A 522086
DUPL
LAURA
RUTHVEN'S
WIDOW HOOD
VOL.I.
828
WTH!
GJ. WILLS
AND
OHN DAVIDSON
BAWRENCE
G BULLEN

ARTES
LIBRARY
1837
VERITAS
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
•E PLURIBUS UNUM VE
TUFBUR
SCIENTIA
OF THE
SI-QUAERIS PENINSULAM AMDENAME";
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FAR
ARTALAZION

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LAURA RUTHVEN'S WIDOWHOOD
LAURA
RUTHVEN'S

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WIDOWHOOD
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BY
WILLS, 42
AUTHOR OF
THE PIT TOWN CORONET, JOHN SQUIRE'S SECRET,
BOHEMIA,” ETC.
AND
94446
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JOHN DAVIDSON
AUTHOR OF PERFERVID, SCARAMOUCH IN NAXOS," Etc.
FOLUME Ι,
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IN AND ABOUT
LONDON
LAWRENCE & BULLEN
16 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN, W.C.
1892
:
>
CHAP.
I. WIDOWED
II.
III.
IV.
VI.
VII.
V. FIRST IN THE FIELD
X.
CONTENTS.
X.
SIGISMUNDA MOURNS GUISCARDO
XI.
A CLERIC AND A NIECE
THE SHOW OF SOLEMN GRIEF
THE KEY OF THE "BLUE CUPBOARD
VIII. DR. HARLEY APPLIES HIS THEORY
A LOVE-SICK ROMEO.
}}
THE PARSON'S WOOING
THE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
CHARLOTTE WALTON'S STORY
·
•
•
·
PAGE
I
21
52
So
100
125
150
169
184
197
219
LAURA RUTHVEN'S
WIDOWHOOD.
CHAPTER I.
WIDOWED.
THE sun was shining on the lowered blinds;
the noise of the traffic without was effectually
deadened by the tan that had been carefully
spread in the roadway and frequently renewed.
The clock upon the mantelpiece struck two,
and the silence of what had been the sick-room
was absolutely unbroken, save by the buzzing
of an imprisoned bluebottle against the pane,
and the sobbings of a woman in distress.
A
2
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
John Ruthven was dead.
What had been Mrs. Ruthven's husband
lay there silent and motionless with sightless,
staring eyes; the hand which his widow still
clasped in her agony of grief was yet warm ;
but the fingers she grasped gave back no
answering pressure now: the light had gone
out of the eyes that a few moments before
had gazed at her with affection. John Ruthven
was dead, and his widow knew that he had
gone from her forever.
"He is gone, nurse," said the widow through
her sobs. "He is gone.
66
""
Alas, yes, Mrs. Ruthven," said the nurse;
"his troubles are over now."
And then the young widow buried her face
in her hands and the tears flowed freely, and
she felt a dreadful dull aching at her heart, and
a choking sensation at the throat, and her
mouth grew hot and dry and her hands cold,
while her knees trembled as though with sudden
fear. Her face still buried in her hands, she
Widowed.
3
sank upon the floor, knelt at the bedside and
tried to pray; but prayer, the luxury and re-
lief of prayer, was denied her. How should
she pray-for what? We Protestants may not
pray for the dead. Who then should she
pray for-for herself? It wasn't a time for
selfishness, even in prayer, and she felt that.
Why did she bury her face in her hands?
Because she could not bear to look upon
death; she who was so full of youth and life
herself had never been face to face with death
till now; and seeing it for the first time she
feared-she knew not why.
And as John Ruthven's widow knelt at the
bedside and tried in vain to pray, her face
hidden in her hands in fear, the nurse rever-
ently closed the eyes and gently drew the
sheet over the face of the dead man ; and then
kindly but firmly, she touched young Mr.
Ruthven upon the shoulder, and said, "You'd
better try and lie down a little, Mrs. Ruthven."
Mechanically the young widow did as she
4
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
was bid, and with a desperate attempt to
master her unreasoning sense of fear, she
turned her eyes once more towards the bed.
The thing, the dreadful thing was gone; all
she saw of the man she had respected, of the
man she had loved with a childish, unreasoning
love, was the hand, the blanching hand that
lay upon the coverlet.
Yes, nurse," she said obediently, "I will
lie down. Perhaps—perhaps—” and then the
unfinished sentence died away upon her lips in
little sobs, and pressing her handkerchief to
her eyes, she left the room on tiptoe, as though
afraid to break the dreadful silence.
66
John Ruthven had married Laura Verner
four years before his death; she was an orphan
and very young; an heiress, too, in a small
way, for she had a little fortune of ten thou-
sand pounds of her own. She had left school
at nineteen Colonel Mackenzie, her guardian
and trustee, had kept her there a couple of
years beyond the usual period, because, as he
I
|
Widowed.
5
put it,-"What the deuce am I to do with a
great hobble-dehoy of a girl bothering my life
out, sir? I should have to take her to the
play, or some function or other, every night
of my life; and I should have to hire some-
body to chaperon her; and your professional
chaperon, sir, let me tell you, is a devilish
dangerous sort of person; they're up to all the
moves on the board, and all the dodges; they
have, so to say, every kind of gambit at their
fingers' ends; it's their business, and I'm in-
flammable, and a man, you know-a fellow
who has served in India for four-and-twenty
years can't help it.
What chance would a chap like me have
with a well-preserved woman of five-and-forty,
who gave me a rattling good dinner every day
of my life, and very likely would sing senti-
mental songs to me after my port? Why, hang
it, after a bottle of port that sort of woman
would only look five-and-thirty, and when she
wasn't getting into mischief, Verner's girl would
(C
6
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
be banging on the piano, of course she would
and I should lead the life of a mad dog with a
tin pot tied to his tail."
But when Laura Verner reached the age of
nineteen, Colonel Mackenzie had to bring her
home, willy-nilly, to his house in Sussex
Gardens; and he did so the more willingly
because his sister, Mrs. Colonel Croft, had re-
turned from India. Everybody called her Mrs.
Colonel Croft, and she liked to be called so;
and it was a great grief to her that people,
even ignorant people, never addressed her as
Mrs. Colonel Croft, C. B., for the late Colonel
Croft had got his C. B.-ship just before he was
released from his sufferings at Bebreabad-by
his sufferings we mean an enlarged liver and
Mrs. Colonel Croft.
Now when Mrs. Colonel Croft took the head
of her brother's table at Sussex Gardens, she
was determined to enjoy herself. She had a
very comfortable income, and so had her
brother; and she quite agreed with the colonel
Widowed.
7
that the sooner they could finally wash their
hands of Laura Verner the better. "If the
regiment was only home," she had remarked to
him, "she might have taken on with one or
the boys; as it is, I suppose she'll have to
marry a civilian." And then Miss Verner had
arrived at Sussex Gardens, and the business of
Mrs. Croft's life was the attempt to do her
duty to her brother and herself as soon as
possible, and get "Verner's girl" comfortably
married and off her hands.
John Ruthven was eminently respectable.
He was the sole surviving partner of Ruthven
Brothers & Co., of Austin Friars, and had
amassed a large fortune in selling piece goods,
well sophisticated with starch and pipe-clay, to
the confiding Oriental. John Ruthven was a
member of the Rice and Curry Club; so was
Colonel Mackenzie.
"You had better bring home some decent
men from the club, Archibald," said his sister
to the colonel on the very day of Miss Verner's
8
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
arrival in Sussex Gardens. "You owe a duty
to that girl, and you ought not to flinch.”
"There are very few young men at the
club," the colonel replied; "they are very
seldom put up at our place," he went on, ex-
planatorily; "and when they are, we pill
them."
"Archibald," said his sister, "do you think
I should have been the happy woman I am, if
Croft had been a young man?"
They were words of wisdom, and John
Ruthven was incontinently asked to dine.
Now Ruthven was a man of forty, a sensible
man, a highly respectable man, a religious
man, in a way, for he worshipped one god,
and that was himself; he dressed well, and
when I have said that he was a rather colour-
less individual with a tendency to baldness,
there is absolutely nothing more to add. He
had gone into the counting-house of Ruthven
Brothers at the age of nineteen; when he was
four-and-twenty he went out to the house in
Widowed.
9
Calcutta, where he remained ten years; then
he came back to Austin Friars, and he did his
duty to himself and to the firm. He allowed
himself one pleasure in life, one relaxation;
that was his rubber after dinner. He was a
man without ambition, without faults, without
vices; in fine, he was what is termed eminently
respectable.
To say that John Ruthven fell in love with
Laura Verner would be to exaggerate, but
that she was very attractive in his eyes cannot
be denied. In the first place, she was fresh
from school. It's a great thing, many men
think, to come across a really inexperienced
girl fresh from school. "I can mould her to
my will," says that enthusiastic amateur potter,
the man of the world. "She will be what I
make her." There is nothing so charming to
the man over forty as the girl without a history
and without a past. To the man of forty,
what Lord Lytton called the "marble image
niched in cathedral shrine" and a good
IO
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
boarding school is very like a cathedral shrine
—is very grateful. You see the man of forty
doesn't too frequently come across the marble
image, and, as a rule, when he does, he falls
down and worships it incontinently. He is
quite sure, you see, that the object of his
adoration, being a marble image, cannot be
that dreadful thing that men of forty wisely
fear—an idol with feet of clay.
John Ruthven felt what would be in a man
like him the nearest possible approach to love;
that is to say, he regarded Miss Verner with
the eyes of an appreciative possible purchaser;
he felt that to shilly-shally and beat about the
bush, would be, in his case, a mistake. He
felt that if it were to be done, then "'twere
well 'twere done quickly." He perceived,
also, very clearly, that Laura Verner, with
her ten thousand
thousand pounds and her good
looks-for Miss Verner was a very pretty
girl, as we shall see anon would soon
have a host of admirers; he felt that he
Widowed.
II
must be both bold and resolute.
He was
a man who was accustomed to make up
his mind at once, and then to act, though
by no means a creature of impulse, being cau-
tious by nature, and, as will be guessed by his
name, a Scotchman. He had no doubt what-
ever that as soon as Miss Verner " came out "
there would be innumerable Richmonds in the
field; so he didn't let concealment prey on his
damask cheek. He paid his visit of digestion
two days after the dinner in Sussex Gardens,
and told Mrs. Colonel Croft the secret of his
love.
To do Mrs. Croft justice, I don't think that
that lady, if Laura Verner had been her own
daughter, would have received John Ruthven's
proposal quite so affably; but we must not be
unfair. Though Mrs. Croft was very anxious.
indeed to see her brother's ward respectably
married and out of the way, she declined to in-
fluence her in the least.
"Mr. Ruthven," she replied to the en-
I2
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
amoured swain, "you'll have a fair field and no
favour, and that's the best I can do for you.
You are eminently respectable, and you're
well-to-do, which would be enough for most
women. But, Mr. Ruthven, you are twice her
age, and what do flighty girls care about re-
spectability and worldly gear? If you were
only one of us, and had a red coat to your back
(Mrs. Croft always looked upon herself as a
military officer), it might be different; but
there's one thing in your favour, you're the
first in the field. I've seen a great deal of
girls, Mr. Ruthven, and my experience is that
they always surrender at discretion to the first
summons. You see,
You see, if you offer a child an
apple, the child takes it as a matter of course;
but show her a basketful, and she wants the
pick. That's human nature all the world over,
and that's the only way I can explain it.
Why, when I went out to Bombay, at sixteen,
my great fear was that no one would throw the
handkerchief; but directly I saw that it was all
Widowed.
13
the other way, I just took the pick of the
basket, and married Croft. He held a staff
appointment, and was a full major; I was
young, and in a hurry. Girlish enthusiasm,
Mr. Ruthven, has to answer for a great deal ;
the very next day I had to refuse a Deputy-
Collector; at which memory Mrs. Croft
emitted a hollow groan.
"Might I ask the favour of your good offices
with the colonel and his ward, dear madam?"
said John Ruthven, insinuatingly.
"In matters of this sort, Mr. Ruthven," re-
plied the lady, "my brother does not presume
to interfere."
""
""
They then talked a little about the busi-
ness part of the proposed bargain, and Mr.
Ruthven's intentions were found to be of the
most satisfactory kind.
Perhaps you would like to plead your own
cause," said Mrs. Croft. The gentleman from
Austin Friars had a flower in his button-hole
-it was the first time in his life he had had a
14
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
flower in his button-hole-and Mrs. Colonel
Croft, C.B., was an observant woman.
66 If you see no objection, my dear madam,”
said John Ruthven, “I shall be delighted to do
So."
Mrs. Croft rang the bell, and requested
Miss Verner's presence.
When Laura Verner entered the drawing-
room in Sussex Gardens she hadn't the
slightest suspicion of the ordeal which she was
about to undergo.
We have said that the girl was well-looking;
in saying that, we hardly did her justice. She
was rather under than over the middle height;
she had a wealth of chestnut hair, a clear
complexion, ruddy lips, and honest brown
eyes, that looked at all the world with trust
and confidence. I don't know that we need
go through all the details, as though we were
brokers in the Babylonian marriage mart; it's
an ingenious plan, and it saves trouble, to
leave the heroine to the taste and imagination
Widowed.
15
of the reader. That's all very well in a short
story, where space is limited; but in a novel, a
three volume novel, there's no excuse, and in
this present case it is particularly easy. Our
heroine, for she is our heroine, is a living,
breathing woman of the real stout stuff of which
heroines are made. We haven't invented her,
you see we know all about her; that is to
say, ever since she left school and came to
stay with Colonel Mackenzie and his sister.
When we said just now that she had a clear
complexion, we meant that she had the clear,
healthy complexion of an English girl, that
dainty field whereon the lily and the rose
struggle for mastery, and which is so different
from what, by courtesy, we call a clear com-
plexion in the foreigner, whose marble pallor
reminds us of a lifeless mask, or rather of a
canvas ready primed and stretched for the re-
ception of colours to constitute what may be
termed a "make-up," a poor substitute for the
beauty Nature denies, but which art is ever
16
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
ready to supply by adulteries that strike the
eye and not the heart. They say that a girl
shouldn't show her teeth, and she won't if she
passes her time in mentally saying "plum,
prune, and prism," and thinking of propriety;
but there are girls, you know, who, however
much they may think of propriety, can't help
exhibiting their pretty teeth in an almost un-
conscious smile. They can't help it, I say,
being so constituted by Nature that they are
always in a good humour; that's the moral
reason-now for the physical one. Just as a
well-bred Arab horse always has an arched
neck, so many high-bred girls have a very
short upper lip, which exhibits those pretty
teeth of theirs beneath the raised, ripe, rosy
upper lip; for it's the upper lip, you know,
reader, that is arched like Cupid's bow, and
not the lower one, which is ruddier than the
cherry, and riper than the berry, as we all
know. There were little dainty dimples that
came and went, that appeared and disappeared
Widowed.
17
with provoking irregularity with each passing
thought; the eyebrows were arched, the lashes
long, and the forehead was low, distinctly low;
there was no mistake about it, and it's no use
mincing matters. The heroine who is the
fashion now is a cultured person, who wears
her hair in a crop, and has a bombshell fore-
head, and cavernous eyes; there isn't too much
of the hair, but there's any amount of forehead.
This sort of young lady thinks in Greek, conic
sections are her recreation, algebra her pas-
time, and she is supposed to indulge in vivi-
section on the sly. She's all mind is this sort
of girl, and, as a rule, the less said about her
gloves, or her boots, or her figure, the better.
Laura Verner, then, was a pretty smiling girl,
with a low forehead, which has been duly
apologised for, big tender brown eyes, and a
wealth of chestnut hair.
When Laura Verner entered the drawing-
room, Mrs. Croft put her at her ease at once.
The girl was nineteen, so she had got over the
B
18
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
!!
habit of blushing whenever anyone looked at
her, and she wasn't afraid of John Ruthven the
least little bit. If he had paid her any atten-
tion she might have regarded him as "having
intentions;" as it was, she merely looked up
to him as a guide, philosopher, and friend; and
a girl just fresh from boarding-school always
likes the first guide, philosopher, and friend of
the opposite sex that she comes across.
Mrs. Croft, when they had chatted for a
short five minutes, gave John Ruthven a
look which to him spoke volumes, but escaped
Laura Verner altogether, and left the room, as
she said, “to look for the colonel."
Then John Ruthven came to the point at
once; he didn't pose or beat about the bush ;
he told Miss Verner that the intensity of his
love was the only excuse he had to offer for
his precipitancy; he told her that she was the
only woman he had ever loved; and she be-
lieved him, being only nineteen, you see. He
told her that he was saying what he did with
Widowed.
19
the full consent of her guardian; whereupon
this pretty girl of nineteen, who was absolutely
heartwhole, and who had ten thousand pounds
of her own, then and there promised to marry
Mr. John Ruthven of Austin Friars, because it
was the first offer she had ever received, and
because—well, because she had never gone an
angling before; if she had, she would have
been better aware of her own value, and would
have known what a vast number of fish there
are swimming about in the matrimonial sea.
That is how Laura Verner became Mrs.
Ruthven.
John Ruthven was very proud of his young
wife; he never said an unkind word to her
during the four years of their married life; he
never refused her anything; she sat at the
head of his table in his great house at Ken-
sington. John Ruthven thought himself a
very lucky fellow indeed, and nothing dis-
turbed the even tenor of Laura Ruthven's
married life until her husband was stricken
20
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
down, somewhat suddenly, after catching a
severe cold.
Young Mrs. Ruthven nursed her husband
with assiduous care-she persisted in taking
her turn of duty with the professional nurse,
and she was well-nigh worn out with weary
watching, when John Ruthven's death at length
took place.
She had not loved the man, who was twice
her age, in the romantic sense of the word; but
she had respected him, she was attached to
him, and, when he died, she honestly felt that
the light had gone out from her life, that she
was deprived of her natural protector, and that
she was once more an orphan; and when she
went from the death-chamber straight to her
Own room and prayed and wept, shedding
bitter tears, her grief was genuine enough.
CHAPTER II.
SIGISMUNDA MOURNS GUISCARDO.
"ON the 30th inst., 188—, at his residence,
Lexham Gardens, Kensington, John Ruthven,
Esq., late of Austin Friars, aged forty-seven.
Indian papers please copy."
This was the announcement that appeared in
the obituary column of The Times the day
after Laura Ruthven became a widow.
As she read it the dull aching at her heart
grew acute, and the tears that had fallen but
slowly hitherto burst from her in a torrent.
The expectation of the death of a loved one.
blunts the most sensitive feelings, and it is
often not until after the funeral, and sometimes
a long time after it, that the bereaved survivors
realise their loss with anything like due appre-
2 I
22
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
ciation.
The brief matter-of-fact statement in
The Times, like a pistol fired off close to her
ear, roused Laura Ruthven from the lethargy
into which anxiety and the cares of nursing had
thrown her. When all was over, her first feel-
ing had been one of misery, insecurity, like the
sickening sensation in dreams of falling through
space. It passed, giving place to another
dream-like state-that curious condition in
which, while the entire body and soul seem oc-
cupied with pain, the sufferer is able to watch
every passing emotion and half-formed thought.
Her mind was a puzzle to herself. She re-
membered three occasions when she had been
miserable before-her leaving her guardian's
house for school; her final departure from that
school, which had become almost her home;
and, she confessed it to herself with a blush,
the morning of her marriage. She noted also,
and snatched a moment's consolation as she did
so, that these well-remembered fits of depres-
sion had always been succeeded by pleasant
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
23
times. Her self-analysis went even further
than that, and she perceived that her gloomy
state of mind on the occasions she had recalled,
as on the present one, was the natural accom-
paniment of a new departure in life. Then the
disconsolate feelings crowded in on her again,
and she grew angry with herself for allowing her
fancy to wander from the memory of the hus-
band who had made her life so happy; and she
set herself to contemplate his virtues. Her
husband! her dear, kind husband! who had
loved her, and whom she had loved. And
And yet
it was with a kind of doggedness that she kept
her thoughts fixed on him; for there knocked
at the door of her heart-how could she help it
in her weakness and sleeplessness?—a radiant
figure with wide pinions, which, chameleon-like,
took many hues, and seemed to signify many
things, and may be called, vaguely, the future.
"My husband! my own, dear husband!" she
said to herself, putting her back, as it were,
against the door of her heart, and thrusting,
24
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
metaphorically speaking, her fingers in her
ears to keep out the vision of the future and
the sound of its low constant knocking.
That was how it was with her until the
morning after her husband's death. John
Ruthven, his love for her, and her love for
him; her past quiet happiness, her present
misery; the strange future, full of so many
possibilities, that was waiting to burst in upon
her; but all hazy as in a waking dream. Some
three hours of sleep, obtained at last in the
early morning, braced her faculties, and the
announcement in The Times, like a thunder-
bolt that brings down the avalanche, over-
whelmed her with the calamity that had be-
fallen her. She remembered, as she read the
cool, heartless words, On the 30th inst.,
188—, at his residence,” etc., how she had been
affected by the perusal of similar notices pro-
claiming the widowhood of women she had
known, and now she herself was a widow.
Never again would the kindly arms enfold her,
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
25
nor the lips, that had to the last kissed her
hand so fondly and her mouth so worshipfully,
thank her for the least favour, as if it had been
a dowry in itself. How he had loved her! and
how, as she found herself enshrined in a depth
of tenderness totally unsuspected in the John
Ruthven known to the world, she had come to
love him—that middle-aged husband of hers.
And it was all over now! The heart that had
beat in unison with hers was still; the love
that had surrounded her as if with a new, more
vital, sweeter, fresher atmosphere, had been
dissipated, leaving her like a cold moon, airless,
icy, uninhabited. An agony of grief seized
her. She wept, holding the chill hand of her
dead husband to her lips, until she had no
tear left to shed. Her lover, her companion,
her friend, her husband-dead.
"No! no!" she cried, rising and throwing
herself on her knees. "John! John! speak
to me! Speak to your little Laura. Can't
you hear me, John? Can't you hear me?
26
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood,
Oh! open your eyes and look at me, my
husband, my darling husband!”
She laid her trembling hand upon the dead
man's breast, and pressed her loving cheek
against his icy face.
Long she lay as though murmuring in his
ear, and in that attitude Mrs. Colonel Croft
found her. That estimable lady had arrived
upon the scene-the field, we should say-to
take command. If a regiment of dragoons
had appeared in the room, Laura Ruthven
would hardly have felt more outraged than
she did at the gallant lady's entrance. Mrs.
Colonel Croft beamed with satisfaction and
self-possession. She tried to conceal it, but
her eyes shone through her mask of porten-
tous solemnity with anticipated triumph over
inept domestics, and the discomfiture generally
of the opposing force, that is, of everybody
who should dare to interfere with her conduct
of the funeral rites. Laura Ruthven shivered
as she heard her enter, and divined who it
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
27
was. She liked Mrs. Croft well enough, but
she shrank from her effusive sympathy, which
seemed almost professional.
"Now, my dear Laura, this is not right,
you know," cried Mrs. Croft. "It's unbecom-
ing, Laura, unbecoming; it's almost indecent.
John Ruthven was a good husband, and I'm
very sorry he's dead, but he was much older
than you, dear, and he had to die before you
as a matter of course. Still, it's a terrible
blow, of course it is, and you ought to grieve
for it. I'm sure I grieved for poor Croft,
but becomingly, and as a widow should.'
Mrs. Ruthven had risen from the bed, and
stood with her handkerchief at her eyes, sob-
bing silently.
"It's very hard to bear, I know," said Mrs.
Croft, taking Mrs. Ruthven's disengaged hand,
very hard; but you only make it harder by
persisting in this kind of thing. I am sure
John Ruthven would have been the last man
to expect his widow to go on with this kind
((
99
28
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
of thing, for John was a quiet man and liked
moderation in all things."
"Mrs. Croft," said Mrs. Ruthven between
her sobs, "it is your presence here that is
unseemly."
Now Mrs. Ruthven's meaning was good,
but it was somewhat crudely expressed. Mr.
Coventry Patmore's subtle verse-
"Not to unveil before the gaze
Of an imperfect sympathy
In aught we are, is the sweet praise,
And the main sum of modesty—”
conveys in the chastest language possible the
idea that underlay her remark. She did not
intend anything personal to Mrs. Croft; the
presence of any third party would have con-
stituted an unbecoming element in this sad
Scene between the living wife and the dead
husband. Mrs. Croft, however, understood
it as a direct attack.
Oh, indeed, Laura Ruthven," she said,

((
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
29
bridling, “I had better go home, then; but if
my presence is unseemly here, I should like
to know whom you're going to get. Who
was it suggested the engagement, Laura
Ruthven? You ought to be very thankful.
At an age when most girls are still being
dragged about from house to house in couples.
and packs, hunting, as it were, for a husband,
you are left unencumbered, with a fortune, a
splendid fortune, and all the world to choose
from at your leisure. And that was my
doing. Very unseemly, wasn't it?"
In justice to Mrs. Croft, it must be said
that this view of the matter occurred to her
at that moment for the first time. Anger, as
we have all heard, and possibly know by ex-
perience, is a bad counsellor, and can lead
even such a skilled strategist as Mrs. Croft
beyond her lines.
But the imputation was
insufferable. Her presence, the presence
which had consoled the widows of six general
officers, and of one lieutenant-governor, not
30
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
to mention a small army of the relicts of
colonels, majors, captains, and lieutenants, to
be pronounced unseemly! What was the
girl thinking of? Of course it never once
occurred to Mrs. Croft that she had just for-
mulated a similar charge against the said girl.
Mrs. Croft's memory was a capital sieve in
these matters.
Laura Ruthven looked incredulously at
Mrs. Croft; but at last the significance of what
the elder lady had said pierced through the
haze of grief that clouded the young widow's
mind, and with a heartrending cry she threw
herself again at her husband's bedside, saying,
"Never! Never! I will never love or marry
another! Never!
Never! Oh my husband!" She
sobbed aloud for
aloud for a while, then silence
reigned in the
room once more.
Mrs.
Croft's anger vanished in anxiety. No
sound came from Laura Ruthven, and the
elder lady was afraid that she had fainted,
but it was not so. Grief had exhausted
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
31
almost all the physical means of expressing
itself. Laura Ruthven could neither weep
nor sob now. The trembling mouth, the red
eyelids, the leaden eyes, and the dishevelled
hair, all told with dumb eloquence of the
broken spirit and the lacerated heart. Even
Mrs. Croft, among whose curiously mixed
feelings on this occasion pride predominated
(a birth, a marriage, or a death in the con-
nection always made Mrs. Croft hold her head
higher), was touched at the sight of that
sorrow-stricken face, and adopted a more
soothing tone; but Laura Ruthven did not
seem to hear her well-meant consolations. At
last Mrs. Croft again lost patience. She suc-
ceeded, however, in controlling any ebullition
of temper. Exerting a portion of her almost
masculine strength, she literally lifted Laura
Ruthven from the bedside, and set her
unresisting in a chair. She gave her
a glass of water, and then she pat
her on the back, murmuring soft

32
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
-
more graciously than might have been ex-
pected.
"I am stronger now," said John Ruthven's
widow, at length, rising and moving towards
the door. She stopped in the centre of the
room and half turned, but she mastered herself
and did not look at what lay upon the bed.
Her grasp was on the door-handle, when a
sharp cry from Mrs. Croft made her look
behind.
That notable woman stood beside the chair
Laura Ruthven had just vacated in a tragic
attitude, one hand on her breast and the other
extended.
"Laura Ruthven," she said in deep tones,
rolling her eyes in her head, "my digestion
has stopped." And with that she "plumped"
down in the chair in a heap.
No change in Mrs. Croft's colour accom-
panied the cessation she complained of, no
sweat broke out over her forehead, no
g seized her limbs. But her arms

Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
33
hung flaccid by her side, her chin fell on her
breast, and her eyes looked up, exhibiting much
more of the white than was at all agreeable.
Laura Ruthven, much concerned, went to her
and took her hand.
"What is it?" she asked tremulously.
Now there was nothing the matter with Mrs.
Croft-by which we mean that there was a
great deal the matter with her; a great deal
that most people would have done their best
to conceal, or, if unable altogether to control
their feelings, would have hinted at in a less
eccentric manner. Mrs. Croft was tired of
Laura Ruthven's monopoly of sympathy, and
Mrs. Croft was hungry. That was Mrs.
Croft's weakness, an erratic hunger that seized
her at most inconvenient times and places.
She had never consulted the faculty about this
complaint, but diagnosed and treated it herself.
Nor was she in the habit of vaunting it, except
when all other means of attracting interest and
attention failed.
34
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Laura," she said in a faint voice, "it's a
disease, a secret disease. Don't tell anyone.
If my digestion stops for any length of time
I shall die. I have to keep tins of biscuits and
boxes of chocolate in my bedroom, for I often
wake at night with my digestion absolutely
stopped, and then I almost die of fright, for I
don't know how long it may have been stopped,
you see. A biscuit and a glass of sherry,
Laura, for pity's sake."
""
(
"
Mrs. Croft, you forget where we are.
Mrs. Croft did not forget where they were,
but she had won her point. She also was
interesting now, the owner of a mysterious
secret ailment, and she might in virtue of that
ailment, without appearing to be callous, in-
dulge at once and whenever she chose, her
exceedingly healthy appetite, not to give too
irreverent a synonym for her infirmity.
She rose with apparent difficulty and took
Mrs. Ruthven's arm. Truly the tables were
turned. But it was a good thing for the young
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
35
}
widow. She rallied all her strength to help
her suffering friend, and she half forgot for the
moment her own troubles in those of Mrs.
Croft, which, at the time, she did not doubt to
be real.
Mrs. Croft's arrested digestion was soon
adjusted to her entire satisfaction, and as there
were other results, besides Mrs. Ruthven's
passion of grief, produced by the announce-
ment in The Times, they had to be considered.
'My dear, I don't put it to you as a duty,
but simply as a matter of business," said Mrs.
Croft, and she began on the letters and
circulars which were pouring in with every
post, and being delivered by a stream of
((
messengers.
Three different enterprising photographers
sent a sort of carte-de-visite of the advertise-
ment itself, with a list of prices. A dozen
professional statuaries forwarded illustrated
catalogues of tombstones and mementos of
the dead, ranging from "our serviceable head-
36
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
stone at three-seventeen-six, in Portland
stone," to "high-class monumental mortuary
mausoleum, in solid white Carrara marble, at
four hundred pounds," and intimated that a
liberal discount was allowed for cash, and
full price for packing-cases if returned in good
order. The florists sent elaborate designs
for wreaths; while the active secretaries of
numerous charitable societies, human weazels
who are never caught sleeping, fired in their
prospectuses, accompanied by consolatory forms
in lithograph. Seven different parsons sug-
gested to Mrs. Ruthven that they wanted new
steeples or Narthex baptisteries; while numer-
ous ladies and gentlemen requested to be
allowed to call by appointment to inspect the
wardrobe of the deceased, and informed the
widow that they gave the most liberal price in
cash for cast-off military uniforms, gold lace,
jewellery, and artificial teeth. Mr. Fudger
sent the prospectus of his boys' home, pro-
fusely illustrated, and wrote across it in red ink
{
143544
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
37
an indubitable statement-"Your husband was
a boy once," in that honest, clear, clerkly hand
of his. Literature was not unrepresented ;
there were all sorts of little goody-goody books
with red edges, and innumerable tracts for
which a speedy settlement in stamps was re-
quested; and last, not least, there was Messrs.
Kays' celebrated treatise on mourning, their
price list, on the title page of which was the
peculiarly chubby little widow, with the church
in the distance, whose smile is so childlike and
bland; she's a particularly charming little
widow, and when you look at her frills and
furbelows, her bombazine and crape, and at her
impossible little ten-buttoned gloves, which
must be number four and a half at the very
outside, you feel, that is to say, if you are a
woman and have a heart, that you can't do
better than she has evidently done, and go to
Kays' for your mourning.
All the blinds were tightly drawn down, and
towards the afternoon the preparations for the
38
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
customary show of solemn grief" had already
commenced in Lexham Gardens. Mrs. Croft,
with her digestion in thorough trim, was en-
gaged in "seeing that things were done pro-
perly." She had given the order for the ser-
vants' mourning, and the dining-room was
strewed with patterns, which the three young
persons from Messrs. Kays' exhibited to the
critical eyes of the military dowager.
"You can't have the cuffs too deep, my
dear," she said to John Ruthven's widow,
"and you can't have too much crape; but in
the question of caps, there's no doubt whatever
to my mind that, with such hair as yours, and
at your age too, the smallest is the most be-
coming. This Marie Stuart is a poem, my
dear, a poem, there's no other word for it.”
With that, Mrs. Croft held out the smallest of
a whole bandboxful of widows' caps, and Mrs.
Ruthven had to put it on. And then the three
young persons clasped their hands, and sighed
in chorus, a soft, gentle, respectful cooing
(C
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
39
And then
chorus of sorrowing admiration.
Mrs. Ruthven, at Mrs. Croft's instigation,
looked in the glass, and saw there a nineteenth
century bust of Patience, on a monument, smil-
ing at grief.
<<
There's a great deal to be said in favour of
mourning, and one of the principal arguments
is that it's good for trade.
How can any
human being forget his or her grief when the
dye of the new kid gloves comes off on his or
her fingers! We civilised and cultured Eng-
lish people don't burn our widows, we only
make them wear a sort of san benito of crape,
and the head-dress, which is de rigueur, and
common to the English widow, and the old
Aunt Sally of the race-course. We don't go to
a funeral if we can possibly help it, but we put
a new hat-band on an old hat, and send a floral
tribute, price twenty-one shillings, to represent
us at the ceremony. We have done away with
the celebration of Guy Fawkes' Day at church,
and the service for Charles the First, of blessed
40
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
memory, but we persist, we and the Brahmins,
in a distinctive dress for our widows, and we
still put our servants and our carriage horses.
into mourning. John Bull, who sneers at the
Frenchman's volubility and gesticulation, and
thinks German sentiment maudlin, and who
has obtained a dubious reputation on the con-
tinent for want of feeling, still tries to make a
kind of pageant of his grief; more especially
he insists on having no "maimed rites" when
he himself in any of his incarnations-and his
name we know is legion-comes to give up the
ghost. Beyond a doubt, that is the reason
why all the sorrowing Mrs. Bulls have to hoist
the black flag-the widow's veil, we mean,
which, by the way, is often enough the sign of
piratical intentions, for many a widow has, as
we all know, another husband in tow long be-
fore her year's mourning is over, and she is
again a chartered privateer. "John Bull is
dead. Long live John Bull!" and the reign-
ing lords of creation in Britain take care in
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
41
their own interest that the dowagers shall
make a parade of grief. He is a Conservative,
this dear old John Bull, in everything that tends
to keep up a due respect for himself. If it
were left entirely to them, the ladies would
surely not be so ostentatious in their mourning,
they would, at least, adopt a head-dress more
generally becoming, not to say attractive; but
the jealousy of the male, fertile in restriction,
blossoms in the dust"-into the sombre
weeds of widowhood.
(C
The effects of that pithy announcement in
The Times, as the reader can well imagine,
were not confined to the house of mourning.
Of all the friends, relations, and acquaintances
who were led to think by it, probably the
brown study of the Rev. James Crowe, the
popular Vicar of St. Cunegonde, which church
John Ruthven had attended, lasted as long as
that of any.
At his bachelor breakfast he
brooded over the curt sentences as if they had
been a choice text, and when he had drunk his
42
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
last cup of coffee, he threw himself upon his
couch, and continued his meditation. There
is much printed matter in the world that re-
quires to be read between the lines, but there
is perhaps none in need of such emendation.
which receives it so lavishly as the announce-
ment of the death of a rich man. What gloss
the Rev. James Crowe put upon the notice of
John Ruthven's death will appear. In the
meantime, as he makes some slight figure in
our story, the reader may care to know who
he was.
The Rev. James Crowe was a long-legged
ecclesiastic, with red cheeks, red lips, black
eyes, gleaming teeth, a comely beard of some-
what informal cut for a parson, and a voice like
a bell. He could play a steady bat and wield
a dexterous racquet.
He could also preach
sermons, rattling, short sermons; his innings
in the pulpit was very much shorter than his
innings on the cricket ground, and had not a
little to do with his popularity. As a rule the
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
43
sermons were really good; sometimes they
bristled with points like theological porcupines,
and through them all there ran a vein of sar-
donic humour that pleased his fashionable con-
gregation, all the more because the satirical
power was confined to his sermons. Rude
people were not slow to whisper suggestions as
to the source of his humour, but the bulk of
his congregation inclined to the opinion which
a portly churchwarden had expressed once,
improving on the famous epitaph on Gold-
smith-" He preached like a demon, but talked
like poor Poll.” It was really most gratifying
to have such a pastor as the Rev. James
Crowe. In a masterly way he drubbed the
world on Sundays; the world had little chance
against him in that clerical ring, his pulpit.
He got it into chancery" there for ten
minutes every week, and pommelled it to
admiration. The world seemed to live in the
pulpit; at any rate it came to the scratch
smiling each Sunday morning for its hebdoma-
(C
44
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
dal "polishing off," turning, as it were, the
other cheek in a most Christian spirit, suffici-
ent, one would have imagined, to appease the
wrath of the Rev. James Crowe; but no, he
was relentless, perhaps because he found it
impossible to meet this world of his anywhere
else. Go where he liked-and there were great
folk in his congregation, great merchants,
several peers, and a cabinet minister, who all
welcomed him at their houses-he couldn't
meet that cowardly world. Some of his con-
gregation perhaps thought it very kind of him
not to see the world except on Sundays, to
shut his eyes blindly to its faults, and give it
breathing time for six days out of the seven; but
most of them didn't think anything about it at
all. The devil and the flesh, those compeers
of the good old world, we all rejoice to know,
have this many a year been relegated to the
museum, where witchcraft and astrology lie in
dusty glass cases along with all antiquated
forms of superstition, such as filial respect,
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
45
reverence for old age, etc.
But something
must be left for the Rev. James Crowe and his
brethren to make way on; and so by common
consent we have allowed the world, that wind-
mill so useless in these days of steam and
electricity, to remain undemolished in the high
places of the earth for the benefit of the cleri-
cal Quixote. Everybody knows that it is a
mere toy, little better than a phantasm, indeed;
but it amuses us, and employs lances that, if
there were no spectre of the kind to tilt against,
might be making actual wounds, spearing
sheep, say knocking the fetters off the chain-
gang, or, at least, ripping up wine-skins.
We have said that there were some of Mr.
Crowe's friends who suggested disrespectful
things about the originality of his sermons.
That they were original there can be no doubt,
but whose was the originality? Even those
who doubted that they were wholly Mr.
Crowe's would have been surprised had they
known where they came from. At the foot of
46
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Ben Wannoch, in Argyleshire, on the banks of
the Annoch, stands the clachan of Inverannoch ;
it was there that the Rev. James Crowe's ser-
mons were written; and " thereby hangs a
tale"-the tale, somewhat uncommon, though
not very exciting, of James Crowe's career.
The father of the fashionable incumbent of
Cunegonde's had been a doctor in the little
town of Market-Addleby in Bucks. Some
freaks of nature are repeated with such persist-
ence that they seem to have passed into laws;
of these are the large families of poor clergy-
men and poor doctors. Mrs. Crowe, a plea-
sant, large woman, presented Dr. George
Crowe in about the same number of years with
a baker's dozen of little Crowes, all of which
grew and thrived, and had to be helped to
nests of their own when they became full-
fledged. There is a double-edged saying in
the New Testament that Dr. Crowe often ap-
plied to himself. After the fifth child, when it
was evident that Mrs. Crowe's maternity was
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
47
likely to be chronic, he said with a sigh, as the
nurse brought him each new arrival from the
infinite, "to him that hath shall be given;"
and when his small income began to dwindle
by reason of the competition of younger
men, and the little forms in the nursery
grew bigger, and the little mouths wider, he
said with a deeper sigh, "and from him that
hath not shall be taken away even that which
he seemeth to have." The great game at
which we all play, and, however we may dis-
guise it, try to win, the game of Success, is
not like cricket. At the latter game the
bigger the side the better the chance of win-
ning, and eighteen colts often best the county;
but when a poor doctor has a side of fourteen
as well as himself in the world's great game,
the handicap is the other way. And though
he has his quiver full, he is not well blessed.
But Dr. George Crowe managed his family in
a style of his own, which, while it destroyed
his prospects of ever having the aristocratic
48
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
practice he had hoped for, procured him a wide
popularity with the middle-classes in the town,
and the farmers in the country-side, and made
his latter end peace. The eldest son was, of
course, brought up to his father's profession,
and became his partner. The second son took
to the law, and was known in the town from
the time he began to succeed as "Carrion
Crowe." The third son was James, the only
member of the family who crossed his father's
will. All the remaining children were daugh-
ters (ten daughters), and by his management
of them Dr. Crowe made himself famous. Can
the reader guess what he did with them?
Why, he married them all directly they
reached the age of eighteen. "Yes, sir," he
would say in his old age over a glass of port
to a favourite crony, "I married them all; and
to the first comer, mark you. I gave them
their liberty, I turned 'em loose from the day
they left school, and I finished their education
at fifteen. There wasn't half an accomplish-
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
49
ment among the ten of them-a florid waltz,
a French verb, and a vase of carnations done
by the drawing-master, that was all. From
fifteen to sixteen I made 'em read novels—just
what they wanted to do. At sixteen, the
drawing-room was at their disposal; they could
bring whom they liked-just what they wanted
to do. I tell you, long before they reached
seventeen, the young men came to me pre-
pared to swear to anything. But I cut short
the interview; I had a set speech. Tom,
Dick, or Harry Thingamybob,' I said, 'I don't
know your name, and I don't know anything
about you.
My one condition is this, that
she's not to marry till she's eighteen. Arrange
it with Peggy and her mother.
She get's
fifty pounds on the day she's married. Take
her or leave her.' They always took her;
and every one of these marriages has turned
out well. The first two looked bad, I admit.
My wife was in despair; but I had faith, I
had faith, sir, and it all came right. My eldest
D
50
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
daughter had married a veterinary surgeon;
and the second, a corn merchant. After the
honeymoons both husbands went back to the
bachelor life; drinking, betting, billiards. My
wife asked me to interfere; but I wouldn't.
I knew my daughters; I had given them their
heads from the start, and I expected them to
pull through themselves. And they did, sir.
There aren't two more submissive, properly
and deservedly hen-pecked husbands in Market-
Addleby than that vet and that corn merchant.
And they find that it pays; hen-pecking pays
when my daughters take it in hand. They're
wealthy men now, and could retire any day.
Well, the whole town looked on, and ap-
plauded my daughters when they triumphed.
The consequence was that quite a different
kind of husband applied for the rest. Steady-
going agents and lawyers, who demanded
strength of character in the first place, and
who got, besides, a red cheek and a dancing
eye when they mated out of my nest. Mar-
Sigismunda mourns Guiscardo.
51
}
riages are made in heaven. I believe it; and
ten happy families are the result."
As we have to refer to some other results of
the announcement in The Times besides the
prolonged meditation of the Rev. James Crowe,
we had better conclude this chapter with the
remark that, though marriages may be made
in heaven, the fortunes of younger sons are
not, which the good doctor found to his cost
in the divagations of his third hopeful.
CHAPTER III.
A CLERIC AND A NIECE.
"I'LL make him a chemist," said Dr. Crowe
to himself in a moment of inspiration, which
proved not to be of celestial origin. And so,
on his seventeenth birthday, nolens - volens,
James Crowe donned an apron in the old-
fashioned shop, with the many-paned, bulging
windows, of Messrs. Pound & Pellet, in the
High Street of Market-Addleby. Six months
he waged there with pestle and spatula an
internecine warfare on the good folk of the
town and neighbourhood. By happy chance
he never succeeded in killing anyone; still it
could not be allowed to go on; and so one
morning Pellet, the middle-aged junior partner,
was discharged by the silent old senior, Pound,
at the head of the budding apothecary.
C
52
A Cleric and a Niece.
53
and
"Mr. Crowe," said Pellet, severely, "I
don't suppose that Murphy's Embrocation for
horses would have done young Mrs. Piper's
new baby any harm. It is quite probable
that a table - spoonful of hartshorn
oil every three hours may be
be a very
good cure for measles, but it's not in the
'Pharmacopoeia.' Quinine is white, and so is
arsenious acid; but it doesn't follow that the
one's a substitute for the other for the cure of
nervous headaches. I have no doubt old
Mother What's-her-name, in Cow Lane, who
is down with a quinsy, prefers methylated
spirit to codliver oil, but the doctor didn't
order it. Liquorice is an admirable invention;
a stick of it, however, will not do instead of a
tooth-brush. Lady Penelope Parmenter may
like jujubes, still they're a different thing from
Jellaby's patent asthmatic cigars; nor will the
ingredients for a legitimate hair-wash constitute
by any amount of labelling a black draught.
In short, Crowe, while we have every sym-
54
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
pathy with a reform in pharmacy, Mr. Pound
and myself wish it to be distinctly understood
that we are of opinion that you are too young
and too much of a novice to inaugurate such
a reform, and in future you are requested, no
matter how much you may disagree with them,
to adhere closely to the prescriptions handed
you. I may add that any further exhibition
of revolutionary ideas on your part will be
followed by prompt dismissal. In the mean-
time we are to communicate with your father.
James Crowe considered with himself, like
the Scotch cow, and, rather than face his
father's anger, he determined to run away.
He wrote an impertinent letter to Messrs.
Pound & Pellet, sent his apron to his mother,
and went off to London. He had some vague
notion of becoming an actor, but when his
money was done he crawled home, his tail
between his legs.
His father gave him a sound flogging with
a tough ash-plant.
"}
A Cleric and a Niece.
55
"I'll give you another chance," he said,
"Let me see. I'll
when his arm was tired.
make you a clergyman. That'll do, I think.
I don't say that there's any profession ab-
solutely honest, and I don't mean that you
must be a knave to succeed in the church;
but I do mean that in other professions it
requires a hard head and hard work to make
any progress, whereas in the church a fool, if
he's just a little bit of a knave, can do very
well. And you're a fool and a knave, James
Crowe, though you are my son, and into the
church you go.
""
Accordingly James matriculated with some
difficulty at the London University, and was
set to study at home; but he read more novels
than Greek, and could describe a parabola in
the air with a bat and a ball better than he
could prove the tangent at which it was held
out. He failed to graduate, and his father in
disgust got him into a school in town where
he did some rudimentary teaching with fair
56
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Influence obtained for him at length
an inferior tutorship in a large endowed school
a few miles from Market-Addleby, and thence
he removed, through the intermediary of a
London educational agency, to Inverannoch,
in Argyleshire. There he occupied the post
of resident master in a small boarding-school,
and there he made two acquaintanceships
which he found very serviceable in his after
success.
career.
Sir Hugh Redgorton of Inverannoch,
Argyleshire, and Deepholme, Lincolnshire,
divided his time between his two estates. The
autumn and winter of the year, with the excep-
tion of one or two brief visits to Deepholme,
were passed in Scotland, shooting, fishing, and
curling, and also a portion of the summer,
during which he was principally engaged in an
attempt to popularise cricket in the district.
In Lincolnshire, on the other hand, he was
much interested in an endeavour to introduce
golf and curling, the two great Scotch games.
A Cleric and a Niece.
57
All the permanent hands on his Scotch estate
were English and cricketers; on his English
estate, Scotch, and curlers and golfers; but in
neither country did his attempt have success.
Every new arrival in Inverannoch-they were
few and far between-was interviewed by Sir
Hugh on the subject of cricket. Until the
advent of James Crowe, the resident master in
the boarding-school had always been a Scotch
divinity student, knowing very little of the
national English game. Sir Hugh's delight
was therefore unbounded when he found in
Crowe a capital bat and a good bowler. The
worthy baronet had him made captain of the
local eleven, and the young scapegrace's en-
thusiasm soon brought the club to a state of
proficiency unknown before his time. Certain
at last, and happy in the certainty, that the
club could go on and prosper without the
precarious aid of such a bird of passage as a
tutor, Sir Hugh cast about in his mind for
some means of obtaining his protégé's help in
58
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
(C
his schemes in Lincolnshire. A forenoon's
profound cogitation opened up the way.
'Crowe," he cried exultantly, interrupting that
exemplary pedagogue in the very act of
dragging three incapables across the pons
asinorum, "I have a plan." He led his young
“I
friend into a corner of the room, and explained
to the delighted young schoolmaster, in
whispers, that there was a small living in his
gift in Lincolnshire expected soon to be
vacant; that if he, Crowe, would take orders,
and, above all, perfect himself in golf and
curling, he would get the living as soon as the
present incumbent, who was very old, went
over to the majority. 'But recollect," said
Sir Hugh emphatically, "whatever else you
teach your parishioners, you must make them
curlers and golfers."
((
It was a tempting offer, and in spite of his
mental indolence, or rather in a large measure
because of it-for he found teaching a much
more severe occupation than he had bargained
A Cleric and a Niece.
59
for, and hoped for ease in Zion-James Crowe
determined to accept it. No help was to be
expected from his father, and so he had to
help himself.
"Help yourself and the devil
will help you," is just as true a saying, now
possibly inscribed for the first time, as that
which makes Heaven the aider and abettor of
the followers of Mr. Smiles, and might be
easily proved particularly applicable to a com-
mercial age like the present. But as this
digression is already somewhat lengthy, we
must leave that text for a future occasion, and
be as brief as possible in what remains to be
said of the Rev. James Crowe's not by any
means brilliant past. There still vegetated in
Inverannoch, at the time when our story be-
gins, the Rev. William Hepburn, a young
Scotch minister, whose dissolute habits had
destroyed his prospects, and exiled him to
that outlandish village about a year before
James Crowe went there. Hepburn had no
cure of souls, but his friends allowed him a
Co
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
small pittance, and he wrote a little for the
newspapers. He had great talent, had been
very handsome, and was still good-looking.
To him James Crowe applied for aid in his
studies, when he had made up his mind to go
into the Church. Hepburn drilled him well,
and to the unbounded amazement and delight
of old Dr. Crowe, his son was soon able to
write B.A., Lond.," after his name, and
"Rev. " before it. "By Jove," said the merry
old doctor, rubbing his hands with glee, "the
fellow is more knave than fool after all!"
It was not long before James was presented
by Sir Hugh to his living at Deepholme, and
in the course of one winter, his heart being
in it, he had made Deepholme Fen resound
with the curler's cry, "Soop (sweep) her up!
Soop her up!" and (Hepburn's brains being
in his sermons) had caused the district to re-
echo his praises as a preacher. Crowe had
purchased from Hepburn the two hundred
sermons which the latter had written. Being
((
A Cleric and a Niece.
61
of Scotch length they made four hundred
easily south of the Tweed, and did this crow
in peacock's feathers yeoman service during
his incumbencies at Deepholme and at Great
Grimsby, to which he was afterwards pro-
moted. When his fame as a preacher obtained
for him his London incumbency at the fashion-
able church of St. Cunegonde, he felt con-
strained to increase his stock of sermons, and
applied to Hepburn, who for a consideration
agreed to supply him with two original dis-
courses a month.
The reader is now on intimate terms with
the Rev. James Crowe and the skeleton in
his cupboard, and will be able to appreciate the
absorbing interest which the death of John
Ruthven had for him. When the vicar is in
his prime and a bachelor, and there appears a
wealthy young widow among his parishioners,
the odds on the result are enormous; and if
the vicar has a skeleton in his sermon-drawer,
which the widow's wealth would enable him
62
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
to defy, even although the skeleton were to
put on flesh and clothes-well, we know how
in this case the wind will blow; but we
wouldn't take a thousand to one-the reader
must guess for or against what.
66
By-the-bye, before we leave the Rev. James
Crowe and his concerns for the present, some
readers may care to know that he failed alto-
gether to make any headway with golf in
Lincolnshire. However, success with curling
was so great that Sir Hugh Redgorton over-
looked the golf fiasco. Crowe," he said,
when the failure was evident, "it can't be
done, and I'll tell you the reason. It requires
Celtic blood. We must leave it alone. I'll
see if I can't buy a small estate in Wales, and
try and introduce it there; I've set my mind
on transplanting golf." Up to the date of
going to press there is no word of Sir Hugh's
buying land in Wales. He did make a bid
for a small estate in Cornwall, but a wealthy
Cheshire saltowner let it be known that he
A Cleric and a Niece.
63
had resolved to have it at any price. Rumour
has it that Sir Hugh seriously thinks of carry-
ing the game to the Walloons, the Celts of
Belgium, or to Brittany, but we are inclined
to think that if he has any such intention it is
only fitfully-probably only after a long day's
curling and its invariable finish, a dinner of
beef and greens with unlimited toddy.
It is not by any means our purpose to refer
to all those good people who read with interest
the announcement of John Ruthven's death.
It would, indeed, be impossible.
A simple
list of their names would fill a chapter, and
such a brief account of each as we have given
of Mr. Crowe, a small encyclopædia.
For
there was hardly a survivor with whom John
Ruthven had come in contact who did not
notice it, and on some ground or other, erect a
bijou air-castle. Had anyone done him an
injury-he would be forgiven, more or less
substantially, in the will; had he injured any-
one he would make amends in the will;
64
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
had anyone borrowed from him-the debt
would be remitted substantially in the will;
kindness of manner, brusqueness of manner,
on some particular or immaterial occasion, a
nod, a smile, a sneer at some juncture in busi-
ness or pleasure, were remembered with an
expressed or unexpressed "Who knows?—
stranger things have happened," by people
whom he had met perhaps twice at a card-
table or on 'Change. As for the relatives, the
cousins, and half-cousins, and cousins-german,
they had no rest day nor night. Cousin John,
the wealthy merchant, with no children--why,
there would be a small fortune for each of
them!
In particular, Mrs. Summers, John Ruthven's
only niece and nearest relation, and her
husband, Charles Summers, built up high ex-
pectations, not so much on the ground of
consanguinity, as because the deceased had
been kind to their eldest boy. The Summerses
were rather an interesting family in their own
A Cleric and a Niece.
65
way, and as their son is destined to play a
small part in our story, we think it advisable
to make some record of them here and now.
It will relieve our pages from congestion
further on, and so conduce, we trust, to the
reader's delectation.
Charles Summers, a huge six-foot-three.
Apollo Belvidere of a man, married Henrietta
Ruthven at a time when he had an income.
of five hundred a year derived from house-
property. He was the strangest mixture of
stupidity and shrewdness. He could never
recognise the true colour of a fact; but was
always seeing things through tinted glass.
For example, during the honeymoon, he said
to his bride: "Some Frenchman has called
marriage ‘solitude for two'! I don't know
whether that is intended to be sarcastic or not,
but I look on it as the highest praise, because
the best possible definition of marriage. Be-
fore I knew you, Netty, I was happiest alone.
Solitude always meant for me the highest
E
66
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
thoughts and the brightest dreams. When I
loved you, my thoughts and dreams were
brightest in your company. Before I knew
you I could never possess my own soul except
when I was alone; then it was mine, indeed,
and I was happy (some men, they say, when
married, can't even call their souls their own);
but now that my soul is one with yours, the
happiness is doubled, is it not? If the French-
man meant sarcasm, he should have said
'ennui for two'; but then, that's no para-
dox."
That was what Charles Summers said dur-
ing the honeymoon. In the second year of
their marriage the subject of his dogmatism
underwent a slight change.
"Ah!" he said, as his Netty sat embroider-
ing some tiny garment, and dreaming of the
little being that was to wear it-" Ah, Netty,
I fear what our child may do!
We are
married, but we are not husband and wife; we
are lovers still. What if we are now to be
A Cleric and a Niece.
67
converted into a father and mother without
passing through the intermediate stages!'
"Oh, Charlie!" cried Netty, "you surely
do not wish our baby to die."
No," said Charlie, dubiously; "I didn't
think of that. No; that might make us more
of a father and mother than if it lives."
((
"}
((
Tell me what it is you do mean, Charlie?"
"Well, among all our acquaintances, do you
know any father and mother of a year's stand-
ing who are still lovers?"
"Yes, indeed; I think every father and
mother we know love each other," said Netty,
hotly.
"It may be so," rejoined Charlie, in a sooth-
ing tone; “but their spirits have no longer
that sweet communion which is ours at present,
and which we call 'solitude for two,' because
the wives have been, if you will let me say
so, ravished from their husbands by their
babies."
"Well, but Charlie," said Netty, shyly, "you
68
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
are talking of husbands and wives. You
forget what you said a moment ago: we are
only married lovers."
"True, true."
After a pause, Netty said, "You haven't
told me yet what you meant by saying that if
the baby were to die we might become more
of a father and mother than if it lives."
Have you never heard, read, or observed,”
said Charlie, eagerly, "how parents whose
children die imagined them as deified in a
little heaven all to themselves-worship them,
in fact; whereas, if they had lived they would
have been kept in a nursery and whipped."
"I think I see what you mean. And then
you fear that perhaps I may come to love my
baby better than you."
"It often happens in other families, my
dear."
((
"It'll not happen with us, Charlie, because,
you know, we're not going to become a family.
Family! the very word's offensively nasty.
A Cleric and a Niece.
69
I'll love baby when he comes-he mind-
because you gave him to me; and you'll love
him because I gave him to you; and we'll
both love each other the more for the inter-
changed gift."
Well," said her husband, "I am glad you
are so happy and hopeful; and I believe you
are right. You always are, I think. So it's
to be 'solitude for three' soon. 'Solitude for
three'! Think, Netty, how are we to assimilate
this new life into ours? How are we to realise
'solitude for three'?"
((
66
Suppose we make our little boy more of
a companion to us than most children are to
their parents," suggested Netty.
"That's something like an idea. I'll tell
you some of the means I would use to form
our boy's feelings towards ourselves. In the
first place, I intend that he shall not be taught
to call us father and mother, or any equivalent
of these names.
He shall call me Charlie,
and you Netty.
Then he shall not mingle
70
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
with other children at all. You and I shall
be his only companions, and we shall be
children along with him. Above everything,
we shall endeavour to hinder him from getting
the idea that he is expected to love us because
of our having brought him into the world. I
am determined, Netty, that I'll not be even
like an uncle or like an elder brother to my
son, but to treat him with as much considera-
tion as if I were in no way related to him,
and simply a visitor in the house very fond of
the little boy."
"Oh, Charlie,” said his wife, with a pretty
blush, "suppose he turns out to be a girl!"
That would be awkward-very awkward,"
replied her husband.
It was a boy, however; and for three years
after the birth of their son there could not have
been found a happier household in Britain than
that of which Charles Summers was the head.
But changes both anticipated and undreamt of
overtook it.
66
A Cleric and a Niece.
71
"Netty," said Charles, one morning, in evi-
dent concern about an imminent change, "we
are lovers still, and our little boy, like Cupid,
But,
only and always increases our love.
think, will 'solitude for four' be a possibility?
Is Nature to be too strong for us? Are we,
after all, to end in being a father and mother?"
"The thing that we fear is the thing that
"We won't become
will happen," said Netty.
a father and mother if we determine not to."
"How courageous you are!"
"Of course I am. The baby that's coming
we'll call Netty. You don't know how happy
I am. I'm sure it'll be a girl. Harry needs
a companion liker him in years than we are ;
and he'll be delighted with his little sister."
"Not sister, Netty! Harry's not to have
He must 1
the least notion of relationship.
the little girl as he loves us, without ex
You say Harry needs a compani
If
to him in years than we are.
case, when he gets that companion,

72
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
division-not 'solitude for four,' but solitude
for two pairs."
((
And what harm is there in that, pray?
""
"Harm! Being separated from our children,
we at once become a father and a mother!
But let me see-there may be in the first in-
stance two pairs of 'solitude for two'; but why
may not these divided interests eventually
coalesce, and form, as it were, a twofold 'soli-
tude for two.' I see. It will come all right in
the end."
But it didn't come all right in the end. In
the first place, Summers had been speculating
in copper; and before he knew where he was
his property was heavily mortgaged, and his
income reduced to less than a third of what it
had been. By the aid of John Ruthven the
fortunate man received employment in con-
with the liquidation of the very com-
ch had ruined him, and was de-
once to South America to make
ries.

A Cleric and a Niece.
73
Two months after Charles Summers left
Britain, Netty sat in an easy-chair in her nur-
sery beside a cradle, which she had ceased
to rock, the life within having passed into
the land of happy dreams to the music of
her lullaby-
"Hush, hush my baby, the cradle's afloat,
Rocking and rolling, a magical boat ;
No wind, and no water, no sail and no oar—
It makes a far land without leaving the shore.
Baby, baby, baby, hush, hush, now!
Sleep is at the helm; sweet dreams are flocking
round the prow."
Netty, although awake, was also in the land
of dreams. Her eyes were closed and a soft
smile shone on her face. The smile, at first
entirely blissful, was suddenly shot into by
some whim or fancy. Was Netty thinking of
Charlie's ideas of love and marriage?
Opening her eyes slowly she lifted a tele-
gram, which lay on her knee, and having read
it, looked at her watch.
74
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
"He's late," she whispered, stooping over
the cradle.
"He's here!" she cried, as a thundering
knock shook the house.
She met her husband in the hall, where
everything was done that a loving pair should
do after an absence from each other of two
months. Then she took him to the dining-
room.
"Here are your slippers, Charlie; and here
-I'll warm your hands," she said, taking the
shawl from her shoulders and heating it at the
fire.
"You're not going to make a baby of
me?"
"No, dear; you're a baby already. All
men are babies when their bodies are uncom-
fortable.
"I don't know about that," said her husband.
And now,
"But your shawl's delightful.
Netty, I got no word. I suppose there was
no time. You're looking very well.”
11
-
A Cleric and a Niece.
75
"Yes, I am; and so is the cradleful," said
Netty.
"Is it a girl?'
"Now, Charlie, I made up my mind that
you were to take your dinner, and be made
thoroughly comfortable, before getting one
word of news; and you're to do it."
But, Netty, consider—”
"The feelings of a father!"
"Now, that's not fair."
“What else am I to consider? Come, don't
be solemn. Take your dinner, and talk about
yourself if you like, but don't ask any questions
till I give you permission."
Very well, then; but where's Harry?"
"Now, you're not to be cross. Harry is at
Mrs. Willet's. He has gone there every day
since baby was born, and comes back at bed-
time. He plays with Mrs. Willet's boys, who
seem to be very good children-"
(C
'Oh, Netty, perhaps you have spoiled every-
thing!"
(C
""
در
76
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
"No, I haven't. It was impossible for me.
to look after him, Charlie. You know, dear, we
have only one maid, now. Mrs. Willet offered
to take him, and I was very thankful. And I
haven't spoiled everything; for when Harry
comes home at night, he says, with a sigh, hold-
ing my cheeks in his little hands, 'Netty, deah,
when's Cha'lie coming back? Tom and Jack
are not like Cha'lie. They can't make fun like
him. And, deah, they've a man called a papa,
a bad man. He cuffs them, and scolds them.
I'm glad I haven't got a papa.' So, perhaps,
Charlie, instead of spoiling everything, Harry's
acquaintance with a papa may help your
plan."
"This is as it should be," said her hus-
band, greatly delighted.
go and see little Netty.
girl."
And now let us
I'm quite sure it's a
((
When they got to the nursery, Netty dis-
missed the nurse, and led her husband to the
cradle. Having caught sight of the con-
A Cleric and a Niece.
77
tents of it, he exclaimed, "Good heavens,
Netty, what's this?"
Netty, not knowing exactly how to look,
much less what to say, shook her pretty head
and kissed her husband.
"It's too much!" he cried in comical anguish,
at which Netty had to laugh in spite of her-
self.
"And you're laughing at me!"
"No, dear," fibbed Netty, "I'm not laugh-
ing at you; but it has just flashed on me that
I have been singing for three weeks, 'Hush,
hush, my baby!'—to twins."
Nature had proved too strong, as Charles
Summers feared it would. The man lost heart
after that; his family and his debts increased,
and John Ruthven had to help him often.
One of the many forms his assistance took was
that of defraying the cost of his grandnephew,
the strangely-reared Harry's, education. “At
least," said Charles Summers, tapping The
Times with his forefinger, "whatever this may
78
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
mean to you and me, Netty, it means that
He was always your
Harry's fortune's made.
uncle's favourite."
"There'll surely be something for me, and
I'll take care," said Netty, whose naturally
good temper had not been able to withstand
her accumulated misfortunes, "that you don't
get your fingers on it; you'd only lose it.
There's a change in the law since you and I
were married, I'm thankful to say."
Summers sighed. He had never recovered
from the ruthless way in which Nature had
driven a perambulator and twins right through
his fine-spun theory of domestic bliss.
The reader is not to suppose that this is a
story without a hero. On the contrary, we
have a number of heroes, and have already in-
troduced two of them-the Rev. James Crowe
and Harry Summers-who shall appear upon
the stage immediately. We can assure the
reader at once, however, that the intelligent
conclusion he has doubtless arrived at al-
2.
A Cleric and a Niece.
79
ready is correct-neither of these is our real
hero.
But first we must attend the funeral of John
Ruthven.
CHAPTER IV.
THE SHOW OF SOLEMN GRIEF.
THE area bell in Lexham Gardens was rung
very frequently on the day of John Ruthven's
funeral. Floral tributes, as they are called,
were continually arriving by hand, in florists'
vans, and even by parcels post. Sharp at
ten, Mr. Pinker, the undertaker, put in an
appearance; if he hadn't come via the area
steps you would have taken him for the family
physician at the least. He was followed by
his attendant satellites, one of whom carried
a large box containing gloves. Mr. Pinker
spoke only in whispers, discreet whispers.
He was a big man, plump and wholesome,
with a corned-beef-coloured complexion, and a
watery eye, which seemed ever ready with a
80
The Show of Solemn Grief.
81
sympathising tear, and a tender manner which
reminded one of the successful dentist.
"You, sir," said Mr. Pinker, addressing the
butler, "are, I suppose, the principal here?"
Mr. Pinker didn't use the word "domestic"; that
word would have hurt the butler's feelings, and
Mr. Pinker's life business was to hurt no one's
feelings.
Mr. Clooper, the butler, had never in his
life been called a "principal" before; he en-
joyed the promotion, but he corrected Mr.
Pinker at once. "No, sir," he said, "Mr.
Ruthven's is only a single-handed place, he
didn't keep a hunder, but though we didn't see
much company, we did things correct-and-
and-well, Mr. Ruthven wasn't a judge of
wine." Here Mr. Clooper smiled. "He just
put himself in my hands, as a gentleman, that
is a gentleman, should. Shall it be port or
sherry, sir?"
"Thank you, thank you,” replied Mr. Pinker,
"it's very thoughtful of you. I will take one
F
82
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
glass, just one glass, of sherry, dry sherry, if
you please you see, Mr.-ah, Mr. Clooper-
thank you
you we require it, we need it, sir.
And why do we need it, sir? because we have
to go through this every day of our lives. To
gentlemen in my line of business, Mr. Clooper,
this weary world is indeed a vale of tears.
But it's a beautiful day, and that's a great
thing. Ah! the state of the weather makes
an immense difference at a funeral or a wed-
ding: a few drops of rain will wash all the
poetry out of either ceremony; one can marry
again, and be lucky in one's weather the second
time, but the deceased has to take the weather
as he finds it, and no amount of extras 'll make
up for a wet burying." Then Mr. Pinker took
out a snuff-box, from which he extracted a
little silvered pill which he munched. "We
must be thoughtful, Mr. Clooper," he said, "we
must spare the feelings of the relatives as much
as possible. May I offer you one?"
"Bless you, sir," said Mr. Clooper, feel-
GM)
The Show of Solemn Grief.
83
ingly, "I haven't had the heart to touch it
yet."
"Quite right, sir, quite right, it's the proper
way to look at it," said Mr. Pinker. Then
the undertaker took a list from his pocket and
began to read slowly. "Brougham and pair
of horses, containing the relict and Mrs. Croft,
friend of same.' Ah! quite natural, quite
natural—wants to see the last of him—they
all do," added Mr. Pinker somewhat enigmatic-
ally. Mourning coach number one: Colonel
Mackenzie, C.B.; C. Summers, Esq., cousin by
marriage; Bullivant, Esq., Solicitor. Numbers
two and three six cousins, distant.' A distant
cousin, who has expectations, Mr. Clooper,
makes the best mourner; there's no trifling
about him; it's a serious matter, and he has
plenty of food for reflection. 'Mourning coach
number four: intimate friends of deceased.'
They come, Mr. Clooper, partly as a duty,
partly as a pleasure; they like to talk about
it afterwards to the other friends, who ought
CC (
(
84
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Ni
to have
have gone
gone but didn't; but it takes
away their appetites and gives some food
for reflection, as it does the possible
legatees. Ah, it's bad to shirk a friend's
funeral, Mr. Clooper. Mourning coach num-
ber five city gents, employés of the deceased.'
They'll talk all the way back; they always
do. It'll make a very pleasant function, Mr.
Clooper. All proper, and, as it should be, dig-
nified and comfortable-no overcrowding, as
is only too common among the lower middle-
class, where the coaches are full to overflow-
ing, three on a seat and a child or two in the
middle, like a ha'penny bus. Bless you, sir,
they'd ride by the driver, or on the roof, if
we'd let 'em. There's a want of decency
among the lower classes that is simply disgust-
ing! Dear me," said Mr. Pinker, "I had
forgotten the doctor. Can you give me the
name of the professional gent, Mr. C.?"
"Dr. Harley is our doctor," said Mr. Cloo-
per, in reply.
(
The Show of Solemn Grief.
85
"Ah! indeed-Dr. Harley. I've met him
professionally frequently; always attends in
person. Well, well, it does 'em good, Mr.
Clooper; they ought to be compelled to come
by Act of Parliament. The presence of the
medical man of the defunct is to a funeral
what the lime-light is to the theatre—you can
do without it, you know, but it makes all the
difference. Plenty of tributes, I suppose, Mr.
Clooper? Ah! of course. And now I think
we'd better just take a look into the dining-
room." And then Mr. Pinker followed the
butler upstairs, and in a few moments the
mourners began to arrive.
appearance.
Colonel Mackenzie was the first to put in an
He asked for his sister at once,
and Mrs. Croft, considerably excited, came
down to him.
"Archibald," she said, "she is obstinate.
Nothing will move her-she insists on being
present. I've remonstrated. 'It isn't the
thing,' I said, 'it isn't the custom, or seemly,
86
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood
or becoming.' But no; she persists. She's
been crying her pretty eyes out, till they're
like a ferret's. Archibald," cried Mrs. Colonel
Croft, C.B., "can't you assume an air of
authority for once, just for once?"
"Bless me, no," burst out the colonel, look-
ing excessively frightened. "How the deuce
could I interfere? She'll have to go, Maria.
You can't drive a woman. She's her own mis-
tress; if she says she'll go, she'll have to.
Why, she'd accuse me of want of feeling, and
brutality, and all sorts of things."
Well, I wash my hands of it," replied his
sister excitedly, suiting her action to the words,
as though she had been a female Pontius Pilate.
"I wash my hands of it. But it's hard, Archi-
bald; it's very hard on me.
For I must go.
She can't attend alone, and I hate this sort of
thing; it lowers the tone of my stomach, and
renders my digestion liable to be arrested at
any moment."
And then Mrs. Croft went back to her hope-
((
The Show of Solemn Grief.
87
less task of trying to over-persuade John
Ruthven's widow; while Colonel Mackenzie
received the mourners as they began to arrive.
As each man entered the room, the colonel
welcomed him upon the hearth-rug. Every-
body spoke in whispers, as though they were
afraid of awakening the late master of the
house, and everybody seemed to feel that it
was his duty ever and anon to shake his head
mysteriously. Each man was offered a choice
of cake (a peculiarly heavy and black pound
cake, which almost realised boyhood's dream of
the acme of richness, and used to be provided
for christenings as well as for funerals, but has
disappeared with the caudle, which has now
become a mere legend) or sweet biscuits, port,
or sherry. There was no mistake about the
wines, they were perfection of their kind; but
yet no one had a second glass—no one save
Mr. Bullivant, the solicitor, and Dr. Harley,
the medical attendant of the deceased merchant.
Mr. Pinker then advanced and whispered
88
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
into the ear of each mourner the stereo-
typed question, "Dent's or Fownes's, sir?"
and the satellite held out the open box of
gloves to Mr. Pinker, and the last trifling tax
imposed by tyrant custom upon the dead was
paid. And then every man began to struggle
with his gloves. Before the struggle began he
looked at his watch, and when it was over he
looked at his watch once more. And then in
those last few minutes of tedious waiting there
was a grim sound of heavy footsteps on the
stairs, and each mourner knew what those
heavy footsteps meant, and as he heard them
he felt that his turn, too, must come in time.
Laura Ruthven's husband having been car-
ried forth, the hearse moved slowly off at a
snail's pace, and the brougham of the dead
man drew up at the hall door, and Laura
Ruthven, closely veiled, entered it, followed by
Mrs. Croft, and so, one by one, in the order
given in Mr. Pinker's list, the little procession
left the dead man's house in Lexham Gardens.
The Show of Solemn Grief.
89
Very slowly they proceeded at first, Mr.
Pinker and his myrmidons walking in front of
and beside the hearse, on which lay the silver-
plated oak coffin covered by the wealth of
flowery wreaths, crosses, and anchors. And
ever and anon, as Laura Ruthven, staring
mechanically, looked straight before her, she
saw the great ornamental carriage of oak,
plate-glass, and gilding, and its heap of white.
flowers ranged in formal shapes, that hid from
her the coffin of her dead husband, on whom
that morning she had looked her last.
Slowly-ah! so slowly--the dead man led
the way towards the great potter's field at
Kensal Green. The bystanders turned to
stare and criticise the show, while now and
again some Catholic of the lower orders would
stop and reverently raise his hat to him who
would never return a salute again. But after
some half-mile the procession stopped for an
instant, Mr. Pinker and his attendants nimbly
took their places on the boxes or foot-boards
90
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
of the mourning carriages, and then the
funeral passed on at a more rapid pace.
At the cemetery gates, which were wide
open, again the pageant halted for an instant
-a single instant-and Mr. Pinker and his
men resumed their places; then they advanced
at a solemn foot pace, which seemed slow
even to the horses, who switched away the
flies and champed their bits, and snorted with
the heat and their tight bearing-reins.
When the funeral drew up at the mortuary
chapel, the priest advanced to meet the dead
man, and the dead man's guests alighted;
while Laura Ruthven, the dead man's wife,
stood aside and let the coffin and the mourners
pass. Following them into the chapel, she
shrunk into a corner, and listened in rapt
astonishment to the solemn service for the
Burial of the Dead, and the grief that over-
came her was temporarily assuaged. Once
more the procession was formed, the grave
was reached, the coffin, covered with flowers,
The Show of Solemn Grief.
91
was lowered into the yawning pit, the handfuls
of earth were flung upon it with a hollow
rattle, and the service was concluded. Then
the mourners turned away with a feeling of
relief. But the widow, loth to leave the place,
still stood by the open grave, and blindly
stared at it.
"Come away, Laura; come away," said
Mrs. Croft, firmly.
"I can't I can't leave him," cried the tear-
less widow in her agony; and then, before
Mrs. Croft could restrain her, she stepped to
the foot of the yawning pit, and looked into it
with affrighted eyes, and saw only a heap of
white flowers.
And then a lusty labourer, wearing a clay-
stained suit of fustians and carrying a shovel,
stepped up and touched his hat, looking on
Mrs. Croft and her companion with respectful
but expectant eyes.
"Be I to begin,
touching his hat.
ladies?" said the man, again
"I've a mort of work on
92
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
hand, ye see," he went on.
wait a bit, if ye'd like me to.
""
"Get it over, man," said Mrs. Croft, in a
hurried whisper, and she thrust something into
the man's extended palm.
To it he went, and with a will; the great
lumps of earth and gravel rattled into the open
grave. And Laura Ruthven, with blanched
face and tear-stained cheeks, turned away in
horror, and tottered towards her carriage,
leaning on the arm of her companion.
"I was right, perfectly right, Laura; you
ought never to have come. It's unwomanly,
almost unlady-like, and-and-and you ought
to be ashamed of yourself. Yes, I was per-
fectly right," said Mrs. Croft.
All the long drive home Mrs. Croft smiled
sweetly. It's a great consolation to any
woman to know that she is right.
And so John Ruthven was buried.
"But-well, I'll
The dining-room at Lexham Gardens pre-
sented quite a different appearance to the
The Show of Solemn Grief.
93
mourners' eyes when they re-entered it after
the funeral. The dismal appearance produced
by the dim light caused by the lowered blinds
—that cheap accessory and aid to grief—had
departed, and the expectant legatees could with
difficulty tone down their faces to the requisite
pitch of decent woe. One sacrifice, however,
was made to appearances, everybody talked
in a whisper. The whole scene resembled
nothing so much as the winding-up of a limited
liability company, the only unconcerned person
present being Mr. Bullivant, the solicitor of
the deceased, who may be said to have per-
formed the functions of a sort of official
liquidator. And yet it wasn't quite like a
winding-up meeting There was a dividend
to be declared; but the question was, would
it be a satisfactory one? All the mourners
were present, for each of them had received
an intimation from Mr. Bullivant's office that
they were "interested" in the will of the man
whom the lawyer's letter termed "our late re-
94
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Cunegonde's.
spected client." All these people, except
Colonel Mackenzie, had been engaged ever
since that mysterious notification in the
pleasant occupation of counting unhatched
chickens, and their ranks were joined by the
Reverend James Crowe, the Vicar of St.
They all talked in whispers,
but their eyes sparkled with anticipation, and
every man took the glass of wine offered to
him with gratitude, feeling he needed it to
steel him for the anxious ordeal through which
he was about to pass, and also that he had
earned it. When the glasses were removed,
Mr. Bullivant cleared his throat, and laid a
long blue envelope upon the table. Then he
proceeded leisurely to wipe his big gold eye-
glasses, a process that seemed interminable to
the mourners, whose expectant eyes followed
his every movement, and then he spake :
"Gentlemen," said Mr. Bullivant, "I shall not
detain you long. I need hardly tell you that
this document is the last will and testament of
The Show of Solemn Grief.
95
my deceased client, the late Mr. John
Ruthven, It is, I am happy to say, sim-
plicity itself. Gentlemen, it runs as follows."
Then he began to read. "This, the last will
and testament of Mr. John Ruthven, merchant,
of Austin Friars, London, in the county of
Middlesex. First, I appoint my friends, Archi-
bald Croft, of Sussex Gardens, and Thomas
Bullivant, solicitor, of 12 Great Winchester
Street, my executors. I give and bequeath to
(here followed the names of the gentlemen who
had occupied what Mr. Pinker had termed
mourning coach number five), who have all
been in my employ, the sum of nineteen pounds.
nineteen shillings to each and every one of
them as a token of my esteem."
Here four countenances fell.
"He might
have made it fifty while he was about it,” each
man thought, and the four clerks of the firm of
Ruthven Brothers looked at each other. One,
the youngest, and a bachelor, with a fine head
for figures, made the following mental calcula-
96
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
tion: "I'll be bound I've touched my hat to
Mr. John over five thousand times. Hang it!
it's less than a penny a time." But the other
three, who were married men, sighed. "It
isn't much; but it's something," they thought.
"To the Reverend James Crowe, clerk in
holy orders, of St. Cunegonde's, Kensington,
I give and bequeath a like sum of nineteen
pounds nineteen shillings."
As the lawyer read out this item, everybody
looked at the Reverend James, who raised his
fine eyes to heaven and looked as though he
were saying grace.
"To my executors, a like sum of nineteen
pounds nineteen shillings. To my niece,
Henrietta Summers" - here
here Mr. Bullivant
sneezed and paused, while Charles Summers,
trembling with excitement, tried to look as
unconcerned as possible, but miserably failed-
"to my niece, Henrietta Summers," continued
Mr. Bullivant, "I give a like sum."
Then Mr. Bullivant gave a little warning
The Show of Solemn Grief.
97
>>
cough, and continued: "To my dear friend,
Lady Fullalove, I bequeath the sum of one
hundred guineas, as a memento of our long
and close friendship, in order that she may
purchase some trifling remembrance of me.
Here everybody looked at everybody else in
astonishment. "Trifling memento!" thought
Charles Summers; "it makes one sick." But
Mr. Bullivant gave them no time for comment,
for he read on, in his cold, passionless lawyer's
voice: "Finally, I will and bequeath all my
estate, real and personal, all my property, of
whatsoever description, and all my monies,
stocks, shares, horses, carriages, plate, jewels,
pictures, and works of art to my dear wife,
Laura, absolutely."
(C
'Here,” added Mr. Bullivant, "follows the
signature of the deceased. The will, gentle-
men, was properly attested by John Clooper,
butler, and Mary Brown, spinster, and is dated
a month ago. I should, perhaps, inform you,
gentlemen, that the legacies, with the exception
G
98
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
of that to Lady Fullalove, being under twenty
pounds, are free of legacy duty."
Then Mr. Bullivant rose; he had declared a
dividend; there were no questions to ask, and
the mourners shook hands with Colonel Mac-
kenzie, and one by one filed out of the room.
'Who the deuce is Lady Fullalove?" said
the colonel to the lawyer.
"Can't say, my dear sir," replied that gentle-
man with a smile. "My client was forty when
he married—some old flame, I suppose. In
fact, he hinted as much-but, ah-well-he
said she was well off, and wouldn't care for
more."
"C
When the lawyer left, Mrs. Croft came into
the room, and looking anxiously at the colonel,
asked, "How is she left, Archibald! has he-
um—ah—-done his duty?”
He's left her everything, everything absol-
utely, and free to marry again, and she's a rich
She ought to be grateful," re-
woman now.
plied the colonel.
66
The Show of Solemn Grief.
99
"She will be grateful, Archibald, when she
Of course
But now,
hears that he hasn't tied her hands.
her settlements were very ample.
now, she ought indeed to be a happy woman.
Free, free to choose—and wealthy, at three-
and-twenty. Why, Archibald, she's only got
to throw the handkerchief.
If I were a
younger woman, how I should envy her.
Quite the girl still, too. Ah, well, and there
she is crying her eyes out.
Some people,
said Mrs. Croft a little spitefully, "never know
when they are well off.”
"}
Uort
CHAPTER V.
ཎྞཾ བྷཱནྡྷསྶ ཝིདྡྷཝཏི
FIRST IN THE FIELD.
By right of his cloth the Rev. James Crowe
called on Laura Ruthven before the world had
begun its customary visits of condolence; but
by no other right, for a man less able by
disposition and by training to perform the
office of a comforter could not well be ima-
gined; by no other right, but rather by wrong,
for his purpose was to ingratiate himself with
the young widow, the child-widow we might
almost say, and supplant the memory that
he ought,—if "sweet religion," in Hamlet's
phrase, be not
not "a rhapsody of words,"
to have helped her to cherish. But perhaps
we are too hard on the Rev. James; indeed,
had he been a better man we would not have
100
First in the Field.
IOI
put it so strongly; because any single male
person who was fancy-free-everybody knows
that married and engaged men never give two
thoughts to "another "
another "—any ordinarily-consti-
tuted unattached bachelor, on sight of Laura
Ruthven in her well-fashioned weeds, with
snow-white bands and tiny cap, would have felt
quite happy at the thought that her husband
was dead, although he might not have dreamt
of making her his own; for the average man is
a dog in the manger with regard to the better
and larger half of the population, and the heart
of the male is covetous above all things and
desperately selfish. The Rev. James Crowe.
was, as we have seen, not by any means too far
removed from the thoughts and feelings of the
average man to be altogether out of sympathy
with the world-a virtuous failing to which
even ecclesiastics have been known to lean;
besides, in addition to beauty, which the Church
has often shown its power to resist since the
time of St. Anthony, Laura Ruthven possessed
102
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
that for which the Church has never been able
to overcome a very decided penchant-wealth,
to wit, and plenty of it too.
The Rev. James
Crowe-no better, to give him more than
his due, than the average man, where beauty
and ambition, or, in their old-fashioned theo-
logical nicknames, the flesh and the devil, were
concerned-was, when it came to riches or the
world, as good every whit as his cloth, in spite
of the hebdomadal drubbings he gave our long-
suffering sphere. When the flesh and the
world-plague take these unsavoury misno-
mers!—we mean, when beauty and riches are
combined, exquisite and touching beauty and
great riches, who can resist them? It is our
confirmed opinion that the devil-not the
metaphorical devil typifying ambition, but the
concrete devil with horns and a tail, who long
ago, before people became so good as they are
now, used to take advantage for his own pur-
poses of little weaknesses, which we have, all
of us, except our neighbours, of course, happily
First in the Field.
103
got rid of-we say it is our confirmed opinion
that this devil did not know everything. And
here is our reason: it never entered into his
singed old addlepate to present to St. Anthony
as an inducement to break his vow of celibacy
and become a Benedict, a charming young
widow with more money than she could tell.
Innocent as we are, we feel we could have
given the devil a wrinkle; and if it had been
given, and the devil had acted on it, there
would have been one saint less on the bead-
roll. But this digression is already too long.
Now, the Rev. James Crowe had nothing of
St. Anthony in his nature, and when he saw
Laura Ruthven with the faint blush-rose on her
cheek, and the soft dark light that sorrow
brings to brown eyes like hers, the purpose
with which he called, rather nebulous before,
took at once a definite shape, and there and
then a matter that had puzzled him long be-
came clear as daylight. He had often
wondered why he had never felt a disposition
104
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
to take to himself a wife. Now he knew that
it was because he had not met, until Laura
Ruthven bacame a widow, the right woman,
nor the right money-bags. By a special dis-
pensation of Providence he had been preserved
from female wiles an unfettered bachelor; by
a special dispensation of Providence Laura
Verner had married a rich merchant; and by
a third, and "crowning mercy," she was left a
wealthy widow. It would have been an ill
return to have doubted for a moment the
intentions of Providence in these dispensations.
Laura was annoyed at first with the Rev.
James Crowe for disturbing her in her grief;
she felt his incongruity with the pastoral
function of consolation, and in her manner,
however slightly, showed that she resented his
visit as an intrusion. The good man could not
be expected to feel his own incongruity
there's nothing a bull likes better, as many
have observed, than to dance a break-down in
a china shop-but he was sensitive enough to
First in the Field.
105
perceive that she was ill at ease because of his
presence. Much experience of frigid recep-
tions had taught the Rev. James Crowe a
method of annihilating that particular kind of
space which is meant when we talk of making
anyone keep his distance." He did not fall
back on his prerogative as a clergyman,
although he could do that, too, on occasion;
nor did he break down all the barriers by such
a "terrible gift of familiarity" as was observed
in Mirabeau; he simply did nothing. Having
referred to Laura Ruthven's loss, her "so
recent loss," and expressed in suitable, if
stereotyped, phraseology his professional and
personal sympathy, and quoted from the Bible.
some passages which we will not profane by
inserting here fresh from his mouth, he made a
motion as if to go. Laura Ruthven looked
into his fine, black, meaningless eyes, and saw
them beaming upon her with warm sympathy
—everybody saw in Mr. Crowe's eyes what
they wanted to see; she remembered that he
((
106
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
had been her dear husband's pastor, that the
two men had been, in a way, friendly; so, with
an effort, she overcame her latent hostility, and
said some words of acknowledgment. Mr.
Crowe had, of course, to reply, and in doing so
he adopted a tone slightly more confidential
than he had employed at first, referring more
particularly to her loneliness and her need of
sympathy. He knew what he was about quite
well. Mrs. Croft was not the kind of person
to whom Laura could unbosom herself, and
she had nobody else.
Those fine black eyes of his seemed so
tender; and then, was he not one set apart
for the purpose of ministering to the sorrow-
ful? Before she quite realised it, Laura
Ruthven had launched into an account of her
husband's illness, thereby establishing exactly
what Mr. Crowe wanted,-a basis of intimacy
upon which he might build. When she had
unburdened her sorrowful heart, Mr. Crowe
again said a few well-chosen words-not so
First in the Field.
107
well-chosen nor so few, however, as to prevent
a slight return of the dislike which the young
widow had for the nonce overcome. The
clergyman noticed it, and was equal to the
occasion. He changed the subject, gliding
imperceptibly from the dead man to his will.
Having referred to it in general terms, he
said, "I have wondered much why your
husband should have remembered me, passing
over many worthier of that honour."
"He always appreciated your sermons, Mr.
Crowe," suggested Laura Ruthven.
"I am sure I am particularly gratified if my
humble efforts in any way tended to your dear
husband's edification," said the clergyman.
"Mr. Crowe," said Laura, with sudden
briskness, "I am concerned about my hus-
band's will. So many people have been
disappointed. I should like, if possible, to
console them in some way."
"My dear madam," rejoined Mr. Crowe,
surprised out of his self-watchfulness for a
108
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
moment, anxious in the interests of her future
husband that none of Mrs. Ruthven's wealth
might be misapplied, "if you ask me, I would
advise you on no account to traverse in the
least degree your husband's will. A testament
is a sacred trust."
Well," said Laura Ruthven, "I can, at
least, continue his charities. Indeed, I shall
hold the money in trust for him, and when I
meet him again in the next world, I hope I
shall be able to give him an account of it that
will please him. There, Mr. Crowe," she
continued, brightening, "I have found a career
for myself. I shall be my husband's almoner
—his almoner," and there was a happy, an
almost ecstatic, smile on her face.
"It is a pious determination," said Mr.
Crowe, not in the most cordial tone.
"At
the same time, I think you would be under-
taking the most arduous, most thankless work
to which a Christian lady can devote herself.
We know, my dear madam, the ins and outs
((
First in the Field.
109
of charity. It is a Serbonian bog; it is Scylla
and Charybdis in one. If you were to ask me,
I would advise you to keep clear of it. Give,
madam, by all means, of your abundance, but
to the Church and through the Church, which
is Heaven's almoner. I am persuaded that
no money can be blessed in its object, however
single-minded the giver may be, unless it has
been consecrated by passing through the hands
of the successors of the Apostles."
Laura Ruthven disliked him very much as
he said that, and he felt it when he had done,
so he tried to amend.
(C
But, madam," he added, a little late,—still,
better late than never, "you will, I am certain,
do your good pleasure in this matter, and—
whatever it may be, I shall also be pleased."
It was lame, very lame, and he knew it, for
he was perfectly well aware that to Laura
Ruthven, priest as he was, and her spiritual
adviser, so far as she had one, it was a matter
of supreme indifference whether he was pleased
110
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
with her conduct or not.
But the lady was
merciful; she bowed with the slightest smile
of disdain in acknowledgment of Mr. Crowe's
condescension, and changed the subject in her
turn.
"Mr. Crowe," she said, "do you know Lady
Fullalove?"
"I have met her, but I do not know her.'
"Perhaps you know Lord Fullalove?"
'There is no Lord Fullalove, so far as I am
aware. At anyrate Lady Fullalove is a widow.
Her husband, now that I remember, was a
I think I have heard her
baronet, not a peer.
history, but I have forgotten it."
"I should like very much to meet her," said
Laura.
""
"Mr. Ruthven must have been very much
attached to her," said the Rev. James.
Laura made no reply. She wanted Mr.
Crowe to go now; so she said a few con-
ventional words, and the clergyman, compre-
hending, took his departure.
First in the Field.
III
Now, although the Rev. James Crowe knew
nothing of Lady Fullalove, we do we know
her whole history, and the time has come to
share our knowledge with the reader.
Marcia Blackland began life as a governess,
and her good looks stood in her way. Miss
Blackland had a difficulty in obtaining appoint-
ments; discreet matrons saw her, read her
testimonials with awe and admiration, and
looked her all over-invariably ending by
making some polite excuse for not engaging
Miss Blackland. You can't wonder at it.
Marcia Blackland would have taken the prize
at a Beauty Show. She would have been en-
gaged as walking-lady without the slightest
hesitation by any theatrical manager; Mr.
MacVariety would have jumped at her for his
front row, and she might have earned two
guineas a week as lay-figure or living model
at Shapely & Titefits, the mantle-makers. But
Marcia Blackland had elected to be a gover-
ness, and had determined to stick to the level
112
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
road of respectability, and, as sporting men say,
to "run straight."
City clerks when they passed Miss Black-
land, the governess, would turn round to stare
at her, and invariably declared that she was a
"stunner." And so she was; she was as pretty
in the face as Polly Flarer (of Her Majesty's
Music Halls), and a better figure; her hair
was all her own, and (as you justly suppose)
Miss Flarer's wasn't, and as for her eyes, they
were expressive, not to say bold, black eyes,
with a wealth of love in them; ripe full lips,
painted a healthy scarlet by Nature's hand, and
a figure that would have enabled her to earn a
good living as an artist's model. England is
prolific in this kind of woman, but Marcia
Blackland was an almost perfect specimen of
the type-indeed, had it not been for one
blemish she would have been faultless. That
blemish, strange to say, was her chief attraction.
It spoiled her as a type, but enhanced her
charm as an individual. Fair women are like
First in the Field.
113
orchids; there is no eccentricity of character
into which they may not twist and twine, and
yet be in perfect keeping. Women of Marcia
Blackland's complexion and temperament, like
dahlias or roses, may vary in size and splendour,
but the form remains the same. Imagine such
a lusus naturæ as a rose with the antennæ-like
pistils of the fuchsia, or a dahlia with the heart
of a tiger-lily, and you have Marcia Blackland
with the differentiation that marked her off
from the class of dark beauties to which she be-
longed-only, however rare the differentiation
might be, it did not give her an appearance of
oddity, as our botanical outrages would be apt
to do with the flowers we have compared her
to. And what was this peculiarity that “roars
so loud and thunders in the index "? Marcia
Blackland was as dreamy as golden-haired blue-
eyed girls are reputed to be; and this is n
mountain bringing forth a mouse. If
reader searches his acquaintance-his, ma
mark the word; we all know that you

114
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
criticise your own sex-we question if he will
find one woman with the appearance of Marcia
Blackland, who is not practical as a hammer
and nail-riding to hounds, keeping her own
accounts, shooting, managing her household and
her husband, or, if she hasn't got that length,
lassoing, without fear or favour, the man she
means to have.
In fine, Marcia Blackland resembled nothing
so much as the goddess of Health newly re-
covered from some soft languorous complaint,
such as that eupeptic deity may be supposed to
suffer from now and again, perhaps a prolonged
fit of ennui at the monotony of her physical
sanity, a sort of healthy "blues." This
modern Hygæia with the bold, black, yet
dreamy eyes found an adorer in old Sir George
Fullalove, M.D., author of "Fullalove on the
Liver," and the great authority on indigestion.
happened thus wise. Whenever Marcia
land left an appointment she always did
o say, in a flame of fire. It wasn't her

First in the Field
115
fault, poor girl; it was the fault of her good
looks and her consequent admirers. Young
Paterfamilias the heir would "want to make a
fool of himself," as his parents put it; or Old
Paterfamilias suddenly desired the handsome
governess to read poetry to him; or—well,
there were a thousand and one reasons, and
the exit in the flame of fire invariably ensued.
Just as Dr. Graham, the quack, fell in love.
with Emma Harte, afterwards the celebrated
Lady Hamilton—the captivator of England's
greatest naval hero-because she was the very
personification of health, so did Sir George
Fullalove become smitten with Marcia Black-
land, the governess, and he felt the subtle
charm of her dreaminess without comprehend-
ing, or indeed perceiving it. Doctors always
admire the very healthy and vigorous, and
Sir George Fullalove was no exception to the
rest of his professional brethren. He had been
called in to see Mrs. Cash, the banker's wife.
There was nothing really the matter with M

116
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Cash, but she was what she called "thoroughly
upset." The fact is that she had intercepted a
letter from her eldest hope, addressed to Miss
Blackland, her governess, in which that youth,
aged nineteen, presumed to address the lady as
his "Darling Marcia." Many people thought
of Miss Blackland as "Darling Marcia," but
not being nineteen, they didn't put their
thoughts upon paper. Mrs. Cash had a scene
with the governess, gave her a cheque for a
quarter's salary, and bade her "pack up and go.
Having done this, Mrs. Cash took to her bed,
and sent for Sir George Fullalove. Sir George
prescribed, and his patient told him her trouble,
stated her opinion that Miss Blackland was a
'designing minx," and informed her medical
adviser that, till that girl was off the premises,
her symptoms would not yield to physic.
"
"You might see her for me, Sir George,
said the suffering mother, " and tell her from
me that if she'll only go at once, I'll say every-
ng in her favour."
66
99

First in the Field.
117
Sir George admired Miss Blackland, as we
know, and Sir George was a man of an
obliging disposition, and he had a situation for
Miss Blackland in his eye. He said nothing
of this, however, to Mrs. Cash; he only re-
marked, diplomatically, "There is nothing I
wouldn't do, dear Mrs. Cash, to prevent a
scandal."
So Sir George went down into the dining-
room, and he sent for Marcia Blackland, and
she presented herself with red eyes and
heightened colour.
My dear young lady," began Sir George.
Indeed, it isn't my fault, Sir George," burst
in the lady; "I hadn't the slightest idea that
the boy was going to write to me, I gave him
no encouragement—and—and—and he's a very
ugly boy, Sir George—he is, indeed."
"Of course, my dear, of course; these things
will happen; they are what every very pretty
girl is exposed to," remarked Sir George
Fullalove.
((
(6
118
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
"Oh! Sir George," cried the lady, blushing
very prettily. "But you don't know what it
means, Sir George. It means beginning all
over again, just as I was so comfortable here,
for they're very kind, though they are very,
very stupid.
Oh! Sir George, I'm such a
rolling-stone. Oh!"-and then Miss Black-
land began to sob becomingly.
"She looks more like the goddess of
Health than ever," thought the physician.
And then the following bit of verse passed
through his mind (Sir George was fond of
Moore's melodies, which were the fashion in
his youth) :-
"Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer!
Though the herd have all left thee, thy home it is here."
Then he sighed-it was an amorous sigh.
"Don't cry, my dear; please don't cry. I
can't bear it; indeed I can't," was what old
Sir George Fullalove said. "My dear young
C
First in the Field.
119
lady," he continued, "are you really tired of
being a rolling-stone? Because because if
you are—if you really are—'
"I am indeed, Sir George," said the lady,
and she smiled through her tears. It was a
very attractive smile-that sort of childlike
smile that we sometimes, though seldom,
notice in pretty children when they have been
particularly naughty, and are promising and
vowing to be good for the future in an ugly
child it isn't attractive, but in a pretty child
it's almost irresistible. Miss Marcia Blackland
was a very pretty child of two-and-twenty, and
the smile finished Sir George.
"Tell me, my dear, if
you are—if you really
are-tired of being a rolling-stone. I can offer
you a permanent appointment."
"It's very good of you, Sir George," said
the lady, giving him the coup de grace with her
magnificent eyes. "There's nothing-nothing
in the world—I should like better than a per-
manent appointment."
120
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
"Then why not marry me, my dear?" said
the old physician.
"Do you mean it? do you really mean it,
Sir George? You're not laughing at me?
Oh, Sir George!" and then the lady clasped
her hands in ecstasy.
And this was how Marcia Blackland be-
came Lady Fullalove, and jumped at once
from poverty and dependence to Cavendish
Square and a victoria and pair. And she
made a very good wife to old Sir George, and
bore with him for ten years, and was faithful
to him, and nursed him in his last illness, and
came into his property in due course.
But Lady Fullalove was a very different.
person indeed to the little nobody who was
Mrs. Cash's governess; all that had been re-
pressed in her nature had now full scope, and
she began to give shape to her dreams. She
was, in the first place, a philanthropist, a bene-
factor of mankind in general. It was very
difficult indeed to look through the list of lady
First in the Field.
121
patronesses of a charity bazaar and not find
the name of Lady Fullalove staring you in the
face. Sir George's handsome widow was
never weary in well-doing, her little candle
threw its bright rays far over this naughty
world. She gave freely, not only money, but
time. She was hand and glove with the good
people who start bazaars, and fêtes, and fancy
fairs. She would take a stall, or subscribe, or
do both; and, to tell the truth, as soon as
Lady Fullalove found herself a widow, she
began to look out for another "permanent
appointment." But Lady Fullalove meant
this time to please herself; she had married to
escape what was worse than slavery, and she
determined that her second venture should be
a prudent one. I'm afraid that if the truth
must be told, Marcia Fullalove was an arrant
flirt; she always "took an interest;" to poli-
ticians she was political, to scientists she was
scientific, to men of business she was business-
like. She was all things to all men-simply a
122
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
flirt; she called herself an idealist, of course,
and we-we set it down to that paradoxical
nature of hers. She had captivated John
Ruthven five years ago, and at once she be-
came his-well-his Egeria. There's a great
fascination to some women in being an Egeria,
and it must be confessed that Marcia Fullalove
was the Egeria to many a Numa Pompilius.
She was a cautious woman was Marcia Fulla-
love, when she wrote to a man—and she wrote
to many men-she never compromised herself,
unless she felt that she could thoroughly trust
her correspondent. Time was when Lady
Fullalove had had serious thoughts of marrying
John Ruthven; he was well-to-do, of a suitable
age, and well easy to manage, so she
thought. But somehow or other, though they
had dined together, and driven together, and
communed together intimately, yet the mar-
riage hadn't come off. Why-heaven knows.
John Ruthven and Marcia Fullalove had one
point in common, they were both "searchers
First in the Field.
123
after truth;" both of them took an interest in
psychical phenomena, and those mysteries.
which will forever remain unsolved. The
Witch of Endor was very interesting to them,
so was Madame Blavatsky; they went to
séances, and soirées, and meetings of the
Psychometric Society, and they talked a good
deal about hypnotism, and mesmerism, and
electro-biology, and other things.
Nobody suspected any harm in their in-
timacy; it was supposed to be platonic. If
John Ruthven hadn't been a very wealthy man,
he might have had to look elsewhere for an
Egeria; if Lady Fullalove hadn't been so very
nice-looking, she wouldn't have found a Numa
Pompilius in John Ruthven of Austin Friars.
John Ruthven married Laura Verner, and
somehow or other his intimacy with Marcia
Fullalove cooled down, but he still went to her
for advice. She dined out a great deal, but
she never dined with the Ruthvens. When
John Ruthven had suggested that she should
<
124
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
meet his young wife, Marcia Fullalove had told
him that she was ready to make sacrifices for
him, but not—not that. And her confession
had pleased John Ruthven, though he was not
vainer than other men, and as he had walked
home that evening his head had, as the
Orientals say, touched the skies.
A woman must be very much in love with a
man, so thought John Ruthven, when she can't
bear even to meet his wife-and-as we all
know, there's no fool like an old, or, shall we
say, a middle-aged fool.
CHAPTER VI.
((
>?
THE KEY OF THE BLUE CUPBOARD.
We all know what happened to Boulotte when
her curiosity caused her to use the key of the
fatal Blue Cupboard. Poor Boulotte, why
couldn't she have waited for the decease of that
wicked polygamist, the Ritter Blau Bart.-Why
Ritter? He was but a felon knight after all.
Now Laura Ruthven, her first week of mourn-
ing being over, went into her late husband's
study and began to put things straight. All
women love to turn things topsy-turvy under
pretence of putting them straight. Ruthven
was a methodical man. He had carried on his
watch-chain the key of his safe at Austin
Friars, the key of his great tin box at the bank
in Lombard Street, his latch-key, and his
125
126
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
sovereign-purse; also the key of the drawer of
the circular table in his library.
O Curiosity!-Well, it is somewhat late in
the day to be apostrophising that most feminine
of vices, and yet what can we of the incurious
sex do? If there be anything in heredity at
all, surely every man of woman born is doomed
at one time or other in the course of his life to
pronounce a tirade against Curiosity. We
should say the effect upon Adam's brain of the
tremendous denunciation of that vice which we
all know he uttered when Eve came to him
with one rosy-cheeked apple in her hand, and
the delightful new taste of another still in her
mouth, must have descended to his latest son,
and with or without occasion is certain to be
re-echoed to the end of time. We admit that
we have here a capital opportunity for such a
tirade; but then we pronounced ours long ago,
and as we have a vivid recollection of its power
and splendour, although unable to recall it with
anything like exactness, we would prefer not to
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard. 127
attempt an invention. If the intelligent male
reader feels that there ought to be a denuncia-
tion of Curiosity at this point, let him fire away
himself; or if he has already delivered his
fated apostrophe, let him, like us, recall it as
well as he can; or, better still, let him seek out
someone who has not yet re-echoed Adam's
famous speech, and read him this chapter, and
he will hear once more the "faint flourish" of
the fiery primeval accents which blanched the
cheek of Eve, and set the emparadised monkeys
chattering.
The address to Curiosity being taken as read,
we have to say that Laura Ruthven, having en-
tered her late husband's library, was withheld
for some time from the gratification of her in-
terest in arcana generally, by a feeling as if her
husband were in the room. Lady Fullalove
would have told her that every atom in every
molecule in every article in the room contained
a perfect image of John Ruthven, but Laura
happily was ignorant alike of Lady Fullalove
128
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
and of psychometry. This had been his room;
he had spent hours here alone, reading and
writing; and some of her pleasantest memories
were of this room, when she had come to him,
timorous a little, but needing his company, and
he had thrown everything aside and had
chatted with her for hours like a veritable
schoolboy. That is how the devil got at her
—if the devil had anything to do with it, which
we very much doubt-through her sweetest,
purest affections. Her dear husband-she
could enter into his life, she could almost talk
with him once more, by going through his
papers. So she sat down at the circular table,
and opened the first drawer. A packet of
receipts first met her eye. They were not in-
teresting-the house-furnisher's bills and the
decorator's. Laura Ruthven might have learn-
ed the cost of each separate article of up-
holstery in the great house in Lexham Gardens,
but-well, they were bought and paid for; she
replaced the bundle of bills. Then there was a
The Key of the "Blue"
Blue" Cupboard.
129
parcel of charitable appeals neatly docketed by
the dead man's hand: "Cheque-so much,"
etc. Then she came to another packet—
letters. She raised them daintily, and the
happy expression left her face. In a lady's
hand! A big fashionable scrawl; they, too,
were docketed: "Marcia's Letters."
""
Who was Marcia ?
"Marcia!
She was beginning to undo the packet, when
there fell from it two photographs.
This was Marcia, then, at two periods in
her life, for there was evidently a year or two
between the likenesses (although little differ-
ence marked the faces, the dresses told that),
a handsome, black-eyed, enigmatical woman,
neither young nor old.
Should she read Marcia's letters? Should
she read them? Or was it more honourable,
more wifely, to respect the secrets of the dead
man, her husband? She had loved-she did
love her husband-and for the first time in her
life, Laura Ruthven felt the pangs of jealousy,
I
130
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
a furious, unreasoning, intense jealousy-for a
second, only a second; because she said to her-
self, "Shame! shame! he is hardly cold in his
grave, and you doubt him for a word." Then
aloud, "Marcia's Letters. Ah!"
Quite self-possessed she undid the green silk
ribbon with which the packet was tied.
"If
my husband had any secrets from me," she
thought bravely, "it wasn't for anything he
had to be ashamed of, that's certain."
She counted the letters; there were four
dozen all but two. She saw that they were
arranged chronologically, so she settled herself
comfortably and began to read. The first was
not very long.
"MY DEAR MR. RUTHVEN," it ran, "I was
much interested in what you said at the last
meeting of the P. S. about the curious ex-
ample of Thought-transference which had
occurred in your office. Do tell me if I have
it correctly.
"One of your clerks, who knew no language
Kapa
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard.
131
but his own a half-deaf maundering sort of lad,
I think you said-brought you a message one
day in a language you couldn't comprehend.
While you sat staring in amazement, he de-
livered the message in German and again in
French, lastly in English; upon which he
seemed to waken out of a sort of trance. The
purport of the message was to the effect that a
Russian, the representative of a firm in Moscow
with whom you had transactions, wished to see
you with regard to some goods that had gone
astray. You at once admitted the Russian to
your private room, and told him the strange
phenomenon exhibited in your clerk. The
Russian was even more astonished than you,
because the message before he spoke it in
English had actually passed through his mind
in the three other languages. I hope I have it
right; and if I have, then it is the most re-
markable example of Thought-transference in
the annals of psychical research. Reply at
once, dear Mr. Ruthven, as I have just told the
story to an earnest inquirer, who knows your
name, in the city, and who, if you vouch for the
truth of this incident, will at once become a
convert.
"Endeavour by concentrating your thought
to convey through the luminiferous ether an
132
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
answer immediately on receipt of this.-I am,
most astrally yours,
MARCIA.
"P.S.-Telegraph also; and write in con-
firmation."
Laura Ruthven laughed. This was some
mad woman who had pestered her husband,
and he had kept her letters as curiosities. In
common with many healthy natures that have
never given the so-called phenomena of spirit-
ualism, etc., any thought or inquiry, Laura
Ruthven scornfully refused the least credence
to the brain-sick stories and theories which she
sometimes heard from the dupes of Mr. Sludge
and his confrères; and that her husband of
all men should have concerned himself with
slate-writing and thought - transference
too absurd. She read the next letter, which
we subjoin, and it seemed to establish her
opinion:
A
was
"MY DEAR MR. RUTHVEN,-What a blow!
I am shattered; but my faith is inexpugnable,
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard.
133
We have, however, lost one who, I am per-
suaded from his erudition and by reason of the
keenness of his intellect, would have done more.
to popularise our cause than the whole P. S.
itself.
“You can imagine the impatience with which
I awaited your reply. He was calm and cynical,
but willing and even anxious to be convinced.
Did you attempt to convey a message astrally?
I thought I saw your aura hovering for a
moment at the window, but my friend said it
was the shadow of a bird: if it were your aura
his scepticism would have been sufficient to
drive it away.
When your telegram came I thought I
should have fainted. I handed it unopened to
my friend to read. Think, John Ruthven, of
the terrible effect of your message. Listen to
it: 'You have misunderstood. It did not hap-
pen. I merely put a case,' and it was read to
me in a voice that pierced me like a steel blade.
The cruel sceptic added, 'There is not one
instance of any spiritualistic phenomenon really
deserving inquiry that does not melt in some
such way as this when it is traced to its
source.'
(C
"Oh, my friend, my friend! I beseech you to
put no more cases. It is difficult enough to
134
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
substantiate phenomena that actually happen:
you are simply playing into the hands of the
enemy when you invent incidents. Yours in
MARCIA."
sorrow,
Evidently, thought Laura, the woman was
an irrational enthusiast, who had plagued John
with her nonsense. Then she said aloud,
"P. S.'-that must mean Psychometrical
Society." She had known that her husband
had been a member, but had supposed him
to be not a particularly devoted one.
She took the next letter and started and
grew pale. It was very brief:
"DEAREST,-Meet me at midnight on the
13th, 14th, and 15th.-Your
MARCIA."
That took her breath away; but she refused
to think. She opened the next letter. It
was equally brief and to the point, and to her
mind even more monstrous than the former.
It ran :
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard. 135
"DEAREST,-Meet me at midnight every
night this week.-Your own
MARCIA."
She threw down the letters with a shudder
as if they had been a viper brood. She was
jealous now-thoroughly jealous now, and with
reason, surely. "Meet me at midnight every
night this week.' The vile woman!" She
snatched up the letters again, and looked for
dates, but in no letter did the year seem to be
indicated, rarely the month-as a rule only the
day of the week. Ah! there at the end were
some dated in a business-like way, and-she
looks twice, she rubs her eyes, but there is no
doubt about it-written in the year of . . . and
shortly after her marriage. Her whole face
and neck grew crimson, then pale. And-oh,
the shame of it! the misery of it! three or
four during every year since her marriage, and
two, a few days before her husband's last
illness! She was about to fly from the room,
but to whom could she go? Mrs. Croft?
She shivered at the thought.
136
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
She could find no word in her sudden
repulsion of horror to characterise her husband.
She sunk into her chair, and opened her dress
at the neck; she was choking-her heart had
become too big for her body. A curious
thought occurred to her for a second. She
had often wondered at and felt inclined to
ridicule the habit actresses have in passionate
scenes of clutching at their throats and gasp-
ing; now she knew how true to nature it
was. But her husband, the man she had given
her fresh young life to, willingly, gladly;
whom she would have trusted with her soul;
who had told her often that she was the only
woman he had ever loved; who had seemed
so upright, so honourable; whose name had
been a proverb, alike for business acumen and
honesty; who had professed old-fashioned
ideas of religion; John Ruthven, the one man
in the world while he lived, for her, and, since
his death, enshrined in her heart, never, she
had told herself, to be supplanted. No! no! it
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard.
137
was impossible. It was some trick, some grim
joke. Had this woman been his-ah! how
the thought of the word made her heart flutter
and her flesh creep-her husband's mistress,
he would have destroyed her letters; he
would have crawled from his dying-bed to
make certain that these silent witnesses to his
infamy should not remain to rise up against
him when he was dead. There was some
explanation-there must be. No mortal man
could have been such a fool for himself as to
leave these letters for his widow to read, if
the plain meaning on the face of them were
the true one. And how proud her husband
had been, in his own quiet way, of his honest
reputation; his most candid friend had never
been able to pick a hole in his coat. Would
he then be likely to destroy that reputation.
-to put it in the power of his widow to
blacken his name beyond all whitewashing
-to disenchant her to whose happiness
while he lived he had never wearied in
138
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
ministering? It was nonsense, and she was
a fool.
She sat down to the letters again, and chose
one which, from its position in the bundle,
for it was undated, seemed to have been
written shortly before her marriage. She
read it through to the bitter end; but not
without exclamations and tears.
We think it better, at the risk of wearying
the reader's patience, to give one or two more
of Marcia's letters in full, because no digest of
ours could account so well as the originals for
their sinister effect on Laura Ruthven's mind.
Here is the first one she read after her dis-
covery of their tenor:
"SOUL OF MY SOUL,-I had thought better
things of you, but I am not going to blame
you. I thought you were strong enough,
unconventional enough, unworldly enough to
be satisfied with me to the end of your days,
but perhaps we can still continue our com-
munion even after you are married: you are
-
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard.
139
my affinity, and no union, however legalised,
however sanctified, can destroy that, the strong-
est of all ties. I shall, to please you, for I
can make sacrifices, observe Miss Verner in
the park to-day, and tell you what I think of
her.
"Evening. I have just returned from the
park. Frankly, I don't like your fiancée. To
begin with, she is too little: a small woman
cannot have a great soul. And then her non-
descript complexion. I can understand black
hair and black eyes, and I can understand fair
hair and blue eyes, because I always trust
extremes : no half measures for me. But
brown hair and brown eyes I can make nothing
of-it is a compromise between fair and dark,
and I distrust it, for all compromise is dis-
honest and wicked. You must pardon my
speaking so plainly: you asked my opinion,
and no compromise. I wish, for your own sake
and mine too, for I shall be miserable in your
misery, that you had consulted me sooner-
that, since you must marry, you had asked my
advice as to a suitable partner. I would have
taken care of her complexion-one or other
of the extremes it would have been, and then
you would have known what to expect. Your
brown-haired beauty will lead you a dance.
A
140
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
From her carriage, from the delicacy of her
complexion, compromise as it is, from her
slender but compact build, and from her robust
health, I should say that in her the odylic fluid
is of peculiar strength and even virulence, and
you know what that means: she will have
her own way in despite of everything. But
I must see her again before I give my final
judgment.
"Yours, for a little longer, and, perhaps, for
all time and all eternity.
MARCIA."
The exclamations and tears, thick and fast
at first, with which Laura Ruthven accompanied
the reading of this letter died away gradually,
and at its conclusion she sat speechless and
blanched with horror. Mechanically she took
the next letter and read it.
((
SOUL OF MY SOUL,-I hope, nay, I know,
you will be my affinity forever. I have again
seen and studied Miss Verner, and I write this
letter for the purpose of persuading you to
break off the match.
"She is not for you, John
are more than twice her age.
Ruthven. You
When you are
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard.
14.1
sixty-seventy, she will just be in her prime.
Beware, beware. It is a thing that has always
puzzled me, why middle-aged and old men
insist on marrying girls. All history, all fiction
is full of satire and proverbs about May and
December, and no fools being like old fools;
and yet human nature remains the same. Oh,
for the time when the Yogi and not the
millionaire shall be the pattern for all men ;
and when absorption in the infinite, and not
marriage, shall be the soul's desire of both
sexes!
"The more I think of it the more I see the
folly and wrongness of your marrying at all—
you, a psychometer, an esoteric, tumbling into
the snare which the world is apt to blame the
most ordinary men for falling into, at your age.
Men will be men, I know; but I really be
lieved you were emancipated, and that I,
inferior as I am, would have been able to
satisfy your need of female society until we are
both merged in the All.
"And then, let me tell you, on a closer
inspection, Miss Verner is not, by any means,
a special beauty. Setting aside her hybrid
complexion, her features are, in detail, mean;
and taken together-well, to me they are
almost repulsive. Look at her forehead, John
142
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Ruthven, and tremble for your future. Phren-
ology has, at length, been proved a science:
the very Saturday Scalper-which kept a speci-
ally-ground tomahawk, I have been informed,
for the gentle phrenologist—has actually buried
the hatchet, and pronounced a blessing on Gall
and Spurzheim. Phrenology tells me that the
head of Miss Verner, with its stunted frontal
development, and its heavy base, is that of a
mere animal. As yet I can perceive by her
face that her character is unformed, but when
it begins to take shape it will be a degraded
one; and if you marry her she will drag you
down, brutalise you, and make it forever
impossible for you to bathe in the astral light
and walk the astral plane. I beg you, I
implore you, I command you by the right of
affinity, to break your engagement, no matter
at what monetary cost and monetary misery ;
it will be for your eternal well-being and mine,
not to mention the delights of our temporal
communion.
"Be warned in time.-Yours,
"MARCIA."
It would be in vain to attempt in words to
describe the effect of these letters on Laura
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard.
143
Ruthven. A painter might have succeeded in
conveying some idea of it had he caught the
mingled terror and exhaustion of her face.
Coming upon her while she was in the midst of
her grief for the loss of her husband-a deep
heart-felt grief, but of an order which humanity
is so constituted as to be able to endure, this
second bereavement, the real loss of her
husband, a kind of loss under which human
nature has happily not yet learned to be
patient, prostrated her very soul, wringing out
the last pang, and leaving her with no feeling
but an indefinite fearof everybody and every-
thing. Had these letters been written by some
diabolical psychologist for the purpose of
torturing Laura Ruthven's mind, they could
hardly have been more skilfully arranged as
regards the contents of her selection, or the
sequence in which she had read them. The
first letter, by exciting her mirth, allayed the
natural doubt and fear which the discovery of
the packet had produced. Then came the two
144
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
brief notes, like daggers plunged into her breast,
arresting her laughter with the most poignant
anguish a woman can feel. These she had had
the courage to pluck out; and again breathing
freely, she had resumed her reading, hitting
upon two letters calculated to wound her most
deeply. There was first of all the insufferable
injury of being spied upon, and that at the in-
stigation of the man who professed to love her;
then the insult upon insult of "Marcia's "
criticism of her personal appearance, combined
with the gradually dawning certainty that the
woman who had dared to take her to pieces had
been her husband's mistress; and when she
thought her capacity for suffering exhausted,
her vanity was stabbed once more, ruthlessly,
with a refinement of cruelty worthy of the
subtlest fiend. It is well known that long after
all other feelings have been deadened by
suffering, vanity, in even the highest natures,
will remain alive, quivering to any stroke, and
Laura Ruthven in that last letter was scourged
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard.
145
on the rawest place. "The head of Miss
Verner, with its stunted frontal development."
Oh! the feature in her face she liked best-
that everybody liked, and looked at, she had
caught men gazing at it often, it was so low,
and smooth, and sweet! She seized the
photographs which, up to that moment, she
had forgotten since they fell from the packet.
A wild laugh of exultation burst from her. It
was jealousy on Marcia's part. The face was
handsome, Laura Ruthven admitted; but the
forehead was as high as a believer in phren-
ology could desire it to be, and, of course,
thinks the reader, stood out nobly with the
light on it like a gas-globe. No; it was three-
quarters covered with carefully tonged fringe;
and that was why Laura laughed.
But her mirth was as short-lived as it was
bitter. She returned to the letters.
Is the reader one of those who, specially
favoured by Heaven, still believes in Walter
Scott's poetry? If so, she will remember the
K
146
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
passage in "The Lord of the Isles," where the
grim Lord of Colonsay, pierced through and
through by De Argentine, writhes himself up
against the spear for one last blow at his
enemy. With such a set, yet working face,
and such a shuddering resolution did Laura
Ruthven force herself to continue the perusal
of Marcia's letters. This time she read them
all from beginning to end, without a tear,
without a groan.
When Governor Wall had Private Arm-
strong beaten to death with eight hundred
stripes, after the first hundred the unfortunate
man ceased to move or cry, although he had
not ceased to suffer.
For months after the date of the marriage
the letters were few, and related exclusively to
the proceedings of the Psychometrical Society.
Then suddenly there came a succession of
brief messages making midnight assignations
for two or three days, and sometimes a week at
a time. And at that point in the perusal of
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard.
147
the letters Laura Ruthven paused, and sat
thinking for a good quarter of an hour. Her
husband had often been away from home for a
day or two, but never for a whole week, with-
out her; and on no single occasion when he
was at home, so far as she remembered, had he
been out of the house alone after midnight
without her knowing where he was, and being
able to test his good faith had she chosen; in-
deed, she recollected how she used to look for
his name in the newspapers, and read it with
girlish pleasure among the lists of guests at
such prandial or post-prandial public or semi-
public functions as he had cared to attend.
But that only proved his consummate villainy;
her husband, besides acting a lie every mo-
ment of his married life, had told the little
mean fibs that are the stock joke of the comic.
journals and of farcical comedy.
We give the last of the forty-six letters; it
was received by John Ruthven a few days be-
fore his fatal illness :-
148
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
"SOUL'S IDEAL,-I saw your wife yesterday
for the first time since you were married. You
can well understand, especially since our re-
conciliation, why I have avoided seeing her. I
observed her for some time at the academy,
where she was with a very atrocious person,
who, from your description of her, must have
been Mrs. Croft. I watched what pictures and
what men and women your wife looked at.
Her taste seemed catholic, and not prudish.
One thing I did not like. A very handsome
young artist was parading the principal room,
and over and over again I saw her eyes turn
towards him. You say you are happy with
her, and that she never has given you cause
for a moment's jealousy. I can well believe it,
for I saw craftiness in the curve of her cheek
and hypocrisy in her eyelid. I apologise at
once for this plain speaking, as I do not wish
to quarrel with you again; but for your own
peace of mind have a care, and do believe in
my
disinterested friendliness.
"Last night I succeeded in recalling from
the cosmic ether pictures of past scenes when
you and I were together; but I will tell you
more of this when we meet.-Yours astrally,
"MARCIA."
The Key of the "Blue" Cupboard.
149
Having finished the letters, Laura lay back in
her chair with her hands folded in her lap, and
her eyes closed. Twice, with an interval be-
tween, Pinfold, her maid, had knocked at the
door unheard, and now she came a third time.
In a faint voice that startled herself, it was so
thin and yet harsh, Laura Ruthven bade the
maid enter.
Tea was ready.
'Bring it here—not Clooper-bring it your-
self."
And when it was brought, Laura drank
more of it than was good for her, to fit her
brain for the task that was before her.
(C
CHAPTER VII.
A LOVE-SICK ROMEO.
It is correct to call it a task, because her mind
was already made up, but her sense of justice—
being a woman-required her to go through
the whole forty-six letters again; and she did
it. She had no hope of finding any clue to
an explanation consonant with her husband's
fidelity, but she would give him every chance.
Renewed mortification, increased loathing of
her husband, and anger at the unknown Mar-
cia, white-hot anger, were the results. She
tied up the bundle of letters like a faggot, tore
up one of the photographs, and had lifted the
other to do the same with it, when it struck
her that her conduct was childish. But what
could she do? Who was Marcia? She could-
'nt punish her husband in any way; he was
150
A Love-Sick Romeo.
151
dead, and done with now; he lay in his grave,
and his infamy should be buried in her breast,
though it should fester there like a poisoned
arrow. She would burn the letters. but she
would keep the untorn photograph. She
would print this handsome shameless face on
her memory, she would sear it on her brain,
and when she met it she would devise some
means of blanching it with horror, of twisting
it with agony. Something tugged at her con-
science, as she thought of vengeance, bidding
her pause, but she wouldn't listen to the still
small voice; she would make this woman suffer
as she had suffered—an eye for an eye, a tooth
for a tooth. "Yes," she thought in her mad
rage, "if she be married-husband for hus-
band. It is justice, bare justice.' But she
didn't nurse that thought; it came and went, a
blast from the nether pit. The idea of ven-
geance, however, remained in her mind like a
smoky fog, soiling her thought and distorting
her mental vision.
152
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Laura Ruthven was a good woman; her
mind and body were both sane, her brain,
stronger than is common, and her face lovelier
than one can see every day; we do not mean
that she was an extraordinary woman, but she
was in every way superior to the average
woman of her class, or we would not have
chosen her for our heroine. She was lovely,
good, and, as phrenologists have noticed, her
low forehead, besides being a very attractive
feature, indicated, in spite of Marcia, strong
common sense; and she had imagination too,
bumps or no bumps; but, as the reader re-
members, she was practically an untried woman.
She had been literally taken from school to
marry John Ruthven. Her four years of
wedded life had passed like a long, quiet holi-
day. There had been no children; and her
only care had been her husband's happiness.
Theoretically, she knew a good deal from
reading and conversation about the world and
life, but she was ignorant of the realities.
A Love-Sick Romeo.
153
The quiet, pleasant people among whom she
had moved had not widened her horizon much,
and her own experience, until her husband's
death and the revelation of Marcia's letters,
had been such as to stir only the surface of her
mind with gentle heavings of emotion and
brief ripples of thought. When the storm
overtook her, she simply drifted before it; and,
good and sane as she was, vengeance in many
forms, even physical forms, engrossed her
whole thought for a time. Vengeance she
would have, the fullest vengeance, on this base,
brazen woman who, living herself a life of sin,
had thrown mud at a guileless, honest, true-
hearted wife. Vengeance on the woman who
had found her repulsive, who had dogged her
steps in the service of her wretched partner in
guilt! Vengeance! Vengeance! "Would to
God she had succeeded in dissuading John
Ruthven from marrying me! But she shall
suffer yet." And to that end she would keep
the letters, and not burn them; were they not
154
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
the proof of the woman's guilt? Yes; and
they would serve to remind her, Laura Ruth-
ven, that she had been as nought in her hus-
band's home and heart; a mere cipher, a
simple appendage to his comfort; and they
would serve also to keep her vengeance hot,
for if she burned them it might cool, and she
wouldn't have it cool, she wouldn't have this
woman escape, not for another fortune like that
her husband had left her.
Yes; no wonder it was all left to her; and
had it been ten times as much she would still
have owed her husband nothing nothing.
The legacy contained in these letters, that was
what she owed him, and all the gold of Ophir
couldn't make amends for that. Oh! what a
villain her husband must have been! a mean,
vain villain!—that was why he had left that
packet of letters; he had been proud of his
iniquity, and wanted her to know it. John
Ruthven, the staid, business man, with the
kind heart and the open hand, couldn't afford
A Love-Sick Romeo.
155
to die without leaving proof behind him that he
had been a Don Juan in his way. She had
heard that men bragged about these things;
she remembered how it was said that Byron
used to delight in blackening his own character,
and a strange smile crossed her face as she
connected the two names, John Ruthven and
Lord Byron. And were all men like her dead
husband - and Byron? she added in her
thought, fantastically amusing herself in the
midst of her misery. If John Ruthven, whom
the whole world respected, had been a villain,
what of the vast majority of men whom nobody
respects? Her brain reeled; she was far out of
her depth, so she came back to the shore, her
barren shore with its two rocks to which she
clung. "As for my husband, he is dead and
done with. But-Marcia!"
She had to make some pretence of taking
dinner and after dinner came Mrs. Croft.
;
Mrs. Croft had retired from the scene of her
victorious campaign only the day before, and
156
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
now paid a flying visit to see how " poor
Laura" was bearing it. The appearance of
"poor Laura" struck Mrs. Colonel Croft, C.B.,
with dismay.
"Laura Ruthven," she cried, holding up her
plump hands upon which the stretched kids
seemed about to burst at every seam, "I don't
know what to do or what to say! Do you
want to join your husband, child? I never
saw such a change in a woman in twenty-four
hours. What have you been doing! You're
ill, Laura Ruthven; you have a fever; you
must go to bed.”
"I am a little tired," said Mrs. Ruthven, at
a loss for a reply.
"You know my strong opinions on grief,
Laura Ruthven. I have tried to be a mother
to you, and I think I may flatter myself that
I have discharged the duties of a mother
hitherto without really, if I may say so, com-
mitting myself. You know what I mean; and
I have a right to speak, and this is what I say:
A Love-Sick Romeo.
157
Laura Ruthven, you are doing a very wrong
thing. Of course you won't get a husband like
John Ruthven every day, I know I know it
well. John Ruthven as a bachelor was the pink
of perfection, and John Ruthven-I needn't
tell his widow what he was as a husband."
"No; you needn't," said Laura to herself,
writhing under Mrs. Croft's harangue.
"But nevertheless," continued the veteran
dowager, "it is sinful to allow your grief to hurt
you as you are doing. I declare, you've grown
worse since I came in!"
Poor Laura!
The last remark was quite true.
"What you need is the doctor. Grief can
be cured. I know quite well it can be cured.
Your digestion is wrong; it—"” Mrs. Croft was
in the very act of saying that Laura Ruthven's
digestion had stopped, but she checked herself;
it would never have done to make a present of
her own special ailment. She said instead,
"Grief spoils the digestion, and then indiges-
tion keeps up grief, and the two go on keeping
158
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
1
each other up until,-until you die, if
you don't
take care.
I must go now; but I will send word
to Phillpots to send you a box of Sweetbread's
Stomachic Revivers, to be taken every hour,
and a tin of digestive biscuits to be eaten when
inclined, and if
you take
my advice
you will
put three or four of them under your pillow;
and I shall come to-morrow early, Laura, and
if
you are not better, much better, there will be
nothing for it but the doctor."
With which threat Mrs. Croft departed,
having comforted John
John Ruthven's widow
"marvellous much."
Stretched on a couch in her drawing-room,
Laura Ruthven went over it all again, and
became more and more determined on aveng-
ing herself. If she set about discovering
Marcia, it would be certain to come to Marcia's
ears, so she would proceed warily. One piece
of vengeance she could take at once, vengeance
on her husband's memory; she would resume
her maiden name. No; that would be punish-
-
A Love-Sick Romeo.
159
ing herself, the world must not even suspect
anything about her husband. But perhaps the
world knew all about it already! Here was
new misery. She had heard and read of men
and women living and dying in absolute
ignorance of the misconduct of husbands or
wives, which was known not only to the world
at large, but formed a common subject of
remark among the members of their own house-
hold. Perhaps she was the laughing-stock of
her circle, and the butt for the blunt shafts of
her own kitchen-maid. She could test that!
she would test that at once. She rang for
Clooper; but at the moment she pressed
the button a most unwonted trampling and
shuffling, and the sound of voices high in dis-
cussion approached her room. Before she had
quite grasped the fact that this unseemly pro-
ceeding was taking place in her house, the
door flew open, and a figure, gigantic in the
half-light, burst into the room, while Clooper
and the housemaid stood at the door in a state
160
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
of consternation for a second or two. Finding
that the importunate visitor was received kindly,
they hastily withdrew.
'It's me, Mrs. Ruthven," said a deep, grat-
ing voice, that seemed to be accompanied by
some mechanical operation in the throat of the
speaker.
And who are you?" asked Laura Ruthven,
angrily, unable to distinguish the features of
the intruder. As she put the question she
motioned to Clooper to increase the light,
which the "hunderless" butler did.
Harry Summers," croaked the voice.
Although Laura didn't remember him for
several seconds, the reader does-the strangely-
reared son of Charles and Henrietta Summers,
née Ruthven, John Ruthven's niece.
(C
(6
"Oh! Harry Summers!" she said at last.
"Well, I certainly shouldn't have known you,
but I remember your eyes."
The eyes of the young giant once seen could
hardly be forgotten. They were large and
A Love-Sick Romeo.
161
liquid, the iris being of that deep violet so
rarely found in men, and very infrequently
among women.
"What a
size you are!" cried Laura
Ruthven, forgetting her misery in her astonish-
ment. "How tall are you, Harry?"
"Six feet two and a half inches," croaked
the voice.
");
And you're just seventeen, aren't you ?
'Fifteen years and nine months," said the
gigantic boy in an injured tone-that is, in a
more injured tone than usual, for his voice
always sounded as if he were being broken on
the wheel, or, it might be more correct to say,
as if it were being broken on the wheel. 'But
I'm taller than my years," he added pompously—
a remark which his presence made a pleonasm.
"And older too," he continued, evidently
anxious to impress Laura Ruthven with an
idea of his manliness.
66
66
66
Mrs. Ruthven, looking, it must be said, ap-
provingly, at his smooth oval face and mass of
L
162
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
yellow curls, doubted very much his last state-
ment.
((
And what do you want with me, Harry
Summers?" she asked.
"I-I love you," said Harry. That was to
have been nearer the end of his speech, but it
burst out at once.
Now there wasn't a boy of Laura Ruthven's
acquaintance who was not madly, hopelessly, in
love with her; and we take that to be the best
proof of her innate goodness, as well as an in-
dubitable cachet of a winning manner and un-
usual beauty. Laura Ruthven was perfectly
well aware of the existence of this band of de-
voted admirers not half through their teens,
but that anyone of the youthful swains who
sighed in secret should have attempted a more
public performance was one of the last things
she would have expected. She stared at
Harry Summers blankly, and then burst into a
little nervous laugh, which rather discomfited
the love-sick giant.
A Love-Sick Romeo.
163
"Mrs. Ruthven-Laura," he said with a
gulp, "I have loved you all this long time. I
was at your marriage, Laura-dear Laura.'
It is a curious thing how youthful lovers im-
agine that endearing terms will soften obdurate
hearts. "I understood it all. I saw how you
were being sacrificed at the altar of Mammon
he blushed a deeper scarlet at this very
original image; all boys blush when they use
figurative language. "I pitied your woeful
fate, but I could do nothing. I was only five
feet nine then, and just twelve; I couldn't do
anything. But he is dead, your long agony is
over, and I can lay my heart at your feet."
99
19
He fell on his knees, but he felt that it was
useless, that it was all wrong; he had prepared
a speech that would have taken ten minutes to
deliver, a beautiful flowery speech, and it had
withered to these few halting sentences. In
despair he burst out unpremeditatedly, "Don't
say anything yet! Let me kneel here for a
minute thinking what it would be if you were
164
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
to say 'Yes.' You would kiss me, wouldn't
you? Ah, and I would kiss you.
I only
learnt this morning from Charlie "-Charlie
was Master Harry's papa-" that your-your
oppressor was dead"-he stuck to his self-
evolved theory that Laura had been an unwill-
ing bride.
"I left school"-humiliating con-
fession in that word-"this morning, and
walked all the way-Legham; it's about thirty
miles. I thought of coming while he "-with
withering emphasis on the pronoun-" was
alive, and saving you from him, but it would
have been wrong. I have only seen you three
times since your marriage, but I have your
photograph-I took it from Hetty's album-so
that I know you quite well; and you would
soon learn to know me, and
you so, I think I shall die
love me."
Oh! I love
if
you won't
"But I do love you, Harry," said Laura,
kindly ; "and I'll kiss you, too;" and she bent
towards him as a mother or a sister might.
A Love-Sick Romeo.
165
"And will you marry me?" he gasped,
scarcely believing his ears and eyes.
"Don't
"Now you are foolish," she said.
you know that I'm your aunt—your grand-
aunt?" And that reminded her. She be-
came stern and cold at once.
"Master Summers," she said, "I advise you
to go back to school. Clooper will see that
you have something to eat, and you can get a
train to-night.
Since you walked, I suppose
you have no money. Clooper will give you a
sovereign."
Harry looked about wildly. He had asked
for a heart, and he was offered a sovereign.
'There's no use my going back to school," he
said. "I'd have had to leave at any rate next
week."
"(
"Leave! why?"
Harry had lapsed into the school-boy. Mrs.
Ruthven's supercilious speech, especially her
addressing him as "Master" Summers, and
the promise of the sovereign, had transformed
:
166
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
him in a "clap" from the passionate pilgrim
who had travelled thirty miles on foot to
realise the dream of four years, into an im-
mense lumbering hobbledehoy. His love-
true calf-love of a specially potent order, in
keeping with his size and strength--was there
unchanged. We know that Harry's ideas of
relationship were, by his training, necessarily
hazy and mixed, and it was nothing to him
that he loved within the forbidden degrees;
but at sixteen, changes of this kind that took
place in him are common-at least, when we
were boys they were - and he answered
Laura's "why" as if he had been speaking
from his usual place at the bottom of the fourth
form.
"Charlie can't pay for me any longer," he
S
said.
That reminded Laura again. It was her
husband who had kept Harry Summers at
school; evidently the boy didn't know. Nor
could he know, that had it not been for John
}
******
A Love-Sick Romeo.
167
Ruthven's frequent help, his father would have
been unable to maintain a roof above his head.
She thought-we must be candid—she thought
for a moment of withdrawing all supplies from
these poor relations; but only for a moment.
Malice had no part in Laura Ruthven's nature;
she could hate hotly and persistently when she
was wronged, but to bring misery on the heads
of the unoffending, because they had been dear
to him who had wronged her, though the idea
did for a moment cross her mind, was, to state
it at its lowest, a species of vengeance she
could not have enjoyed.
"I'll take care of that, Harry," she said, re-
suming something of her friendly tone; "and
I shall see you through the university too.'
19
Had she wished to punish young Summers
for his impertinent intrusion and presumptuous
speeches, she could not have hit upon a
better method than this promise of help. To
be kept at school by her whose protector he
had been for four years in his dreams by day
168
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
and night was too much! The colour left
his face; he clenched his hands, and essayed
to speak several times; but words failing him,
he rushed from the room and from the house.
Laura Ruthven at first thought of sending
after him, but changed her mind, and made
a mental note to write Mrs. Summers next
day continuing her allowance and Harry's.
For one thing Laura Ruthven thanked
Harry Summers. He had prevented her
from degrading herself by questioning Clooper
about her husband, as she might have at least
begun to do had Harry not come.
CHAPTER VIII.
DR. HARLEY APPLIES HIS THEORY.
THE two visits, Mrs. Croft's and that of
Harry Summers, had really done her good
by the distraction they caused; her mind
was refreshed. But it was only a temporary
improvement; the fresh vigour was soon ex-
hausted in the consideration of the old pro-
blem. She succeeded in sleeping for an
hour or two immediately after she went to
bed, but wakening in the early morning she
found that she was a widow indeed. During
the last week when she awoke in the night-
time she had found a melancholy pleasure
in allowing her thoughts to rest on the past;
but now even
even that was denied her. The
memory of her husband had been company
for her it was to have been her chief com-
169
170
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
pany for the remainder of her life; now she
was alone, utterly alone. The night was so
silent, the room so ghostly with its faint night-
light, she felt as if she were dead and buried,
as if she would go mad. She dressed herself
at dawn, and walked up and down her room
until her maid came. And when her hair
was dressed, she went down to breakfast as
usual. "As usual," she thought. "Would
her life ever again have a quiet even course
when things would be done as usual, without
her noticing it?" And then she sent her
breakfast untasted away, and she felt in that
miserable condition of mind in which her
sex finds relief in one way only, the luxury
of a good cry. "Luxury, forsooth!" cries
the ignorant male reader. "What luxury
can there be in the mere act of shedding
tears?" But there is a luxury, a great luxury,
a luxury for which he (the arrogant male
reader) may forever sigh in vain; it shall be
forbidden to him, being a man, to snatch that
1
Dr. Harley Applies His Theory.
171
fearful joy-there isn't a doubt about it-ask
any woman or girl, if you will. Why, little
Toddlekins, aged four, indulges in and enjoys
it frequently. Surely, of course it's a luxury.
It is to the woman what the Turkish bath is
to the weary Oriental; what the business
man's first cigar is to him when business hours
are over; what shampooing is to the sufferer
from rheumatism; it may be said to be to
woman what bathing is to man.
"The purest exercise of health,
The kind refresher of the summer heats.”
If she could only have set to do something,
plain needlework is said to be a great relief;
the more uncompromising the material, the
more rapid its effect. Shirts for the poor
formed of a substance similar to that used for
coal sacks and sewn with a soaped thread,
which gives a sort of scream of anguish as it
is dragged through the stuff, is most sooth-
ing. To wig the servants all round is capital
172
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
practice when in grief. Some people can
take refuge in their diaries, or derive a selfish
satisfaction from the fact that their woes are
less than those of somebody else. So there
unoccupied sat Laura Ruthven, who, though
while thoroughly acknowledging the truth of
the axiom that want of occupation is not rest,
hadn't the heart or the pluck to sit down to
work, be it good, bad, or indifferent, and so ob-
tain the longed-for consolation of forgetfulness.
She was perfectly and utterly miserable and
dull; her worst enemy couldn't have wished
her in a more wretched frame of mind, when
her maid entered the room and announced
that Dr. Harley was in the drawing-room.
"Dr. Harley!" cried Mrs. Ruthven, in a
tone of astonishment.
"Is there anyone ill
in the house, Pinfold? Who sent for him ? ”
"If you please, ma'am," replied the abigail,
"it was you, ma'am, he wished to see, and
it's about some message from Mrs. Croft.
Perhaps she's ailing, ma'am."
Dr. Harley Applies His Theory.
173
"I never thought of that," said Mrs.
Ruthven, rising, "I'll go to him at once.'
Now Dr. Harley was not an eminent
physician; the sphere in which he revolved was
what is called, in the profession, high-class
general practice. With Dr. Harley, as with
many other high-class general practitioners,
manner went a long way. The doctor had
entered the profession in what may be termed
the dark ages, in those bad old times when the
medical student devoted himself to getting
drunk, wrenching off door-knockers, the light
fantastic toe, and assaulting the police; when
he was decidedly unconspicuous as to either
cleanliness or godliness; modern Ishmaels,
against whom every man raised his hand
(in horror), but whose worst and most im-
placable enemies were themselves; his was a
sort of chrysalis state from which he either
emerged as a medical man or a thorough-paced
ruffian. But there was nothing bad about
young Harley; he qualified, he became a visit-
174
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
ing-assistant, and then an extraordinary fact
suddenly dawned upon him. He found that the
sick pauper did not require a perpetually vary-
ing diet of miscellaneous physic, but he found
that the patient who had an account did. He
began to trust greatly to the curative power of
nature. He found that the patients even of
homeopathists got well (and the homeopathist
was to Dr. Harley what the red rag is to the
bull).
Now Dr. Harley was accustomed to de-
scribe homeopathy as "bosh," and globules
as hanky-panky." "Their victims" - Dr.
Harley always spoke of the patients of his
homeopathic opponents as victims-"get well
because the rascals are sharp enough to leave
nature alone, and because they believe in the
hanky-panky. Your professional drover when
he is walking an ox to market, tramps after
the beast calmly and quietly, and the animal
gets comfortably to its destination; but let an
amateur attempt to drive an ox to market, he
((
(
Dr. Harley Applies His Theory,
175
thwacks the poor beast till the animal's back
resembles a ploughed field; he drives it at
least into half-a-dozen china-shops, using the
goad at the end of the stick very freely; and if
the pair do ultimately arrive at market, they
get there more dead than alive, and, as it
were, by a special interposition of Providence.
We regulars are the amateur drovers, we
can't leave nature alone; we are continually
punching and thumping and rib-roasting her,
hanging on to her tail and giving it a good
hard twist whenever we get a chance. Which-
ever way the unfortunate animal may look,
if it doesn't feel the amateur drover's stick,
it sees him wildly brandishing it."
He hadn't been many years in practice
before he invented what may be termed the
great Harley theory:
1. Whenever a person comes to a doctor,
the person is ill.
2. Whenever a person is ill he requires
physic, he has a natural craving for physic
176
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Lin
which must be satisfied.
that craving, somebody else will.
3. The physic must do him as little harm as
possible. It must be as nasty as possible, in
order to give an idea that it is potent. On
no account must the patient know of what
it is composed.
If I do not satisfy
4. Provided the patient believes in the
potency of the physic, provided he is not
pooh-poohed, provided he is physically ex-
amined as often as possible, provided he take
good plain diet and thoroughly believe in
Harley, he will get well.
5. Having got well, he will declare to Har-
ley and to all his friends and acquaintances that
he (Dr. H.) has saved his life. In this he will
be perfectly correct.
It will be seen from the above aphorisms.
of this high-class general practitioner, that the
Harleyian theory consisted of a masterly in-
activity combined with a devout trust in Pro-
vidence, and the curative power in nature,
Dr. Harley Applies His Theory.
177
Doctor H. was indeed a firm believer in what
the Turks call Kismet. If my patient's got
to die, he will die; my duty is to see that he
dies comfortably, and it is my duty for his sake
(and my own) not to hasten his end by any
officious attempt to interfere with the ordinary
operations of nature (i.e. Providence). It must
not be supposed for an instant that Dr. Harley
published his great theory in the medical
journals, he kept his grand arcanum to himself,
and he was a very successful high-class general
practitioner. If Dr. Harley became certain
that the decease of a patient was imminent,
he would suggest a "second
"second professional
opinion." A man of light and leading in the
profession would be called in, the treatment
of the consultant would be adopted, Dr. Har-
ley's expectations would be verified, and every-
body would be satisfied.
We now know what manner of man Dr.
Harley was; it only remains to describe him.
He was a man of sixty, who dressed in the
M
178
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood,
((
costume of thirty years ago.
A long black
frock-coat, large Gladstonian collars, a blue
bird's-eye neckerchief, a broad-brimmed hat,
and a collection of homely proverbs were his
stock-in-trade; in addition to this, he brimmed
over with sympathy.
'I know what it is, my
friend," he would remark to the gouty patient,
"I'm a martyr to it myself." "I too have a
weak chest," he would say to the patient suffer-
ing from bronchitis, while his "poor mother"
and his "dear wife" had, according to him,
suffered from all the ills that female flesh is
heir to. When he announced to poor Mr.
Rabbitwarren that he was the father of twins,
he softened the blow by adding in tender
accents, "It might be worse, my dear sir, it
might be worse; I was a twin myself."
This then was the gentleman, her late hus-
band's medical adviser, whom Laura Ruthven
found awaiting her in the drawing-room.
"You mustn't look upon me as an intruder,
dear Mrs. Ruthven," he said, as the widow en-
Dr. Harley Applies His Theory.
179
tered the room.
"Mrs. Croft asked me to
look in," he continued. "I'm glad I came,
I'm very glad I came. A stitch in time, my
dear lady, a stitch in time, you know the rest.
Ah, well, we must be careful, we must indeed
be careful." Then he placed a chair for the
fair sufferer, whipped out his great watch, and
proceeded to feel her pulse with grave solemn-
ity. "Dear me, dear me!" he continued,
"there is a serious want of tone; no wonder
our friends are anxious. General lassitude—
um-just what might have been expected.
Disinclination for food, general depression,
very natural, very natural; we must be careful,
we really must. I know what it is, I've been
through it all myself. (Did Dr. Harley
actually mean to insinuate that he had been a
widow?) Cheerful society is what we require,
don't we? change of scene and change of air.
We must call in Dr. Brighton. We can't do
better. It isn't quite the season yet, of course,
but we must, we really must. Town's not the
180
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
place under the circumstances. We want, so
to say, transplanting, we really do.
We are
getting a little, if you permit me, a little pot-
bound. We mustn't think of ourselves in a
matter like this, we must submit to guidance.
'You must put it to her, Dr. Harley,' said my
esteemed patient, Mrs. Croft, to me only
yesterday afternoon; 'you can speak with
authority, she has confidence in you.' We are
not ill, but we are ailing, and if we don't take
care we shall drift. We don't complain, but
we suffer."
“Indeed, doctor," began Mrs. Ruthven.
"My dear lady," continued the general
practitioner, shaking a warning forefinger, “we
must submit to guidance, we must indeed.
What we want is young and cheerful society-
of our own sex, of course," (excess of sympathy
had evidently temporarily unsexed Dr. Harley,)
that goes without saying, and change of air,
and a bracing climate. A little shopping in
the King's Road, an occasional visit to Brills.
((
Dr. Harley Applies His Theory.
181
We require to drink in health and consolation
with the sea air. Light literature (of a not too
exciting kind) or the morning paper upon that
charming West Pier, with music, my dear
madam, music as provided without extra
charge. A light lunch at Muttons, with a
glass, a single glass, of dry champagne; a
good long drive till dinner time, then a light
but recherché meal, and a couple of glasses of
Burgundy. And my dear madam, last but not
least, a continued course of tonic medicine is
absolutely necessary. There must be no trif
ling, the medicine must be taken regularly, and
persevered with. My assistant will take care
to send it to you three times a week by parcels
post. And we mustn't stand upon the order of
our going, Mrs. Ruthven, but go at once.
And we must secure the society of someone of
our own age and of our own sex; someone who
is cheerful and musical and nice; someone
whom we can treat as an equal, and accept as
a friend; someone who will attempt to awaken
182
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
1
us from our-shall I say lethargic?-con-
dition."
"But, Dr. Harley-"
6
6
"Not a word, my dear young lady, not a
word. You will speak to her authoritatively,'
said Mrs. Croft to me yesterday afternoon;
you will suggest to her the necessary step.
Now, my dear Mrs. Ruthven, you'll pardon my
brusqueness, but you must advertise for a com-
panion, and you must go to Brighton as soon
as you have secured one. A companion is
part of the prescription, you see.
Do you
happen to have such a thing as a sheet of
paper?"
"Really, Dr. Harley, you bewilder me. I've
never thought of engaging a companion."
"There is an alternative, of course," said the
doctor. "I'd forgotten the alternative. My
esteemed patient, Mrs. Croft, bade me say that,
should you prefer it, she herself, though at
great personal inconvenience, is ready to ac-
company you to the sea-side."
Dr. Harley Applies His Theory.
183
"Doctor," said Mrs. Ruthven, simply. "I
think I'll put in the advertisement;" and she
went to her escritoire, and produced a sheet of
paper, and in less than ten minutes they turned
out the following business-like composition.
L
ADY COMPANION required immediately
by a young widow lady. The advertiser
is desirous of securing the services of a lady of a
similar age to her own, whom she can treat as a
friend. References must be unexceptionable.
Address L. R., c/o. Nathaniel Bullivant, Esq.,
Solicitor, Lincoln's Inn Fields.
"And now good-morning, Mrs. Ruthven,"
said Dr. Harley, "I shall come and see you
every day till you leave for Brighton."
As he left the room, Mrs. Ruthven gave a
sigh of relief.
CHAPTER IX.
THE PARSON'S WOOING.
"I LAMENT," the speaker was the Rev. James
Crowe, who had called on Laura Ruthven to
bid her farewell,-"I lament your departure,
Mrs. Ruthven, from my fold. I trust it will be
for the best, and only for a time. You are go-
ing into the world, in a measure, I understand.
Will you allow me, as a friend, to give you one
piece of advice?"
Laura stared at the man. There was un-
usual excitement in his eye, and he spoke pre-
cipitately and yet with hesitancy. Imagining
from his flurried appearance and the strange-
ness of his address that something had upset.
him, and that he had forgotten for the moment
where he was, she said nothing, but fingered
184
The Parson's Wooing.
185
her jet watch-guard in order to give him time
to recover himself.
"Mrs. Ruthven," he continued, endeavour-
ing to master his tongue, which was inclined to
run away with him, "you must be aware—you
will, I trust, pardon my saying that you must
be aware of the alteration in your condition."
The Rev. James Crowe, in spite of the rapid-
ity of his utterance, had time to curse pro-
foundly (though mentally) the ineptitude of this
remark. "It is a change which happens to
many women; but few have your good fortune
in being widowed so young."
"Mr. Crowe," said Mrs. Ruthven, in spite of
her astonishment, with quiet dignity, "I must
beg you to consider what you are saying."
"I have considered it, my dear madam,'
said the Rev. James, with perfect truth.
"When I say 'good fortune' I do not mean
the death of your husband absolutely, but re-
latively. Had he died a dozen years hence—”
"You will oblige me, Mr. Crowe," said Mrs.
"
19
186
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Ruthven, whose anger was rising, "by choos-
ing another subject."
“But it is of this I have come to speak, Mrs.
Ruthven. You are going to meet a great
variety of people. Your wealth, your youth,
your beauty, will bring about you hosts of ad-
mirers; and all of them who are eligible and
many who are not—”
"I do not understand, Mr. Crowe, upon
what pretence you feel called upon to lecture
me," interrupted Laura Ruthven, rising.
"Pardon me, my dear madam, I have no
intention of lecturing; I have a certain thing
to say, and I find a difficulty in introducing it.
}}
Laura relented and resumed her seat. There
was an earnestness about Mr. Crowe's manner
and accent that inclined her to think that he
was actuated by a sincere desire for her welfare.
She was too kind-hearted to hurt the feelings
of anyone who displeased her by simply being
awkward. She remembered Mr. Crowe's re-
putation, or rather want of reputation, as a
The Parson's Wooing.
187
conversationalist, and on that ground pardoned
the personalities in his confused remarks.
The Rev. James Crowe was not slow to take
advantage of the truce granted him.
"I sincerely trust, Mrs. Ruthven," he said,
"that you will not become the prey of one of
those adventurers who spoil widows' houses.
I wish to warn you against these flatterers;
indeed, I have a proposal to make which will
render it impossible for any of them to take
advantage of your ingenuousness.”
“I don't think there's much fear of anyone
doing that.
I have no intention of changing
any of my husband's investments. I am curi-
ous, however, to hear your proposal." Laura
Ruthven had misunderstood Mr. Crowe, and
he was quite nonplussed. Had he been a wise
man he would have taken her failure to catch
the drift of his remarks as a sign to desist,
but misfortune dogs the stupid, and after a
brief pause he resumed his so-often-interrupted
dissertation.
188
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
"Have you ever considered the position of
a clergyman?" he said with an apparent
change of the subject, which Laura Ruthven
thought very strange; he had been so anxious
to get his proposal made.
،،
Probably," continued Mr. Crowe, without
waiting for an answer, "there is no class of
men so envied by the world at large as clergy-
men. They are the chosen few, and for them
the rest of the world, classes and masses, are
but as Gibeonites, hewers of wood and drawers
of water." Mr. Crowe, though not eloquent,
was speaking with extraordinary freedom for
him; the subject was one of the few that he
found congenial. "I do not speak of the
working parson; I think him a most despicable
creature, who brings discredit on his cloth,
spending the time that he might and ought to
devote to the enjoyment of refined society and
the improvement of his taste in literature and
art, in burrowing in slums among fustian and
rags. I would like you clearly to understand,
The Parson's Wooing.
189
my dear madam, that that kind of parson is
not my model. I say so at once, for I cannot
conceive of any lady, who was not as great a
discredit to her sex-to the refined portion of
her sex, that is to say-as that kind of parson is
to the higher order of clergymen, uniting her-
self in the bonds of matrimony with one of
these conceited burrowers. No; I speak of the
clergyman who enjoys life, who finds it his
duty to be an example of how to enjoy life to
the full, who glories in his calling, and insists
on its rights and privileges. There is a ten-
dency at the present day to level the clergyman
down; which I resent and resist. My ideal
clergyman is a little king; his word is law; no
one dare contradict him; he is welcome every-
where, and his life is a perpetual apotheosis.
To this, many clergymen still attain; and this
is my ambition, already almost achieved. One
thing I lack.
No clergyman is fully established
in his kingdom until he has a consort.
Like
the doctor, the clergyman must be married. It
190
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
doesn't matter who she is, nor from what rank
in society he chooses her, a clergyman's wife
shares all his glories and privileges, her posi-
tion is that of a princess, she enjoys life with
her husband. But I need not say more; you
have possibly observed how an unmarried
clergyman is sought after. Mrs. Ruthven, let
me ask you to share with me the rights and
privileges of my position; in sharing them you
will double them."
When it had dawned on Laura Ruthven
what the man meant, she had been too horrified
and disgusted to interrupt him; and his abrupt
conclusion left her speechless for nearly a minute,
during which the reverend wooer, who had
heated himself into a very hopeful condition at
the fire of his
his own egotism, smiled
smiled en-
couragingly.
"For shame!" burst from Laura Ruthven
at last, very fiercely indeed. "For shame!
Then she became suddenly silent again. She
could not put into words all she felt at that
>>
The Parson's Wooing.
191
moment; nor would she have done so if she
could. She had thought that the bitterest part
was over; but now she realised with a new
pang the widowhood of her memory. Death
by itself would have meant only a brief separa-
tion, but her husband had divorced himself by
leaving the fatal letters; she had never had a
husband he had been Marcia's. She thought
what she might have been able to reply-what
she ought to have been able to reply, to this
mercenary creature, this huckstering soul, and
with difficulty withheld her tears.
As for Crowe, the reception Mrs. Ruthven
had given his proposal had reduced him for the
time being to a semi-idiotic state. His under
jaw hung down; his eyes protruded from his
head and he leant back in his chair unable to
move or speak.
The strangling emotion which had prevented
Laura Ruthven speaking having subsided a
little, she said quickly, as if afraid to trust
herself, "How dare you make this mon-
192
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
strous proposal to me-how dare you make
it?"
"But you interrupted me," stammered the
Rev. James Crowe, "when I tried to explain.
You are going away, you will be surrounded by
temptation, and will be sought in marriage by
all the adventurers in Brighton. Brighton is a
place, Mrs. Ruthven, very unsuitable for the
young widow; at the corner of every street she
will come upon the ravenous and roaring lion
in the shape of the hungry adventurer who is
going about to devour her. I do not ask you
to marry me yet; that would be highly im-
proper for me as well as for you, but I wish-I
would like to secure-to protect you from the
wiles of the world by an engagement."
Laura Ruthven had grown cooler; so with
some of the feline instinct that is in the best of
women, she played with him a little.
"You
cannot suppose that the position of a clergy-
man's wife has much attraction for me," she
said. "According to you, my position as a
The Parson's Wooing.
193
1
{
wealthy widow with all the adventurers in
Brighton' at my feet is one which a woman,
who knows what marriage is"-with significance
incomprehensible to the Rev. James-" would
be slow to resign-for anything less than a
coronet," she added, putting a finishing touch
to a cynicism she didn't feel.
"Oh, my dear Mrs. Ruthven!" cried the
clergyman, beside himself with hope, "I would
wait as long as you wished me to."
"You are very obliging," said Laura
Ruthven. "But since a clergyman may marry
anyone, and since he must be married in order
to establish his kingdom, why should you pro-
pose to wait for me? why not take one of those
countless ladies who you say seek after un-
married clergymen ?"
"Because," said the trembling parson, certain
now that she was at least entertaining his offer,
"because I love you. I have loved you for the
last four years; I have watched you in church;
I have studied every feature, every motion-"
N
194
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Laura Ruthven had risen.
"The priest,
above his book, leering at his neighbour's wife.'
There is another name than love for that,
Mr. Crowe," she said with a tremor in her voice
and a fire in her eye. "Had you loved me,
you would have respected my grief; you would
have" she stopped suddenly and sank down
into her chair: a sickening thought had oc-
curred to her. Could it be that this importun-
ate suitor knew of the fault in her husband's
conduct, and, imagining that she knew of it
also, deemed that there was no need for any
particular delicacy or delay in asking her to
think of a second marriage. She looked fear-
fully at the astounded clergyman, and said,
shrinking from the question but forced to put
it: "Do you know any reason why I should
be unfaithful to my husband's memory, that you
come to me with this proposal so soon after his
death?
"
((
My dear Mrs. Ruthven," said the clergy-
man, “I don't understand you.
")
The Parson's Wooing.
195
"You don't! You never heard my husband's
good fame attacked?”
"Never; I never heard a syllable breathed
against him."
Laura Ruthven rose again, triumphantly this
time.
"Do you know that you must have a very
mean mind, Mr. Crowe?" she said.
"How-why?" stammered the unfortunate
wooer.
"I verily believe you don't know why I
think so," said Laura; "and I shall punish you
for your excessive impertinence by leaving you
in your ignorance."
And with that she walked away, leaving the
bewildered parson to his reflections. As soon
as she had seated herself in another room, her
first impulse was to return and say something
comforting to her rejected suitor; but she felt
that would simply revive the hopes which she
felt she had effectually destroyed, and while she
was still debating with herself, she heard her
196
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
clerical wooer leave the house. She looked at
him through the blinds, and her pity quickly
folded its wings. There was a slight shade of
difference from his ordinary manner in the
street he walked more erectly, and with a
firmer tread; his face was a little flushed, and a
half-amused, half-shamefaced smile played about
his mouth it was just how he used to walk
from the wicket if he chanced to be bowled
first ball; that was all.
CHAPTER X.
THE BEAUTY AND THE BEAST.
THEY say it never rains but it pours. There
had been a perfect storm of answers to Mrs.
Ruthven's advertisement. They were written
on all sorts of paper, and in every variety of
hand; there were even hand-painted crests in
gold and colours upon the best superfine paper,
carrying applications in bold, fashionable hands;
and when the writers of these noble epistles
were in doubt about their orthography, they
cut the Gordian knot by means of an illegible
hieroglyphic, which might mean anything or
nothing, according to the taste and imagination
of the reader, and would require a very Daniel
to decipher. There were old-fashioned Italian
hands, scribbles, well-written letters and ill-
197
198
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
written letters, and some of the noblest-looking
ones were the worst spelt. A great many of
the applicants sent their photographs, most of
which had evidently been taken some time ago.
One letter, by its calm impudence, made the
young widow smile; the envelope was ad-
dressed in a woman's hand, but the letter
was evidently the writing of a man:-
"What a little humbug you are, L. R. You
want someone to treat as a friend. Why not
treat me as a friend? I could take you out
pretty well every evening, and I am a member
of the Upper Ten Thousand Society. We are
a little bit exclusive at the U. T. T., of course,
but we have stunning Cinderella dances at the
Society's rooms, and every Jack brings his Jill
(for whom he has to vouch, of course); it's all
highly proper and respectable, or I shouldn't
belong to it, being a clerk in Hobson's Bank.
I send you my photo, which will speak for
itself. And now I want you to send one of
yours in return, and name a place in your letter
where we can meet; any evening will do, as at
five I cut the shop.-Yours,
X."
139 Wilhelmina Terrace, Dalston, N.
The Beauty and the Beast.
199
A curious thing struck Mrs. Ruthven about
the photographs of the applicants, they were
nearly all of them thin. Now Mrs. Ruthven
had, in the course of her life, come across
several lady companions, none of whom had
been thin; but the great majority of the photo-
graphs sent resembled nothing so much as
glorified renderings of the ordinary London
lodging-house keeper. How could she "treat
as a friend" any of these poor hungry-looking
souls? There were other photographs of
decidedly prepossessing appearance; but many
of these told their own tale, and rendered
correspondence needless. Mrs. Ruthven,
though young and inexperienced as we know,
was sufficiently a woman of the world, as the
proverb says, to see through a hole in a brick
wall as well as most people.
After going through the vast pile of letters,
there remained only some half-dozen applica-
tions which appeared really eligible; in reply
to each of these Mrs. Ruthven wrote a little.
200
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
note stating that she was prepared to pay a
salary of a hundred a year, and defining the
duties of the office. The result of these com-
munications was that there remained only two
runners in the race who actually came to the
post.
Mrs. St. Victor arrived in a hansom. She
was the sort of lady who always does arrive in
a hansom. She was evidently a liberal-minded
woman, for she told the man to wait. Mrs. St.
Victor was excessively well-dressed, not over-
dressed, mind you. The stuff of the gown she
wore might have cost at the outset a couple of
shillings a yard if it had been bought at an
ordinary shop; but the cut, the fit, the chic of
the garment proclaimed what was the fact, that
it came from Jane Hogg, the celebrated dress-
maker of Audley Street. Though the stuff of
which the gown was made wasn't worth more
than two shillings a yard, as has been said, yet
it was what is technically termed an exclusive
fabric-that is to say, that it was impossible, save
The Beauty and the Beast.
201
for the elect, to obtain it at all, and by the elect
we mean the customers of Jane Hogg of
Audley Street. (Now the hypercritical reader
sneers at the humble name of Jane Hogg
being used as that of a fashionable dressmaker.
"I've heard of Mademoiselle Hortense, and
of Madame Adéle, but Jane Hogg-pooh!"
Ah, but Mr. Puff, you're a little behind the
age, nous avons changé tout cela. If a dress-
maker or a bonnet-maker wants to be fashion-
able nowadays, though she may be a French-
woman, or even a German, she makes herself
English, very English, you know; she calls
herself Martha Binks or Phoebe Brown, and
then she's bound to get on.) Now nobody
has made it worth our while to tell you where
Mrs. St. Victor got her boots and gloves, so we
fear, reader, that you must be content with
the fact-firstly, that they were bought at the
right places; secondly, that they were not paid
for. Of course they weren't, or they wouldn't
have been bought at the right places, for the
202
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
proprietors of the right places don't care for
that miserable creature, the cash customer.
As for Mrs. St. Victor's hat or bonnet, we
won't be too particular, because neither of us
knows where the bonnet begins and the hat
ends, all we can say is that it was something
without strings, and with flowers.
It was
what the society journals would call a "dream
of loveliness," whatever that may mean; it
might have actually cost five shillings, but it
went down in the bill at five pounds five, and
was cheap at the money. Ann Jenkins, whose
name appeared in tiny gold letters on the
inside, as we all know, lives in Old Bond
Street, and has nothing under five guineas
in her sh—, I beg her pardon, her establish-
ment, and if you were a member of the
Salvation Army, dear reader, which, thank
Heaven you're not, and were to order a
Hallelujah bonnet at Ann Jenkins's, the "base
wretch" who pays-I mean your husband-
would have to write a cheque for five pounds
The Beauty and the Beast.
203
five for the article; and the simple fact of that
Hallelujah bonnet having been confectioned at
Ann Jenkins's would make it a becoming
headgear; for, as we all know, it isn't so much
the shape as where you get it, and sometimes
perhaps the face inside, that makes or mars
the bonnet. Mrs. St. Victor's face was
prettier even than her bonnet or hat, which-
ever it might have been. It is needless to
go into detail; Mrs. St. Victor appears in our
narrative only to disappear at once ; it's
only a walking-lady's part after all, you see.
It was very fresh, that face of pretty Mrs. St.
Victor's, very fair, very pleasing to look upon ;
there wasn't a suspicion of powder, or
"make
up" about it, and the only simile that occurs
to us at the present moment is that it reminded
one of a freshly picked basket of strawberries
when strawberries are dear.
Laura Ruthven felt very uncomfortable when
she first began to talk to Mrs. St. Victor; it
seemed such a very monstrous thing to offer a
204
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
very charming woman, who was in the habit
of buying everything at the "right places,"
a salary of a hundred a year, to be paid
quarterly.
"I am afraid you'll think the sum mentioned
in the advertisement a very paltry pittance
indeed," she said, with a smile.
(
"To tell you the truth, Mrs. Ruthven, and
I always tell the truth, partly because I hate
and despise the telling of lies,' and partly
because lying is a particularly troublesome
game, and it doesn't do to be found out or to
revoke at it; to tell you the truth, I don't
trouble about the pay. Why, I must owe
something like six thousand pounds, and—and,
the fact is, I want to get away. May I call a
spade a spade, Mrs. Ruthven? May I be very
frank, and very candid?"
"I'm sure I hope you will be frank and
candid," said John Ruthven's widow.
Well, the fact is," said the lady in the
charming head-gear, "that I've got to the end
(C
The Beauty and the Beast.
205
of my tether. My late husband, St. Victor,
went everywhere, knew everybody, and was
what is called a persona grata in most circles.
I was the youngest of five girls, and St. Victor,
partly because he thought I was well off, in
which he was very much mistaken indeed, and
partly because he admired me, persuaded me
to elope with him. St. Victor was nice-
looking, you know, decidedly nice-looking.
I met him in the very best houses, he be-
longed to some of the most exclusive clubs,
but I knew nothing whatever about him
till after we were married; then I learned to
my horror that my husband had no actual
means of support, that he lived by his wits.
Mr. St. Victor was the illegitimate son of a
nobleman, and he was in business-in business
as a professional whist-player, billiard-player,
and bookmaker; in fact the man I had
married for love was a member of what are
termed the dangerous classes. He was a
member of the Phoenix, the Pandemonium, and
206
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
the Wangdoodle Clubs; at the Phoenix he
made his book, at the Pandemonium he dined
and played at cards, and at the Wangdoodle
he, as he expressed it, 'fleeced the unwary
colonial.' Notwithstanding all this, Mr. St.
Victor was, as I have said, received every-
where. He was very angry indeed when he
discovered that I hadn't a penny, but he wasn't
unkind about it. 'Ethel,' he said, 'we'd better
let bygones be bygones, and try to make the
best of it. My income is, of necessity, a very
variable one; you will have to take the fat
with the lean, and we must try to rub along!"
When he was in luck, Mrs. Ruthven, he shared.
it with me, and we lived at the best hotels, and
wore purple and fine linen when he was out
of luck, we waited for something to turn up at
some cheap foreign watering-place, wore sack-
cloth and ashes, so to say, and ate the pro-
verbial dinner of herbs where love is. I must
say that, for my own part, I prefer the stalled
OX. There was nothing against my husband,
The Beauty and the Beast.
207
he was simply a little keener than most men,
and he was generally looked upon as a man of
honour. We were at Monaco when it hap-
pened by it, I mean my husband's death. He
went out with the Marquis de la Jobardiere after
a quarrel at écarté on the previous evening, and
the result was that I was left a widow and had
to face the world with five hundred pounds in
French bank-notes. I need hardly add, Mrs.
Ruthven, that I mean to marry again; I have
expensive tastes, and I must marry well, or go
under. I owe six thousand pounds, as I have
told you; I'm a very easy person to get on
with; and I've been very plain with you, and
I've told you the truth."
"Mrs. St. Victor," said Laura Ruthven,
"I'm afraid we shouldn't agree. I have no in-
tention of going much into society, and I wish
to lead a quiet life, a life that would seem to
you very dull and monotonous."
"But you mean to marry of course?" burst
in the other lady.
208
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
"I haven't considered that question," said
Mrs. Ruthven a little coldly. "You've been
very candid with me, and I'm quite sure that
that's the best way."
"I'm sorry," said Mr. St. Victor's widow,
and she evidently meant it, though she smiled
as she said the words, for pretty Mrs. St.
Victor was always smiling, "I'm very sorry.
It's so very difficult to run straight, you know,
when one owes a hatful of money, and can't
get any more credit; and I had hoped that I
might have got along, under your umbrella, as
it were, Mrs. Ruthven." She gave a little
harsh laugh as she added, "Women are so
much more difficult to subjugate than men, at
least I find it so." Then she sighed, and her
habitual smile left her pretty face for a single
instant.
"I'm so sorry," said Laura Ruthven.
"Don't pity me, Mrs. Ruthven, please don't
pity me, I'm used to admiration, and I take it
for what it's worth; but it's difficult to keep a
The Beauty and the Beast.
209
stiff upper lip when one finds oneself an ob-
ject of pity."
The two women then rose, and Mrs. St.
Victor left Laura Ruthven's pretty drawing-
room and walked down to the hansom which
was waiting for her. Once more Mrs. St.
Victor was whirled away into the cold and
cruel world, where, sooner or later, she will
certainly be shipwrecked and go under.
The next applicant who called by appoint-
ment at Lexham Gardens was a woman of a
different class altogether. She was the sort of
person, who, when she entered a shop, caused
the assistants to pass round the mysterious
watchword, "Two upon ten," which being in-
terpreted means, "Keep your two wary eyes
upon those ten nimble fingers." There was an
air of smug respectability about the applicant
that made one suspicious at once.
The lady
wore thickish boots: thick boots are the
phylactery of the female Pharisee; those thick
boots speak in eloquent language, and are the
O
210
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
ensign of the unco' guid; they seem to cry
aloud, "There's nothing of the publican or the
sinner about me. I have the Faith and Duty
of a Christian at my fingers' ends." When
one sees the woman in thick boots, one knows
that one is entertaining an angel unawares.
Of course, in the country it's a very different
matter; but in London a woman in thick boots,
a woman who wears gloves a size too large for
her, in the palm of which she generally carries.
the half of a return ticket; and the woman who
carries coppers in her purse, are to be mis-
trusted it would be difficult to say why, but it
is the result of experience; we may be mis-
judging Dr. Fell and the persons whose pecu-
liarities we have enumerated, but we don't
like the one any better than we like the
other.
Mr. Clooper was evidently of this opinion,
as he requested the lady in the thick boots and
rusty black garments to follow him to the
drawing-room.
The Beauty and the Beast.
211
"Mrs. Glumper," said Mr. Clooper as he
flung open the door with a flourish.
The lady advanced upon Mrs. Ruthven till
she got within three yards of her, then she
drew herself up as though she were being
drilled, made a hideous grimace at our heroine,
which she intended for a smile, and still stand-
ing as it were at attention, blurted out in a
hard man's voice, "It's very good of you to see
me, I'm sure. I am the person of the name of
Glumper; it's very good of you."
Won't you sit down?" said Mrs. Ruthven,
kindly.
"Oh thank you, Mrs. Ruthven," said the
lady in the rusty black; "it's very good of you
to put me at my ease in this way, and you'll
excuse the liberty, but you do so remind me of
my poor dear sister; not by your surroundings,
dear madam, which are palatial," said the lady
apologetically, "and are so very different to
Louisa's, who ended her days in an asylum,
poor thing, and subject to what they called in
((
212
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Wiltshire the "Jumps;" the doctors said it
was a hereditary taint, but it was on the
father's side, Mrs. Ruthven," said Mrs.
Glumper, reassuringly, "and I take after my
mother. I believe," continued the lady after a
little pause, "that you are seeking a sympathis-
ing soul, and that the salary is a hundred a
year.
Consolation is my strong point, Mrs.
Ruthven; I was a district visitor for many years.
You won't think me vain if I give you a list of
my qualifications. I am a capital reader, and I
read conscientiously; I don't gabble. Reading
aloud is an accomplishment to which I have de-
voted considerable attention. Dear papa was an
elocutionist; many clergymen and members of
Parliament entirely owe their eloquence to
dear papa's instructions; you may have heard of
the late Professor Moriarty. If it hadn't been
for my strong Christian principles, which, of
course, rendered the very idea of such a thing
absolutely impossible, I should doubtless have
obtained a dreadful notoriety upon the stage.
The Beauty and the Beast.
213
I was a born mimic, Mrs. Ruthven; and when
I read aloud I prepare my subject, and care-
fully study it; I 'render' each of the characters
in a separate voice, and impart to them a dis-
tinct personality. Some of Mr. Charles
Dickens's novels, Mrs. Ruthven, contain, as
you know, a hundred and fifty different char-
acters; it isn't every woman who could 'render'
them in a hundred and fifty different voices.
Poetry, too, is my strong point. I'm full of
passion and pathos, though you mightn't think
it to look at me. I'm never weary of well-
doing, never tired in ministering to the wants
of others; I adapt myself to circumstances.
Should you wish to pour your woes into a
friendly ear, I am ready with the sweet tear of
sympathy; when you are sorrowful, I too am
sad; figuratively speaking you have only to
pipe to me and I will dance-quite naturally
and spontaneously too, Mrs. Ruthven, for I
have Irish blood in my veins, as I have told
Should you be inclined to labour among
you.
214
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
the poor, and seek solace in the melting charity
which covers multitudes of sin, I can teach
you how to make a greater show with five
shillings than most people can do with five
pounds. Should you have a literary bent, I
write a clear Italian hand, and nothing will give
me greater pleasure than to get you your
facts from the British Museum.
I can do
I can do your
shopping for you, keep your accounts, take the
care of the housekeeping off your hands, and
interview objectionable people. Are you fond
of good living?—I can compose the most delicate
menus, and am prepared to wrestle with a jaded
appetite. I am ready to act as your chaperon
and sheep-dog, and my discretion is pheno-
menal. I never lose my temper, and you can
say the most spiteful things to me, and I
shouldn't think of retorting. I am ready to
occupy myself with plain or fancy needlework,
and make myself generally useful. The ad-
vertisement says that you want someone you
can treat as a friend; should you honour me
The Beauty and the Beast.
215
by your friendship, I should not prove un-
grateful."
"Really I'm afraid-," began poor Laura
Ruthven.
"When you know me better, Mrs. Ruth-
ven," burst in Mrs. Glumper, "and when
you've read my numerous testimonials, fear
will give place to affection." Once more she
made the grimace, which with her did duty for
a reassuring smile; and then she whipped out
a great bundle of letters encircled by an india-
rubber ring.
"I am afraid," began John Ruthven's
widow.
"You are going to say you're afraid I shan't
do," burst in Mrs. Glumper, sharply, in a harsh
tone altogether different to the mellifluous voice
in which she had previously spoken. "Quite
so, madam, it's nothing but what I expected.
And now the only question that remains is,
who is to pay me for my loss of time? I've
been put to great personal inconvenience, I've
216
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
been put to considerable expense, I've had to
sacrifice my feelings. Mrs. Ruthven," said the
lady in the thick boots and rusty black, "I
decline to be out of pocket; you'll find it much
cheaper to settle with me at once. Don't drive
me to take legal advice, don't-for both our
sakes.'
""
“I should be very sorry indeed to cause you
either inconvenience or loss. If you will
kindly call on Mr. Bullivant, he'll put things
straight at once-" began the widow.
Madam," said Mrs. Glumper, "I hate a
middleman-a solicitor is the worst kind of
middleman. I'd far rather leave it to you, in-
deed I would; half a loaf's better than no
bread, and I hate lawyers—there's no poetry
about a lawyer. Let me tot it up for you."
Mrs. Glumper laid her right forefinger upon
her left thumb. Expense," she began, "of
turning my dress to make myself presentable,
say a pound; expense from Peckham Rye to
Kensington, say half a sovereign." She then
،،
66
The Beauty and the Beast.
217
"Under the
proceeded to the left forefinger.
head of personal inconvenience for four days
I have thought of nothing else, and conse-
quently have been unable to attend to my own
affairs; four days say at ten shillings-that's
two pounds; two pounds and thirty shillings is
three pounds ten;-you follow me, Mrs. Ruth-
ven ? "
Then she went on to the next finger.
"Then as to the sacrifice of my feelings. I
have had to leave the dying bed of a sick rela-
tive, Mrs. Ruthven; from that sick relative I
have expectations; my sick relative is of a
revengeful disposition. Don't leave
'Don't leave me, An-
astasia,' he cried only a few short hours ago, as
he clutched my wrist with his dying fingers.
But the path of duty was plain before me, Mrs.
Ruthven; I had promised to be with you at
three o'clock. I tore myself away; it is more
than likely that my sick relative may have sunk
under the shock of my sudden departure; he
may even have taken my name out of his will.
Let us lump together the sacrifice of my feel-
218
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
ings and the probable loss of the legacy at
another thirty shillings, and it's dirt cheap at
that—it is indeed. I know you wouldn't wish
to rob the widow and the orphan; that's why
I'd rather settle with you at once; besides,"
said Mrs. Glumper, pleadingly, "look at me,
look at my clothes; it will be charity, it will
indeed."
Laura Ruthven felt that she was being taken
in, she knew that she was dealing with an
impostor; it may have been silly, it may have
been weak-minded, but she took out her purse,
and handing Mrs. Glumper a five-pound note,
rid herself of that woman at once and forever.
CHAPTER XI.
CHARLOTTE WALTON'S STORY.
MRS. RUTHVEN had already passed a couple
of months at Brighton; she was all the better
for it, and to tell the truth it had been a pleas-
ant time. There's a great deal in change of
air and change of scene, you know. What
had rendered Brighton particularly pleasant to
John Ruthven's widow was the fact that she
had really found a friend in a Mrs. Walton,
who was, like herself, a young widow. Though
she was a young and pretty woman still, and
though she had gone out of widow's weeds, yet
Mrs. Walton, though she did not parade her
grief at her husband's loss, had definitely made
up her mind that she would never change her
condition. She had an income of about four
219
220
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
hundred a year, which more than sufficed for
her modest wants, and enabled her to do a con-
siderable amount of good in a quiet and un-
obtrusive sort of way. Mrs. Walton had been
in love with her husband; the two young people
had married for love; both of them had been
brought up in the lap of luxury; and both by
that imprudent love match of theirs had had to
taste the bitter cup of extreme poverty. Mr.
Bullivant had been the solicitor of the Walton
family; he had known the late Conrad Walton
ever since he had been a little boy, and he had
a very great respect and liking for Conrad
Walton's widow. It was Mr. Bullivant who
had brought the two ladies together. "I am
sure you will like each other," he had said
to both of them. "My friend, John Ruthven's
widow, is left extremely well off, but she's
practically alone in the world, my dear, and she
wants somebody to live with her, and you're
the very woman, Charlotte Walton. You
must find it very uncomfortable knocking
Charlotte Walton's Story.
221
about the world by yourself. Why on earth
shouldn't you two ladies go into partnership.
'Gad, it would be the very best thing for both
of you."
But Mrs. Walton had objected. "I don't
want to sacrifice my independence," she had
said.
"You won't be sacrificing your independ-
ence," cried Mr. Bullivant, rubbing his hands.
"Mrs. Ruthven's a lady, and she's the most
charming woman I know."
"Nathaniel!" his wife had remarked in a
severe tone, which brought the enthusiast at
once to his senses. But Mrs. Bullivant
agreed with her husband; the two ladies were
brought together by her; and a mutual liking
was at once established. The two young
widows went down to Brighton together; Mrs.
Ruthven took a furnished house in Regency
Square, and before a week was over they were,
as vulgar people would say, "as thick as
thieves,"
222
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
Shakespeare says, as some of us know, and
some still deny, for it occurs in as fine a pas-
sage as Shakespeare or anybody else ever
penned,-in "The Two Noble Kinsmen,"—that
"The true love 'tween maid and maid may be
More than in sex dividual."
However it may have been three hundred
years ago, we believe it possible that this ro-
mantic statement contains some spice of truth
even in this calumniated latter half of the
nineteenth century; but while we think that
girls can love each other nowadays, and that
they do so with a true disinterested love, we
rather incline to the opinion that the affection
between two young married women, or better
still, between two young widows, has a surer
basis than that between two unmarried girls.
If there is one virtue experience brings, or
ought to bring, with it, that virtue is tolerance
-the last virtue we acquire, and a virtue
Charlotte Walton's Story.
223
which, if we wish to live long and to derive
any satisfaction from the contemplation of the
world, we must continue acquiring in ever
increasing quantity to our dying day. Every
girl knows this quite well, and she knows also
that with the exception of the one chosen com-
panion whom she wears in her heart of hearts,
every other girl is as intolerant as a barbed
fence, and for that matter as intolerable too.
Since every girl knows these things, they must
be true; and, being true, it follows irrefutably
that the love subsisting "'tween maid and
maid" will continue only for as long a time as
each of the parties keeps her eyes tightly closed
to all that is intolerant and intolerable in her
friend. The slightest thing can change the
aspect of affairs. A young gentleman has
been known to do it, without any action on his
part, even without being acquainted with the
girls. And surely nothing could be more
insignificant than a young gentleman-why,
there are millions of them in the world; but
224
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
many girls are too intolerant to think of more
than one at a time.
With widows it is quite different.
They
have another love; they have been married;
experience has widened their sympathies and
made them tolerant, passably tolerant, and
though they may be little more than girls, like
Laura Ruthven and Charlotte Walton, they do
not become "as thick as thieves" in much less
• time than a week, because their eyes are
open: they note each other's faults, and pit
them against the good qualities; they strike a
balance, and then take each other "for better
for worse "—not like hot-headed girls who take
each other only "for better." Laura Ruthven
and Charlotte Walton made no declaration to
each other; they did not swear eternal friend-
ship and fall upon each other's necks; but one
day, sitting together in the great open bow-
window of the drawing-room in Regency
Square, their arms stole round each other's
waists, and each told the other her history.
k
Charlotte Walton's Story.
225
They made a pretty picture. Laura's ap-
pearance we know, but her beauty was
heightened by the pleasure and excitement of
the new friendship. Charlotte Walton, only
two years older than Laura Ruthven, looked
her senior by six at least. There were two
faint lines on her face, and one still fainter on
her brow, but they were there. At the first
glance you would have thought it was that old
Vandal, Time, who had begun his slow dis-
figurement a disfigurement which, happily,
when completed, is so often a new kind of
beauty; but when you looked more closely you
saw that care and hardship had been at work,
and that the lines had once been deeper.
These incipient wrinkles, while they slightly
impaired Charlotte Walton's beauty, gave
character and interest to a face which, without
them, might not have been so attractive. For
the rest, her hair was brown, a little lighter in
hue than Laura Ruthven's; her mouth, large,
but full of sweetness and expression; her chin
VOL I.
P
226
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
round and full; her nose straight, and rather
broad; her eyes blue, and with the starry look
that long lashes give; and her brow, almost as
low as Laura's. Her complexion was un-
usually pale; but a little exercise, a little talk,
would bring the blood to her cheeks, which it
seemed loth to leave; for long after the excit-
ing cause had passed, the blush would remain ;
and when it did begin to steal back to the
gentle heart from which it had flowed, often
something would call it back once more to the
soft cheek it delighted to
to visit. Laura
Ruthven and Charlotte Walton were about
the same height; if anything, Laura had the
advantage, but Charlotte of course knew better,
and insisted that she was nearly half an inch
taller than her friend.
It was Laura who told her story first. It
didn't take her long; her life had been so
simple. As for the horror that had suddenly
leapt into it, she could not trust herself to talk
of that; nor at that time would she have
Charlotte Walton's Story.
227
She had
whispered her secret anywhere.
come to the conclusion that the world knew
nothing of her husband's real character, and
she meant that it should continue in its ignor-
She
ance; Marcia knew, and she knew.
would meet Marcia some day, and be avenged
somehow. In the meantime she would have
to be patient. To set about any inquiry, how-
ever indirectly, would make people talk, and the
whole thing might become public. In telling
her story to Charlotte, when she came to her
marriage her voice trembled; and she gave
such a brief and broken account of the remain-
ing portion of her life that her friend naturally
supposed that her bereavement was still too
recent to permit her to talk of it quietly; and
when Laura finished by saying that she would
"never marry again, never," Charlotte kissed
her, and folded her in her arms closely, without
a word, but not without a tear or two, for
Charlotte Walton also intended never to marry
again.
228
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
"Oh!" burst out Laura, with a little laugh,
"I quite forgot; I've had two offers already."
And then she told Charlotte Walton about the
Rev. James Crowe and Harry Summers; and
then Charlotte Walton in her turn told
A somewhat remarkable story
her story.
it was.
"You see," said Charlotte, premising, "I've
had to tell it often to the children of my
friends; it's like a fairy tale to them; and so
I've got it into a kind of shape.
My story is very different
different from yours,
Laura," continued Charlotte Walton. "I fell
in love with Conrad, and one morning we
got married on the sly, and we walked straight
from the church to Aunt Matilda's house in
Tavistock Square and broke it to her. Aunt
Matilda was my husband's aunt, you know, and
he was her god-child. She was a romantic
woman, and she was fond of Byron, and that
was how my husband got what he called his
ridiculous name-Conrad. For my part I
(C
Charlotte Walton's Story.
229
never could see anything ridiculous about the
name of Conrad. I used to think it ridiculous
at first before we became engaged, and when
he entreated me to call him Conrad, I tittered,
I actually tittered, and said I really couldn't, so
I called him Connie, everybody called him
Connie. His aunt's house in Tavistock Square
was a kind of museum of worthless curiosities,
—she and her husband had once been upon an
Italian tour, and they had invested largely in
works of art. If you are not particular as to
quality, you can get a great deal for your
money in the art way, particularly in Italy.
Uncle Walton was very fond of art; he always
spelt it with a capital A. Though he was rich
he wasn't particular about quality, and he liked.
bargains; the consequence was that you could
hardly enter the house in Tavistock Square for
the crowd of worthless statuary in the hall.
Every room in the house was a chamber of
horrors, and was covered from floor to ceiling
with daubs of oils, which my uncle dignified
230
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood
with the title of the Walton collection; while
tables were laden, and cabinets were filled, with
spurious antiques and rubbish from Wardour
Street, which had originally cost my uncle a
pretty penny for once bitten with the mania,
you can't stop, you know, and Uncle Walton
went on collecting till the day of his death; and
Aunt Matilda's time was divided between read-
ing Byron's works and dusting the Walton col-
lection.
"She was a dear old woman, my husband's
Aunt Matilda, and she treated Conrad as a
son; she had paid for his schooling; she had
sent him to Oxford; and she made him a hand-
some allowance. Whenever he went to see
her she used to say the same thing to him.
'Conrad,' she would say, 'the contents of this
house, and all I have in the world, will one day
be yours.' Then she would begin to cry and
say that she was a foolish old woman; and yet
we were both very fond of her.
"Aunt Matilda was very kind to us when
Charlotte Walton's Story.
231
we
married, and she increased Conrad's
allowance.
"We hadn't been married a year when Aunt
Matilda was taken ill. We were sent for in haste,
and when we arrived at Aunt Matilda's house
in Tavistock Square, it was literally alive with
Waltons and Livingstones. Aunt Matilda was
a Livingstone; she had any number of brothers
and sisters, and so had her deceased husband,
the virtuoso. They had all been sent for to
Tavistock Square, and they all brought their
families. But their presence didn't trouble
Conrad, for he knew perfectly well that he was
his aunt's heir. There were fifteen distinct
families of Waltons and Livingstones in the
house, so there were plenty of heirs-at-law.
Every man, woman, and child in the whole
miscellaneous assemblage was carrying about
some more or less worthless treasure. We
struggled through the crowd with difficulty, and
at length we reached Aunt Matilda's bedroom.
The poor old woman was very ill indeed; and
232
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
as we entered the room, the eldest of the
Livingstone family, Aunt Matilda's brother,
Marcus Livingstone, staggered out carrying
the complete edition of Lord Byron's works in
thirty-two volumes. He clutched them to his
body lest they should fall, and his chin was
tightly pressed against the top one; he smiled
and tried to nod as we passed him, but he
couldn't manage it, for fear of dropping Aunt
Matilda's keepsake.
"As the door closed upon him the poor old
lady motioned my husband to her bedside, with
a smile. That's the last of them, Conrad,' she
said, 'I'm tired out, dear, and I've bid all my
relatives farewell, and kissed everyone of them,
Conrad, and I've given everyone a memento,
and they've taken them with them; all except
poor Walton's eldest brother, and he asked for
'Ajax defying the lightning.' He always
admired it, you know, dear; poor Walton
used to say it was after Michael Angelo. It's
eleven feet high and very heavy, and his
Charlotte Walton's Story.
233
brother's to send a van for it when I'm
gone.'
"And then I began to cry, and Aunt
Matilda gave Conrad a few simple directions
about her funeral; and then we all three cried,
and then Aunt Matilda kissed us both. 'Con-
rad,' she said, 'everything will be yours, dear.
I thought it was well to give everybody a little
present, just to show them that they are
not forgotten, and I haven't forgotten you
either,' she went on. 'I've a little memento for
you too;' and she pointed to a great blue-and-
white china bottle that stood upon the mantel-
piece. I thought it was strange that Aunt
Matilda, who was about to give Conrad all she
had in the world, should insist upon presenting
him with this particularly useless piece of china;
it was nearly two feet high, there was nothing
remarkable about it, except the figure of a
Chinese warrior seated under an impossible
tree, with his finger placed to the side of his
nose, and whose left eye seemed to wink in a
234
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
mysterious manner. Bring it here, child,' said
Aunt Matilda to me; 'it isn't quite so worth-
less as you may think, Conrad,' she went on,
'for that jar-'
"And then a sudden spasm came over Aunt
Matilda's face, she gave a deep sigh-and so
she passed away.
Conrad rang for
"We were horrified.
assistance. Aunt Matilda's doctor was sent for
immediately, but it was too late; the poor old
lady was dead. There was a great deal of
running about, and everybody talked in
whispers, and then the blinds were let down,
and all the people left the house except Conrad
and me.
The servants all knew that Conrad
was his aunt's heir, and took their orders from
him as a matter of course. When he had seen
to everything, and there was a good many
orders and directions to be given, he sent for a
cab and we had got into it to return home,
when I suddenly remembered that we had
forgotten our jar. It seemed a horrible thing
(
Charlotte Walton's Story.
235
to disturb the silence of the dead woman's
chamber to seek for an absolutely worthless
trifle like the jar. But we brought the jar
home in the cab.
"It'll do capitally to put pot pourri in,' I
said, 'and it must stand on the library mantel-
piece.'
"Bother the jar,' Conrad replied, for he was
thinking of his poor Aunt Matilda.
"After the funeral, Mr. Bullivant read the
will, and to my husband's astonishment, Aunt
Matilda left the whole of her property to be
equally divided amongst her numerous nephews
and nieces. There was a buzz of astonishment
among the assembled relatives, and Marcus
Livingstone, who was the father of fifteen
children, looked as pleased as Punch.
"And then Mr. Bullivant, who was Aunt
Matilda's lawyer, made a little speech. 'Ladies
and gentlemen,' he said, for several of the
ladies of both families were present, though they
had not attended the funeral, it is my duty to
236
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
warn you not to build any false hopes upon the
document I have just read. My late respected
client, only three days before her death, sent
for me, that I might peruse her last will and
testament, in order that the possibility of any
informality might be avoided. The document
was perfectly valid and was properly attested;
by it she left all she had in the world to her
nephew Mr. Conrad Walton.
I regret to have
to inform you that this will, which was un-
doubtedly her last will and testament, has dis-
appeared; it is of course possible that it may
have been mislaid or abstracted, or that it may
have been destroyed by the testatrix herself.
A rigorous perquisition will, of course, be made
among the effects of my late client. This is
necessary in the interests of justice.'
"And then there was a moment of silence, and
Mr. Bullivant looked around him.
"I'm very glad that there's no opposition to
this course. I did not expect that there would
be,' said Mr. Bullivant. 'And now, ladies and
Charlotte Walton's Story.
237
gentlemen, I've only to add that should we fail
to discover the missing document, the will that
I hold in my hand must take effect!' Every-
body looked delighted except my husband.
'You will understand, ladies and gentlemen,'
went on Mr. Bullivant, with a wave of his
hand, that no distribution of the property can
take place for the next nineteen years, as the
youngest of the legatees is, as I am informed,
about three years of age.'
"The faces that had smiled before now
suddenly grew a yard long. The house in
Tavistock Square was searched from cellar to
attic, but the will that Mr. Bullivant had seen
only three days before aunt's death, the will
that left the bulk of her property to my
husband, was nowhere to be found. Then the
Court of Chancery intervened. First it took
charge of everything, then it ordered every-
thing to be sold. It sold the house in Tavi-
stock Square, it sold the Walton collection,
which fetched next to nothing, and the result
238
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
?
was that about fourteen thousand pounds lay to
the credit of the heirs to the Walton estate in
the books of the Bank of England. There
were a hundred and twenty-three heirs, so my
husband found himself entitled to the reversion
of a sum of a hundred and thirteen pounds, odd
shillings, and the interest of that sum at two
and a half per cent., which he would receive
after the expiration of nineteen years.
Papa came up to town and used dreadful
language to Conrad, and he told me that I was
a fool.
I went into hysterics, and Conrad
ordered papa out of the house. My dear Mrs.
Ruthven, we were absolutely penniless. Con-
rad had no business or profession, and things
looked very black indeed. People talk about
the seamy side; we had to learn by bitter ex-
perience what the seamy side really meant.
We sold off all our available property at once,
which consisted principally of a multitude of
wedding presents, and the only things we re-
tained were our clothes and the blue-and-white
-
((
Charlotte Walton's Story.
239
china jar. We should have sold the jar, too,
if it had been worth anything, but I took
it to Mr. Mordecai's in Bond Street, and he
valued it at five shillings, and Mr. Mordecai
was the great authority on blue-and-white
china.
"And then we gradually began to sink in
the social scale. My husband tried to get em-
ployment, but failed; we fell so low that I was
glad to get a few days' charing to do, while
Conrad was lucky enough to become what is
called an 'extra super' at Drury Lane during
the pantomime season. At length the run
of the pantomime came to an end-it ran
longer than usual that particular year-but the
fatal day came, and the extra supers were dis-
charged.
"About a month after that our little boy was
born in Thespis Court, Vinegar Yard, and the
parish doctor brought him into the world. My
poor husband was glad to earn a few odd
coppers at night by calling cabs to the doors
240
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
He used to say,
of the theatres in the Strand.
'I'm only a wretched loafer, Charlotte, and it's
all I can do.' In the day-time he got a little.
copying at twopence a folio.
He did it very
badly, and I don't think that the poor fellow's
copying was worth the twopence it was Mr.
Bullivant's kindness that got him the copy-
ing.
penny.
You
"I got very weak, and a few days after our
boy was born the doctor told my husband to
run out and get some brandy. Now Conrad's
whole property consisted of a
can't buy brandy with a penny. Conrad was
at his wits' end. Then his eye fell on the blue-
and-white jar. That was at all events worth
five shillings; it was worth five shillings to
Mr. Mordecai of Bond Street; consequently,
thought Conrad, I shall be able to pawn it.
The poor fellow was actually barefooted, for he
had sold his shoes for food, and his shirt had
gone the way of his shoes.
He didn't like to
sell the old jar, for he knew that I set a sort of
Charlotte Walton's Story.
241
superstitious value on the last
the last remaining
chattel we had in the world.
"As he told me afterwards, the warrior on
the jar seemed, as he took it up, to wink at him
with a sort of devilish malignity. Conrad
walked down Drury Lane into the Strand,
barefoot, his poor tattered frock-coat buttoned
up to the throat to hide his want of even a
shirt, carrying the great blue jar, and as my
starving husband walked along, people turned
to stare at him.
"Who stole the pickle-pot?' cried a boy.
But he went doggedly on; he was within
twenty yards of Mordecai's shop when he
slipped and fell, and his last hope, his poor
aunt's keepsake, the great blue-and-white jar,
was smashed to
to atoms. But there was a
folded sheet of paper inside. In his excite-
ment Conrad couldn't for a moment read its
contents, the letters swam before his eyes.
"It was the missing will.
"Conrad hailed the first passing hansom,
VOL. I.
242
Laura Ruthven's Widowhood.
but the driver merely winked, touched his
horse with his whip, and drove on.
He sprung
into the next one. 'Drive to 48 Lincoln's
Inn Fields,' he cried, 'it's a matter of life and
death.' I believe, if the cabman had seen
Conrad, that he would have turned him out of
his cab, but he did not see him, and he drove
off at a spanking pace, and a few minutes.
brought Conrad to Mr. Bullivant's office. 'It
is the missing will,' cried the old gentleman,
and he congratulated my husband. Conrad
came back to me in Thespis Court with the
brandy, he didn't dare to tell me his great good
news at first; but when he did so I wept for
joy for his sake, and the colour soon came back.
to my cheeks. But baby died, dear, and when
he died, I almost wished that I might die
too.
"Well, Laura, the will was proved, and we
went to live in Eaton Square; and I was as
happy as a bird, dear-till Conrad died. And
now you know my history, Laura, and you
Charlotte Walton's Story.
243
"
know how I and my lover-husband suffered
together only to love each other all the
more; and why I shall never, never marry
again."
¡
!
-|
END OF VOL. I.
Printed by Cowan & Co., Limited, Perth.
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FLETCHER, ROBERT HOWE. THE MYS-
TERY OF A STUDIO, and Other Stories.
Crown 8vo. Price 2s. 6d.
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"The purely American 'Far West' stories are alto-
gether admirable."-- World.
AUTUMN ANNOUNCEMENTS.
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GISSING, GEORGE. DENZIL QUARRIER: A
Crown 8vo. Price 6s.
Novel. I vol.
"The one volume in which the story is told will be
read through at a sitting, and give food for reflection for
many hours."— World.
Done
With
SCARRON, PAUL, COMICAL WORKS.
into English by TOM BROWN of Shifnal.
an Introduction by J. J. JUSSERAND. Illustrated
from the Designs of OUDRY. 2 vols. Demy 8vo.
£I IS. net.
* Also 150 copies on Japanese vellum. £2 28. net.
"Published in a handsome form with every luxury of
type and paper. A special feature consists in the
designs by Oudry, the famous dog-painter to Louis XV.
These are masterpieces of spirit and taste.
To
the knowledge elsewhere accessible concerning the book,
M. Jusserand now adds a brilliant account of the author."
-Athenæum.
WELLS, CHARLES.-STORIES AFTER
With a Preface by W. J. LINTON.
NATURE.
Fcp. 8vo. Price 7s. 6d. net.
* The edition consists of 400 numbered copies.
"The tales, with all their rouge and frippery of form,
breathe a singularly clear and upright morality, and are
rich in examples of noble manhood and gracious woman-
hood."—Athenæum.
Henderson & Spalding (Limited), Marylebone Lane, London, W.

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