question was answered, and blushed once more in her bewitching fashion. ' Lady Hiltla 1 Oh, she's a very queer girl, indeed ; she's not at ail clever, really, but she has the one virtue of girls of her class— their perfect frankness. She's frank all over— no re- serve or retif^ence at all about her. Whatever she thinks she says, without tlie slightest idea that you'll see anything to laugh at or to find fault with in it. In matters of know- ledge, she's frankly ignorant. In matters of taste, she's frankly barbaric. In matters of religion, she's frankly iieathen. And in matters of ethics, she's frankly immoral— THE DAUGHTERS OF CANAAN. 89 % or ro Tier extra-moral,' he added, quickly correcting himself f.iv the misleading expi'ession. u „ '"•^ 'I shouldn't thini fron^ your description she can bj a vprv nice person,' Edie said, greatly relieved and puilmfe a leTtall gr^ses at her side by way of hiding her -^-e^^^^^^^ the subjec \ ' She can't be a really nice girl if she s extra ''''''''f'^nZSt'^L she'd cut one's throat or pick one's nocket vou know,' Ernest went on quickly, with a gentle S:i ' ^She's got'a due -pect for the ordinary con^^i^^^^^^^^^^ juoralities like other people, no doubt ; \f ^ j" l^^^X^ they're only social pre udices, not genuine ^thi^'^^I'V/'^LPtf^' 1 don't suppose she ever seriously asked herself whether any- thin" was rldit or wrong or not in her whole lifetime In a t^"n sur°e she never did ; and if --ffj,-^^::^^^. so, he'd be immensely surprised and delighted .^ t^^ t.^t limr originality and novelty of thought display.-, m such a "'°"But'sL\"7e?y Wsome, isn't sher Edie asked, follow- "th irdmily. She tiashes away f-ug^^ everything^ she was hunting ; and she does hunt too, which I think baU enou-h in anybody, and horrible in a womcan. "Then vou ha^^en't fallen in love with her, Mr Le Bret.m r I half imagined you would, you know, as I m told ^^^S^^:L /.., Miss Oswald! /alien m love with Hilda Tregellis ! What an absurd notion ! Leaven '"t^E^^^-TrsV place, what would be the use of iti Fancy Lady Exmoor's horror at the bare idea of her son s uSalltng 1^ love with Lady Hilda ! I assure you, Miss Oswald, sh^ would evaporate at the very mention o^ such an imhpard-of enormity. A man must be, if not an eari, ai Talra baronet with five thousand a year, before he dare face t^e inex^essi^^^^^^^ of Lady Exmoor with an otier ""' 'fZ!^^2^X^ fall in love by t^es of prece- dence " EdieVt in simply- 'It's quite PO-blM -p^^^^^^ for a man who isn't a duke himself to fall m love vMnn a di^ke's daughter, even though the duke her papa mayn Dersonallv happen to : pp ove of the match. However, you rnT-^nrtJ think \:ady Hilda herself a pleasant girl. CO nilLISTIA. even apart from the question of Lady Exmoor's require- ments % ' ' Miss Osvvalil,' Ernest said, looking at her suddenly, as she sat half hidiny her face with her parasol, and twitching more violently tliau ever at the tall grasses ; ' Miss Oswald, to tell you tlie truth, I haven't been thinking much about Hilda Tregellis or any of the other girls I've met at Dunbude, and for a very sufHcient reason, because I've had my mind too much preoccupied by somebody else elsewhere.' Edie bluslied even more prettily than before, and held her peace, half raising her eyes for a second in an entjuiring glance at his, and then droi)ping them hastily as they met, in modest trejiidation. At that moment Ernest haa never seen anything so beautiful or so engaging as Edie (Jswald. 'Edie,' he said, beginning again more boldly, and taking her little gloved hand almost unresistingly in his ; ' l^d.e, you know my secret. I love you. Can you love me ? ' Edie looked up at him shyly, the tears glistening and trembling a little in the corner of her big bright eyes, and for a moment she answered nothing. Then she drew away her hand hastily and said with a sigh, ' Mr. Le Breton, we oughtn't to be talking so. We mustn't. Don't let us. Take me home, please, at once, and don't say anything more about it.' But her heart beat within her bosom with a violence that Avas not all unpleasing, and her hjoks half belied her words to Ernest's keen glance even as she spoke them. ' Why not, Edie ? ' he said, drawing her down again gently by her little hand as she tried to rise hesitatingly. ' Why not / tell me. I've looked into your face, and though I can hardly dare to hope it or believe it, I do believe 1 reud in it that you really might love me.' 'Oh, Mr. Le Breton,' Edie answered, a tear now quiver- ing visibly on either eyelash, ' don't ask me, please don't ask me. I wish you wouldn't. Take me home, won't you ? ' Ernest dropped her hand quietly, with a little show of despondency that was hardly qnite genuine, for his eyes had already told him better. ' Then you can't love me. Miss Oswald,' he said, looking at her closely. 'I'm sorry for it, very sorry for it ; but I'm grieved if I have seemed pre- sumptuous in asking you.' This time the two tears trickled slowly down Edie's cheek — not very sad tears either — and she answered hurriedly, ' Oh, I don't mean that, Mr. Le Breton, I don't mean that. You misunderstand me, I'm sure you misunderstand me.' Ernest caught up the trembling little hand again. ' Then you can love lue, Edie / ' he said eagerly, 'you can love me ? ' THE DAUGHTERS OF CANAAN. 9t Snd betwl hi" own two hands and preyed .t tenderly. «^%\\:"wry':.rn•ttou'"tr love you, Ediel' he a^ked, '°°«SrM*\'e'&f eS IXri-ing and moving away -■nt" t£ ti^E^r =r gai>. ; o,. -. « that's all, it isn't a very diihcult m, ttcr o ^^'t^- "^ position's oxactly nothmg forj^™ got no_„w.c^^ ^ ^^^^ prospects; and if I ask you to mdii^ u , ^iost strictly «Pe«V^-*^^%.f^^^^^'"',r\^ou consent to wa^ asking you a great deal, ll^now and you v ^^^ S;rr;r;:?S'.^"atf i,rme Kugh to repay y^'.KTM.Tf Briton ' Edie said, turning towards the patPa^ing"he^eJrVn*^^;l^;e.^^^^^^^^^^ ^^at'HarTwould aS tirSrenco i" ""^^ J^ hesii^•[A-a'an,,'ni fetch you the pre.- dent's letter, and the diploma to let you »™ ■'■ ,^ , , j^^ • Oh 11,) occasion to trouble yourself, Mrs. oswaia . mo old My rin, almost with alacrity, for she l-d "-^ -!"; the announcement of Harry Oswald's electuvn in the lime, S kctir you ™^? rtM;ann%;}rg S'' "'-re'Bret^ rriffiu^rind?:^ 1™;-^^^^^ S .^•V'5^^4 — '» - SdTt-'hetT every way. I'f''y ^^:P^ ^"3 h,,w her son some little atteu- fr"&e^ iarat,^'di.t1nguished career at Oxford-^^^^^ Soy may have heard "» »-^: f JSHoT „f"L" 1 Exlo"^'; ^^SjgSSryoileel Sd-the Archdeacon's exceed- ri 1. 1 I 95 rillLISTIA, mgly fond of them. So I thought if you could tell me nhere this young man is lodging— you sliop-people pick up all the gossip in the i)laco, always— I'd ask him to dinner to meet the Rector and Colonel Turnbull and my nephew, who would probably be able to offer him a litde shooting.' ' There's no partridges about in May, Miss Luttrell,' said Mrs. Oswald, (luietly smiling to herself at the fancy picture of Ernest seated in -ongenial converse with the Rector, Colonel Turnbull, ana young Luttrell ; ' but as to Mr. Le Breton, I do happen to know where he's stopping, though it's not often that I know any Calcombe gossip, save and except vvhat you're good enough to tell me when you drop in, ma'am ; for Mr. Le Breton's stopping here, in this house, witli us, ma'am, this very minute.' ' In this house, Mrs. Oswald ! ' the old lady cried with a start, wagging her unsteady old head this time in genuine surprise ; ' why, I didn't know you let lodgings. I thought you and your daughter were too much of fine ladies for that, really. I'm glad to hear it. I'll leave a note for him.' ' No, Miss Luttrell, we don't let lodghigs, ma'am, and we don't need to,' Mrs. Oswald answered, pn)udly. ' Mr. Le Breton's stopping here as my son's guest. Tliey were friends at Oxford t(jgether : and now that Mr. Le Breton lias got his holiday, like, Harry's asked him down to spend a fort- night at Calcombe Pomeroy. And if you'll leave a note I'll be very happy to give it to him as soon as he comes in, for he's out walking uow with Harry and Edith,' Old Miss Luttrell sat for half a minute in unwonted silence, revolving in her poor puzzled head what line of tactics fihe ought to adopt under such a very singular and annoy- ing combination of circumstances. Stopping at the village grocer's !— this was really too atrocious ! The Le Bretons were all as mad as hatters, that she knew well ; all except the mother, who was a sensible ])er3on, and quite rational. But old Sir Owen was a man with the most absurd religitius fancies —took an interest in the souls of the soldiers ; quite right and proper, of course, in a chaplain, but really too ridiculous in a regular field officer. No doubt Ernest Le Breton had taken up some equally extraordinary notions — liberty, ecpiality, fraternity, and a general massacre, pro- bably ; and he had picked up Harry Oswald as a suitable companion in his revolutionary schemes and fancies. There was no knowing what stone wall one of those mad Le Bretons m'glit choose to run his head aga-'nst. Still, the jiractical difficulty remained— how could she extricate herself from this awkward dilennnain such a way as to cover herself with glory, and iuilict another bitter lium.liation on poor THE DAUGHTERS OF CANAAN. 97 Mrs Oswald? If only she had known sooner that Ernest was stopping at the Oswalds, she wouldn't have been so loud in praise of ^theLe Breton family; she would in that case have dexterously insinuated that Lady Le Br.4oa was only a half-pixy oilicer's widow, livhig on her pension ; and that her boys had got promotion at Oxford as poor scholars, thvou-ii the Archdeacon's benevolent influence. It was too late iww, however, to adopt that line of def<.'nce ; and she fell back accordingly upon the secondary positmn attorded her by the chance of taking down Mr.s. Oswald's intolerable insolence in another fashion. • i 91 „■»,-. 'Oil, he's out walking with your daughter, is he ? she said, maliciously. ' Out walking with your daughter, Jlrs. Oswald, not with your son. I saw her passj.g down the iuead.nvs half an hour ago with a strange young man ; and her brother stopped behhid near the mulpond. A str,-,uge young man ; yes, I noticed particularly that he looked like i crentleman, and I was quite surprised that you should let he'r walk out with him in that extraordinary manner. Depend upon it, Mrs. Oswald, when young gentlemen m Mr. Le Breton's position go out walking with young women in your daughter's position, they mean no good by it~-tliey mean no good by it. Take my advice, Mrs. Oswald, and don't permit it. Mr. Le Breton's a very nice young man, and well brought up no doubt-I know his mothers a woman of principle-still, young men will be yo.mg men ; and if your son goes bringing down his tine Oxtord acquaintances to Calcombe Pomeroy, and you and your husband go flinging Mi Jemima -her name s Jemima, i think— at the young men's heads, why, then, of course, you must take the consequences— you must take the conse- quences ! ' And with this telling Parthian shot discharged carefully from the shadow of the doorway, accompanied by a running comment of shrugs, nods, and facial distortions, old Miss Luttrell successfully shuffled hersef out of the shop, her list unfinished, leaving poor Mrs. Oswald alone and absolutely speechless with indignation. Ernest Le Breton never got a note of invitation ftom the bquire s sister : but before nightfall all that was visitable in Calcinbe I'omeroy had heard at full length of the liomd conspiracy by wliich those pushing upstart Oswalds had inveigled a son of poor Lady Le Breton's down to stop with them, and were now trying to ruin his prospects by getting lum to marry their brazen-faced hussey, Jemima Edith. When Edie returned from her walk that afternoon, Mi^s. Oswald went up into her bedroom Lo see lier daughter, bnc knew at once from Edie's radiant blushing face and moist u a. 98 PHILISTIA. eyes what liad taken place, and she kissed the pretty shrink- ing girl tenderly on her forehead. ' EJie darling, I hope you will be happy,' she whispered significantly. 'Then you gue.ss it all, mother dear.'' asked Edie, relieved that she need not tell her story in set words. ' Yes, dai'ling,' said the mother, kissing her again. ' And you said " yes."' Edie coloured once more. *I said "yes," mother, for I love him dearly.' ' He's a dear fellow,' the mother answered gently ; ' and I'm sure he'll do his best to make you happy.' Later on in the day, Harry came up and knocked at Edie's door. His mother had told him all about it, and so had Ernest. 'Popsy,' he said, kissing her also, 'I con- gratulate you. I'm so glad about it. Le Breton's the best fellow I know, and I ouldn't wish you a better or a kinder husband. You'll have to wait for him, but he's worth waiting for. He's a good fellow and a clever fellow, and an afiectionate fellow ; and his family are everything that could be desired. It'll be a splendid thing for you to be able to talk in future about " my mochei'-iu law, Lady Le Breton." Depend upon it, Edie dear, that always counts for something in society.' Edie blushed again, but this time with a certain tinge of shame and disappointment. She had never thought of that herself, and she Avas hurt that Harry should think and speak of it at such a moment. She felt with a sigh it was un- worthy of him and unworthy of the occasion. Truly the iron of Pi and its evaluations had entered deeply into his soul ! CHAPTER XL CULTURE AND CULTURE. ' I WONDER, Berkeley,' said Herbert Le Breton, examining a coin curiously, ' what on earth can ever have induced you, with your ideas and feelings, to become a parson ! ' ' My dear Le Breton, your taste, like good wine, improves with age,' answered lierkeley, coldly. ' There are many reasons, any one of which may easily induce a sensible man to go into the Cliurch. For example, he nmy feel a dis- interested desire to minister to the souls of his poorer neighbours ; or he may be first cousin to a bishop ; or he may V)e attracted by an ancient and honourable national institution ; or he may possess a marked inclination for alba ari u chasubles ; CULTURE AND CULTURE. 99 or he may reflect upon the distinct social advantages of a anod living ; or he may have nothing else m particular to do ; or he may simply desire to rouse the impertment curiosity of all the indolent (luidnuncs of his acquaintance without^the remotest intention of ever gratifying their underbred Paul ^'^H^Irl'S Breton winced a little-he felt he had fairly laid himself c -en to this unmitigated rebufl-but he did not retire imr .e oly fr.nn his untenable position. I suppose, he '^aid (lui. . 'there are still people who really do t.^kcu practical interest in other people's souls-my brother Rona kl d.oes for one— but the idea is positively too ridiculous. W hen- ever I read any argument upon immortality it always seems to me remarkably cogent, if the souls in q"^^*^" 7!?;;;;,^ soul and my soul ; but just consider the transparent absurdity of supposing that every Hodge Chawbacon, and every rheu- n at^ old Betty Martiii, has Jot a soul, too, that must go on em uring for all eternity ! The notion's absolutely ludicrous \lhat an infinite monotony of existence for the poor old creatures to endure forever-being bored by their own mane personalities for a million a^ons ! It's simply appalling to * "But Berkeley wasn't going to be drawn into a theological discussion-that was a field which he always Bedu ously and successfully avoided. ' The immortality of the soul he sa d quietly, 'is a Platonic dogma too frequently confounded, even by moderately instructed persons like yourself, Le Breton, with the Church's very diflerent doctrine of the resurrection of the body. Upon this latter subject, my dear fellow about which you don't seem to be quite clear or pe rctly s..und in your views, you'll find some excellent re- Larks in Bishop Pearson on the Creed-a vah^xble work which I had the pleasure of studying intimately for my ordination examination.' „„e,;Wa nnri 'Really. Berkeley, you're the most incomprehensible and mysterious person 1 ever met in my whole ifetime ad Herbert, dryly. ' I believe you take a positive delight in deceiving and mystifying one. Do you seriously mean to tell me you feel any interest at the present tune of day in books written by bishops ? ' . ' A modern bishop,' Berkeley answered calmly, is an unpicturesciue but otherwise estimable member of a very distinguished ecclesiastical order, who ought not ligh ly to be brought into ridicule by lewd or lay pers.ms <->n that ground, I have always been in favour myself of gradually ^eformi^uLr his hat, his apron, and even his gaiters, ulueh doubtless' serve to render him at ieust conspicuous u uut 100 PHILISTIA. j)ositivcly ahsiivd in the irreverent eyes of a ribald generation. But as to criticising! his literary or theological productions, my dear fellow, that would be conduct eminently unbecoming in a simple curate, and savouring of insubordination even in the pers(m of an elderly archdeacon. 1 decline, therefore, to discuss the subject, especially with a layman on whose orthodoxy I have painful doubts. — Where's Oswald 1 Is he up yet '/ ' ' No ; he's down in Devonshire, my brother Ernest writes me.' ' What, at Dunbude ? What's Oswald doing there ? » ' Oh dear no ; not at Dunbude : the peerage hasn't yet adopted him — at a place called Calcombe Pomeroy, where it seems he lives. Ernest has gone down there from Exmoor for a fortnight's holiday. You remember, Oswald has a pretty sister — I met her here in your rooms last October, in fact— and I appi'chend she may possibly form a measurable portion of the local attractions. A pretty face goes a long way with some people.' Berkeley drew a deep breath, and looked uneasily out of the window. This was dangerous news, indeed ! What, little Miss Butterliy, has the boy with the gauze net caught sight of you already \ Will he trap you and imprison you so soon in his little gilded matrimonial cage, enticing you thereinto with soft words and sugared compliments to suit your dainty, delicate palate ? and must I, wdio have meant to chase you for the chief ornament of my own small cabinet, be only in time to see you pinioned and cabined in your white lace veils and other pretty disguised entanglements, for his special and particular delectation ? This must be looked into, Miss Butterily ; this must be prevented. Off to Calcombe Pomeroy, then, or other parts unknown, this very next to-morrow ; and let -.{% fight out the possession of little Miss Butterfly with our two gauze nets in opposition— mine tricked as prettily as T can trick it with tags and ends of art- allurements and hummed to in a delicate tune — before this interloping anticipating Le Breton has had time to secure you absolutely for himself. Too austere for you, little Miss Butterfly ; good in his way, and kindly meaning, but too austere. Better come and sun yourself in the modest wee palace of art that I mean to builu myself some day in some green, sunny, sloping valley, where your flittings will not be rudely disturbed by breath of poverty, nor your pretty feathery wings ruth- lessly clipped with a pair of doctrinaire, ethico-socialistic scissors. To Calcombe, then, to Calcombe — a.id not a day's delay befuro I get there. So much of thought, in his own quaint indefinite fashion, flitted like lightning through Arthur CULTURE AND CULTURE. loi Berkeley's perturbed mind, as he stood gazing wistfully for one second out of his pretty latticed creeper-clad window. Sen he remeuibered himself quickly with a short little sigh^ and turned to answer Herbert Le Breton s last half-sneenng '""'Somkhin- more than a pretty face merely,' he said, and a m"nd, for all her flitting, not wholly unfurnished with Zol Te s bie, solid mahogany English furniture. You may be sure ilarry Oswald's sfster isn't Ukely to be wanting m '"' ''OsvS'f a 'lurious fellow,' Herbert went on changing the venue, as he always did when he saw Berkeley was vpnllv ?n earnest; ' he's very clever, certainly, but he can levLutlveTs bourgeois The smell of tea sticks about hhn somehow to the end of the chapter. Don't you know Ckeley, there are some fellows whose clothes seem to il;e been bom with them, they tit so perfectly and impede the r movement so little; while there are other fe o^^s SeToIhes look at once as if they'd been ™ade or them bv a highly respectable but imperfectly successful tailor. tU's iustwhatlahvoys think about Harry Oswald m the Sericulture. He'^ got a gi^at deal of cm ture the ^^^^^^^^ h,.«t onlture from the very best shop— Oxfoid, in tact Pressed Self up in the finest suit of clothes from the most Sonabk mental tailor ; but it doesn't seem to ht hm naturallv He moves about in it uneasily, like a man utccustomed to be clothed by a good workinan. He ooks ZZtZ^ upholstery like a greengrocer m evening aross Now there's all the diflerence in the world betwee hat^rt of put-on culture and culture in the gram, isn t there 1 You mav train up a grocer's son to read Dante, and to play Edeksol Js Lieder, and to admire Fra Angelico ; but you S train him up to ^vear these things lightly and gracef u ly upon h^ as yoS and I do, who come by them naturally. We are born to the sphere ; iw rises to it. 'You think so, Le Breton \ ' asked the cura e with a quiet and suppressed smile, as he thought silently of the P^^^^llSTrn'/dear fellow, I'm sure of it. I - spc^t a mano birthfnmiaman of mere exterior pohsh anj, day Tywhere. Talk as much nonsense as you l^ke about aU men beinc born free and equal-they re not. Ihey re born "i'th nSal inequalities I. ^heir very nerve and mu3^^^^^ When 1 was an undergraduate^ 1 startled one of the tutors of that time by beginning my E..gl^«h,«««^y;?^«^' ^ "^,'^ are by nature born free and uneciuaL" I stick to it still , I! 102 rillLISTIA. the truth. They say it takes three generations to malce a geiitlunian , iioiisuuse utterly ; it takes at least a dozen. You mu't work out the connuon tibre in such a ridiculous hurry. That results as a simple piece of deductive reasoning from all modern theories of heredity and variation.' ' I agree with you in part, Le Breton,' the parson said, eyeing liini closely ; 'in part but not altogether. What you s;iy about Oswald's very largely true. His culture sits u])on him like a suit maile to order, not like a skin in which he was born. But d(jn t you think that's due more to the individual man than to the class he happens to belong to \ It seems to me there are other men who come from the same class as Oswald, or even from lower classes, but whose culture is just as much ingrained as, say, my dear fellow, yours is. They were born, no doubt, of naturally cultivated parents. And th; t's how your rule about the dozen generations that go to make a gentleman comes really true. 1 believe myself it trtkes a good many generations ; but then none of them need have been gentlemen, in the ordinary sense of the word, before him. A gentleman, if I'm to use t^ie expression as implying the good qualities conventionally supposed to be associated with it, a gentleman may be the linal outcome and efflorescence of many past generations of quiet, unobtrusive, working-man culture — don't you think so \ ' Herbert Le Breton smiled incredulously. * I don't know that I do, quite,' he answered languidly. 'I confess I attach more importance than you do to the mere question of race and family. A thoroughbred ditlers from a cart-horse, and a greyhound from a vulgar mongrel, in mind and charac- ter as well as in body. Oswald seems to me in all essentials a bourgeois at heart even now.' 'But remember,' Berkeley said, rather warmly for him, ' the bourgeois class in England is just the class which must necessarily find it hardest to throw off the ingrained traces of its early origin. It has intermarried for a long time- long enough to have produced a distinct racial type Uke those you speak of among dogs and horses— the Philistine type, in fact— and when it tries to emerge, it must necessarily fight hard against the innate Philistinism of which it is conscious in its own constitution. No class has had its inequality with others, its natural inferiority, so constantly and cruelly thrust in its f.,ce ; certainly the working-man has not. The working-man who makes efforts to improve himself is encouraged ; the working-man who rises is taken by the hand ; the working-man, whatever he does, is never sneered at. But it's very different with the shopkeeper. Naturally a little prone to servility— that comes from the very necessi- CULTURE AND CULTURE. 103 ties of the situation— and laudably anxious to attain the level of those he considers his superiors, he gets laughed at on every hand. Being the next class below society, society is always engaged in trying to keep luin out and keep iiin down. On the other hand, he naturally forms his ideal ot what is fine and worth imitating from the example of the class above him ; and therefore, considering what Uiat class is he has unworthy aims and snobbish desires, l^ither in his own person, or in the persons of his near relations, the wholesale merchant and the manufacturer— all bourgeois alike— he supplies the mass of nonvmvj; riehes who are tiie pet lau'diing-stock of all our playwrights, and novelists, and comic papers. So the bourgeois who really knows he has something in him, like Harry ()swald, feids from the begin- niu" painfully conscious of the instability of las pt.sition, ami of tiie fact that men like you are cutting jokes behind his back about the smell of tea that still clings to him. ihat s a horrible drag to hold a man back— the sense that he must always be criticised as one of his own class-and that a class with many recognised fadings. It makes him self-conscious and 1 believe .self- consciousness is really at the root ot tliat sli-dit social awkwardness you think you notice m Harry Oswald. A working-man's son need never f. el that, i teel sure there are working-men's sons who go through the world as gentlemen mixing with gentlemen, and never give the T-atter of their birth one moment's serious consideration. Their position never troubles them, and it never need trouble them. Put it to yourself, now, Le Breton. Suppose I were to tell you my father was a working shoemaker, for example, or a working carpenter, you'd never think anything more about it ; but if 1 were to tell you he w^.s a grocer, or a baker, or a confectioner, or an ironmonger, you d teel a certain indefinable class barrier set up between us two imme- diately and ever after. Isn't it so, now V ' Perhaps it is,' Herbert answered dubitatively. But as he's probably neither the one nor the other, the_ hypothesis isn't worth seriously discussing. I must go oil now ; 1 v e got a lecture at twelve. Good-bye. Don't forget ^.be tickets for Thursday's concert.' Arthur Berkeley h)oked after him with a contemptuous smile. ' The outcome of a race himself,' he th.jught, ' iuid not the best side of that race either. I was half tempted in the heat of argument, to blurt out to him the whole truth about the dear gentle old Progenitor ; but I'm glad I didn t now. After all, it's no use to caat your pearls before swine. J^or Herbert's essentially a pig-a selfish self-centred pig ; no doubt a very refined .and cultivated specimen of pigdom-the 104 PHILISTIA. best Viroed ; but still a most emphatic and consummate pig tor all that. iNut the same stuti" in him that there is in Ernest — a fibre or two wanting somewhere. But I inustn t praise Ernest — a rival ! a rival ! It's war to the death between us two now, and no quarter. He's a good felhnv, and I like him dearly ; but all's fair in love and war ; and I must go down to Calcombe to-morrow morning and forestall him immediately. Dear little Miss Butterfly, 'tis for your sake ; you shall not be pinched and cramped to suit the Pro- crustean measure of Ernest Le Bretons communistic fancies. You shall tly free in the open air, and flash your bright silken wings, decked out bravely in scales of many hues, not toned down to too sober and quaker-like a suit of drab and dove-colour. You were meant by nature for the sunshine and the summer ; you shall not be worried and chilled and killed with doses of heterodox political economy and contro- versial ethics. Better even a country rectory (though with a bad Late Perpendicular church), and flowers, and picnics, and lawn-tennis, and village small-talk, and the squire's dinner-parties, than bread and cheese and virtuous poverty in a London lodging with Ernest Le Breton. Romance lives again. The beautiful maiden is about to be devoured by a goggle-eyed mcmster, labelled on the back " Exjiorimentiil Socialism " ; the red- cross knight flies to her aid, and drives away the monster by his magic music. Lance in rest ! lyre at side ! third class railway-ticket in pocket ! A Berkeley to the rescue ! and there you have it.' And as he spoke, he tilted with his pon at an imaginary dragon supposed to be seated in the crimson rocking-cliair by the wainscotted li rep' ace. ' Yes, 1 must certainly go down to Calcombe. No use putting it oft' any longer. I've arranged to go next summer to London, to keep house for the dear old Progenitor ; the music is getting asked for, two requests for more this very morning ; trade is looking up. I shall throw the curacy business overboard (what chance for modest merit that h^i't first cousin to a Bishop in the Church as at present consti- tuted ?) and take to composing entirely for a livelihood. I wouldn't ask Miss Butterfly before, because I didn't wish to tie her pretty wings prematurely ; but a rival ! that's quite a different matter. What right has he to go poaching on my preserves, I should like to know% and trying to catch the little gold-flsh I want to entice for my own private and par- ticular fish-pimd ! An interloper, to be turned out unmerci- fully. So oft' to Calcombe, and that quickly.' He sat down to his desk, and taking out some sheets of blank music-paper, began writing down the score of a little sung at which he had been working. So he continued till CULTURE AND CULTURE. 105 i +1,^,.^ Vinvp thp Calcombe postmark. totrangc, ijt.ijv<-icjr there was her name on the second sheet; ^^hat could ntr .vrote 'on a holiday from the Exmoovs', and you maybe Le Breton has nothing to marry upon), we '^\«;^^^ ^^^^ " "^ Pleased about it here at Calcombe. tJe is just the exact n.n 1 shou d wish my sister to marry ; so pleasant and good and clfver anTso vJry well connected. Felicitate us, my dear ^' ArtifurBerkeley laid the letter down with a quiet sigh, and folded his hamls despondently before lum. He hadn t seen very much of Edie, yet the disappom meiit was to Im a very bftter one. It had been a pleasant day-dream, ruly and he was loth to part with it so unexpectedly. Poor mtle Mils Butterfly,' he said to himself tenderly and com- passionately ; ' poor, airy, tlittmg, bright-eyed Mtle ^Miss Butterfly. I must give you III.. .. -Ct.-!! \\t up, 'musf I, and Ernest Le Butterfly, i must givu j^vj" ^vi "— - -■> —- , ^ Bre on must take you for better, for worse, must he La revne le vealt, it seems, and her word is ^'J^ • .^ "^f ^f^^^^^^^^^ hardly the man to make you happy, little lady ; ^in|l-iicaitea, welSeaning, but too nuichin earnest, too much absorbe m hfs ideas of I'i-ht for a world where right's impossible, and e'ery man for himself is the wretched -'did rue of ex^^^^^^^^^ He will overshadow and darken y«^\r,^V° .1 h by S Se; not intentionally-he cou dn t do thf"^;^*; ^^/f ^^^^ Quixotic fads and fancies ; good fads, hone.t fads but fa^s Slly impracticable i.^ tl^^^anmg nnu^se o^ clashmg interests where he who \»ouid swan must ..top lu.^ -vv heaTsteadry above water, and he who minds his neighbour i^tSi^ lie lead tu the unfathomable bottom. He will 1 I io6 rillUSTIA. sink, I doubt not, poor little Miss Butterfly ; he will sink iiieutixbly, and drag you down with him, down, down, down to nnnu;;3uval)le dei)ths of poverty and despair. Oh, my poor httlo butterHy, I'm sorry for you, and sorry for myself. It was a pretty dream, and I loved it dearly. I had made you a (iueen ni my fancy, and throned you in my heart, and now I liave to dethrone you again, me miserable, and leave my poor lonely heart bare and queenless ! ' The piano was open, and he went over to it instinctively strunnnijig a few wild bars out of his own head, made up hastdy on the spur of the moment. 'No, not dethrone yim, he went on, leaning back on the music-stool, and lettmg his hand wander aimlessly over the keys; 'not dethv(jiie you ; I shall never, never be able to do that. Little Miss Butterfly, your image is stamped there too deep for dethronement, stamped there for ever, indelibly, iiieil'.iceably, not to be washed out by tears or lau^'hter! Ernest Le Breton may take you and keej) you ; you are his ; you have chosen him, and you have chosen 'in most things not unwisely, for he's a good fellow and true (let me be generous in tlie hour of disappointment even to the rival, the goggle-eyed impracticable dragon monstrosity), but you are mine, too, for 1 wcm't give you up ; I can't give you up ; I must live for you still, even if you know it not. Little woman, I will work for you and I will watch over you ; I will be your earthly Providence ; I will try to extri- cate you from the quagmires into which the well-meanin'% short-sigh+ed dragon will infallibly lead you. Dear littfe bright soul, my heart aches for you ; I know the trouble you are bringing upon yourself ; but la re\m le. rcnlt, and it is not your humble servitor's business to interfere with your royal pleasure. Still, you are mine, far I am yours ; yours, body and soul ; what else have I to live for I ' The dear old Progenitor can't be with us many years longer ; and when he IS gone there will be nothing left me but to watch over little Miss Butterfly and her Don Quixote of a future hus- band. A man can't work and slave and compose sonatas for himself alone— the idea's disgusting, piggish, worthy only of Herbert Le Breton ; I must do what I can for the little queen, and for her balloon-navigating Utopian Ernest. Thank heaven, no law prevents you from loving in your own heart the one woman whom you have once^loved, no matter who may chance to marry her. Go, day-dream, 'fly vanish, e-aporate- the scUd ane remain^ -.all-my heart, and little Miss Butterfly. I have loved her once, and I shall love her, I shall love her for ever ! ' He crumpled the letter up in his fingers, and flung it CULTURE AND CULTURE. 107 half anjrrily into the waste-paper basket, as th..ugh it were the en.l,u,ired daydream he was nautal y ^M'-^ti-l'lnsu g It was ser.non-day, and he k.d to wnte h,s diBcou vse t at ey afternoon. A quaint idea seized hnn Ah.i, he s.u I, ahuost Haily, in his volatile irresponsible fashion 1 Have n.y text^eady ; the hour brings .t to me J'/^^^'^'o'l^t.:,^,;;;;;,!'^ a nuip ! I shall preach on the Pool of Bethesua : ^^ hde I a,r oomin., another steppeth down before me." 1 he verse sec MS as^if it were made on purpose or me; ^h'^t .1 pity nobody else will understand it ! ' And he smiled (pnetly at the conceit, as he got the s.ented sheets of «f •»;'"^-i;;i'"" l,';^^ of his little sandalwood davenpcrt. For Arthur ^eikeley was one of those curiously coiujounded natures which can hardly ever be perfectly serious, and which can enjoy a <,uaintness or a neat literary allusion e^en '^^ '^ "'-;'>;^" 'f the bitterest personal disappointment. He could solace hi n- se f f<.r a minute for the loss of Edie by choosing a text or his Sunday's sermon with a prettily-turned epigiani on his own position. CHAPTER XII. THB MORE EXCELLENT WAY. At the very top of the winding footpath cut deeply into the s^uidstone side of the East Clitf Hill at Hastings a wooden seat, set a little back from the road, invites the panting climber to rest for live minutes after his steep ascent ti-oia the primitive fisher village of Old Hastings which nest es warmly in the narrow sun-smitten gulley at his feet. Un ihissiit, one bright July morning, Herbert Le Breton lay at half length, basking in the brilliant open sunshine and evidently waiting for somebody whom he expected to arrive by the side path from the All baints' Valley. Even the old coastguardsman, plodding his daily round over to Ecclesbourne, noticed the obvious expectation miplied in his attentive attitude, and ventured to remark, m his cheery familiar fashion, ' She won't be long a-coinui now, sir, you may depend upon it : the gals is sure to be out early of a fane L.niin' like this 'ere.' Herbert stuck his doub e eye-glass rrin-erly upon the tip of his nose, and surveyed the blutl old sailor through it with a stony British stare of mingled sur- prise and iialiK:iHt:.n, w!dd: dro^'e the poor man l^-^^^'^y -^ with a few muttered observations about some people bemg so confounded stuck up that they didn't even understand the point of a little good-natured s jafann banter. to8 PHILISTIA. As the coastguardsman disai)poared round the corner of the lljigstatt", a younj,' girl camu sudduiily into sight by the jutting edge of san.lstcjiie blutf near the High Wickham ; and Herbert, jumping uj) at once from- his rechning posture,' raised his liat to lier with stately poHteness, and moved f' rward in his c:>urt]y graceful manner to meet her as '^uo jil»l-" -««J;;- • [ fool too much afraid of you, the mo.uunt «>« ^^^f ^. ,^„ .1,. it And vet of course I ought to, you knoM, im »uti' tve' marrfecl 'vhy, naturally, tin I shall have to Uam to ""^^You"vmtsuppo'.e,' Herbert answered, rather chillily : •but U atlubjoct i^one Won which we ff^^f^^J^, a better opinion when the time comes for ?;'"f;"y /"P'^* L Meanwhile, I want you to call ">^ ""'";'''g'|J°" a chapter' serve in the shop all afternoon; tea, wUji a a cnapter , bcivc r „,,;„„. supper, with a chapter ; prayer meetnig m the evenm , supp , ^irti;^r;S;ep:^tfhe^°re'^^oi^^^^^^ rtryV^ays siy in £ --'"..'^S^e^r^^tme. 'S rdtsdlretS^B^; i' £er. age^l, ^; ..»^_ Pi, Ill no i PHILISTIA. ready to drop with it, and begin to wish I'd only been kickv enougli to have been born one of those happy benighted little pagans in a heathen land where they don't know the value of the precious Sabbath, and haven't yet been taught to build Pnuutive Methodist district chapels for crusliiu.r the lives out of their sons ami daughters ! ' ° Herbert smiled a gentle smile o1 calm superiority at this vehement outburst of natural irreligion. 'You niust cer- tainly be bored to death with it all, Selah,' he said, lau rh- ingly What a funny sort of creed it really is, after aH for rational beings ! Who on earth could believe that the religion these people use to render your life so absolutelv miserable IS meant for the same thing as tlie one that makes my poor dear brotlier Ronald so perfectly and inexpressibly serene and happy ? Tlie formalism of lower natures, like your lathers, has turned it into a machine for crushinundedly awk- ward fix to have got oneself into with a pretty girl o the lower classes. She's beautiful certamly ; that there s no deny- iny P^ I couU never care for mere coarse, commonplace, venal wretches ^ i ^7 ' when I si)oke to her just now about my wishing to make my wife a 1 Iv upon my word, at the time, I almost thmk I was iusUhen quite in earnest. The idea flitted across any ^r.d vtudv-" Why not send her for a year or two to be n llif ^p at Paris^or somewhere, and really marry her ert^rds for good and always \ " But on second though s, It won't hold water. She's magnificent, she's undeniable iXaL ruble, but she isn't possible. The «J;-«/l"j;^^ enoa<^h to condemn her. Yancy marrying «""^.^^^« ^y^^^ ^'^ Chr&ian name out of the hundred and somethingth psalm It'sToo atrocious ! I really couldn't inflict her for a moment "" ^:^.^:d ::SJS^^tS'?he great russet sails of the about the necessity of our getting soon f^^^^^^^^"^"^/ ^^''i^f ^ wonder at it either, for she has a perfect purgatory ot a me ;;h that^iivelling Methodistical father of he-, one maybe sure of it. It would be awfully awkward if any Oxtorcl people were to catch me here walking with her on the cliflf over vonder-Bome sniggering fellow of Jesus or Worcester for example, or, worse than all, some prying young Pecksn ff of a ;h^r;ear' undergraduate! S^^^^-' ^^^ Xfrn^t fascinate me, and I can't get away from her , but 1 must Siy do It and be done with it. It's ^^;-^-^^^:^, WW much loucer. I must stop here for a few clays tnoio oidV a u S t^ll her that I'm called away on important ;'^^;i;;Jim.ss. say to Yorkshire or Worcest..slin.^r^som^ whei^. 1 needn't tell her in person, face to face . 1 can vv rite h-istilv at the last moment to the usual name at the Post Office^- o e left till called for. And as a matter of fact I Wt J t. Yorkshire either- very awkward and u-lig«;^«f ' rhough. these petty prevarications ; when a man once begms lowering himself by making love to a g;j\ ^/^ ,^ "^'^'^JJ^ position, he lets himself in for all kinds of disagreeable e eSes afterwards ;-I shall go to Switzerland^ Yes^ no place better after the bother of rnnnmg -^'^y /^»1«^,«; « '™ ram Selah : in the Alps, one wou d forget all P^tty human degradations ; I shall go to Switzerland. Ot coui.e you t ii6 nilLISTIA. break ofF with her altogether- that would be cruel ; and I really like her ; upon my word, even when she isn't by, up to her own level, I really like her ; but I'll let the thing die a natural death of inanition. As they always put it in the newspapers, with their stereotyped phraseology, a gradual coldness sliall intervene between us. That'll be the best and only way out of it. * And if I go to Switzerland, why not ask Oswald of Oriel to go with me \ That, I fancy, wouldn't be a bad stroke of social policy. Ernest will marry tliis Oswald girl ; unfor- tunately he's as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile ; and as he's going to drag her inevitably into the family, I may as well put tlie best possible face upon the dis- agreeable matter. Let's make a virtue of necessity. The father and mother are old : they'll die soon, and be gathered to their fathers (if they had any), and the world will straight- way forget all about them. But Oswald will always be there e» evidence, and the safest thing to do will be to take him as much as possible into the world, and let the eister rest upon /(/.s reputation for her place in society. It's quite one thing to say that Ernest has married the daughter of a country gi-ocer down in Devonshire, and quite another thing to say that he has married the sister of Oswald of Oriel, the dis- tmguished mathematician and fellow of the Royal Society. How beautifully that warm brown sail stands out in a curve against the cold grey line of the horizon— a bulging curve Just like the swell of Selah's neck, when she throws her head back, so, and lets you see the contour of her throat, her beautiful rounded throat— ah, that's not giving her up now, is it ?— What a confounded fool I am, to be sure I Anybody would say, if they could only have read my thoughts that moment, that I was really in love with this girl Selah ! ' V. CHAPTER XIII. YE MOUNTAINS OF GILBOA f The old Englischer Hof at Pontresina looked decidedly sleepy and misty at live o'clock on an August morning, when two sturdy British holiday-seekers, in knickerbockers and regular A.lpinfc climbing rig, sat drinking their parting cup of coflee in the sallc-a-mangcr, before starting to make the ascent of the Piz Mfir^'atsch, one of the tallest and by far tho most dilhoult among the peaks of tlie Bernina range. There YE MOUNTAINS OF GILBOA ! 117 i^ are few prettier villages in tl.e Engadine than Pontresina, and few better hotels in all Switzerland than the old ivy- covered En"lischer Hof. Yet on this particular morning, and at that particular hour, it certainly did look just a tnlie cold and cheerless. ' He never makes very warm in the Fn"-adine ' Carlo the waiter observed witli a shudder, m his best English, to one of the two early risers : 'and he makes colder on an August morning here than he makes at IS ice m full December.' For poor Carlo was one of those cosmo- pcjlitan waiters who follow the cosmopolitan tourist dkntele r(,und all the spas, nealth resorts, kurs aud winter quarters of fashionable Kr.-ope. In January he and his brocher, as Charles and Henri, handed round absinthes and cigarettes at the Cercle Nautic.ue at Nice ; in April, as Carlo and Enrico, they turned up again with water ices and wafer cakes m the Caiie Manzoni at Milan ; and in August, the observant traveller might recognise them once more under the disguise of Karl and°Heinrich, laying the table dilute in the long and narrow old-fashioned dining-room of the Englischer Hof at Pontresina. Though their native tongue was the patois ot the Canton Ticino, they spoke all the civilised languages of the world, 'and also German,' with perfect iluency, and without the slightest attempt at either grammar or idiomatic accuracy. And they both profoundly believed m their hearts that the rank, wealth, youth, beauty and fashion of all other nations were wisely ordained by the inscrutable designs ot Providence for a single purpose, to enrich and reward the active, intelligent, and industrious natives of the Canton ^ ' Are the guides come yet? ' asked Harry Oswald of the waiter in somewhat feeble and hesitating German. He made it a point to speak German to the waiters, because he regarded it as the only proper and national language of the universal Teutonic Swiss peojde. ' They await the gentleinans in the corridor, answered Carlo, in his own peculiar and racy English ; for he on his side resented the imputation that any traveller need ever converse with him in any but that traveller s own tongue, provided only it was one of the recognised and civiliseil languacres of the world, or even German. They are a bar- barous^and disgusting race, those Tedeschi, look you well, Sicrnor : they address you as though you were the dust in the piazza; yet even fnmi them a polite and attentive person may confidently look for a modest, a very modest, but still a welcome trink-geld. _ t- ' ^ t « 'Then we'd better hurry xip, Oswald,' said lieroert L.Q Breton, ' for guides are the most tyrannical set of people on ii8 PHILISTIA. the entire face of this planet. I shall have another cup of cotioe before I go, though, if the guides swear at me roundly in the best Rouuinnsch for it, anyhow.' ' Your ac(iuaintance with the Iloumansch dialect being probably limited,' Harry Oswald answered, ' the ditftrence between their swearing and their blessing would doubtless be reduced to a vani-hiug point. Though I've noticed that swearing is really a form of human si)eech everywhere readily understanded of the people in spite of all difterences of race or language. One touch of nature, you see ; and swearing, after all, is extremely natural.' 'Are you ready 1 ' asked Herbert, having tossed off his coffee. ' Yes ? Then come along at once. I can feel the guides frowning at us through the partition.' They turned out into the street, with its green-shuttered windows all still closed in the pale grey of early morning, and walked along with the three guides by the high road which leads through rocks and fir-trees up to the beginning of the steep path to the Piz Margatsch. Passing the clear emerald-green waterfall that rushes from under the lower melting end of the Moiteratsch ghi ier, they took at once to the narrow track by the moraine ahmg the edge of the ice, and then to the glacier itsi If, which is easy enough climbing, us glaciers go, for a good pedestrian. Herbert Le Breton, the older mountaineer of the two, got over the big blocks readily enough ; but Harry, less accustomed to Swiss expe- ditions, lagged and loitered behind a little, and required more assistance from the guides every now anu. again than his sturdy companion. ' I'm getting ratlier blown at starting,' Harry called out at last to Herbert, some yards in front of him. ' Do you think the despotic guide would let us sit down and rest a bio if we asked him very prettily ? ' 'Otfer him a cigar first,' Herbert shouter" ^^ \ 'and then after a short and decent interval, i)refer ^ '^quest humbly in your pt>litest French. The savage iJOi,entate always expects to be propitiated by gifts, as a preliminary to answering the petitions of his humble subjects.' ' I see,' Harry said, laughing. ' Supply before grievances, not grievances before supply.' And he halted a moment to light a cigar, and to offer one to each of the two were helping him along on either side. Thus UKjllitied, the senior guide grudgingly allowed ten minutes' halt and a drink of water at the bend by the corner of the glacier. They sat- down upon the great translucent sea-green blocks, and began talking witli the taciturn chief •-uido. guides who IE MOUNTAINS OF GILBOA 119 r I « Is this glacier dangerous ] ' Harry asked. 'Dangeious, monsieur? Oh no, not as one counts glaciers. It is very safe. There are seldom accidents. ' But there have been some V , . , ' Some, naturally. You don't climb mountams always Avithout accidents. There was one the first tune anyone ever made the ascent of the Piz Margatsch. That was fifty years ago. My uncle was killed m it.' ' Killed in it % ' Harry echoed. ' How did it all happen, ^" 'Yonder, monsieur, hi a crevasse that was then situated near the bend at the corner, just where the great crevasse vou see before you now stands. That was fifty years ago ; since then the glacier has moved much. Its substance, m elfect, has changed entirely.' , , tt^ 'Tell us all about it,' Herbert put in carelessly. He knew the guide wouldn't go on again till he had finished his ''^''' It'sTstrange tale,' the guide answered, taking a pi^ff or two at his cigar pensively and then removing it altogether for his set narrative-he had told the tale before a hundred times, and he had the very words of it f.^/fg" fjly ^^ heart! ' It was the first time anyone ever tried to cximb the Piz Margatsch. At that time, nobody in the valley knew the best path ; it is my father who afterwards discovered it. Two English gentlemen came to Pontresma one morning ; one might say you two gentlemen ; but in those days there were not many tourists in the Engadine ; the exploitation of the touiist had not yet begun to be developed. My father and my uncle were then the only two guides at Pontresma. The English gentlemen asked them to try with them the scaling of the Piz Margatsch. My uncle was afraid of it, but m°y father h aghed down his fears. So they started My uncle was dressed in a blue coat with brass buttons, and a pair of brown velvet breeches. Ah, heaven, I can see him yet, his white corpse in the blue coat and the brown velvet breeches ! ' ,, , tt -j i^,.i.j«« nf 'But you can't be fifty yourself,' Harry said, looking at the tall long-nmbed man attentively; 'no, nor forty, nor '^"''Nof monsieur, I am twenty-seven,' the chief guide answered, taking another puff at his xr very deliberately ; 'and this was Ifty years ago : yet I "^YVraU LloTr iust as the accident happened. You shall hear all about it. It is a tale from the dead ; it is worth hearing. 'Thi? betriiis to grow my&terious,' said Herbert m h.n-r- lish hammeniig impatiently at the ice with the shod eud 120 PHILISTIA. of his fvlpenstock. ' Sountls for all the world just like the introduction to a Christmas nuniV)er,' ' A young girl in the village loved my uncle,' the guide went on imperturbably ; ' and she begged him not to go on this expedition. Slie was betrothed to him. But he wouldn't listen : and they all started together for the top of the Piz Margatsch. After many trials, my father and my uncle and the two tourists reached the sununit. " So you see, Andreas," said my father, "your fears were all folly." "Half-way through the forest," said my uncle, "one is not yet safe from the wolf." Then they began to descend again. They got down past all the dangerous places, and on to this glacier, so well known, so familiar. And then my uncle began indeed to get careless. He laughed at his own fears ; " Cathrein was all wi-ou'^," he said to my father, " we shall get down again safely, with Our Lady's assistance. " So they reached at last the great crevasse. My father and one of the Englishmen got over without difficulty; but the other Englishman slipped ; his footing failed him ; and he was sinking, sinking, down, down, down, slipping quickly into the deep dark green abyss below. My uncle stretched out his hand over the edge : the Englishman caught it ; and then my uncle missed his foothold, they both fell together and were lost to sight at once comijletely, in the invisibb depths of the great glacier ! ' ' Well,' Herbert Le moment. ' Is that all ? ' • No,' the guide answered, with a tone of deep solemnity. * That is not all. The glacier went on moving, moving, slowly, slowly, but always downward, for years and yeai^. Yet no one ever heard anything more of the two lost bodies. At last one day, when 1 was seven years old, I went out playing with my brotlier, among the pine-woods, near the waterfall that rushes below there, from under the glacier. We saw something lying in the ice-eo*d water, just beneath the bottom of the ice-sheet. We climbed over the moraine ; and there, oh heaven ! we could see two dead bodies. They were drowned, just drowned, we thought : it might have been yesterday. One of them was short and thick-set, with the face of an Englishman : he was close-shaven, and, what seemed odd to us, he had on clothes winch, though we were but children, we knew at once for the clothes of a long past fashion— in fact, a suit of the Louis dix-huit style. The other was a tall and handsome man, dressed in the un- changeable blue coat and brown velvet breeches of our own canton, of the Graubunden. We were very frightened about it, and so we ran away trembling and told an old woman who Breton said, as the man paused a YE MOL'NTAINS OF GILBO. 121 lived close bv ; her mime was Cathrein, and grand- children us'kI to play with us, though she hi ixtn abi-ut the age of my father, for my father married very latw. Old Cathrein came out with us to look ; and the moniei.r she saw the bodies, she cried out with a great cry, •' It is \w ! It is Andreas! It is my betrothed, who was lost on He very iliiy week when I was to be married. I should know him at once among ten thousand. It is many, many years now, but I have not forgotten his face— ah, my God, that f;ice ; I know it well ! " And she took his hand in hers, that fan- white young hand in her own old brown withered one, and kissed it gently. "And yet," she said, "he is five years older than me, this fair young man here ; five years older than me ! " We were frightened to hear her talk so, for we said to ourselves, "She must be mad ;'' so we ran home and brought our father. He looked at the dead bodies and at old Cathrein, and he said, " It is indeed true. He is my brother." Ah, monsieur, you would not have forgotten it if you had seen those two old people standing there beside the fresh corpses they had not seen for all those winters ! They Ihemselves had meanwhile grown old and grey and wrinkled ; but the ice of the glacier had kept those others young, and fresh, and fair, and beautiful as on the day they were first engulfed in it. It was terrible to look at ! ' ' A most ghastly story, indeed,' Herbert Le Breton said, yawning ; ' and now I 'think we'd better be getting under way again, hadn't we, Oswald?' . Harry Oswald rose from his seat on the block of ice unwillingly, and proceeded on his road up the mountain with a distinct and decided feeling of nervousness. Was it the guide's story that made his knees tremble slightly ? was it his own inexperience in climbing % or was it the cold and the fatigue of the first ascent of the season to a man not yet ill full "pedestrian Alpine training ? He did not feel at all sure about it in his own mind : but this much he knew with l)erfect certainty, that his footing was not nearly so secure under him as it had been during the earlier part of the climb over the lower end of the glacier. By-and-by they reached the long sheer snowy slope near the Three Brothers. This slope is liable to slip, and requires careful walking, so the guides began roping them together ' The stout monsieur in front, next after me,' said the chief guide, knotting the rope soundly round Herbert Le Breton : * then Kasnar ; then vou, monsieur,' to Harry Oswald, ' and finally Paolo, to bring up the rear. The thin monsieur is nervous, I think ; it's best to place him most in the middle. If you really ar^ nervous, Oswald,' Herbert said, not you I -a PIIIUSTIA, unkindly, *yonM Letter stop behind, T think, and let me go on with two of the guides. The reuliy hard work, you know, has sciireely beyun yet.' ' ()h dear, n(.,' Harry answered lightly (he didn't care to confess his timidity before Herbert Le Jiretou of all men in the world) : ' I do feel just a little groggy about the knees, I admit ; but it's not nervousmsa, it's only want of training. I haven't got accustomed to glacier-work yet, and the best way to overcome it is by constant practice. " Solvitur anibnlando," you know, as Aldrich says about Achilles and the tortoise. ' ' Very good,' Herbert answered drily ; * only mind, whatever you do, for Heaven's sake don't go and stumble and pull me down on the top fif you. It's the clear duty of a good citizen to respect tlie lives of the other men who are roped together with him on the side of a mountain.' They set to work again, in single file, with cautious steps planted fi- y on the treacherous snow, to scale the great white slope thai 'etched so temptingly before them. Hafry felt his knees becoming at every stej) more and more ungovern- able, while Herbert didn't improve matters by calling out to hiui fnjm time to time, ' Now, then, look out for a hard bit here,' or ' Mind that loose piece of ice there,' or ' Be very careful how you put your foot down by the yielding edge yond<'r,' and so forth. At last, tliey had a'niost reached tue top of the .^lope, and were just above the bare guUey on the side, when HaiTy's insecure footing on a stray scrap ui ice gave waj suddenly, and he begain to slip lapidly down the sheer slope of the mountain. In a second he had knocked against Paolo, and Paolo had begun to slip too, so tliat both were pulling with all their weight against Kasi'ar and the others in front. 'For Heaven's sake, man,' Herl)erfc cried hastily, 'dig your alpenstock deep into the snow.' At the r me instant, the chief guide shouted in Roumansch to the same etiect to Kaspar. But even as they spoke, Kaspar, pushing his feet hard against the snow, began to give way too ; and the whole party seemed about to slip together down oyer the sheer rocky precipice of the great gulley on the right. It was a moment of supreme anxiety ; but Herbert Le Breton, looking back with blood almost unstirred and calmly observant eye, saw at once the full scope of the thn atening danger. * There's only one chance,' he said to himself quietly. ' Oswald is lost already ! Unless the rope l^reaks, we are all lost tc^gether ! ' At that very second, Harry Oswald, throwing his arms up wildly, had reached the edge of the terrible precipice ; he went over with a piercing cry into the abyss, with the last guide beside him, and YE MOUNTAINS OF GILBOA! 123 Kasnar following him close in mute terror. Then Herbert Le Breton felt the rope straining, straining, stranung, upon the sharp frozen edge of the rock ; for an inappreciable point of time ifc Btrained and crackled : one loud snap, and it was vas quite hope- less to expect she could ever manage to make herself pre- sentable for the Cecil Faunthorpea' garden-party that after- noon at Twickenliam, CHAPTER XV. EVIL TIDINGS. Ernkst had packed his portmanteau, and ordered a hansom, meaning to take temporary refuge at Number 28 Epsilon % t ;.{ ■ ■! a f 11 E IL TIDINGS. 'jj Ten\aco : and he went down ayiiin for a few minutes to wait in the breakfast-room, wliere he saw the ' Times ' lying casually on tlie little table by the front window. He took it up, half dreamily, by way of having something to do, and was skimming the telegrams in an unconcerned manner, when his attention was suddenly arrested by the name J. e Breton, printed in conspicuous type near the bottom of ■ le third colnum. He looked closer at the paragra].'h, and S1W that it was headed 'Accident to British Tourists in Switzerland.' A strange tremor seized him immediately. Could anything have !• opened, then, to Herbert \ He read the telegram through at oace, and found this bald and concise summary before him of the fatal Pontresina acci- dent : — 'As Mr. H. Oswald, F.R.S., of Oriel College, Oxford, and Mr. Le Breton, Fellow and Bursar of St. Aldate's Col- lege, along with three guides, were making the ascent of the Piz Margatsch, in tlie Bernina Alps, this morning, one of tlie party hapi)ened to slip near the great guUey known as the Gouti're. Mr. Oswald and two of the guides were precipi- tated ovu' the edge of the clitt" and killed immediately : the breaking of the rope at a critical moment alone saved the lives of Mr. Le Breton and the remaining guide. The bodies lit back to have been recovered this evening, and brou^ Pontresiua.' Ernest laid down the paper with a thrill of horror. Poor Edie ! How absolutely his own small dilHculties with Lord Exmoor faded out of his memory at once in the face of that terrible, irretrievable calamity. Harry dead ! The hope and mainstay of the family— the one great pride and glory of all the Oswalds, on whom their whole lives and affections centred, taken from them unexpectedly, without a chance of respite, without a moment's warning ! ^Vorst of all, they would probably learn it, as he did, for the iirst time by reading it accidentally in the curt language of the daily papers. Pray heaven the shock might not kill poor Edie ! There was only a minute in which to make up his mind, but in that minute Ernest had fully decided what he ought to do, and how to do it. He must go at once down to Cal- combe Pomeroy, and try to lighten this great affliction for poor little Edie. Nay, lighten it he could not, but at least he could sympathise with her in it, and that, though little, was still some faint shade better than nothing at all. How fortunate that his difference with the Exmoors allowed him to cro that very evening without a moment's delay. When the°hansom arrived at the door, Ernest told the cabman to drive at once to Paddington Station. Almost before he had s, 134 PIIILISTIA. ha'd time to realise the full meaning,' of the situation, he had taken a tliinl-elas.s ticket for Calcoiiibe Koad, and was rush- ing out of London by the Plymouth express, in one of "the convenient and comniodious little wooden horse-boxes which the (ireat Western liailway Company provide as a wholesome deterrent for economical people minded to save half their fare by i;;oin<,' third instead of lirst or sectmd. Ditlcut, Swindon, IJath, Bristol, Exeter, Newton Abbot, all followed one after another, and by the time Ernest had reached Calcombe Eoad Station he had begun to frame for himself a definite plan of future action. He would stop at the Red Lion Inn that evening, send a telegram from Exeter bef Oxford to college, he come to me, and he .'^ays to me, "Mr Legge says he, " it's a very expensive thing sending my boy to the University," says he, "and I'm going to borrow money to send him with." " Don't yon go a-dom' that, Mr. Oswald,^^ says I; "your business don't justify you in doin it, air, 136 PHI LIST I A. says T. For you see, T knowod all the ins and outs of that there biishiess, and I knowed he hadn't never made more'n enough just to keep things guin' decent like, as you may say, without any money saved or put by against a emergence. "Yes, I will, Mr. Legge," says he; "I can trust con- fidentially in my son's ahilities," says he ; " and I feel con- ' fidential he'll he in a jjosition to repay me bef(»re long." 80 he borrowetl the money on an insurance of Mr. Hariy's life. Mr. Harry lie always acted very honourable, sir ; he was a perfect gentleman in every way, as \jon know, sir ; and he began reiKijiii' Jiis father tlie loan as'tust as he was able, and I daresay doin' a great deal for tlie family, and especially for the young lady, .«ir, out of his own i)ocket besides. I'.ut he still owed his fatlier a couple of hundred pound an' more when this causality hap[)ened, wliile the business, I know, had been a-goin' to rack and ruin for the last three year. To-day I seen the agent of the insurance, and he says to me, "Legge," says he, mo.st private like, " this is a bad job about young Oswald, I'm afeard, worse'n they know for." " Why, sir / " says I. " Well, Legge," says he, " they'll never get a penny of that there insurance, and the old gentlenum '11 have to pay up tlie detissit on his own account," says he. " How's that, Mr. Mieklethwaite ?" says L "Because," says he, "there's a clause in the policy agin exceptional risks, in whicli is included na^al and military services, furrin resi- dences, t(jpical voyages, and mountain-climbin'," says he ; "and you mark my words," says he, "they'll never get a l)enny of it." In which case, su-, it's my opinion that old Mr. Oswald '11 be clean broke, for he can't never make up the defissit out of his own business, can he now \ ' Ernest listened with sad forebodings to the red-faced land- lord's pitiful story, and feared in his^heart that it was a bad look-out for the poor Oswalds. He didn't sleep much that evening, and next day he went round early to see Edie. The telegram he found would be a useless precaution, for the gossip of Calcombe Pomeroy had recognised him at once, and news had reached the Oswalds almost as soon as he arrived tliat young Mr. Le Breton was stopping that evening at the Red Lion. Edie opened the door for him herself, pale of face and with eyes reddened by tears, yet looking beautiful even so in her .simple black morning dress— her mourning of course hadn't yet come home— ;uid her deep white linen collar. 'It's very good of you to have come so soon, Mr. Le Breton,*' .■^he said, taking his hand (piietly— he respected her sorrow too deeply to niink of kissing her ; "he will be back v.ith us cj-murrow. iuur brotiier is bringing him back to us, to lay EVIL TIDINGS. 137 him in our little churchyard, and we are all so very very L'ratcful to him for it.' •. tj. Einest was mure than half surprised to hear it. It wa3 an unusual act of kindly thoughtfulness on the part ot ^Next day the body came homo as Edie had said, and Ernost helped to lay it reverently to rest in Calcombu chuvch- viud Poor t)ld Mr. Oswald, standing bowed and broken- hearted by the open grave sile, looked Wi though he could never outlive that solemn burial of all his hopes and aspira- tions in a single narrow cotlin. Yet it was wonduriui to Ernest to &ee lu.w much comfort he took, even in this terrible grief, from the leader which a].peared in the ' limes that iiicrnin- on the subject of the P.mtiesina accident, it ccm- taincd only a few of the stock ne\\ spaper platitudes of regret at the h.ss of a distinguished and rising voung light of science —the ordinary glib commonplaces of obtuary notices which a practised journalist knows so well how to adapt almost mechanically t(j the passing event of the moment ; but they seemed to atlord the shattered old country grocer an amount of c.msolation and solemn relief that no mere spoken con- dolences could ever possibly have carried with tliein. hee what a wonderful lot they thought of our boy up m London, Mr. Le Breton,' he said, h)oking up from the paper teaifiilly, and wiping his big gold spectacles, dim with moisture. bee wliat the "Times" says about him: "One of the ablest anion" our young academical mathematicians, a man who, it his life had been spared to us, migiit probal.ly have attained the hisf'-ana I only hope tliat exposure will serve to goodiiebs ! ana 1 ""'^ , ^ Vw-ton's eves and to warn him ^,.^r,ll tlnf noor voihil; Lc iJictons ejt-a? cum >- Sns^l^vE^^L^thir^furtliertosaytoMiss.^^^^ s,\rnui<' young minx, if ever there was one ! 1 001 y«^"=./^« T ret n's come down here for the funeral I hear, w h ch I ^usrsav rs\w friendly and proper and honourable of ;;• a ; bift now it's'^over, I Lpe he'll go back agam, and see nS^^l^d^^n^o^r stuily littlecofl^e.^^^^ his face on tire and his ears tingling with mingled shame And dio-nation. « Whatever happens,' he thought to himself, ' I c^^n'tl^^rnut Edie to be subjected any longer to such insolence as this! Poor, dear, f^^l^'l'^'^^S •^^'^'^^J^^^^^ maiden ! One would have thought her clnhlish "^i "c^^^e and ler terrible loss would have f ^t.ned the hc.xr e^^^^^^^ such a cantankerous, virulent old ^^f ^•^^^";, ^^l^;^;^^!^;^^; ^^^ weeks were over, at least. She spoke (jf the AicUacacon 1^ must be old MiLs Luttrell ! Whoever it is, though, Ed^ sWtmuch longer be left where ^^^ J? l^j^]^ ^Wn" Poiit'irt with such a loatlisome mass of incredible ana un n ■o^.kecrimlice That Edie should lose her dearly-loved r, her s teSe enough ; but that she should be exposed S ^.w.UL t" t tiiumphed over j" ^1^1^" if^l'y that bad old woman's querulous " ^/f ^J^" ^" „ .'Sa intolerable ! ' And he paced up and down the room witu a Si 'heart, unable to keep down his righteous anger. CHAPTER XVI. FLAT EEBELLION. For the next fortnight Ernest remained at the Red Lion, Sio^i^h pS ully conscious that he was sadly wasting his ittle resei'v^' funds from his late tutorship, in order o hnd ou exactly what the Oswalds' position would be =^fter the loss of poor HaTry. Towards the end of that time he took Edie me and pretty in her simple new mourning, out once more nto t^,^ Bourne Close for half an hour's quiet conversation V ry educate and sweet and rehned that tiny girish ^ceand fi.nire looked in the plain unostentatious black and white ot he gr at sorrow, antl Ernest felt as he -alked along by her D _ ' 11 1--,,-^..--.. l>i»>-» r»*it-in'U M V III iTV . Lilts ll^^f her mafu support and chief adviser in life seemed to ^H:J ^^^^ itl^^^^^H Hi ■ I4C PHILISTIA, draw her closer and closer every day to her one remaining prop and future husband. ^ 'Edie,' lie said to her, as they rested once more beside the old wooden bridge across the little river, ' I think it's time now we should be-in to lalk definitely over ourcomm..n plans for tlie future. 1 know you'd naturally ratlier wait a httle longer before discussing them; I wish for both our sakes we could liave deferred it ; but time presses, and I'm afraid from what I hear in tlie village that things won't go on henceforth exactly as they used to do with your dear father and mother. E.iie coloured slightly as she answered, 'Then you've heard of all that already, Ernest '-she was learnin- to call um Ernest now quite naturally. 'Tlie Calcou.be tattle has got round to you so soon ! I'm glad of it, tliou-li, for it saves me the pain of having to tell you. Yes, it's (juite true, and 1 m afraid it will bo a terrible, dreadful struggle for poor dar bug father and mother.' And the tears camc°up afresh as she spoke into her big black eyes-too familiar with them ot late to make her even try to brush them away hastily from Ernest's siglit with her little handkerchief. Tin sorry to know it's true,' Ernest said, takin^ her hand gently ; ' veiy very sorry. We must do what we can to ligliten the trouble for them.' ' Yes,' Edie replied, looking at him through her tears • 'I mean to try. At any rate, I won't be a burden to them myself any hmger I ve written ah-eady up to an agency in London to see whether they can manage to get me a place as a nursery- governess. ' •' ' You a governess, Edie ! ' Ernest exclaimed liastily, with a gesture of deprecation. ' You a governess ! Why my own precious darling, you would never do for it ' ' T o ' ?i' ^^'' ^^^'}'"'']L ^''''' ^'^^;^«red quickly, ' I really think 1 could, Ernest. Of course I don't know very much— not jiidged by a standard like yours or our dear Harry's Marry used to say all a woman could ever know was to hud ..ut how ignorant she was. Dear fellow ' he was BO very learned himself he couldn't under.stand the com- placency of httle perky, half-educated schoolmistresses, l.ut still, I know quite as much, I think, in my little way, as a great many girls who get good places in London as g(werncsses. 1 can speak French fairly well, y„u know aiu read German decently; and then "dear Harrv took euch a lot (>f pains to make me get up books that lie tliou-dit «ere g.m, for me -history and so forth -and even to teach nu. a littlo, a very little, Latin. Of course I know I'm tireadfuUy ignorant ; but not more so, I really believe, than FLA T REBELLION. 141 a crveat many girls whom people consider quite well-educatod eiu.ugh to teach their daughters. After all, the daughters thomlelves are only women, too, you see, Ernest, and don t expect more than a smattering of book-knowledge, and a tew showv fashionable accomplishments.' ' JNIy dear Edie,' Ernest answered, smdmg at her gently in spite of her tearful earnestness ; ' youcjuite misunderstand iiie. It wasn't that I was thinking of at all. There are very few crovernesses and very few women anywhere who have half the knowledge and accomplishments and literary taste and artistic culture that you have ; very few who have had Die advantage of associating daily with such a man as poor Harry ; and if you really wanted to get a place of the sort, tl.e inere fact that you're Harry's sister, and that he interested himself hi superintending your education, ought, by itselt, to ensure your getting a very good one. But what I meant wa3 rather this-I couldn't endure to think that you should bo put to all the petty slights and small huimliatKms that a Koverness has always to endure in rich families. You don t know what it is, Edie ; you can't imagine the endless devices for making her feel her dependence and her artihcial in- feriority tiiat these great people have devised in their clever- ness and their Christian condescension. You don t know what it is, Edie, and I pray heaven you may never know ; but / do, for I've seen it-and, darling, I cart'i let you expose yourself to it.' , • • n , To say the truth, at that moment there rose very vividly before Ernest's eyes the picture of poor shy Miss Merivale, the governess at Dnnbude to little Lady Sybil, Lynmouth s youii'^er sister. Miss Merivale was a rector's daughter— an orphan, and a very nice girl in her way ; and Ernest Had V. > tlmudit to himself while he lived at the Exmoors , '•/. h iust'the slightest turn of Fortune's wheel that might be my own Edie.' Now, for himself he had never felt any sense of social inferiority at all at Dunbmle ; he was an Oxford man, and by the ordinary courtesy of English society he was always treated accordingly in every way as an equal. But there were galling distinctions made in Miss Merivale s case which he could not think of even at the time without a blush of ingenuous shame, and which he did not like now even to mention to pretty, shrinking, eager little Edie. One thing alone was enough to make his cheeks burn whenever he thought of it-alittle thing, and yet how unendurable ! Miss IMiirivale lunched with the family and with her pupil in the middle of the day, but she did not dine with them in the evenin". Sljp. had tea by herself instead in Lady hybils Uttlo school-room. Many a time when Ernest had been out 142 PHILISTIA. walking with her on the terrace just before dinner, and the dressiuy-gong sounded, he had felt almost too ashamed to go in at the summons and leave the poor little governess out there alone with her social disabilities. The gong seemed to raise such a hideous artificial barrier between himself and that delicately-bred, sensitive, cultivated Englisli lady. That Edie should be subjected to such a life of affronts as that was simply UK ndurable. True, there are social distinctions of the sort which even Ernest Le Breton, communist as he was, could not practically get over ; but then they were distinc- tions familiarised to the sufferers from childhood upward, and so perhaps a little less insupportable. But that Harry Oswald's sister— that Edie, his own i)recious delicate little Edie, a dainty English wild-flower of the tenderest, should be transplanted from her own appreciative home to such a chilly iind uiigenial soil a? that— the very idea of it was horribly unspeakable. 'But, Ernest,' Edie answered, breaking in upon his bitter meditation, ' I assure you I wouldn't mind it a bit. I know it's very dreadful, but tlien,'— and here she blushed one of her pretty apologetic little blushes— 'you know I'm used to it. People in business always are. Thev expect to be treated just like servants— now Omt^ I know you'll say, is itself a piece of huhris, the expression of a horrid class pre- judice. And so it is, no doubt. But they do, for all that. As dear Harry used to say, even the polypes in aristocratic useless sponges at the sea-bottom won't have anything to say to the sponges of commerce. I'm sure nobody I coufd meet in a governess's place ccnild possibly be worse in that respect than poor old Miss Catherine Luttrell.' ' That may be true, Edie darling,' Ernest answered, not caring to let her know that he had overheard a specimen of the Calcombe squirearchy, ' but iu any case I don't want you to be troubled now, either witli old INIiss Luttrell or any other bitter old busybodies. I want to speak seriously to you about a very difierent project. Just look at this ad- vertisement.' He took a scrap of paper from his pocket and handed it to Edie. It ran thus :— - 'W\>:teu atPilbury Regis Grammar School, Dorset, a Third Classical Master. Must be a Graduate of Oxford or Cambridge ; University Prizeman preferred. If unmarried to take house duty. Commence September 20th. Salary' 200/. a year. Apply, as above, to the Rev. J. Greatrex! D.D., HeadMabter.' Edie read it through slowly. ' Well, Ernest I ' she said. FLAT REBELLION. 143 I looking up from it into his face. ' Do you tliink of taking this mastership ? ' , , ,r t, j. ' If I can get it,' Ernest answered. ' You see, I m not a University Prizeman, and that may be a difficulty m the way ; but otherwise I'm not unlikely to suit the require- ments. Herbert knows something of the school— he's been down there to examine ; and Mrs. Greatrex had a sort of distant bowing acquaintance wdth my mother ; so I hope their influence mii^ht help me into it.' ♦ Well, Ernest \ ' Edie cried again, feeling pretty certain in her own heart what was coming next, and reddening accordingly. ' Well, Edie, in that case, would you care to marry at once, and try the experiment of beginning life with me upon two hundred a year \ I know it's very little, darling, for our wants and necessities, brought up as you and I have been : but Herr Max says, you know, it's as much as any one family ought ever to spend upon its own gratifications ; and at any rate I dare say you and I could manage to be very happy upon it, at least for the present. In any case it would be better than being a governess. Will you risk it, Edie ? ' . , , ^ . , 'To me, Ernest,' Edie answered with her unattected simplicity, ' it really seems (luite a magnificent income. I don't suppose any of our friends or neighbours in Calcombe spend nearly as much as two hundred a year upon their own families.' , 'Ah, yes, they do, darling. But that isnt the only thing. Two hundred a year is a very difterent matter in quiet, old-world, little Calcombe and in a fashionable modern watering-place like Pilbury Regis. We shall have to live m lodgings, Edie, and live very quietly indeed ; but even so I think it will be better than for you to go out and endure the humiliation of becoming a governess. Then I may under- stand that if I can gct^this mastership, you'll consent to be married, Edie, before the end of September?' ' Oh, Ernest, that's dreadfully soon ! ' * Yes, it is, davlinj'; ; but you must have a very quiet wedding ; and I can't bear to leave you here now any longer without Harry to cheer and protect you. Shall we look up(m it as settled?' Edio blushed and looked down as she answered almost inaudibly, ' As you think best, dear Ernest.' So that very evening Ernest sent off an application to Pilbiiry Regis, together with such testimonials as ho had by him, mentioning afc tliv; sanie time his intention t<-. marry, and his recent engagement at Lord Exmoor's. ' I hope they 144 PIIILTSTIA. ' '^m |i won't make a jioint about the University Prize, Edie,' he said timidly ; ' but I ratlicr think they don't mean to in- sist upon it. I'm afraid it may be put in to some extent mainly as a bait to attract parents. Advertisements are often so very dishonest. At any rate, we can only try ; and if I get it, I .shall be able to call you my little wife in September.' So soon after poor Harry's death he hardly liked to say much about how happy that consciousness would make him ; but he sent off the lettin- with a beating heart, and waited anxiously for the head master's answer. ' IMaria,' said Dr. Greatrex to his wife next morning, turning over the pile of letters at the breakfast table, ' who do you think has applied for the third mastership \ Very lucky, really, isn't it \ ' * Considering that there are some thirty millions of people in England, I believe, Dr. Greatrex,' said his wife with dignity, * that some seventy of those have answered your advertisement, and that you haven't yet given me an opportunity even of guessing which it is of them all, I'm sure I cnn't say so far whctlier it's lucky or otherwise.' 'You're pleased to be satirical, my dear,' the doctor answered blandly ; he was in too good a humour to pursue the opening further. ' But no matter. Well, I'll tell you, then ; it's young Le Breton.' ' Not Lady Le Breton's son ! ' cried Mrs. Greatrex, for- getting her dignity in her sui'prise. ' Well, that certainly is very lucky. Now, if we could only get her to come down and stay with us for a Aveek sometimes, after he's been here a little while, Avhat a sjilendid advertisement it would be for the place, to be sure, Joseph ! ' ' Capital ! ' the head master said, eyeing the letter com- jjlacently as he sipped his coffee. 'A pei-fect jewel of a master, I should say, from every possible point of view. Just the sort of person to attract parents and pupils. "Allow me to introduce you to our third master, Mr. Le Bretim; I hope Lady Le Breton was c^uite well Avhen you liu;ird from her last, Le Bretcjn % " and all that sort of thing. Depend upon it, Mai'in. there's nothing in the wt)rid that makes a middle-class ont — and our parents are unfortu- nately all middle-cla^ j)rick u]) his ears like the faintest suspicion or echo of a title. " Very good school," he goes back and says to his wife innnediatuly ; " we'll send Tomuiy there ; they have a master who's an honourable or sonae- thing of the sort ; sure to give the boys a thoroughly high giMitlemanly tone." ii's sisobbevy, T .-ifbtiit, slieevsiif-bberv : but between ourselves, JMaria, most people are snobs, and FLAT REBELLION. 143 we have to live, professionally, by accommodating ourselves to their foolish prejudices.' • At the same time, doctor,' said his wife severely, ' I don't think we ought to allow it too freely, at least with the door open.' ' You're quite right, my dear,' the head master answered submissively, rising at the same time to £hut the door. ' But what "makes this particular application all the better is that young Le Breton would come here straight from the Earl of Exmoor's where he has been acting as tutor to the son and heir. Viscount Lynmouth. That's really admirable, now, isn't it 1 Just consider the advantages of tlie situation. A doubtful parent comes to inspect the arrangements ; sniffs at the dormitories, takes the gauge of the studies, snorts over the playground, condescends to approve of the fives courts. Then, after doing the usual Christian principles business and working in the high moral tone a little, we invite him to lunch, and young Le Breton to meet him. You remark casually in the most unconscious and natural fashion— I admit, my dear, that you do these little things much better than I do— "Oh, talking of cricket, Mr. Le Breton, your old pupil, Lord Lynmouth, made a splendid score the other day at the Eton and Harrow." Fixes the wavering parent like a shot. " Third master something or other in the peer- age, and has been lutor to a son of Lord Exmoor's. Place to send your boys to if you want to make perfect gentlemen of them." I Think we'd better close at once with this young man's offer, Maria. He's got a very decent degree, too ; a first in Mods and Greats ; really very decent.' 'But will he take a house-mastership do you think, doctor \ ' asked the careful lady. 'No, he WLu't ; he's married or soon going to be. We must let him off the house duty.' ' Maraed ! ' said Mrs. Greatrex, turning it over cautiously. 'Who's he going to marry, I wonder? I hoi e somebody presentable.' 'Why, of course!' Dr. Greatrex answered, as who shor.ld feel shocked at the bare suggestion that a young man of If.rnest Le Breton's antecedents could conceivably marry otherwise. ' His wife, or rather his wife that is to be, is a sister, he tells me, of that poor Mr. Oswald— the famous mathemati- cian, you know, of Oriel— who got killed, you remember, by fallhig off the ]\Litterhom or somewhere, just the other day. \'ou must have seen about it in the " Times." ' 'I remember,"' Mis. Greatrex answered, in placid con- tentment ; ' and I should say you can't do better than take 146 nilLISTIA. him inimetliatoly. Tt'd be an excellent thing for the school, certainly. As the third mastership's worth only two hundred a year, of course he can't intend to marry upon iliai ; so he must have means of his own, which is always a good thing to encourage in an under-master : pened, at his mother's house. It was no unusual matter for him to pass a fortnight at Wilton Place without finding time to call round at Epsilon Terrace to see Ronald, and hil nuitlier had not heard at ail us yet of his recent change of engagement FLAT REBELLIOH. 147 Lady Le Breton listened with severe displeasure to Ernest's account of his quarrel with Lord Exmoor It WHS quite unnecessary and wrong, she said, to P/event L> - mouth from his innocent boyish amusements. Figeon- shootins was practised by the very best f "P^^' ^"^^^^^^ff" (mite sure, therefore, there could be no harm of any sort n it She believed the sport was countenanced, not only by bishops, but even by princes. Pigeons, she supposed, had been specially created by Providence for our use and enjoy- ment-' their final cause being apparently the manufacti^e of pigeon-pie,' Ronald suggested parenthetically : but we couldn't use them without killing them, unfortunately , and shouting was probably as painless a form of killing as any other. Pete c or somebody, she distinctly remembered, had been specially commanded to arise, kill, and eat. io object to pigeon-shooting indeed, in Lady Le Breton s opinion was clearly flying in the face of Providence. Of Ronalds muttered reference to five sparrows bemg sold for tvvo farthings, and yet not one of them being forgotten she would Sot condescend to take any notice However, thank goodness, the fault was none of hers ; she c^^lcl >vash iiu hands entirely of all responsibility in the matter She 1 ad done her best to secure Ernest a good place in a thoroughly nice family, and if he chose to throw it up at a moment s notice for one of his own absurd communistical fads, it ys luiDpilv none of her businoss. She was glad,_ at any rate, that he'd got another berth, with a conscientious, earnest. Christian man like Dr. Greatrex. 'And indeed Ernest, she said, returning once more to the P^Sf ^V ^ n^h^nh.'Imi tion, ' even your poor dear papa, who was full of such absurd reli<'ious fancies, didn't think that sport was unchristian rm'certain ; for I remember once, when we ^vere quartered at Moozufiernugger in the North- West Provinces he went out into a nullah near our ccmpnund one da,y, and with his own hand shot a man-eating tiger, which had carried ott three little native children from the thanah ; so that shows that he couldn't really object to sport; and I hope you don t mean to cast disrespect upon the memory of your own poor father! ' All of which profound moral and religious observa- tions Ernest, as in duty bound, received witli the most respectful and acquiescent silence. •.•ffl„„if +oaV ,.f And now he had to approach the more difficult task of breaking to his mother his approaching marriage with Jidie Oswald. He began the subject as delicately as he could, dwelling strongly upon poor Harry Oswald s e-^««l\^,^J^\P;;^;- tion as an Uxtui-d tutor, ana iq.mi Htrioat . .^.^^■ --"^ - to Switzerland-h'3 knew his mother too well to suppose thut ii 4 P M ■ 1 148 rniLisTiA. the real merits of the Oswald family would impress her in any way, as compared with their accidental social status- and then he went on to apeak as gently as possible about his engagement with little Edie. At this point, to his exceeding c.iscomfiture, Lady Le Breton adopted the unusual tactics of burstmg suddenly into a flood of tears. 'Oh, Ernest,' she sobbed out inarticulately throuf^h her scented cambric handkerchief, 'for heaven's sake don't tell me that you ve gone and engaged yourself to that designing girl ! Oh, my poor, poor, misguided boy ! Is there really no way to save you \ ' ^ ' Xo way to save me ! ' exclaimed Ernest, astonished and disconcerted by this unexpected outburst. . ' y/^«» yes ! ' -Lady Le Breton went on, almost passionately. Cant you manage somehow to get yourself out of it? I hope you haven't utterly omprumised yourself ! Couldn't dear Herbert go down to Wh.tt's-his-name Pomeroy, and induce the father-a grocer, if I remember right-induce hiin, somehow or other, to compromise the matter r Compromise ! ' cried Ernest, uncertain whether to laugh or be angry. ° 'Yes, compromise it !' Lady Le Breton answered, en- deavouring to calm herself. ' ( »f course that aiachiavellian gir has tried to drag you into it ; and the family have aided and jibetted lier ; and you've been weak and foolish— though not, I trust, wicked-a,nd allowed them to get their net closed almost imperceptibly around you. But it isn't t.)o late to withdraw even now, my poor, dear, deluded Ernest. It isii t too late to withdraw even now. Think of the disgrace and shame to the family ! Think of your dear brothers and their blighted prospects ! Don't allow this designing girl to draw you helplessly into such an ill-assorted marriage ! Reflect upon your own future happiness ! Consider what it will be to drag on years of your life with a woman, no longer perhaj:^ externally attractive, whom you could never possibly respect or love foi her own internal qualities ! Don't to and wreck your own life, and your brothers' lives, for any mis- taken and Quixotic notions of false honour ! You mayn't hke to throw her over, after you've once been inveigled into saying les (and the feeling, though fK3, des- tined to form the great attraction of the coming season at the m ^COME YE OUT AND BE YE SEPARATE: 151 lately-opened Ambiguities Theatre. Things had prospered well with the foniKT Oxford curate during the last twelve- month. His cantata at Leeds had prov. d a w.mderful Bucct'ss, and had linally induced hiui to remove to London, and take to oomposing as a regular profess' «ii. He ['atl his (lualnis about it, to be sure, as one who hiia put his hand to the plough and then turned back ; he did not feel quite certain in his own mind how far he was justified in givmg up the more spiritual for the more worldly calling ; but natures like Arthur Berkeley's move rather upon passing feeliiK' than upon deeper sentiment ; and had he not ample ground, he asked himself, for this reconsideration of the monetary position? Ho had the Progenitor's happiness to insure before thinking of the possible injury to his non existent parishioners. If he was doing Whippingham Parva or Norton-cuin-Sutton out of an eloquent and valuable potential rector, if he was depriving the Church in the next half-century of a diguitied and portly prospective archdeacon, he wns at least making his father's last days brighter and more comfortable than his early ones had evLT been. And then, was not music, too, in its own way, a service, a liturgy, a worship? Surely he could do higher good to men's souls— as they call them— to whatever little spark of nobler and boi ;- fire there might lurk wititin those dull clods of comm >ii clay :n saw all around him— by writing such a work as hi. Leeds cs. -tata, than by stringing together for ever those prtf.ty :erfco,i jf seventeenth-century cimceits and nineteenth-cenvuv do.v.ts or hesitations which he was accustomed to call h. sermons ! Whatever came of it, he must give up the miserable pittance of a curacy, and embrace the career open to the musicr.l talents. So he fitted up his little Ciielsea rooms in his own econo- mically sumptuous fashion with some bits of wall paper, a few jugs and vases, and an etching or two after Meissonier ; planted the Progenitor down comfortably in a large easy- chair, with a melodious fiddle before him ; and set to work himself to do what he could towards elevating the Britisli stage and pocketing a reasonable profit on his own account from that familiar and ever-rejuvenescent process. He was quite in earnest, now, about producing a totally new effect of his own ; and believing in his work, as a good workman ouc'ht to do, he wrought at it indefatigably and well in tlie retirement of a second-pair back, overlooking a yardful ot fluttering clothes, and a fine skyline vista of bare, yellowish brick chimneys. ».•■)> %i xi, i Wha^ r^^M. are you working at to-day, Artie f sam trie old shoemaker, looking over hfs son's shoulder at the blank IHk 1 l^^^^^l^^^l B^^^^^^^l ^^^^B- Jh 1 '^^^^^^^1 ■^^^^^^1 152 PIIILISriA. music paper before him. ' Quartette of Biological Profes- sors, eh ? ' 'Yes, father,' Berkeley answered with a smile. 'How do you tlunk it runs now ? ' and he hummed over a few Imes of his own words, set with a quaint lilt to his own in- imitable and irresistible music : — And thoui;!] in uiiarimous chorus Wc mourn that from ages before us No single enaliosaunis To-diy should survive, Yet joyfully may we bethink us, With the earliest mammal to link us, We still have the ornithorhyncus Extant and alive! 'How do you think the score does for that, father, eh? Catching air rather, isn't it ? ' ' Not a better air in the whole piece, Artie ; but, my boy, who do you think will ever understand the meaning of the words The gods themselves won't know what you're driving at. '' • But I'm going to strike out a new line, Daddie dear. I m not going to play to the gallery ; I mean to play to the stalls and boxes.' ^ ' Was there ever such a born aristocrat as this voun" parson is ! cried tlie old man, lifting up both his hands with a playf u gesture of mock-deprecation. ' He's hopeless ! He s terrible ! He s incorrigible ! Why, you unworthy son ot a respectable Paddington shoemaker, if even the intelli- gent British artizans in the gallery don't understand you. how the dickens do you suppose the oiled and curled Assyrian bulls m the stalls and boxes will have a gliinmerincr Idea of what you're driving at ? The supposition's an insult to the popu ar mtelligonce-in other words, to me, sir, your Progenitor.' > > j "^ Berkeley laughed. 'I don't know about that, father' he said, holding up the page of inanuscrij.t music at arm's length admiringly before him ; ' but I do know one thing : this comic opera of mine is going to be a triumphant ' So l'v3 thought ever since you began it, Artie. You «ee, niy boy, there s a great many points in its favour In tlie hrst place you can write your own libretto, or whatever you call It ; ana you know I've always held that thougli tliat agner man was wrong in practice -a most inHated thunder- mmb, Ins Lohcnynn-yet he w.n.H riglit in theory, rislifc in theory, Artie ; every composer ought to be his own poet. V. 1 \ 'COME YE OUT AND BE YE SEPARATE: 153 Well, then, again, you've got a certain peculiar vein of liumour of yoxir own, a kind of delicate semi serious bur- lesque turn about you that's (|uite original, both in writing and in cou)posing ; you're a humourist in verse and a humourist in music, that's the long and the short of it. Now, you've hit upon a fresh lode of dramatic ore in this opera of yours, and if my judgnient goes for anything, it'll bring the house down the first evening. I'm a bit of a critic, Artie ; by hook or by crook, you know, paper or money. I've heard every good opera, comic or serious, that's been given in London these last thirty years, and I flatter myself I know something by this time about operatic criticism.' ' You're wrong about Wagner, father,' said Arthur, still glancing with paternal partiality at liis sheet of manuscript : ' Lohengrin's a very tine work, a grand work, I assure you. I won't let you run it down. But, barring that, I think you're pretty nearly right in your main judgment. I'm not modest, and it strikes me somehow that I've invented a genre. That's 'about what it comes to.' ' If you'd confine yourself to your native tongue, Mr. Parson, your ignorant old father might have some chance of agreeing or disagreeing with you ; but as he doesn't even know what the thingumbob you say yon've invented may happen to be, he can't profitably continu.^ the discussion of tliat subject. However, my only fear is that you may per- haps be writing above the heads of the audience. Not in tlie music, Artie ; they can't fail to catch that ; it rings in one's heatl like the song of a hedge warbler— tiri'oe, tirree, lu-lu-lu, la-la, tirree, tu-whit, tu-Avhu , tra-la-la— but in the words and the action. I'm half afraid that'll be over their heads, even in the gallery. What do you think you'll linally call it I ' 'I'm hesitating. Daddy, between "Evolution" and "The Primate of Fiji." Which do you reccmimend — tell me ?' 'The Primate, by all means,' said the old man gaily. 'And you still mean to open with the debate in tlie Fijian T*arliament on the Deceased Grandmother's Second Cousin Uill / ' ' No, I don't. Daddy. I've written a new first scene this week, in which the President of the Board of Trade renu)n- strates with the mernuiids on their remissness in sending their little ones to the Fijian Board Schools, in order to receive primary instruction in the art of swiuiming. I've got a capital chorus of mernmids to balance the other chorus of BiQlo"icfll Professors on the Challenger Expediti')n= [ consider it's a happy cross between Ariosto and Aristophanes. RS?BPI 154 PHILISTIA. If you like, I'll give you the score, and read over the words to you.' 'Do,' said the old man, setthng liimself down in comfort in his sou's easy-chair, and assuming the sternest air of an impartial critic. Arthur Berkeley read on dra- matically, in his own clever airy fashion, suiting accent and gesture to the subject matter through the whole first three acts of that excjuisitoly humorous opera, the Primate of Fiji. Sometimes he hummed the tune over to himself as he went ; sometimes he played a few notes upon his flute by way of striking tlie key-note ; sometimes he rose from his seat in his animation, and half acted the part ho was reading with almost unconscicjus and spontaneous mimiciy. He read tlirough the famous song of the President of the Local Government Board, that everybody has since hoard played by every German band at the street corners ; through the marvellously catching chorus of the superannuated tide- %vaiter3 ; through the culminating dialogue between the London Missionary Society's Agent and the Hereditary Grand Sacrificer to the King of Fiji, Of course the recital lacked everything of the scenery and dresses that give it so much vogue upon the stage ; but it had at least the charm- ingly suggestive music, the wonderful linking of sound to sense, the droll and inimitable intermixture of tlie plausible and the impossible which everybody has admired and laughed at in the acted piece. The old shoemaker listened in breathless silence, keeping hif. eye lixed steadily all the time upon the clean copy of the score. Only once he made a wry face to himself, and that was in the chorus to the debate in tlie Fijian Parliament on the proposal ti' leave off the practice of obligatory canni- balism. Tlie conservative party were of opinion that if you began by burying instead of eating your decea'^ed wife, you might end by the atrocious practice of marrying your deceased wife's sister ; and they opposed the revolutionary measure in that well-known refrain : — Of chanpe like this we're njiturally chary, Nolumus leges FijiaB mutari. That passage evidently gave the Progenitor deep pain. ' Stick to your own language, my boy,' he murmured ; ' stick to your own language. The Latin may be very fine, but the galleiy will never understand it.' However, when Arthur finished at last, he drew a long breath, and laid down the roll of manuscript with an involuntary little cry of lialf-stifled applause. 'Artie.' he said rising from the chair slowly, '- irtie, that's not so bad for a parson, I can tell you. I nopo the 'COME YE OUT AND BE YE SEPARATE: 155 Archbishop won't be tempted to cite you for displaying an amount of originality unworthy of your cloth.' ' Father,' said Arthur, suddenly, after a short pause, with a tinge of pensiveness in his tone that was not usxial with him, in speaking at least ; ' Father, I often think I ought never to have become a parson at all.' ' Well, my boy,' said the old man, looking up at him sharply wiih his keen eyes. ' I knew that long ago. You've never really believed in the thing, and you oughtn't to have gone in for it from the very beginning. It was the music, and the dresses, and the decorations that enticed you, Artie, and not the doctrine.' Arthur turned towards him with a pained expression. 'Father,' he said, half reproachfully, 'Father, dear father, don't talk to me like that. Don't think I'm so shallcw or so dishonest as to subscribe to opinions I don't believe in. It's a curious thing to say, a curious thing in this unbelieving age, and I'm half ashamed to say it, even to you ; but d(j you know, father, I really do believe it : in my very heart of hearts, I fancy I oeliove every word of it.' The old man listened to him compassionately and tenderly, as a woman listens to the fears and troubles of a little child. To him, that plain confession of faith was, in truth, a wonder and a stumbling-block. Good, simple-hearted, easy-going, lf)gical-minded, sceptical shoemaker that he was, with his head all stulied full of Malthus, and John Stuart Mill, and political economy, and the hard facts of life and science, how could he hope to understand the complex labyrinth of metaphysical, thinking, and childlike faith, and jesthetic attraction, and historical authority, which made a sensitive man like /vthur Berkeley, in his wayward, half- serious, emotional fashion, turn back lovingly and regretfully to the fair old creed that his father had so long deserted / How strange that Artie, a full-grown male ''^"Ron, with all the learning of the schools behind him, sL. .u * -^elapse at last into these childish and exploded niedijtvia superstitions ! How incredible that, after having been brought up from hia babyliood upward on the strong meat of the agnostic philosophers, he should fall back in his manhood on the milk for babes administered to him by orthodox theology ! The simple-minded old sceptic could hardly credit it, now that Arthur told him so with his own lips, though he had more than once suspected it when he heard him playing sacred music with that last touch of earnestness in hia oxocution which only the sincerest conviction and most iiitiriiate resjisation ot its ini})-"-"t can i;ver Al. 11 r ''4' 'i ||4 I ah well, good scejitical old shoemaker ; ive. there are perhaps r s I iS6 nilLISTIA. more things in heaven and earth and in the deep soul of man than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Still, though the avowal shocked and disappointed him a httle, the old man could not find it in his heart to say one word of sorrow or disapproval, far less of -idicule or banter, to his dearly loved boy. He felt instinctively, what Herbert Le Breton could not feel, that tliis sentimental tendency of his son's, as he thought it, lay far too deep and seemed far too sacred for mere argument or common discussion. Ferhaps, he said to himself softly, 'Artie's emotional side has got the better of liis intellectual. I brought him up without tellinghiui anythingof these things, except negatively, and by way of warning against superstitious tendencies ; and when he went to Oxford, and saw the doctrines tricked out in all the authority of a great hierarchy, with its cathedrals, and chapels, and choirs, and altars, and robes, and fal-lal hnery, it got the better of him ; got the better of him, very naturally. Artie's a cleverer fellow than his old father -had more education, and so on ; and I'm fond of him, very fond of him; but his logical faculty isn't quite straight, somehow : he lets his feelings have too much weight and prominence again>t his calmer reason! I can easily understand how, with his tastes and leanings, the clericals should have managed to get a hold over him. The clericals are such insinuating cunning fellows A very impressionable boy Artie was, always ; the poetical temperament and the artistic temperament always is impressionable, I suppose ; but shoemaking certniuly does develop the logical faculties. Seems as though tiie lo-^ical faculties were situated in the fore-]>art of the brain, as they mark them out on the phrenological heads ; and the leanintr forward that gives us the shoemaker's forehead must tend to enlarge them— give them plenty of room to expand and develop ! Saying which thing to himself musingly, the tatJier took his son's hand gently in his, and only smoothed it (jiuetly as he looked deep into Arthur's eyes, without uttering a single word. As for Arthur Berkeley, he sat silent, too, half averting his face from his father's gaze, and feeling a little blush olf shame ui)on his cheek at having been surprised unexpectedly into such an unwonted avowal. How could he ever expect his father to understiind tlio nature of his feelings ! To him, good old man that he was, all these things were just matters of priestcraft and obscurantism— fables invented by the ecclesiastical mind as a means of getting fat livings and et)mfortable deaneries out of the public pocket. And, indeed Arthur opinions tr^a \Vfij Oauuu to keeping his own to lumself on such subjects. What chance of ia 'COME YE OUT AND BE YE SEPARATE: 157 sympathy or response was there for such a man as he in that coldly critical and calmly deliberative learned society ] Not, of course, that all Oxford was wholly given over even then to extreme agnosticism. There were High Churchmen, and Low Churchmen, and Broad Churchmen enough, to be sure : men learned in the Fathers, and the Canons, and the Acts of the General Councils ; men ready to argue on the inter- mediate state, or on the three witnesses, or on the heretical nature of the Old Catholic schism ; men prepared with mimite dogmatic oi)ini()ns upon eveiy conceivable or inconcv^lvable point of abstract theology. There were peojilo who could trace the Apostolic succession of the old Cornish bishops, and peoj)le who could pronounce authoritatively upon the exact distinction between justification and remission of sins. But for all these things Arthur Berkeley cared nothing. Where, then, among those learned exegetical theologians, was there room for one whose belief was a matter, not of reason and argument, but of feeling and of sympathy? He did not want to learn what the Council of Trent had said about such and such a dogma ; he wanted to be conscious of an inner truth, to find the world permeated by an informing rigliteousness, to know himself at one with the inner essence of the entire universe. And though he could never feel sure whether it was all illusion or not, ho had hungered and thirsted after believing it, till, as he told his father timidly that day, he actually did believe it somehow in his heart of hearts. Let us not seek to probe too deeply into those inner recesses, whose abysmal secrets are never i)erfectly clear 'ron to the introspective eyes of the conscious self-dissector himself. After a pause Arthur 8j)oke again. He spoke this time in a very low vcnce, as one afraid to open his soid too much, even to his father. ' Dear, dear father,' he said, relesising his hand softly, ' you dcm't quite understand what I mean abf)ut it. It isn't because I don't believe, or try to believe, or hope I believe, that I think 1 ought never to have become a parson. In my way, as in a glass, darkly, I d'- strive my l)est to believe, though perhaps my l)elief is hardly more in its way than Ernest Le lireton's inibelieving. I do want to think that this great universe we see around us isn't all a mistake and an abortion. I want to tind a mind and an order and a purp mu"t allov/ full play i,o eveiy man's individuality. Wonderful mai), Ji>lin Stuart Mill ; I uuderlund his grandfather was a ahd maker, W\ J, I won't talk with you about the matter yii toiivictiou ; but I T'c- . r wanted you to be a parson, and T sluiU feel ail the happi (• ni>.;olF v.hen you've ceased to be one.' ' AiKi I, Haid Arthur, ' shall feel all the freer ; but if I had hue. ftble xo roinain where I was, I should have felt all the wortlr.c'i, for all that.' CHAPTER XVIII. A QUIET WEDDING. Fate was adverse for the moment to Arthur Berkeley's well meant designs for shuffling oil' the trammels of his ecclesias- tical habit. He was destined to appear in ])ublic at least once more, not only in the black coat and white tie of hia everyday i)rofe8sioiial costume, but even in the flowing snowy suritlice of a solemn and decorous spiritual function. The very next morning's post brought him a little note from Ernest Le Breton specially begging him, in his ow^n nanie iind Edif.'H, u^ rnino d=>vvn to Cakombe IVmeruy, and oiHci- ute us parson at their approaching wedding. Tlie note had A QUIET WEDDING. 1 59 cost Ernest a conscientious struggle, for he would have pordonally preferred to be married at a Registry Office, as being more in accordance with the duties of a good citizen, and savouring less of eflete ecclesiastical supersti- tion ; but he felt he couldn't even propose such a step to Edie ; she wouldn't have considered herself married at all, unless she were married quite regularly by a duly qualitied clerk in holy orders of the Church of England as by law established. Already, indeed, Ernest was beginning to recognise with a sigh that if he was going to live in the world at all, he must do so by making at least a partial sacrifice of political consistency. You may step out of your own ctntury, if you choose, yourself, but you can't got all tlie men and women with whom you come in contact to step out of it also in unison just to please you. So Ernest had sat down reluctantly to his desk, and con- sented to ask Arthur Berkeley to assist at the important ceremony in his professional clerical capacity. If he was going to have a medicine man or a priest at all to marry him to the girl of his choice — a barbaric survival, at the best, he thought it — he would, at any rate, prefer having his friend Arthur— a good man and true — to having the fat, easy- gi> ng, purse-proud rector of the parish ; the younger son of a wealthy family who had gone into the Church for the sake of tlie living, and wlu) rolled sumptuously down the long hilly High Street every day in his c(;mfortable carriage, leaning back witli his fat hands folded complacently over his ample knees, and ga/.ing abstractedly, with his little pigs'-eyes half buried in his cheek, at the beautiful prospect afforded him by the bn)ad livery-covered backs of his coachman and his foot- man. Ernest could never have consented to let that lazy, overfed, useless encumbrance on a long-suffering common- wealth, that idle gorger of dainty meats and choice wines from the tithes of the toiling, suffering people, bear any part in what was after all the most solemn and serious con- tract of his whole lifetime. And, to say the truth, Edie •piite agreed with him on that point, too. Though her moral indignation against poor, useless, empty-headed old Mr. Walters didn't burn quite so fierce or so clear as Ernest's — she regarded the fat old parson, indeed, rather from the social point of view, as a ludicrously self-satisfied specimen of the lower stages of humanity, than from the political point of view, as a greedy swallower of large revenues for small work inefficiently performed — she w was now Ernest Le Breton's lawful wife for ev ,?■ ,i;rU !■'. '-iv. • '' ----y, after signing the books, Herhert and Konaid and some of the others insisted on their ancient right of kissing the bride in good old i:i;'.,'lish fashion. But Arthur did not. It would not have been I .val. Ho felt in his heart that he had loved little Miss Butterfly too deeply himself for that ; to claim a kiss >•<.;' i ' ^busing the formal duos of hi.s momentary posi.ou. iienuefoith he would not even thmk of her to lunuself in tliat little pet name of his brief Oxford dream: ho would call her nothing i n his own mind but Mrs. Lo P.reton. Edie's simjilc little i lesents were all arranged in the tiny parlour bthiiid tho shop. M< st of them were from her own })ersonal friends : a few were from the <;entrv of the surrounding neigh) )ourhood : Ijut tliero Avere two handsomer than the rest : they came from outside the narrow little circle of Calcouibe Poiaeroy society. One was a plain gold bracelet fivnn Artliur Berkeley ; and on the gold of the inner face, though neither Edio nor Ernest noticed it, he had hghtly cut with his kni.e reton. And even Ernest so far conquered his social scrujiles that he took first-class tickets, for the first time in his life, to Ilfracombe, where they were to spend their brief and hasty fragment of a poor little honeymoon. It's so ex- tremely hard to be a consistent socialist where women are concerned, especially on the very day of your ov/n wedding ! CHAPTER XIX. INTO THE FIRE. ' Let me see, Le Breton, Dr. Greatrex observed to the new master, ' you've taken rooms for yourself in West Street for the present — you'll take a house on the parade by-and-by, no doubt. Now, which church du you mean to go to ? ' ' Well, really,' Ernest answered, taken a little aback at the suddenness of the question, ' I haven't had time to think about it yet.' The doctor frowned slightly. * Not had time to think about it,' he repeated, rather severely. ' Not had time to tluuk about such a serious question as your particular place of v.orship ! You quite surprise me. Well, if you'll allow niP to make a suggestion in the matter, it wuld be that you ant Mrs. Le Breton should take seats, fo the present at le it Si. Martha's. The parish church is high, decidedly hi-u aid I wotiiiln't recommend you to go there ; most of our paren don't approve of it. You're an Oxford man, I know, and so I suppose you're rather high yourself ; but in this particular matter I would strongly advise you to sub- ordinate your own personal foelinga to the parents' wishe . Then theiVs St. Judi' St. Jude's is distinctly v — quite U 164 PIIILISTIA. EvanGjelical in fact : iiuleid, T may say, scarcely what Ishoiilrl consider sduiuI church principles at all in any way ; and [ think you ought most certainly to avoid it sedidouHly, Evangelicisni is on the decline at present in Pilbury Regis. As to 8t. Jjuriiahas — Barablias they call it gen* rally, a most irreverent joke, but, of course, inevitable — Barabbas is abso- lutely Ritualistic. Many of our parents object to it most fitronirly. Hut St. IVIartha's is a quitt, moderate, inoffensive church in every respect- sound and sensible, and frc^e from all extremes. You can give no umbrage to anybody, even the most cantankerous, by going to St. Martha's. The High Church people fraternise with it on the one hand, and the moderate church people fraternwe with it on the otlier, while as to the Evangelicals and tlie dhsaenters, they hardly con- tribute any boys to the school, or if they do, they don't oV>jeot to unobtrusive church principles. Indeed, my ex- perienci has been, Le Bret^m, that even the most rabid dissenters prefer to have their sons educated l)y a sound, moderate, high-principled, and, if I may say so, neutral- tinted church clergyman.' And the doctor coM)placently pulled his white tie straight befijre the big gilt-framed draw- ing-room inirror. ' Then, again,' the doctor went on placidly in a bland tone of mild persuasion, ' there's the question of politics. Politics are a very ticklish matter, I can assure you, in Pil- bury Regis. Have you any tixed political opinions of your own, Le Breton, or are you waiting to form them till you've had some little experience in your profession i ' 'My opinions,' Ernest answered timidly, ' so far as they can be cla.«s. d under any of the existing political formulas at all, -ue decidedly Liberal — I may even say Radical.' The doctor bit his lip and frowned severely. ' Radical,* he said, slowly, with a certain delirate tinge of acerbity in his tone. 'That's bead. If you will allow me to interpose in the matter, I should strongly advise you, for your own sake, to change them at once and entirely. I don't object to moderate Liberalism — perhaj)s as many as one-third of our ])arents are moderate Liberals ; but decidedly the most desirable form of political belief for a successful school- master is a quiet and gentlemanly, but unswerving Conserva- tism. I don t say you ought to be an uncompromising old- fashioned Tory — far from it : that alienates not only the dissenters, but even the respectable middle-class Liberals. What is above all things expected in a schoolmaster is a central position in politics, so to apeak — a careful avoidance of all extremes — a readiness to welcome all reasonable pro- gress, while opposing in a conciliatory spirit all revolutionary li INTO THE FIRE. 165 or excessive changes — in short, an attitude of studied mo- ileration. That, if you will allow nie to advise you, Le Urutoii, is the sort of thing, you may depend upon it, that iiin,-'t usually meets the wishes of tlie largest possible number of pupils' parents.' ' I'm afraid,' Ernest answered, as respectfully as possible, 'my political convictions are too deeply seated to be sub- ordinat<;d to my professional interests. ' Eh ! What ! ' the doctor cried sharply. * Subordinate your principles to your personal interests ! Oh, pray don't iiii.stake me so utterly as that ! Not at all, not at all, my dear Lo Hreton. I don't mean that for the shadow rgan au'l ataincd-glas^ window. We've got lip a small building fund here ourselvea already, ^1 11 1 66 nil LIST I A. of wliich the doctor's treasurer, and we hope before many yeuis t(» liavo a really nice chapel, witli good music and service well done — the kind of thinj^ that'll bo of use to the school, and have an excellent moral etiect upon the boys in the way of reli<.'ioii.s trainini,'.' ' No doubt,' Ernest answered evasively, ' you'll soon manaixe to raise the money in such a place as Pilbury.' ' No doulit,' the doctor replied, looking at him with a searching glance, and evidently harl)ouring an uncomfortable suspicion, alreaily, tliat t^iis young man had not got the moral and reliu'ious welfare of the boys quite so deeply at heart as was desirable in a model junior assistant niiister. ' Well, well, we shall see you at school to-morrow morning, Le Hreton : till then 1 liopo you'll find yourselves quite ctmifortable in your new lodgings.' Ernest went back from this visit of ceremony with a d(iilitful heart, and left Dr. and Mrs. Greatrex alone to discuss their new acijuisition. 'Well, Maria,' said the doctor, in a dubious tone of voice, as soon as Ernest was fairly out of hearing, ' what do you think of him I ' ' Think ! ' answered Mrs. Greatrex, energetically. ' W^hy, 1 don't think at all. I feel sure he'll never, never, never make a schoolmaster ! ' ' I'm afraid not,' the doctor responded, pensively. * I'm afraid not, Maria, lie's got ideas of his «)wn, 1 regret to say ; and, what's wor.se, they're not the right ones.' 'Oh, he'll never do,' Mrs. (Ireatrex continued, scorn- fully. 'Nothing at all profes.si(»nal about him in any way. No interest or enthusiasm in the matter of the chapel ; not a spark of responsiveness even aV)outthe stained-glass window ; hardly a trace of moral or religious earneHtness, of care for the welfare and happiness of the dear boys. He wouldn't in the least imi)ress intending parents or, rather, 1 feel sure he'd impress them most unfavourably. The best thing we can do, now we'vt! got him, is to play off his name on relations in socu:ty, but to keep the young man himself as far as ])ossible in the background. 1 confess he's a disai)pointment— a, very great and distressing disappoint- ment.' 'He ia, he is certaijdy,' the doctor accpiiesced, with a sigh of regretfulness. ' I'm afraid wo shall never be able to nuike nnich of him. Hut we mu-t do our best — f<)r his own sake, and the sake of the boys and parents, it's our duty, Maria, to do our best with him.' 'Oh, of course,' Mrs. (lrt>!itr«>x replied, laniriiidly ; 'hnfe I'm bound to say, I'm sure it'll prove a very tluinkless piece i- IXTO THE FIRE. 167 f)f duty. Ymmg men of his sort have never any proper St MHO of gratitudt.' Moanwliilo, Edie, in the little lodgiiiga in a side street near thi; Hciiool-hoiist!, had run out quickly to open the door for Ernest, and waited anxiously to hear his report upon tlu'ir new uniployers. ' Well, Ernest dear,' she asked, with something of the old cliiltlish brightness in her eager manner, 'and what do you think of them r ' Why, Edie,' Ernest answered, kissing her white fore- head gently, M dcjii't want to judge them too hastily, but I'm inclined to fancy, on tirst sight, that both the doctor and his wife are most egregious and unmitigated humbugs.' ' Humbugs, Ernest ! wliy, how do you moan \ ' ' Well, Edie, they've got the moral and religious welfare of the boys at their very linger ends ; and, do you know~I (li.n't want to be uncharitable but 1 somehow imagine they liaven't got it at heart as well. Uowever, we must do our best, and try to fall in with them.' .Vnd for a whole year Ernest and Edie did try to fall in with them to the best of their ability. It was hard work, for though the doctor himself wjis really at bottom a kind- hearted man, with a mere thick veneer of professional hum- Inig inseparable from his unhappy calling, Mrs. Greatrex was a veritalilo thorn in the tiiesh to poor little natural liniiest-hearted Edie. When she found that the Le Bretons didn't mean to take a house on the Parade or elsewhere, but were to live inglorioualy in wee side street lodgings, lur dis- ai>iinintment was severe and extreme ; l)ut when she incident- ally discovered that Mrs. Le IJreton was positively a grocer's dii lighter from a small country town, her moral indignation ii'.Miiist the baseness of mankind rose iUmost t(» white heat. To think tliat young Le Ureton should have insinuated him- self into the position of third ma.ster under false pretences— hhoiild have held out iis (jualiHcations for the post his !espeetable connections, when he knew perfectly well all t!u' time that he wan going to marry somebody who was not in Society-- it was really qu te too awfully wicked and deceptive and unprincipled of him ! A very bad, dishonest young man, she was very nuicli afraid ; a young man with no stmse of truth or honour about him, though, of c(»urse, she wouldn't sav so f :r the world before any of the parents, or duiinythiiig'to injure thepooryoung fellow's future prospects if slie c(»uld possildy heli> it. Ihit Mrs. (Ireatrex felt sure that Ernest had come to Pilbury of nuilico prepense, as part iif :i ileH'.i-biifl Ki^hi^nso to injure and riiu tlie (hmtor by his iiorrid revolutionary notion! ' lie doeb it on purpose,* she : J! i68 PIT I LIST! A. u«0(I to say ; * ho talks in that way because he knows it I)nsitively shocks and annoys us. He pretends to be very innocent all the time ; but at heart he's a malignant, jealous, niu'liaritabh" creature. I'm sure I wish he had never come to Pilbury Regis ! And to go quarrelling with his own mother, too— the unnatural nuin ! The only respectable relation he had, and the only one at all likely to produce any good or s.ilutiiry efioct upon intending parents ! ' 'Aly dear,' the doctor would answer apologetically, 'j'ou're really quite too hard upon young Le Bretim. As far as school-wt.rk gcjes, he's a cai)ital master, I assure you— so conscientious, and hard-working, and systematic. He does his very best with the boys, even with that stupid lout, Hlenkinsoi)p major ; and he has managed to din some- thing into them in mathematics somehow, so that I'm sure the fifth form will jiass a better examinaticm this term than any term since we first came here. Now that, you know, is really a great thing, even if he doesn't quite fall in with our preconceived social requirements.' ' I'm sure f don't know about the mathematics or the fifth form, Joseph,' Mrs. Geatrex used to reply, with great dignity. ' That sort of thing falls under your department, I'm aware, not under mine. But I'm sure that for all social i)urpo8e3, Mr. Le Breton is really a great deal worse than useless. A more unchristian, disagreeable, self-opinionated, wrong-headed, ol>jectionablo young man I never caiiie across in the whole course of my experience. However, you wouldn't listen to my advice upon the subject, so it's no use talking any longer about it. I alwnys advised you not to take him without further enipury into his antecedetits ; and you overbore me ; you said he was so well-connected, and so forth, and would hear nothing against him ; so I wish you joy wuw of your precious bargain. The (mly thing left for lis "is t(j lind some good oi)i.ortunity of getting rid of him.' 'I like the young man, hs far as he goes,' Dr. Oroatrex replu'd once, with unwonted siurit, 'and I won't get rid of him at all, my dear, unless he obliges mo to. He's really well meaning, in spite of all his absurdities, and ujx.n my word, Maria, i believe he's thoroughly honest in his opinions.' Mrs. (;rcatrex «mly met this Hat rebellion by an indirect remark to the efhsct that some peojtle seemed ab.Mihitely des- titute of the very faintest glimmering power of judgina: Iiuman character. * o o LITERATURE, MUSIC, AND THE DRAMA. 169 CHAPTER XX. LITERATUKE, MUSIC, AND THE DRAMA. ' The Primate of Fmi ' was duly accepted and put into rehtarsal by the astate and enturprising manager of the Anibi-'uitii-s Thertre. 'It's a risk,' he said candidly, when he lead the manuscript over, 'a decided risk, Mr. J3erkeley ; 1 acknowledge the riskiness, hut I don't mind trynig it for all that. You see, you've st.dvid everything upon tlie doul)t- ful supposition that the Public possesses a certain amount of elementary intelligence, and a certain appreciation of genumo ori<'inal w"it and humour. Your play's literature, good ite- rature ; and that's rather a speculative element to introduco into the regular theatre nowadays. Illegitimate, 1 s louUl call it ; decidedly illegitimate- but still, perhaps, wortli try- incr Do you know the story about old Simon Burbury, the hoTsedealer] Young Simon says to him one morning " Father, don't you think we might manage to coiuluct this business of ours without always tellii.\g (luite so many downright lies about it \ " The oUl man h oks back at him reproaclifully, and says with a solemn shake of the liead, "Ah, Simon, Simon, little did I ever think 1 should live to see a sou of mine go in for speculation ! " Well, my dear air that's pretty much how a modern manrger feels about the literary element in the drama. The Public isn t accus- tomed to it, and there's no knowing how they may take it. ShaUispeare, now, they stand rea.lily eiDUgh, because he s an old-estaldished and perfectly respectable family purveyor Siieiidan, to<., «)f course, and one play of GoldHUuth s and •I trine or so of tJeorge Colman--alI recognised and all tolerated because of their old jnescriidiye respectabil ty. P.ut for a new author to aim at being literary a rather presump- tuous ; now tell me yourself, isn't it \ Seems as if he was settin" himself uj) for a heaven-sent genius, and trying to sit in)on Uie older dramatists of tlu> present generati<»n. JNIelo- y lugan to discover tliat the incongruity was part of the joke, and tlu-y laughed (piietly a sedati^ and Uioderato laugh of suspeinkMl judgment. A.^ the Progenitor had pre- ury Regis T 'Yes, 1 have, every Weilnesday fortnight,' Berkeley answered, with a smile. 'I go there regularly. You see. Lady Hilda, Wediu'sday's a liaif-holiday at I'ilbury (Jrannnar t>chool ; BO every second week I run down for the day to visit an old friend of mine, who's also an acipiaintance of yours, I l)elievo,- Ernest Le fbt'ton. He's mariied now, you know, and h;ia jjot a mastership at the Pilbury (Jrammar tSclntol.' ' Then you know Mr. Lo Breton ! ' cried Lady Hilda, LITERATURE, MUSIC, AND THE DRAMA. 173 charmed at this rapprochement of two delightfully original men. ' He is so nice. I like him inniu;ii.sol.v, and I'm so glad you're a friend <'f his. And Mrs. Le Dreton, too ; AViusn't it nice of him ( I'ell me, Mr. Berkeley, was she really and truly a grocer's daughter i ' Berkeley's voice grew a little stiffor and colder aa he answered, 'She was a sister of Oswald of Oriel, the great mathematician, who was killed la.st year by falling from the summit of a peak in the liernina.' 'Oh, yes, yes, I know all about that, of course, said Lady Hilda, (luickly and carelessly. ' 1 know her brother was very clever and all that sort of thing ; but tlien there are so many men who are very clever, aren't there i The really original thing about it all, you knc-w, whs that ho actuj'illy married a grocer's d.ughter. That was really (luito tio delightfully original. I was charmed when 1 heard aVmut it: 1 thought it was so exactly like dear Mr. Le Bret«m. He's St) deliciously unconventional in every way. He was Lynmouth's tutor for a while, as you've heard,^ of course ; and then he went away froni us, at a moment's notice, so nicely, because he wouldn't staiul papa's abominable beha- viour, and h a woman's (luicknesa. ' Aha ! ' she said to herself : 'thcwu.; blows that way, does it ' What a very remark- able girl she must be, really, to have attracted two such men aa Mr. Jierkeley and Mr. Le Breton. I've lost one of them to li.r ; I can't very well !: ta' the other, too: for after Ernest Le iiretun, I've never seen anv ". m 1 should care to marry so much as Mr. Artln 1 i erkeley ^ ' Lady Hilda,' said tl' * bosu ss, condng up to her at that moment, ' yim'll play uh ,<« uiething, won t you f You know you i>romi8ed to bring your mubic. Hildsi rose :it onoe with stately alacrity. Nothing could have pleased her better. She went to the piano, and, to the J 74 rillLISTIA. ;vwe and astonisliment of Mrs. Cami.hell IMnncrioff, took out an arrangeinoiit of the P'ijian war-daiico from * Tlio Primate of Fiji.' It suited her brilliant slap-dash style of execution admirably ; and she felt she had never played so well in her life before. The presence of the comjioser, which would have fri<,ditened and unnerved most girls of her age, only made Hilda Tregellis the bolder and the more aml)itious. Here was somebody at least who knew something about it ; none of your ordinary fashionaljle amateurs and mere soulless professitmal performers, but the very man who had made the music— the man in whose brain the notes had first gathered theuKselves together into .speaking melody, and who could really judge the comparative merits of her rapid execution. She idayed with wonderful verve and spirit, so that Lady Exmoor, seated on the side sofa opposite, though shocked at first at Hilda's choice of a niece, glanced more than once at the wealthiest young commoner present (she had long since mentally resigned hor-self to the jirospect of ac(uumoner for that poor dear foolish Hilda), and closely watched his face to see what effect this unwonted outburst of musical talent might succeed in producing upon his latent suscepti- bilities. But Lady Hilda herself wasn't thiidving of the wealthy connntmer ; she was play ng stniight at Arthur Berkeley : and when she saw that Arthur Berkeley's mouth had melted shnvly into an approving smile, .she played even more brilliantly and better than ever, after her bold, smart, vehement fasiiion. As she left tlie {)iano, Arthur said, ' Thank you , I have never he.ard the piece better rendered.' And Lady Hilda felt that that was a triumph which fai outweighed any number of inane compliments from a whole regiment of siuipering Algies. INFfrnties, and Berties. 'You can't say any evening, then, I\Ir. Pierkeley ? ' she said ouce more, as she held out her hind to him to say ' Good-night ' a little later : ' not any evening at all, or part of an evening / You might really reconsider your engage- ments. ' Arthur hesitated visibly. ' Well, possibly I might manage it,' he said, wavering, 'though, 1 assure you, my evenings are very much mort; than full already.' 'Then don't make it an evening, sjiid Ladv Hilda, press- ingly. 'Make it buich. After all, Mr. B.iTkeley, it's we ourselves who want to see you ; not to show you otl" as a curiosity to all the rest of Lontlon. We have silly people enough in the evenings ; but if you'll come to lunch with ua alone one day, we shall have an oi)portunity of talking to you on our own account.' Lady Hil'l'i wiis tall and beautiful, .iiul L;id"' Hilda snoks LITERATURE, MUSIC, AND THE DRAMA. 175 as she alwiiys used tt) speak , with manifest sincerity. Now, it is not in human nature not to feel Hattered when a beauti- ful woman i)ay8 one genuine homage ; and Arthur Berkeley Wtas (juite as human, after all, as most other peijplo. ' You're very kind,' ho said, smiling. ' I must make it lunch, then, though I really ought to be working in the nu)rning3 instead of running about merely to amuse myself. What day will suit you best ? ' 'Oh, not to amuse yourself, Mr. Berkeley,' Hilda answered pointedly, * but to gratify us. That, you know, is a work of benevolence. Say Monday next, then, at two o'clock. Will that do for you / ' ' Perfectly,' ^ .Tkeley answered, taking her proffered hand extended c> 'iim with just that indefinable air of frank- ness which Lady Hilda knew so well how to throw into all her actions. ' Good evening. Wilton Place, isn't it \ — Gracious heavens ! ' he thought to himself, as he glanced after her satin train sweeping slowly down the grand stair- case, 'what on earth would the dear old Progenitor say if only he saw me in the midst of these meaningless aristocratic orgies. I am positively half-wheedled, it seems, into" making love to an earl's daughter ! If this sort of thing continues, 1 shall find myself, before I know it, connected by maiTiage with two-thirds of tlie Briti.sh peerage. A beautiful woman, really, and (juite < fatli< wiia a yeneral in the Indian army — nothing couUl he moi,; hanal. Thnu Mr. Berkeley hy^'an hfe as a clerf,'ymiin ; but now lie's taken ott" his white choker, and wears a suit <>f grey tweed like any ordinary English gentleman. So dehg! rfulh' unconventional, isn't it ? At hvst, to crown it all, he mt only en mposes delicious music, hutgoes and writi h a comic opera — Buch a comic opera ! And the hestof it is, success hasn't turned liis head f)ne atom. He d< "esn't run with vulgar eagerncHs after the great [»eo,.'( , like your ordinary everyday succi'ssful no- })ody. Ht! took no more notice of me, myself, at lirst, because J was Lady Hilda Tregellus. than if I'd been a c am « m nulk- niaid ; and he wouldn't ome to our garden party be use he wanted to go down to Pilbury llegis to visit the Le Bretons at their cliarity school or something ! It was «mly after I played the war-dance arrangement so well — I never playid 8<. bril- liantly in my life before — that he began to alter and soften a little. Certainly, these i)earlH do thoroughly become n»o. I think he looked after me when I was leaving the room just a tiny bit, as if he was really pleased with me for my own sake, and not merely because 1 happen to be called La 'y Hihia Tregellia.' CHAPTER XXI. OFF WITU TUK OLD LOVE. •It's really very annoying, this letter from Selah,' Herbert Le Breton nuunuued to himself, as he carefully burnt the compromising (h)cument, envelope and all, with a fusee from his oriental silver pocket match-case. ' I had hoped the thing l.i.l all been forgotten l)y this time, after lu-r hmg Bileni's. -Uid my last twcj judicioUHly chilly letters — a sort of alow Vv'rvjerating jirocess for poor shivering naked little Ciiiviti I >ut here, just at the very moment when I fancied the :i't;i:r had (piite blown over, comes this most objectionable letter, tolling me that Selah has actually betaken herself to Lonchm to meet me ; and what makes it more annoying still, 1 wanted to go up myself this week to dine at home with Ethel Faucit. Mother's plan about Ethel Faucit is exceed- ingly connnen OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 177 could I I'ver have gone and entauj^led myself in my foolish (liiVB with a young woman burdened by such a cognomen ! —here's Selah Briggs inust needs mn way from Hastings, aiiil try to hunt njt up mi her own acc>.iint in London, ill dared, I wouliu't go up to see her at all, and would let the thing die a natural fleath of inanition — sine Cerere et Baccho, anil so forth — (I'm afraid, poor girl, she'll bi more likely to but the t of it. ii Oxford, t know my college and lind BaccbuB than Ceres if she sticks in Lonli >n, was a thing in no wise to be sneezed at by a jiidici. ii; and discriniinating person. Herbert left his portmanteau in the cloakroom atPaddinp- tuii, and drove off in ahansom to the tiueet addresswhich Selali had given him. It was a tishy lodging of the commoner sort m a back street at Notting Hill, not far from the Portobello koad. At the top of the stairs, Selah stood waiting to meet him, and seemed much astonished when, instead of kissing lior, as was his W(mt, he only shook her haiiil somewhat enolly. But she thought to herself that probably he didn't wisli to be too demonstrative before the eyes of the lodging- house people, and so took no further notice of it. ' Well, Selah,' Herbert said, as soon as he entered the room, and seated himself quietly on one of the straight- backed wooden chairs, ' why on earth have you come to London ? ' 'Goodness gracious, Herbert,' Selah answered, letting loose the floodgates of her rapid speech after a week's silensH', ' '.l;!'','!. vou rro and "»S" ??1C "•'J r'v8 done it. Ask MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2) 1.0 I.I 1.25 m m m Hi II 2.8 II 3.2 II 3.6 14,0 1.4 I 2.5 2.2 2.0 1.8 1.6 A /APPLIED IIVMGE 165J East Main Street Rochester, New York 14609 (716) 482 - 0300 - Phone (716) 288 - 5989 - Fax USA iiliiJ Mlifi 178 PHILISTIA. r.^ me rather why I didn't go and do it long ago. Father, he's got more and more aggravating every day for the last twelve- month, till at last I couldn't stand him any longer. Prayer meetings, missionary meetings, convention meetings, all that sort of thing I could put up with somehow ; but when it came to private exhortations and prayer over me with three or four of the godhest neighbours, I made up my mind not to put up with it one day longer. So last week I packed up two or three little things hurriedly, and left a note behind to say I felt I was too unregenerate to live in such spiritual company any longer ; and came straight up here to London, and took these lodgings. Emily Lucas, she wrote to me from Hastings — she's the daughter of the hairdresser in our street, you know, and I told her to write to me to the Post- office. Emily Lucas wrote to me that there was weeping and gnashing of teeth, and swearing almost, when they found out I'd really left them. And well there might be, indeed, for I did more work for them (mostly just to get away for a while from the privileges) than they'll ever get a hired servant to do for them iii. this world, Herbert.' Herbert moved un- easily on his chair, as he noticed how glibly she called him now by his Christian name instead of saying ' Mr. Walters.' 'And Emily says,' Selah went on, without stopping to take breath for a second, 'that father put an advertisement at once into the " Cliristian Mirror"— pah, as if it was likely I should go buying or reading the " Christian Mirror," indeed —to say that if " S. B." would return at once to her atiec- tionate and injured parents, the whole past would be for- gotten and forgiven. Forgotten and forgiven ! I should think it would, indeed ! But he didn't ask me whether their eternal bothering and plaguing of me about my precious soul for tAventy years past would also be forgotten and forgiven ! He didn't ask me whether all their meetings, and conven- tions, and prayers, and all the rest of it, would be forgotten and forgiven ! My precious soul ! In Turkey they say the women have no souls ! I often wished it had been my happy lot to be born in Turkey, and then, perhaps, they wouldn't have worried me so nmch about it. I'm sure I often said to them, " Oh don't bother on account of my poor inifortunate misguided little soul any 1' - ger. It's lost altogether, I don't doubt, and it doesn't in the least trouble me. If it was somebody else's, I could understand your being in such a fearful state of mind about it ; but as it's only mine, you know, I'm sure it really doesn't matter." And then they'd only go oft' worse than ever,— mother doing hysterics, and so forth— and say I was a wicked, bad, aboniinable scoffer, and tliat it made them horribly frightened even to listen to me. OFF WITH THE OLD LOVE. 179 it was such a As if I wasn't more likely to know the real value of my own soul than anybody else was ! ' Herbert looked at her curiously and anxiously as she de- livered this long harangue in a voluble stream, wuhout a single pause or break ; and then he said, in his quiet voice, ' How old are you, Selah ? ' 'Twenty-two,' Selah answered, carelessly. 'Why, Her- bert ? ' 'Oh, nothing,' Herbert replied, turning away his eyes from her ^een, searching gaze uncomfortably. He con- gratulated himself inwardly on the lucky fact that she was fully of age, f(jr then at least he could only get into a' row with her, and not with her parents. 'And now, Selah, do you know what I strongly advise you ? ' ' To get married at once,' Selah put in promptly. Herbert drew himself up stiffly, and looked at her cau- tiously out of the corner of his eyes. 'No,' he said slowly, ' not to get married, but to go back again for the present to your people at Hastings. Consider, Selah, you've done a very foolish thing indeed by coming here alone in this way. You've compromised yourself, and you've compromised me. Indeed, if it weren't for the lasting affection I bear you ' — he put this in awkwardly, but he felt it necessary to do so, for the flash of Selah's eyes fairly cowed him for the moment — ' I wouldn't have come here at all this afternoon to see you. It might get us both into very serious trouble, and — and — and delay the prospect of our marriage. You see, everything depends upon my keeping my fellowship until I can get an appointment to marry on. Anything that risks loss of the fellowship is really a measurable danger for both of us.' Selah looked at him very steadily with her big t ^ es, and Herbert felt that he was quailing a little under their piercing, withering imju sition. By Jove, what a splendid woman she was, though, when she was angry ! ' Herbert,' she said, ris'iig froni her chair and standing her full height imperiously before him, ' Herbert, you're deceiving me. I almost be- lieve you're shilly-shallying with me. I almost believe you don't ever really mean to -^larry me.' Herbert moved uneasily upon his wooden seat. What was he to do ? Should he make a clean breast of it forth- with, and answer boldly, ' Well, Selah, you have exactly diagnosed my mental attitude ' \ Or should he try to put her off a little with some meaningless explanatory platitudes? Or should lie— by Jove, she was a very splendid woman ! — sliDuld he take her in his arms that moment, kiss her doubts and fears awav like a donkey-, and boldly and sincerely iSc PHILISTIA. j)roniise to marry her '? Pooh ! not such a fool as all that comes to ! not even with Selah before him now ; for he was no boy any longer, and not to be caught by the mere vulgar charms of a flasliy, self-asserting greengrocer's daughter. ' Selah,' lie said at last, after a long pause, 'I strongly advise you once more to return to Hastings for the present. YsL-rr.om— thp. study was already nv nopolised by Mr. Bleiil-ansopp — and h.'ul seated iiimseli nervously, with ilia hands folded before him, on a strai-ht-backed chair. t :i ||i|| 194 FIIILISTIA. There was a lono; and awkward pause, for the doctor didn't care to begin tlie interview ; but at last he sighed deeply and said in a tone of genuine disappointment and difficulty, 'My dear Le Breton, this is really very unpleasant.' Ernest looked at him, and said nothing. 'Do you know,' the doctor went on kindly after a minute, 'I really do like you and sympathise with you. But what am I to do after this ? I can't keep you at the school any longer, can I now ? I put it to your own common- sense. I'm afraid, Le Breton— it gives me sincere pain to say so — but I'm afraid we must part at the end of the quarter.' Ernest only muttered that he was very sorry. 'But what are we to do about it, Le Breton ? ' the doctor continued more kindly than ever. ' What are we ever to do about it ? For my own sake, and for the boys' sake, and for respectability's sake, it's quite impossible to let you remain here any longer. The first thing you must do is to send away this Schurz creature '—Ernest started a little— 'and then Ave must try to let it blow over as best wee m. Every- body'll be talking about it ; you know the man's become (piite notorious lately ; and it'll be quite necessary to say distinctly, Le Breton, before the whole of Pilbury, that we've been obliged to dismiss /ou summarily. So much wo positively mnd do for our own protection. But what on earth are we to do for you, my poor fellow? I'm afraid you've cut your own throat, and I don't see any way on earth out of it.' ' How so ] ' asked Ernest, half stunned by the suddenness of this unexpected dismissal. '^^%> j'lst look the thing in the face yourself, Le Breton. I can't very well give you a recommendation to any other head master without mentioning to him why I had to ask you for your resignation. And I'm afraid if I told them, nobody else would ever take you.' ' Indeed \ ' said Ernest, very softly. ' Is it such a henious olience to know so good a man as Herr Schurz— the best follower of the apostles I ever knew ? ' ' My dear fellow,' said the doctor, confidentially, with an • uusual burst of outspoken frankness, ' so far as my own private feelings are concerned, I don't in the least object to your knowing Herr Schurz or any other socialist whatsoever. To tell you the truth, I dare say he really is an excellent and most well-meaning \ jrson at bottom. Between our- selves, I've always tlumght that there was nothing very heterodox in socialism ; in fact, I often think, Le Breton, the Bil)le'8 the niost thoroughly democratic book that ever Wab written. But we haven't srot to deal in nractice with THE PHILISTINES TRIUMPH. 195 il first principles ; we have to deal with Society — with men and women aa we find them. Now, Society doesn't like your Herr Schurz, objects to him, anathematises him, wants to imjirison him. If you walk r«bout with him in public, Society won't send its sons to your school. Therefore, you should disguise your affection, and if you want to visit him, you should visit him, like Nicodemus, by night only.' 'I'm afraid,' said Ernest very fixedly, '1 shall never be able so far to accommodate myself to the wishes of Society.' 'I'm afraid not, myself, Le Breton,' the doctor went on with imperturbable good temper. ' I'm afraid not, and I'm sorry for it. The fact is, you've chosen the wrong profes- sion. You haven't pliability enough for a schoolmaster ; youre too isolated, too much out of the common run ; your ideas are too peculiar. Now, you've got me to-day into a dreadful pickle, and I miglit very easily be angry with you about it, and part with you in bad blood ; but I really like you, Le Breton, and I don't want to do that ; so I only tell you plainly, you've mistaken your natural calling. What it can be I don't know ; but we must put our two heads together, and see what we can do for you before the end of the quarter. Now, go up to the combe to your wife, and try to get that terrible bugbeur of a German out of Pilbury as quickly and as quietly as possible. Good-bye for to-day, Le Breton ; no coolness between us, for this, 1 hope, my dear fellow.' Ernest grasped his hand wanuly. ' You're very kind, Dr. Greatrex,' he said with genuine feeling. 'I see you mean well by me, and I'm veiy, very sorry if I've unin- tentionally caused you any embarrassment.' ' Not at all, not at all, my dear fellow. Don't mention it. We'd tide it over somehow, and I'll see whether I can get you anything else to do that you're better fitted for.' As the door closed on Ernest, the doctor just gently wiped a certain unusual dew off his gold spectacles with a corner of his spotless handkerchief. ' He's a good fellow,' he murmured to himself, ' an excellent fellow ; but he doesn't manage to combine with the innocence of the dove the wisdom of the serpent. Poor boy, poor boy, I'm afraid hell sink, but we uiuat do v.'hat v.^e can to keep his chin floating above the water. Aiid now I must go back to the study to have out my explanation with that detestable thick- headed old pig of a Blenkinsopp ! "Your views about young Le Breton," I must say to him, " are unfortunately only too well founded ; and I have been compelled to dismiss him this very hour from Pilbury Grammar School." Ugh — how humili;itiug ! the profession's veally enough to give one a- nprfwt .sinlviuiiii" ot life altotrethcr ! ' 196 PIIILISTIA, CHAPTER XXm. THE STREETS OF ASKELON. Before the end of the quarter, two things occurred which made ahnost as serious a difference to Ernest's and Edie's lives as the dismissal from Pilbury Regis Grammar School. Itwas about a week or ten daysafter Herr Max's unfortunate visit that Ernest awoke one nn)rning with a very curious and unpleasant taste in his month, iicccmipanied by a violent fit of coughing. He knew what the taste was well enough ; and he mentioned the matter casually to Edie a little later in the morning. Edie was naturally frightened at the symptoms, and made him go to see the school doctor. The doctor felt his pulse attentively, listened with his stethoscope at the chest, punched and punnnelled the patient all over in the most ortliodox fashion, and asked the usual inquisitorial personal (questions about all the other members of his family. When he heard about Ronald's predisposition, he shook his head seriously, and feared there was really something in it. Increased vocal resonance at the top of the left lung, he must admit. Some tendency to tubercular deposit there, and perhaps even a slight deep-seated cavity. Ernest must take care of himself for the present, and keep himself as free as possible from all kind of worry or anxiety. ' Is it consumption, do you think. Dr. Sanders ] ' Edie asked breathlessly. 'Well, consumption, Mrs. Le Breton, is a very vague and indefinite exi>ression,' said the doctor, tapping his Avhite shirtcuif with his nail in his slowest and most deliberate manner. ' It may mean a great deal, or it may mean very little. I don't want in any way to alarm you, or to alarm your husband ; but there's certainly a marked incipient tendency towards tubercular deposit. Yes, tubercular deposit .... NN'ell, if you ask me the question point- blank, I should say so ... . certainly .... I should say it was phthisis, very little doubt of it. . . . In short, what some people would call consumption.' Ernest went home with Edie, comforting her all the way as well as he was able, and trying to make light of it, but feeling in his own heart that the look-out was decidedly beginning to gather blacker and darker than ever before them. Throuirh the rest of that term he worked as well as he could J but" Edie noticed every morning that the cough THE STREETS OF ASKELON. 197 I was getting worse and worse ; and long before the tirre caine for them to leave Pilhury he had begun to look dis- tinctly delicate. Care for Edie and for the future was telling on him: his frame had never been very rcjbust, and tlie anxieties of the last year had brought out the same latent hereditary tendency which had shown itself earlier and more markedly in the case of liis brother Ronald. Meanwhile, Dr. Greatrex was assiduous in looking about for something or other that Ernest could turn his hand to, a!id writing letters with indefatigable kindness to all hi3 C(jlleagues and correspondents : for though he was, as Ernest said, a most unmitigated humbug, that was really his only fault ; and when his sympatlues were once really aroused, as the Le Bretons had aroused them, there was no stone lie would leave unturned if only his energy could be of any service to those whom lie wished to beneht. But un- fortunately in this case it couldn't. ' I'm at my wit's end what to do with you, Le Breton,' he said kindly one morn- ing to Ernest: ' but how on earth I'm to manage anything, I can't imagine. For my own part, you know, though your conduct about that poor man Schurz (a well-meaning harm- less fanatic, 1 dare say) was really a public scandal — from the point of view of parents I mean, my dear fellow, from the point of view of parents — I should almost be inclined to keep you on here in spite of it, and brave the public opinion of Pilbury Regis, if it depended entirely upon my own judg- ment. But in the management of a school, my dear boy, as you yourself must be aware, a head roaster isn't the sole and only authority ; there are the governors, for example, Le Breton, and— and— and, ur, there's Mrs. Greatrex. Now, in all matters of social discipline and attitude, Mrs. Greatrex is justly of equal authority with me ; and Mrs. Greatrex thinks it would never do to keep you at Pilbury. So, of course, that practically settles the question. I'm awfully sorry, Le Breton, dreadfully sorry, but I don't see my way out of it. The mischief's done already, to some extent, for all Pilbury knows now that Schurz came down here to stop with you at your lodgings: but if I were to keep you on they'd say I didn't disapprove of Schurz's opiniiais, and that would naturally be simple ruination for the school — simple ruination.' Ernest thanked him sincerely for the trouble he had taken, but wondered desperately m his own heart what sort of future could ever be in store for them. The second event was less unexpected, though quite equally embarrassing under existing circumstcinces. Hardly more than a month before the end of the quarter, a iittlo W' 198 rm/jsTiA. black-cycd 1)aliy daughter came to add to the prospective l)urden3 of tlio Le Dreton family. She was a woe, fat, ivjund-faced, dimpled Devonshire lass to look at, as far sur- jjassiiig every previous haby in personal ai)j)carance as each of those previous babies, by universal admission, had sur- passed all their earlier predecessors — a fact wliich, as Mr. Sanders remarked, ought to l>e of most gratifying import both to evolutionists and to philanthropists in general, as proving the continuous and progressive amelioration of the human race : and Edie was very i)roud of her indeed, as she lay ])lacidly ni her very plain little white robes on the pillow of her simple wickerwork cradle. But Ernest, though he learned to love the tiny intruder dearly afterwards, had no heart just then to bear the conventional congratulations of his friends and fellow-masters. Another mouth to feed, another life dependent upon him, and little enough, as it seemed, for him to feed it with. When Edie asked lum what they should name the baby — he had just received an adverse answer to his application for a vacant secretaryship -he crumpled up the envelope bitterly in his hand, and cried out in his misery, ' Call her Pandora, Edie, call her Pandora; for we've goL to the very bottom of the casket, and there is nothing at all left for us now but hope — and even of that very little ! ' So they duly registered her name as Pandora ; but her mother shortened it familiarly into Dot ; and as little Dot she was practically known ever aftei. Almost as soon as poor Edie was able to get about again, the time came when they would have to leave Pilbury Regis. The doctor's search had been quite ineffectual, and he had heard of absolutely nothing that was at all likely to suit Ernest Le Breton. He had tried Government offices, Members of Parliament, colonial friends, everybody he knew in any way who might possibly know of vacant posts or appointments, but each answer was only a fresh disappoint- ment for him and for Ernest. In the end, he was fain to advise his peccant under-master, since nothing else remained for it, that he had better go up to London for the present, take lodgings, and engage in the precarious occupation known as ' looking about for something to turn up.' On the morning when Edie and he were to leave the town, Dr. Gi'ccvtrex saw Eiucst privately in his o.vu study. * I wish very much I could have gone to the station to see you off, Le Breton,' he said, pressing his hand warmly ; ' but it wouldn't do, you know, it wouldn't do, and Mrs. Greatrex wouldn't like it. People would say I sympathised secretly with your political opinions, which might offend Sir Matthew THE STREETS OF ASKELON. 199 Ogle and others of our governors. But I'm sorry to get riii of you, really and sincerely sorry, my dear fellow ; and apart from personal feeling, I'm sure you'd have made a good master in most ways, if it weren't for your most unfortunate socialistic notions. Get rid of them, Le Breton, I beg of you : do get rid of them. Well, the only thing I can advise you now is to try your hand, for the present <;nly — till some- thing turns up, you know— at literature and join-nalism. 1 shall be on the look-out for you still, and shall tell you at once of anything I may happen to hear of. But meanwhile, you must try to be earning something. And if at any time, my dear friend, you should be temporarily in want of money,' — the doctor said this in a shame-faced, hesitating sort of way, with not a little humming and hawing— 'in want of money for immediate necessities merely, if you'll only be so kind as to write and tell me, I should consider it a pleasure and a privilege to lend you a ten pound note, you know— just for a short time, till you saw your way clear before you. Don't hesitate to ask me now, be sure ; and I may as well say, write to me at the school, Le Breton, not at the school- house, so that even Mrs. Greatrex need never know anything about it. In fact, if you'll excuse me, I've put a small sum into this envelope — only twenty pounds— which may be of service to you, as a loan, as a loan merely ; if you'll take it- only till something turns up, you know— you'll really be con- ferring a great favour upon me. There, there, my dear boy ; now don't be offended : I've borrowed money myself at times, when I was a young man like you, and I hadn't a wife and family then as an excuse for it either. Put it in your pocket, there's a good fellow ; you'll need it for Mrs. Le Breton^ and the baby, you see ; now do please put it in your pocket.' The tears rose fast and hot in Ernest's eyes, and he grasped the doctor's other hand with gi-ateful fervour. 'Dear Dr. Greatrex,' he said as well as he was able, ' it's too kind of you, too kind of you altogether. But I really can't take the money. Even after the expenses of Edie's illness and of baby Dot's wardrobe, we have a little sum, a very little sum laid by, that'll help us to tide over the immediate present. It's too good of you, too good of you altogetlier. I shall remember your kindness for ever with the most sincere and heartfelt gratitude.' As Ernest ioukcd inlo the aoyt».i'b iLaf-iibr'fcd eyes. swiunning and glistening just a little with sympathetic moisture, his heart smote him Avhen he thought that he had ever described that good, kindly, generous man as an un- mitigated humbug. ' It shows how little one can trust the mere outside shell of human beings,' he said to Edie, self- 200 rUTLISTTA. reproachfully, as they sat together in their bare third-class carriage an hour later. ' The humbug's just the conventional mask of his i)rofes8ion— necessary enough, I suppose, for people who are really going to live successfully in the world as we find it : the heart witliin hini's a thousand times M'armer and truer and ni(jre unspoiled than one could evji have imagined frnn the outer covering. He offered me his twenty pcmnJs so delicately and considerately tliat but for my father's blood in me, Ed'e, for your sake, I believe I could almost have taken it.' When tliey got to London, Ernest wished to leave Edie and Dot at Arthur Berkeley's rooms (he knew nowhere else to leave them,, while he went out by himself to look about for cheap lodgings. Edie was still too weak, he said, to carry her bal>y about the streets of London in search of apartments. But Edie wouldn't hear (^f this arrangement; she didn't quite like going to Arthur's, andslie felt sure she could bafgain with the London landladies agreat deal more effectually tlian a man like Ernest — which was an important matter in the present very reduced condition of the family tinances. In the end it was agreed that they slioidd both go out on the hunt together, but that Ernest should be permitted to relieve Edie by turns in taking care of the precious baby. ' They're dreadful people, I believe, London 'andladies,' said Edie, in lier most housewifely manner , ' regular cheats and skintlints, I've always heard, who try to take you in on every conceivable point and item. We must be very careful not to let them get the better of us, Ernest, and to make full inquiries about all extras, and so forth, beforehand.' They turned towards Holloway and the northern district, to look for cht'.ap rooms, and they saw a great many, more or less dear, and more or less dirty and unsuitable, until their poor hearts really began to sink within them. At last, in despair, Edie turned up a small side street in Holloway, and stoi)ped at a tiny house with a clean white curtain in its wee front bay window. ' This is awfully small, Ernest,' she said, despondently, ' but perhaps, after all, it might really suit us.' The door v/as opened for them by a tall, raw-boned, hard- faced woman, the very embodiment and personification of EdVs id^^nl ?Vinfbr,t Lcr^drn l,''.rd!'..dy. Might they see Lhe lodgings, Edie asked dubiously. Yes, they might, indeed, mum, answered the hard-faced woman. Edie glanced at Ernest significantly, as who should s-ay that these would really never do. The lodgings were very small, but they were as clean as a new pin. Edie began to relent, and thought, perhaps m spite THE STREETS OF ASKEl.ON. 301 of the landlady, they might somehow manage to put up with them. What was the rent \ , , , The hard-faced Lmdlady looked atEdie steadily, and then answered ' Fifteen shillinj,'s, mum.' . , x^ ,• 'Oh, that's too much f(jr us, I'm afraid, said Jl, ctter accommodation of tlie baby. ' 'e •7 * THE STREETS OF ASKELON. 203 'E's v th.e lonr >r vou looked at it, had a warm cup of tea always ready against his coming : and Edie, witli wee Dot 206 PHILISTIA. sleeping placidly on her arm, stood at the door to welcome hini back again in wife-like fashion. The tiowers in the window bloomed bright and gay in the tiny parlour : and Jidie, with her motherly caies for little Dot, seemed more like herself than ever she had done before since poor Harry's def^h had clouded the morning of her happy lifetime. But to Ernest, even that preity picture of the young mother and her sleeping baby looked only like one more reminder of the terrible burden he had unavoidably yet too lightly taken upon him. Those two dear lives depended wholly upon him for their daily bread, and where that daily bread was ever to come from he had absolutely not the slightest notion. There is no place in which it is more utterly dreary to be quite friendless than in teeming London. Still, they were not absolutely frien.lless even in that great lurid throng of jarring humanity, all eagerly intent on its own business, and none of it troubluig its collective head about two such nonem ities as Erntst and Edie. Ronald used to come round daily to see them and cheer them up with his quiet confi- dence m the Disposer of all things : and Arthur Berkeley neglectmg his West End invitations and his la RerinuHly v/itli or t.hiH niiw vent,uvi> vi^ry Rerinnsiy v/itSi syiv.j-JVttiiain"' Edie. ' It's a great risk,' he said, tunung it over dubiously - ! : 1 m. ' 1 208 PIIILISTIA. in his mind ; ' a great risk, and a great expense too, for notliing certain. Let me see, tlierell be a quire of white foolscap to start with ; that'll be a shilling— a lot of money as things go at present, Edie, isn't it \ ' ' Why not begin with half a (piire, Ernest? ' said his little wife, cautiously. ' That'd be only six[)ence, you see.' 'Do they halve quires at the stationer's, I wonder?' Ernest went on still mentally reckoning. 'Well, suppose we put it at sixpence. Then we've* got pens already by us, but not any ink— that's a penny— and there's postage, say about twopence ; total ninepence. That's a lot of money, isn't it, now, for a pure uncertainty ? ' ' I'd try it, Ernest dear, if 1 were you,' Edie answered. *We must do something, mustn't we, dear, to earn our living.' ' We must,' Ernest said, sighing. ' I wish it were any- thing but that ; but I supjxjse what must be must be. W^ell, I'll go out a walk by myself in the (piietest streets I can find, and try if 1 can think of anything on earth a man can write about. Arthur Berkeley says 1 ought to begin with a social article for a p!>,per ; he knows the "Morning Intelligence" people, and lie'll try to get them to take something if I can manage to write it. I wonder wliat on (sarth would do as a sociaf article for the "Morning Intelligence"! If only they'dlet me write about socialism now! but Arthur says they won't take that ; the times aren't yet ripe for it. I wish they were, Edie, I wish they were ; and then perhaps you and I would find .some way to earn ourselves a decent living.' So Ernest went 5ut, and ruminated quietly by himself, as well as he was able, in the least frecjucntcid streets of Holloway and H'ghgate. After about half an hour's excogi- tation, a brilliant idea at last flashed across hini ; he had found in a tobacconist's Avindow souiL'thing to write about! Your practis^ed journalist doesn't need to think at all ; he writes whatever comes upiieimost without the unnecessarily troublesome preliminary of deliberate thinking. But Ernest Lc Bnton was only making his lirst experiment in the queer craft, and he looked u[ion himself as a veritable Watt or Columbus Avhen he had actually discovered that hitherto unknown ttbject, a thing to write about. He went straight back to good Mrs. Halliss'a with his discovery whirling in his head, st(Ji)ping only by the way at the stationer's, to invest in half a quire of white foolscap. 'The best's a shilling a quire, mister,' said the shoi)man ; ' second best, tenpence.' Communist as ho w;is, Krnnst coHldn't help noticing the unusual mode of address \ but he took the THE CLOUDS BEGIN TO BREAK. ^v>9 cheaper quality quietly, and congratulated himself on his good luck in saving a penny upon the original estimate. When he got home, he sat down at the plain wooden table by the window, and began with nervous haste to write away rapidly at his first literary venture. Edie sat by in her little low chair and watched him closely with breathless interest. Would it be a success or a failure ? That was the question they were both every moment intently asking them- selves. It was not a very important piece of literary work- manship, to be sure ; only a social leader for a newspaper, to be carelessly skimmed to-day and used to light the fire to- morrow, if even that ; and yet had it been the greatest masterpiece ever produced by the human intellect Ernest could not have worked at it with more conscientious care, or Edie watched him with profounder admiration. When Shake- speare sat down to write ' Hamlet,' it may be confidently asserted that neither Mistress Anne Shakespeare nor any- body else awaited the result of his literary labours with such unbounded and feverish anxiety. By the time Ernest had finished his second sheet of white foolscap — much erased and interlined with interminable additions and corrections — Edie ventured for a moment brieiiy to interrupt his creative efforts. ' Don't you think you've written as much as makes an ordinary leader now, Ernest % ' she asked, apologetically. ' I'm afraid you're making it a good deal longer than it ougiit to be by rights.' ' I'm sure I don't know, Edie,' Ernest answered, gazing at the two laboured sheets with infinite dubitation and .searching of spirit. ' I suppose one ought properly to count the words in an average leader, and make it the same length as they always are in the " Morning Intelligence." I think they generally run to just a column.' ' Of course you ought, dear,' Edie a.iswered. ' Run out this minute and buy one before you go a single line further.' Ernest looked back at his two pages of foolscap some- what ruefully. 'That's a dreadful bore,' he said, with a 8i<:!rh : ' it'll just run away with the whole penny I thought I'd managed to save in getting the second quality of foolscap for fivepence. However, I suppose it can't be helped, and after all, if the thing succeeds, one can look up(m the penny in the light of an investment. It's throwing a sprat to catch a whale, as the proverb says : though I'm afraid Herr Max would say that that was a very immoral capitalist proverb. How horribly low we must be sinking, Edie, when we come to use the anti social language of those dreadful capitaliata i ' ' I don't think capitaliata deal much in proverbs, dear,' 210 PIIILISTIA. said Eilie, smiling in spite of herself ; * but you needn't go to the expense of buying a " Morning Intelligence," I dare say, for perhaps Mrs. Halliss may have an old one in the house ; or if not, she might be aljle to borrow one from a neighbour. She has a perfect genius for borrowing, Mrs. Halliss ; she borrows everything I want from somebody or other. I'll just run down to the kitchen this minute and ask her.' In a few seconds Edie returned in triumph with an old soiled and torn copy of the ' Morning Intelligence,' duly pro- cured by the ingenious Mrs. Halliss from the daily opposite. It was a decidedly anti(|uated copy, and it had only too obvi- ously been employed by its late possessor to wrap up a couple of kippered herrings ; but it was still entire, so far as regarded the leaders at least, and it was perfectly legible in spite of its ancient and fish-like smell. To ensure accuracy, Ernest and Edie took a leader apiece, and carefully coiuited up the numl)er of words that went to the column. They came i^w an average to fifteen hundred. Tlien Ernest counted his own manuscript with equal care — no easy task when one took into consideration the interlined or erased passages— and, to his infinite disgust, discovered that it only extended to seven hundred and fifty words. ' Why, Edie,' he said, in a very disappointed tone, * how little it prints into ! I should certainly have thought I'd written at least a whole column. And the worst of it is, I believe I've really said all 1 have to say about the subject.' ' What is it, Ernest dear \ ' asked Edie. 'Italian organ-boys,' Ernest answered. *I saw on a placard in the news shop that oi^e of them had been taken to a hospital in a starving condition.' He hardly liked to tell even Edie that he had stood for ten minutes at a tobac- conist's window and read the case in a sheet of ' Lloyd's News ' conspicuously hung up there for public perusal. ' Well, let me hear what you have written, Ernest dear, and then see if you couldn't expand it.' Ernest read it over most soriously and solemnly — it was only a social leader, of the ordinary commonplace talky-talky sort ; but to those two poor young people it was a very serious and solemn matter indeed— no less a matter than their qmw. two lives and little Dot's into the bargain. It began with the particular case of the particular organ-boy who formed the peg on which the whole article was to be hung ; it went on to discourse on the lives and manners of organ-boys in general ; it digressed into the natural history of the coiiuiiun guinea-pig, with an excursus on the scenery of the Lower Apennines ; and it finished off with sundry abstract ill THE CLOUDS BEGIN TO BREAK. 211 needn't go e," I dare 3ne in the ine from a ring, Mrs, mebody or linute and ith an old ' duly pro- '^ opposite. "J too obvi- ip a couple ,s regarded in spite of cy, Ernest ted up the ly came on )unted his when one passages — 1 extended he said, in into ! I ,st a whole Uy said all saw on a n taken to :ed to tell ,t a tobac- \ 'Lloyd's usal. [•neat dear, dy — it was ,alky-talky ery serious their own ,n with the ormed the it went on m-boys in ■y of the ery of the 'y abstract observations on the musical aspect of the bairel-organ and the lesthetic value of hurdygurdy performances. Edie listened to it all with deep attention. ' It's very good, Ernest dear,' she said, with wifely admiration, as soon as he had tinished, ' Just like a real leader exactly ; only, do you know, there aren't any anec- dotes in it. I think a s(jcial leader of that sort ought always to have a lot of anecdotes. Couldn't you manage to bring in something about Fox and Shuriuan, or about George IV. and Beau Brummel \ They always do, you know, in most of the papers.' Ernest gazed at her in silent admiration. ' How clever of you, Edie,' he said, 'to think of that! Why, of course there ought to be some anecdotes. They're the very breath of life to this sort of meaningless writing. Only, somehow, George IV. and Beau Brummel don't seem exactly relevant to Italian organ-grinders, now do they ? ' ' I thought,' said Edie, with hardly a touch of unin- tentional satire, ' that the best thing about anecdotes of that kind in a newspaper was their utter irrelevancy. But if Beau Brummel won't do, couldn't you manage to work in Guicciardini and the galleys \ That's strictly Italian, you know, and therefore relevant ; and I'm sure the newspaper leaders are extremely fond of that story about Guiccardini.' 'They are,' Ernest answered, 'most undoubtedly; but perhaps for that very reason readers may be beginning to get just a little tired of it by this time.' ' I don't think the readers matter much,' said Edie, with a brilliant flash of practical common-sense ; ' at least, not nearly half as much, Ernest, as the editor.' 'Quite true,' Ernest replied, with another admiring look ; ' but prob ibly the editor more or less consults the taste and feelings of the readers. Well, I'll try to expand it a bit, and I'll manage to drag in an anecdote or two some- how—if not Guicciardini, at least something or other else Italian. You see Italy's a tolerably rich subject, because you can do any amount about Raffael, and Michael Angelo, and Leonardo, and so forth, not to mention Botticelli. The papers have uiade a dreadful run lately on Botticelli.' So Ernest sat down once more at the table by the window, and began to interlard the manuscript with such allusions to Italy and the Italians as could suggest them- selves on the spur of the moment to his anxious imagination. At the end of half an hour— about the time a practised hand would have occupied in writing the whole article— he counted Words once more, anu lounu luuic ucic aim irt-- in.nn.vu Two hundred more words to say about Italian wanting. F 2 212 PITILISTIA organ- boys ! Alas for the untrained human fancy ! A. master leader writer at the ofHce of the * Morning Intelli- gence ' could have run on for ever on so fertile and sugges- tive a theme— a theme pregnant with unlimited openings for all the cheap commonplaces of abstract Journalistic philanthropy; but poor Ernest, a 'prentice hand at the trade, had yet to learn the fluent trick of the accomplished news purveyor; ho absolutely could not write without thinking about it. A third time he was obliged to recommit his manuscript, and a third time to count the words over. This time, oh joy, the reckoning came out as close as possible to the even fifteen hundred. Ernest gave a sigh of relief, and turned to read it all over again, as finally enlarged and amended, to the critical ears of admiring Edie. There was anecdote enough now, in all conscience, in the article ; and allusions erough to stock a whole week's numbers of the ' Morning Intelligence.' Edie listened to the whole tirade with an air of the most severe and impartial criticism. When Ernest had finisl jd, she rose up and kissed him. ' I'm sure it'll do, Ernest,' she said confidently, ' It's exactly like a real leader. It's quite beautiful— a great deal more beau- tiful, in fact, than anything else I ever read in a newspaper : it's good enough to print in a volume.' 'I hope the editor'll think so,' Ernest answered, dubiously. ' If not, what a lot of valuable tennenny foolscap wasted all for nothing ! Now I must write it all out again clean, Edie, on fresh pieces.' Newspaper men, it must be candidly admitted, do not usually write their articles twice over ; indeed, to judge by the result, it may be charitably believed that they do not even, as a rule, read them through when written, to correct their frequent accidental slips of lor l^nglish ; but Ernest wrote out his organ-boy leader in his n. rfble and roundest hand, copperplate fashion, with as much care and precision as if it were his first copy for presentation to the stern writing-mas- ter of a Draconian board school. ' Editors are more likely to read your manuscript if it's legible, I should think, Edie,' ha said, looking up at her with more of hope in his face than Jiad often been seen in it of late. ' I wonder, now, whether they prefer it sent in a long envelope, folded in three ; or in a square envelope, folded twice over ; or in a paper cover, open like a pamphlet. There must be some recognised pro- fessional way of doing it, and I should think one's more likely to get it taken if one sends it in the regular profes- sional fasliion, tlian if one makes it look too amateurish. I shall go in for the long envelope ; at any rate, if not iournal= istic, it's at least official.' "^ ' "* ' mcy ! A ig Intelli- id sugges- OptMlil)g3 luni.'ilistic cl at the implished ■without recommit )rds over, close as ! a sigh of r enlarged ce, in the jnumbersi the whole criticism, m. 'I'm actly like ore beau- wspaper : ubiously. rasted all an, Edie, , do not judge by ly do not correct at Ernest roundest ision as if ting-mas- likely to Edie,' ha Face than whether se ; or in iv cover, ised pro- e's more V profes- irish. I journal- TI/E CLOUDS BEGIN TO BREAK. 213 The editor of the ' Morning Intelligence ' is an important personage in contemporary politics, and a man of more real weight in the world than half-a-dozen Members of Parlia- ment for obscure country boroughs ; but even that mighty man himself would probably have been a little surprised as well as amused (if he could have seen it) at the way in which Ernest and Edie Le Breton anxiously endeavoured to conci- liate beforehand his merest possible perstmal fads and fancies. As a matter of fact, the question of the particular paper on which the article was written mattered to him absolutely less than nothing, inasmuch as he never looked at anything whatso- ever until it had been set up in type for him to pass oft-hand judgment upon its faults or its merits. His time was far too valuable to be lightly wasted on the task of deciphering crabbed manuscript. In the afternjon, Berkeley called to see whether Ernest had followed his suggestion, and was agreeably surprised to find a whole article already finished. He glanced through the neatly written pages, and was still more pleased to dis- cover that Ernest, with an unsuspected outburst of practica- lity and practicability, had really hit upon a possible subject. 'This may do, Ernest,' he said with a sigh of relief. 'I dare say it will. I know Lancaster wants leader writers, and I think this is quite good enough to serve his turn. I've spoken to him about you : come round with me now— he'll be at the oflice by four o'clock — and we'll see what we can do for you. It's absolutely useless sending anything to the editor of a daily paper without an introduction. You might write with the pen of the angel Gabriel, or turn out leaders which wc'oa judicious mean between Gladstone, Burke, and Herbert Spencer, and it would profit you nothing, for the simple reason that he hasn't got the time to read them. He would toss Junius and Montesquieu into the waste paper basket, and accept copy on the shocking murder in the Borough Road from one of his regular contributors instead . He ca.x't help himself : and what you must do, Ernest, is to become one of the regular ring, and combine to keep Junius and Montesquieu permanently outside.' ' The struggle for existence ves no quarter,' Ernest said sadly with half a sigh. 'And takes none,' Berkeley answered quickly. ' So for your wife's sake you must try your best to fight your way through it on your own account, for yourself and your family.' The editor of the 'Morning Intelligence,' Mr. Hugh L.an caster w.aa a short. thick-Bet^ hard-headed sort of man, with a kindly twinkle in his keen grey eyes, and a harassed 214 nnusTiA. smile playing continually around the corners of his firr. and close niuutli. He looked as though he was naturally a good- humoured benevolent person, overdriven at the journalistic mill till half the life was worn out of him, leaving the bene- volence as a wearied remnant, without energy enough to express itself in any other fashion than by the i)er[)etual harassed smile. He saw Arthur Berkeley and truest Le Breton at once in his own sanctum, and took the manuscript from their hands with a languid air of perfect resignation. ' This is the friend you spoke of, is it, Berkeley ] ' he said in a wearied way. ' Well, well, we'll see what we can do for him.' At the same time he rang a tiny hand-bell. A boy, rather the worse for printer's ink, appeared at the sunnnons. Mr. Lancaster handed him Ernest's careful mauuscri[)t un- opened, with the laconic order, 'Press. Proof innnediatcly.' The boy took it without a word. ' Pm very busy ncnv,' Mr. Lancaster went on in the same wearied dispirited manner : ' come again in thirty-fi 'e minutes. Jones, show tl.ese gen- tlemen into a room somewhere,' And the editor fell back f(jrthwith into his easy-chair and his original attitude of listless indiiJerence. Berkeley and Ernest followed the boy into a bare back room, furnished only Avith a deal table and two chairs, and there anxiously awaite i the result of the editor's critical examination. 'Don't be afraid of Lancaster, Ernest,' Arthur said kindly. ' His manner's awfully cold, I know, but he means well, and I really believe he'd go out of his way, rather than nut, to do a kindness for anybody he thought actually in want of occupation. With most men, that's an excellent reason for not employing you : with Lancaster I do truly think it's a genuine recommendation.' At the end of thirty-five minutes the grimy-faced ofPce- boy returned with a frieui^ynod. ' Editor'll see you,' he said, with the Spartan brevity of the journalistic world — nobody connected with newspapers ever writes or speaks a single word unnecessarily, if he isn't going to be paid for it at so much per thousand — and Ernest followed him, tremb- ling from head to foot, into Mr. Lancaster's private study. The great editor took up the steaming hot proof that had just been brought him, and glanced down it carelessly with a rapid scrutiny. Ihen he turned to Ernest, and said in a dreamy fashion, ' This will do. We'll print this to-morrow. You may send us a middle very occasionally. Come here at four o'clock, when a subject suggests itself to you, and speak to me about it. My time's very fully occupied. Good mornin.s[, Mr. Le Breton. Berkeley, stop a minute, I want to talk with you.' THE CLOUDS BEGLV TO AK. 215 It was all done in a moment, and almo ; bef' >re Em st knew what had happened he was out in vio street a in, with tears filling his eyes, and joy his he; ' "t hero at ast was bread, bread, bread, for Edie and th- aby ! He ran Avithout stopping all the way back to HoUoway, rush( 1 headlong into the house and fell into Edie's arms, calling out wildly, ' He's taken it ! He's taken it ! ' Edie kissed him half-a-dozen times over, and answered bravely, ' I knew he W(juld, Ernest. It was such a splendid article.' And yet thousands of readers of the 'Morning Intelligence' next day skimmed lightly over the leader on organ-boys in their ordinary casual fasliion, without even thinking what hopes and fears and doubts and terrors had gone to the making of that very commonplace bit of newspaper rhetoric. For if the truth must be told, Edie's first admiring criticism was perfectly correct, and Ernest Le Breton's leader was just for all the world exactly the same as anybody else's. Meanwhile, Arthur Berkeley had stayed behind as requested in Mr. Lancaster's study, and waited to hear what Mr. Lancaster had to say to him. The editor looked up at him wearily from his chair, passed his broad hand slowly across his bewildered forehead, and then said the one word, ' Poor 1 ' ' Nothing on earth to do,' Berkeley answered. ' He might make a journalist, perhaps,' the editor said, sleepily. ' This social's up to the average. At any rate, I'll do my very best for him. But he can't live upon socials. We have too many social men already. What can he do \ That's the question. It won't do to say he can write pretty nearly as well about anything that turns up as any other man in England can do. I can get a hundred young fellows in the Temple to do that, any day. The real question's this : is there anything he can write about a great deal better than all the other men in all England put together \ ' 'Yes, there is,' Berkeley answered with commendable promptitude, undismayed by Mr. Lancaster's excessive requirements. ' He knows more about communists, so- cialists, and political exiles generally, than anybody else in the whole of London.' ' Good,' the editor answered, brightening up, and spralc- ing for a moment a little less languidly. ' That's good. There's this man Schurz, now, the German agitator. He's going to be tried soon for a seditious libel it seems, and he'll be sent to prison, naturally. Now, does your friend know anything at all of this fellow % ' 'He knows him personally and intimately,' Berkeley replied, deiiglited to find that the card which had proved so 2l6 nuusiiA, bad a one nt Pilbury Rcris was turning up tiumps in tlie inure Bohemian neighbourhood of the Temple and Fleet Street. ' He can give you any information f ou want about Schurz or any of the rest of tliose i)eople. He has associated with tliem ail familiarly for the last six or seven years.' 'Then he takes an interest in politics,' said Mr. Lancas- ter, almost waking up now. ' That's good again. It's so very ditlicult to find young men nowadays, able to write, who take a genuine interest in politics. They all go ott" after literature and science and jrsthetics, and other dry uniu- te>resting subjects. Now, what does your average intelligent daily paper reader care, I should like to know, about litera- ture and science and sesthetics and so forth? Well, he'll do, I've very little doubt : at any rate, I'll give him a trial. Perhaps he might be able to undertake this Great VVidgerly isenfranchising case. Stof. ! he's poor, isn't he \ I daresay e'd just as soon not wait for his money for this social. In the ordinary course, he wouldn't get paid till the end of the quarter ; but I'll give you a che(pie to take back to him now ; perhaps he wants it. Poor fellow, poor fellow ! he really looks very delicate. Depend upon it, Berkeley, I'll do anything on earth for him, if only he'll write to'erably.' ' You're awfully good,' Arthur said, taking the proffered cheque gratefully. ' I'm sure the money will he of great use to him : and it's very kind indeed of you to have thought of it.' ' Not at all, not at all,' the editor answered, collapsing dreamily. ' Good morning, good morning.' At Mrs. Halliss's lodgings in Holloway, Edie was just saying to Ernest over their simple tea, ' I wonder what they'll give you for it, Ernest.' And Ernest had just answered, big with h(jpe, ' Well, I should think it would be quite ten shillings, but I shouldn't be surprised, Edie, if it was as much as a pound ; ' when the door opened, and in walked Arthur Berkeley, with a checjue in his hand, which he laid by Edie's teacup. Edie took it up and gave a little cry of delight and astonishment, Ernest caught it from her hand in his eagerness, and gazed upon it with dazed and swimming vision. Did he read the words aright, and could it be really" ' Pay E. Le Breton, Esq., or order, three guineas ' ? Three guineas ! Three guineas ! Three real actual positive gold and silver guineas ! It was almost too much for either of them to believe, and all for a single morning's light labour ! What a perfect Eldorado of Avealth and happintss seemed now to be opening but unexpectedly before them ! So much Arthur Berkeley, his own eyes glistening too with a sympathetic moisture, saw and heard before he w^ent THE CLOUDS BEGIN TO BREAK. 317 away in a li.ippier mood ami left tlicin to their own domestic congratulations, l?ut he did not see or know the reaction that came in the duad of night, after all that day's unwonteiht any thing of the sort with you, I'm certain : and that I can »ay i 220 nilLISTlA. quite candidly, without the sh'ghtest tinge of flattery or adulaHon,' ' What ! YoxK don't think me a fool, Mr. Berkeley,' cried Lady Hilda, delighted even with that very negative bit of favourable appreciation. ' Now, that 1 call a real comi)li- ment, I assure you, because I know you clever people pitch your standard of intelligence so very, very high ! You con- sider everybody fools, I'm sure, except the few people who are almost as clever as you yourselves are. However, to return to the countess : I do think there ought to be more mixture of classes in England, and somebody told me' — this was a violent etfort to be literary on Hilda's part, by way of rising to the heig]^t of the occasion— 'somebody told me that Mr. Matthew Arnold, who's so dreadfully satirical, and cultivated, and so forth, thinks exactly the same thing, you know. Why shouldn't the Countess of Coalbrookdale have really married the foreman of the colliers] I daresay she'd have been a great deal happier with a kind-hearted sensible man like him than with that lumbering, hunting, pheasant-shooting, horse -racing lout of a Lord Coalbrook- dale, who would go to Norway on a fishing tour without her — now wouldn't she ? ' ' Very probably,' Berkeley answered : ' but in these matters we don't regard happiness only, —that, you see, would be mere base, vulgar, commonplace utilitarianism :— we regard much more that grand impersonal overruling entity, that unseen code of social morals, which we com- monly call the convaiances. Proper people don't take happiness into consideration at all, comparatively : they act religiously after the fashion that the concenances impose upon them.' 'Ah, but why, Mr. Berkeley,' Lady Hilda said, vehemently, 'why should the whole world always take it for granted that because a girl happens to be born the daughter of people whose name's in the peerage, she must necessarily be the slave of the proprieties, devoid of all ' igher or better instincts ? Why should they take it for granted tliat she's destitute of any appreciation for any kind of greatness except the kind that's represented by a million ard a quarter in the three per cents., or a great-great-grandfather who fought at the battle of Naseby ? Why mayn't she have a spark of originality i Why mayn't she be as much attracted by literature, by science, by art, by ... by ... by beautiful music, as, say, the'daughter of a lawyer, a doctor, or, or, or a country shopkeeper / What I want to know is just this, Mr. Berkeley: if people don't believe in distinctions of birtii, why on earth should they suppose that Lady Mary, HARD PRESSED. 221 or Lady Betty, or Lady Winifred, must necessarily be more hanale and vul: ir-minded, and common-place than plain Miss Jones, or J^ .ss Brown, or Miss Robinson ? You admit that these other girls may possibly care for higher subjects : then why on earth shouldn't we, can you tell me ? ' ' Certainly,' Arthur Berkeley answered, looking down into Lady Hilda's beautiful eyes after a dreamy fashion, ' certainly there's no inherent reason why one person shouldn't have just as high tastes by nature as another. Everything depends, I suppose, upon inherited qualities, variously mixed, and afterwards modified by society and education.— It's very hot here, to-night, Lady Hilda, isn't it l ' ' Very,' Lady Hilda echoed, taking his arm as she spoke. * Shall we go into the conservatory l ' ' I was just going to propose it myself,' Berkeley said, with a faint tremor thrilling in his voice. She was a very beautiful woman, certainly, and her unfeigned appreciation of his plays and his music was undeniably very iiattering to him. ' Unless I bring him fairly to book this evening,' Hilda thought to herself as she swept with him gracefully into the <;onservatory, ' I shall have to fall back upon the red-haired hurlyburlying Scotch professor, after all— if 1 don't want to end by getting into the clutches of one of those horrid Monties or Algies ! ' CHAPTER XXVI. IRRECLAIMABLE. The occasional social articles for the ' Morning Intelligence ' supplied Ernest with work enough for the time being to occupy part of his leisure, and income enough to keep the ship floating somehow, if not securely, at least in decent fair-weather fashion. His frequent trips with Ronald into the East-und gave him something comi)aratively fresh to write about, and though he was compelled to conceal his own sentiments ui)on many points, in order to conform to that impersonal conscience, 'the policy of the paper,' he was still able to deal with subjects that really interested him, and in which he fancied he might actually be doing a little good. A few days after he had taken seriously to the new occupation, good Mrs. Halliss matle her appearance in the tiny sitting-room one morning, and with many apologies and much humming and hawing ventured to make a slight personal representation to wondering little Edie. ' if you please, mum,' she said nurvously, fumbling an the while with the corner of the table cloth she was folding i 222 PHILISTTA. on the breakfast-table, 'if I might make so bold, mum, without olfencG, I should like to say as me an' John 'as been talkin' it hover, an' we think now as your good gentleman 'as so much writin' to do, at 'is littery work, mum, as I may make bold to call it, perhaps you wouldn't mind, so as not to disturb 'im with the blessed baby — not as that dear child couldn't never disturb nobody, bless 'er dear 'eart, the darling, not even when she's cryin', she's that sweet and gentle,— but we thought, mum, as littery gentlemen likes to 'ave the coast clear, in the manner of speakin', and perhaps you wouldn't mind bein' so good as to use the little front room upstairs, mum, for a sort o' nursery, as I may call it, for the dear baby. It was our bedroom, that was, where John an' me used to sleep ; but we've been an' putt our things into the front hattic, mum, as is very nice and comfortable in every way, so as to make room for the dear babv. An' if you won't take it as a liberty, mum, me au' John 'ud be more'n glad if you'd kindly make use of that there room for a sort of occasional nursery for the dear baby.' Edie bit her lip hard in her momentary confusion. ' Oh, dear, Mrs. Halliss,' she said, almost crying at the kindly meant offer, ' I'm afra'd we can't atf(jrd to liave ihrce, rooms all for ourselves as things go at present. How much do you propose to charge us for the additional nursery ?' ' Charge you for it, mum,' Mrs. Halliss echoed, almost indignantly ; ' ciiarge our lodgers for any little hextry accommodation like the small front room upstairs, mum- now, don't you go and say that to John, mum, I beg of you ; for 'is temper's rather short at times, mum, thro' bein' asmatic and the rlieumatiz, though you wouldn't tliink it to look at 'im, that you wouldn't ; an' I'm reely afraid, mum, he might get angry if anybody was to hotler" 'im anythink for a little bit of hextry accommodation like that there. Lord bless your dear 'eart, mum, don't you say nothink more about that, I beg of you ; for if John was to 'ear of it, he'd go off in a downright tearin' tantrum at the bare notion. An' about dinner, mum, you'll 'ave the cold mutton an' potatoes, and a bit of biled beetroot ; and I'll just run round to the green- grocer's this moment to order it for early dinner.' And before Edie had time to thank her, the good woman was out of the room again, and down in the kitchen at her daily pre- parations, with tears trickling slowly down both her hard red cheeks in her own motherly fashion. So from that time forth, Ernest had the small sitting- room entirely to himself, whenever he was engaged in his literary labours, while Edie and Dot turned tlie front bed- room on the first floor into a neat and coumiodious nursery. if IRRECLAIMABLE. 223 As other worlc did not turn up so rapidly as might have been expt ctud, and as Ernest grew tired after a while of writing magazine articles on ' Tlie Great Social Problem,' which were invariably 'declined with thanks' so promptly as to lead to a well-founded suspicion that they had never even been opened by the editor, he determined to employ his spare time in the production (jf an iniportant economical volume, a treatise on the ultimate ethics of a labouring community, to be entitled ' The Final Rule of Social Right Living.' This valuable economical work he continued to toil at for many nifintiis in the intervals of his other occupations ; and when at last it was duly comj)leted, he read it over at full length to dear little Edie, who considered it one of the most prcjfoundly logical and convincing political treatises ever written. The various leading firms, however, to whom it was afterwards submitted w ith a view to publication, would appear, oddly enough, to have doubted its complete suit- ability to the tastes and demands of the reading public in the present century ; for they invariably replied to Ernest's inquiries that tliey would be hap])y to undertake its pro- duction for the trifling sum of one hundred guuieas, payable in advance ; but that they did not see their way to accepting the risk and responsibility of floating so speculative a volume (Ui their own account. In the end, the unhai)py manuscript, after many refusals, was converted into cock-boats, hats, and paper dollies for little Dot ; and its various intermediate reverses need enter no further into the main thread of this history. It kept Ernest busy in the spare hours of several months, and prevented him from thinking too much of his own immediate prospects, in his dreams for the golden future of humanity ; and insomuch it did actually subserve some indirectly useful function ; but on the other hand it wasted a considerable quantity of valuable tenj'enny foolscap, and provided him after all with one more severe disappointment, to put on top of all the others to which he was just then being subjected. Cle.arly, the reading public took no paying interest in political economy ; or if they diH, then the article practically affected by the eternal laws of supply and demand was at least not the one meted out to them from the enthu- siastic Schurzian pen of Ernest Le Breton. One afternoon, not long after Ernest and Edie had taken rooms at Mrs. Halliss's, they were somewhat surprised at receiving the honour of a casual visit from a very unexpected and unusual quarter. Ronald was with them, talking earnestly over the prospects of the situation, when a knock came at the door, and to their great astonisliment the Knock was quickly followed by the entrance of Herbert. He had 224 PHILISTIA. never been there before, and Ernest felt sure he had come now for some very definite and sufficient purpose. And so he had indeed : it was a strange one for him ; but Herbert Le Breton was actually bound upon a mission of charity. We have all of us our feelings, no doubt, and Herbert Le Breton, too, in his own fashion, had his. Ernest was after all a good fellow enough at bottom, and his own brother : (a man can'tfor very respectability's sake lethis ownbrothergo utterly to the dogs if he can possibly help it) ; and so Herbert had made up his mind, much against his natural inclination, to warn Ernest of the danger he incurred in having anyth^'ng more to do or say with this insane, disreputable old 8churz fellow. For his own part, he hated giving advice ; people never took it ; and that was a deadly oli'ence against his amo.ir propre and a gross insult to his personal dignity ; but still, in this case, for Ernest's sake, he determined after an inward struggle to swallow his own private scruples, and make an effort to check his brother on the edge of the abyss. Not that he would come to the point at once ; Herbert was a careful diplomatic agent, and he didn't spoil his hand by displaying all his cards too openly at the outset ; he would begin upon comparatively indifferent subjects, and lead round the conversation gradually to the perils and errors of pure Schurzianism. So ho set out by admiring his niece's fat arms —a remarkable stretch of kindliness on Herbert's part, for of course other people's babies are well known to be really the most uninteresting objects in the whole animate universe — and then he passed on by natural transitions to Ernest's housekeeping arrangements, and to the prospects of journal- ism as a trade, and finally to the necessity for a journalist to consult the tastes of his reading public. ' And by the way, Ernest,' he said quietly at last, 'of course after this row at Pilbury, you'll drop the acquaintance of your very problem- atical (lerman socialist.' Edio started in surprise. 'What? Herr Schurz ? ' she said eagerly. ' Dear simple, kindly old Herr Schurz ! Oh no, Herbert, that I'm sure he won't ; Ernest will never drop hin acquaintance, whatever happens.' Herbert coughed drily. ' Then there are two of them for me to contend against,' he s' "d to himself with an inward smile. ' I should really hardly have expected that, now. One would have said a priori that the sound common-sense and practical regard for the dominant feelings of society, which is so justly strong in most women, would have kept her at any rate — with her own social disabilities, too — from aiding and abetting her husband la such a piece of egregious folly ''—'I'm sorry to hear it, Mrs. Le Breton,' he went on ifv IRRECLAIMABLE. 225 aloud :— ?ie never called lier by lier Christian name, and Edie was somehow rather pleased tliat lie didn't : ' for you know Herr Schurz is far from being a desirable acquaintance. Quite apart from his own personal worth, of course— which is a question that I for my part am not called upon to decide —he's a snare and a stundjling-block in the eyes of society, and very likely indeed to injure Ernest's future prospects, as he has certainly injured his career in the past. You know he's going to be tried in a few weeks for a seditious libel and for niciting to murder the Emperor of Russia. Now, ycni will yourself admit, Mrs. Le Breton, that it's an awkward thing to be mixed up with people who are tried «m a criminal charge for inciting to murder. Of c(nirse, we all allow that the Cziir's a very desi)otic and autocratic sovere gn, that his existf >ce is an anomaly, and that the desire to blow him up is a very natural desire for every intelligent Russian to harbour i)rivately in the solitude of his own bosom. If we were Russians ourselves, no doubt we'd try to blow him up too, if we could conveniently do so without detection. So much, every rational Englishman, who isn't blinded by pre- judice or frightenur discontent are often (luite rcnioval.lc. Tell me, at least, what yours are, and letme^sce whether l.u •i1.li' to do anvthin;' towards removing them. '' Selah Inmg hack a Uttle HuMeuly. This was a womlerful mixture of toi.yues that the stran-e y.mng man was talkin. n When he^poke about the right and vvj-ong of su.cu e otlucally considered, it unght have been Herbert \\ a tw hiti self who was addressing her: when he ghdod oil si le- ais to t e truth and the Word, it might have been her Pmu ive Methodist friends at Hastings m fuii meeti g assSled. And, by the way, he reminded her strange y sSi w of He.bcrt Walters ! What manner of man could he w! she wondered, and what strange sort of new Gospel wad f his that he was nrcaching to her ; How do I know who you .ue ? ' she asked htm, carelessly 'How do I km.w what you want to know my jto^y f^^? Periians you're only trying to get something out ot nt. 'Trust me,' Ronald said sia.ply. ' By faith we hve, you know. Only trust me.' Selah answered nothing. , , ,, „ „,.,,i«„ » -Ronild 'Come over here to the bench by the garden, Konaia went on earnestly. ' We can talk there more at our leuiue^ rdon't like to see you leaning so close ^to the parapet. It s a temptation ; I know it's a temptation. Selah looked at him again UKpuringly. ^1\'^ J^^^^^,J'^;^^ before met anybody so curious, ^^^ l^^l^^'. ^^ 7 afraid of being seen sitting with me like this, she saui, on £ Embankment benchesi Some of your ^i- /nends mig^it come by and wonder who on earth you had got hete with >ou Ind indeed, Selah's dress had grown very shabby and poor- looking during a long and often fruitless search for casual work or employment in Londor j i.„ f ,+ ""But Ronald only surveyed • gent y from head o f oo with a aui't smUe, and answ.ned softly, Oh, no, tnercs nfretsoTc.; earth why we shouldn't -* d. -n -d talk to.reth.r ^ '>ven if there were, my friends 1 know me tar too t.y tuus time to be surprised at anything I may do V en tiie Hand guides me. If you wdl only s^ down and tell nu; your st.My, I should like to see whether I could ^"^t!s;^t i;ei:s/i;S hi^gentie ^f -^ tf r .o the bench, and sat down beside nm -ec^^-^I-;;^ f^^ ^^^^^l made no attempt to begin her pitiful story. Kouald svispectea Kr a second so\ue special cause for hev -barra^snen^^^^ ancl ventured to suggest a possible %vay out of it. t'er laps, ne ISd thnicUy, °y.>u wiuld rather speak to some older and ^^e Mhedy lin .d^out it. or t, . .ume kind lady. If so, I i.. ir i ''^■*s;«:,.*;;_i4S 232 PHILISTIA. ■ 1 si f:- have many good friends in London who would listen to you with as much niterest and attention as I should.' The old s])irit tiared up in Selah for a second, as she answered quickly, ' No, no, sir, it's nothing of that sort. I can tell yim as well as 1 can tell anybody. If I've been unfortunate, it's been through no fault of my own, thank goodness, but only through the hard-heartedness and an- kindness of other people. I'd rather speak to you thai: to anyone else, because I feel somehow — why, I don't know — as if you had s miething or other really good in you.' 'I beg your ;'ardon,' Ronald said hastily, 'for even sug- gesting it but you see, I often have to meet a great ir,any people who've been unhappy through a great many different causes, and t!>at leads one occasionally for a time into mis- taken inferences. Let me hear all your history, please, and I livmly believe, through the aid that never forsakes ts, I shall be able to do something or other to help you in jour difficulties.' Thus adjured, Selah began and told her whole unhappy history through, without pause or break, into Ronald's quietly sympathetic ear. She told him quite frankly and fully how slie had picked up the acquaintance of a young Mr. Walters from Oxford at Hastings : how this Mr. Walters had led her to believe he would marry her : how she had left her home hurriedly, under the belief that he would be induced to keep his promise : how he had thrown her over to her own devices ; and how she had ever since been trying to pick up a precarious livelihood for herself in stray ways SIS a sempstress, work for which she was naturally very ill- titted, and for which she had no introductions. She slurred oyer nothing on either side of the story ; and especially she did not forget to describe the full measure of her troubles and trials from her Methodist friends at Hastings. Ronald shook his head sympathetically at this stage of the story. 'Ah, I know, I know,' he muttered, half under his breath ; ' nasty pious people ! Very well meaning, very devout, very earnest, one may be sure of it— but oh ! what terrible soul- kdhng people to live among ! I can understand all about it, for I've met them often— Sabbath-keeping folks ; preaching and praying folks ; worrying, bothering, fussy-religioua folks : formalists, Pharisees, mint-aniso-and-cummin Chris- tians ; awfully anxious about your soul, and so forth, and domg their very best to make you as miserable all the time as a slave at the torture ! I don't wonder you ran away from them. ' And I wasn't really sroinf to drown m^sf^lf ■"oii know when you spoke to me,' S°elah said, quite apologetically.' « I PONALD COMES OF AGE. 233 was only iust lookins over into the beautiful biwn water, Ind thinking how delicious it would be to timg oneself m there and be carried off down to the sea and rolled about for e^er into pebbles on the shingle, and there would be an endof one altogether— oh, how lovely!' ' Very natural,' Ronald answered calmly. ' Very natural. Of cour.se it would. I've often thought the same thing my- self. Still, one oughtn't, if possible, to give way to these impulses : one ought to do all that's m one s power to pre- vent such a miserable termination to one's divinely al otted existence. After all, it is His will, you see, that we should ^^ When Selah had quite finished all her story Ronald be<^an drawing circles in the road with the end of his stick, and pe pending witliin hin,self what had better be done abou it now that all was told him. 'No work,' he said, half to himself ; ' no money ; no food. Why, why, I suppose you must be hungry.' Selah nodded assent. ,. , , , ,, , 1 i ' Will vou allow me to offer you a little lunch?' he asked, hesitatin.'ly, with something of Herbert's stately politeness Even in^this last extremity, Ronald felt instinctively wha was due to Selah Brig-s's natural sentunents of pride and delicacy He must speak to her deferentially as if she were a lady, not give her alms as if she were a beggar. Then fo? the first time that day Selah burst suddenly into tears. ' Oh, sir,' she said, sobbing, ' you are very kind *"" Rmiald waited a moment or two till her eyes were dry, and then took her across the gardens and into (^atti s Any other man might have chosen some other place of entertain- ment under the circumstances, but Ronald in his perfect simplicity of heart, looked only for the first shop where e could get Selah the food she needed. He ordered something hot hastily, and, when it came, though he had had his own lunch already, 1 3 played a little with a knife and fork him- self for show's sake, in order not to seem as if he weie merely looKing on while Selah was eating. These little touches of feelin.. were not lost upon Selah : she noticed them at onre, and recognised m what Ernest would have called her aboriginal unregenerate vocabulary that sUe was dealing with a true gentleman. ' Walters,' Ronald said, pausing a second with a bit ot chop poised lightly on the end of his fork ; 'let lue see- Walters I don't Vnow any man of that name, myself, but I've had two brothers at (kford, and perhaps one of them could tell me who he is. Walters - Walters. \ ou said your • 234 PHILISTIA. ^BB^KBm^L H^H|.^^ own name was Miss Briggs, I think, didn't you ? My name's Ronald Lo Breton.' ' How curious,' Selah said, colouring up. ' I'm sure I remeiiiber Mr. Walters talking more than once to me about his brother Ronald.' ' Indeed,' Ronald answered, without even a passing tinge of suspicion. That any man should give a false name to other people with intent to deceive was a thing that woukl never have entered into liis simple head — far less that his own brotli2r Herbert should be guilty of such a piece of dis- graceful meanness. ' I think,' Ronald went on, as soon as Selah had finished her lunch, ' you'd better come with me back to my mother's house for the present. I su]ii)ose, now you've talked it over a little, you won't think of throwing yourself intcj the river any more for to-day. You'll postpone your intention for the present, won't you ? Adjourn it ame die. till we can see what can be done for you.' Selah smiled faintly. Even with the slight fresh spring of hope that this chance rencontre had roused anew within her, it seemed rather absurd and childish of her to have meditated suicide only an hour ago. Besides, she had eaten and drunk since then, and the profounde.st philosophers have always frankly admitted thnt the pessiraistic side of human nature is greatly mitigated after a good dinner. Ronald called a hansom, and drove up rapidly to Epsilon Terrace. When he got there, he took Selah into the little back breakfast room, regardless of the iiroprieties, and began once more to consider the prospects of the future. 'Is Lady Le Breton in / ' he asked the servant . and Selah noticed with surprist* and wonder that this strange young Iran's mother was actually 'a lady of title,' as she called it to herself in lier curious ordinary language. 'No, sir,' the girl answered; 'she have been gone out about an hour. ' ' Then I nmst leave you here while I go out and get you lodgings for tlie present,' Ronald said, (juietly ; 'you won't object to my doing that, of course : you can easily pay mo back from your salary as socm as we succeed in fiiuling j-ou some suitable occupation. Let me see, where can 1 put you iox the next fortnight ? Naturally you wouldn't like to live with leligious people, would you \ ' 'I hate them,' Selah answered vigorously, 'Of course, of course,' Ronald went on, as if to himself. ' Perfectly natural. She hates them ! So should I if I'd been bothered and worried out of my life l)y them in the wav Bhe has. I hate them myself —that kind : or, rather, it's RONALD COMES OF AGE. 235 out it 'a wron-to say that of them, poor creatures, for they mean welthov really mean ^^ell at l.ottou., m their blumenng, Tr na pet f..-ii.Li ^v^0. '^^^^J ^hink they can take the £ dmui He-v.n: not by stonn, but by petty c<.mpbances, like'« ^vileservantBwhohave to d.^1 -ith a c^Hmciou. ex- 4thi" master. Po<^r souls, they know no better Ihey fn! sure the universe by tlie retlcction in their muddy mill- p r' Na^;^ns pe.iple is what I always call U.em ; ^ lious people: little narrow souls, trying hard to ^^^f'^ ^■Z after then- lights, and only attaining, after all, to a soro second-hand diluted Judaism, a religion f cup-wash- ?n ' and phylacteries, and new moons, and sabba hs and r1.u'v s icntices However, that's neither here nor there. 1 toi?tha d'ouover, Miss Biiggs, to any of those poor be- ni.hted people. No, nor to any religious people at alL It ^vouldn t su t you : you want to be well out of it. I know fl t vtrv nl ce for vou. There are the Baumanns : they'd be d:d to'let'a rooi^. Baumann's a German refugee, ami a h-ieul of Ernest's : a good man, but a secularist. 2Vuy vou n't bother you with any religion : poor things, they /v 't Ut any I^Trs. Baumann's an excellent woman- educ-^ed too?no objection at all in any way to the Bau- nlnnr The^^ I like and respect imniensey-every S quality they have ; and I'm often grieved to think such excelir people should be deprived of the conifort ai d ^k^sure of believing. But, then, ^-^ ^ ^^^ K? 4. . ov,fi vr,ii know thevre none the worse xor it, ^:::^.^i\fjyo^ tC: LlLd, I don't know that there's TvS wih^whoua I can talk more sympathetically on B fri ud natters than dear Erne.t. Depend upon it, most of the most spiritually-minded people nowadays are outside ""'' I^^SS^d hii;ia;:i^amazement to this singular avowal of he eVodox opinion from an obviously religious person A\afat Bonakl Le Breton could be she couldn't imaguie ; and sh^t uug t ^ an inward smile of the very coherent way inwS her friends at Hastings would have discussed the ^^^t^:t^rnl:^^ttS;ty turned lightly in the street door and two sets of fo..tstep8 came down the cheeks fronrthe chair wh'ere she was sitting; and neither 236 PHILISTIA. spoke a word as tliey looke.l with eyes of mutual suspicion and disliko into eacli other's faces. At hist Herbert Le Breton turned witli some acerbity to his brotlier Ronald, and asked in a voice of affected contempt, ' Who is this woman \ ' 'This ladifs name is Miss Briggs,' Ronald answered, pointedly, but, of course, (]uite innocently, 'I needn't ask you who this man is,' Selah said, with bitter em[)]iasis. ' It's Herbert Walters.' A horrible light burst in upon Ronald instantaneously as she uttered the name ; but he could not believe it ; he would not believe it : it was too terrible, too incredible. ' No, no,' he said falteringly, turning to Selah; 'you must be not Mr. Walters. This is my brcjther, mistaken. This is Herbert Le Breton. Selah gazed into Herbert's slinking eyes Avith a concen- trated expression of scorn and disgust. ' Then he gave me a false name,' she said, slowly, fronting him like a tigress, ' He gave me a false name, it seems, from the very begin- ning. All through, the false wretch, all through, he actually meant to deceive me. He laid his vile schema for it before"- haud. I never wish to see you again, you miserable cur, Herbert Le Breton, if that's your real name at last. I never v/ish to see you again : but I'm glad I've done it now by accident, if it were only to inflict upon you the humiliation of knowing that I have measured the utmost depth of your infamy ! You mean, common, false scoundrel, I have measured to the bottom the depth of your infamy ! ' 'Oh, don't,' Ronald said imploringly, laying his hand upon her arm. ' He deserves it, no doubt ; but don't glory over his humiliation.' He had no need to ask whether she spoke the truth ; his brother's livid and scarlet face w^as evi- dence enough against him. Herbert, however, answered nothing. He merely turned angrily to Ronald. ' I won't bandy words,' he said con- strainedly in his coldest tone, ' with this infamous woman whom you have brought here on purpose to insult me ; but I must request you to ask her to leave the house immediately. \ our mother's home is no place to which to bring people of such a character.' As he spoke, the door opened again, and Lady Le Breton, attracted by the sound of angry voices, entered unexpectedly. •What dots all this riot mean, Herberts she asked, im- periously. ' Who on earth is this young woman that Ronald has brought into my own house, actually without my per- mission \ ' Herbert whispered a few words quietlv intf> her e<)T and then left the room hurriedly with a stiti" and formal bow to RONALD COMES OF AGE. 237 his brother Ronald. Lady Le Breton turned round to the '''^^^^^, Ronakl!' she cried in her sternest and most an° rv voice ; ' perfectly disgraceful ! You aid and Xttl^^v^etched'criature- whose object is only to extort -nonev by false pretences out of your brother Herbert ->.)U aid and sibet her in her abominable stratagems, and you even venture to introduce her clandestinely into my own bi^ak- fast-room. I wonder you're not ashamed of yourseU. Whao oil earth can you mean by such extraordinary, such un- christian conduct ] Go to your own room this moment sir, •md ask this voung woman to leave the house immediately. ' I thallj. without being asked,' Selah said, proudly, her bio- eyes flashing defiance haughtily into Lady Le Lreton s. *f don't know who you all may be, or what this gentleman who brought me here may have to do with you : but if you are in any way connected with that wretch Herbert Lo BretcJi, who called himself Herbert Walters for the sake of deceiviK' me, I don't want to have anything further to say to any o? the' whole pack of you. Please stand out of my lay,' she went on to Ronald, 'and I «l^'\^\l^f ^^^^T W you all together this very instant. 1 wish to God I had ^^]^r^{:S^:%^^^^ RonaM put m hastily^ « You mustn't go just yet, I implore you, I beg of you till 1 have explained to my mother, before you, how this al hap- pened ; and then, when you go, I shall go with you. Though I have the misfortune to be the brother of the man who gave you a false name in order to deceive you, J /rus you mil still allow me to help you as far as I am able, and to take vou to my German friends of whom I spoke to you. ^ ' Ronald,' Lady Le Breton cried, m her most command- in« tone, ' you must have taken leave of your senses. How S^-e yoA keep this person a moment longer in my house a<^ainst my wish, when even she herself is anxious to quit it? Let her 20 at once, let her go at once, sir. ' N'^,^nother,' Ronald answered firmly. We are com- manded in the Word to obey our parents m all things, m ?rLord " I think you've forgotten that proviso, mo her - Tn the Lord." Now, mother, I will tell you all about it. And the.K in a rapid sketch, Ronald, with his back planted foMly against the door, told his mother briefly all he knew £7 Selah Briggs, how he had found her, 1-w he had brought her home not knowing who she was, and J^ow she had recognised Herbert as her unfaithful lover. Lady Le naa recot,uiocii „„^„,,o,^pa ,^mpi,inallv impossible, Tirt'fiin when sue saw tnai- v ^^^<••i — r — --^ '- ■, , ,,. fling herself back in an easy-chair, where she Bwayed herselt 23S PHILISTIA. backward and forward gently all the while, without once lifting her eyes towards Ilonald, and sighed impatiently from time to time audibly, as if the story merely bored her. As for poor Selah, she stood upright in front of Ronald without a word, looking neither to the right nor to the left, and waiting eagerly for the story to be finished. When Ronald had said his say. Lady Le Breton looked up at last and said simply, with a pretended yawn, ' Now, Ronald, will you go to your own room ? ' 'I will not,' Ronald answei-ed, in a soft whisper. 'I will go with this lady to the rooms of which I have spoken to her.' 'Then,' Lady Le Breton said coldly, 'you shall not return here. It seems I'm to lose all my children, one after' another, by their extraordinary rebelliousness ! ' ' 13y your own act— yes,' Ronald answered, very calmly. ' You forgot that last Thursday was my birthday, I daresay, mother ; but I didn't forget it ; it was ; and I came of age then. I'm my own master now. I've stopped here as long as I could, mother, because of the commandment : but I can't stop here any longer, I shall go to Ernest's for to- night as soon as I've got rooms for this lady.' 'Crood evening,' Lady Le Breton said, bowing frigidly, without another word. ' Good evening, mother,' Ronald replied, in his natural voice. 'Miss Briggs, will you come with me? I'm very sorry that this unhappy scene should have been inflicted upon you against my will ; but I hope and pray that you won't have lost all confidence in my wish to help you, in spite of these unfortnnate accidents.' Selah followed hiui blindly, in a dazzled fashion, out on to the flagstones of Epsilon Terrace. 'Dear me, dear me,' moaned Lady Le Breton, sinking back vacantly once more, with an air of resignation after her ofibrts, into the easy-chair; 'was there ever a mother so plagued and burdened with unnatural and undutiful sons as 1 am \ If cren't for dear Herbert, I'm sure I don't know wliat .liould ever do between them. Ronald, too, wlio always pretended to be so very, very religious ! To think that he should go and upliold the word of a miserable, abandoned, improper adventuress against his own brother Herbert ! Atrocious, perfectly atrocious ! Where on eartli he can have picked up such a woman I'm positively at a loss to imagine. But it's exactly like his poor dear "fatlier : I remember once when we were stationed at Moozuiiernugger, in the North-Vfcst Provinces, with the 14th Bengal, poor Owen absolutely insisted on taking up the case of some RONALD COMES OF AGE. 239 m so ! To Eurasian woman, who pretended she'd been badly treated by young Walker of our regiment ! I call it quite unproper— ■ almost unseemly— to meddle in the affairs of such people. I daresay Herbert has had something or other to say to this horrid girl ; young men will be young men, and in the army we know how to make allowances for that sort of thing : but that Ronald should positively think of bringing such a person into my breakfa&t-room is not to be heard of. Ronald s a pure Le Breton— that's undeniable, thank goodness ; not a single one of the good Whitaker points to be found in all his nat°ire. However, poor dear Sir Owen, in spite of all his nonsense, was at least an officer and a gentleman ; whereas the nonsense these boys have picked up at Oxford and • among their German refugee people is both irreligious, and, I may even say, indecent, or, to put it in the mildest way, indecorous. I wish with all my heart I'd never sent them to Oxford. I've always thought that if only Ernest had gone in for a direct commission, he'd soon have got all that absurd revolutionary rubbish knocked out of him in a mess-room ! But it's a great comfort to me to think I have one real blessing in dear Herbert, who's just such a son as any mother^might well be thoroughly proud of in every way ! ' Whilo Lady Le Breton was thus communing with herself in the breakfast-room, and while Herbert wiij trying to patch up a hollow truce with his own much-bruised self-respect in his own bedroom, Ronald was taking poor dazed and wearied Selah round to the refuge of the Baumanns' hospitable roof. As soon as that matter was temporarily arranged to the mutual satisfaction of all the parties concerned, Ronald walked over alone to Ernest's little lodgings at Holloway. He would sleep there that night, and send round a letter to Amelia, the housemaid, in the morning, asking her to pack up his things and forward them at ^ nee to Mrs. Halliss s. For himself, he did not propose, unle. ^ circumstances com- pelled it, again to enter his mother's rooms, except by her own express invitation. After all, he thought, even his little income, if clubbed with Edie and Ernest's, would probably help them all to live now in tolerable comfort. So he told Edie all his story, and Edie listened ^to it with an approving smile. 'I think, dear Ronald,' she said, taking his hand in hers, ' you did quite right—quite as Ernest himself would have done under the circum- ' Where's Ernest ] ' asked Ronald, half smiling at that naive wifely standard of right conduct. ' Gone with Mr. Berkeley to the trial,' Edie answered, ' The trial ! What trial \ ' 1 240 PHILISTIA. * Oh, don't 5'on know ? Herr Mux's, to-day for uttering,' a seditious libel 1 ! 1 They're trying and inciting to Section at St. Peters- him murder the chief of the Third burg. ' ' But he said nothing at all,' Ronald cried in astonish- ment. 'I read the article myself. He said nothing that any Englishman mightn't have said under tlie same circum- stances. Why, I could have written the libel, as they call it, myself, even, and I'm not nmch of a politician either ! They can't ever be trying him in a country like England for any- thing so ridiculously little as that ! ' ' But they are,' Edie answered quietly ; 'and dear Ernest's dreadfully afraid the verdict will jro against him.' 'Nonsense,' Ronald answered with natural confidence. I No English jury would ever convict a man for speak- ing up like that against an odious and abominable tyranny.' Very late in the afternoon, Ernest and Berkeley re- turned to the lodgings. Ernest's face was white with excite- ment, and his lips were trembling violently with suppressed emotion. His eyes were red and sw(dleu. Edie hardly needed to ask in a breathless whisper of Arthur Berkeley, ' Wliat verdict ? ' 'Guilty,' Arthur Berkeley answered with a look of un- feigned horror and indignati(m. He had learnt by this time quite to take the communistic view of such (piestions. 'Guilty,' Ronald cri(;d, jumjiing up from his chair in astonishment. ' Impossilile ! And what sentence % ' ' Twelve months' hard labour,' Berkeley answered, slowly and remorsefully. * An atrocious sentence ! ' Ronald exclaimed, turning red with excitement. ' An abominable sentence ! A most malignant and vindictive sentence ! Who was the judge, Arthur ? ' ' Bassenthwaite,' Berkeley replied half under his breath.' ' And may the Lord have mercy upon his soul ! ' said Ronald solemnly, But Ernest never said a single word. He only sat down and ate his supper in silence, like one stunned and dazzled. He didn't even notice Ronald's coming. And Edie knew by his (piick breath and his face alternately tiushed and pallid that there woidd be another crisis in his gathering complaint before the next morning. TELL IT NOT IN GATH. 241 trying CHAPTER XXVIII. TELL IT NOT IN OATH. As they sat silent in that little sitting-room after supper, a double knock at the door suddenly anno.incod the arrival of a telegram for Ernest. He opened it with treinWmg lingers. It was from Lancaster :-' Gome down to the olhce at once. Schurz has been sentenced to a year's imprisonment and we want a leader about him for to-morrow ' The telegram rousod Ernest at once from his stupefied lethargy Here was a chance at last of doing something for Max Schurz and for the cause of freedom ! Here was a chance of waking up all England to a sense of the horrible crime it had just com- mitted through the voice of its duly accredited judicia mouthpiece ! The country was trembhng on the brink of an abyss, and he, Ernest Le Breton, might just be m time to save it. The Home Secretary must be compelled by the unanimous clamour of thirty millions of free working people to redress the gross injustice of the law in sending Max Schurz, the greatest, noblest, and purest-mmded of man^ kind, to a common felon's prison ! Nothmg else on earth could have moved Ernest, jaded and dispirited as he was at that moment, to the painful exertion of writing a newspaper leader after the day's fatigues and excitements except the thought that by doing so he might not only blot out this national disgrace, as he considered it but might also help to release the martyr of the people's rights from ^l^^ ^"^redible unspeakable punishment. Flushed and feverish though he was he rose straight up from' the table, handed the telegram to Edie without a°word, and started off alone to hail a ]uu..a.u cab and drive down immediately to the office Arth u Berkeley, fearful of what might happen to him in his pre en excited state, stole out after him quiet y, and followed him unperceived in another hansom at a ittle distance. VVhen Ernest got to the 'Morning Intelligence buikl- in-s, he was shown up at once into the editorial room. He expected to find Mr. Lancaster at the same white heat of inTgnation as himself; but to his immense surprise^ he actually found him in the usual s eepy languid condxtion -f apathetic impartiality. ' 1 wired for you, Le Breton t e mpassive editor said calmly, 'because I «nders and you know all about this man Schurz, who has J"«tg°t his twelve ,.,__xv-.': ..^»r.r,,..or.+ fliia fivemnar. I suppose, ot course, illv;iitna iitij-u"--"' — '-- - - J-- you've heard already all about it. 242 PIIILISTIA. 'I've been at the trial all day,' Ernest answered, 'and myself heard the verdict and sentence.' 'Good,' Mr. Lancaster said, with a dreamy touch of approval in his tone. ' That's good journalism, certainly, and very smart of you. Helps you to give local colour and realistic touches to the matter. But you ought to have called in here to see me immediately. We shall have a regular reporter's report of the trial, of coufse ; but reporters' reports are fearfully and wonderfully lifeless. If you like, besides the leader, you might work up a striking headed article on the Scene in Court. This is an important case, and we want something more about it than mere writing, you know ; a little about the man hinnelf and his pers(jnal history, which Berkeley tells me you're well acquainted with. He's written nomething called " Gold and the Proletariate," or whatever it is ; just tell our readers all about it. As to the leader, say whf.t you like in it— of course I shall look over the proof, and tone it down a bit to suit the taste of our public— we a]»peal mainly to the mercantile niiildle class, I need hardly say ; but you knoAv the general policy of the paper, and you can just write what you think best, subject to subsequent editorial revision. Get to work at once, please, as the .irticles are wanted immediately, and send down slips as fast as they're written to the printers.' Ernest could hardly contain his surprise at Mr. Lancaster's calmness under such unheard-of circumstances, when the whole laborious fabric of British liberties was tottering visibly to its base — but he wisely concluded to himself that the editor had to see articles written about every possible subject every evening — from t. European convulsion to a fire at a theatre, — and that use must have made it in him a property of easiness. When a man's obliged to work himself up perpetually into a state of artificial excitement about every railway accident, explosion, shipwreck, earthquake, or volcanic eruption, in Europe, Asia, Africa, ^^merica, and the islands of the Pacific Ocean, why th-^n, Ernest charitably said to himself, his sympathies must naturally end by getting a trifle callous, especially when he's such a very apathetic person to start with as this laconic editorial Lancaster. So he turned into the little bare box devoted to his temporary use, and began writing with perfectly unexampled and extraordinary rapidity at his leader and his aiticle about the i"iured and martyred apostle of the slighted communistic religion. 1 1. v\ as onlv Ernest 1 IRt.! , f A^.l and forethought, spun slowly out his maiden newspaper article IN TELL IT NOT IN GATII. 243 red, 'and touch of certainly, olour and to have a regular reporters' you like, g headed fcant case, 3 writing, I personal jquainted and the eaders all in it — of n a bit to y to the ou know rite what revision. 3 wanted e written mcaster's the whole visibly to he editor ect every I theatre, operty of mself up lut every uake, or ,, and the iharitably ly getting apathetic ster. So emporary )led and ibout the iniunistic er article on the Italian organ-boy, and now he found himself, to his own inmiense surprise, covering sheet after sheet of paper m fe^riX Ke wi^th a long account of Max Schurz's splendid hfe Tnd labours, and with a really ervid and elo(iuent appeal to the English people not to sulfer such a man as he tJ^ go helplessly °and hopelessly to an Engbsh pnson at the barf bidding ofl foreign despot. He --^ «X'd wri ten moment to take thought, or to correct what h^l^ad written in the excitument of the moment his pen travelled along ove the pa^er as if inspired, and he found the words and thoic^h 8 thronging his brain almost faster than his lagging hand could suffice to give them visible embodiment. As each P^e was thrown%ff hurriedly, he sent it down, still pale and wet, to the printers in the oflice ; and before two S clock in the morning, he had full proofs of all he had written sent up to him for tinal correction. It was a stirn g and vigorous leader, he felt quite certain himself as he read U overS and he thought with a swelling breast that it would appear 'next day, with all the iiupersunal authonty of he 'Morning Intelligence' stamped upon ts face, at ten tlK.usTnd English breakfast tables, where it might rouse the peop e in their millions to protest sternly before it was oo Lte against this horrid violation of our cherished and boasted ^''''S^l^^it^^ Berkeley had Btoppod at ^h-ffice^ and run in hastily for five minutes' talk with the terrible editor 'Don't say anything to shock Le Breton, I beg of ^ou iancaster,' he'said^ ' about this poor man Schurz who has just been sent for a year to prison. It s » very hard oase and I'm awfully sorrj' for the man myself, though Ss neithe'here no'r ther^e. I can Bee froiii your ace that vou for your part, don't sympathise with him ; but at any rate don't say anything about it to hurt Le Breton s feelings hS in a dreadfullv°feverish and excited condition this fveaing ; Max Schu. has always been to hmi alnuKst like a fltlei and he naturally takes his sentence very bitterly to hea t To tell you the truth, I regret it a great deal myself ; I know a little of Schur., through Le Breton, and I know what a well-meaning, ardent, enthusiastic P™"^'*^ ^^^^^^y is and how much good actually underlies all his chaotic so'ciauL notions. Lt at any rate, I do beg of Y""' ^J^^ sav anvthing to further excite and hurt poor Le Breton. ^ 'Stainly not.' the editor answered, smoothing us large handsToftly one over the otl.er. ' Certainly not ; though I SeU as'a practical man, I us n»n'inan refugee fellow, bo tar as i Ln'lear;; he's beei7at the bottom of halt the revolutionary V \ 244 PIIIUSTIA. and insurrcctinnary movements of the last twenty years— a regular out-and-out professiunal socialistic incendiary.' ♦ You wouldn't say so,' lierkeley replied quietly, «if you'd seen more of ium, Lancaster.' But, being a man of the world and having c and swelling hope for to-morrow morning. He found L.iie waiting for him, late as It ^as with a little bottle of wine-an unknown luxury at Mrs. Halliss s lodgmgs-and such light supper as she thought he could manage to swallow in his excitement. Ernest drank a glass of the wine, but left the supper untasted. Then he went to bed, and tossed about uneasily till mornin" He couldn t sleep through his anxiety to see his great° leader appear in all the added dignity of printer's ink and rouse the slumbering world of England up to a due sense of Max bchurzs wrongs and the law's incomprehensible iniquity Before seven, he rose very quietly, dressed himself without saying a word, and stole out to buy an early copy of the Morning Intelligence.' He got one at the small tobacoonist 8 shop round the corner, where he had taken his 5-f« il'' .1- 5t.*^^ ^,*'''^''" organ-boy leader. It was with dithculty that he could coiita n himself till he was back in Mrs. Halliss s little front parlour ; and there he tore open the paper eagerly, and turned to the well-remembered words at the beginning of his desperate appealing article. He could recollect the very run of every clause and word he had written : No Englishman can read without a thrill of riirllteoim inrliornn>.i "'c aciiLuncu passed last mght upon JMax Schurz, the author of that remarkable i TELL IT NOT IN GAT II. 245 ' years — a ,ry.' ' if you'd ;he world, lidn't caro 1 sincerity that as it (G Breton, nk, as far whatever in proof sonally at ling of his he looks sorry for I be none II hiin it's ome with hope for him, late luxury at e thought est drank Then he ng. He at leader rouse the i of Max [uity. himself y copy of \Q small taken his ivas with back in ore open ed words He could i he had thrill of ssed last narkable economical work, "Gold and the Proletariate." Horr Schurz is one of those numurous refugees f )m German de«poti8in who have taken advantage of the ho3[jitablo welcome usually afl\)rded by England to the oppressed of all creeds or nations' —and so forth, and so forth. Where was it now \ Yes, that was it, in the place of lionour, of course— the first leader under the clock in the ' Morning Intelligence.' His eye caught at once the opening key-words, ' No Englishman.' Sinking down into th" easy-chair by the flowers in the window he prepared to run it tlircnigh at his leisure with breathless anxiety. ' No Engli.siiman can read without a feeling of the highest approval tlie sentence passed last night upon JMax Schurz, the author of that misguided economical work, "Gold ind the Proletariate." Herr Schurz is one of those numerous refugees from German authority, who have taken advantage of the hospitable welcome usually aiiorded by England to tlni oppressed of all creeds or nations, in order to hatch plots in security against the peace of sovereigns or governments with which we desire always to maintain the most amicable and cordial relations.' Ernest's eyes seemed to fail him. The type on the pfr„, -am wildly before his bewildered vision. What on ea? i-ii coull this mean? It was his own leader, indeed, with the very -hythm and cadence of the sentences accurately pu-st ved, b >t with all the adjectives and epithets so ingeniously v.tered that it was turned into a crushing condemnation ■ Max Schurz, his principles, his conduct, and his ethical theories. From beginning to end, the article appealed to the common- sense of intelligent Englishmen to admire the dignity of the law in thus vindicating itself against the atrocious schemes of a dangerous and ungi-attful political exile who had abused the hos})itality of a great free country to concoct vile plots against the persons of friendly sovereigns and innocent ministers on the European con- Ernest laid down the paper dreamily, and leant back for a moment in his chair, to let his brain recover a little from the reeling dizziness of that crushing disappointment. Then he turned in a giddy mechanical fashion to the headeil article on the fourth page. There the self-same style of treatment met once more his astonished gaze. All the minute facts as to Max Schurz's history and personality were carefully preserved ; the description of his simple artisan life, his modest household, his Sunday evening receptions, his great following of earnest and enthusiastic refugees— etTpvTT w'-rd nf nil this, which hardly anyone else could have eciually well supplied, was retained int^aet in the published copy ; yet the whole sT)irit of the thing had utterly Vt'\ 246 PHILISTIA. HHHH' '' 1' evaporated, or rather had been perverted into the exact opposite unsympathetic channel. Where Ernest had written 'enthusiasm,' Lancaster had simply altered the word to 'fanaticism;' where Ernest had spoktn of Herr Max's 'single-hearted devotion,' Lancaster had merely changed the phrase into 'undisguised revolutionary ardour.' The whole paper was one long sermon against Max Schurz's Utopian acht-mes, imputing to him not only folly but even positive criminality as well. We all know how we all in England look upon the foreign political refugee— a man to be hit again with impunity, because he has no friends ; but to Ernest, who had lived so long in his own little socialistic set, the discovery that people could openly say such things against his chosen apostle at the very moment of his martyrdom, was a hideous and blinding disillusionment. He put the paper down upon the table once more, and buried his face helplessly between his burning hands. The worst of it all was this : if Herr Max ever saw those articles he would naturally conclude that Ernest had been guilty of the basest treachery, and that too on the very day when he most needed the aid and synnpathy of all his followers. With a thrill of hornjr he thought in his own soul that the great leader might suspect him lor an hour of being the venal Judas of the little sect. How Ernest ever got through that weary djty he did not know himself ; nothhig kept him up through it except his burning indignation against Lancaster's abominable conduct. About eleven o'clock, Arthur Berkeley called in to see him. 'I'm afraid ytju've been a little disappointed,' he said. ' about the turn Lancaster has given to your two articles. He told me he meant to alter the tone so as to suit tho policy of the paper, and I see he's done so very thoroughly. You can't look for much sympathy from commonplace, cold, calculating Englishmen fur enthusiastic natures like Herr Max's.' Ernest turned to him in blank amazement. He had expected Berkeley to be as angry as himself at Lancaster's shameful niutilaMon of his appealing leader ; and ho found now that even Berkeley accepted it as an ordinary incident in the course of journalisnc business. His heart sank within him as he thought how little hope there could be of Herr Max's liberation, when even liis own familiar friend iJerkeley looked ui)on the matter in such a casual careless fashion. ' I shall neve?' write another word for the " Morning Intelligent J," ho tiHed vehemently, after a moment's pause. ' If we starve tor it, I shall never write another word in that WijkeJ, abominable, dishonourable paper. I can die TELL IT NOT IN GATH. 247 ;he exact lI written word to IT Max's mged the he whole Utopian I positive England ;o be hit ; but to ilisHc set, ;h things it of his sionment. lore, and s,. saw those had been very day >f all his I his own u hour of le did not jxcept his 3 conduct. -) see him. he said, ) articles. } suit thtt loroughly. lace, cold, like Herr He had iancaster's . he found y incident ,nk withiu e of Herr I IJerkoley ihion. ' Morning it's pause. [• word in I can die easily enough, heaven knows, without a murmur : but I can't be disloyal to dear Herr Max, and to all my innate ingrained principles.' _ , , j ai 'Don't say that, Ernest,' Berkeley answered gently. 'Think of Mrs. Le Breton and the biiby. The luxury of starvation for the sake of a cause is one you might venture to allow yourself if you were alone in the world as I am, but not one which you ought to force unwillingly upon your wife and children. You've been getting a trifle more practical of late under the spur of necessity ; don t go and turn im- possible again at the supreme moment. Whatever happens, it's your plain duty to go on writing for the Mornmg Intelli^'ence." You say with your own hand only what you think and believe yourself : the editor alone is responsible lor the final policy of the paper.' ,, , xr Ernest only muttered slowly to himself, 'Never, ne\er, "^^Stiil, though the first attempt had failed, Ernest did not wholly give up his hopes of doing somethmg towards the release of Herr Max from that unutterable iniprisonment. He drew up a form of petition to Uie Home Secretary, in which he pointed out the reasons for setting aside the course of the law in the case of this particular political prisoner. With feverish anxiety he ran about London for the next two days, trying to get influential signatures to his petition, and to rouse the people in their mill us to demand the release of the i)opular martyr. Alas for the stolid indifterence of the British T)ublic ! The people in their millions sat down to eat and drink, and rose up to play, exactly as if nothing unusual in any way had happened. Most of them had never heard at all of Herr Max, or of ' Gold and the Proletariate and those who had heard understood for the most part that he was a bad h)t who- was imprisoned for trying nefariously to blow up the Emperor of Rooshia. Crowds of people night y besieged the doors of the Ambiguities luid the Madborough, to hear the fate of 'The Primate of Fiji' and 'The Duke • »f Bermondsey ;' but very few amcmg the millions took the trouble to sign their names to Ernest Le Breton s despairing petition. Even the advanced radicals of the market-pla. e, the men who figured largely at Trafalgar S.iuare meetings ,md Agricultural Labourers' Unions, feared to damage their reputation for moderation and sobriety by getting thenisolves mixed up with a continental agitator like t us man bchurz that people were talking about. The Irish members ex- pressed a pious horror of the very word dynamite : the ,V.,..Vin.»-t!<."" Isadora hummed and hawed, and regrottetl their iuabiiity, in their very delicate pojiaoii, to do anything P 24S nilLISTIA, which mijrht seem like cr.untenancing Russian nihilism. In the end, Ernest sent in liia })etition with only half a dozen unknown sigiiaturts ; and tlio Home Secretary's private prompter threw it into tlie waste-paper basket entire, with- out even taking the troul)le ta mention its e.^istence to his harassed and overburdened chief. Just a Marylebone com- munist refugee in i)iiaon ! Huw could a statesman with half the bores and faddists of England on his troubled hands, find time to look at uniufluuntial petitions about an in- significant worthless nobody like that \ So gentle, nobhj natured, learned Herr Max went to prison and served his year there uncomplainingly, like any other social malefactor ; and Society talked about his case with languid interest for nearly a fortnight, and then straight- way found a new sensation, and forgot all about him. But there are three hundred and sixty-five days of twenty-four hours each in every year ; and for every one of those days Herr Max and Herr Max's friends never forgot for an hour together that lie was in prison. And at the end of the week Ernest got a letter from Lancaster, enclosing a cheque for eight guineas. That is a vast sum of money, eight guineas : just think of all the brea 1, and meat, and tea, and clothing one can buy with it for a small family ! ' My dear Le Breton,' the editor wrote — in liis own hand, too ; a rare honour ; for he was a kindly man, and he had learned, much to his surprise, from Arthur Berktl''y, that Ernest was angry at his treatment of the Schurzian leader : ' My dear Le Breton, I enclose cheque for eight guineas, for your two articles. I hope you didn't mind the way I was obliged to cut them up in some unessen- tial details, so as to suit the policy of the paper. I kept whatever was really most distinctive as embodying special information in them. You know we are above all things strictly moderate. Please send us another S(jcial shortly.' It was a kind letter, undoubtedly a kind and kindly- meant letter : but Ernest flung it from him as though he had been stung by a serpent or a 8corj)ion. Then he handed the cheque to Edie in solemn silence, to see what she would do with it. He merely wanted to try her constancy. For him- self, he would have felt like a Judas indeed if he had taken and used their thirty pieces of silver. Edie looked at the cheque intently and sighed a deep sigh of regret. How could she do otherwise? i Iiey were so very jxior, and it was such an inniiense sum ^f money ! Tlien she rose quietly without saying a word, and lighted a match from the box on the mantelpiece. She hold the cheque tini.ly between her finger and thumb till it was nearly burnt, TELL IT NOT IN GATH. ?49 and let it drop slowly at last into the empty fireplace. Ernest rose up and kissed her tenderly. The leaden weight of the thirty pieces of silver was fairly off their united conscience. They had made what reparation they could for the evil of that unhappy, undesigned leader. After all Ernest had wasted the last remnant of his energy on one eventful evenhig, all for nothing. As Edie sat looking wistfully at the smouldering frag- ments of the burnt clieque, Ernest roused her again by saying quietly, 'To-day '3 Saturday. Have we got anything for to morrow's dinner, Edie ?' 'Nothing,' I^die answered, simply. *How much money have you left, Ernest V ' Sixpence,' Ernest said, without needing to consult his empty puvse for confirmation— he had counted the pence, as they went, too carefully for that already. ' Edie, I'm afraid we must go ut last to the poor man's banker till I can get some more money.' ' Oh, Ernest— not— not— not the pawnbroker ! *Yes, Edie, the pawnbroker.' The tears came quickly into Edie's eyes, but she answered nothing. They must have food, and there was no other way open before them. They rose together and went quietly into the bedroom. There they gathered together the few little trinkets and other things that might be of use to them, and Ernest -ook down his hat from the stand to go out with them to the pawnbroker's. As he turned out he was met energetically on the landmcj by a SLOut barricade from good Mrs. Halliss. ' No, sir, not you, aa-,' the landlady sa d firmly, trying to take the parcel 'fiuui him as he went towards the door. ' I beg your p,.rdon, sir, for 'avin' over'eard what wasn't rnt for me to 'ear, no "" " ' ' ' me can't allow sort o' doubt, but I couldn't 'elp it, sir, anu .J< ' i an' nothink of this sort, wo can't. We'ro used to this ^ things, sir, John and me is ; but you and the dear lady isn t used to 'em, sir, and didn't bought to be neither, and John an' me can't allow it, not anyhow.' Ernest turned scarlet with shame, but could say nothing. Edie only whispered puftly, ' Dear, dear Mrs. Halliss, we're so sorry, but we can't helj) it.' * 'Elp it, ma'am," said Mrs. Halliss, herself almost crying, ♦nor there am't no reason why you should try to 'elp it neither. As I says to John, "John," says I, "there ain't no 'arm in it, noways," says I, "but I cant stand by,' says I, "and see fi.em two poor dear young creechurs," meanin .,0. ,.«v»,i/,r. t.i,i'.mi *' n-imvvninw nf tlii'ir owii iewcli'V and things to go and pay for their Sunday's dinner. And John, 250 PHILISTIA, II* ^'e saya, says 'e, "Quite riglit, Martha," says 'e ; "don't let em, ujy dear," says \. " Tlie Lord has prospered us a bit m our'umble way, Martha," says 'e, " and we am't got no cause to want, we ain't ; and if the dear lady and the good gentleiuan wouldn't take it as a liberty," says 'e, "it 'ud be better they should just borrer a pound or two for a week from us," says 'e, bcggin' your pardon, ma'am, for 'intin' of it, " than that there Mr. Le Breting, as ain't accustomed to such places nohow, should go a-makin' acciuaintance, for the fust time of his life, as you may say, with the inside of a pawnbroker's shop, " says 'e. " John, " says I, ' ' it's my belief the lady and gentleman 'ud be insulted," says I, "though they are the sweetest unassoomin'est young gentlefolk I ever did see," says I, "if we were to go astin' them to accept the loan of money from the likes of you and me, John, as is no better, by the side of them, nor old servants, in the manner o' speakin'." "Insulted," says 'e ; "not a bit of it, they needn't, Martha," says 'e, "for I knows the ways of the aristocracy," says 'e, "and I knows as there's many a gentle- man as owns 'is own 'osses and 'is own 'ounds as isn't afraid to borrer a pound or so from 'is own coachman, or even from is own lowerin' " -not but what to borrer from a gr )om IS groom i, says 'e, " in a tempory emergency. Mind vou, Martha, says e, "a tempory emergency is a thing as niay ^appen to landed gentlefolks any day," says 'e. " it's lik^* a 'ole in your coat made by a tear," says 'e ; "a haccident a^ may 'appen to-morrer to the Prince of Wales 'isself upon the untm' lield,"'e says. "Well, then, John," says 1, "I'll just go an' .speak to 'em about it, this very minnit," says I, and if I might make so bold, maa u, without seemin' too pre- sunii)tious, I should be very glad if you d kindly allow me, ma'am, to lend Mr. Le Breting a few suvverins till 'e gets 'is next remittances, ma'am.' Edie l(joked at Ernest, and Ernest looked at Edie and the landlady ; and then they all three burst out crying tor two laid ashamed say as a I )nay call . icil ilioy :- pawnin' gentility. iirtha, ns youseiid say quite ou'd wait jnds aa I I iuiotlier utes and L it with ilause on )ur 'eart, thanks, laiiically, ledookal nbrokin' anner o' he little ee words •, never, ' Morn- for Dot )od Mrs. mly one end he last lie d pulled him, VIorninsr md sur- ed poor rELL IT NOT nV GATIJ. 253 Ernest groaned again. ' Tl-.ere's nothing else to be done, Edie,' he said, looking up at her despondently. 'Imust earn money somehow to keep the house going.' It is the business of the truthful historian to narrate facts, not to palliate or extenuate the conduct of the various actors. "Whether Ernest did right or wrong, at least he did it ; he Avrote a playful social for Monday's ' Morning Intelligence,' and carried it into the office on Sunday afternoon himself, beause there was no postal delivery in the London district. That night, he lay awake once more for hours together, tossing and turning, and reflecting bitterly on his own base- ness and his final moral downfall. Herbert was right, after all. The environment was beginning to conquer. He could hold out no longer. Herr Max w^as in prison ; the world ■was profoundly indill'erent ; he himself had fallen away like Peter ; and there was nothing left for him now but to look about and find himself a dishonourable grave. And Dot.^ And Edie? What was to become of them after ? Ah me, for the pity of it when a man cannot even crawl quietly into a corner and die in peace like a dog, without being tortured by fears and terrors beforehand as to what will come to tho.se he loves far butter than life when he himself is quietly dead and buried out of the turmoil ! CHAPTER XXIX. A MAN AND A MAID, If Ernest and Edie had permitted it, Ronald Le Breton would have gone at once, after his coming of age, to club income and expenditure with his brother's household. But, as Edie justly remarked, when he proposed it, such a course would pretty nearly have amounted to clubbing his income with their expenditure ; and even in their last extreme of poverty that was an injustice which neither she nor her husband could possibly permit. Ronald needed all his little fortune for his own simple wants, and though they them- selves starved, they couldn't bear to deprive him of the small luxuries which had grown into absolute necessaries for one so feeble and weak. Indeed, ill as Ernest himself now was, he had never outgrown the fixed habit of regarding Ronald as the invalid of the family ; and to have taken anything, though in the direst straits, from him, would have seemed like robbing the heli>lesB poor of their bare ncocs'iiticR, So Ronald was fain at last to take lodgings for himself with a 2U rHILISTIA. % i neighbour of good Mrs. Halliss's, and only to share m Ernest's troubles to the small extent of an occasional loan, which EJie would have repaid to time if she had to go without their own pitor little dinner for the sake of the repayment. Meanwli le, Ronald had another interest on hand which to his enthusiiistic nature seemed directly imposed upon him by the linger of Providence — to provide a liome and occu- pation for poor Selah, whom Herbert had cast aside as a legacy to him. As soon as he had got settled down to his own new mode of life in the HoUoway lodgings, he began to lo(jk about for a tit place for the homeless girl — a place, he thought to himself, which must combine several special advantages ^denty of work — she wanted that to take her mind otl" brooding ; good, honest, ui)riglit peoi)le ; and above all, no religion. Ronald recognised that last undoubted requirement as of absolutely paramount importance. ' She'll stand any amount f>f talk or anything else from me,' lie said to himself often, ' because she knows I'm really in earnest ; but she wouldn't stand it for a nioment from tlujse well- meaning, undiscriminating, religious busy bodies, who are so awfully anxious about other people's souls, though they never seem for a single minute to consider in any way other people's feelings.' After a little careful hunting among his various ac(juaintances, however, he found at last a place that would exactly suit Selah at a stationer's in Notting Hill ; and tliere he put her — with full confidence that Selah would do the work entrusted to her well and ably, if not from conscientiousness, at least from peisonal pride, ' which, after all,' Roland soliloquised dreamily, 'is as good a sub- stitute for the genuine article as one can reasonably expect to find in poor fallen human nature.' ' I wish, Mr. Le Breton,' t^elah said, quite timidly for her (maidenly reserve, it must be admitted, was not one of Selah Briggs's strong points), ' that I wasn't going to be quite so far from you as Notting Hill. If I could see y )\x sometimes, you know, I should feel that it might keep me more straight — keep me away from the river in future, I mean. I can't stand most people's preaching, but somehow, your preaching seems to do me mce good than harm, really, which is just the exact opposite way, it Si oins to me, from everybody else's.' Ronald smiled sedately. *I'm glad you want to see me sometimes,' he said, with a touch of something very like gallantry in his time that was wholly unusual with him. ' 1 shall walk over eveiy now and then, and look you up at your lodgings over yonder ; and besides, you can couio on Sundays to dear Edie's, and I shall bo able to meet you A MAN AND A MAW. »S5 if not there once a fortnight or thereabouts. But I'm not going to let you call me Mr. Le Breton any longer ; it ian't friendly : and, what's more, it isn't Christian. Why should there be these artificial barriers between soul and soul, eh, Selah ? I shall call you Selah in future : it seems more genuine and heartfelt, and unencumbered with needless con- ventions, than your misters and misses. After all, wliy should we keep up such idle formalities between brethren and fellow-workers \ ' Selah started a little— she knew better than Ronald him- self did what such lirat advances really led to. 'Oh, Mr. Le Breton,' she said quickly, ' I really can't call you Rtmald. I can never call any other man by his Christian name as long as I live, after -your brother.' * You mistake me, Selah,' Ronald put in hastily, with his quaint gravity. * I mean it merely as a sign of con- fidence and a mark of Christian friendship. Sisters call their brothers by their Christian names, don't they ? So there can be no harm in that, surely. It seems to me that if you call me Mr. Le Breton, you're putting me on the foot- ing of a man merely ; if you call me Ronald, you're putting me on the footing of a brother, w hich is really a much more harmless and unequivocal position for me to stand in. Do, please, Selah, call me Ronald.' 'I'm afraid I can't,' Selah answered. 'I daren't. I mustn't.' But she faltered a little for a moment, notwith- standing. • You must, Sel ih,' Ronald said, with all the force of his enthusiastic nature, fixing his piercing eyes full upon her. ' You must, I tell you. Call me Ronald.' 'Very well— Ronald,' Selah said at last, after a long pause. ' Good-bye, now. I must be going. Good-bye, and thank you. Thank you. Thank you.' There was a tear quivering even in Selah Briggs's eye, as she held his hand lingeringly a moment in hers before releasing it. He was a very good fellow, really, and he had been so very kind, too, in interest ng himself about her future. ' What a marvellous thread of sameness,' Ronald thought to himself, as he walked back rapidly to his solitarj- lodgings, ' runs through the warp and woof of a single family, after all ! What an underlying unity of texture there must be throughout, in all its members, however outwardly dis- similar they may seem to be from one another ! One would say at first sight there was very little, if anything, in common between me and Herbert. And yet this girl in- teiists me wonderfully. Of cotsrse I'm iiot in love vAWi her — the notion oi my falling in luve with anybody is clearly 956 PHILISTIA. too ridictjious. But I'm attracted 1)y her, draw-n towards hur, fascinated as it were ; I feel a sort of curiuiis apell upon nie whenever I look into her deep big eyes, tlashing out upon one with their strange luniinousness. It isn't merely that tlie H;ind has thrown her in my way : that counts for aomething, no doubt, but not for everything. Besides, the Hand doesn't act blindly — nay, rather, acts with supreme wisdom, surpassing the powers or the compreheiiHion of man. When it threw Sehih Urigt^s in my way, depend upon it. It .\ii? because the Inlimto saw in me something that waii spoeiuiiy adapted to her, and in her something that ■vv.!ss|i(i"i iv adapted to me. The instrument is duly shaped by inscrutable Wisdom for its own proper work. Now, ■\hatever interests me in lu'r, must have also interested Herbert in her eijually and for the same reason. We're drawn towards her, cleai'ly ; she exercises over both of us some curious elec trie now-r that she doesn't exercise, pre- sumably, over f!i . ^.wup.c). For Herbert must have been really in love with her — not that I'm in lovo with her, of course ; but still, the phenomena are analogous, even if on a slightly ditlerent plane — Herbert must have been really in love Avith hei% I'm sure, or such a prudent man as he is would never have let himself get into what he would con- sider sucli a dangerous and ditficult entanglement. Yes, clearly, there's something in Selah Briggs that seems to Eossess a singular polarity, as Ernest would call it, for the le Breton charactc i' and individuality ! * And then, it cuts both ways, too, for Selah was once desperately in love with Herbert : of that I'm certain. She must have been, to Judge from the mere strength of the linal revulsion. She's a girl of intensely deep r.-^sions — I like people to have some depth to their ch racter, even if it's only in the way of passion — and she'd never have loved him at all without loving hnu fervently and almost wildly : herg is a fervent, wild, indonitablo nature. Yes, she \s. s cer- tainly in lovo with Herbert ; and now, though of course I don't mean to say she's in lov.> with me (I hojje it isn't wrong to think in this way about au unmarried girl), still I can't help seeing that I have certain influence over her in return — that she p; 'S much attention to what I say and thi'Tk, con.-iders m' a person worth cons; lering, which she doe. u't do, I'm su;., with i.iost other people, .^h, well, there's a vast deal of truth, no doubt, in these ne\ lieredi- tary doctrines of Darwin's and Galton's that Herbert and ErncsG talk about mucli ; . family's a family, that's certain, not a mere siiay cr-Iloctiuii of casual riCqiiaintauces. How the likeness runs through the very inmost structure of A MAN AND A iVAFD. aS7 our hearts and natures ! I see in Sulah very much what Hurbert saw in Selah : SoLih sets in mo very much what she saw in Herbert. Ex' ordinary insight into human nature men Hlce Darwin and < ton have, to be sure ? And David, t(jo, what a marvellou.-. ainkor he was, really ! V'hat un- fathomed depths <^f an aning lie unexpected in that simple sentence of his, "1 am fearfidly and wonderfully made." Fearfully and wonderfully, indeed, when one remembers that from one father and mother Herbert anil 1 have both been compounded, so unlike in some things that wt- scarcely seem to be comparable with own another (look at ikrbert's splendid intellect beside mine !), so Uke in others that Selah lirigi^s —goodness gracious, what am I thinking oil I was just going to say that Selah Briggs falls in love first with 'ne of us and then with the other. 1 do hoi)o and trust it n't wrong of me to fill my poor distracted head so much with these odd thou'dits about that unfortunate girl, Selah ! ' ■^■gj CHAPTER XXX. THE ENVIRONMENT FINALLY TRIUMPHS. Winter had c. .le, and on a bitter cold winters night, Ernest Le Breton once more received an unexpected telegram asking him to hurry down without a moment's delay on important business to the 'IMorning Intelligence' ofHce. The telegram didn't state at all what the business was it merely said it was urgent and immediate without in any way specifying its nature. Ernest sallied forth in some pert>irl)a- tion, for his memories of the last occasion when the 'Morn- ing Intelligence' reciuircd his aid on important business were far from pleasant ones ; but for Edie's sake he felt he must go, and so he went without a murmur. ' Sit down, Le Breton,' Mr. Laucaster said slowly when Ernest entered. * The matter I want to see you abont's a very peculiar one. I understand lom some of my friends that V'u're a son of Sir Owen Le Breton, the Indian leral.' 'Yes, I am,' Ernest answered, wondering within himself to what end this curious preamble could possibly be leading up. If there's any one profession, he thought which is absolutely fre«> from the slightest genealo'^ri* .d interest in tlu^ persons of i * professors, surely that \ uuliir calling ought to be ilie piuleBsion of journalism. * Well, BO I hear, Le Breton. Now, I Vic ve I'm i§ asS rillLISTIA, in Paying, am I not, that it was your father who first subdued and organised a certain refnictory hill-tribe ^a\ tlie Tibetan frontier, known as the Bodalils, wasn't it \ ' 'Quite right,' Ernest replied, with a glimmering idea slowly rising in his mind as to what Mr. Lancaster was now driving at. 'Ah, that's good, very gnovl indeed, certainly. Well, tell me, Le Brettm, do you yourself happen to know anything on earth about these precious insigniiicant people? ' ' I know all about them,' Ernest answered (piickly, 'I've read all my father's papers and despatclies, and seen his maps and plans and reports in our house at home from my boyhood upward. I know as much about the Bodahls, in fact, • I know about Bays water, or Holborn, or Fleet Street. ' Capital, capital,' the editor said, fondling his big hands softly ; ' that'll exactly suit us. And could you get at these plans and papers now, this very evening, just to refresh the gaps in your memory \ ' ' I could have them all down here,' Ernest answered, 'at an hour's notice.' ' Good,' the editor said again. ' I'll send a boy for them with a cab. Meanwhile, you'd better be perpending this telegram from our Simla correspondent, just received. It's going to be the question of the moment, and we should very much like you to give us a leader of a full column about the matter.' Ernest took the telegram and read it over carefully. It ran in the usual very abbreviated newspaper fashion : ' Rus- sian agents revolted Bodahls Tibetan frontier. Advices Peshawur state Russian army marching on Merv. Bodahls attacked Commissioner, declared independence British raj.' ' Will you write us a leader ? ' the editor asked, simply. Ernest drew a long breath. Three guineas I Edie, Dot, an empty exchequer ! If he could only have five minutes to make his mind up ! But he couldn't. After all, what did it matter what he said about these poor unknown Bodahls \ If /le didn't write the leader, somebody else who knew far less about the subject than he did would be sure to do it. He wasn't responsible for that impalpable entity ' the policy of the paper.' Beside the great social power of the ' Morning Intelligence,' of the united English people, what was he, Ernest Le Breton, but a nuserable solitary misplaced unit \ One way or the other, he could do very little indeed, for gnnd or fo.r evil he answered back l,.,if Aft^ the editor faintly, ' Yes, wiU,' 'For CTT-Vll/Tff 'For THE ENVIRONMENT FINALLY TRimtPIIS. 259 Etlie,' lio muUerod half audibly to himself; *I must do it fut it. As he left the ofhce, a boy brought him down a sealed envelope fron; IMr. Lancaster. With his usual kindly thoughtfulness thu editor had sent him at once the customary cheque for three guineas. Ernest folded it up with quiver- ing lingers, and felt the blood burn in his cheeks as he put it away in his waistcoat pocket. That laccursed money ! For it he had that night sold his dearest principles ! And yet, not for it, not for it, not for it — oh, no, not for it, but for Dot and Edie ! The boy liad a duplicate proof in his other hand, and Ernest saw at once that it was his own leader, as altered and corrected by Mr. Lancaster. He a^ked the boy whether he might see it ; and the boy, knowing it was Ernest's own writing, handed it to him at once without further question. Ernest did not dare to look at it then and there for fear he should break down utterly before the boy ; he put it for the moment into his inner p jcket, and buttoned his thin over- coat tightly around liim. It was colder still in the frosty air s2 ii I gUBIiTM 260 nnusTiA. 1 i of early morning, ami the contrast to the heated atmosphere of the printing honsL! struck him with onunous chili as he issueil shiwly forth into the silent precincts of unpeopled Fleet Street. It was a terrible memorable ni.L,'lit, that awful Tuesday ; the coldest night known for many years in any English winter. Snow lay deep upon the grovnid, and a feAv Hakes were falling still from the cloudy sky, for it was in the second week of January. The wijid was drifting it in gusty eddies down the long streets, and driving the drifts before it like whirling dust in an August fftorm. Not a cvb was to bs seen anywhere, not even a stray hansom crawling home from clubs or theatres ; and Ernest set out with a rueful countenance to walk as best ho might alone through the snow all the way to Holhiway. It is a long and dreary trudge at any time ; it seemed very long and dreary indeed to Ernest Le Breton, with his delicate frame and weak chest, battling against the tierce wind on a dark ar.d snowy winter's niglit, and with the fever of a great anxiety and a great remorse silently torturing his distracted bosom. At each step he took through the snow, he almost fancied himself a hunted liodahl. Would JJritish sohliers drive those poor savage wonn;n and children to die so of cold and hunger on their snowy hilltops \ Would English fathers and mothers, at home at their ease, apjiland the act witli careless thought- lessness as a piece of our fuimius spirited foreign policy? And would hia own article, wiitten with his own jxxir thin cold lingers in that day's ' IMoming intelligence,' help to spur them on upon that wicked and unnecessary war / NN'hat right had we to conquer the Hodahls / What right had wo to hold them in subjection or to piniish then) for revolting ? And above all, what right had he, Ernest Le Hreton, upon whose head the hereditary guilt of the hrst compiest ought properly to have weighed with such personal heaviness — what rigiit had he, of all men, directly or indirectly, to aid or abet the English people in their immoral and inhuman resolve ? Oh, (lod, his sin was worso than tlieirs ; for they sinned, thinking they did justly ; but as for him, he sinned against the light ; ho knew the better, and, bribed by gold, ho did the worse. At that moment, the little slip of printed paper in his waistcoat pocket seemed U) burn through all the frosts of that awful evening like a chain ul molten steel into his verj' marrow ! Tri'.dging on slowly through the white stainless snow, step by step, — snow thatca.st a sheet of pure white evtm over the narrow lanes behind the Farringdon Road, — cold at foot and hot at heart, ho reached at last the wide corner by the THE ENVIRONMENT FINALLY TRIUMPHS, 261 snow Angel at Islington. The lights in the windows were all out long ago, of course, but the hiiiips outside were still thiring brightly, and a solitary policeiiiiiii wan standing under one of them, trying to warm liis fni/,c;n Jiands by breathing rapidly on the curved and distorted lingers. Ernest was very tired of his tram[) l)y tliat time, and emboldened by companionship he stoj^^)[ted awhile to rest himself in the snow and wind under the ojiposite lami)]ight. Putting his back against the post, lie drew the alteriid proof of his article slowly out of his inner pocket. It had a strange fascination for him, and yet lie dreaded to look at it. Witli an etl'ort, he unfolded it in his stitl" lingers, and held the [)aper up to the light, regardless of the fact that the policeman was watching his proceedings with the interest naturally duo from a man of his luofession toasus])icious-looking character who was probably a convicted pick]iocket. Tlie lii-st sentence once more told liim the worst. Theie was no doubt at all about it- The three guineas in his pocket were the price of })lood ! ' The insult to TJritish prestige in the East,' ran that terrible opening paragraph, 'imijlied in the brief telegram which we publish this morning fn)m our own Correspondent at Simla, calls for a 8j)eedy and a severe retributit)n. It must be Avashed out in 1)lood.' IJlood, blood, blood ! The httei's swam before his eyes. It was this, then, that he, the disciple of i)eace-loving Max Schnrz, the hater of war and c(jni('.ie.st, the foe of unjust I5ritish domination over inferior races— it \\a3 this that he had helped tomaUe plausible with his special knowledge and his ready pen ! Oh, heaven, what re[)juation could ho make for this horrid crime he had knowingly and vilfidly connnitted ? What could he do to avoid the guilt of those poor savages' blood U})on his devoted head \ In one moment he thought out a hundred scenes of massacre and pillage—scenes such as he knew oidy too well always precede and accompiiny the blessings of British rule in distant depen- ilencies. The temptation liad been strong — the money had been sorely wanted there was very little food in the hoiise ; but h<»w could he ever have yielded to such a depth of pre- meditated wickedness ! He folded tlie piece of paper into his pocket once more, and burii>d his face in his hands for a whole minute. The policeman now hegau to suspect that he was not so much a picki)ocl I Wl,« U' u f lii» 1nrlloway.' 'To lloUoway!' the sub-editor said in a tone of com- parative hovntr. 'Oh! no, I can't allow that. Wait here an hour or two till the workiuou's trains boghi running. Or, (?tiy ; Lancaster left his brougham here for me to-night, as I have to be off early to-morrow on business ; I'll send you home in that, and let" Hawkins get me a cab from the mews by order.' Ernest made no resistance ; and so the sub-editor sent him homo at once in Lancaster's broug'iam. When he got homo in the early grey of morning, he found Edio still sitting up for him in her chair, and wemder- insi what could be detaining hhn so long at the newspaper oHico He threw himself wildly at her feet, and, lU such broken sentences as lie wa-i able to command, he told her all * t -'^ ■■?■ .'.'^M' .t&nEHK'i 264 PIIILISTIA. the piiifiil story. Edie sonthod liiin and kissed him as Iio uciit aloiiLC, but nevor said a word for good or evil till lie had linislKcl. ' It was a terrible temptation, darling,' she said softly : ' a terrible temptation, indeed, and I don't wonder you gave way to it ; but we mustn't touch the three guineas. As you say lightly, it's blcxjd-money.' Ernest drew the chetjue slowly from his pocket, and held it hesitatingly a moment in his hand. Edie looked at hiiu curiously. ' What are you going to do with it, d?irling?' she asked in a low voice, as he gazed vacantly at the last dying embers in the little smouldering lirei)]ace. 'Nothing, Edie dearest,' Ernest answered haskily, fold- ing it uj) and jxitting it away in the tlrawer by the window. They neither of them da''ed to look the other in the face, but they had not the heart to burn it boldly. It was Wood- money, to be sure ; but three gnine:\s are really so vei'y useful ! Four days later, little Dot was taken with a sudden ill- ness. Ernest and Edie sat watching by her little cradle throughout the night, and saw witli heavy hearts that she was rapidly growing feebler. Poor wee soul, they had nothing to keep her for : it would be better, perhaps, if she were gone ; and 3'et, the hunutn heiirt cannot be stilled by tueh calm deliverances t>litical work again, you know. Just fancy \ lirat, you remember, 1 act him upon 365 r/niisTiA. tlie Sclmrz iiupiisonment busineHS, and he nearly went niatl theii 1-ecuuse I didn't buck up Hchurz for wanting to murder the Euii> ror of Russia. After tluit, just now tlie other day, I tried liiui on the Bodahl business, and hangnie if he didn't have (|uahu8 of conscieiu o about it afterwards, and trudi,'o back through all the snow that awful Tuesday, to see if he couldn't induce Wilks to stop the press, and let him cut it all out at the last moment ! He's as mad as a March hare, 3'ou know, and if it weren't that I'm really sorry for him I woiddii't j'o on taking socials from him any longer. But I will ; ril give him work as long as he'll do it for mo on any terms ; though, of course, it's obviously imiiossible under the circumstances to let him have another go at politics, isn't it ' ' ' You're really awfully kind, Lancaster,' Berkeley answered warmly. ' No other fellow would do as much for Le Breton as you do. I admit he's absolutely impracticable, but I would give more than I can tell you if only 1 thought he could be matle to pull through somehow.' ' Impracticable ! ' the editor said shortly, ' I believe you, indeed. Why, do you remember tliat ridiculous Schurz business? Well, I sent Le Brcto.i a ch(U|ue for eight guineas for that lot, and can you credit it, it's remained un- eashed trom that day to this. I really think he must have destroyed it.' * No doubt,' Arthur answered, tvith a smile, * And the Bodahlb / What about them \ ' 'Oh! he kept tliat chciiue for a few days unca,«ihed — though I'm sure he wanted money at the time ; but in the end, I'm happy to siiy, he cashed it.' Artliur'a countenance fell ominously. ' Ho did ! ' he said gloomily. ' Ho cashed it ! That's bad news iiuleed, then. I must go and see them to-morrow morning early. I'm afraid thty must be at the last pitch of poverty before they'd consent to (h) that. And yet, Solomon says n\on do nt)t desi)ise a thief if he steal to satisfy his soul wlun he is hungry. And Le Breton, after all, has a wife and child to think of.' Lancaster stared at him blankly, and turned aside to glance at the telegrams, saying to himself meanwhile, that all these young fellows of the new scliool alike were really quite too ino(unprehenHd>le for a sensible, practical man like huuself to deal with comfortably. DE PROFUNDIS, 267 cent mad o murder ther day, he didn't id tnidi^e see if he lim cut it rch hare, for him I r. But I e on any lie under ; pohtics, Berkeley much for iicticable, L thought ieve you, 3 Scliurz ■or eight lined uii- Lust have And the icashed — •ut in tho ! That's 1- morrow pitch of S(»lomon yr liis soul lis a wife aside to hilo, that :^re really man like CHAPTER XXXI. DE PROFUNDIS. After nil Ernest didn't get many more socials to write for the 'Morning Intelligence,' as it haiipened ; for tho war that came on shortly after crowded such ti ifles as socials fairly out of all the papers, and he had harder work tlum ever to pick up a precarious living somehow by tho most casual possible contributions. Of course he tried many other channels ; but he had few introductions, and then his views were really so absurdly ultra that no njasonable editor could ever be expected to put up with them. He got tired at hist of seeing his well-meant papers return to him, morn- iii" after morning, with the unvarying legend, 'Declined wilh thanks;' and he might have gone to the wall utterly but for the kindly interest which Arthur Berkeley still tt)ok in his and Edie's future. On the very day after his conver- sation with Lancaster at the club Arthur dropped round casually at Holioway, and brought with him a proposal which he said had just been made him by a colonial news- agent. It was a transpari'nt little citse enough ; but l^rnest and Edie were not learned in tlie ways of the world and did not suspect it so readily as older and wiser heads might probably have done. Wcmld Ernest sui)ply a fortnightly letter, to go by t!ie Australian mail, to the Paramatta ' Chronicle and News,' containing London political and social gossip of a commoiiiilace kind-just the petty clut-chat he could pick up easilvoutof 'Truth' and the 'World -for the small sum of thirty shilling** a letter? Yp^ Ernest thought he could manage that. ■\ crv wf 11, then. The letter must he sent on alternate Wednek^ay . to the colonial newsagent's ad Arthur watched his friend a face narrowly at this point a., -an ; but Ernest, in his 8imi»le- niinded, unsuspecting way, never noticed the obvmus mean- inj)ose to be money-getting occupatitm. She used to paint a little in water-colours, he remend)ered, in the old days ; so he put an advertisemer.t in a morning paper, which ho got Mrs. Halliss to show Edie, asking for drawings of orchids, the tlowers to be supplied and accurately copied by an amateur at a reasonable price. Edie fell into the harmless friendly trap readily enough, and was duly supplied with orchids by a tlorist in Regent Street, who professed to receive liis instructions from the advertiser. The pictures were all proiluced in due time, and were sent to a fixetl address, where a gentleman in a hansom used to call for them at regular intervals. Arthur Uerkeley kept those poor JLLSA. 270 PI/IL/STIA. little wator-colour, Ion- afterwards locked ,m in a cert ifn drawer all by thc.aselvea : tlx.y were sacred monu.Mt.,e.s to Jinn of tliat old hupolesa lovo for tliu little Mi.ss BuuerHy of nis Oxford days. ^ With the very first tlireo g.n'neas that Edie earned, care- fu ly saved and hoarded out of her i-aynients for the water- coluurs, Hhe insiMfod in the i.ride of her heart that Ernest Srii'"^" ''\'r ""'"n '' ^"f' ^*^"'^"" consulting physician. Su Ant.-ny W raxall was the Inst si.ec , list in town on tho subject ot consuiuptiofi, she hal heart', an i she wiw ouite sure so clever a man must do Ernest a great U.ul of <'.>od. if lie tlitln t even permanently cure him. ♦ V ' 'n'l^ ""i "f'' EJ't'.'l»r!ing,' Ernest said t,» her imploriti'dy. You II only be wasting your hard-eain. d money. What I want IS imt advice or medicine ; I want what no doctor on ril^l 'Insibility'' ^^''''^ '"*'*-''^"^'^ ^^°"' *'»« t«»-xblo crushing s-u./^^J; ^f'''''f'\ ^'^^^ "" r^'f»«al. It was her money, she «.ud, iho hrst she had ever earned in her wh..lo life, ami she should certaudy do as she herself liked with it. Sir Antony \N raxall, she was quite contident, would soon be able U> niake iinn better. ho Ernest, overborne by her intreaties, fielded at last, and made an app<.nitment with Sir Anton ^ Wraxull. He took his .)uarter-hour in duo form, aud'told the threat physician all his symptoms as though ho believed in the foohsh farce bir Antony held his head solemnly on onu side, weighed him with puritanical scrupulosity toacmartor «vf an ounce on his delicate balance, listened attentilvly at the chest wi h Ins silver-mounted stetlmscope, and perpend. 1 the net result of his investigation with i>rofe8sionul gravity • t.m he gave Edie his full .dvico and opinion to the ina.xi- m-v •; extent of hve minutes. your husband's case is not a hopeful one, Mrs. Lo U'lon, 10 said so emnly, 'but still, a great deal may bo dime for hnn. Edie's face brighlcmed visibly. ' Witii care hia Iifo may bo proh.nged for many years.-I may even say,' ndeed, quite indetmitely.' Edie smiled with j-.y and grati- tude. J)ut you must strictly observe my rules and direc- tions-the same that I've just given in a similar case to the Cr()wn I mice ..f Servia who was here before you. In tho tirst place, your husband must give up work altogether. Ho must bo content to hve perfectly and absolutely idle. Then secondly, he must live (piite away from England. I sh«,ulcl _ .!.. .(,.. i^ny.tdiiic- ill summer, ana Algeria or tiio JNiIe trip every waiter ; but, if that's beyond your means- und I understand from Mr. Le Breton that you're in some- DE PROFUNDIS, 871 1 a certun lR"lti)e3 to iuiturriy of nied, care- the water- hat Ernest physician, wn on tho Wiis (juito of g')od, if iiploi iii'^ly. . W hat I doctor on lo crushini: iioney, she 0, and sho MrAntuuy je able ta id at last, ■xufl. Ho tJio 1,'reat od in thi- ily on ono a ([uartur nti\ fly at )eri)undL<.l 1 gravity ; the maxi- Mrs. Lo 1 may be Vith care, \i\'yi\\ siiy, uul grati- md diroc- 130 to tlie In th<3 .her. Ho 0. Then, I shoiihi ia or tiio moans — in suaio- wliat slraiten^^d cirrunistances— 1 aon't (tbject to Catania, or ^flalaga, v even Alentono and tho Kiviora. You can rent furnished villas for very little on tho Hiviera. But ho must in no case come farther north, even in sunnncr, than the Lake of Geneva. Tliat, I assure you, ' iiidispensablo, if \\' •• ishes t(» live anotiier twelveim e him south ivt 01, •, in a roads, rod ninllet, any little delicacy of that sort as much as possible. Duu't let huu walk ; let "hna have carriage exercise daily ; you can hire carriages for a mere trifle inonthly at Cannes and .Mentone. Above all things, give him perfect freedom from anxiety. Allow him to con- centrate his whole attention on the act of getting well, and you'll find he'll imi»rove ii-stouis' in no time. But if you keep him here in Englam. teed him badly and neglect my directions, I can't an^ r his getting through anotJier winter. . . . Don't disti. yourself, I beg of you ; don't, pray, give way to tears ; tli. is really no occasion for it, my dear madam, no occasion fur it at all, if you'll only do as 1 tell you. . . . Quite right, thank you. Good morning. -Next case, McFarlane. — Good morning. Good morning.' So that was the end of weeping little Edie's poor hardly- spared three guineas. Tho very next day Arthur Berkeley happened to mount the stairs quietly, at an earlier hour than usual, and knocked at tho door of Erue.st's lodging. Theie was no answer, so ho turned tho handle, and entered by himself. Tho remains of breakfast lay upon tho table. Arthur did not want to spy, but he couldn't helj* remarking that these remains were extremely meagre and scanty. Half a loaf of breai'. stood upon a solitary plate in tho centre ; a teapot and two cups oecui)ied one side ; and -that was all. In spite of himself, ho couldn't restrain liis curiosity, and he looked more closely at the knives and plates. N«)t a mark of anything but crumbs upuu them, not even butter ! He looked into tho cups. Nothing but milkless tea at the bottom ! Yes, the truth was only too ovitlent ; thev had lad no meat for breakfast, no butter, no milk, no .sugar ; it was ijuito clear that the meal had consisted entirely of dry bread with plain tea— call it hot water — and that for a d^ ig man and a delicate over-worked lady! Arthur looked t tliat pitiable breakfast-table with a twinge of remorse, and the tears rose sharply and in- MICROCOPY RESOLUTION TEST CHART (ANSI and ISO TEST CHART No. 2| 1.0 I.I 1.25 1145 m, I.:; 3.6 114.0 1.4 2.5 1^ 111112.2 2.0 1.8 1.6 M ^F^PLIED IM^GE Inc 165.1 East Main Street Rochester, New York 14609 USA (716) 482 - OJOO - Phone (716) 288 - S989 - Fax 272 rHILISTIA. voluntarily into his eyes. He had not clone enough for them, then ; he ha(^. not done enough fur them. Poor little Miss Butterliy ! and had it really come to this ! You, so bright, so light, so airy, in want, in positive Avant, in hunger even, with your good, impossible, imprac- ticable Ernest ! Had it come to this ! Bread and water ; dry bread and water ! Down tears, down ; a man must be a man ; but, oh, what a bitter sight for Arthur Berkeley ! And yet, what could he do to mend it \ Money they would not take ; he dare not even offer it ; and ho was at his wit s end for any other contrivance for serving them without then- knowledge. He must do Avhat he could ; but how he was to do it, he couldn't imagine. As he stood there, ruminating bitterly over that poor bare table, he thought he heard sounds above, as of Edie comiii" downstairs with Dot on her shoulder. He knew she would not like to know that he had surprised the secret of their dire poverty ; and he turned silently and cautiously to descend the stair. There was only just time enough to get away, for Edie was even then opening the door of the nursery. Noiselessly, with cat-like tread, he crei^t down the steps once more, and heard Edie descending, and smgmg as she came down to Dol. It was a plaintive little song, in a sad key—a plaintive little song of his own— but not wholly distressful, Arthur thought; she could still smg, then, to her baby ! With the hot tears rising a second time to his eyes, he grope.l his way to the foot of the staircase. There he brushed them liurrie lly asied little IMiss ButterHy might have shared with him. He went up the steps, and turned quickly into his ov.-n small study. The Progi'iiitor was there, sitting reading in an easy-chair. ' At least,' Arthur thoughtto him- self ' I have made hh old age happy. If I could only do as much f.>r little Miss Butturtly ! for little Miss Butterliy ! for little Miss Butterfly ! If I could only do as much for her, oh, how happy and ctmtented I should be ! ' , , , • He thing himself down on his own spfa, and brushed his eyes nervously with his liandkerchief before he dared lookup a^iin towards the Progenitor. 'Father,' he said, clutching his watchchain hard and playing with it nervously to keep down his emotion, ' I'm afraid those poor Le Bretons are m an DE PROFUNDIS. 873 lymg lis mg, in a t wholly then, to e to his There L turned ansjr and faultless ' button - awfully bad way. I'm afraid, do you know, that they actually haven't enough to eat ! I went into their rooms just now, and, would you believe it, I found nothing on the table for breakfast but dry bread and tea ! ' The Progenitor looked up quietly from the volume of Morley's ' Voltaire ' which he was at that moment placidly engaged in devouring. ' Nothing but dry bread and tea,' he said, in what seemed to Arthur a horribly unconcerned tone. ' Eeally, hadn't they % Well, I dare say they are ver> badly off, poor people. But after all, you know, Artie, they can't be really poor, for Le Breton told me himself he was gene- rally earning fifteen shillings or a pound a week, and that, you see, is really for three peoplo a very good income, now isn't it]' Arthur, delicate-minded, gentle, chivalrous Arthur, gazed in surprise and sudden distress at that dear, good, unselfish old father of his. How extraordinary that the kindly old man couldn't grasp the full horror of the situation! How strange that he, who would himself have been so tender, so considerate, so womanly in his care and sympathy towards anything that seemed to him like ieal poverty or real suffer- ing, should have been so blinded by his long hard working- man life towards the peculiar difficulties and trials of classes other than Lis own as not to recognise the true meaning of that dreadful disclosure ! Arthur was not angry with him— he felt too fully at that moment what depths of genuine silent hardship uncomplainingly endured were implied in the stoically calm frame of mind which could treat Edie Le Breton's penury of luxuries as a comparatively slight matter : after all, his father was right at bottom ; such mere sen- timental mkldle-class poverty is as nothing to the privations of the really poor ; yet he could not help feeling a little dis- appointed for all that. He wanted sympathy in his pity, and he could clearly expect none here. ' Why, father,' he cried bitterly, ' you don't throw yourself into the position as you ought to do, A pound a week, paid regularly, would be a splendid income of course for people brought up like you or me. But just consider how those xno young people have been brought up ! Consider their wants and their habits ! Consider the luxury they have been accustomed to ! And then think of their being obliged to want now almost for food in their last extremity ! ' His father answered in the same quiet tone— not hardly, but calmly, as though he were discussing a problem in poli- tical economy instead of the problem of Edie Le Bretons happiness—' Well, you see, it's all a matter of the standard of comfort These two friends of yours have been brought 274 PHILTSTIA. up above their future ; and now that they've got to come down to their natural level, why, uf course they feel it, depe^id upon it, they feel it. Their parents, of course, shou dn't have accustomed them to a style o life above the.r station. Good dry bread, not too stale, does nobody <>ny harm stiU, I dare say they don't like coming down to it But be your heart, Artie, if you'd seen the real want and poverty that I've seen, my boy-the actual hunger and cold ^nd nakedness that I've known honest work.n, peop e brought down to by no work, and nothing futile House onen before them, or not that even, you wouldn t think so Ex of the sentimental grievances of people who are earnin" fifteen shillings a week in ease and comtort. 'B^t Father,' Arthur went on, scarcely able to keep down the rising tone of indignation at such seeming heart- reslness, ' Ernest doesn't earn even that always Sometime he earns nothing, or next to nothing ; and it s the uncer ainty and insecurity that tells upon them even more than the poverty itself. Oh, Father, Father, you who have always been so good and kind I never heard you speak so cruelly about anyone before as you're speaking now about that poor, Mendless, helpless, penniless h^^^^fbroken ittle woman ! The old shoemaker caught at the word suddenly, and lookin- him through and through with an unexpected gleani of discovery, laid down the life of Voltaire on the tab e with a banrS sat straight upright in his chair nodding his head?and muttering llowly to himself, ' Lf .« 7,-^^- J^^ said "little woman ! " Poor Artie, Poor Artie ! ma tone of fnexpressible pity. At last he turned to Arthur and cried with a voice of womanly tenderness, 'My boy, my boy, i didn't know before it was the lassie you were thinking ot ; 1 thought it V as only poor young Le Breton. I see it all now , IVe surprised yoiV secret ; you've let it out to me without knowin.' it. Oh, Artie, if that's She, I'm sorry for her and I'm sorry for you, my boy, from the bottom of my heart, it hat's She, Artie,' we'll put our heads t. er, and Bee wha plan we can manage to save her fron> .t she has ne'tr Seen accustomed to. Don't think too j.ardly of your old Progenitor, Artie ; he hasn't mixed with X\ . se people all his life,°and learned to sympathise nlth them as you ve dm e my son ; he doesn't understand them or know th.ir troubles as you do : but if that's hei that you told me about one day, we shall hnd the means to make her happy and comfortable yet, if we have to starve for it. Dear Arthur do not think I could be harsh or unfeeling for a moment tc the woman that vou ever once in passing fixed your heart upon.^ l^ets talk it over and think it over,^and sooner or later weusuruiy lind the way to accomplish it.' PRECONTRACT OF MARRIAGE. 275 to come feel it, course, )ve their ody -^"^^J u to it. unt and md cold ; people e House think so vho are to keep ig heart- )metime3 le uncer- ore than k^e always 3 cruelly hat poor, jiuan ! ' inly, and ;ed gleam able with dding his )man — he in a tone and cried ly boy, I ing of ; I : all now ; le without r her, and heart. If I see what has ne^'cr your old pie all his I've done, ir troubles t one day, jinfortable i not think ;he woman on. Let's ;ve'il ourcly CHAPTER XXXII. rBECONTRACT OP MARKIAGE. Whether Ronald Le Breton's abstruse speculations on the theory of heredity were well founded or not, it certainly did happen, at any rate, that the more he saw of Selah Briggs the better he liked her ; and the more Selah saw of hnn the better she liked him in return. Curiously enough, too, Selah did actually recognise in him what ho fancied he re- cognised in himself, that part of his brother's nature (not all wh(jlly assumed) which was just what Selah had first been drawn to admire in Herbert himself. It wasn't merely the originality of his general point of view : it was somethmg more deep-seated and undefinable than that— in a word, hiH idiosyncrasy. Selah Briggs, with her peculiar fiery soul and rebellious nature, fciund in both the Le Bretons somethmg that seemed at once to satisfy her wants, to fulfil her desires, to saturate her affinities : and with Ronald, as with Herbei;t before, she was conscious of a certain awe and respect which was all the more pleasant to her because her untamed spirit had never felt anything like it with any other human being. She didn't understand them, and she didn't want to under- stand them : that coustituted just the very charm of their whole personality to her peculiax fancy. All the other people she had ever met were if; transparent as glass, for good or for evil ; she could see through all their faults and virtues as easily as one sees through a window : the Le Bretons were to her inscrutable, novel, incomprehonsible, inexplicable, and she prized thetn for tlieir very inscruta- bility. And Su it came to pass, that almost by a process of natural and imperceptible transference, she passed on at last to Ronald's account very much the same intensity of feeling that she had formerly felt towards his brother Herbert. But at the same thiie, Selah never for a moment let hini see it She was too proud to confess now that she could ever love another man : the Mr. Walters she had once be- lieved in had never, never, never existed : and she would raise no other idol in future to take the place of that vanished ideal She was grateful to Ronald, and even fond of him : but that was ail-outwardly at least. She never let him see by word or act, that in her heart of hearts she was be- ginniiicr to love him. And yet Ronald instinctively knew it. lie himself could not have told you why ; but he knew it. 1 U ' "A ii ■ 276 rHILlSTIA. Even a woman cannot hide a secret from a "^f '^^^^^^ t^*^* peculiarly penetrating intuitive temperament which belongs to sensitive, delicate types like Ronald Le Breton s. One Sunday eveniiiy, when Selah had been spendmg a few hours at Edie's lodgings (Ronald always made it an ex- cuse for finding them a supper, on the ground that Seiah was really his Juest, though he could not conveniei^tly^^^^ her to his own rooms), he walked hoine t^^^^rds Nott ng Hill with Selah ; and as they crossed the Regent s P'^rk, he took the opportunity to say something to her that he had had upon his mind for a few weeks past, m some vague, indefa- nite, half-unconscious fashion. , , ,. ^^ :„v if » 'Selah,' he began, a little timidly, ' don't you think it s very probable we shan't have Ernest here much longer with ""' ^ 'I'm afraid it is, Ronald,' Selah answered, fhejiad got quite accustomed now to calUng him Ronald. With such a poor, weak, sickly fellow as that, why really, 'After all, it did not much matter. „ cAy,r^„ ' Well, Selah,' Ronald went on, gravely, his eyes hllmg with tears as he spoke, 'in that case, yon know I cant think what's to become of poor Edie. It's a dreadful con- tin^^ency to talk about, Selah, and I can't bear talkmg about it ; but we must face these things, however terrible, mustn t we? and in this case one's absolutely bound to face it for poor Edie's sake as well as for Ernest s. fselah, she must have a home to go to, when dear Ernest's taken from us. 'I'm verv sorry for her, Ronald,' Selah answered, with imusual softness of manner, 'but I really don't see how a homecanpossibly be provided for her.' , , , .i, • ' I do,' Ronald answered, more calmly ; and for their sakes, Selah, I want you to help me in trying to provide it. 'How ] ' Selah asked, looking up in his face curiously, as they passed into a ray of lamplight. ■ 'Listen, Selah, and I'll tell you. Why, by marrying "^^"' Never?' Selah answered, firmly, and with a decided tinge of the old Adam in her trembling voice. JNever, Ronald ! Never, never, never ! ' 'Wait a minute, Selah,' Ronald pleaded, * till you ve heard the end of what I have to say to you. Consider that when dear Ernest's gone (oh ! Selah, you must excuse me ; it makes me cry so to think of it), there'll be nowhere on earth for poor little Edie and Dot to go to.' ' Did ever a man propose to a girl so extraordinarily in all this world,' Selah thought to herself, angi-ily. He acLuaily expects luo *o marry him in order to provide a home PRECONTRACT OF MARRIAGE. 277 with that I belongs ending a it an ex- lat Seiah ently aHk tting Hill , he took had had le, indefi- think it's nger with 6 had got th such a all, it did yes filling V, I can't adful con- ing about 3, mustn't ace it for she must »m us.' 3red, with see how a I for their 'ovide it.' riously, as marrying a decided ' Never, ;ill you've isider that xcuse me ; re on earth dinarily in ■ily. * He ide a home for his precious sister-in-law. That's really carrying unsel- fishness a step too far, 1 call it.' 'Edie couldn't come and live with me, of course, Ronald went on, quickly, 'if I were a bachc4(jr ; but if I were mlrried?why theA, naturally, she and Dot could come and Uve wTth us \ and she could earn a little money somehow, no doubl; and, kt any rate, it'd be better for her than starva ion Selah stopped a minute, and tapped the hard ground two or three times angrily with thepomt of her ^.^j^^^l^''^- , ^^^^ we Ronald \ ' she said in a curious defiant voice And me \ Huppose you've forgotten all about me You don't ask me io m^^rry you because you love me ; you don't ask me whether I love you or not ; you only propose to me t' ^ «ho"ld quietly turn domestic housekeeper for Mrs. Ernest Le Breton And for my part, I answer you plainly, once for all, that I'm not going to do it— no, never, never, never She spoke haughtily, flashing her eyes at him m he fierce oldfashio'n, andRonali was almost frightened at the an^J intensity of her contemptuous gestures. beiah, he crieo, trZg to take her haAd, which she tore away from him hurriedly: ' Selah, you misunderstand me. I only approached ?he Tubject that 'ly because 1 didn't want to seem over- weenini and presumptuous. It's a very great piece of vamty, Tseems to me, for any man to ask a woman whether she loves him. I'm too conscious of all my own faults and fail- ings, Selah, to venture upon asking you ever to love me ; but I do love you, Selah, I'm sure I do love you ; and I hoped I somehow fancied-it may have been mere tancy, but I Aid iirgine-that I detected, I can't say how, that you did really ove^me, too? just a very 'very little. Oh, Selah it's because I reaUy love you that I ask you whether you'll marry me, such I I am ; I know I'm a. poor sort ^^ ^^^l^^l^^Sl but 1 ventured to hope you might love me just a little for all ^^'^He looked so frail and gentle as he stood there pleading in the pale moonhght, that Selah could have taken him to her bosom then and there and fondled him as one would pet a sick child, for pure womanliness ; but the devil m her blood LTt her f r^m dLg it, and she answered haughtily instead : ♦ Ronald, if you wanted to marry me, you ought to have asked me for my own sake. Now that you've asked me for LiotheZ you cL't expect me to give Y- an fs^^ \-P vour money, my poor boy ; you'll want it all for you ana her hereS; ; don't go sharing it and spending it on perfect strangers such as x^t And don't go talkmg to me agtin about this business as long as your sister-in-law is unprovided aooui^ms o „.in« in take the bread out of her mouth, ana 278 rillUSTIA. I'm not going to marry a man who doesn't utterly and en- tirely love me.' T C[„1„l, . 'But I do,' Ronald answered, earnestly ; I do, helali , I love you truly and faithfully from the ve y bottom of "'^' Leive off, Roland,' Selah said in the same angry tone. ♦ If you ever talk to me of this again, I give you my word ot honour about it, I'll never speak another word to you. And R(mald, who deeply respected the sanctity of a promise, were it only a threat, bided his tiiae, and said no more about it for the present. Next day, as Ronald sat reading in his own rooms, he was much surprised at hearing a well-known voice at t}ie door hiquirincr with some asperity whether Mr. Le Breton was at home. He listened to the voice in intense astonishment. It was his mother's. i. i, v„.i ' Ronald,' Lady Le Breton began, the moment she had been shown into his little sitting-room, ' I didn t think, after vour undutiful, ungrateful conduct— with that abominable w.mian, too-that I should ever have come to see you, unless you came first, as you ought clearly to do, and begged my pardon penitently for your disgraceful behaviour. It shard, 1 know, to acknowledge oneself in the wrong, but every Christian ought to be above vindictiveness and obstinate selt- will ; and I expect you, therefore, sooner or later, to come and ask forgiveness for your dreadful unkmdness to me. 1 HI then, as I said, I didn't expect to call upon you m any way. But I've felt compelled to-day to come and speak to you about a matter of duty, and as a matter of duty strictly I regard it, not as any relaxation of my just attitude of indignant ex- pectancy towards yourself ; no parent ought rightly to over- look such conduct as yours on the part of a son. Ronald hiclhied his head respectfully. 'Well, what I've come to speak to you about to-day, Ronald, is about your poor mis- guided brother Ernest. He, too, as you know, has behaved very badly to me.' , » j, . ' No,' Ronald answered stoutly, without further note or comment. Where the matter touched himself only he could maintain a decent silence, but where it touched poor dying Ernest he couldn't possibly restrain himself, even from a sense of filial obligation, ' Very badly to me,' Lady Le Breton went on sternly, without in any way noticing the brief interruption, 'and I can't of course, go to see him either, especially not as 1 should by so doing expose myself to meeting the person whom he has chosen t.j make his wife. Still, as I hear that Ernest a in a very berious or even dangerous condition—— PRECONTRACT OF MARRIAGE, 279 and en- , Selah ; ittom of ry tone, word of u.' ity of a I said no s, he was he door, m was at lent. It she had nk, after oniinable u, unless gged my It's hard, ut every nate self- , to come me. Till any way. k to you y I regard gnant ex- jT to over- Ronald ! come to poor mis- j behaved er note or 1^ he could oor dying m from a n sternly, in, ' and I not as I 'son whom a,t Ernest a * He's dying,' Ronald answered, the quick tears once more finding the easy road to his eyes as usual. ' I considered, as a mother, it was my duty to warn him to take a little thought about his soul.' ' His soul ! ' R(mald exclaimed in astonishment, i^ifnest s soul ' Why, mother, dear Ernest has no need to look after his soul. He doesn't take that sordid, petty, hmited view of our relations with eternity, and of our relations wita the Infa- nite which makes them all consist of the miserable, selhsh, squalid desire to save our own poor nersonal little souls at all hazards. Ernest has something better and nobler to think of, I can assure you, than such a mere self-centred idea as ^^'Ronald!' Lad^ Breton exclaimed, drawing herself up with much dignity ; ' how on earth you, who have always pretended to be a religious person, can utter such a shocking and wicked nentiinent as that, really passes my comprehension. What in the world is religion for, I should like to know, it it isn't to teach us how to save our own souls ? But the par- ticular thing I want to speak to you about is just this : couldn t vou manage to induce Ernest to see the Archdeacon a little, and let the Archdeacon speak to him about his deplorable spiritual condition % I thought about you both so much at church yest.;rday, when the dear Archdeacon was preaching such a beautiful sermon ; his text was like this, as far as i can remember it. ' ' There is a way that seemeth right unto a man, but the end thereof are the ways of death. 1 couldn t help thinking all the time of my own two poor rebellious boys, and of the path that their misguided notions were leading them on For I believe Ernest does really somehow persuade him- self that he's in the right— it's inconceivable, but it s the fact ; and I'm afraid the end thereof wiU be the w^iys of death ; and then, as the dear Archdeacon said, "After death the iudcrment.'^ Oh, Ronald, when I think of your poor dear brother Ernest's open unbelief, it makes me tremble for his future, so that I couldn't rest upon my bed until I d been to see vou and urged you to go and try to save him. 'Mother,' Ronald said with that tone m which he was well accustomed to answering Lady Le Breton's religious harangues ; ' I don't think you need feel anj ,->neasmess whatever on dear Ernest's account, so far as all Mats con- cerned. What does U want with saving his soul, mother^ «« Whosoever will save his life shall lose it." Remember what is written : "Not every one that saith unto me, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven. ' But, Ronald,' Lady Le Breton continued, half angrily, •consider his unbelief, his dreadful opinions, his errors ot 28o PHILISTIA. doctrine ! How on earth can we be happy about him when we think of those V , xi 4 n 4. ' I don't think, Mother,' Ronald answered gently, that Infinite Justice and Infinite Love take much account of a man's opinions. They take account of his hfe and soul only, not of the correctness of his propositions in dogmatic theology; " Other sheep have I which are not of this fold— them also must I bring."' . , -r t^ ^ • • i 'It seems to me, Ronald,' Lady Le Breton rejoined coldly ' that you don't in the least care for whatever is most distinctive and characteristic in the whole of Christian doc- trine. You talk so very very difterently on rebgious subjects from that dear, good, excellent Archdeacon.' CHAPTER XXXIII. A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. Lady Hilda Tregellis rang the bell resolutely, ' I shall have no more nonsense about it,' she said to herself in her most decisive and determined manner. ' Whether mamma wishes it or not, I shall go and see them this very day with- out another word upon the subject.' r i • The servant answered the bell and stood waiting for his orders by the doorway, , j. t i n + ♦ Harris, will you tell Jenkins at once that 1 shall want the carriage at half -past eleven i ' ' Yes, my lady.' ♦ All right then. That'll do. Don't stand staring at me there like an image, but go this minute and do as I tell ♦ Beg pardon, my lady, but her ladyship said she wanted the carriage herself at twelve puncshual.' ♦ She can't have it, then, Harris. That's all. Go and give my message to Jenkins at once, and I'll settle about the carriage with my lady myself.' ^ ' She's the rummest young lady ever I come across, the man murmured to himself in a dissatisfied fashion, as he went down the stairs again : ' but there, it's none of my business, thank goodness. The places and the people she does go and hunt up when she's got the fit on are truly ridic'lous : blest if she didn't acshally make Mr. Jenkins drive her down into Camberwell the other mornin', to see ow the poor lived, she said ; as if it mattered tuppence to us in our circles of society 'ow the poor live. I wonder A GLEAM OF SUNSHINE. 281 tn when y, 'that mt of a ul only, leology; lem also rejoined ' ia most ;ian doc- subjects ' I shall If in her mamma lay with- g for his aall want ng at me as I tell e wanted and give bbout the TOSS,' the 3n, as he tie of my eople she are truly . Jenkins n', to see ppence to I wonder what little game she's up to now ? Wei., well, what the aristocracy is coming to in these days is more'n I can fathom, as sure as my namo's Williaiii 'Arris.' The little game that Lady Hilda was up to that morning was one that a gentleman in Mr. Harris's position was cer- tainly hardly like to appreciate or sympathise with. The evening before, she had met Arthur Berkeley once more at a small At Home, and had learned from him full particulars a% to tlie dire straits into which the poor Le Bretons had finally fallen. Now, Hilda Tregellis was a kind-hearted girl at bottom, and when she heard all about it, she said at once to Arthur, ' I shall go and see them my- self to-morrow, Mr. Berkeley, whether mamma allows me or not.' , , 'What good will it do?' Arthur had answered her quickly. 'You can't find work for poor Le Breton, can you ? and of course if you can't do that you can be of no earthly use in any way to the poor creatures.' ' I don't know about that,' Hilda responded warmly. 'Sympathy's always something, isn't it, Mr. Berkeley? Nobody ought to know that better than you do. Besides, there's no saying when one may happen to turn up useful. Of course, I've never been of the slightest use to anybody in all my life, myself, 1 know, and I dare say I never shall be, but at least there's no harm in trying, is there 1 I'm on speaking terms with such an awful lot of people, all of them rich and many of them influential— Parliament, and Govern- ment offices, and all that sort of nonsense, you know— people who have no end of things to give away, and can't tell who on earth they'd better give them to, for fear of offending all the others, that I might possibly hear of something or other.' ♦I'm afraid, Lady Hilda,' Berkeley answered smilmg, 'none of those people would have anything to ofter that could possibly be of the slightest use to poor Le Breton. If he's to be saved at all, he must be saved in his own time and by his own methods. For my own part, I don't see what conceivable chance of suscess in life there is left for him. You can't imagine a man like him making money and living comfortably. It's a tragedy— all the dramas of real life always are tragedies ; but I'm terribly afraid there's no con- ceivable way out< ! 1 ,' Lady Hilda 01 y looked at him with bold good humour. 'Nonsense,' she said bravely. ' All pure rubbishing pessi- mistic nonsense. (I hope pessimistic's the right word— it's a very good word, anyhow, even if it isn't in the proper place.) Well, I don't agree with you at all about this ques- I 282 PHILISTIA. tion, Mr. Berkeley. I'm very fond of Mr. Le Breton, really very fond of hiui ; and I believe there's a c aner aomewhere for every man if only he can jog down properly into his own corner instead of being scpieezed forcibly into somebody else's. The worst of it is, all the holes are round, and Mr. Le Breton's a scpiare man, I allow : he wants all the angles cutting down oil" him.' ' But you can't cut them off ; that's the very trouble, Arthur answered, with just a faint rising suspicion that he was half jealous of the interest Hilda showed even in poor lonely Ernest Le Breton. Gracious heavens! could he be playing false at last to the long-cherished memory of littk Miss Butterfly \ could he be really beginning to fall just a little in love, after all, with this bold beautiful Lady Hilda Tregcllis % He didn't know, and yet he somehow hardly liked himself to think it. And while Edie was still so poor too ! ' No, you can't cut them off ; I know that perfectly well,' Hilda rejoined quickly, ' I wouldn't care twopence for him if I thought you could. It's the angles that give him all his charming delicious originality. But you can look out a square hole for him somewhere, you know, and that of course would be a great deal better. Depend upon it, Mr. Berkeley, there are square holes up and down in the world, if only we knew where to look for them ; and the mistake that every- body has made in poor Mr. Le Breton's case has been that instead of finding one to suit him, they've gone on trying to poke him dcwn anyhow by main force into one of the round ones. That goes against the grain, you know ; besides ■which I call it a clear waste of the very valuable solid mahogany corners.' Arthur Berkeley looked at her silently for a moment, as if a gleam of light had burst suddenly in upon him. Then he said to her slowly and deliberately, ' Perhaps you're right, Lady Hilda, though I never thought of it quite in that light before. But one thing certainly strikes me now, and that is that you're a great deal cleverer after all than I ever thought you,' Lady Hilda made a little mock curtsey. * It's very good of you to say so,' she answered, half-saucily. 'Only the compliment is rather double-C'dged, you must confess, because it implies that up to now you've had a dreadfully low opinion of my poor little intelligence.' So after that conversation Lady Hilda made up her mind that she would certainly go the very next day and call as Boon as possible upon Edie Le Breton. Nobody could tell what good might possibly come of it ; but at least there could come no harm. And so, when the carriage drew up at m A GLEAM OF SUNSIimE. 283 n, really uowhere his own )»iebo(ly ;in(l Mr. e angles trouble,' that he in poor d he bo of littl'- 11 just a ly Hilda dly liked :)r too ! tly well,' > for him m all his a square 'se would Berkeley, only we it every - een that trying to he round ; besides ble solid »ment, as 1. Then I're right, ;hat light id that is r thought rery good Only the 1, because w opinion her mind id call as 30uld tell ast there rew up at the door at half-past eleven, Hilda TregoUis stopped into it with a vague consciousness of an iniportiiiit mission, and orde-od Jonkins to drive at once to the side street in Hol- lowly, whose address Arthur Berkeley had last night given her. Jenkins touched his hat with mechanical respect, but inwardly wondered what the dicl, ti, Ai-thui Berk-;le-'d house at Chelsea ; for Artliu- had long since risen to the dignity of an enfranchised householder, and had bought himself a pretty cottage near the Embankment, with room enough for himself and the Progenitor, and even for any possible future domestic contingency in the way of wife and children. It was a very unconventional thing *:or her to do. no doubt ; but Lady Hilda was certainly not th;) person to be deterred from doing anything she contemplated on the bare u 290 PIULISTIA, cround of its extreme unconventionality ; and so far was she frum objecting personally to her visit on this score, that before she ran- the Berkeleys' bell she looked quietly at her little bijou watch, and said with a bland suule to the . suspicious Mr. Jenkins ' Let me see, Jenknis ; it s one o'clock. I shall lunch with my friends here this i^^-^mng j so you may take the carriage home now for my lady, and i shall cab it back, or come round by Metropolitan.' Jenkins was too much accustomed to Lady Hilda's unaccountable vagaries to express any surprise at her wildest resolutums, even it she had proposed to go home on a costermonger's burrow ; s(> he only touched his hat respectfully, in his marionette fashion, and drove away at once without further colloquy. ' Is Mr l^erkeley at home \ ' Hilda asked of the pretty servant girl who opened the door to her, mentally taking note at the same time that Arthur's :esthetic tendencies evidently extended even to his human surroundings. ' Which Mr. Berkeley \ ' the girl asked in reply. Mr. Berkeley senerer, 'e's at 'ome, but Mr. Arthur, 'e s gone up this mornin' to 'Olloway.' . Hilda seized with avidity upon this unexpected aiiu almost providential opening. ' No, is he % ' she said, de- lifdited. ' Then I'll go in and see Mr. Berkeley senior. JNo card, thank you : no name : tell him merely a lady would like to see him. I dare say Mr. Arthur'll be back before long from Holloway.' , , -, i The ^'irl hesitated a moment as if in doubt, and surveyed Lady Hilda from head to foot. Hilda, whose eyes were still red from crying, couldn't help laughing outright at the obvious cause of the girl's hesitation. ' Do as I tell you, she said in her impericms way. ' Who on earth do you take me for, my good girl / That's my card, see ; but you needn t give it to Mr. Berkeley senior. Now go and tell him at once that a lady is waiting to see liim.' The innate respect of the English working classes tor the kind of nobility that is supposed to be represented by the British peerage made the girl drop an instinctive curtsey as she looked ai the card, and answer in a voice of hushed surprise, "les, my iiidy. one aaa n^aui ^..u^ ^^" - Tregellis spoken of more than once at her master s table, and she knew, of course, that so great a personage a^ that could do no wrong. So she merely ushered her visitor at tnce into Arthur Berkeley's beautiful little study, with its delicate grey pomegranate wall paper and its exquisite un- polished oak fittings, and said simply, in an overawed manner, ' A lady wishes to si)eak to you, sir.' Tiie old shoemaker looked up from the English translation HOPE. 291 was she 0, that y at her to the it's one orning ; d I shall Lins was vagaries 3n if she •^ ; so he fashion, e pretty 5^ taking ndencies '. ' Mr. gone up ;ted anu said, de- lior. No :ly would 3k before surveyed yes were "lit at the tell you,' I you take lu needn't ill him at les for the ed by the curtsey as )f hushed dy Hilda er's table, ge as that visitor at \ with its juisite un- overawed trausLi-tion of Ribot's ' Psychologie Anglaise Contemporaine,' with whose intricacies he was niaufiilly struggling, and rose with native politeness to welcome Hilda. 'Good morning,' Hilda said, extending her hand to him with one of her beaming disarming smiles, and annihilating all that was most obtrusively democratic in him at once by her pleasant manner. 'I'm a friend of your son's, Mr. Berkeley, and I've come here to see him about very ])articular private business —in short, on an errand of charity. Will he be long gone, do you know \ ' ' Not very,' the Progenitor answered, in a somewhat em- barrassed manner, surveying her curiously. 'At least, I should think not. He's gone to Hollo way for an hour or two, but I fancy he'll be back for two o'clock luncheon, Miss ur, I don't think I caught your name, did I ? ' 'To Holloway,' Hilda echoed, taking no notice of his suggested query. ' Oh, tlien he's gone to see the poor dear Le Bretons, of course. Why, that's just what I wanted to see him about. If you'll allow me then, I'll just stop and have lunch Avith you.' ' The dickens you will,' the Progenitor thought to him- self in speechless astonishment. ' That's really awfully cool of you. However, I dare say it's usual to invite oneself in the state of life that that boy Artie has gone and hoisted himself into, most unnaturally. A fine lady, no doubt, of their modern pattern ; but in my day, up in Paddington, we should have called her a brazen hussey.— Certainly, if you will,' he added aloud. ' If you've come on any errand that will do any good to the Le Bretons, I'm sure my son'll be delighted to see you. He's greatly grieved at their unhappy condition.' 'I'm afraid I've nothing much to suggest of any very practical sort,' Hilda answered, with a slight sigh ; ' but at least I should like to talk with him about the master. Something must be done for these two poor young people, you know, Mr. Berkeley. Something must really be done to help them.' ' Then you're interested in them. Miss— ur— ur— ah, yes — are you ? ' ' Look at my eyes,' Hilda said plumply. ' Are they very red, Mr. Berkeley \ ' ' Well . . . . ur . . . yes, if I may venture to say so to a lady,' the old shoemaker answered hesitatingly, with un- wonted gallantry. ' I should say they were a trifle, ur, just a trifle roseate, you know.' 'Quite so,' Hilda went on, seriously. 'That's it. They're red with crying. I've been crying like a baby all the I .il -«ii 292 PHILISTIA morning with that poor, dear, sweet little angel of a Mrs. Lo Breton. , , ,, t>__ ' Then you're a great friend of hers, I suppose, the Yxo- <'cnitor suggested mildly. ^ _ _, . . _ ° 'Never set eye. on her in my life before this morning, on the contrary,' Hilda couthuied in her garrulous fashion ' But, oh, Mr. Berkeley, if you'd only seen that ^^^-^ " e woman, crying as if her heart would break, and tell ng me that dear Ernest was dying, actually dying ; why-there excuse me-I can't help it, you know ; we women are always crviiH' about something or other, aren t we ; The < .Id man laid his hand on hers quietly . Don t mind •m% my dear,' he said with genuine tenderness. Don t mind nie a bit ; Tm only an old shoemaker as \^f?^ll you've heard before now ; but I know you'll be the better for cryin<'— women always are -and tears shed on some- body else's account are never thrown away, my dear, are 4-1 9 ' "" Hilda took his hand between hers, and wiping her eyes once more whispered softly, ' No, Mr. Berkeley, no ; perhaps tliey're not ; but oh, they're so useless ; so very, very, ^el•y useless. D^ you know, 1 never felt my own powerlessness and helplessness in all my life so much as I did at that dear patient little Mrs. Le Breton's this very morning. There 1 sat, knowing she was in dire need of money for her poor husband, and wanting sufficient food and dr.nk, perhaps for herself, and him, and the dear darling baby ; and m my hand in my muff I had my purse there with live tenners-Bank of England ten-pound notes, you know-fifty pounds altogether rolled up inside it ; and I would have given anything if only I could have pulled them out and made them a Present to her then and there ; and I couldn't, you see : and, oh, Mr Berkeley, isn't it terrible to look at them \ And then, before 1 left poor Mr. Le Breton liimself came in, and I was quite shocked to see him. I used to know him a few years ago and even then he wasn't what you'd call robust by any means ; but now, oh, dear me, he does ook so awfully ill and haogard and miserable that it vastly inferior anefore them. 'Eniesl and Mrs. Le Pu-eton told nif all abtjut your visit,' Arthur went f)n, Hdou after; 'and th " "re so much obliged to yen for Slaving taken the trouble l > look tliem uj> in their soie dis- tress. Do you know, Lady Hilda, I think you've quite made a conrjuest of our dear little frit.-nd, Mrs. Le Breton.* ' I don't kuoAv about that,' Hilda responded with a smile, * but I'm sure, at any rate, that the sweet little woman quite made a conquest of me, Mr. Berkeley. In fact, I can't say what you think, but U)X my jiart I'm determined an effort must be made one way or another to save them.' ' It's no use,' Arthur answered, shaking his head sadly; * it can't be done. There's nothing for it but to let them float down helplessly with the tide, wherever it may bear them ' ' Stuff and nonsense,' Hilda replied energetically. ' All rubbish, utter rublnsh, and if I were a man as you are, Mr. Berkeley, I should be ashamed to take such a desponding view of the situation. If we say it's "^ot to be done, it will be done, and that's an end of it. Work must and can bo found for him somehow or somewhere.' ' But the man's dying,' Arthur interrupted Avith a vehe- ment gesture. ' There's no more work left in him. The only thing that's any use is to send him oft' to Madeira, or Egypt, or Catania, or somewhere of tliat sort, and let him die (quietly among the palms and cactuses and aloes. That's Sir Antony Wraxall's opinion, and surely nobody in London can know half as well as he does about the matter.' 'Sir Antony's a fool,' Hilda responded with refreshing bluntness. ' He knows nothing on earth at all about it. He's accustomed to prescribing for a lot of us idle good-for- nothing rich people' — (' Very true,' the Progenitor assented pareutlieticall}' ;) ' and he's got into a fixed habit of pre- scribing a Nile voyage, just as he's got into a fi'icd habit of prescribing old wine, and carriage exercise, and ten thonaand a year to all his patients. vVhat Mr. Le Breton t-'j^iI^ ■ . .'mts is not Egypt, or old wine, or Sir Antony, or mij thing of the Bort, but relief from this pressing load of anxiety and re- HOPE. 297 spoii.sihility. Put him in my hands f or six months, and 1 11 l)!uk uiystdf at a hundred t.j six against Sir Antony to euro him for a monkey.' ' For a what ! ' the 1 >genitor asked wit' \ ;> izzlod ex- pression of countenance. 'Bai k myself for a monkey, you know,' Hilda answered, without perceiving the tuso of tlie caiVabout the Le Bretons, and it strikes me w;e might help them a little in this way. I know a lot of artists, Mr. Berkeley ; and I know one who I think would ,iust do tor the very work I want to set him. (He's p.jor, too, by the way, and I don't mind giving liin. a lift at the same time and killing two birds with one .stone.) Very well, then ; I go to him, and say, "Mr. Verney," I say, -there now I didnt mean to tell vou his name, but no matter ; "Mr. Verney I shall say, '*' a friend ot mine in the writing hue is going to pay some visits to the very poor quarters in the East; End, and write ab.nit it, which will make a great noise m the world as sure as midday." ' , , ,1 -r. -x ' But how do you know it will ? ' asked the Progenitor, ^"^^HUda turned round upon him with an unfeigned look of startled astonishment. ' How do I know it w'lll i 'she said contidently. ' Why, because I mean it to, Mr Berkeley. Because I say it shall. Because I choose to make it. i\vo Cabinet ministers shall quote it in the House, and a duke shall write letters to the "Times" denouncing it as an intensely wicked and revolutionary t)ublication. If 1 choose to float it, I in7?, float it. Well, "Mr. Verney," I say for example, "will you un',Uvtake to accompany him and make sketches ? It'll be unph'asant work, I know, because I ve been there myself to see, and the places don't smell nice at .x\\ _w(^rse thiin Henoa or the old town at Nice even, 1 can tell you : but it'll make you a name ; and in any case the HOPE. 299 . 'We of liim- latiun of loney in )cialistic he has ly poor \ ill : why rousing, , I don't hunp, I ,he Pro- it— 'you iver care tell me ; iipathies all, even aiserable ey're too . But I i-e might ists, Mr. jt do for 0, by the time and ; I go to I didn't Verney," 1 going to Cast End, se in the 'Ogenitor, 3d look of she said Berkeley. it. Two lid a duke it as an f 1 choose I say for and make 3ause I've ell nice at i-en, I can jr case the publisher who's getting it up'll pay you well for it." Of course, Mr. Verney says "Yes." Then we go on to Mr. Le Breton and say, " S. youn^ artist of my ac(]uaintance is making a }>ilgrimage into the East End to see for himself how the penple live, and to make i)ictnros if them to stir up the sluggish con.^ciences of the lazy aristocrats " — that's jne and my people, of course : that'll be the way to work it. Play upcm Mr. Le Breton's tendercst feelings. Make him feel he's lighting for the Cause ; and he'll be i eady to throw himself, heart and soul, into the spirit of the project. I don't c.u'e twojieuce about the Cause myself, of course, so tliat's flat, and I d(m't pretend to, either, IMr. Berkeley ; but I care a great deal for the misery of that poor, dear, pale little woman, sitting there with me this morning and regu- larly sobbing her heart out ; and if I can do anything to help her, why, I shall be only too d'dighted.' ' Le Breton's a well-meaning young fellow, certainly,' the Progenitor murnmred gently in a voice of graceful con- cession ; ' and I believe his heart's really in the Cause, as you call it ; but y(ni know, my dear, he's very far from being sound in his economical views as to the relations of capital and labour. Far fiom sound, as Jolin Htuart Mill would have judged the question, I can soleuudy assure you.' ' Very well,' Hilda went on, ahnost without noticing the interruption. ' AYe shall say to him, or rather we shall get our publisher to say to him. that as he's interested in the matter, and knows the East End well, lie has been selected — shall we put it on somebody's recouimeiKlation \ — to accom- pany the artist, and to supitly the reading matter, the letter- press I think you call it; in fact, to Avrite up to our illus- trator's pictures ; ;iud that he is to be decently paid for his trouble. He must do something graphic, something stirring, something to wake uj* lazy pecjple in the West End to a passing sense of Avliat he calls tlieir responsibilities. That'll seem like real work to Mr. Le Bicton. It'll put new heart into him ; he'll take up the matter vigorously ; he'll do it well ; he'll write a splendid book ; and I shall guarantee its making a stir in the world tliis very dull season. What's the use of knowing half the odiously C()UimAvn a little and half blush as she answered in a lower and more tremulous tone than usual, ' I hope I shall, Mr. Berkeley ; for their sakes, 1 hope_ I shall.' The Progenitor didn't feel quite certain about it, but somehow, more tlian once that evening, as he sat reading Spencer's ' Data of Ethics ' in his easy-chair, a curious vision of Lady Hilda as a future daughter-in-iaw floated vaguely with singular persistence before the old shoemaker's be- wildered eyes. ' It'd be a shocking falling away on Artie's part from his fathei-'s princii)les,' he muttered inariiculately to himself several times over ; ' and yet, on the other hand, I can't deny that this bit of a Tregellis girl is really a very tidy, good-looking, respectable, well-meaning, intelligent, and appreciative sort of a young woman, who'd, maybe, make Artie as good a wife as anybody else he'd be likely to pitch on.' CHAPTER XXXV. THE TIDE TURNS. When Ernest Le Breton got a letter from the business house of a well-known publishing firm, asking him whether he would consent to supply appr< )priate letter^iress for an illustrated work on the poor of Loudon, then in course of preparation, his delight and relief were positively un- bounded. That anyone should come and ask him for work, instead of his asking them, was in itself a singular matter for surprise and congratulation ; that the request should bo based on the avowed ground of his known political and social opinions was almt)st incredible. Ernest felt that it was a triumph, not only for him, but for his dearly-loved principles and beliefs as well. For the first time in his life, he was going to undertake a piece of work which he not only thought not wrcjiig, but even cousideied hopeful and praise- worthy. Arthur lierkeley, who called round as if by accident the same morning, saw with delight that Lady Hilda's prog- nostication seemed likely to be fidiilled, and tluit if only Ernest could be given some congenial occupation there was THE TIDE TURNS. 301 still a chance, after all, for his permanent recovery ; for it was clear eu(jngh that as tliere was hope, there must be u little life yet left in him. It was Lady Hilda who, as she herself expressively phrased it, had squared the publishers. She had called upon the head of the well-known house in person, and had told him fully and frankly exactly what was tlie nature <.)f the interest slie took in the poor of London. At tirst the publisher was scandalised and obdurate : the thing was not regular, he said — not iu the ordinary way of business; his lirni couldn't go writing letters of that sort to unknown young authors and artists. If she wanted the work done, she must lut them give her own name as the promoter of the undertaking. But Hilda persevered, as slie always did ; she smiled, pleaded, caji^led, threatened, and made desperate love to the publisher to gain h's acquiescence in her benevo- lent scheme. After all, even publishers are only human (though authors have been frecpiently known to deny the fact) ; and human nature, especially in England, is apt to be very little proof against the entreaties of a pretty girl who hai:)pens also to be an earl's daughter. So in the end, when Lady Hilda said most bcAvitchingly, ' I put it upon the grounds of a personal favour, Mr. Percival,' the obdurate publisher gave way at last, and consented to do her bidding gladly. For six weeks Ernest went daily with Ronald and the young artist into the familiar slums of Bethnal Green, and Bermondsey, and Lambeth, whose ins and outs he was be- ginning to know with painful accuracy ; and every night he came back, and wrote down with a glowing pen all th.it he had seen and heard of distressing and terrible during his day's peregrination. It was an awful task from one point of view, for the scenes he had to visit and describe were often heart-rending ; and Arthur feared more than once that the air of so many loathsome and noxious dens might still further accelerate the progress of Ernest's disease ; but Lady Hilda said emphatically, No ; and somehow Arthur Tvas beginning now to conceive an innnense respect for the practical value of Lady Hilda's vehement opinions. As a matter of fact, indeed, Ernest did not visibly suffer at all either from the unwonted hard work or from the strain upon mind and body to which he had been so little accustomed. Distressing as it all was, it was change, it was variety, it was occupation, it was relief from that terrible killing round of perpetual personal responsibility. Above all, Ernest really Itelieved that here at last was an opportunity of doing Borao practical good in his generation, and hu threw himself -"Sat"*"— " 302 PTIILISTIA. instinct with all the grim hictil C(>l(nirinj{ S(|u;ilitl, fever-stricken dens, where mis- into it witli all the passionate ardour of a naturally eager and vivid nature. The enthusiasm of humanity was upon him, and it kept him going at high-])rcssure rate, with no apparent loss of strength and vigour throughout the whole ordeal. To Arthur Berkeley's intense delight, he Avas even visibly fatter to the naked eye at the end of his six weeks' exploration of the most dreary and desolate slums in all London. The book was written at white heat, as the best of such books always are, and it was engraved and printed at the very shortest possible notice. Terrible and gliastly it cer- tainly was at last of those narn)W, fortune and crime huddle together indiscriminately in dirt and misery— a book to make one's blood run cold with awe and disgust, and to stir up even the callous apathy of the gi'eat rich capitalist West End to a passing moment's in- effective remorse ; but very clever and very graphic after its own sort beyond the shadow of a question, for all its horror. When Arthur Beikc'ley turned over the first proof-sheets of ' London's Shame,' with its simple yet thrilling recital of true tides taken down from the very lips of outcast children or stranded women, with its awf id woodcuts and still more awful descriptions — word-pictui-es reeking with the vice and tilth and degradation of the most pestilent, overci'owded, undrained tenements— he felt instinctively that Ernest Le Breton's book would not need the artificial t Le Breton's iiery and scathing diatribe from innnediately en- thralling the public attention. Lady Hilda had hit upon the exact subject which best suited his peculiar character and temperament, and he had done himself full justice in it. Not that Ernest had ever thought of himself, or even of his style, or the efiect he was producing by his narrative ; it was just the very non-self-consciouaness of the thing that gave it its power. He wrote down the simple thoughts that came up into his own eager mind at the sight of so much inecjuality and injustice ; and the motto that Arthur prefixed upon the title-page, ' Facit indignatio vei'sum,' aptly de- scribed the key-note of that fierce and angry final denunci- ation. ' Yes, Lady Hilda had certainly hit the right nail on the head,' Arthur Berkeley said to himself more than once: 'A wonderful woman, truly, that beautiful, stately, uncom- promising, brilliant, and still really tender Hilda Tregellia.' THE TIDE TURNS, .?03 Hilda, on her part, worked hard and well for the success of Ernest's book as soon as it appeared. Nay, she even condescended (not being what Ernest himself would have described as an ethical unit) to practise a little gentle hypocrisy in suiting her recommendations of 'London's Shame' to the tastes and feelings (jf her various acquaint- ances. To her Radical Cabinet minister friend, she openly praised its outspoken zeal for the cause of the people, and its value as a wonderful storehouse of useful facts at tirst hand for political purposes in the increa'-ungly important (jut- lynig Metropolitan boroughs. ' J ;st tlunk. Sir Edmund,' she said, persuasively, 'how you could crush any Con- servative candidate for Hackney or the Tower Hamlets out of that awful chapter on the East End match-makers ; while with the Duke, to whom she presented a marked copy as a sample of what our revolutionary thinkers were really coming to, she insisted rather upon its wicked interference with the natural rights of landlords, and its abominable insinuation (so subversive of all truly English ideas as to hberiy and property) that they were bound not to poison their tenants by total neglect of sanitary precautions. ' If 1 were you, now,' she said to the Duke in the most seemingly simple-minded manner possible, ' I'd just (luote those pas- sages I've marked in jiencil in the House to-night on the Small Urban Holdings Bill, and point out how the wave of Continental Socialism is at last invading England with its devastating flood.' And the Duke, who was a complacent, thick-headed, obstinate old gentleman, congenitally incap- able of looking at any question from any otlier point of view whatsoever except that of his own order, fell headlong passively into Lady Hilda's cruel little trap, and murmured to himself as he rolled down luxuriously to the ■.ugust society of his peers that evening, ' Tremendous clever girl, Hilda Tregellis, really. " Wave of Continental Socialism at last invading England with its what-you-may-call-it flood," she said, if I remember rightly. Capital sentence to end off one s speech with, I declare. Devizes'll positively wonder where I got it from. I'd no idea before that girl took such an intelligent interest in political questions. So they want their cottages whitewashed, do they ] What'll they ask for next, I wonder? Do they think we're to be content at last with one and a-hulf per cent, upon the fee-simple value of our estates, I should like to know \ Why, some of the places this writer-fellow talks about are on my own property in The Rookery— "one of the most noisome court-yards in all London," he actually calls it. Whitewash their ct^ttages, indued ! Thu lazy impiuvideuL creatures 1 They'll be 304 PIIILISTIA. asking us to put down encaustic tiles upon the floors next, and to paper their walls with Japanese leather or fashion- able dados. Really, the general ignorance that prevails among the working classes as to the clearest prniciples ot pt>litical economy is something absolutely appalling, abso- lutely api)alling. And his Grace scribbled a note m hia niemorandum-bo(.k of Hildas ready-made peroration, tor fear he should forget its precise wording before he began to give the House the benefit of his views that night upon the political economy of tSuiall Urban Holdings. Next morning, all London was talking of the curious coincidence by wliich a book from the pen of an unknown author, published only one day previously, had been quoted and debated upon simultaneously in both Houses of 1 arlia- nient on a single evening. In the Commons, Sir Edmund Calverley, the distinguished Radical minister, had reaa a dozen pa-^es from the unknown work in his declamatory theatricaf fashion, and had so electrified the House with its graphic and horrible details that even Mr. Fitzgerald- Grenville, the well-known member for the Baroness Drmn- mond-Lloyd (whose rotten or at least decomposing borough of Cherburv Minor he faithfully represented in three suc- cessive Pariiaments), had mnmbled out a few half-maudible apolo^^etic sentences about tliis state of things being truly deplorable, and about the necessity for meeting such a dis- tressing social crisis by the prompt and vigorous apphcation of tliat excellent specific and familiar panacea, a spirited forei^ai policy. In the Lords, the Duke himself, by some untoward coincidence, had been moved to make a few quotations, accompanied l)y a running fire of essertially ducal criticism, from the verv selfsame obscure author ; and to his immense surprise, even the members of his own party moved uneasily in their seats during the course of his speech ; while later in the evening. Lord Devizes muttered to him angrily in the robing-room, ' Look here, Duke, you've been and put ycnir foot in it, I assure you, about that Radical book you were ill-advised enough to quote from. You ought never to have treated the Small Urban Holdings Bdl m the way you did ; and just you mark my words, the papers 11 all bo down upon you to-morrow moriung, as sure as daylight. You've given the "Bystander" such an opening against you as you'lf never f(jrget till your dying day, I can tell you.' And as the Duke drove back again after his arduous legis- lative efl'orts that evening, he said to himself between the pufts at his Havana, 'This comes, now, of allowing oneself to be made a fool of by a handsome woman. How tlio dooce I could over have gone and taken Hilda Trcgclliss THE TIDE TURNS. 305 rs next, fashiun- j)revail3 3iples of g, abso- j in hia ion, tor began to ipoii the curious mknown 1 quoted f Farlia- Edmund I rer^d a laniatory I -vvich its tzgerald- is Dnim- borough iiree suc- uaudible ing truly ich a dis- )plication , spirited by some e a few filly ducal md to his ty moved :;h ; while tn angrily 1 and put book you ;ht never L the way rs'll all be daylight, jainst you tell you.' lous legis- tween the nif oneself How tJ\o TrcgcUis's advice on a political question is really more than I can fathom : — and at my time of life too ! And yet, all the same, there's no denying that she's t devilish fine woman, by Jove, if ever there was one.' Of course, everybody asked themselves next day what this book ' London's Shame ' was like, and who on earth its author could be ; so much so, indeed, that a large edition was completely exhausted within a fortnight. Tt was the great sensational success of that London season. Every- body read it, discussed it, dissected it, corroborated it, refuted it, fought over it, and wrote lengthy letters to all the daily papers about its faults and its merits. Imitators added their sincerest flattery : rivals proclaimed themselves the original discoverers of ' London's Shame ' : one enter- prising author even thought of going to law about it as a question of copyright. Owners of noisome lanes in the East End trembled in their shoes, and sent their agents to inquire into the precise degree of squalor to be found in the filthy courts and alleys where they didn't care to trust their own sensitive aristocratic noses. It even seemed as if a little real good was going to come at last out of Ernest Le Breton's impassioned pleading — as if the sensation were going to fall not quite flat at the end of its short run in the clubs and drawing-rooms of London as a nine days' wonder. And Ernest Le Breton ? and Edie ? In the little lodg- ings at Holloway, they sat first trembling for the result, and ready to burst with excitement when Lady Hilda, up at the unwonted hour of six in the morning, tore into their rooms with an early copy of the ' Times ' to show them the Duke's speech, and Sir Edmund's quotations, and the editorial leader in which even that most dignified and reticent of British journals condescended to speak with studiously moderated praise of the immense collection of facts so ably strung together by Mr. Ernest Le Breton (in all the legible glory of small capitals, too,; as to the undoubtedly disgrace- ful condition of some at least among our London alleys. How Edie clung around Lady Hilda and kissed her ! and how Lady Hilda kissed her back and cried over her with tears of happier augury ! and how they both kissed and cried over unconscious wondering little Dot ! And how Lady Hilda could almost have fallen upon Ernest, too, as he sat gazing in blank astonishment and delight at his own name in the magnificent small capitals of a ' Times ' leader. Be- tween crying and laughing, with much eflicient aid in both from good Mrs. Halliss, they hardly knew how they ever got through the long delightful hours of that memorable epoch- making morning. jo6 PHILISTIA. And then there came the gradual awakening to the fact that this was really fame— fame, and perhaps also compe- tence. First in the held, of course, was the editor of the 'Cosmopolitan Review,' with a polite request that Ernest would give the readers of that intensely hot-and-hot and thoughtful periodical the opportunity of reading his valuable views on the East End outcast question, before they had had time to be worth nothing for journalistic purposes, through the natural and inevitable cooling of the public interest in this new sensation. Then his old friends of the ' Morning Inteliigenco ' once more begged that he would be good enough to contribute a series of signed and headed articles to their columns, on the slums and fever dens of poverty- stricken London. Next, an illustrated weekly asked him to join with his artist friend in getting up another pilgrimage into yet undiscovered metropolitan piague-spots. And so, before hhe end of a month, Ernest Le Breton, for the first time in his life, had really got more w-'-k to do than he could eiiaily manage, and work, too, that he felt h^ could tlirow his whole life and soul into with perfect honesty. When the first edition of 'London's Shame' was ex- hausted, there was already a handsome balance to go to Ernest and his artist coadjutor, who, by the terms of the agreement, were to divide between them half the profits. The other half, for appearance' sake. Lady Hilda ^d Arthur had been naturally compelled to reserve for themselves : for of course it would not have been probable that any publisher would have undertaken the work without any hope of profit in any way. Arthur called upon Hilda at Lord Exmoor's house in Wilton Place to show her the first balance-sheet and accompanying cheque. ' Wliat on earth can ve (^o with itr he asked seriously. *We can't divide it I. n us : and yet we can't give it to the poor Le Bretons. I u see how we're to manage.' • Why, of course,' Hilda answered promptly. ' Put it into the Consols or whatever you call it, for the benefit of little Dot.' , , . ' The very thing ! ' Arthur answered in a tone of obvious admiration. 'What a wonderfully practical person you really are, Lady Hilda,' As to Ernest and Edie, when they got their own cheque for their quarter of the proceeds, they gazed in awe and astonishment at the bigness of the figure ; and then they sat down and cried together like two children, with their hands locked in one another's. 'And you'll get well, now, Ernest dear,' Edie whispered the fact I compe- ar of the t Ernest •hot and valuable had had through iterest in Morning be good i articles poverty- id him t