THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 E S H E R 
 
 ". .:...iii.i.'iu.iil.Mi,M[..i'.:lii
 
 'V'^K'-V^ 
 
 .^;
 
 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES.
 
 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES 
 
 BY 
 
 . HENRY KINGSLEY, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "BAVENSHOK," " THK HILLYARS AND THE BI-RTOXS," ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 ^enboir: 
 MACMILLAX AXD CO. 
 
 1867. 
 
 [The Ri'jht nf Translation is reserved.]
 
 I.O.N DUN : 
 
 R. CLAY, SON, AND TAYLOR, PKINTEKS, 
 
 BREAD STREET HILL.
 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PACK 
 MOONLIGHT 1 
 
 ^ CHAPTER II. 
 
 FIRELIGHT 15 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THREE OF THE FAMILY 21 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A FOURTH 33 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ABOtTT THE SQUIRE 41 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 ABOUT THE PRINCESS 49 
 
 RESEFVS
 
 vi CONTENTS. 
 
 CHArTEll YII. 
 
 PAGE 
 ALGERNON 56 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 I'AR XOBILE FRATKUM 78 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MISS LEE 85 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE SQUIKF. IXVAUES MKS. SUGDEX'S TEriiaTuKV, AND GETS 
 
 BEATEN 88 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 IN WIIICII JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER 106 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Ainiiun sii.coTE makes the very dreadful and only 
 
 FIASCO OF HIS LIKE ]30 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 rWO MORE GUESTS 141 
 
 ci[.\PTi:i; XIV.- 
 
 sr. Mary's by the city . , loi
 
 CONTENTS. vii 
 
 CHAPTER XV, 
 
 PACK 
 ST. MAKY's 1!Y the lake ; . . 171 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 OAPJBALDI AND KOSSUTH ARE STARTLED BY THE APPARITION 
 
 OF MADAME GEORGEY' 184 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE PRINCESS, AFTER AN INEFFECTUAL EFFORT TO COMPOSE 
 MATTERS BETWEEN ITALY AND AUSTRIA, HAS A LITTLE 
 TABLE-RAPPING 197 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 SOME OF THE SQUIRE's PLANS FOR ARTHUR 209 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 SOME OF ARTHUR'S PLANS FOR HIMSELF 220 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 SOME OF MR. BETTS'S PLANS FOR HIMSELF AND OTHERS . . 232 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 •JAMES HAS A WET WALK 24S 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH 253
 
 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 MOONLIGHT. 
 
 How wonderfully similar are all children to one 
 another when asleep ! The same roimded half-formed 
 features, the same gently closed eyelids, the same 
 slightly parted mouth, are common alike to high and 
 low, to good and bad, before passion or education has 
 begun to draw those harder and more decided lines 
 which sleep cannot obliterate, and which only pass 
 away when once the first calm look of death is gone, 
 and dust returns to dust. No such lines mar or 
 alter the face of a sleeping child, or give a clue to 
 the daily history of the soul within. Look from young 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 Seymour the lord, to young Dickson the shepherd-hoy. 
 Look at the mendacious and fierce-tempered Johnny, 
 destined to hreak your heart and ruin you, lying with 
 liis arm round the neck of his gentle, high-souled 
 brother Gcorgy. They arc all very nearly alike. 
 
 But awake them ; see how the soul, still off its guard, 
 betrays the truth in eye, in mouth, nay, even in gesture. 
 Well was the wise Mrs. Chisholm accustomed to say, 
 that the time to judge of a girl's character was when 
 she was first awake. Cannot we conceive of these 
 four ideal children, that they would betray something 
 to a close observer, as their consciousness of the real 
 world returned to them? "Would not the little noble- 
 man have a calm look upon his face — a look careless, 
 because he had never known care? would not some 
 signs of weariness and dissatisfaction show themselves 
 on the face of the shepherd boy, when he first found 
 that his pleasant dreams of the cake and of the fine 
 new clothes were unreal, but that the bleak, wild 
 morning, the hard cold boot to be thrust on stockingless 
 feet, and the poor dry bread, were most unmistakably 
 real? while Johnny will wake witli a scowl, and 
 Gcorgy with a smile.
 
 MOONLIGHT. 3 
 
 There lay a boy once in a very poor little bed, close 
 under the thatch of a very poor little cottage, fast 
 asleep and dreaming. At a certain time he moved 
 slightly ; in perhaps less than a second more he had 
 raised himself in his bed, and sat there perfectly still, 
 perfectly silent, looking and listenmg with the in- 
 tenseness of a beautiful bright-eyed fox. 
 
 That is to say, that intense keen vivid curiosity 
 was the first instantaneous expression which fixed 
 itself on his face at the very moment of his waking. 
 In a very few moments more, those very facile features 
 were expressive of intelligence and satisfaction in the 
 highest degree. A minute had not gone by when, 
 with all the subtle dexterity, the silence, and the rapid 
 snake-like motion of that most beautiful animal to 
 which we have before compared him, lie had slid from 
 his bed and stood before the door of his room, with 
 half-opened, hands, bent head, and slightly parted lips, 
 listening with the whole strength of his brave little 
 heart and his keen brain. 
 
 There was no need for him to open his crazy old 
 door ; the great hole, into which you had to thrust 
 your finger when you raised the latch, was quite big 
 
 B 2
 
 4 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 enough for liim, not only to hear, but also to see every- 
 tliinu' whieli went on below. 
 
 His mother stood below at tlio front door of tlie 
 cottage, in the moonlight, tallviiig with a man he knew 
 well, — Somes, the head keeper. It could not be very 
 late, for she had not been upstairs ; nor very early, 
 for he could hear his father hurriedly dressing in the 
 room where he slept, a room opposite his mother's ; 
 and almost immediately he went down and joined 
 the keeper, and the two men passed away into tlie 
 forest, leaving the woman still standing at the 
 dnor. 
 
 Our listener dressed himself with all the rapidity 
 possible, for he knew that the moment had come for 
 realizing one of the great wishes of his short life. His 
 mother still stood in tlui doorway, and she would 
 certainly prevent his going out, while, if he waited 
 till she came upstairs again, he might lose his father's 
 tracks. The l)a\in })ile was close under his window ; 
 he opened the window, and, dropping on the fagots, 
 clambered down, and, listening for one instant, with his 
 head near the ground, he sped away after the faint 
 ustling footsteps of his father and the keeper.
 
 MOONLIGHT. 5 
 
 He knew wliat had happened well enough. The 
 poachers from Newley were in the wood again, and 
 their good friend, the head-keeper, had aroused his 
 father to assist him. The poachers were a very de- 
 termined gang, with a most expensive set of nets, which 
 some said had cost fifty pounds, and would most 
 certainly fight. On the other hand, the gentlemen, 
 the keepers, and some of the hinds were exasperated 
 beyond measure against this very gang. The coverts 
 were poor and bare, and the pheasants, every one of 
 them, cost ten to fifteen shillings by the time they 
 were killed. Eighteen months before a keeper had 
 been shot dead. The previous November a young 
 watcher had been kicked about the head until he was 
 reduced to a state of life-long imbecility, varied by 
 occasional epileptic fits of the most terrible character, 
 for trying to follow and identify some men who were 
 killing pheasants ; and now the same gang had paid 
 them another visit, and were netting; rabbits. There 
 was no doubt there would be a grand final fight on 
 this very night. On one side the Hall party, composed 
 of gentlemen, servants, and labourers, armed only with 
 sticks ; on the other, a desperate gang of ruffians from
 
 6 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 tlie low waterside streets of iSTewley* James was 
 determined at all hazards to see tliis battle, and his 
 plan was to overtake his father when it was too late 
 to be sent back. 
 
 The beech forest was blazing in the glory of the 
 August moon. The ground, golden all the year round, 
 by daylight, with fallen leaves, was now a carpet of 
 black purple velvet, with an irregular pattern of 
 gleaming white satin, wherever the moonbeams fell 
 through to the earth. The overarching boughs had 
 lost the rich warm colour which they showed in the 
 sunlight, and were a mere undefined canopy of green 
 and silver. The wood was as clear of undergrowth 
 as a Canadian forest, and as level as a lawn ; so it 
 was easy enough for the boy to keep sight of the party 
 he was pursuing, and yet to keep at a safe distance. 
 
 * Professional poacliers are iiuiinly townsfolk ; and not generally, 
 if yon look merely at their rental, of the lowest (!) class. There are 
 a f^ood .sprinkling of ten, and even twenty pounders, among them. 
 1 knew one well^ the rent for whose premises could not have been 
 less than fifty, and was probably sixty pounds, lie was not, I believe, 
 at the head of the profession, but was well known in it. lie was fond 
 of politics, fonder still of electioneering, a staunch and sound "Whig. 
 I renieml>er well his driving the "bulf" drag to and from tlic hustings 
 in either '44 or '45. If I were to mention his trade, hundreds would 
 recognise him at once.
 
 MOONLIGHT. 7 
 
 For on second thoughts he did not care to join them 
 too quickly. There were three or four gentlemen 
 among them, and James was afraid of gentlemen. 
 He would hardly have gone so far as to say that he 
 disliked them, and would probably have pleaded that 
 he had seen so little of them; but one thing was 
 certain — he would sooner have their room than their 
 company ; and so he shuffled along with half-laced 
 boots, far enough in the rear to avoid any great chance 
 of detection. 
 
 There were eight of the party before him, holding 
 steadily and silently through the wood in a line, and 
 he knew some of them. Head-keeper Somes was a 
 fine man, who stepped along from light to shade with 
 wonderful elasticity and determination. His father 
 came next to the head-keeper, and his father was a 
 finer man still, broader over the shoulders, and an 
 inch taller ; but his father did not walk with the 
 elasticity and grace of the game-keeper : forty years 
 in heavy boots, among sticky clay fallows, had taken 
 the elasticity out of his legs, and they seemed to drag 
 somewhat ; nevertheless that dearly-loved figure was
 
 8 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 a very majestic one, or seemed so until the slinking 
 little man noticed the next one. 
 
 The next one, tlie one who walked beside his father, 
 was one of those dreaded gentlemen, — a man (as he 
 got to know afterwards) in evening dress, hut bare- 
 headed, so that the boy could see the moonlight 
 gleaming on the short, well-tended curls, which 
 clustered on a head like a prizefighter's. This man 
 was half a head taller than liis father, and the biggest 
 and broadest man he had ever seen. It was not this 
 fact that attracted him so much : it was the man's 
 gait, so springy, so rapid, so restless, and yet so 
 powerful. He carried no stick, and yet seemed to be 
 the most eager for the fray, for he was always out- 
 walkinnj the others bv a little, and then with an 
 impatient look right and left coming back into the 
 line again. James had never seen anything like this 
 gentleman before, and at once set it down with himself 
 that he must be Lord Brumby, lord-lieutenant of that 
 county, ultimate master of all souls and bodies in those 
 parts, of ^^■hom he had dimly heard. Not very long 
 afterwards he saw my Lord Brumby on a state occasion 
 (which happened to be also market-day) in his lieu-
 
 MOONLIGHT. 9 
 
 tenant's uniform. It wasn't liis man at all. The lord- 
 lieutenant was a little old man of seventy, witli a face 
 like a fish, but redder. Once afterwards James saw a 
 fish like Lord Brumby, and asked the name of it ; it 
 was a red gurnard, they told him. I'ossibly it was 
 better for that particular county that kind old Lord 
 Brumby was lord-lieutenant of it, and not that reckless, 
 hurling giant, Tom Silcote of Silcotes, whom the boy 
 was watching. 
 
 The gentleman will fight for what costs him so much ; 
 and the keeper feels a natural animosity towards 
 a man who he knows will kick or beat him senseless 
 on the first opportunity ; and the hind, though in some 
 cases not guiltless himself, is well disposed towards the 
 gentleman, whose wife is always doing him small 
 kindnesses, and has no sympathy with the town ruffian. 
 The whole party on the side of the law are perfectly 
 ready for a fight. The other side also are far from 
 unwilling; they carry firearms mostly, which gives 
 them the courage of gunpowder ; they are not easily 
 recognised ; they come of a ruffianly breed, who love 
 fighting ; and, moreover, their nets are worth fighting 
 for. It M^ould be difficult to account for the extreme
 
 10 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 determination of these encounters, if one did not 
 remember these things. 
 
 Siicli a battle-royal "vvas coming off immediately, as 
 James well knew, and in all probal)ility blood would 
 be shed. The party walked as silently as possible, 
 and he could see that they w^ere coming to a break 
 in the wood, to a little open piece of upland meadow, 
 walled round on all sides by the forest. There he 
 guessed the poachers would be at work, and he was 
 right. 
 
 It came all in a moment. The cliallenge came from 
 the poachers. " ITold off, or," &c. &c. It was answered 
 by Tom Silcote, who stepped out into the ojiten, and 
 said loudly, but rpiietly enough, " Come, give us this 
 net here. You all know me. Give me hold of it. 
 I must have it." 
 
 The iioaehei's, who had run together, seemed as if 
 they did know him. They seemed to hesitate, and 
 to be inclined for falling back, when the tallest of 
 them all ran suddenly forward weaponless and alone, 
 sprang on Tliomas Silcote, and cried, " Know you ? I 
 know you, and Til have your false heart's blood this 
 night."
 
 MOONLIGHT. 1 1 
 
 The instant the two champions closed, the fight 
 became general. James saw that tlie fight between 
 Mr. Silcote and the tall poacher, whom he knew per- 
 fectly well (the keeper of a beerhouse, the Black Bull, 
 in Water Street, Newley), was becoming a terrible 
 wrestle. He minded that no more, but ran close in, 
 to be near his father. 
 
 Two of the poachers had singled him out, and 
 were attacking him. His father fought strongly and 
 well, but very clumsily. Whenever he managed to 
 hit either of his assailants with his stick, the blow 
 seemed to tell, Ijut he only got a blow in once in a 
 way. In a very few minutes he found only one enemy 
 before him, and he getting maddened, rushed in and 
 cut him down with a blow of his stick, and, at the 
 same moment, was felled with a blow from behind, 
 given by the other rufhan, who had passed behind 
 him. 
 
 James saw his fatlier go hurling heavily over, and 
 the man who had knocked him down making towards 
 him. James ran, too. The poacher had got his heavy 
 iron-shod boot raised to kick the defenceless man be- 
 hind the ear, when his legs were seized by some one to
 
 12 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 hiui invisible, and lie was thrown forcibly on Ids Lack, 
 and, before he knew where he was, he felt two tiny 
 but vigorous little fists inside his collar, and found that 
 lie was rolling over and over in the tight clutches of a 
 little boy, running a very fair chance of being throttled 
 and captured. 
 
 They must have struggled together for minutes, 
 these two ; the man cursing and threatening, the boy 
 only ejaculating, at intervals, " I'll hold 'ee, John 
 Eeveson, I'll hold 'ee!" for the man had time to find 
 that his comrades were beaten, and in full retreat, be- 
 fore he, not being an absolute fiend, resorted to the last 
 expedient of freeing himself, lie had spared the boy 
 hitherto — he had boys of his own ; but the gentlemen 
 were winning ; murder might have been done by one 
 of his own party, which "would make him an accom- 
 plice ; and the boy had recognised him and let him 
 know it. Tliere was only one way : he must escape, 
 and the boy must be left in such a state that his evi- 
 dence was worthless. He used his fists at last, and 
 beat the boy about the head till he was insensible ; 
 then he rose and sped away. 
 
 It was not very long before poor James came to him-
 
 MOONLIGHT. 13 
 
 self, but he was very miicli hurt, and very giddy and 
 sick. The poachers were gone, he found out afterwards, 
 the nets taken, and many of them (who got their deserts) 
 identified. He was in the arms of the head game- 
 keeper, who was washing his head with a wet hand- 
 kerchief. The others, with the exception of his father, 
 all stood round liim, and the first person he recognised 
 was the gigantic Tom Silcote, with his white tie, 
 looking down on him. He, too, was the first who 
 spoke. 
 
 " This is a fine fellow ! this is a deuced fine boy ! 
 How did he get bred in these parts ? He has got the 
 pluck of a London street boy." 
 
 The poacher's fists had knocked a good deal out of 
 James's head, possibly, but not the idea that Tom 
 Silcote was lord-lieutenant of the county. So he asked, 
 faintly, — 
 
 "Please, my lord, how's father?" 
 
 "Father's seriously hurt, if that is your father. 
 Now tell me, my man, the name of the fellow you 
 got down just now. You know him, you know, for 
 I heard you speaking to him." 
 
 " I wunt, my lord."
 
 1 4 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 "But you ought to." 
 
 " I Avunt tell ou liiiu or no man, my lord, not for 
 any man. "When I gets as big as father I'll give he 
 cause for to know it. But I won't tell, not on no 
 man." 
 
 " I like this," said Tom Sileote. " There is a spice 
 of the devil here. Whose Loy is this 1" 
 
 " James Sugden's," said the immovable keeper. 
 
 " Give me the boy," said Tom Sileote. " I will 
 carry him to the hall. See Sugden home and send 
 for the doctor." 
 
 " The boy is as near his own home as he is to the 
 hall. Master Thomas," said the keeper. " He is more 
 used to it ; and his mother will fret. These brats like 
 the home where they have been bred best." 
 
 " Give me the boy, now, and no more of your jaw. 
 I am going to take the boy home with me. Go and 
 tell his mother %vho has got him, and where he is 
 gone. Good-night all. Thanks for your pluck."
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 FIEELIGHT. 
 
 James was transferred from the arms of the head- 
 keeper to those of his friend the lord-lieutenant, and 
 found himself being carried rapidly on through the 
 beech forest — every tree of which he knew — towards 
 the hall. He was, so to speak, alone with this great 
 gentleman ; for, although they were followed by a 
 coachman, two grooms, a country-bred footman, and 
 page, these good gentlemen kept behind, noisily 
 recounting their deeds of valour, which, to do them 
 justice, were anything but inconsiderable. 
 
 James would have lain much more comfortably 
 if he could have kept his bitterly aching head on the 
 lord-lieutenant's shoulder. But that gentleman kept 
 raising it so that he could look at his face, which he
 
 J 6 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 did with great curiosity and amusement. At last lie 
 said — 
 
 " You arc a cjuaiiit little rascal — a most plucky little 
 dog. I am going to take you to Queer Hall, do you 
 hear, and get you mended." 
 
 lie said this so good-naturedly that James was 
 encouraged to say, 
 
 " Please, my lord, I'd sooner go and see after 
 father." 
 
 " Yes, Init you ain't going, don't you see," replied 
 his friend, " ^\•hich makes all the difference." 
 
 Soon the forest opened into glades, though it still 
 loomed dark all round. Now his hearer got over some 
 iron hurdles, and they were passing through flower-beds, 
 and then Tom Silcote began kicking at a door. When 
 he ceased, James became aware of more animal life 
 than their own ; they were surrounded by five or six 
 bloodhounds, the famous bloodhounds of Silcotes, at 
 whose baying, hir heard through tlic forest, the wood- 
 land children gathering flowers or seeking bird-nests 
 were used to raise their scared eyes and run home- 
 wards towards their mothers, wailing — the more heavy- 
 footed of the frightened little trots being di'agged
 
 FIRELIGHT. I7 
 
 along by their braver sisters — all tlieir precious flowers 
 scattered and lost in tlic hurry and terror of their fliglit. 
 James knew that these dim, wild-beast-like figures, 
 which were crowding silently around them, were the 
 celebrated and terrible hounds, heard of by all, seen 
 by few, the keeping of which was reported to be one 
 of the darkest fancies in the Squire's darkened mind. 
 James's courage utterly gave way ; he clutched Mr. 
 Silcote round the neck, and did what he had not done 
 for four years before — cried out for his mother. 
 
 "Quiet! you little fool," said his friend. "If 
 you scream out like that the dogs will be on us, and 
 / can't save you. Open the door here, you asses ! " 
 
 The boy was quiet, but horribly frightened. He 
 heard one of the party in the rear cry out, " Look out 
 here! I'm blowed if the Squire hasn't let the dogs 
 loose. It's too bad." And another—" Stand close 
 together! Mr, Tom, call they dogs in! D'ye hear, 
 sir ! call they dogs in ! " 
 
 But the door w^as opened, and he and the man who 
 carried him passed into a large and dimly-lighted 
 hall with the terrible dogs aU round them, and the 
 door was shut behind. Then James was set down 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 SILCOTE 01 SILCOTES. 
 
 before a great wood fire, witli the dogs crowding 
 against him, gazing at the blaze with their sleepy eyes, 
 and now and then those of them which were nearest 
 to him reaching their foolish beautiful heads up and 
 licking his foce. He shrunk at first, but finding they 
 were kind got his arm round the neck of the nearest 
 monster, who seemed quite contented. The night 
 had grown chill, and he had almost forgotten his 
 bruised and aching head in the sensation of cold ; so 
 he enjoyed the fire, very stupidly, not caring who was 
 in the room or what they were saying. 
 
 The first piece of conversation which reached his 
 inner sense was this — it came, as he guessed, and 
 immediately afterwards knew, from the mouth of a 
 little girl. And its sound was like the chiming of 
 silver bells. 
 
 " These dogs yon understand are reindeer." 
 
 " That is totally impossible," said another voice, 
 also a girl's, nearly as pretty, but very decided. " If 
 they are reindeer we shall have to kill them, and 
 drink their blood as an antiscorbutic, and you are 
 hardly prepared for that." 
 
 " Let them be bears," said a boy's voice, very
 
 FIRE LI GUT. 19 
 
 like tlie second girl's — a voice lie liked very 
 much. 
 
 " In whicTi case," said tlie determined girl's voice, 
 " we should liave to kill them in self-defence, if 
 for no other reason. And I dislike the flesh of the 
 Arctic bear; they are Esquimaux dogs, and must 
 drag our sledges. And their harness must be made 
 with hemp, or they will eat it. You are very stupid 
 to-night, Eeggy." 
 
 " They are reindeer, I tell you," said the girl with 
 the silvery voice ; " they could not be anything else. 
 AVe have so much pemmican and things in store 
 that we don't Avant them, but make them draw 
 our sledges." 
 
 " None of the searching party did that," said the 
 strong girl's voice : " they used dogs. These dogs 
 are too big, certainly, and, besides, I am afraid of 
 them. But they must be dogs." 
 
 " If they are not reindeer I shall not play," said 
 she of the clear voice. " I am not going to winter 
 at Beechey Island, unless they are reindeer. The 
 snow-hut belongs to me ; I stole the hearth-rugs and 
 shawls and things to make it. Law ! look at that 
 
 c 2
 
 20 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 Loy before the fire. My dear, this is an Esquimaux 
 from oft' the ice in Eoss's Straits, and he brings us 
 intelligence of the expedition from Back's Fish Itiver." 
 
 " It's only a common boy come in from the poach- 
 ing expedition," said the stronger voice, "and a very 
 dirty one too." 
 
 This was not quite so true as the remarks generally 
 made by this very doNvnright yomig lady. James was 
 not dirty, though rather battered. 
 
 " My love, it's an Esquimaux. He is a very stupid 
 boy ; he ought to lie down on his stomach on the 
 ice and blow like a seal to attract our attention, 
 instead of gazing at the fire. Reggy, you must be 
 Petersen the interpreter. Let us trade with that 
 boy. ' Kammick toomee ! Kammick toomee I ' inter- 
 pret for us, Petersen ; hold up a needle."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THREE OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 Thus adjured, James, dropping the head of the blood- 
 hound which he held in his hand, turned round. 
 The party of young people who had been talking so 
 freely about him saw before them a little common 
 boy, with a smock-frock, whose face was fearfully 
 swollen and disfigured with blood. Their babble and 
 their play were stopped at once, by seeing a figure 
 more tragical and more repulsive than they had 
 reckoned on. James, on his part, saw before him 
 three children. The first which arrested his eye was 
 a stout, strongly-built girl of about twelve, with hand- 
 some, very handsome, but rather coarse features, a 
 very full complexion, and dark blue eyes, steady 
 and strong as two sea-beacons ; she was the tallest 
 as well as the strongest and boldest-looking of the
 
 22 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 three. Next he saw a blonde babyish-looking fairy, 
 likewise blue-eyed, with her long golden hair falling 
 about her shoulders in cascades — the most beautiful 
 creature he had ever looked on, but quite indescrib- 
 able, for the simple reason that there was nothing to 
 describe about her, except a general beauty, which 
 was not here, nor there, but everywhere. And, lastly, 
 this group of three was made up by a pale and sickly- 
 looking boy, who, pale and unhealthy as he looked, 
 was evidently, even to James's untrained eyes, the 
 brother of the strong red-faced girl he had noticed 
 first. 
 
 It was not difficult for James to connect the three 
 voices he had heard with the three children he saw 
 before him. The golden-haired fairv was the ^\x\ 
 who had done the principal part of the talking. The 
 stout strong girl, she of the determined voice, was 
 the girl who had made objections to the original pro- 
 gramme of their play, and the pale-faced boy was the 
 owner of the voice he had liked so much, the boy 
 who had said that the dogs must represent bears. 
 
 James, for the first time in his life, had the plea- 
 sure of throwing the whole of a company (very limited
 
 THREE OF THE FAMILY. 23 
 
 on this occasion) into confusion. So far from acting 
 Esquimaux, and being traded with, he turned his 
 battered face on them, and said in good enough Eng- 
 lish— 
 
 " I know what you are aiming at. But I can't 
 be an Esquimaux to-night. I know all about the 
 Great Fish Eiver, and the pemmican, and the Mag- 
 netic Pole is in Boothia Felix. I'd willingly play 
 with you. I'd be a bear, and come growling round 
 your hut smelling the seal blubber ; or I'd be the 
 great brown jaguar, bigger than the biggest Bengal 
 tiger, and I'd lie under the palm-tree, and work my 
 claws, and you should be Humboldt, picking of cow- 
 slips and not noticing me : or I'd be Villeneuve, or 
 Gravina, or Soult, or any of that lot short of Buona- 
 parte, and you should be Lord Nelson or Lord Hill. 
 But I can't play to-night. I want to be took home 
 to mother and put to bed." 
 
 " My dear souls," said Anne, the bright-haired fairy, 
 to the other two, " this boy is no Esquimaux. He is 
 one. of the lost expedition." 
 
 " Don't be silly, Anne," said Dora, the tall strong
 
 2-1 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 girl. " Tlie boy has been badly beaten l:)y the poachers, 
 and should be lucked after." 
 
 " Why don't you go and look after him ?" demanded 
 Anne. 
 
 "Because," said Dora, "I ani afraid of those dogs 
 which are all round him. Ah ! you need not turn u}) 
 your nose, for you are a regular coward. You are afraid 
 of thunder and lightning ; you are afraitl of frogs ; 
 you are afraid of old Mrs. llallacre, because the 
 Princess says she is a witch ; you are afraid of walking 
 through stinging nettles ; and you cry when you go 
 through a lock. / am afraid of those dogs, and so is 
 Reggy. I can't think wdiy grandpa keeps such a lot of 
 brutes al)out the place." 
 
 " You have no business to wonder. Grandpa does 
 as he chooses. And I am not afraid of frogs ; I am 
 only afraid of toads, Mdiicli spit venom at you. You 
 are such a cockney, you don't know a toad from a 
 frog. This is a nnich better place 'than Lancaster 
 Square." 
 
 " That's true enough," said Dora ; " but that will 
 never stop me speaking my mind, nut to grandpa him- 
 self, leave alone you. If you are really not afraid of
 
 THREE OF THE FAMILY. 25 
 
 those dogs, make yourself useful. Get them away 
 from the boy, and let me get at him." 
 
 " / am not afraid of the dogs," said Anne. " But 
 why don't you call the boy out from amongst them if 
 you want him?" 
 
 Tliis was an excellent suggestion, and Dora had not 
 thought of that solution so soon as the quicker-witted 
 Anne. She would have acted on Anne's advice doubt- 
 less, had not the low growl of a voice they knew well 
 silenced all the children, and made them retire into a 
 corner, preparatory to skulking off to the free regions 
 above stairs as soon as they were sufficiently unobserved, 
 while James was still left standing before the lire 
 among the dogs. Three faces came out of the darkness 
 into the lioht of the fire, and two candlesticks on the 
 mantelpiece, towards him; the faces of three men. 
 
 The first that of the gigantic gentleman who had 
 carried him home that night, — a hand,?ome face with a 
 black moustache on it, and very bold wild dark eyes ; 
 not a remarkable face in any way, if you except its 
 commonjDlace beauty. The mouth belonging to that 
 face I never saw, and it is very difficult to guess at a 
 mouth under a moustache ; but the reckless ease of
 
 26 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 every pose the man made would tell one almost as 
 much of the man's character as his mouth. The next 
 face the boy saw was very different, and the moment 
 he looked on it he knew that he was lookin;]: on the 
 "Dark Squire" at a nearer distance than he ever 
 looked before. 
 
 He had seen the Squire before, often and often ; but 
 he had never dared to look at Dark Silcote any more 
 than he had dared to look at the liohtninQ- which shattered 
 the ash-tree close to him, and killed two of the sheep he 
 was minding, sheep not so much frightened as their 
 shepherd ; or than lie would have dared to look at any 
 of the numerous ghosts with which rustic imagination 
 had peopled the great beech forest of Boisey. Light- 
 ning, ghosts, and the Dark Squire were the sort of things 
 he let go by with a touch of the cap, as necessary evils ; 
 right of course because they were there, but which, in 
 sceptical moments, he wished were anywhere else. He 
 now saw the Dark Squire close to him, in the most 
 careless manner, and looked at him closely — for the dull 
 stupid aching left by the poacher's fist made him care- 
 less about fifty dark squires. Let us see the Squu'e 
 with him.
 
 THREE OF THE FAMILY. 27 
 
 A very broad man, of great physical power still, 
 thougli nearly sixty : with a finely-shaped head (was 
 it narrow ? perhaps it was narrow), covered with close- 
 cut grizzled hair : possibly longer in proportion to its 
 breadth than it need have been. Perfect features, 
 perfect complexion, the face of the handsomest man, 
 for his time of life, that one is likely to meet with. 
 There were two great faults in it : one of natural 
 formation, the other of acquired habit. The eyes 
 were set too deep under those heavy black eyebrows, 
 which had refused to grow grey with the hair, and 
 were set too close together ; and there was a con- 
 tinual look of suspicion about the whole face which 
 I cannot describe, and which it is rather in the way 
 of Mr. Calderon to paint. 
 
 Such a man was the terrible Squire. Beside him 
 stood the third gentleman, with his hand laid on 
 the Squire's shoulder, the fingers of which hand were 
 carelessly playing a tune on the Squire's coat. There 
 was one man in the world then to whom this fear- 
 ful old man was not terrible, — apparently one, and, 
 stranger still, this one a parson. Silcote had openly 
 and offensively severed himself from the Church and
 
 f 
 
 28 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 from any form of faitli years and years before ; his 
 infidelity, nay, some said his open profanity, was 
 notorions ; but here was a clergyman (with rather a 
 High Chinch cut w^aistcoat, too), coolly playing a 
 tune on his shoulder. 
 
 And not a very remarkable-looking man either. 
 Not very handsome, or very tall, with bold eyes like 
 his brother's, face very thin and very pale, and look- 
 ing extremely young. You would have said, at first 
 sifflit, that he was a B.A. in deacon's orders at the 
 very furthest. But, if you looked at hiiu longer, 
 and heard him speak a few times, you altered your 
 opinion. He still looked young ; there was not a 
 down on his pale face ; but there was a steadiness of 
 eye, a quiet easiness of motion, as of one who had 
 been accustomed to use his limbs in decent moder- 
 ation for some time ; a perfectly cool self-possession 
 in his manner ; na}', more than that, a degree of self- 
 consciousness and a tendency to dictate, as of a man 
 who has lived among clever men, and has been ac- 
 customed to wit as well as to argument, which in 
 society might be considered almost offensive ; and a 
 curl of the mouth which readily expanded into a
 
 THREE OF THE FJMILF. 29 
 
 short laugh. All these little traits made you, after 
 you had given up your first B.A. deacon's orders 
 theory, begin to think about all the new young 
 schoolmasters you had seen lately, and to put him 
 down for a second or third master at Cheltenham or 
 Marlborough. You were wrong in both guesses. He 
 was the youngest tutor at Balliol. 
 
 Not only the youngest, but by common consent, 
 both of the undergraduates, and such of the fellows 
 as had not forgotten the slang of former years, the 
 " cheekiest " or " cockiest." The very first time he 
 appeared in the common room he showed his mettle 
 by his reckless, honest audacity, his utter carelessness 
 of university rank or prestige, and his amazing bril- 
 liancy in conversation. Arthur Silcote was, undoubt- 
 edly, a success in the common room at Balliol, in 
 spite of what some men might call his self-sufficient 
 impudence. The oldest and wisest of the fellows se- 
 duced him out of that same common room that night, 
 and got Arthur to smoke a citrar with him while 
 they walked up and down in front of Magdalen Hall 
 and All Souls, with all the mighty cliffs of stone 
 around them.
 
 30 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 "Silcote/' said the elder fellow, "will you tell me 
 tins: How is it that you, as genial, kind-hearted, 
 well-conditioned a man as ever breathed, arc not 
 popular with the undergraduates? Nay more, why 
 are you so very unpopular?" 
 
 "You hit me hard. I am very clever, am I not? 
 but I can't find that out. Have you? God knows 
 I would do anything to bid for their popularity." 
 
 " Have I found it out ? No, I have seen it for 
 the last three years. You ask me if you are clever. 
 I answer, you are one of the cleverest men I ever 
 saw; so clever" (pause not long enough to be offen- 
 sive) "that your cleverness has become a vice. You 
 are too impatient to bear with men, not to say boys, 
 less clever than yourself. You cannot 'suffer fools 
 o-ladly,' my l)oy. You are impatient and scornful of 
 all ignorance which is relatively greater than your 
 own ignorance ; and yet your own ignorance, like that 
 of all men of three-and-twenty, is very great. You 
 have made a success to-night. Why? because you 
 were afraid of us ; you had not time to find out our 
 weak points. You would become as unjiopidar in the 
 common room as you are among the undergraduates,
 
 THREE OF THE FAMILY. 31 
 
 if you were left alone. Silcote, you must learn to be 
 tender, ay, and to respect in a way, ignorance, as you 
 do childhood and womanhood, weakness in every form. 
 What is the extent of the visible horizon, Silcote, at 
 1,500 feet above the level of the sea?" 
 
 Silcote did not know. 
 
 "No more do I. But the eighteenth wrangler at 
 Cambridge would tell us, I don't doubt. You are very 
 clever, and for a lad know a good deal. But put your 
 knowledge against Humboldt's, and where are you? 
 Put your knowledge — I speak solemnly, as I feel — 
 against the Almighty's, and where are you then, poor 
 child? Suppose He treated your ignorance and mine 
 with the same petulant impatience you treat the ig- 
 norance of men but little your inferiors, where should 
 we be ? " 
 
 " You need say no more," said Arthur Silcote. 
 
 " Only in apology," continued the other. " I risked 
 saying this much to you, because I have a very great 
 admiration for you, and because I saw in j^'ou the 
 germs of that priggishness (you know what I mean) 
 which is one of the curses of this time and this place, 
 developing in you. Cure this. Get rid of that mis-
 
 32 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 erable habit of being impatient of otlicr men's weak 
 points as thongb you had none of your own, and you 
 will be a good man. Encourage and develop it, and 
 your intluence over otlier men is gone. The sole result 
 of your sharp-tongued attacks on otlicr men's opinions 
 in the Union and elsewhere has been to make you 
 disliked and distrusted. Give over this trick. It is 
 a very silly one. !N"o man with this trick (save 
 one perhaps,) ever got any high influence in the 
 world. In {\\v House this is called temper; and, 
 young and foolish as you are, you are old enough 
 to know how utterly a charge of bad temper ruins a 
 man's infhience there."
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 A FOUKTH. 
 
 Teee Sqiiire spoke first. " So this is the boy that you, 
 Tom, by that fellow-feeling which exists among all 
 fools, have whisked away from his mother, and brought 
 here to show me. I don't know which of you is the 
 greatest fool, iipon my word — you for bringing him, 
 or the boy for coming. Don't you know I hate 
 children ? "Wliat have you done it for ? If the boy 
 has any claim on you, it was not correct, sir, to bring 
 him here at all." 
 
 "/ don't so much as know the boy's name," said 
 Captain Silcote. " I took a fancy to his courage and 
 determination, and brought him home to see if you 
 could be got to do something for him. Make him a 
 page, or a stable boy, or something." 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 "Because lie fights with desperate ferocity, is well 
 acquainted with at least one notorious poacher, and 
 refuses to have him brought to justice. Bieu ?" 
 
 " Oh, if you are going to put it your way, of course I 
 give up. I u'as a fool to have brought him here, and to 
 yo7i. Here, come with me, boy, and we will away out 
 of this." 
 
 The S(j^uire laughed. " Arthur," he said, " will you 
 be so good on this occasion, as on many others, to 
 relieve me from the consequences of your brother's 
 folly, and take care of the child?" 
 
 " I will take care of the child, certainly ; but I will 
 not acknowledge Tom's folly. Tom did kindly and well 
 in bringing the boy home. And don't scold him to- 
 day, the first day we have had him for so long." 
 
 " He don't care," growled Captain Silcote. " If I had 
 been away six years instead of six months, it would be 
 just the same." 
 
 "You only come back when you want your debts 
 paid." 
 
 " Father ! Father ! Tom ! " said Arthur, and with 
 some effect, for they ceased what would soon have 
 grown into a very disagreeable wrangle, and he took
 
 A FOURTH. 35 
 
 the boy kindly by the hand, and was going to lead him 
 away, when the arrival of another person arrested their 
 dex3arture, and aroused the boy's astonishment to a high 
 degree. 
 
 The hall was partly dark, and now there came to- 
 wards them a figure whose dress was darker than the 
 darkness itself. Unutterably black until you came to 
 its breast, and there flamed a brilliant star : above that 
 the shape of a pale human face. It advanced majes- 
 tically, and was for a few moments an extremely 
 puzzling and somewhat alarming figure, before it came 
 into the light, and James saw that after all it was not 
 a black ghost, but only a very tall pale lady, dressed in 
 a black velvet gown, with a very large diamond cross on 
 her bosom. We may supplement his observation by 
 adding that the great sweep of coal-black velvet and 
 the diamond cross were topped by a very pale, amiable, 
 beautiful, and exceedingly foolish face, — that the lady, 
 whose figure at last stood out in the light, was very tall, 
 very handsome, and seemed to understand the putting 
 on of clothes, and the arranging of herself into atti- 
 tudes, without running into the extreme of theatrical 
 posing, better than the great majority of women. That 
 
 D 2
 
 36 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 is all I have to say about her at present, and indeed 
 there is little more to say. Her actions must tell 
 their own story. 
 
 Arthur saw her first, and called his father's attention 
 to her presence. " The Princess of Castelnuovo, father," 
 he said, and the Squire turned. The result was a " hip" 
 bow from the Squire, and a splendid, graceful, sweeping 
 curtsey from the Princess, accompanied by a most plea- 
 sant smile. 
 
 " That was a beautiful curtsey, Mary," began the 
 Squire. " N"ot too much backing about it. Ahvays 
 remain on your former ground in curtseying ; don't 
 take one pace to the rear wlien you do it, you know. 
 Tread on some one's toes and spoil the whole effect, 
 eh ? I remember when I was first presented to old 
 Lady Wildmore, at the Basingstoke ball. She was so 
 taken aback at meeting an attorney's sou, and stood 
 on her good manners to such an extent, that she 
 made the lowest curtsey ever known, backed into the 
 fireplace, and in rising brouglit her old head crack 
 up under the mantelpiece. Well, and where the deuce 
 have you been? Why didn't you come down to sup- 
 per ? What's the last news in the supernatural line ?
 
 A FOURTH. 37 
 
 Afraid of the dinner-table's saying anything unplea- 
 sant, eh ?" 
 
 " No," said the Princess, with a charming laugh ; " I 
 was not at all afraid of the table's talking, unless it would 
 have rapped out my age. If any table in the house 
 were to betray that, I should take to table-turning on 
 that table, aud have the tables turned on it by turning 
 it out of the house." She uttered this piece of simple 
 nonsense so neatly, and with such an air of having 
 said something uncommonly like Theodore Hook, that 
 Arthur Silcote stood in his place for a minute or two, 
 believing that the woman had rather a pretty wit. 
 
 " There she goes," said the Squire, " table-turning, 
 turn the tables : turn the words over and over as often 
 as you can manage, and you'll have a reputation for 
 wit. Archy, how many muddy puns can you make out 
 of three selected words, by your permutations and com- 
 binations, you know — hang it ! — I forgot I sent you to 
 Oxford ; a Cambridge man would have told me. I 
 don't find fault with you, Archy. But what a mon- 
 strous thing is this wit, this playing on words, which 
 you young fellows admire so. — (I will not be quiet, 
 Archy — she began it.) — Why, is it not the lowest effort
 
 38 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 of the human intellect ? though a inan is better remem- 
 bered for his tricks Avith words than for anything else 
 in these rotten times. She conies here to pun me down, 
 does she ?" 
 
 " Father, you will talk yourself into a passion." 
 
 " Look at her dress, too. Her velvet and diamonds. 
 Seven and twenty pounds for that dress, ordered ex- 
 pressly to meet her own nephew at dinner, and show off 
 her beauty and her wit to liim, who was only thinking 
 that, if he had known how freely I would have bled, 
 he would not have kept back those other bills, after he 
 had given his word that he had told me of every penny. 
 Do you wince, Tom ? The same child, girl, woman, for 
 fifty years." 
 
 It all went over her head without touching her. She 
 only said, in her sweetest manner, " Silcote, my dear, 
 you are in one of your scolding moods ; and scold away. 
 You know my temper by this time. But there is a boy 
 here who has been hurt by the poachers, of whom the 
 children have told me, who must be attended to, I 
 have only come down for that boy. Let me have him." 
 
 "^\liere are the . children ?" asked Silcote, half 
 ashamed.
 
 A FOURTH. 39 
 
 " In Boothia Felix, as I understood them," said the 
 Princess. " I proposed bed to them, but they refused it 
 with scorn. It appears that they are playing a game, 
 and have erected Esquimaux huts in the north gallery, 
 in which they propose to sleep, and, in fact, are sleep- 
 ing. I put it to them that the explorers always went 
 to bed when they got back . to civilization. The chil- 
 dren have answered that they are still in the Arctic 
 regions. I would not interfere with them on any 
 account. Give me, however, this boy, and let me see to 
 him. I will make it a personal favour to myself if the 
 servants will see after him. Thank you, Arthur. Come 
 along, my dear." And so she went off with James. 
 
 "Did you ever see such a fool as that woman?" 
 asked the Squire, as soon as she was gone. " She pre- 
 tends to take care of the house, and she has now let all 
 those children go up and bivouac in the north gallery. 
 They will catch their deaths. Arthur, go and see after 
 them." 
 
 The Squire then went away, and the brothers were 
 left alone together. "Does he often fly at her now?" 
 asked Captain Silcote. 
 
 " More and more seldom as time goes on."
 
 40 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 " She never gives it liini back again, does she ?" 
 "Never, even at the worst of times. She never 
 
 replies, except in the most good-humoured manner, 
 
 with a face covered with smiles. And she must feel it 
 
 sometimes, you know." 
 
 " They are a curious pair," said the elder. " But I 
 
 don't believe they could do without one another 
 
 now."
 
 CHAPTEE V. 
 
 ABOUT THE SQUIRE. 
 
 Few lives ever opened more favourably and bril- 
 liantly than that of Henry Silcote, the man known 
 in his neighbourhood as "the Dark Squire;" and, 
 as it seemed, few were ending more uselessly, or 
 more mournfully. It is necessary that I should 
 give you some insight into it, and I think it is not 
 uninteresting. 
 
 His father had been a great country attorney, agent 
 for several very great houses, as Ids father had been 
 before him ; and was, of course, a very wealthy man. 
 The largest of his agencies, however, was that of the 
 enormously wealthy Sir George Denby, the great 
 Hampshire squire, whose wealth, whose name, whose 
 trees, and whose houses, are utterly passed away
 
 42 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 and gone, leaving but a solitaiy elm and a barn to 
 keep his name and liis wrongs in the memory of 
 man. 
 
 The estate was left to the eldest of his four daugh- 
 ters, wlio married the handsome and fascinatinu\ but 
 utterly unprincipled, Lord Ballyroundtower. In eleven 
 years he had gambled away the whole of her forty 
 thousand a year, principal, country houses, timber, 
 everything but the bare land ; and left her a penni- 
 less, broken-hearted woman, dependent on her three 
 sisters. 
 
 Silcote's father acted as an honest and high- 
 minded man from beginning to end of this miser- 
 able business. He used his inilueuce with Sir 
 George to prevent the match from being thought 
 of; and after Sir George's sudden death he tried 
 all he could to stay her infatuation for one of the 
 most worthless men that ever lived. He prayed 
 her to have, at least, some settlement made, but in 
 vain. She proudly insisted on trusting the earl, and 
 the result is well known. In eleven years her half- 
 million of money gone, and she dying, in hiding, in 
 the arms of lier sister, in mortal terror lest her brutal
 
 ABOUT THE SQUIRE. 43 
 
 husband should discover her retreat, and renew his 
 cruelties, even on her deathbed. 
 
 Old Silcote was none the richer for all this ruin. 
 He loved the family and the property, and was pro- 
 bably the only honest man of business which the 
 earl saw in those wild ten years. His wealth w^as 
 fairly come by. 
 
 The fate of the other three sisters was much 
 more fortunate. Old Silcote had induced Sir George 
 Denby to provide for them handsomely and independ- 
 ently, and so they found themselves, after their 
 sister's death and ruin, comfortably off, with nearly 
 thirty thousand pounds a-piece ; but getting towards 
 old maidenhood. They were very quiet little ladies, 
 quite as good, quite as gentle, as that most unfor- 
 tunate and ill-used lady, their sister, but a little 
 more wise. The youngest of them married a clergy- 
 man of great eminence and piety, but sickly; they 
 had one little girl, who became heir to all their 
 property. 
 
 She was very carefully brought up, both before 
 her father's death, and afterwards. She turned out 
 to be very pretty, gentle, and amiable ; but not
 
 44 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 clever. Indeed, as time M^ent on, lier extreme sim- 
 plicity of character gave their old friend Silcote 
 gTeat anxiety, and caused him to glance thought- 
 fully at ]iis handsome young son Harry, as if think- 
 ing \vhether or no he would not make a better 
 guardian of the ninety thousand pounds than the 
 almost vacuous Laura Denby. 
 
 It was the most natural arrangement in the world, 
 and it was brought about very easily. For many 
 years Henry Silcote's father had been the intimate 
 friend and adviser of the Miss Denbys ; Henry had 
 been in and out of the house as if it had belonged 
 to him. Accordingly, just when he was called to 
 the bar, when he was twenty-four and she nineteen, 
 he announced that he had fallen in love with her. 
 He spoke to the old people on the subject. A cer- 
 tain Sir Godfrey Mallory, who had been hitherto 
 very much encouraged by the old ladies, now got 
 his conge, and Henry Silcote took his place. He 
 was clever, pushing, gentlemanly, rich ; no spend- 
 thrift, Ijut hard at work as a barrister, and, with his 
 introductions to the profession, absolutely certain to 
 succeed. They were married.
 
 ABOUT THE SQUIRE. 45 
 
 Even at this time, those who recollect him say tliat 
 there was a frown npon his face, which, after his 
 great misfortune, darkened into a scowl, which 
 settled so permanently there that it appeared nothing 
 could remove it. Even at that early time they 
 say that it Avas a suspicious and watchful face, 
 though very handsome. 
 
 They had a boy born, Algernon ; and it was not 
 very long before the three old ladies dropped off, 
 leaving her alone in the world with Henry 
 Silcote, 
 
 Her health was never good after her confinement, 
 and after a long time, during which they lived perfectly 
 happy, he consented to her going to Italy in company 
 with his sister, the Princess, and a certain old Miss 
 Eaylock, a novelist, he w^aiting until term was over 
 to join her. He went to meet her, and fetched her 
 back. His manner towards her had entirely changed, 
 and the expression of his face had grown very dark. 
 Old friends saw, with iniinite pity and concern, this 
 poor, weak, delicately-nurtured lady, in her relations 
 with her husband. He was so terribly, inexorably 
 stern with her, and she looked at him so pitifully.
 
 46 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 Things got worse and worse between them, and at last 
 one of the few friends whom he allowed her to see 
 declared that her reason would soon be unsettled. 
 Things went on from bad to worse. At last a cata- 
 strophe came. Her sister and his wife were both with 
 him at Exeter in the autumn, after their return from 
 Italy. It is also absolutely certain that Sir Godfrey 
 MaUory was there also ; as was also his sister's major- 
 domo, courier, and friend, one Kreigsthurm. 
 
 At Exeter Silcote was defending a young sailor, who 
 was charged with stabbing a Jew crimp, Silcote had 
 been as brilliant as ever up to the time of the opening 
 of his case, which was the last time any of his friends 
 had speech of him. The case was interesting, and Sil- 
 cote more splendid than he had ever been before. 
 
 He won his case, to every one's surprise. The terri- 
 fied, deer-eyed sailor lad, who had kept those eyes 
 fixed on Silcote all the morning, gave a gasp of relief 
 at the astonishing effect of his counsel's eloquence. 
 The judge, who had very properly summed up dead 
 against the prisoner, looked at the jury as if admiration 
 for that bulwark of our national liberties was not, at 
 that moment, the prevailing sentiment of his mind.
 
 ABOUT THE SQUIRE. 47 
 
 Silcote's friends crowded round liiui conOTatulatinf • 
 but he scarcely spoke a word to any of them. He 
 left Exeter that day, with his wife, and was unheard of 
 in the world for four years. 
 
 His sister had some very queer people around her, 
 and so it was quite impossible to say who set afloat 
 the story, which she persistently contradicted, but 
 which every one believed, and which was never varied 
 in the telling. The story was simply this, that Silcote 
 had found out something very wrong about his wife 
 and her former suitor, Sir Godfrey Mallory, and that 
 he had bullied her to death in consequence. That was 
 the story among the many, by which they accounted 
 for his sudden retirement from the world, and her 
 death, which followed, in Italy, close upon it. This 
 was the story which had currency in the county 
 among those who cared for Silcote and his affairs, 
 until they got tired of them, and cared for them no 
 longer. 
 
 But there was a still darker part of the story, only 
 mentioned among a very few, and always discredited 
 with scorn by any one who had ever known the un- 
 fortunate deceased Mrs. Silcote, — a story so dark and
 
 48 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 SO teml)le, that it seemed to account in a credible 
 manner for Henry Silcote's extraordinary conduct. 
 The story was this: He liad sulked so persistently 
 and so inexorably with her, that she had lost her 
 reason and attempted his life. It was only whispered 
 among very few, and soon died out and Avas forgotten. 
 It was monstrous, horrible, incredible ; too much so 
 to make a pleasant subject of gossip among those who 
 had known her. It was soon dropped, even by the 
 very few. 
 
 Old Mr. Silcote, meanwhile, shared the retirement 
 of his son soon after the Exeter esclandrc. There 
 was something extremely wrong, and the hospitable, 
 senial old man seemed to believe it. He lived for 
 four years ; at the end of which time his son Henry 
 inherited Silcotes, and came back to live there, with 
 another wife and son.
 
 CHArTEE VI. 
 
 ABOUT THE PRINCESS. 
 
 He had married again ! When, where, and to whom, 
 nobody knew. It must liave been unreasonably soon 
 after his unhappy wife's death. Old Silcote, not long 
 before her death, told Lady Ascot that there was a 
 new mistress of Silcote and a new heir, and that the 
 new bride was a lady of faultless character. That was 
 all that was known. Consequently, when Silcote re- 
 turned and took possession, she, the kindest and 
 gentlest of women, at once called on the new Mrs. 
 Silcote. Her visit was not returned, but her card was, 
 without one word of explanation. The dark time at 
 Silcotes had begun. 
 
 Dark in more ways than one, for there is no record 
 of it at all save what may be gained from the testi- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 mony of discharged servants, always untrustworthy. 
 It seems, however, to go rather in favour of Silcote, 
 for they agreed that he was habitually kind to his 
 new wife, although she was never allowed to go beyond 
 the grounds ; and, moreover, that she was a very foolish 
 and good-natured woman, deeply attached to him, and 
 fully persuaded that she had gained one of the great 
 prizes in life. She had three children — Thomas, born 
 in Italy ; Evelyn and Arthur, born at Silcotes ; after 
 which she quietly departed this life, leaving no trace 
 behind her save her children. " She was a person," 
 said Miss Raylock, the novelist, " whom it is very 
 hard to remember. She died under the full impres- 
 sion that in marrying Henry Silcote, and getting locked 
 up at Silcotes, she had accomplished the aim and object 
 of her existence. Perhaps she had." 
 
 This Miss Eaylock, now very old, remembers Henry 
 Silcote's elder sister when a girl. " The poor Princess," 
 she says, " was at the same time the most beautiful and 
 the most silly person I have ever seen. I think, also, 
 that at the same time she was the Idndest. Her taste 
 in dress was very good, and showed itself even in the 
 ridiculous dresses which we used to wear in those
 
 ABOUT THE PRINCESS. 51 
 
 times. She had a greed fur jewellery which I have 
 never seen equalled, and would have put a ring in her 
 nose had sucli a thing been allowable. She w^as also 
 very fond of reproducing her father's politics. I re- 
 member nothing more about her in the old times." 
 
 From other sources we know that she was a very 
 beautiful, amiable, and silly girl, utterly spoilt by old 
 Silcote, and held in affectionate contempt by her 
 caustic brother Henry. Her father sent her into 
 Austria and Italy for her education, and she got it 
 there. Henry Silcote spoke to his father about this 
 arrangement. " Mary is fool enough already," he said, 
 " without learning the folly of Vienna and Florence. 
 She will make a mess of it, I know she w^ill." 
 
 She did. She got herself talked about in various 
 ways before she was five-and-twenty, though a per- 
 fectly innocent woman. She was grossly indiscreet. 
 When Henry Silcote came to fetch his wife home 
 from Italy, he found her living in the midst of his 
 sister's set, — enough to make any man suspicious. He 
 sliaU. himself tell this part of the story hereafter. We 
 have but little to do with it at present. 
 
 At her father's death she found herself most hand- 
 
 E 2
 
 52 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 somely provided for. She then resided almost entirely 
 either in Vienna or in Italy ; and, in addition to nume- 
 rous other follies, began dabbling in politics for the 
 sake of the prestige which a rich and handsome woman 
 gains by reproducing the opinions of well-versed poli- 
 ticians, and by adding to them the salt of feminine 
 fierceness. 
 
 She now became acquainted with two men — one 
 Kriegsthurm, her courier ; and the other, the Prince of 
 Castelnuovo. Whether Kriegsthurm was the Prince of 
 Castelnuovo's creature, or the Prince the courier's, we 
 cannot tell. They both knew enough about one an- 
 other, politically and socially, to make either situation 
 possible. Castelnuovo was rich, however, and was pre- 
 pared to make good settlements, and she was getting 
 on in life. She married him, and became a princess 
 disappointing her brother's prophecy that she would 
 marry the courier. 
 
 Prince Castelnuovo and herself did not get on at all 
 well together: and it is lamentable to add that Sir 
 Godfrey INTallory persisted in living in Italy, unfor- 
 tunatelv near the Princess. Her name to this day 
 stands above all scandal, truly and honestly above
 
 ABOUT THE PRINCESS. 53 
 
 all scandal. Yet Sir Godfrey Mallory was her coun- 
 tryman and her old friend, and it pleased Casteluuovo 
 to be jealous. 
 
 Castlenuovo was on the liberal Italian side. But 
 in 1849 he went over to the Austrians, and sold his 
 party. He not only did this, but he gave the liberal 
 party the bitterest insult they had ever had. He 
 carried Avith him to Vienna the Countess Frangipanni, 
 the wife of one of the greatest of the Eoman leaders. 
 His desertion of the Italian cause was bad enough, 
 after all that he had said and done, but the degrada- 
 tion of their noblest leader was more than they could 
 bear. His name was a loathing to them, a name at 
 which every honest Italian spat. 
 
 What did our poor Silcote Princess do, engaged as 
 she was to the cause of Italian liberty? Denounce^ 
 and repudiate her husband, who had put the bitter 
 insult upon her? Strike in with a woman's tongue 
 for the cause he had so basely deserted? Not at 
 all. She forgave him, and followed him to Vienna. 
 
 The Italians therefore said that her account against 
 him was not so great as his against her. They con- 
 nected her name infamously, not only with that of
 
 54 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 Sir Godfrey Mnllory, l)ut with that of her courier 
 Kviegsthurm, \\\\o Avas tolerably known as a spy. One 
 man, and one man only, stuck up for her a little 
 while, and that man was Frangipanni, the great Roman 
 leader : a man who would believe no evil. But he 
 was silenced, mIicu tlie hotter spirits proved to him 
 that she had been consenting, for political purposes, 
 to his own degradation. 
 
 Lost in character and in prestige as she was in 
 Italy, she became great in Vienna ; we shall see 
 more of that hereafter. 
 
 Her husband died, and she had no children, although 
 her heart was set on them. She loved children, and 
 was tendt^r to them, yet they were denied her. As 
 is generally the case with affectionate women who 
 have no children, she fell in love with one particular 
 child ; and that child was her brother Silcote's eldest 
 child by his second marriage, Thomas. She had 
 fallen in love with this nephew of liers, in a flying 
 visit to Silcote, years before 1849. Indeed in 1840 
 Tom Silcote had grown up, and had become dissipated 
 and extravagant ; although she had not felt his extra- 
 vagance as yet. It is dilUcull to tell why she loved
 
 ABOUT THE PRINCESS. 55 
 
 him so well, yet, as one of the keys to the story, we 
 must mention the fact before we have done with 
 this sketch of her earlier history. 
 
 Massimo, Prince of Castelniiovo, died in 1850, after 
 which she returned to England for a long time each 
 year, which time she spent at her brother's house. 
 She pensioned Kriegsthurm, and, whenever she went 
 on, the continent, travelled no farther south than 
 Vienna. Enough of her for the present.
 
 CHArTEE VII. 
 
 ALGEUNOlSr. 
 
 Henry Silcote, already introduced as the "Dark 
 Squire," had a child by his first wife, christened Algernon. 
 That child was represented first of all by a baby, whose 
 specialities were that he was rather paler than babies 
 in general, and had large eager scared eyes ; that he 
 took notice sooner than most babies, but kept such de- 
 ductions as he had made from ascertained facts entirely 
 to himself, refusing to reduce them to practice until he 
 had verified them further; and so, consequently, at 
 three years of age, was the most left-handed unlucky 
 child to be found, one would guess, for miles round. Not 
 at all a healthy child ; a child who did really require a sen- 
 sible doctor to look after him ; who came, by the mother's 
 side, from a family who believed in doctors, and got
 
 ALGERNON. 5/ 
 
 pliysickect and drugged accordingly : and the best child 
 for taking medicine ever seen. Indeed, medicine in 
 some form soon became a necessity to him, and, later in 
 life, the principal part of his mild pecuniary embarrass- 
 ments had their origin in this necessity. 
 
 When he was very young, his mother died, and he 
 never saw his father after this. Gradually he deve- 
 loped into a pale, good child, easily kept quiet, easily 
 made to cry ; very thoughtful apparently, but keeping 
 his thoughts strictly to himself. Then he became a pale, 
 leggy boy, a great favourite at school, working very 
 hard, but getting no prizes except those for good conduct, 
 which were always given to him without question or 
 hesitation. Then there was a lanky youth who stayed 
 at school late, until he became grandfather of the sixth, 
 in a tail coat and stand-up collars. 
 
 Then he grew into the gentlest and best of freshmen 
 to a somewhat fast college : who, although slow, reli- 
 gious, and of poor health and peaceful habits, gained 
 a sort of half-respectful half-pitying affection from the 
 strongest and the wildest : more particularly after he 
 had, mildly but quite firmly, before a whole common 
 room, refused to give any information whatever con-
 
 58 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 cerning the ringleaders at a bonfire, wliicli liad l^een 
 made under his window, and wliich he confessed to have 
 witnessed. The men waited outside hall and cheered 
 him that evening. Those wild young spirits, w^ho had 
 only a week hcfore prised open his oak with a coal 
 hammer at midnight, nailed him into his bed-room, 
 broken his tea-things, and generally conducted them- 
 selves as our English youth do when anything abnormal, 
 and consequently objectionable, comes in their way 
 now made full amends by coming to him in a body, and 
 telling him that it was they who had done it, but that 
 they didn't know he was a brick ; beyond which what 
 could any gentleman desire in the way of satisfaction ? 
 He got on with them. Many will remember the way 
 in which he, too gentle to denounce, would quietly and 
 silently leave the company wdien the brilliancy of the 
 conversation got a little too vivid for him, and men got 
 fast and noisy. He was in the confidence of all in his 
 second year. Wlicn the elder Eol) got his year's rus- 
 tication, it was up and down Algy Silcote's room that 
 he walked, with scared pale face, consulting him as to 
 how the terrible news was to be broken to the governor. 
 AVlien Bob's little brother, the idle, gentle little favourite
 
 ALGERNON. 59 
 
 of the college, got plucked for his little-go, he bore up 
 nobly before the other fellows, who wisely handed him 
 over to Old Algy ; and on Algy's sofa the poor boy lay 
 down the moment they were alone together, and wept 
 without reserve or hesitation. So he took his modest 
 pass degree, and leaving, to the sorrow of every one, 
 from the master to the messenger, was ordained one 
 Trinity Sunday, having a small London curacy for 
 title. 
 
 During the three happy years he had spent in con- 
 cluding his education, he had had but few visitors. 
 He was the only quiet man in St. Paul's, and quiet and 
 mild men of other colleges were nervous about coming 
 to tea with him in that den of howling and dangerous 
 lunatics. The lodge alone, with its crowd of extrava- 
 gantly-dressed men in battered caps and tattered gowns, 
 who stared and talked loudly and openly of illegal 
 escapades, who rowed in the University eight, — ay, and 
 got first-classes in the schools, too, some of them, the 
 terrible fellows — was too much for these heroes. They 
 used to pass, quickly and shuddering, that beautiful old 
 gateway, until the shouting of the encaged spirits 
 became mellowed by distance : wondering what could
 
 60 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 possibly have induced Silcote's " friends " to send him 
 to such a college. But they always greedily listened to 
 Algy's account of tlie terrible affairs Avhich were carried 
 on in that dreadful place. And indeed Algy was not 
 sorry to recount them ; for the conversation of the set 
 to which his religious principles had driven him was 
 often wearisomely dull, and sometimes very priggish and 
 ill-conditioned. There were but four or five of them as 
 earnest and good as himself, and the others palled on 
 him so m time, with the prate of books they bought and 
 never read, and of degrees they never took, that some- 
 times, in coming back late to that abode of mad fan- 
 tastic vitality and good humour called St. Paul's Col- 
 lege, he seemed to feel that he was going where he had 
 never been — home ; and was about to get a welcome — 
 mad enough, but sincere. 
 
 So Algy had no more than two out-college visitors all 
 the time he was there, and they were wonderful favour- 
 ites in the place, Algy's brothers were such great suc- 
 cesses that the brightness which overspread his face on 
 their arrival communicated itself to many others. 
 
 They were so utterly unlike him. The first a splendid 
 young cornet of dragoons, up to anything, bound to
 
 ALGERNON. 61 
 
 uphold the honour of the army by being so much faster 
 than anyljody else that it became necessary for the 
 Vice Chancellor to communicate with the colonel of his 
 regiment, to the intense delight and admiration of the 
 Paul's men, and the deep horror of poor Algy. But, in 
 spite of Tom's naughtiness, Tom was dearer to his half- 
 brother Algy than anything else in this world, and the 
 boy dragoon, though he was fond of teasing and shock- 
 ing Algy, was as fond of him as he could be of any- 
 thing. 
 
 The other brother and visitor was a very different 
 person. A handsome, bright-eyed, eager youth from 
 Eton, with an intense vivid curiosity and delight in 
 everything, as if the world, which was just opening 
 before him, was a great and beautiful intellectual 
 problem, which unfolded and got more beautiful as each 
 fresh piece of knowledge and each fresh piece of ex- 
 perience was gained : at one time in a state of breathless 
 delight and admiration at hearing some man pass a 
 splendid examination ; then rapt in almost tearful awe 
 at the anthem at Magdalen ; then madly whooping on 
 the tow-path. Such were some of the moods which 
 expressed themselves in the noble open face of Arthur
 
 62 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 during these precious visits to liis brother. In its 
 quieter moments, in the time of its most extreme 
 repose, this face had the h)ok"of one thinking earnestly. 
 If people began to talk, tlic lad sat perfectly still, 
 but turned his keen eyes on each speaker in turn as 
 he spoke, without any change of feature ; but, if 
 anything touclied or interested him in the conversation 
 or argument, his eyebrows would go up, and his 
 mouth lengthen into a smile. A boy too proud to 
 applaud where he did not feel, Ijut applauding eagerly 
 enough where he did. 
 
 The good and gentle Algernon had never, to his re- 
 collection, seen his father, or been home. His father 
 — although providing well, almost handsomely, for him 
 until he got other provision — steadily refused to set 
 eyes on him, although he allowed his half-brothers, by 
 his second marriage, to ])e friends with him. Algy 
 never really had a home, until he got the one in which 
 we shall see him directly. 
 
 He could remember his mother — just remember a 
 gentle kind face, not in tlic least like (his honesty 
 compelled him to say) the ivory miniature in his 
 possession. He could remember his Aunt Mary, as she
 
 ALGERNON. 63 
 
 was at that time. He could remember very well a 
 splendid officer of Horse Guards Eed, Sir Godfrey Mal- 
 lory, wlio used to be much with his mother and his 
 aunt ; but he could not quite decide if he had ever 
 seen the father who had so steadily and so strangely 
 refused to see him — the father whom he heard mentioned 
 once or twice by young fellows at St. Paul's, who came 
 from Berkshire, as the "Dark Squire." He could not 
 remember whether he had ever seen him ; but he could 
 call up a certain scene at any time by night or day. 
 His Aunt ^lary, his mother, and Sir Godfrey Mallory, 
 were together in the drawing-room, and he was playing 
 on the carpet, when there come in a scowling, wild- 
 looking man, who said something which passed over the 
 ears of childhood unheeded, but which made terrible 
 havoc amongst the others. All he could remember 
 was that his Aunt Mary scolded all parties till she fell 
 into hysterics,' that Sir Godfrey drew himself up, and 
 scornfully exasperated the dark-looking intruder by 
 withering words, until the latter struck the former, and, 
 in an undignified and disgraceful struggle, threw him 
 violently to the ground, but the servants and grooms 
 came in and separated them ; and that all this time his
 
 64 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 mother, liaving caught him up, held him close to her ou 
 the sofa, and, when it was all over, and they were gone, 
 continued to tremble so, that he, poor little fool, thought 
 she must be cold, and tried to cover her with some 
 bauble of a rug which lay on the couch. He could 
 remember all this; it was all that his childisli recol- 
 lection could retain ; and he used to ask himself, " Was 
 the dark-looking man who came in and beat Sir Godfrey 
 my father ? " It was his father. Though he remem- 
 bered his striking Sir Godfrey, he neither understood, 
 nor remembered, the false words with which the 
 blow was accompanied, until they were explained. 
 
 There came a time very soon after, he tells us in his 
 simple way, when they told him he could not go to his 
 mother, for she was too ill to see him ; and very soon 
 after a time wdien his Aunt Mary (a kind woman, with 
 all her faults) came to him, and gently told him that 
 he would not see his mother any more, " I took it 
 from her lips like gospel," Algy says in his sini]>lc way. 
 " I didn't know she was dead. I didn't know what 
 death was at that time. She said I was nevev to see 
 my mother any more, and it was the same as a bit of 
 catechism or creed to me ; I always believe what is
 
 ALGERNON. 65 
 
 told me. I should believe anything you told me. And 
 I believed her. I did not try to go to my mother, for 
 I believed my aunt's statement implicitly. The reason 
 I cried myself into a fever is, that I felt that dreadful 
 sense of utter loneliness and desertion which a child 
 can feel and live, but which drives a fidl-grown man 
 to the lunatic asylum or to suicide. They took me to 
 kiss her in her cofUn, sir, and I complained to them 
 about her dress. Allow me to call your attention to 
 the fact that the most perfect ballad in the English 
 lanffuasfe is built on the neglect and desolation of two 
 children." 
 
 His curacy was in a rapidly-increasing neighbour- 
 hood in the north of London. When he was first 
 ordained the place was a wilderness of scaffold-poles 
 and gravel-pits, with here and there a fragment of a 
 field-hedge, or some country cottage, looking very small 
 and very old among the new houses lying round in all 
 directions ; not, however, that the new houses were of 
 any vast size, for the neighbourhood was decidedly a 
 middle-class one, composed of thirty or forty pound 
 houses. Before he had been two years in the curacy, 
 Lancaster Square, composed of just such houses, waa 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 finished, and the church at one end had been built 
 also in all the native hideousness of the period. What 
 with pew-rents, Eastcr-dues, and what not, the stipend 
 of the church would reach at least, one way with 
 another, 300/. — a large income for those parts, giving 
 the incumbent that prestige which it is so necessary 
 for a clergyman of the Establishment to have. There 
 was no doubt who was to have it. The bishop inducted 
 the Eev. Algernon Silcote, to the satisfaction of every 
 one who knew him, from Monseigneur Gray to Mr. 
 Hoxworth, the Baptist minister. 
 
 Very few clergymen, at all events, then, hesitated to 
 marry upon 300/. a year, and to Algernon Silcote, witli 
 his modest habits, it seemed to be a very fine income. 
 ISIr. Betts, one of the wealthiest men in those parts, a 
 stockbroker, had been the principal subscriber to thq 
 testimouial which he had received when he had quitted 
 the curacy ; ]\Iiss Betts (his only daughter) and he had 
 a mutual admiration for one another, and so they mar- 
 ried, and he bade farewell to all hopes of comfort for 
 the future. 
 
 She was a foolish woman, an only daughter, pretty, 
 gentle, and utterly spoiled and ignorant. "Whether it
 
 ALGERNOX. '^f 
 
 was liis voice, liis position, or his preaching, which 
 made her fall ia love with this gaunt young curate, 
 it is impossible to say ; but she admired him, and gave 
 him every opportunity of falling in love with her. He 
 did so, and to his astonishment and delight, for the first 
 time in his life, found that one woman honoured him 
 by a preference above all other men. Some of the 
 young fellows of those parts, who were just getting on 
 so far in life as to think of settling, expressed their 
 discontent at a parson, with half their income, carrying 
 off the best match thereabouts, not reflecting that 
 Algernon discounted his position as a gentleman, and 
 education, for a large sum. In a year's time, however, 
 they congratulated one another on their escape. 
 
 She had certainly brought with her an allowance of 
 150^. a year, but she was so extravagant, so useless, 
 and so silly, that it was worse than nothing. She was 
 confined just as the sudden shock of her father's bank- 
 ruptcy came on them. From this time to the day of 
 her death, the poor woman was only a fearfully- 
 expensive incumbrance. 
 
 The bankrupt father was instantly and promptly 
 received into his house, by Algernon himself, with 
 
 F 2
 
 68 ' SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 a most affectionate welcome. If there was one man 
 more than another to whom he was polite and deeply 
 TBspectful, it was to this suddenly broken man, whom 
 he had made, by his own act, an ever-present burden 
 to himself. INIr. Betts was vulgar, loud, ostentatious, 
 selfish, and not too honest; but he was in distress, and 
 Algernon, simple fellow, knew only of one Gospel. 
 
 Algernon's health had never been good, and now his 
 wife worried him into a state of permanent dyspepsia, 
 or whatever they call that utter lowering of the system 
 which arises from worry and anxiety, as well as from 
 laziness and over-feeding. She worried herself to death 
 after her fourth confinement, and left him slightly in 
 debt, with a household from which anything like com- 
 fort and management had been banished five years 
 before. 
 
 But it was home to them. They contrived to keep 
 their muddle and untidiness to themselves: He was 
 always well-dressed on Sunday, and, since his misfor- 
 tunes had begun, his sermons had acquired a plaintive 
 and earnest beauty which they might liave lacked 
 before. The more weary life grew to liim, the more 
 earnest — sometimes the more fiercely eager — he got,
 
 ALGERNON. 6"9 
 
 ■on one point — tlie boundless goodness and mercy of 
 God. He gained power with liis people. The very- 
 extreme party, both in and beyond the Established 
 Church, allowed hin:u great unction. His church was 
 full, but there was but a limited number of sittings, 
 and his four children were growing, and must be edu- 
 cated. So it came about that home became home to 
 him no longer — that it became necessary for him to 
 give up his last and only luxury, privacy. It became 
 necessary for him to take pupils. 
 
 It was his father-in-law Betts who pointed out to 
 him this method of increasing his income. Betts was 
 a bad specimen of the inferior kind of the London City 
 speculator. He had aU his ostentation, his arrogance, 
 his coarseness, his refusal to recognise high motives 
 (in which latter characteristic your peasant and your 
 town mechanic are so often far superior to the man 
 who leads him), while he was without his bonhomie, 
 and his ready-handed careless generosity. Neither 
 ostentation nor real careless goodwill could ever make 
 him subscribe liberally ; the only large subscription he 
 ever gave was that to Algernon's, to his prospective 
 son-in-law's, testimonial ; not a very nice man, by
 
 70 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 any means, a man wlio seonicd to Algernon -with his 
 Oxfordism entirely made np of fanlts with no virtues, 
 a man who grated on his dearest prejudices a hundred 
 times a day, a man sent him for his sins. Tlie horror 
 of his being a bankrupt, the liorror of an}'i:hing con- 
 nected with dear noisy old St. Paul's having gone into 
 the Bankruptcy Court, was enough to make him re- 
 nounce all communion wath his old friends, and keep 
 himself with lofty humility from the world ; but after 
 this, the man himself remained on his hands, a deadly 
 thorn in his side, annoying him all day long by his 
 manners, his way of eating even, his everlasting allu- 
 sion to his losses, and, more than all, by his clumsy 
 expressions of gratitude, " the more offensive," said 
 Arthur, who had not then been quite cured of priggish- 
 ness, " because they are sincere." 
 
 Betts's very numerous faults were more those of 
 education and training than of nature ; for if 
 one cannot believe that some natures are more 
 difficult to spoil than others, and that the wlioh 
 business is a mere result of the circumstance of a 
 man's brmging up, one would be getting near to 
 believe nothing at all. The man's nature was not
 
 ALGERNON. 71 
 
 a bit clianged because Algernon in his treatment of 
 him scrupulously followed the directions given in 
 the Sermon on the INIount. His nature remained 
 the same, but all his old landmarks of riches and 
 respectability had been swept away by his bank- 
 ruptcy, and immediately after he saw, with his 
 eyes cleared from all cobwebs, while in a state of 
 humiliation, a man who acted on a law he had 
 never recognised, hardly ever heard of: the pure law 
 of Christianity. Not that he ever fully recognised 
 the fact : perhaps he was too old. To tlie very last, 
 wliile alluding to Algernon, he would say, "Sir, my 
 son-in-law is the most perfect gentleman I ever saw, 
 and a snicere Christian, sir. Yes, sir, a most sincere 
 Christian, I give you my honour." 
 
 When Algernon, for the first time in his life, found 
 that he was actually pushed for money ; when he 
 found that the weekly bills were increasmg, without 
 the means of paying them ; that, although Eeginald 
 might be kept from school a little longer, yet his 
 darling eldest born, Dora, was growing vulgar, and 
 imitating in her talk the maids, with whom she spent 
 four-fifths of the day, instead of him, with whom she
 
 72 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 spent about one-fifth; then lie thought it time to 
 consult his father-in-law, whose knowledge of the 
 world, he put it to him, might be most valuable. 
 
 " You see," he said " that I am a mere child ; 
 I really am. Such small intellectual vigour as I 
 possess " (he used this style of talk to Betts : he 
 Avould have spoken very differently to a university 
 man) " is used up by my sermons. I ask you — you 
 will smile at my simplicity — what does a man in my 
 position do to increase his income ?" 
 
 "Are you quite sure," said j\Ir. Betts, somewhat 
 huskily, "that you would do better hy increasing your 
 income ? " 
 
 "It is aljsolutely necessary, I fear, my dear sir," 
 said Algernon. " I must have a good governess for 
 Dora. Our confidence is mutual, I believe, and I 
 cannot conceal from you the fact that, unless Dora 
 has some lady to superintend her education — well, I 
 will cut it short — in fact she will not grow up a 
 lady herself." 
 
 "'\i\nio the deuce wants her to be a lady? She 
 won't have any money." 
 
 "My dear sir "
 
 ALGERNON. 73 
 
 " I brought up my girl for a lady, and she was 
 no good, at least to you. I don't believe in girls, 
 without one tithe of the prospects she had when you 
 married her, being brought up as ladies. Governessmg 
 ain't any good, I tell you — they never make one and 
 a half per cent, on the money spent on their edu- 
 cation; and the flower-making ain't much good now. 
 They say the women are going to take to the law 
 writing, but a friend of mine in the business says 
 they'll never come to it. Try that. But, Lord ! see the 
 various games I have tried to make a little money, 
 and ease you. And see my success. I am a burden 
 on you still." 
 
 "You are no burden, my dear friend. Even if you 
 ever had been, you could repay the whole of your 
 obligation by pointing out to me the way to increase 
 my income. I must have my children educated as 
 gentlemen and ladies, and Eeggy imist go to school." 
 
 " Must he ? / never went to school, but here I 
 am, say you. Well, I won't dispute ; but, knowing 
 what I do know, I'd apprentice him tc a smith. 
 Look here : your education cost two thousand pounds, 
 first and last, and I don't deny that the investment
 
 74 ' SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 was a good one. Three hundred a year for two 
 thousand is a u'ood investment. But then your 
 friends had the money, and you turned out well, 
 and you had luck in getting this church ; whereas, 
 in the case of Eeggy, you ain't got the money, and 
 lie may turn out bad (which is deuced likely), and 
 you nor no other man can be answerable for his 
 luck. Therefore, I say, apprentice him to the smith's 
 trade." 
 
 "I could not dream of such a tlimg." 
 
 "Of course you couldn't. You're a gentleman, and 
 I'll speak up for gentlemen as long as T live. But 
 gentlemen — I mean such as you — never do any good 
 for themselves : you know swells, don't you ? " 
 
 " Do you mean noblemen ? " 
 
 "Of course I do." 
 
 "Yes, I know a few noblemen; I thiidc I know 
 a good many noblemen. At Paul's we were very 
 intimate with Christchurch, and I was popular in 
 both places ; but what then ? " 
 
 . "Wliy, this: why do you send these swells away 
 when they seek you ? Why, the day before yester- 
 day, while I was at the parlour window, and you
 
 ALGERNON. 75 
 
 in your study, up comes the Marquis of Bangor, 
 hunting you out as if you were a fox. And you 
 gave him ' Not at home ; ' and I heard him say, 
 ' Dash it all, I should like to find him again,' or 
 something of that sort. And I went to the stationer's, 
 and hunted him up in the Peerage. Patron of nine 
 livings. And I got the Clergy List, and I found 
 two of the incumbents instituted before Waterloo ; 
 and then you come to ask me how to increase your 
 income. Three words of common civility to Lord 
 Bangor would make you a rich man." 
 
 "Yes, but," said Algernon, "you see I couldn't 
 say them — more particularly now you have told me 
 that two of his livings are likely to drop in. Don't 
 you see ? " 
 
 Betts couldn't see that at all. 
 
 "I'll try to explain. I used to know Lord Bangor 
 as an equal. It became my painful duty on one 
 occasion to rebuke Lord Bangor, openly and publicly, 
 for speaking in a way which I did not approve of. 
 I never did so to any other man, for my custom 
 was to leave the room when talk began to get fast 
 and wild. That he has respected me ever since is
 
 76 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 uotliiiig. Is this the man to \\iiom you would have 
 me go and truckle for a living ? " 
 
 " I can't understand this sort of thing," said Betts. 
 "But you are familiar with other noblemen." 
 
 " I am not familiar with any. I cannot bring 
 them here ; I cannot." 
 
 " AVell, you know best," said Betts. " I thought 
 swells w^ere swells, and w^ere to be used accordingly. 
 Otherwise, what is the good of them ? If you are 
 going in this line, yoit must take pupils. There is 
 the Eev. George Thirlw^all takes three, at two hundred 
 a year a piece. There's six hundred for you, barring 
 their keep." 
 
 • *'Yes; but then Thirlwall was a Balliol scholar, 
 and got a double first. He can command such a 
 price. I doubt, as a mere pass man, whether I 
 should get any pupils at all." 
 
 " But his education did not cost any more than 
 yours." 
 
 " Eather less, I should think. He got his scholar- 
 ship and his fellowship. I never got anything better 
 than a good-conduct prize. I have not the brains." 
 
 "That's a rum thing," pondered Betts aloud. "He
 
 ALGERNON. J'J 
 
 ain't half such a good fellow as you, and a stick in 
 the pulpit. Hang education, I say. I don't see my 
 way to the interest on m}^ money. And I've been 
 a bold man, too — too bold, as your pocket can tell 
 for this many a year, sir. It was the Illinois Central 
 finished me at last, but the Illinois Central seems to 
 me safe alongside of a university education. How- 
 ever, if you are bent against the law writing and 
 blacksmithing, and against the using of swell friends, 
 so strong, you must try for pupils. Unless " 
 
 "Unless what?" 
 
 "Unless you would try your father, sir." 
 
 " I tried him long ago," said Algernon. 
 
 " And it didn't do ? " 
 
 "Oh, dear no; not in the least. Far from it."
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 PAR NOBILE FRATUUM. 
 
 Algernon's modest allowance of 250^. a year had 
 been continued through the usual channel, all through 
 the time of his curacy, but, when he entered on 
 the duties of his incumbency, he was informed by 
 his father's lawyer that it would be discontinued. 
 He submitted, with a sigh, without remonstrance or 
 remark, and gave up all hope of assistance from that 
 quarter. It was not that he proudly made any 
 resolution against accepting it; it merely seemed to 
 him utterly improbable that such help would ever 
 be offered, and utterly impossible that he should ever 
 ask for it. 
 
 But many apparent impossibilities have been done 
 for the sake of children. When he began to see that
 
 PAR NOBILE FRATRUM. 79 
 
 he was poor, and getting poorer, the thought of their 
 future was quite enough to set aside any lingering 
 feelings of pride or fear, had any such been there. 
 He put his case through his lawyer, and was refused. 
 Old Silcote wished it to be understood that he could 
 hold no further communication with Mr. Algernon 
 Silcote. 
 
 Once, not long after this, the children fell ill of 
 measles, or some childish disorder, and a sad time the 
 poor widower had with them, and was still thanking 
 God that they were on the mend, and that he had 
 lost none of his precious little incumbrances, when a 
 message came from Silcotes, ordering the children to 
 be sent there for change of air, until they recovered 
 their health. The message came through Silcote's 
 lawyer, and was given in as ill-conditioned a manner as 
 need be, but Algernon had no "proper spirit" what- 
 ever. He thankfully sent the children off, and they 
 were kept there for above two months. He w^as very 
 thankful. "The ban then is not to descend to the 
 next generation," he said. He thanked God for it. 
 
 The younger of his two visitors at Oxford, the bright- 
 eyed young Arthur, now grown to be the man we
 
 80 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 saw liim at Silcotes the night of the poacliing affray, 
 paid liim freqneTit visits as of yore. It was he who 
 brought tlic cliiklren back from Silcotes, with new 
 clothes, new toys, new roses in their cheeks, and, alas, 
 new wants and a new discontent at the squalid and 
 untidy home to which they had returned. Arthur, 
 who noticed everything, noticed Miss Dora turning 
 up her nose at several things, and heard one or two 
 petulant remarks from her in strong disparagement of 
 the menage at No. 20, Lancaster Square ; and he said 
 with his usual decision, " I shall stay a few days with 
 you, Algy. Dora, you are tired with your journey, 
 and consequently cross and disagreeable. Go to lied. 
 No, leave your doll here. I want it." 
 
 Dora obeyed, reddening. " I'll stay a day or two, 
 and whip these children in. They have been most 
 awfully spoilt by that very foolish aunt of ours. You 
 will require the aid of my influence for a short time, 
 until hers has become a thing of the past. What a 
 noble child that Dora is ! Every element of good 
 about her. She has a will, and requires to have it 
 controlled by a stronger one. But she is a sweet 
 child."
 
 PAR NOBILE FRATRUM. 81 
 
 "Dora," said Algernon, with perfect good faith, 
 " reminds me, in all her ways, of her mother." 
 
 Arthur was just going to rap out in his short way, 
 " Lord forbid." But he neither did that, nor what 
 he felt inclined to do a moment afterwards — burst 
 out laughing : he was getting that tongue of his under 
 command by now. 
 
 "Well, she is a very sweet child, and Eeggy is 
 another. Eeggy is an artist. Eeggy will do great 
 things in art. Eeggy will be a Eoyal Academician, 
 if those old dunderheads can ever be got to overcome 
 their inveterate jealousy against anything approaching 
 to talent and originality.^' 
 
 Algy answered in commonplaces, not quite knowing 
 what words he was uttering, for he was confusedly 
 wondering how an undergraduate could have such 
 wonderful intuition about an art of Avhich he was 
 entirely ignorant, as to see a future Eoyal Academi- 
 cian in a child of nine, whose efforts hitherto had 
 been certainly below the average. But it was only 
 Arthur, he thought again with a smile, — Arthur the 
 omniscient. 
 
 Arthur went on. "I love and admire everything 
 
 VOL. 1. G
 
 82 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 you do, but I never admired you more than when 
 you gave up your pride, and allowed these children 
 to pay this visit." 
 
 "I have no pride, Archy," said Algernon. "And, 
 if I had, I could not display it in that quarter." 
 Arthur looked at him keenly, and asked, " Why ? " 
 " I cannot tell you." 
 
 "Do you mean on general grounds — on the ground 
 that you have no right to be proud to your own 
 father — or that you have no right to stand in your 
 children's light ? Or are there other grounds for your 
 not being proud ? " 
 
 "The reasons," said Algernon, "on which I acted 
 in sending my children to their grandfather at Silcotes 
 were just such as you have suggested : that I had no 
 right to be proud to my own father, and that I 
 should be wicked to stand in my children's light. 
 You asked me then if there were other reasons why 
 I sliould show no pride in that quarter, I answer 
 that there are. We must understand one another, at 
 least partially, my dearest Arthur, even if that partial 
 understanding aids in our separation. I know that it 
 is to your good offices that I owe this recognition of
 
 PAR NOBILE FRATRUM. 83 
 
 my children. Utter the question which I see hanging 
 on your lips." 
 
 " I'll utter it, Algy, though all the powers of the 
 Inferno shall never make me believe in you as any- 
 thing but the best man who ever walked. Here it is. 
 Did you, before Tom or I remember, ever — well — 
 make a fiasco .-' " 
 
 " .Never ! To you I will say the simple truth. 
 Though I'm not strong in brain, and have that want 
 of energy which comes from habitual ill-health, yet I 
 have lived as blameless a life as any of us poor sin- 
 ners can hope to lead." 
 
 "Then what has caused this terrible injustice of 
 my father towards 5'ou?" 
 
 "He has not been unjust. He has been most 
 generous. Question on, and let us have it 
 out." 
 
 " Has his extraordinary treatment of you arisen 
 from any facts in connexion with your mother ? " 
 
 " Yes. I will now finish this conversation, and 
 we will never resume it. I was put in possession 
 of certain facts when I was seventeen. Now ask 
 yourself, but never ask me, what has made me 
 
 G 2
 
 84 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 «,a'ey at six-and-thirty, and has produced in my father 
 that never-ending thought about self, and distrust 
 of others, wliich has made him very little better 
 than a lunatic."
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 MISS LEE. 
 
 Ox this occasion Arthur pointed out to Dora what he 
 was pleased to call the extreme meanness of her con- 
 duct towards her father, in making disparaging com- 
 parisons between Ms house and her grandfather's. Dora 
 received her scolding with perfect composure and 
 silence, replying not one word, but looking steadily at 
 him with her hands behind her back. Though she did 
 not confess her fault, yet she never repeated it. Their 
 visits to Silcotes took place every year after this. The 
 old man ordered it, and every one obeyed ; but Dora, 
 honest little story-teller as she was, always, on her 
 return home, used audibly to thank Heaven that she 
 was back in her own place once more, and to vilipend 
 and ridicule the whole menage of Silcotes most entirely.
 
 8G SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 TliG other cliiklren used generally to roar all through 
 the uight after their return, and to be unmanageable for 
 the next week. 
 
 Two piipils were got — dough-faced foolish youths, 
 who had made so little use of their schooling that their 
 matriculation examination was considered more than 
 doubtful, and so they were, with the wisdom of some 
 parents, taken from experienced hands at school, and 
 sent into the inexperienced hands of Algernon. That 
 he did his duty by them, and got them through, I need 
 not say ; but it was on the strength of these pupils that 
 he enuaoed a governess. 
 
 Miss Lee was a foolish Devonshire young person, 
 whose father had been a clergyman, and, as she always 
 averred, kept hounds. She also held up her head, as 
 beino- a cousin of jNIr. Lee of Basset, whose wealth 
 her imagination compared favourably with that of Sil- 
 cote. The hounds were quite possible, for he left her 
 destitute, and with no education, and so it became 
 necessary for her to go out as a governess. She was 
 not in the least fit for it, and Algernon, of course, could 
 only offer the most modest stipend. So they naturally 
 came together from the extreme ends of England. Miss
 
 MISS LEE. 87 
 
 Lee, in addition to the disqualifications of ignorance and 
 not very refined manners, had another dis(|ualification, 
 considered in some families, and for good reason, to be 
 greater than either of the others. She, like so many 
 Devonshire girls, was amazingly beautiful. 
 
 Such, in the main, and given as shortly as possible, 
 so as to avoid being duller than was necessary, is the 
 information I had gained from Miss Eaylock, Arthur, 
 Algernon, and others, about the Silcote family, as they 
 were at the time of the children's third visit — the time 
 of the poaching raid described in the first chapter. This 
 coincided with the fourth time that Captain Tom Silcote 
 had got leave of absence from duty, for the purpose of 
 coming home, and representing one-half of his debts as 
 the whole, and, with a sort of recollection of his Cate- 
 chism, promising to lead a new life, and be in charity 
 with all men. The debts which he confessed to his 
 father were always paid — for was not he the heir ? and 
 he always went back to lead the old life over again, and 
 to hate his misatisfied creditors with all the hatred of a 
 gentleman living habitually beyond his means.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE SQUIRE INVADES :MES. SUGDEN'S TERRITORY, 
 AND GETS BEATEN. 
 
 BoiSEY is a OTeat sheet of rollinsr woodland four or five 
 miles square, which iu two points, close together, heaves 
 itself up so high as to be a landmark for several coun- 
 ties. The greater, and all the highest part of it, is 
 unbroken beech forest ; but, as you come lower, it 
 begins to get broken open by wild green lanes, tangled 
 fantastically at their sides by bramble, sweet briar, wild 
 rose, and honeysuckles, by which a few solitary cot- 
 tages stand here and there ; picturesque cottages gene- 
 rally, standing alone, and not stinted for garden ground. 
 As you get lower the fields become more frequent and 
 larger, and you are among farms, generally embosomed 
 in dense clusters of dark and noble elms ; below this
 
 THE SQUIRE INVADES MRS. SUG DEN'S TERRITORY. 89 
 
 steep fields stoop suddenly down to the level of the 
 broad river meadows, and around three-fifths of the 
 circle winds the Thames — by day a broad river of 
 silver ; in some evenings, when the sun has just sunk 
 behind the dark dim wolds of Oxfordshire, a chain of 
 crimson pools. 
 
 Dim mysterious wolds are those of Oxfordshire across 
 the river ; rolling, hedgeless, uncultivated chalk down, 
 capped always by the dark level bars of woodland : a 
 land of straight though somewhat lofty lines, with no 
 artistic incident for miles, in strong contrast to the fan- 
 tastic prettiness of the elm hedgerows of the neighbour- 
 ing Berkshire. A veiy melancholy piece of country, 
 almost as melancholy as some of the warren lands in 
 Norfolk, or one suspects of Lincolnshire, else why did 
 a Lincolnshire man write — 
 
 " When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool 
 On the oat grass and the sword grass, and the bulrush in the pool ? " 
 
 — two of the most beautiful and melancholy lines in 
 our language, more than worthy of Wordsworth. A 
 lonely, dim-looking county that Oxfordshire, as that 
 dreaming little shepherd lad, James Sugden, saw it
 
 no SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 inoiitli after month, year after year, in liis solitary 
 watch over the sheep among the highest fiehls of the 
 beautiful Boisey, or from the door of his father's cottage, 
 highest up among the towermg beechwood, when merry 
 haymaking and merrier harvest were over, and the 
 September sun was blazing down due west. 
 
 The boy had got some considerable education. Edu- 
 cate a boy loosely, and set him to tend sheep, and, if 
 he does not develop his imaginative powers, you may 
 be pretty sure he has not got any. This boy was 
 imaginative enough for a poet; only he wanted wits 
 and application, without which no poet or any one else 
 can possibly do anything, and he used to dream about 
 these Oxfordshire wolds. To his left, as he sat at his 
 father's door, was a view much more interesting than 
 the one towards Oxfordshire ; Eeading, six miles off, 
 lay almost at his feet, and, above the towers and the 
 smoke, on a clear day, rose a dim blue mountain, 
 crowned with dark trees ; Siddon, his mother told him, 
 at wdiose bases lived Lord P and Lord C . 
 
 greater lords than Lord A , almost as great as the 
 
 ultimate lord of the great hanging woods of Clevedon, 
 All this was very line, but he always preferred the deso-
 
 THE SqUIRE INVADES MRS. SUGDENS TERRITORY. 91 
 
 late wolds to the west, more particularly after his 
 father had told Idiu oue evening, in confidence, when 
 they were eating their poor supper together in the 
 garden, under the falling dew and the gathering night, 
 that just beyond those darkening wolds lay the most 
 beautiful city in the whole world. 
 
 "How far off?" asked the boy. 
 
 " Fifteen mile, across through Ipsden. A matter of 
 eight and twenty by Benson and Dorchester." 
 
 " It isn't Seville, is it ? Of course it is not. But 
 Seville is the finest town in the world." 
 
 " Oxford beats it hollow, I tell you." 
 
 " Have you seen them both I " 
 
 "Yes. Leastways, I know one on 'em well, and 
 that's quite enough to give me a right to speak. If 
 you want to know both sides of a question before you 
 speaks about it, everlasting dumbness will be your por- 
 tion. Whatever you've got to say, old feUow, rap it 
 out, hard and heavy, and see what the other fellow has 
 got to say. If he has the best of it, give in ; if he 
 hasn't, shut him up. But don't believe that you are 
 in the right, for all that ; only believe that he is a 
 greater fool than you. So you see, old fellow, I say
 
 92 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 agaiu that Oxford is a finer town than the one you 
 named. AVe'd best get to bed, old chap, hadn't we ?" 
 
 Looking from the door of his father's cottage, he 
 could see the top of the chimneys of Silcotes below 
 1dm among the trees. A fine old place, Silcotes, say 
 1650, a foursquare place of endless gables of brick — 
 the great addition made by the present squire's father 
 (who may almost be said to have built it over again) 
 being in perfect harmony with the old seventeenth 
 century nucleus which he found. These additions had 
 been made so long, that the newer bricks, with the 
 assistance of cunning washes, had toned down to the 
 colour of the older building, so that it required an 
 architect's eye to tell new from old. A most harmo- 
 nious liouse — for, in fact, the elder Silcote's architect, 
 with a taste rare in those later years of that century, 
 had carefully and painfully fulfilled the original design 
 of the seventeenth century arcliitect, whose w^ork had 
 probably been stopped by the Eevolution, and who 
 may, before he patched up and finished, have heard the 
 cannonading from old Basing House, booming up from 
 the S.W. from behind Bearw^ood. 
 
 It was a very beautiful place, and very beautifully
 
 THE SQUIRE INVADES MRS SUGDENS TERRITORY. 93 
 
 kept up. If you went iuto the stables you would see 
 the master's eye, or his stud-groom's eye, in the very 
 straw plait which edged the litter ; a Dunstable bonnet 
 was only a slight improvement on it. If you went to 
 the other end of the menage, if you went to look round 
 the flower-garden, you would see the managing eye 
 there also ; terrace after terrace of the newest and finest 
 flowers — lobelias, calceolarias, geraniums, and what 
 not— piling themselves up in hideous incongruous 
 patterns, until, in their sheer confusion, they became 
 almost artistic ; and then, above all, the great terrace 
 of roses, which flushed up with nearly a year-long 
 beauty, and then, clinging to the house itself, hung 
 the deep dark porch, the only solecism in the house, 
 with festoons of Jaune d'Espray, and Dundee Eambler, 
 and, ever climbing, hung magnificent trophies of Blairii 
 No. 2, and Gloire de Dijon, at every coign of vantage in 
 the long facade. 
 
 "Six thousand a year in housekeeping, and no 
 company w^orthy of being so called ever seen." That 
 was what the Princess of Castelnuovo used to tell 
 Miss Kaylock, and the Princess should have known, 
 for she was housekeeper. About the "company" she
 
 94 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 was undoubtedly right ; with regard to tlie six 
 thousand a year, why you must generally divide that 
 lady's statements by two, and tlien be very careful to 
 examine closely the facts on which was based the re- 
 maining half of her assertion. There is, however, no 
 doubt that this fine house of Silcotes, even in these 
 dark times, was kept up with amazing liberality ; and 
 the very servants who left it of their own accord would 
 tell you, almost pathetically, that they had never had 
 an}i;liing to complain of, and that there was not such 
 a servants' hall as Silcote's for miles round. 
 
 For, in sjiite of the liberality of Silcote's house- 
 keeping, servants would not stay with him. There 
 was no society and no change, — things which servants 
 desire even more than good living. If you think thai 
 the footman in plush breeches, or the groom in white, 
 is a mere machine, you are mistaken. If you think 
 that the mere paying of these men's wages, and feeding 
 them well, will secure these men, you are again mis- 
 taken, j\Iy lord or the squire cannot destroy these 
 men's individuality, when they dress them in the 
 clothes of the eighteenth century. Necessity may keep 
 them quiet ; good living and gaiety may keep them
 
 THE SQUIRE INFADES MRS. SUG DEN'S TERRITORY. 95 
 
 contented ; but if they get bored, tliey will " better " 
 themselves as sure as possible, even at lower wages, 
 and worse beer. 
 
 However, Silcote's servants never stayed. Their 
 formula was, " that a man was not sent into the 
 world to die of the blues," and I am sorry to say 
 that in self-justification they set abroad, through the 
 county, an account of the Dark Squire's eccentricities 
 a great deal darker than the mere truth. 
 
 The ultimate fate of little James Sugden, on the 
 night of the poaching affray, was this. The Princess 
 had him plastered and mended as far as was possible, 
 and then, having done her "possible," handed him 
 over to the butler, who proceeded towards the men's 
 quarters to see if he could get him a bed. 
 
 Those who were asleep were immovable, and those 
 who were awake objected so very strongly, and in such 
 extremely pointed language, that he did not dare to 
 push his point ; at last, getting tired of argument, he 
 used his authority where he dared, and quartered him 
 on the youngest stable-boy. At sunrise James was on 
 the alert, dressed, and ready to make his escape home. 
 
 Which was the way, and where were the dogs ? His
 
 96 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 companion told liim the way, but could give no in- 
 formation about the dogs. They might be still loose : 
 he would not venture beyond the stable yard for ten 
 pounds till he knew they were kennelled. But the 
 intense wish the boy had to be at home again over- 
 came his fears, and he resolved to go. He had all 
 the dislike which a dog or a cliild has, at first, to 
 strange faces and places, and he dreaded seeing any 
 folks in authority for fear they should bid him stay, 
 in wliicli case he knew he must obey. He tied. One 
 terrible fright he had ; he opened a door in the wall, 
 and, M'hen he had shut it behind him, he found him- 
 self alone among the bloodhounds. His terror was 
 simply unutterable at this moment ; but the dogs 
 knew him, and proposed to come with him, and he, 
 afraid to drive them back, was escorted by them as 
 far as a gate, beyond which they would not come. 
 Once out of sight of them, he sped away through the 
 forest hard towards his home. 
 
 It was late in the day when he was sitting between 
 his father and mother, looldng out over the little 
 garden of potatoes and cabbage, of filbert and apple 
 trees, towards the westering sun over the Oxfordshire
 
 THE SQUIRE INFJDES MRS. SUGDEN'S TERRITORY. 97 
 
 wolds. Their poor flowers were mostly fading b}'- 
 now, and the garden looked dull ; for cottagers' flowers 
 are mostly spring iiowers. In the lengthening even- 
 ings of early spring, the sight of Nature renewing 
 herself has its effect on the poorest of the hinds, to 
 a certain extent, and in their dull way they make 
 efforts at ornamentation, perhaps because they have 
 some dim hope that the coming year cannot be quite 
 so hopeless as the one gone past — will not be merely 
 another milestone towards chronic rheumatism and the 
 workhouse. They must have such hopes, poor folks, or 
 they would madden. These hopes come to them in 
 the spring, with reviving nature, and then they garden. 
 The wearied hind stays late out in the cool brisk April 
 night, and spares a little time, after he has done 
 delving in his potatoes, to trimming and planting a 
 few poor flowers. But after, when Nature gets pro- 
 ductive and exacting, she absorbs him, and the flowers 
 are neglected ; only a few noble perennials, all honour 
 to their brave hearty roots, — your lilies and your 
 hollyhocks, and latterly, I am pleased to see every- 
 where, your Delphinium formosum — standing bravely 
 
 up amidst the forced neglect. So Sugden's garden, this 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 bright September afternoon, was not sufficiently gaudy 
 to keep James's eye from wandering across the little 
 green orchard beyond the well, on to the distant 
 hill. 
 
 Suddenly his father, badly hurt, and still in pain, 
 grew animated. "By Job," he said, "there's the deer! 
 There she goes. Hi ! look at her ! There she goes 
 into the Four Acre, making for Pitcher's Spinney. 
 She'll go to soil at Wargrave for a hundred pounds. 
 They are hunting early this year. Stars and garters ! 
 if she don't come heading back ! It's old Alma as sure 
 as you are born, and she knows the ground." 
 
 They were all out in the garden, looking eagerly 
 where Sugden pointed, expecting every moment to see 
 Mr. Davis, and a noble cavalcade, come streaming out 
 of the forest-ride. They were disappointed ; it was not 
 one of Her Majesty's deer which Sugden had seen, 
 but a great dog, nearly as large and nearly of the 
 same colour, which now came cantering towards them. 
 They had stared after him so long, and, after they had 
 found out what he was, had stood looking at him so 
 long, that some one else had time to come behind 
 them, and, while they were slowly realizing that it
 
 THE SQUIRE INJ2DES MRS. SUGDEN'S TERRITORY. 99 
 
 was only one of tlie bloodhounds from the hall, a 
 harsh voice from behind them said — 
 
 "He won't eat you. If he did, he would not get 
 very fat off you." 
 
 They turned, and found themselves face to i\\oe with 
 Silcote. 
 
 All three were too much surprised to speak, and so 
 they stood a moment or so, and looked at Silcote. A 
 compact, intensely firm-looking and brood -shouldered 
 figure, with a grizzly head, square features, and a con- 
 tinual frown. Dress : grey coat, grey breeches, grey 
 gaiters, square and inexorable boots. The late Mr. 
 Cobbett would have admired the look of liim very 
 much until they got at loggerheads, which would not 
 have been lono-. 
 
 He had to begin the conversation again. " You 
 stand frightened at the first sight of me, you sheep ! 
 I was saying that, if my dogs ate a dozen such as you, 
 they would not get fat. You peasantry are getting 
 too lean even to eat, with your ten shillings a week, 
 and your five shillings off for rent, firing, clothes' club, 
 and the rest of it. You are sheep, mere sheep. Why 
 don't you make a Jacquerie of it ? You hate me, and 
 
 H 2
 
 10() SILCOl'E OF SILCOTES. 
 
 I hate you. AVhy dou't you cut my thruat, bum my 
 liuu^ic eluwn — unless you want it for j'our own purposes 
 —and sul)(li\iJ(; my lands ? Bali ! you have no courage 
 lor a Saxon population. Cannot you produce a 
 Marat ? " 
 
 It was Mrs. Sugden who answered. " You seem in 
 one of your dark moods, Squire— that is to say, talking 
 more nonsense than usual. You say you hate us, 
 cela vet sans dire; you say we hate you— that is 
 completely untrue of us as a class,— the more particu- 
 larly about }-ou, who are, with all your foolishness, the 
 justest landlord about these parts. As I used to say 
 to the Duchess of Cheshire, 'Don't patronize these 
 people in the way you do. Love them and trust them, 
 and they will in some sort love and trust you. Don't 
 he always teasing them in their own houses, and 
 worrying them to death with impertinent incpiiries 
 about their domestic matters. They will only lie to 
 you, and hate you. Come to them sometimes as 
 Deus ex mac/and, and relieve them from some tempo- 
 rary difficulty. You can always do that, for they are 
 always in difficulties. You can buy them u[) at a 
 pound a head like that, whereas, if you hunt and
 
 THE SQUIRE INJldBES MRS. SUGBEN'S TERRITORY. 101 
 
 worry tliem, ten pnuiicls won't make tliem orateful.' 
 Xow, my dear squire, what is the ohject of yovr 
 visit?" 
 
 Never, probably, was a man so utterly aghast as 
 Silcote. Here was a common labourer's wife, dressed 
 in the commonest print, a \voman he had never seen 
 or never noticed before, blowing him up in French 
 and Latin, and most audaciously pricking him in the 
 most delicate and most cherished parts of his long- 
 loved folly, and saying things to him which his own 
 petted Arthur dare not say. He looked, speechless, 
 and saw only a common labourer's wife, in a common 
 print gown, who laughed at him while he looked. 
 
 But she was very beautiful. Silcote had seen 
 peasant women as beautiful, in the same style, in 
 the Pays de Caux, but never in England. Silcote 
 had never seen the very light brown hair and the 
 perfectly sharply cut features of the Norman among 
 the English peasantry before ; and, indeed, one seldom 
 does, imless there is a story which some old postmaster 
 or old pensioned coachman will tell you, over the 
 pipes and grog, after the cricket-club dinner. Silcote 
 stood amazed. He had his suspicions at once — the
 
 H)2 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 mail lived on suspicion ; but lie was a gentleman, in 
 speech at all events. 
 
 " 1 be"' yuur })ardon. I was not aware there was a 
 lady here. I V)eg your i)ardon." 
 
 " There is no lady here ; no scmldanee of one. I 
 aui nicivly an honest and respectable, perfectly honest 
 and resix'ctablc, peasant woman. You may see me 
 working in the lields any day, ' stooping and straddling 
 ill the clogging fallows.' Let me oljserve that you have 
 shut yourself up from the world too nuicli, or you 
 would never have accused me of being a lady. Ladies, 
 as far as I can judge from my limited experience 
 of them, don't speak to gentlemen as I spoke to you 
 
 just now." 
 
 " May I ask you a question, ma'am ? " said Silcote, 
 
 still lost in wonder. 
 
 " \ dozen, if you choose." 
 
 "And get a dozen refusals of answer. Well and 
 good, l)ut will you answer this one out of the imagi- 
 nary dozen ? 1 will only ask you one, and I ask it. 
 Who are you ? " 
 
 " Exactly what I said before. A peasant's daughter, 
 who worked in the fields, who became dairymaid when
 
 THE SQ UIRE INVADES MRS. SUGDEN'S TERRITORY. \ 03 
 
 her father became cowman ; who, in consequence of 
 her great beauty, I believe " (here she drew herself 
 up, and proudly, but frankly and honestly, looked at 
 Silcote with the great brown eyes of hers), "became 
 lady's maid to Lady Caroline Poyntz, now Duchess 
 of Cheshire. Those Poyntz girls would have every- 
 thing handsome about them. Then there came a 
 paradise of folly : no, not folly ; true love and good 
 intentions are not folly. And then I turned peasant 
 again, and then I went back to my old work, and you 
 passed me the other day, scowling like your old self, 
 while I was setting beans. Now, what did you please 
 to want here, Silcote ? " 
 
 The Squire finding, after a good many years, some 
 one who was not a bit afraid of him, answered civilly 
 and to the purpose. 
 
 " The fact is, that this boy of yours behaved very 
 pluckily last night. I want to better him. I will 
 take him into the stable as a helper, and he will rise. 
 It is a provision for him. These Cockney servants I 
 get from Eeading never stay. Tom, who will be my 
 heir, has taken a fancy to him ; in fact, brought him
 
 104 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 home last night. He will be stud-groom, and will be 
 provided for fur life. Will you let liim come ?" 
 
 "No. Let liim stick to his sheep. I, you see, know 
 more of domestic service than most, and my answer is, 
 * No.' Let him freeze and bake on the hillside with 
 his sheep. Let him stay up late with his team, and 
 then get out of his warm bed in the biting winter 
 weather to feed them again at four. Let him do hedge 
 and ditch work on food which a Carolina negro would 
 refuse ; let him plough the heaviest cloy until the 
 public-house becomes a heaven and a rest to him ; let 
 him mow until the other mowers find him so weak 
 that he must mow with them no longer, lest he ruin 
 the contract ; let him reap until his loud-tongued wife 
 can beat him at that — for he must marry, Lord, 
 for he must marry, and in his own station too ; let 
 him go on at the plough tail ; among the frozen tur- 
 nips, among the plashy hedgesides, until tlie inevitable 
 rheumatism catclies him in the back, and the parish 
 employs him on the roads to save the rates ; and then, 
 when his wife dies, let them send him to the house, and 
 let him rot there and be buried in a box : but he shall
 
 THE SQUIRE INVADES MRS. SUGBEN'S TERRITORY. \ 05 
 
 not be a domestic servant for all that, Silcote. I 
 know too much about that. We have vices enough of 
 our own, without requiring yours." 
 
 Silcote had nothing more to say — to her, at least. 
 What he had to say he said to himself as he went 
 home. 
 
 " That is a devil of a woman. She is all wrong, but 
 she puts it so well. I never saw such a deuce of a 
 woman in my life." 
 
 So two violent ill-regulated souls struck themselves 
 together in consequence of this poaching raid, to 
 the great benefit of both.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 IX WHICH JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. 
 
 Algernon's children had departed from London. Cap- 
 tain Tom, having hud the confessed moiety of his 
 debts paid, was at Du])lin with his regiment. Arthur 
 was Lack at his tutor work ; no one was left with 
 the Scjuire but the golden-haired child Anne. 
 
 Once Silcote had a son, some say the best loved 
 of all, \\ho rebelled against him and his hard strained 
 authority an;l coarse words, and left his house in high 
 disdain, casting him off with scorn, and rendering 
 the breach between them utterly irreparable by marry- 
 ing a snudl tradesman's daughter. He got some small 
 clerkship in Demerara, where he died in a very few 
 years — as men who suddenly wrench up every tie 
 and association are apt to die — of next to nothing. 
 His pretty and good little wife followed him soon,
 
 7.V 1FIIICH JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. lOJ 
 
 aud Aune was left to the mercies of a kind sea captain 
 who Lad brouglit them over. Tlie first intiiuatiuu 
 which Silcote had of his sou's death w^as finding a 
 seafaring man waiting in his hall one day with a 
 bright little girl of about three years old. Silcote 
 heard the story of his son's death in dead silence, 
 accepted the child, and then coolly began to talk on 
 indifferent nautical matters with the astounded mariner. 
 He kept him to lunch, plied him with rare and choice 
 liquor of every kind, and was so llippant and noisy, 
 that the bemuddled sailor quitted the house under 
 the impression that Silcote was the most unfeeling 
 brute he had ever met in his hfe. It was Silcote's 
 humour that he should think so, and he had his wish. 
 
 From this time she was never allowed to leave him. 
 He was never ostentatiously affectionate to her before 
 other people, but they must have had a thoroughly 
 good understanding in private, this queer couple, for 
 she was not only not a bit afraid of him, but absolutely 
 devoted to him. She was never thwarted or con- 
 tradicted in any way, and so no wonder she loved 
 him. 
 
 Such treatment and such an education would have
 
 108 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 spoilt most children. Anne was a good deal spoilt, 
 but not more so than was to have been expected. 
 She used to have bad days,— days in which ever>^- 
 thing went wrong witli lier ; days Aviiieh Avere not 
 many hours old when lier maiil M-oultl make the 
 discovery, and announce it patlietically, that jMiss 
 had got out of bed the wrong side. We will resume 
 her acquaintance on one of these days, and see her at 
 her worst. 
 
 Silcote hated the servants to speak to him unless 
 he spoke first, and then, like most men who shut 
 themselves from the world, would humiliate himself 
 by allowing them to talk any amount of gossip and 
 scandal witli him. Anne's conduct had, however, 
 been so extremely outrageous this morning, that, when 
 Silcote had finished his breakfast, had brooded and 
 eaten his own heart long enough, and ordered Anne 
 to be sent to him to go out walking, the l)utler gra- 
 tuitously informed him, without waiting for any 
 encouragement to speak, that "Aliss was uncommon 
 naughty this morning, and had bit the Princess." 
 
 " Wliat has she been worrying the child about ? 
 The cliild don't bite me. Fetch her here."
 
 IN IFUICII JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. ](J9 
 
 Anne soon appeared, dressed for walking, in a radiant 
 and saintlike frame of mind. She was so awfully 
 good and agreeable that any one but that mole Silcote 
 would have seen that she was too good by half One 
 of the ways by which Silcote tried to worry himself 
 into Bedlam (and he would have succeeded, but for the 
 perfect healthiness of his constitution) was this, — he 
 would take up an imaginary grievance against some 
 one, and exasperate himself about it until he was 
 half mad. Any one who gives himself up to the 
 vice of self-isolation, as Silcote had for so many 
 years, may do the same; may bring more devils 
 swarming about his ears than ever buzzed and flapped 
 round the cell of a hermit. He did so on this occa- 
 sion. He got up in his own mind a perfectly 
 imaginary case against the poor long-suffering Princess 
 for ill-using Anne, and went, muttering and scowl- 
 ing, out for his morning's walk, with Amie, wonderfully 
 agreeable and exquisitely good, beside him. 
 
 They went into the flower-garden first, and Anne, 
 with sweet innocence, asked if she might pick some 
 flowers. Of course he said Yes ; and, after walking 
 up and down for a quarter of an hour, the head-
 
 1 10 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 gardener came to liim, and respectfully gave liiin 
 warning. "When Silcote looked round, he frankly 
 asked the man to withdraw his warning, and told 
 him that ho would he answerable it did not occur 
 again. Anne had distinguished herself. In a garden, 
 kept as ]\['Croskie kept that at Silcote's, you can 
 soon do twenty pounds' worth of damage. Anne 
 had done some thirty. Thunbergias, when clumsily 
 gathered, are apt to come up by the root, and you 
 may pull up a bed before you get a satisfactory bunch. 
 Araucarias, some of them, form very tolerable backs 
 for biuuj^uets, but they were very expensive then. 
 Also, if you pull away hap-hazard at a bed of first- 
 class fiichsias, have a rough-and-tumble fight with a 
 Scotch terrier in a bed of prize calceolarias, and end 
 by a successful raid on the orchis-house, destroying 
 an irreplaeealde plant ibr every blossom you pluck, 
 you will find that thirty pounds won't go very far, 
 and that no conscientious "gardener will stav with 
 you. Anne had done all this, and more. 
 
 Silcote got the head-gardener to withdraw his resig- 
 nation ; and then, keeping hold of Anne's hand, passed 
 on to the stable-yard without having attempted any
 
 IN IFHICH JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. J 1 1 
 
 remonstrance with her. If she had burnt the house 
 down, it woukl have been just the same. As he stood 
 at that time he was a perfect fool. Hard hit, years 
 and years ago, in a tender place, he had, as he 
 expressed it, "fled from the world," — from the world 
 which was spinning all round him. He had brought 
 himself to confess that he had been unjust and hard 
 to this child's father, and he was, in his way, atoning 
 for it by ruining the child by over-indulgence, as he 
 had ruined her father by selfish ill-temper. It is 
 hardly worth talking about. When a man takes to 
 revenging himself on the whole world for the faults 
 of one or two by withdrawing himself into utter sel- 
 fishness, his folly takes so many forms that it gets 
 unprofitable to examine them in detail. Let us leave 
 Silcote reading his Heine and his Byron, and let him, 
 as much as possible, speak for himself in future. A 
 man's "lamity" — to use a word taken from Mr. Lewes's 
 witty account of his transcendental friend — is but a 
 dull business. Let us clear the ground by saying 
 that Silcote conceived himself to have suffered an 
 inexpiable wrong, that he had nursed and petted that 
 wrong instead of trying to forget and forgive it, and
 
 1 1 2 SILCOTE OF SFLCOTES. 
 
 that he hud Lruuded so lung over his original wrong 
 that, on the principle of crcscit indidgcn>i, he had come 
 to regard eveiything as a wrong, and very nearly to 
 ruin both his life and his intellect. Well did the 
 peasantry call him the " Dark Squire." The darkness 
 of tlie man's soul was deep enough at this time, and 
 was to he darker still; hut there was a dawii hchind 
 the hill, if it Avould only rise, and in the Hush of that 
 dawn stood Arthur and the peasant woman. Would 
 the dawn rise over the hill, and Hush Memnon's 
 temples, till he sang once more ? Or would the dark 
 hurtling sand-storms always rise betwixt the statue 
 and the sun, until the statue crumbled away? 
 
 Wherever Anne went that morning she was naughtier 
 and naughtier. In the fowl-yard she hunted the largest 
 peacock, and pulled out his tail ; and, if she behaved 
 ill in the fowl-yard, she was worse in the stable, and 
 worse again in the kennels. She carefully put in prac- 
 tice all the wickedness she knew — luckily not much, 
 but, according to her small light, that of a Brinvilliers, 
 unrestrained l)y any law, for her grandfather never 
 interfered w^ith her, and her uncle Arthur was miles 
 away. Children can go on in this way, being \evy
 
 IN WHICH JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. \ 13 
 
 naughty with perfect good temper, for a long tune ; 
 but, sooner or later, petulance and passion come on, 
 and hold their full sway until the child has stunned 
 itself once more into shame and good behaviour. As 
 one cannon shot, or one thunder growl, will bring down 
 the rain when the storm is overhead, so, when a child 
 has been persistently bad for some time, the smallest 
 accident, or the smallest cross, will bring into sudden 
 activity the subdued hysterical passion, which has, in 
 reality, been the cause of a long system of defiant per- 
 versity. Anne's explosion, inevitable, as her shrewd 
 grandfather had seen with some cynical amusement, 
 came in this way. 
 
 At the kennel she had asked for a Scotch terrier 
 puppy as a present ; and, of course, her grandfather 
 had given it to her. She had teased and bullied it 
 ever since, until at last, when they had gone to tlie end 
 of a narrow avenue of clipped yews which led to tlie 
 forest, and had turned homewards, she teased the dog 
 so much that it turned and bit her. 
 
 She was on the homeward side of her grandfather, 
 and came running back to him, to put in force the 
 child's universal first method of obtaining justice, that 
 VOL. I, I
 
 1 14 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 of telling the highest available person in authority. 
 "I'll tell mamma," or, " I'll tell your mother, as sure as 
 vou are born : " who has not heard those two sentences 
 often enough ? The puppy had bit Anne ; and she, 
 white with rage, ran back to tell her grandfather. 
 
 "He has bit me, grandpa. You must have seen 
 him bite me. The woman saw him, for I saw her 
 looking." 
 
 " The woman 1 " said Silcote, " what woman ? " He 
 turned as he spoke, and found himself face to face 
 with the woman — Mrs. Sugden, who had come out of 
 the forest end of the alley, and was standing close to 
 him. 
 
 Very beautiful she was, far more beautifid than he 
 had thought when he had seen her first. The features 
 perfect, without fault ; the complexion, though browned 
 with field labour, so exquisitely clear ; the pose of the 
 body, and the set of the features, so wonderfully calm 
 and strong. Her great grey eyes were not on him, 
 though he could see them. They seemed to Silcote the 
 cynical to be sending rays of pity and wonder upon 
 the passionate child, as indeed they were. And, while 
 he looked, this common labouring woman, with the
 
 /y WHICH JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. \ 15 
 
 cheap cotton gown, turned her large grey eyes on him, 
 Silcote, the great Squire ; and in those eyes Silcote saw 
 perfect fearlessness and infinite kindness ; but he saw 
 more than the eyes could show him. The eye, as a 
 veliicle to carry one man's soul to another, has been 
 lately very much overrated. Silcote, as a barrister, 
 knew this very well ; the eye to him was a good and 
 believable eye, but what said the eyebrows ? Their 
 steady expansion told him of frankness and honesty, 
 forming an ugly contrast to the eyebrows he saw in 
 the glass every morning. "What said the mouth ? 
 Strength and gentleness. What said the figure ? 
 Strength, grace, and wild inexorable purpose in every 
 line ^f it. 
 
 So she was in silence and repose : in speech and 
 action how different ! How reckless the attitude, how 
 rude and whirling the words ! 
 
 " Silcote, you are making a rod for your back in your 
 treatment of that child. She'll live to break your heart 
 for you. Why do you not correct her ? — Come here, 
 child ; what is the matter ?" 
 
 The astonished child came and told her. 
 
 " You should not have teased him, then. You are 
 
 I 2
 
 1 16 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 naughty, and .sliuuld Le puni.slied. Silcote, ^vill you 
 let me walk and talk with you?" 
 
 " Yes, if you won't scold me. You made a fine tirade 
 the last time I spoke to you about the vices of our 
 order. I Munder you are not afraid to walk with 
 me." 
 
 " I am neither afraid of you nor of any other man, 
 thank you. I certainly am not afraid of you, because 
 you were originally not a very bad man, and have only 
 come to your present level by your own unutterable 
 selfish conceit. That there is no chance of mending 
 you now I am quite aware : but still I have come to 
 ask you a great favour, a favour which will cost you 
 trouble and money. Mend your ways for this^once, 
 and grant my request, and afterwards " 
 
 "Go to the deuce, hey?" 
 
 " By no means. I mean something quite different 
 from tliat. You have not, I believe, done an unselfish 
 thing for twenty years. Five-and-twenty is nearer the 
 mark : you have been eating your own heait, and 
 reproducing your own nonsense, ever since your first 
 wife's death. I\Iake a change. Do me this favour, and 
 it will become easier to you to do others. In time,
 
 IN WHICH JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. WJ 
 
 if you live long enougli, you may be a man again. 
 Come." 
 
 He ^vas not a bit surprised at lier tone. She bad 
 startled him at his first interview -with her, but that 
 surprise had worn off. Let a man for twenty years 
 shut himself into a circle of perfectly 'commonplace 
 incidents and thoughts, the outside edge of that circle 
 will become too solid to be easily broken. New facts, 
 new phenomena, new ideas, may indent that outside 
 edge ; but the old round -whirls on, and, before the 
 " wheel has come full circle" again, the dent is gone, 
 as in a fused planet some wart of an explosive volcano 
 is merely drawn to the equator, only leaving one of 
 the poles flattened to an unappreciable degree. Mrs. 
 Sugden, like Arthur, had dinged the outside edge of 
 his selfishness. He soon became accustomed to both 
 of them. The globe remained intact ; either there 
 must be an internal explosion, or it would spin on 
 for ever. 
 
 He answered her without the least hesitation or 
 surprise. She was only a strong-minded woman in 
 cotton, with a deuce of a tongue, and a history ; 
 possibly a queer one, though she said it was not.
 
 1 18 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES 
 
 Slie M'as a new figure, and to a certain extent odd, 
 but his last recollections of life were in a court of law, 
 and he had seen odder figures tliere. lie was per- 
 fectly content that she should walk up and down the 
 garden ^\•ith 1dm, speaking on terms of perfect equality. 
 Besides, she was clever, and l)izarre, and required 
 answering, and after so many years he had got tired 
 of worr}-ing his sister ; and it was a new sensation t( > 
 liave a clever woman to face, who would give scorn 
 for scorn, and not succumb with exasperating good 
 nature. 
 
 " You say you are come to ask a favour, the granting 
 of which will cost trouble and money. I love money, 
 and hate trouble. You have gone the wrong way to 
 work." 
 
 " I am sorry for that, Silcote, because the thing I 
 want done must be done, and you must do it. 1 
 really must have it done. Therefore, if you will be 
 kind enough to point out how I have gone wrong, T 
 will follow your directions and begin all over again ; 
 only you must 4o what I require. If you grant that, 
 as you nnist, I will go to work in any way you choose 
 to dictate."
 
 IN WEICE JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. 119 
 
 " I can't go on twisting words about with a woman, 
 who not only commits for herself ignoratio elenchi and 
 pditio princiiyii in the same breath, but also invents 
 and uses some fifty new fallacies, never dreamt of by 
 Aristotle or Aldrich. What do you want done?" 
 
 " You remember a conversation we had the week 
 before last ?" 
 
 " There she goes. There's your true woman. Violates 
 every law of reason and logic ; then when you put her a 
 plain question, asks you whether you remember a con- 
 versation you held with her the week before last. No, 
 I don't legally remember that conversation. I would 
 perish on the public scaffold sooner than remember a 
 word of it. I ask you what you want me to do, and 
 I want an answer." 
 
 " Do you know my boy ?" 
 
 « No." 
 
 " You do." 
 
 " Then, as I never contradict a lady, I lie. But I 
 don't all the same." 
 
 " You came after him the week before last, and 
 you wanted him for a groom." 
 
 " That may be, but I don't know him, I have seen
 
 1 20 . SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 more of tlie Lord Lieutenant than I have of him ; but 
 I don't know the Lord Lieutenant, and I don't want to. 
 He is a Tory, and I never know Tories. How do I 
 know that your l)oy is not a Tory? Now what do you 
 want of me?" 
 
 " I wish you wouki leave nonsense, Silcote, and come 
 to the point." 
 
 " 1 wisli you woidd leave beating about the bush, 
 and come to the point." 
 
 " I will. You do know my boy, Squire, don't 
 you?" 
 
 " Tliere she cjoes acrain. I knew she would. AMio 
 ever could bring a woman to the point ? ISTo, I 
 don't know your boy. I have tohl you so before. 
 I ask you again what do you want with me ?" 
 
 " We shall never get on like this," said j\Irs. 
 SuLrdun. 
 
 " I don't think we shall," said Silcote. " But come, 
 you odd and very queerly-dressed lady, confess your, 
 self beaten, and I ^\\\\ help you out of your muddle." 
 
 " I shall do nothing of the kind," said Mrs. Sugden. 
 
 " Then we have come to a hitch. AVe had better 
 come into the garden and have some peaches."
 
 IN WHICH JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. 121 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and then she took 
 his hand. " Squire," she said, " for the first time in 
 twenty-five years will you be serious, — will you be 
 your old and better seK? Instinct partly, and rumour 
 partly, tell me that you were not always the foolish and 
 unhappy man you are now. Help me, Silcote, even 
 though I come asking for help with strange rude words 
 in my mouth. Throw back your memory for forty 
 years, before all this miserable misconception arose; 
 try to be as you were in the old, old time, when your 
 mother was alive, and that silly babbling princess-sister 
 of yours was but a prattling innocent child — and oh, 
 Silcote, help me, I am sorely bestead ! " 
 
 She laid lier delicate thouoh brown right hand in 
 Silcote's right, as she said this, and he laid his left 
 hand over hers as she spoke, and said, " I'll help you." 
 And so tlie past five-and-twenty years were for the 
 moment gone, and there rose a ghost of a Silcote who 
 had been, which was gone in an instant, leaving an echo 
 wdiich sounded like " Too late ! Too late!" He held 
 still the hand of this peasant-woman in his, and the 
 echo of his last speech, " I will help you," had scarcely 
 died out among the overarching cedars.
 
 122 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 " I know you will. I knew you would. Listen, 
 then. We have had a long- and happy rest here, in 
 the little cottage in the beech forest. You have known 
 nothing of us, but you have been a good landlord, and 
 we thank yon. I fear the time has come when we 
 must move forward again, and the world is a wide and 
 weary place. Squire, and I am not so young as I was, 
 and we are very, very poor; but we must be off on 
 the long desolate road once more." 
 
 " Stay near me, and I will protect you." 
 
 " Nay, that cannot be. It is my boy I wish to 
 plead for. 1 cannot condemn him to follow our fate. 
 I must tear my heart out and part witli him. Oh, my 
 God, what shall I do? What shall I do?" 
 
 The outbreak of her grief was wild and violent for 
 a time, and the Squire respected it in silence. The 
 child now rambling far away among the flowers for 
 a moment, wondered Avhat her grandfather had said 
 to make the strange woman cry. 
 
 " I will not allow him to be a domestic servant ; 
 but see, you are a governor of St. INfary's Hospital. 
 Give him, or get him a presentation there, and he is 
 made for life. It is a poor innocent little thing, Squire,
 
 IN TFIIICII JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. 123 
 
 Ijut I have educated him well for his age, and he is 
 clever and good. Let me plead for him. What a 
 noble work to rescue one life from such a future as 
 will be his fate if he remains in our rank of life ! And 
 a mother's thanks are worth something. Come, rouse 
 yourself, and do this." 
 
 " I will do it, certainly," replied the Squire. " But 
 think twice before you refuse all offers of assistance 
 from me." 
 
 " I cannot think twice ; it is impossible." 
 
 " Your boy will be utterly separated from you. Have 
 you thought of that?" 
 
 " Yes. T Jiave resolutely inflicted that agony on 
 myself, until use has deadened the pain." 
 
 " Have you reflected that it will be a severe dis- 
 advantage to your son for his companions to know 
 that his parents are of such a humble rank in life, 
 and that therefore you should not go and see him 
 there ? " 
 
 " I have suffered everything except the parting. 
 If I can bear that, I shall live." 
 
 " Your son's path and yours separate from this 
 moment. As years go on the divergence will be
 
 ] 21 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 greater, so that death itself will scarcely make a 
 parting between you. Are you resolute ?" 
 
 " I am (|uite resolute. Spare me." 
 
 " I will, God help you on your weary road, since 
 you will take no help from man. Good-bye." 
 
 Silcote had given his last presentation to St. INIary's 
 to his butler's boy, and he had no presentation to give. 
 His time would not have come for years. But he said 
 nothing about this, and never asked himself whether 
 ]\Irs. Sugden was aware of the fact or no. fifty pounds 
 will do a great deal — even buy a couple or four votes ; 
 and the next boy presented to the board of governors 
 of St. ]Mary's was little James Sugden. The iron gates 
 shut on him and the old world was dead ; only a dream 
 of freedom and hardship. Instead, was a present reality 
 of a gravelled yard, bounded liy pointed windows ; of 
 boys who danced round him the first few days, and 
 jeered at him, but among whom he found his place 
 soon; of plenty to eat and of regulated hours. A 
 good, not unkindly place, where one, after a time, 
 learnt to l)e happy and popular. A great place, with 
 the dim dull roar of the greatest city in the world 
 always around it ; bounded by the tall iron gates.
 
 IN WHICH JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. \'2b 
 
 outside which one had once seen a tall grey figure 
 standing and watching. There was a new world of 
 emulation and ambition inside those gates, but there 
 was an old world outside which would not let itself be 
 forgotten for months. So that at times James awakened 
 in his bed in the dark midnight, and cried for his 
 mother ; but time goes fast with children, and the 
 other boys pelted boots and hard things at him, and 
 laughed at him, which was worse. In six months 
 the mother was only a dim old dream, dear enough 
 still, but very old, getting nearly forgotten. Would 
 you have it otherwise ? I would, but the wise ones 
 say No. 
 
 And at home ! How fared the poor patient mother 
 in this case ? Oh, you children, you children, have you 
 any idea of your own unutterable selfishness ? And, to 
 make you more utterly selfish, they give you cakes and 
 bright half-crowns, which you eat and spend while the 
 poor mother at home lies sleepless. One of the most 
 beautiful touches in that most beautiful book, " Tom 
 Brown" (a book which only yesterday was as fresh 
 and as good as ever), is the infinite grief of Tom when 
 he finds that his letter has not been sent, and that
 
 12G SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 his mother must have thought him faithless to his last 
 solemn promise for three days. Little bitter griefs like 
 this, or ]\Iaggie Tulliver starving her brother's rabbits, 
 or Mr. Van Brunt falling down the ladder and breakmg 
 his leg, seem, it is pleasant to reflect, to affect the 
 public quite as much as the fiercest tragedies. But 
 Tom Brown was no ordinary boy, any more than 
 Maggie Tulliver was an ordinary girl. Children, for 
 the most part, arc selfish. James Sugden was no ordi- 
 nary boy, either ; but in the new hurly-burly into 
 which he found himself thrust, where every boy's hand 
 was good-naturedly against him, his mother's image was 
 gone from his mind but very few months after her 
 body had passed away from the gate. Only in the 
 watches of the night this dearly loved one came back 
 to him, and proved that, though she might be forgotten 
 in the day-time, with all its riot and ambition, yet she 
 was as dearly loved in his inmost heart as ever. 
 
 James Sugden the elder sat, in the evening, at the 
 door of his cottage, sadly, with his face buried in his 
 hands. It was a solemn September evening ; the days 
 were drawing in, and the chilly air, and the few first 
 golden boughs, told of the long winter which was
 
 IN WIIICU JAMES BEGINS UIS CAREER. 127 
 
 cominir. The Oxfordshire wolds were gettino: tlim, and 
 the western reaches in the river were getting; crimson, 
 when along the valley below a little column of steam 
 fled swiftly, and a little train slid across a bridge, and 
 into a wood, and was gone. Then he arose, and, having 
 made some preparations, went out and watched 
 again. 
 
 Not for long. Far across the broad darkening fields 
 his keen sight made out a figure advancing steadily 
 towards him. Tlie footpath crossed the broad fields at 
 different angles, and sometimes the figure was lost 
 behind hedges or outstanding pieces of woodland ; but 
 he was sure of its identity, and sure that it was solitary. 
 It was lost to his sight . when it entered the denser 
 forest which fringed the base of the hill ; but he knew 
 which way it would come, and advanced across the 
 open glade to meet it. He was at the stile when Mrs. 
 Sugden came out from the wood, tired, pale, and dusty, 
 with her walk from Twyford, and she put her arm 
 round his neck, and kissed his cheek. 
 
 They fenced a little at first. James said, " I thouuht 
 you would come by that train. I saw it go by, and 
 watched for you."
 
 128 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 "It is a nice train. It's express, you know ; but the 
 count ly gentk-nien have made them drop a carriage at 
 Twyford ; hut there is no third chass, and that makes 
 eighteenpeuce difference, and the money is running so 
 very short. And so you saw the branch train run 
 alonu', did you ? I woukhi't come to Shiphike ; the 
 walk is nearly as great, and there's the getting across 
 the river." 
 
 And so they fenced, as they were walking together 
 to\\-ards their cottage. On this occasion James showed 
 the greater valour, by introducing first the subject 
 nearest to l)()th their hearts. He said, " You must tell 
 me about it." 
 
 And she said, "It is all over." 
 
 He said, " Not q\ute, sister. I want to know how he 
 went off. Come. Only one more tooth out, sister. 
 Let m(^ know how the boy went off. Now or never, 
 while the wound is raw and fresh ; and then leave the 
 matter alone for ever." 
 
 " If you will have it, Jim, he went off very w^ell. 
 Cried a deal ; quite as much as you'd expect any boy 
 to cry who believed that he was going to see his mother 
 again in a fortniglit. I told him so, God help me !
 
 IN WHICH JAMES BEGINS HIS CAREER. 129 
 
 Sent his love to you ; is that any odds ? Now it's all 
 over, and I wish to have done with it. You've been a 
 kind and loving brother to me, James, as God knows, 
 and I have been but a poor sister to you. I have wor- 
 ried you from pillar to post, from one home to another, 
 until I thought we had found one here. And now I 
 have to say to my dear, stupid old brother, ' We must 
 walk once more.' Oh, James, my dear brother ! if I 
 could only see you settled with a good wife, now ; you 
 have been so faithful and so true, you have given up so 
 much for me." 
 
 A very few days afterwards, the steward was stand- 
 ing at his door, in the early dawn, when the Sugdens 
 came towards him, and left the key of their cottage, 
 paying up some trifle of rent. They were expedited 
 for travelling, he noticed, and had large bundles. Their 
 furniture, they told him, had been fetched away by the 
 village broker, and the fixtures would be found all 
 right. In answer to a wondering inc|uiry as to where 
 they were going, James merely pointed eastward, and 
 very soon after they entered the morning fog, bending 
 Tinder their bundles, and were lost to sight. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 ARTHUR SILCOTE MAKES THE VERY DREADFUL AND 
 ONLY FIASCO OF HIS LIFE. 
 
 For two years there was no change worthy of mention, 
 save that the muddle and untidiness in Lancaster 
 Square grew worse instead of better, and Algernon's 
 health suffered under the hopeless worry, which ever 
 grew more hopeless as time went on. 
 
 Dora had grown into a fine creature, pretty at present 
 with the miiversal prettiness of youth, but threatening 
 to grow too large for any great beauty soon. Eeggy 
 had, likewise, grown to be a handsome, but delicate- 
 looking, youth : with regard to the others we need not 
 particularize. The pupils had been succeeded by two 
 fresh ones, one of whom, a Ijright lad of sixteen, by 
 name Dempster, was staying over the Christmas vaca-
 
 ARTHUR SILCOTFS FIASCO. 131 
 
 tion — his father having reti;rned to India — and sup- 
 posed himself to be desperately in love with Dora, who 
 received his advances with extreme scorn. 
 
 Old Betts was there still, not changed, in the least, to 
 the outward eye. He used to go to the city every day, 
 look into the shops, and come home again ; at least, 
 that was all he ever seemed to do : but it turned out 
 afterwards that sometimes some of his old friends 
 would, half in pity, half in contempt, throw into his 
 way some little crumbs in the way of commission. 
 Betts had carefully hoarded these sums, and kept his 
 secret from Algernon, nursing it with great private 
 delight until that morning; but Algernon's worn look 
 had drawn it from him prematurely. He had been 
 accumulating it for years, he told Algy, and there it 
 was. He had meant to have kept it until it was a hun- 
 dred pounds, and have given it to Algernon on his 
 birthday. But it had come on him that morning that 
 it lay with him to make the difference between a sad 
 Christmas and a merry one ; and who w^as he to inter- 
 pose a private whim between them and a day's happi- 
 ness ? So there it was, uinety-four pounds odd : and it 
 was full time to start across for church, and the least 
 
 K 2
 
 132 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 said, tliG soonest mended. Algernon Lad said but little, 
 for he was greatly moved, and he preached his kindly, 
 earnest Christmas sermon with a cleared brow and a 
 joyful voice whicli reflected themselves upon the faces 
 of many of his hearei-s, and gladdened them also. 
 
 Algernon had been vexed and bothered for some time 
 about his Christmas bills. This contribution of jMr. 
 Betts towards the housekeeping relieved him from all 
 anxiety, and made a lightness in his heart which had 
 not been there for years. Firstly, because he found 
 himself beforehand with the world ; and secondly, 
 ])ecause it showed him Betts in a new liaht. Mr. Betts 
 luid l)een vulgar, ostentatious, and not over honest in 
 old times — had been cringing and somewhat tiresome in 
 the later ones. But he had distinctly and decidedly 
 done a kind action in a graceful and gentlemanly way. 
 Anything good delighted Algy's soul; and here was 
 something good. He and Betts were an ill-assorted 
 couple, l)rought together by the ties of chivalrous kind- 
 heartedness on the one hand, and of sheer necessity on 
 the other ; and this action of ]\Ir. Betts drew them 
 closer together than they had ever been before. It 
 reacted on Betts himself with the best effects. It re-
 
 ARTHUR SILCOTE'S FIASCO. 133 
 
 moved that wearing sense of continual luirailiating 
 obligation, which too often, I fear, makes a man hate 
 his kindest friend ; and caused him to hold his head 
 higher than he had held it for a long time. As he told 
 Algernon over their modest bottle of sherry after dinner, 
 when the children had gone to the Eegent's Park to see 
 the skatei-s, he felt more like a man than he had ever 
 felt since his misfortune. When Algy said, in reply, 
 that he thanked God that his misfortune had been so 
 blessed to him, he did not speak mere pulpit talk, but 
 honestly meant what he said. If you had driven him 
 into a corner, he, I tliink, with his , inexorable honesty, 
 would have confessed that what he meant was, that 
 Betts, although he still dropped his h's and ate with his 
 knife, was becoming more of a gentleman — consequently 
 more of a Christian — consequently nearer to the stan- 
 dard of Baliol or University. Algy's Christianity was 
 so mixed with his intense Oxfordism, that to shock the 
 latter was, I almost fancy, for a moment to weaken the 
 former. Who can wonder at it? Three years of per- 
 fect happiness had been passed there. Alma Mater 
 had been (forgive the confusion of metaphor) an Old 
 Man of the Mountain to him, and had admitted him
 
 134 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 iuto Paradise for three years. He was "bound to Le a 
 mild and gentle Assassin for her for the rest of his 
 life. 
 
 We must leave him, in the beams of the first 
 sunshine which had fallen on him for some vears, 
 to follow the very disorderly troop that posted off, 
 with tlieir early Christmas dinner in their mouths, 
 to see the skaters in the Ecgent's Park. They were 
 a %'ery handsome, noisy, and disorderly group, and 
 tl'.u inexorable laws of fiction compel me to follow 
 them, and use them as a foil; because their leader. 
 Miss Lee, was louder, more disorderly, and a hundred 
 times more beautiful than the whole lot of them 
 together. 
 
 If she had been less thoroughly genial and good- 
 humoured it would have l>een (for some reasons) 
 much better. If she had been less demonstrative 
 in the streets it would have been much better. If 
 she had been less noisy and boisterous, it would 
 have been a great deal better still. If she had 
 not been so amazingly beautiful, one could have 
 excused all her other shortcomings. P)ut here 
 she was, and one must make tlie best of her :
 
 ARTHUR SILCOTE'S FIASCO. ' 135 
 
 beautiful, attractive, boisterous, noisy; ready at any 
 moment to enter into an animated and friendly dis- 
 cussion with a policeman, or for that matter a 
 chimney-sweep : with a great tendency to laugh 
 loudly at the smallest ghost of a joke, and per- 
 fectly indifferent as to whether she stood on the 
 pavement, in the gutter, or in the middle of the 
 road. There she was, in short, her real self; as she 
 ■was at that time. A mass of kindliness, vitality, 
 and good humour ; haK spoilt by her imperfect train- 
 ing, and further spoilt by the respectful indulgence 
 she had been used to in Algernon's house ; but as 
 clever as need be. 
 
 "I can't think why it is," said Algernon once, in 
 answer to a remonstrance of Arthur's about this 
 young lady (little he knew what was in store for 
 him). "She was not boisterous when she first came 
 to me. There was not a quieter girl anywhere. 
 She can't have learnt to be noisy from 7ne. I am 
 sure 1 ain't a noisy man," 
 
 But Miss Lee had had the bit between her teeth 
 so long that at all events she was very noisy. And 
 she had another sjjccialite which I think is common
 
 136 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 to all young ladies of excessive vitality and i^ood 
 luiinour, \vlio are not accustomed to control of iiny 
 kind. If she saw any one of either sex doing any- 
 thing, she must straightway, on the spot, do that 
 thing herself On tlicir first starting, for instance, 
 Dempster, the pupil, illegally, and iu defiance of Her 
 ^Majesty's peace, throne, and government, &c. • &c., 
 went down a Slide. Miss Lee promptly essayed 
 to do tlie like, regardless of time or place. ISTow 
 the three or four winters Avliich ]\Iiss Lee had passed 
 in London had been mild, and sliding is not an 
 art ])ractised in Devonshire ; Miss Lee had never 
 tried sliding before, and so came down on the back 
 of her head in the street, and began to think that 
 she was enjoying herself. 
 
 With her kindly, uncontrollable vivacity, in the 
 brisk winter air she became more " Ijcrserlc " as she 
 went on. She was only twenty or so, and life was 
 a very glorious and precious possession to her. An 
 honest, innocent, childish creature, who had only 
 lately found out that she was a child no longer, 
 and wanted a lover whom slie could tease and make 
 run about for her. She knew how to treat lovere
 
 ARTHUR SILCOTES IIASCO. 137 
 
 from an infinite number of novels; only she liad 
 not got one yet. She wanted one sadly ; wliat 
 woman does not ? She was not utterly unconscious 
 of her wonderful beauty, and she was thinking, on 
 this very afternoon, whether Dempster, the pupil, was 
 not old enough to be made a fetch-and-carry lover 
 of: and she came to the conclusion that he was not 
 old enough to stand it, and that she might still find 
 a rival in raspberry tarts. This day, for the last 
 time in her life, she was nothing more than a wild 
 school-girl. Eemember that she had no mother, no 
 cultivation, and for three or four years no control 
 whatever. If she was an unworthy person, she would 
 not be mentioned here. 
 
 It is not necessary to follow Miss Lee and her 
 charge through their long afternoon's walk. It might 
 be funny; but we don't want to be funny. Enough 
 to say that, what with good health, good humour, 
 youth, and a natural enough carelessness of appear- 
 ance, she committed a hundred small indiscretions, 
 and arrived home by much the most boisterous of 
 the party. And, after a short scrambling and riotous 
 tea, they all took to blind-man's-buff as a sedative.
 
 138 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 When every one had got more tangled and excited 
 than ever ; when Algernon was laughing fit to split 
 his sides; when Mr. Betts, intensely interested and 
 enthusiastic, had, as blind man, walked bang into 
 the lire and burnt himself, under the belief, Dora 
 wickedly suggested, that ]\Iiss Lee was up the chim- 
 ney ; then Miss Lee herself proposed that they — with 
 a view to rest and quiet themselves before supper 
 and snap-dragoon — should have a game of hide-and- 
 seek all over the house. It was voted by acclama- 
 tion ; and, during the acclamations, one of the junior 
 Silcotes, who are practically out of this story, fell 
 down stairs, with such a thumping of his soft body 
 on the stair carpet, such a rattling of the nearly 
 equally soft head of him against the banisters, and 
 such a clatter of loose stair rods which he brought 
 after him in the catastrophe, that they were all quiet 
 for nearly five seconds, until his frantic father had 
 dashed down, and found him lying in the hall un- 
 hurt, under the impression that he had distinguished 
 himself, and dune the thing of the evening ! Then 
 they began their hide-and-seek. 
 
 Mr. Betts hid first; but Dora contemptuously
 
 ARTHUR SILCOTFS FIASCO. 139 
 
 walked up to liim, and took him from Leliind the 
 scullery door. Then Eeginald hid, and with amazing 
 dexterity got liome into the front parlour through the 
 folding doors which connected that room with his 
 father's study, which was the back parlour on the 
 first floor (perpend it for yourselves in a twelve- 
 roomed house; you will find it come right, for I 
 saw it. I might describe the spreading of bread and 
 butter, or the baking of cakes, but I must not dwell 
 on a game of hide-and-seek). After this, Dora had 
 hid, but Dempster the pupil had found her, and the 
 rest of them found that Dora had lost her temper. 
 A rude boy, I fear, that Dempster, though neither of 
 them said anything about it afterwards. Perhaps an 
 ill-achieved kiss may be worth a sound box on the 
 ears, and a week's sulks. Tliat is a matter in which 
 only the first parties are concerned. Then when con- 
 fusion and fun were grown into mad hurly-burly, 
 it became Miss Lee's turn to hide. 
 
 At this time, also, it became Arthur Silcote's turn — 
 after having preached for, and also dined with, a 
 Balliol man in the neighbourhood — to step across 
 to his brother to see how he was getting on, to
 
 1 40 , SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 knock at tlie door, to he admitted instantly by a 
 grinning maidservant, and, on in([uiring aLout the 
 noise in the liouse, to bo told, by that confused 
 and delighted young person, that they were playing 
 at blind-man's-bulT, and that his niece. Miss Dora, was 
 at that moment hiding behind the study curtains. 
 
 I dread ijoinc' on. I am afraid of tellinL*' the 
 awful catastrophe which followed. It is very dreadful, 
 but there is not a bit of harm in it, and it might 
 happen to any one to-morrow. Arthur knew the way 
 perfectly well ; and he, the preux chevalier of Baliol, 
 the nian who was considered a perfect prig about 
 women among men quite as particular as ho, then 
 and there, believing that it was his little niece Dora, 
 lugged out ]\[iss Lee from behind the curtain, kissed 
 her, called her his dear little pussy, and then, putting 
 his two hands behind her waist, jumped her towards 
 the door, just as Dora and the whole party came 
 in with a candle, Dora sa}'ing, " Don't tell me ; I 
 know she is here." She was indeed. And so was 
 her uncle.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 TWO MORE GUESTS. 
 
 The most awful part of the accident remained a pro- 
 fomid secret. All that the astonished Dora and the 
 rest of the children saw, was that Miss Lee and 
 her uncle were alone together in the dark, and that 
 they were both the colour of that rose which she 
 knew at Silcotes as " General Jacqueminot." Dora 
 said little, but thought the more : all she said was, 
 " Why, you are all in the dark here. Uncle, how 
 did you get in?" After which they all went up 
 stair.s, the younger ones shouting all together to their 
 father and grandfather, liow they had found Miss 
 Lee and Uncle Archy, alone in the dark in the study. 
 Miss Lee was not present, and Algernon rallied his 
 brother right pleasantly. Archy replied that it was
 
 1 42 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 an accident, but so very awkwardly that xllgernon, 
 little conscious of the magnitude of the disaster, 
 thought how very shy about women university life 
 was apt to make men otherwise perfectly self- 
 possessed. 
 
 AVhen ^Miss Lee reappeared at the supper-table, 
 leading in the two youngest children, the blushes 
 had blazed out of her beautiful cheeks. She was 
 nicely dressed in a well-cut quiet dress; not that 
 it was of much consequence to such radiant beauty 
 as hers (as Dr. Holmes so prettily says, anything 
 almost will do to cover young and graceful curves). 
 The hair was banded up, and nothing was left of 
 the late disorder. In the expression of her face, her 
 attitudes, and her air, she combined the dignified 
 humility of the governess with the melancholy pride 
 of the gentlewoman of fallen fortunes ; the modesty 
 of extreme youth with the consciousness of a beauty 
 which in her humble circumstances was a vexatious 
 annoyance to her, and with which she would gladly 
 have dispensed. Nothing was ever better done. The 
 worst of it was that it was thrown away on eveiy 
 one except Dora, whose eyes grew wider with wonder
 
 T1F0 MORE GUESTS. 143 
 
 wliile slie looked and remembered the indiscretions 
 of the morning walk. " You would not come in at the 
 beginning of the second lesson, if he was reading 
 prayers, my lady," said the shrewd young person to 
 herself. 
 
 But all this exquisite moral " get up" was lost on 
 Arthur for a time. He did not even notice the 
 curtsey and look with which she greeted him : an 
 inclination made with dropped eyelids, which ex- 
 pressed humility, dignity, and a forgiving sense of 
 injury received (for she knew well enough that he 
 had complaiaed of her being noisy: secrets are not 
 long kept in a house so untidy as that of Alger- 
 non's). He never looked at her. He had not seen 
 her for some time, and had never observed her 
 closely, being very shy of looking at women. He 
 now regarded her as an objectionable- and fast-going 
 person, in whose power he had put himself utterly ; 
 whom by a horrible combination of evil stars and 
 evil influences, he had kissed in the dark, called 
 his pussy, and jumped up and down. If she would 
 only have complained to Algy, he could have apo- 
 logised and explained, but she wouldn't. As a gentle-
 
 144 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 man, lie had to kec]) the dreadful secret, and he 
 almost hated lier. 
 
 I sliould be inclined to say that it was very diffi- 
 cult to liate anything really beautiful and good very 
 long, if the aforementioned good and beautiful thing 
 gives you anything like an opportunity of appre- 
 ciatiiiu' and admiring it. Miss Lee gave Arthur everv 
 opportunity of admiring and appreciating her, though 
 Ai-thur upset her arrangements by not looking at her. 
 Dora looked at her, however, even before supper, and 
 looked at her so long, and with such an expression 
 of Avonder in her face, that Mr. Betts asked her what 
 she was gazing at. She replied, "At ]\Iiss Lee," and 
 ]\Iiss Lee heard her. 
 
 "AVhy are you looking at Miss Lee so strong?" 
 
 " I was wondering whether she had been hurt on 
 the slide this morning," answered I>ora. 
 
 " If I had been, Dora," answered Miss Lee, " I 
 should have gone to hcd." 
 
 There was such an awkward emphasis on the Mord 
 hed that Dora felt that she was not quite Miss Lee's 
 match yet, and had better hold her tongue.. For 
 there was no appeal against Miss Lee in that house ;
 
 TWO MORE GUESTS. 145 
 
 and Miss Lee, in her position as governess, could send 
 anybody to bed in five minutes. Dora, although in 
 opposition to her governess, as a true British young 
 lady is bound to be, had sense enough to hold her 
 tongue and let things drive. "So you are going to 
 set your cap at Uncle Arthur, are you, my lady?" 
 she said to herself. "Good gracious, goodness me, 
 how fine we are getting all of a sudden ! Yes, in- 
 deed ! Oh, quite so ! Bed may be bed, my lady, but 
 I have seen the last of "French irregular verbs for 
 some time, I fancy ; unless I am a born fool, 
 which I ain't; no, nor I won't be kept in over my 
 coUoquia French either, after this ; and she trampo- 
 lining away to Hampstead with the children, and 
 Dempster, and riding donkeys, because I said, ' II 
 va pluvoir.'' " 
 
 Dora was rebellious against Miss Lee, although 
 they were the best friends in the world. 
 
 They had just sat down to supper when a new 
 guest arrived. 
 
 A gallant-looking youth, with good features and 
 fine bold intelligent eyes, dressed in a quiet but very 
 becoming uniform. He stood behind Algernon's chair, 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 waiting for recognition ; and Dora saw him first, and 
 called attention to liiiu. 
 
 " My boy," said Algernon, turning kindly on him, 
 " I had given you up. How late you are. You have 
 lost all the fun, and we have had such a merry day. 
 Come and sit by mo. What made you so late?" 
 
 "We had anthem in chapel this afternoon, — Pur- 
 cell's. And the third master, Hicks, asked me, 
 as a favour, to stay and help ; and we always do 
 anything for him. So I came by the six o'clock 
 train.*' 
 
 " Well, here you are at last ; make yourself as 
 happy as you may. Sit beside me. Eeginald, this is 
 the new schoolfellow I told you of He has promised 
 to be your protector. Come and make friends with 
 him." 
 
 Eeginald looked for one moment at Dora, but Dora 
 was ready for his telegraph, and left looking at the new 
 comer, and nodded twice or thrice shortly and rapidly 
 at Reginald. The nod said emphatically, " He'll do ;" 
 and Eeginald went and sat beside him. Dora, the 
 opened-eyed, watched them. At first Eeginald was 
 a little shy, but soon, as far as she could see — for
 
 TWO MORE GUESTS. 147 
 
 she could not hear — the stronger, older, and hand- 
 somer boy won him over hy kindliness of talk. Dora 
 looked until Reginald took out his bran new knife, 
 and showed it to the strange boy. Then she said, 
 " That's all right. Now let's see how you two other 
 little people are getting on." The two people, whom 
 she called "the two other littte people," were not 
 getting on at all. Her uncle and Miss Lee were at 
 opposite sides of the table, and were not looking at 
 one another. "If he were her director, I wonder if 
 she would confess about the slide," thought Dora. 
 
 But Dora foimd that youth, good humour, and 
 innocence were very pleasant things to contemplate, 
 and so she looked at the two boys again, and her 
 honest heart was satisfied. They had got their heads 
 together now, and Eeginald had got his peg-top and 
 his string and his dibbs and agate taws, out all 
 round his plate of plum-pudding, and was showing 
 them to the big boy in the uniform, who seemed to 
 possess none of these treasures. 
 
 " He is poorer than Eeggy," she said, " and how 
 gentle and pleasant he looks ! I like that boy." 
 
 And indeed he looked very likeable indeed, in his 
 
 L 2
 
 1 48 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 quiet manly dress, and his whole face beaming with 
 kindliness and pleasure. 
 
 There was some pleasant discussion about one of 
 the large agate marbles, and the two boys appealed 
 to Algernon, who sat radiant beside them. Iicginald 
 stretched across tlie strange lad, and puslicd him 
 against his father, so that his curly head was almost 
 against Algernon's face. At the same moment a 
 great brown hand was twisted gently into the lad's 
 curls, and his head was pulled back until the owner 
 of the hand could look down into the boy's face. 
 At which time a loud, pleasant voice said, — 
 
 " Out of the way curly-wig, and let us have a 
 chance at your father. Algy, old cock, how are you ? " 
 
 There was a general rising and confusion. All 
 sorts of notes composed tlie harmony which followed ; 
 but from ]\Ir. Betts' contented growl of "Tlie Captain, 
 by jingo !" down to the shriek of the smallest child 
 from ]Miss Lee's kind arms, " Uncle Tom, what have 
 you brought us?" the notes, discordant in soimd, 
 were the same in sentiment. They meant enthu- 
 siastic welcome to the ne'er-do-well and ne'er-to-do- 
 better, Captain Tom Silcote of Silcotes.
 
 TWO MORE GUESTS. 149 
 
 Algy was very much affected and touched. He 
 never cried, even in his most pathetic sermon ; but he 
 had to stop sometimes, and he stopped now. When 
 he had done stopping he said, — 
 
 " My dearest Tom ! This is kind." 
 
 " I don't see it. Arcliy, boy, he says it's kind of 
 me to come and get such a welcome as this. How 
 are you, Betts ? Miss Lee, my good creature, you 
 look — all right, Algy — Miss Lee, you look, you look — 
 I don't know what the deuce you don't look like. 
 There — there's no harm in that. Out of the way, 
 you handsome young monkey, and let me get near 
 your father." 
 
 " That is not my boy, Tom : that is a friend of 
 Eeginald's." 
 
 " Then go, friend of Eeginald's, slope, and make love 
 to Dora, if the young pepper-box will let you. Any 
 way, give me this chair. The room smells of turkey : 
 have it fetched back, I am as Imngry as a hunter. 
 Betts, is there a good glass of sherry in tlie house ? 
 Hold your tongue, Algy — what do you know about 
 good sherry ? See how wise old Betts looks all of a 
 sudden. Six fingers is sixty ! Nonsense, man ; is
 
 1 50 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 your Aunt Jane dead ? A Christmas treat ? All riglit 1 
 let's have a glass, then. Betts, old fellow, I want to 
 talk to you on business. Archy, how are you and 
 the other prigs getting on at Oxford ?" 
 
 Artliur was not in good humour with his brother. 
 As fellow and tutor of Balliol, he liad to do with 
 fast men at tliat college, such as there were. As a 
 pro-proctor, who was taking a somewhat peculiar line 
 in the university, he liad to do witli fast men of 
 other colleges — very fast men ; men wlio could not be 
 tolerated at Balliol for half a term. But his brother 
 Tom was faster than any of them. Artliur had to do 
 witli many cases of fast lads. The last was that of 
 a servitor at Christ Church, who had been liunting 
 in pink, and owed 5 00 A (a real case). Artliur had 
 seen to this lad's affairs, and had compounded with 
 his creditors for about eighteen years' penal servitiide. 
 I mean that he was to deny liimself every luxury 
 and pleasure for some eighteen years, to pay off the 
 debts, with the interest on them, which he had con- 
 tracted in one year among wine-merchants, livery- 
 stable keepers, and grooms. Wlien will lads give 
 over believing that liunting at live pounds a day is
 
 TWO MORE GUESTS, 161 
 
 the summit of human happiness ? Wlien are the dons 
 iroins; to forbid fox-huntin" ? 
 
 But this servitor lad was penitent, and promised 
 amendment. Tom was nothing of the kind. Arthur 
 had been the agent between his father and his eldest 
 brother in the last settlement of Tom's everlasting 
 debts. He had taken to the Squire a schedule of 
 Tom's debts, which he knew, by his dawning know- 
 ledge of the world, to be only a half statement; but 
 he had taken it, and asked for payment. The sum 
 was so fearful — eight thousand pounds — that he, brave 
 as he was, knowing that sum was not all the reality, 
 was frightened when he presented it. He did not 
 recover his nerve until the Squire, in his cursing, 
 cursed him as an accomplice. Then anger gave him 
 nerve, and he resumed that old ascendancy over his 
 father which his perfect rectitude had in the first 
 instance given him : feeling at the same time 
 like a villain, because he was sure, in his inner- 
 most heart, that the schedule of Tom's debts was 
 understated. The moment when Silcote the elder 
 recovered from his furious indignation sufficiently to 
 tell Arthur that he could trust liim at all events,
 
 152 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 was probably the most bitter and the most degraded 
 of his life. 
 
 The C. C. servitor had told the truth, and had been 
 penitent ; not that the penitence of that sort of young 
 gentleman is of much use, unless they are steadily 
 whipped in by a stronger hand and will. His brother 
 Tom, as he knew perfectly, whenever he chose to know, 
 had not told the truth, and there was not one half- 
 penny worth of penitence about him. So Arthur was 
 in contemptuous variance with his brother, Tom's 
 persistent wrong-doing and waste of life were to his 
 mind inexplicable and hateful ; and, moreover, Tom 
 had outstepped an arbitrary line which the world 
 lays down, and the world was beginning to talk. 
 How long he might stay in his present regiment was 
 very doubtful. 
 
 And so not carino- to look much at his brother, he 
 looked another way ; and the other way happened to 
 be Miss Lee's way ; and, as she had her eyes turned 
 away, he had courage to look at her ; and, when he 
 had begun looking at her, he found he could not leave 
 off; she was beyond all he had ever dreamed of. This 
 was the creature he had complained of as being
 
 TWO MORE GUESTS. 153 
 
 boisterous, and had — lieavens ! that wouldn't do to 
 think about. She was sitting quite alone, and no 
 one was speaking to her ; every one was busy round 
 his brother. AVliat could a gentleman do but go 
 across and speak to a lady under such circumstances ? 
 Was she unconscious of his approach ? If so, why 
 was her heart drumming away such a triumphant tune ? 
 But, at all events, her air was one of extreme uncon- 
 sciousness, when, with a sudden start as he spoke, she 
 turned her wondering, lovely face an his.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 ST. MARY S BY THE CITY. 
 
 St. -ISrARY's Hospital was founded much about the 
 same time as Christ's Hospital, was nearly as rich as 
 that very noble institution, and in some respects closely 
 resembled it. Like Christ's Hospital, it was hemmed 
 in to the great city, and the boys wore a miserable 
 and ridiculous dress. Here the resemblance between 
 that noble institution and St. Mary's ceased altogether. 
 St. Mary's had copied its faults, but none of its ex- 
 cellences ; at all events, results seemed to prove so. 
 Christ's Hospital has, I think, 60U boys ; St. Mari^ 
 with nearly the same wealth, has 190 odd. Chris 
 Hospital lias turned out, and turns out every yedft 
 some very noble men. St. Mary's never turned oiitt; 
 anything, not even — forgive the pun — a good many 
 boys who had much better have been turned out.
 
 ST. MARY'S BY THE CITY. 155 
 
 Some little mistake in the founder's M'ill had Ijegun 
 the ruin of this place. Lands had heen left in Essex, 
 Northumberland, and Cornwall for its maintenance, 
 from which the master was to receive 50Z. a year, 
 and eight fellows 20/. a year each, that they might 
 educate in the fear of God, grammar, plainsoug, and 
 the use of organs, and also maintain, free of cost, 
 any boys that might be recommended to them by 
 any future benefactors of the hospital. But, out of 
 the sm^plus funds of the hospital, twelve boys were 
 annually to be apprenticed to trades, or, if they 
 seemed to have gifts, to be sent to the universities 
 of Oxford or Cambridge. Moreover, each year, the 
 two best scholars were to be sent, the one to St. 
 Paul's, Oxford, the other to St. Dominic's at Cam- 
 bridge ; at wdiich colleges funds had been provided 
 for their maintenance. 
 
 A foolish, rambling, kindly bequest. Let us see 
 very shortly how it was acted on. 
 
 The first thing to notice is, that the institution 
 became richer year by year, until its wealth was 
 gigantic. As years rolled on, the wild bleak hungry 
 farms in Cornwall, where rent had been so difficult
 
 156 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 to collect, came to turn out their tons upon tons of 
 tin, and the Northumberland estates vomited up their 
 tons of coal in rivalry. The Lincolnshire estates now 
 almost equalled in wealth the i\\o others put together. 
 The spire of Fenton Magna, one of the livings which 
 came into their gift at the Eeformation, which once 
 gathered tithe from a little easterly knot of poor 
 farms, and dominated a great saltwater-ruined tract, 
 spreading easterly to the sea ; now looked on broad 
 rich fen lands as far as the eye could reach, and 
 gathered its titlie from 8,000 acres of the richest and 
 best farmed land in the world, instead of from 800 
 of the poorest and worst farmed. They were as rich 
 as Christ Church, and had eioht cjood livinos in their 
 gift. Let us see how they used their wealth. 
 
 They were bound to receive, and to maintain, any 
 boy nominated by any future benefactor of the hos- 
 pital. This was an awkward clause, because any one 
 might have claimed to maintain a boy for a guinea. 
 Illegally, but perhaps reasonably, they instituted an 
 order of governors ; any man giving them a hundred 
 pounds down was to be a life governor; if they had 
 been less wealthy, one could have excused them for
 
 ST. MART'S BT THE CITY. 157 
 
 tliis precaution. With regard to the twelve boys to 
 be apprenticed or sent to the university, they read 
 that clause liberally, and apprenticed the whole lot of 
 them. With regard to the two scholars that were to 
 be sent to St. Paul's and St. Dominic's, why, they 
 carried out their founder's will, and sent them there ; 
 and the funds left for their provision had increased 
 in much the same proportion as their own, so that 
 these young gentlemen had as little to complain of 
 as the master and fellows of St. Mary's. The rest of 
 the money they put into their own pockets, without 
 fear of royal commissioners. 
 
 Who came, however. Granby Dixon was the man 
 who did the business ostensibly, but Arthur Silcote, 
 Granby Dixon's old Balliol friend, was the real mover 
 in the matter, and when he moved he did so with a 
 will. The thing was commissioned, looked into, and 
 abolished. It was worse than Dulwich. The com- 
 missioners had no difficulty whatever, the matter was 
 too shameful ; they, having arranged the financial 
 matters, made their cong^ to the master, fellows, and 
 governors, saying at the same tinie, through their 
 chairman, that they left the rest to the governors ;
 
 158 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 whose authority had been so long respected, now that 
 it could not be resisted. 
 
 Our little friend, James, liad been nearly a year 
 at the school, and A\as beginning to get used to it, 
 if not to like it. This place was warm, there was 
 always enough to eat here, and the people were kind. 
 No putting on of hard boots on frozen feet here. No 
 dinners of dry crusts, no battling with hail, snow, 
 or long dull driving south-westerly rain. In this 
 place kind and strong hands had conquered Nature, 
 so that the young and the feeble might rest from 
 the lower strife to prepare themselves for the higher 
 one. Still, Nature had not always been unkind to 
 him ; she had sometimes her tender gentle moods. 
 There had been long cloudless days, with the blue 
 unstained, from sunrise to sunset ; there had been 
 deep hazel copses of green and gold ; and long shal- 
 lows over silver gravel where one la}' and rolled, 
 seeing the spotted fish scud by under the quivering 
 water : as well as there had Ijcen wild days when 
 one had to drag one's weary limbs over clay fallows. 
 These better moods of Nature he missed in his brick 
 l^rison. lie had now been there eight months, spend-
 
 ST. MARTS BY THE CITY. 159 
 
 ing holidays and all there, and his ear wearied at the 
 roar of the surrounding city, which had never ceased, 
 night or day, all that weary time. 
 
 He had leave on certain saints' days to wander in 
 that citv, and he had made one or two efforts to 
 pierce the surrounding network of brick and mortar, 
 and get to the country once more. In the hot soli- 
 tude of his Midsummer vacation he had planned and 
 tried to execute the greatest of these expeditions. 
 Sleeping on his cherished purpose, he awoke full of 
 eagerness to carry it out, and started southward as 
 soon as the gates were opened, on a bright summer's 
 morning.. His object was to reach a certain "Peerless 
 Pool," which existed, and still I think exists, behind 
 Lambeth, of which a boy, a friend of his, had told 
 him ; to bathe there, and return. He had plenty of 
 money — threepence — and the distance could scarcely 
 be more than four miles. The thing promised well, 
 but it ended in complete disappointment. The boys 
 in the immediate neighbourhood had got used to the 
 absurd and hideous green baize petticoats in which 
 the St. Mary's boys were clothed, and knew that to 
 bully a solitary one was to have the whole swarm
 
 160 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 about your ears ; but as he got further afield liis 
 clothes attracted still more attention, until at last 
 advance became impossible. They would have no 
 boys in green baize ])etticoats there. He was a boy 
 who would fight, as we have seen before, but you 
 can't tight an enemy numbering hundreds, in detail, 
 one down another on. He lost nerve and ran at last, 
 and was as a matter of course pursued ; he managed 
 at last to lose his pursuers, and himself also, in a 
 maze of little streets : and by eleven o'clock he M\as 
 back at the school, panting and wearied, with, the hot 
 tears of grief and indignation ready to break out 
 when the time should come. 
 
 Tears did not come at first ; anger and pride kept 
 his eyes dry for a time ; but a turn or two in soli- 
 tude through the desolate whitewashed corridors, and 
 the more desolate dormitories, threw the self which 
 had asserted and forgotten itself in the cruelty and 
 turmoil ui' the streets back upon self once more. And 
 self sent back to self moans utter isolation and hope- 
 less misery. In children it produces a wild hysterical 
 passion of tears, which rends the body until it 
 deadens the sense of desolation in the mind : with
 
 ST. MARY'S BY THE CITY. 161 
 
 grown men who cannot weep it is less merciful. Are 
 there not suicides and madmen ? 
 
 James, poor lad, after having failed utterly and 
 miserably in his long cherished expedition — after 
 having, in spite of his valour, been pummelled, beaten, 
 and forced to fly to the only home he knew now — 
 made more miserable by the sight of those empty 
 corridors and dormitories, went out into the wide hot 
 main quadrangle, and did what nature told him to 
 do : cried himself to sleep against the pump. The 
 pump was close to the board-room window, and there 
 was a board to-day ; but it was as good a place as 
 another. 
 
 He fell asleep, and he had a dream, very much 
 like other dreams : that is to say, a perfect farrago of 
 nonsense. Every one he had ever known in his life 
 — and a few more, such as Eobinson Crusoe, the 
 Sleeping Girl of Trumpington, the late Mrs. Shipton, 
 Governor Picton, Eichard the Third, and Julia Man- 
 nering, whom he had only known from books — were 
 all assembled at Silcotes, none of them either doing 
 or saying in the least what they ought, or what they 
 wanted. The only point in common which they had, 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 from Uolnnson Crusoe to the steward's-room boy, was 
 tliat they -were all waiting for Dark Squire Silcote. 
 He put in an appearance at last, hut in that unsatis- 
 actory way common to dreams. He never really 
 appeared : he oidy spoke, in an awful voice, at the 
 sound of which every one bolted, and the boy awoke. 
 "What the Dark Squire said was, " Sir Plugh Brockliss 
 is a fool, an ass, and a prig. If you set to work 
 breeding fools, you must succeed sooner or later. The 
 Brocklisses have been fools since the Conquest, and 
 they married his father to Lady Emily Llywellyn, 
 and the Llywellyns have been fools since the Fall. 
 Lady Eve Llywellyn was the woman who did the 
 original mischief with the serpent. I have seen their 
 pedigree at Glyn Dwr. The man can't help being 
 an ass, but I never was beaten by horse or donkey 
 yet. You had best look for that boy, Archy ; it is 
 a kind thing to do. Mr. Betts, we will not be beaten 
 by these idiots. Now, if you will fulfil your promise 
 and guide me to Lombard Street, I shall be obliged." 
 A dream and no dream. The boy had been hearing 
 in his dog's-sleep the voice of Silcote, growling away 
 in the committee-room for above half an hour, and
 
 ST. MARY'S BY THE CITY. 103 
 
 his dream had fashioned itself accordingly. lie aAvoke 
 to see Silcote, whose figure he knew well, walking 
 away across the hot empty quadrangle, with a seedy, 
 fat-looking old gentleman — to see Sir Hugh Brockliss, 
 whom he also knew well by sight as a governor, 
 standing in the board-room doorway and scowling 
 after him ; and to find Arthur Silcote bending over 
 him, smiling, 
 
 " You little pea in a drum," he said, " I was coming 
 to look for you. You and I are going out for a 
 grand holiday together. Boy, you have been crying ! 
 Have they been ill-using you? Tell me the truth, 
 without fear, now." 
 
 James told the truth. Every one about the hos- 
 pital was most kind to him. But he told the story 
 of his projected expedition, and its failure in conse- 
 quence of his clothes. 
 
 Arthur set his teeth and stamped his foot. "We 
 are going to change all that, boy," he said, "if the 
 idiots will let us. And Sir Hugh Brockliss talks 
 about the associations of the place. Come on, my 
 child. Wash your face, and let you and me go down 
 among the ships. We will mend all this for you, 
 
 M 2
 
 164 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 boy, and inond it soon, I liope. Leave tliat alone, 
 and come with me." 
 
 In half an lionr Artluir Silcote had liis boy down 
 among the ships at the East India Docks. And, if 
 you ever have a boy tlirown on your hands, and if 
 that boy finds himself bored by being taken down 
 the river and shown the ships, why, don't undertake 
 that boy again, for he is not worth the trouble. 
 
 James, after his morning's failure, passed after all 
 the golden day of his life. Arthur began by pitying 
 the poor little pea in the drum, and gave him a treat 
 as a matter of duty. As a general rule, a man when 
 he goes down the river does not choose a boy in 
 green baize petticoats for his companion. Arthur took 
 the boy as a mere matter of duty and kindliness ; 
 but, before they had got far on their voyage, he 
 found that he was not doomed by any means to pass 
 the most unpleasant day in his life. The boy was 
 such a queer boy. lie was so strangely well read, 
 and yet so unutterably ignorant about the visible 
 outside of things. The boy's general floating infor- 
 mation was ahsurdly great. When he found himself 
 fairly under Arthur's protection, and, having forgotten
 
 ST. MARY'S BY THE CITY. ]65 
 
 about liis ridiculous dress, got confidential, lie puzzled 
 Arthur in fifty ways. 
 
 There were meetings of the board of governors 
 twice a week now, and the attendance at them grew 
 more numerous, and the debates more animated. He 
 soon beran to understand the matter. 
 
 Arthur Silcote had taken it into his head that the 
 school should be moved into the country, and that 
 their hideous dress should be replaced by a neat 
 uniform and lighter shoes in which they could play. 
 The whole thing was no business of his ; he was in 
 no way connected with the school ; but he wished it 
 done, and, consequently, intended to do it, and, con- 
 sequently, did it. Granby Dixon was no good here ; 
 further reforms were left to the governors, of whom 
 he knew only two — his father Silcote, and old Betts, 
 his brother's father-in-law — a very poor team to start 
 with for accomplishing such a great revolution. Yet 
 they were two very good trumps. Betts had become 
 a governor in the time of his prosperity, and was a 
 governor still, and would fight loyally to the death 
 for anything bearing the name of Silcote. He was 
 safe, and moreover was as able a vestry debater as
 
 166 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 could easily Lo found. Tlien liia father ! How to 
 arouse liis persistent bull-dog obstinacy and ill-temper 
 in the cause, was for a few days a question. He 
 liad sufficient influence over his father to make him 
 move in the matter ; but it required something more 
 than his influence to arouse him from so many years 
 of laziness and selfishness, and make liim persist. 
 An old feud, about a worthless piece of covert, was 
 the weapon he found in his hand after a few days' 
 consideration. Sir Hugh Brockliss had crossed his 
 father and gone to law with him on this piece of 
 copse. If there was a man more than another whom 
 his father hated, it was Sir Hugh Brockliss. Sir Hugh 
 was a Tory, another great point ; and Sir Hugh had 
 declared for keeping the school where it was, and the 
 dress as it was, on the grounds of the associations 
 of the place. Arthur had only to go doMu to Sil- 
 Gotes, and point out these facts to his father, when 
 his father arose in a white heat of rage, and com- 
 mitted himself to the Cjuestiun of muviug the school 
 and altering the dress, as long as breath Avas in his 
 body. He cared nothing about it. But anger and 
 personal spleen made him undertake a purpose, and
 
 ST. MARrS BY THE CITY. XQJ 
 
 stick to it with the utmost tenacity until it was 
 carried ; wliile principle never would have moved 
 him. 
 
 Arthur knew perfectly well that, by holding the red 
 rag of Sir Hugh Brockliss before his father's face, he 
 would arouse all the bull-like pugnacity in his father's 
 nature, and get all his father's barristerial ability, and 
 his unequalled powers of debate at his back. Was he 
 justified in arousing that long sleeping volcano of 
 shrewd logical scorn ; in calling into activity the very 
 worst part of his father's character — jealous, suspicious 
 hatred of every one who crossed him ; even in such a 
 good cause as this ? "Why, no. But he did it without 
 ilincliing. This thing had to be done, and therefore 
 must be done, quickly and cheaply, and with the han- 
 diest materials. AVhat a narrow young Buonaparte it 
 was at this time ! 
 
 " His father's own son," said the Princess once, little 
 dreaming in her foolish head that she was, uncon- 
 sciously of course, speaking the truth. 
 
 They had their will. Sir Hugh Brockliss left off 
 attending the board. Silcote's powers of logical scorn, 
 which in old times had promised to put him at the head
 
 168 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 of one branch of his profession, were too much for the 
 honest kindly country baronet. He wrote a letter to 
 the board, which he and his wife considered to be 
 rather witherini:^ than otherwise. He deeply deplored 
 that certain circumstances — he regretted to say, that 
 his duty as an English gentleman constrained him to 
 admit — of a personal nature prevented his sitting at 
 that board again. AYhen he said, as he did with his 
 hand on his heart, that that board, in its collective 
 capacity, was as intelligent and as gentlemanlike a 
 body of men as he ever hoped to meet, he made one 
 exception — he regretted to say an individual one. He 
 would not name any names whatever. He would not 
 ])oint the tinger of scorn in any direction ; but he put it 
 to that board, whether, after the language he had re- 
 ceived from an individual member of that boaid on 
 Tuesday last, he could, with any sense of decency, fur- 
 ther assist at their councils. Of that individual 
 member he had no more to say. To that individual 
 member, if he ever spoke to him again (a pleasure, he 
 was bound to add, which he and Lady Brockliss had 
 determined to forego), he should say that the term 
 " pig-headed," although ostensibly applied to a political
 
 ST. MARY'S BY TUE CITY. 161) 
 
 party, may be uttered witli such distinctness of 
 emphasis that it became personah 
 
 This was Sir Hugh Brocldiss's reply to Silcote's really 
 fine irony. But they would not have won their game 
 still, if it had not been for old Betts. 
 
 A row between terrible old Silcote and pompous 
 honest old Sir Hugh was very good fun, but it was not 
 business. They represented the sentimental part of 
 the affair ; and, among a board of Philistine governors, 
 most people will allow that sentiment does not go for 
 much. The Philistines were perfectly ready to clothe 
 the boys decently ; but the moving of the school 
 into the country was quite another matter; it meant 
 money. 
 
 Here old Betts came out nobly, backing the Squire 
 with endless bundles of papers, which, egged on by 
 Arthur, he had been secretly preparing, and endless 
 rows of figures, calculations of rent, the price of land 
 in the city, the price of land thirty miles from town. 
 The figures were undeniable ; the gain was very con- 
 siderable to the institution. Over and above the cost 
 of a poor tract of land in a romantic situation which they 
 bought, they found they had a very large building-fund
 
 1 70 SIL COTE OF SIL COTES. 
 
 in hand. A clever architect was secured, with orders 
 to reproduce the school-buildings. In a year it was 
 done, and now that the beautiful niediioval building 
 was removed from the crowded houses of the city, 
 one could see how really beautiful the original design 
 was. 
 
 At length there came the last holidays in the old 
 place, and then the very last morning there. James 
 was again alone at school, and awoke in the empty 
 dormitory at daybreak. It was indeed the dawning 
 of a new day and a new life for him.
 
 CHAPTEE XV. 
 
 ST. MARY'S BY THE LAKE. 
 
 The new clothes wliich lay at his bedside, into which 
 he put himself with the utmost rapidity, were the first 
 thing which attracted him on this very memorable 
 morning. He had never been dressed becomingly 
 before ; from a smock frock and hea\y ill-fitting boots 
 he had passed to hideous and ridiculous green baize 
 petticoats, with ill-fitting brass lacheted shoes, made of 
 the worst leather ; three sizes among two hundred boys. 
 Now he found himself standing alone in the deserted 
 dormitory, in a short pilot jacket, with gold buttons, 
 well cut shepherd's-plaid trousers, nicely made shoes, 
 fit to run a race in, and a pretty cap, with S. M. H. in 
 gold on the forehead. He did not know that he was 
 handsome, and that he looked attractive in his new
 
 172 SILCOTE OF SIICOTES. 
 
 dress. Ho had no idea of that. He only knew that the 
 old hideous nightmare of the green baize petticoats 
 was gone for ever, and that now he could walk the 
 streets without being an object of scorn and ridicule to 
 other bo}-s. He tliought that now he was only as other 
 boys were, and would attract no attention ; the fact was, 
 that from an object of contempt he had passed into 
 being an object of envy. His intense pleasure at the 
 transformation made him blush several times, and his 
 intense modesty made him hesitate for a long time 
 before he Avent down to the lodge. But, casting a 
 parting look — with a somewhat regretful face after 
 all, mind you — on the old white-washed walls, and 
 on the green-baize petticoats and heavy shoes, which 
 lay in a liea]) on the floor, he went down the stairs, 
 and out into the gravelled quadrangle, whose western 
 pinnacles — after doing duty, more or less faith- 
 fully, for four hundred years, condemned as old ma- 
 terials — were just lit up by the sun of the summer's 
 morning. 
 
 Will you follow me through the brightest day in the 
 life of a very good fellow, take him all in all ? If you 
 will, read; if you would rather not, skip. I wi.sli to
 
 ST. MARY'S BY THE LAKE. I73 
 
 please you, but you do not know how difficult you are 
 to please. 
 
 Nearly all the servants of the college had been sent 
 on before, to get in order and arrange the new building, 
 which was now, having had the March wind through it, 
 pronounced to be dry and fit for the reception of pupils, 
 and the working people necessary for their instruction 
 in the fear of God, grammar, and plain-song. James 
 was the only boy so utterly friendless and lonely as to 
 be left up for the midsummer holidays, and he was to 
 travel down with Berry, the old porter, and formally to 
 take possession of the new building, in the name of the 
 Society of the Hospital of the Blessed Virgin. 
 
 James and old Berry were great cronies. They 
 squabbled at times, for James's vivacity now and then 
 took the form of piratical irritating mischief. But any 
 boy who had broken a window in James's company was 
 comfortably assured of one thing, that old Berry would 
 never report James. What was deliberation on the 
 part of any other boy was mere accident in James's 
 case. The master who had the care of such little logic 
 as they learnt, had remarked once ironically, that Sug- 
 den's accidents appeared from their frequent recurrence
 
 174 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 to be inseparable, and might be more correctly described 
 as qualities ; but what third master, let him have 
 expended a thousand pounds on his education, can ever 
 hold his own against the porter ? It is Seely against 
 Packington. The porter wins, and James was never 
 formally reported. 
 
 "Hi !" said old Berry, as James came into the lodge 
 for his breakfast ; " we arc fine. How nice the boy 
 looks though. You look the gentleman all over." 
 
 " I am a gentleman, ain't I ?" said James. 
 
 " Not you," said Ben Berry. " If you had been you'd 
 have been reported times out of mind. You're no gen- 
 tleman. Where's your old things?" 
 
 " In the dormitory." 
 
 " Fetch 'em along." 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " To keep 'em by you, to remind you that fine fea- 
 thers don't make fine birds. I ain't been consulted 
 about this new move myself ; if I had been, I should 
 have gone agin it most likely. Still, I likes the look 
 on it pretty well this morning. But fetch they old 
 things along, James Sugden, as was shepherd's boy. If 
 you ever forget what you was, and forget the mother
 
 ST. MARY'S BY THE LAKE. 175 
 
 tliat lias been going up and down in front of these 
 gates many a time when you have been at football or 
 marbles, I'll report you for the next window as sure as 
 you are born." 
 
 "My mother?" said James. 
 
 " Ah : your mother ! " said Ben Berry. " But what 
 the odds about she ? Leastways now. You and I was 
 always comfortable together, and no man can say as I 
 ever reported you. Come, get your breakfast, my dear 
 boy. I have always stood your friend, James Sugden ; 
 and if I spoke strongish just now, why I am an old 
 man, and you young ones tries us at times. But I 
 never reported you, James, and you wouldn't desert me 
 now. 
 
 "Desert you, Ben? I ain't going to desert you !" 
 "1 know you wouldn't. I know you'll see me 
 through this moving. I ain't moved from here, from 
 this lodge, for thirty year ; and since then these pesky 
 railways have turned up : and I'm afeard on 'em. 
 Come, James, see me through to-day. I never reported 
 you, and, by Job, if you get me safe down there, I 
 never will, not if you were to burn the place down 
 under my nose. And you might, you know ; because.
 
 J 76 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 in a mind constituted like yours, there's the elements 
 of as outrageous a young toad as I've seen in thirty 
 year. You sleep on tliat warning, my young friend." 
 
 "All right, Ben. /'// take you down safe enough." 
 
 The passengers by the nine o'cdock train from Vaux- 
 hall could not help noticing with extreme interest the 
 handsome, well-grown boy in the neat uniform, who so 
 assiduously led about and attendc'd to the fidgety, 
 queer-looking old man in grey. Those who were early 
 saw that the pair were friends, for they liad half a 
 dozen comical squabbles together — the old man going 
 the wrong way systematically, and growling at every- 
 thing, and the boy chaffing him and laughing at him. 
 They were such a quaint, interesting couple ; the joyous 
 brightness and the brisk laughter of the boy contrasted 
 so prettily watli the comical, good-humoured cynicism 
 of the old man, tliat a certain General, egged on by 
 his wife, accosted them, to find out who tlu;y were. 
 
 " What uniform do you wear, my boy, and where are 
 you going?" 
 
 " The uniform of St. Mary's Hospital, sir, and I am 
 going to Basingstoke," for there was no sliyness or 
 shame now — that was all left behind with the green
 
 ST. MARY'S BY THE LAKE. \ "J-J 
 
 petticoat. And James Avas so radiant, so "brisk, and so 
 bold on this crystal summer's morning, that he would 
 have spoken np to the Queen herself. 
 
 " You happy boy," said the General ; " I would, but 
 for one thing, change places with you." 
 
 "And what is that thing, sir?" said James, with 
 perfect innocence. 
 
 The General looked at his wife, and they laughed. 
 " Come in the carriage with us, my boy," she said. 
 
 " I should like to," said James, " I should like to go 
 anywhere with him," indicating the General by a nod ; 
 " but I have promised to take care of Ben Berry, and we 
 are going third class." 
 
 " He will be all right," said the General. " Come 
 with us, and I will pay the difference." 
 
 " No. I am much obliged to you. I never break my 
 promises. Besides, he has been mewed up there so 
 long, thirty years and odd, that he would be lost 
 without me." 
 
 " How did he get on before he had you to take care 
 of him, you very old and sagacious gentleman ?" 
 
 " Well enough. Got from the stool to the gate, and 
 from the gate back to the stool, in the most perfect 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 manner, for thirty odd years — I slionld say, as far as I 
 can judge, the most perfect school porter that ever 
 lived. P>at he has got old, and wants a j)roper head to 
 guide him : we shall all come to that some day, I sup- 
 pose. Your offer is very kind, but I really must go and 
 look after my friend." 
 
 " Don't be too sharp, little man," said the General. 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " Have I been tallving too fast, sir ? " asked James, 
 wistfully. " I think I am a little beside myself this 
 morning. My name, sir, is James Sugden. I was a 
 shepherd boy, and was presented to St. Mary's by 
 Squire Silcote of Silcotes, to whom, in the main, we 
 owe the new change in the school." 
 
 " Captain Silcote's father," said Mrs. General. And 
 her husband added, " A bad family ; well, I am glad 
 he has been doing some good. He had need." 
 
 It was higli noon before this queer pair of travellers 
 arrived at their destination, and, after driving in a fly 
 ten miles from Basingstoke, saw the dear old building, 
 which they had left in London, before them again, 
 reproduced perfectly, from the dormitory windows down 
 to the gargoyles and pinnacles of the chapel. Eepro-
 
 ST. M JET'S £T THE LAKE. I79 
 
 diiced indeed ; but in what a strange way ! What an 
 astounding piece of magic was this ! They had left 
 the old building that morning in London, hemmed in 
 by ignoble houses on every side ; in the hot noon, they 
 found it again, standing on a lofty promontory, which 
 thrust itself out into a beautiful lake. Behind the col- 
 lege, and to the right of it, the dark Scotch fir woods 
 rolled away, tier beyond tier, the building standing out 
 before them like some new carved toy. In front there 
 was the lake, calm under the noonday sun ; and all 
 around, shutting out the horizon everywhere, rolled 
 llie hills, in sheets and scarps of purple blooming 
 heather. 
 
 It was a wonderfully beautiful sight — those who have 
 had the luck to see Mitchet Pond on the Basing- 
 stoke Canal may guess how beautiful. Very few people 
 know the great beauty of those desolate Hampshire 
 lakes, lying on the Bagshot Sands. They have a 
 specialite of their own, from Frimley to Sowley, a dis- 
 tance of some seventy miles. All that a hopelessly 
 poor soil, inferior forms of vegetation, and solitude can 
 do for one, they do. At times they are romantic, as at 
 Mitchet, and at this lake of Purley ; but all of them 
 
 N 2
 
 180 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 on the hottest sumuier's day, suggest to one wild sweep- 
 ing winter winds, and warm winter ingle nooks. The 
 sounds of agricultural life are seldom heard upon their 
 desolate margin. The ]>ittern startles some solitary cow 
 in its flapping and noisy flight, and the snipe bleats in 
 the place of the lamb. 
 
 Tn this beautiful building, standing where the forest, 
 the lake, and the moorland met, the lad spent a long, 
 hot, solitary summer, the happiest of his life. The 
 solitude did him little harm, and the freedom did liini 
 gi'eat good. For instance, in his long, lonely I'ambles 
 over the gTeat sea-like expanses of heath, from one cape 
 of forest to another, his work of the last half came to 
 him with a new^ meaning. Virgil and Horace were not 
 mere puzzles of scanning, mere wearisome exercises of 
 memory. In these long rand)les he sometimes repeated 
 the passages he knew, from sheer ennui or vacuity ; he 
 began to find their meaning, and by degrees to admire 
 them, and long that school might begin again, and that 
 he might know mure of thuni. »Jf English poetry he 
 knew nothing: that was a later revelation. He says 
 now, in his fancifid. way, that the undoubted purity and 
 beauty of his outline comes from the fact that he had
 
 ST. MARY'S BY WE LAKE. 181 
 
 not debauched liis soul with post-classical literature 
 until ]ie was nearly seventeen. Probably the plain 
 truth is, that lie has a keen, steady eye, and a keen, 
 steady hand, and that the kind, genial soul, which is 
 inside the man, acts on the dexterous eye and hand, and 
 reproduces itself. If he chooses to assert that correct 
 drawing can only be got at by an exclusive study of the 
 classics, let him say so. He is not the first man who 
 has talked nonsense about art, and some of our cynical 
 friends may say, certainly not the last. 
 
 "V^Tiether she had been cruel or kind, he had always 
 feared or admu'ed Nature ; Init the fantastic, Ijroken 
 prettiness of Berkshii-e, had puzzled and confused him. 
 A kaleidoscope is one thing ; a painted window by 
 Kaulbach at Cologne is another. In this new Paradise 
 he for the first time saw great simple outlines — long 
 lines of forest, long horizons of heather, sometimes at 
 Ids furthest point southward broken by the square 
 tower of a great cathedral, with the sea gleam beyond 
 and he essayed to draw them, l)ut could not, nor ever 
 could to his satisfaction. Amateurs generally begin 
 their brief career amidst mountain scenery : a mountain 
 like Schehallion or Mont Cervin woidd set nine men
 
 J 82 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 out cf ten to work to paint it. TTc li;ul no sucli luck ; 
 he tried to draw the dull, simple lines of the Hamp- 
 shire landscape, as heinp; the first thing which he recog- 
 nised as drawable. He failed so utterly that Ben 
 Berry, the old porter, refused entirely to recognise the 
 landscape on any terms. And so James, in spite, late 
 one evening, in the lodge, sitting, with his shoes and 
 coat off on the table, drew old Ben himself, and did it 
 uncommonly well — at least, so every one said except 
 the new drawing-master, who set him at once at 
 pitchers and stiles. 
 
 In time summer flamed into autumn. The beds were 
 all made in tlie new dormitories ; th(^, new origan was 
 tuned ready for the first day's service. The old masters 
 bad dined together in the new hall, and bad sniffed, 
 with intense delight, the sweet air of autumn from the 
 Hampshire moors ; and at last the boys, wondering and 
 delighted at their new dress, and at the strange, beauti- 
 ful paradise in which tliey found themselves, had come 
 swarming back. James was king among tliem. He 
 had mastered the new situation, and was always after- 
 wards referred to about cross-country business. He 
 fairly kept the leail he had taken. He had learnt to
 
 ST. MJUrS BY TUE LAKE. 183 
 
 swim during the holidays, and was almost the only 
 boy who could swim well. October wa s mild that year ; 
 and on the first day, before the whole school, he swam 
 across the lake and back again, and became for a time 
 a hero among these town-bred bovs. It was little 
 enough to do ; they could most of them do it the next 
 summer ; but it gave him a temporary prestige, which 
 was very much increased by S(][uire Silcote sending 
 him a couple of sovereigns, when he was advised of 
 this wonderful Leander feat by a faithful friend of both 
 parties. 
 
 " You are now," said this faithful friend — Ai'thur, of 
 Balliol, who turned up here, as he did everywhere else, 
 for no assignable reason — " fairly launched. While you 
 were dressed in those wretched petticoats, I could not 
 do you the injustice to introduce you to a certain 
 pleasant family, where there are boys and girls of your 
 own age. At Christmas you will be asked to my 
 brother's house, and will there see a side of life which 
 will be perfectly new to you." 
 
 Accordingly he paid his visit to Lancaster Square, 
 and after the Christmas holidays Eeginald accompanied 
 him back to schooL
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 GARIBALDI AND KOSSUTH ARE STARTLED BY THE 
 APPARITION OF MADAME GEORGEY. 
 
 Leaving now for a time the fresh and free English- 
 like atmosphere of I'urley lake, T must ask my reader 
 to accompany me into quite a different one : into the 
 atmosphere which has Lcen made by the collision 
 between European- courts and dynastic traditions 
 and democracy combined with " the doctrine of 
 n-ntionalities " — which atmosphere, here in England, 
 generally offers itself to the outward senses with a 
 scent of seedy broadcloth and bad cigars. 
 
 Who is there among us who has not in his time met 
 a political exile : who is there M'ho has not met one 
 whom he has admired, and got to like? They are bores, 
 yon say. Certainly their cause is a bore. Certainly, at
 
 THE APPARITION OF MADAME GEORGEY. J 85 
 
 odd times, when one is busy, Polish and Hungarian 
 politics arc a bore ; and one does get sick, when one 
 is otlierwise employed, of being taken by the button, 
 and having a fresh arrangement of the map of Europe 
 laid before one in a shrill treble, the bass of which 
 consists of a denunciation of the unutterable wickedness 
 of England, for not, with a hundred and forty thousand 
 men, hardly collected, and costing a hundred a year 
 apiece, overrunning Europe with two million of soldiers, 
 and enforcing at the point of the bayonet emancipation 
 of nationalities, and what the Americans call a " Liberal 
 Platform." The cause was always a bore to many of us, 
 even while we loved them, for we most of us thought 
 that cause hopeless, and they themselves were inclined 
 to be bores ; though, thank heaven, the Italians, at all 
 events, by persistent boring, have got what they wanted. 
 And, if you look at it, few great things are done without 
 persistency, which means boredom for uninterested 
 people. Look at the unjust judge. The very man 
 whom I should have the honour to introduce to you 
 directly under the novi de guerre of Kriegsthurm, 
 said to me not so very long ago, "Eevolution? 
 yes, revolution. Failure once, twice, thrice, but
 
 186 SILCOTE OF SfLCOTES. 
 
 always again revolution. The card must turn up 
 some day." 
 
 Yet, in s]»ite of their boring us, few of us who havc^ 
 known any thing of them have not had occasion 
 to admire their patience, their frugality, and their 
 charity towards one another. Necessity had first 
 thrown Boyinskv the Pole and Count Aurelio Franui- 
 panni the Italiitn together, and now their respect 
 am] friendship for one another, after seeing out so 
 much grinding poverty together, was so great, tliat 
 to injure one was to arouse the dangerous anger of 
 Loth. 
 
 Frangipanni was a tall, slightly built, gentle-looking 
 man, with a very long face, a good, kindly deliberative 
 eye, and a prominent thin nose. He was neatly, though 
 shabbily, dressed ; his ■ face was carefully shaved all 
 over, and his hair was cropped close to his head : his 
 manner was grave, polite, and dignified ; he was a 
 gentleman at all points. Tn politics he was not a 
 democrat himself, but he used to tell you very calmly 
 that he would be willing to make an alliance with the 
 yery 2^arii (Vcnfcr itself, if it could give him a united 
 Italy.
 
 THE APPARITION OF MADAME GEORGEY. 187 
 
 His beloved Boginsliy was a patriot of another order : 
 fierce, dark, mysterious plots were the delight of his 
 really kind heart (never, of course, in any way involving 
 assassination — he was an honest fellow enough). He 
 was a lean, pale young man, of rather lai^e build, 
 without a hair on his deeply-marked face. As far as 
 I can remember, at this period of time, I should say 
 that he was broad-shouldered and athletic. Other 
 things about him are more easily remembered : for 
 instance, the restless defiant pair of eyes, which, how- 
 ever, never set themselves into a scowl at the worst 
 of times ; and the long, thin, delicate dexterous fingers, 
 almost as restless as the eyes. We used to believe 
 that the extreme pallor of his complexion arose from 
 a long imprisonment in a Eussian fortress ; possibly 
 want, and incessant application to the trade by which 
 he got his poor living, that of engraving maps — and 
 engraving them, I fear, very badly — had as much to 
 do with it as the imprisonment. I have borrowed the 
 name Boginsky from the Comtesse de Segur for him. 
 I went to him once about a certain map, and, when he 
 told me his real name, and I found out who he was, I 
 doubt whether I was ever more startled before or since.
 
 188 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES, 
 
 It was a name which ranked with Garibaldi's or 
 Kossutli's at tliat time. 
 
 I am remembering too nmch, possibly. Both these 
 gentlemen are now prosperous, and, T think, liappy. 
 Italy is united, and Poland dead. I'liat Boginsky, in 
 Ids quiet Australian farm, weeps at times for his dead 
 rolonia, one cannot doubt ; but she is only a memory. 
 No doubt, also, that Frangipanni, Deputato at Florence, 
 laments his Boginsky ; but the world has not behaved 
 very badly to either of them, all things considered. 
 
 I must ask your patience while I introduce Kriegs- 
 thurm. Kriegsthurm was a large, powerful, and now 
 a somewhat fat man, though still strong and active. 
 He was a man with a muddy-red complexion, with a 
 fat jowl, wliicli Avould never shave quite clean; a brown, 
 short-cut moustache, a square thick nose, heavy Ijrowu 
 eyebrows, and two evil, steady little eyes. A gross, 
 strong man, who fed gluttonously, and ruminated for 
 an hour after meals, with his fat knees crossed, and his 
 cunning little eyes gleaming into quick intelligence 
 whenever there was the least necessity for attention to 
 outward matters. This man got his living ostensibly 
 by keeping a lodging-house, generally frequented by
 
 THE APPARITION OF MADAME GEORGEY. ] 89 
 
 distressecV patriots ; he also did a little photography, 
 and a little of a great many other things which we 
 will not particularize. Among other things, he was a 
 fortune-teller and a subsidiser of spiritual mediums, 
 and, somehow, had made a large and very paying 
 connexion in this line among certain of the upper 
 orders. He was a spy and a traitor; but Boginsky and 
 Frangipanni believed in him, loved him, and trusted 
 him. He was a thorough-going revolutionist, and far 
 shrewder than such men as our two honest friends 
 before-mentioned. And the man had the power, 
 strange to say, of holding these simple gentlemen in 
 leash. When Frangipanni came back to him in '48, 
 naked and wounded, Kriegsthurm took him in, and set 
 him up again (let that be mentioned to his credit). " I 
 told you not to go," he said. " I told you the pear was 
 not ripe ; and I married a Jewess, and ought to know. 
 And here you are. It will all come in time if you wait 
 for it. A man of your mark should not go Strasbourging 
 and Boulogning. By the by, Tiis time will come, you 
 mark my words. Let Boginsky go, if you like : if he 
 was knocked on the head, I could find a dozen like 
 him. And, besides, I am not going to have it done
 
 190 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 yet," The man's shrewdness and power were undeni- 
 able, and Boginsky, who limped in later, was obliged 
 to confess that Kriegsthurm deserved well oi' the demo- 
 cracy of Europe. When Garibaldi started for Sicily in 
 18G(>, this man ranged and raged through Leicester 
 Square and Kentish Town, arousing the patriotic. 
 "This thing will do, I tell you," he said; "the time 
 has come, and the man is on the spot ! Don't stint 
 yourselves for money noM". Never mind what you owe 
 me. Let it wait. I want the Two Sicilies to begin 
 with. I'll let your three pound fifteen stand." 
 
 To this man Kriegsthurm our old friend Squire 
 Silcote in later times propounded the question : 
 " AVhether or no he did not think himself, on the 
 whole, the greatest scoundrel in Europe ? " Kriegs- 
 thurm laughed in his face so diabolically that Silcote 
 stood silent and aghast with wonder and admiration. 
 
 In this man's house — a dull, squalid house, in a 
 back street in Kentish Town — on a dull, rainy day, 
 Erangipanni and Boginsky sat at their work. Count 
 Erangipanni was correcting the Italian exercises of one 
 of his pupils ; Boginsky was doing his map-work ; and 
 they had sat opposite one another for some hours,
 
 THE JPPARITION OF MADAME GEORGEY. 101 
 
 scarcely speaking, for bread must be won somehow. 
 It was a dull, dark, dirty room, with what Mrs, Grundy 
 would call a " foreign " smell in it ; meaning, I take 
 it, a smell of soup and cigars. But at last a neighbour- 
 ing clock struck one, and Boginsky cast his graver, or 
 whatever it was, on the table, and cried out in English, 
 for they neither knew well the other's language : — 
 
 "Father Fi-angipanni, I will work no more before 
 dinner ; and dinner is due. Father, if thou dottest 
 another i, I will denounce thee. Talk to me. My 
 soul is hungry." 
 
 " I will talk to thee, dear son, when I liave finished 
 my next paragraph. Canst thou never wait ? " They 
 thee'd and thou'd one another: they thought from 
 their experience of other languages that it was a 
 proof of familiarity. 
 
 " Wait ? No. I can never wait. Father, the doctors 
 of medicine in France can open veins and transfuse 
 blood. Father, let us get here a French doctor, and 
 let me have some of your old, cold, waiting blood, 
 passed into my veins. For my heart is like a blazing 
 coal. I want my Mazzini. He satisfies my soul And 
 he is not here, not there, not nowhere. Have the
 
 192 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES, 
 
 assassins caught him ? Give me my Mazzini, or trans- 
 fuse to me some of your heart's blood, and teach me to 
 wait." 
 
 " Titch me to weet," as he said it. Frangipanni, 
 putting away his jx'iis, ink, nnd paper with liis usual 
 tidiness, smiled at him. 
 
 " I do not tell you to wait, dear little Pole," he said. 
 "I do not tell you to hesitate in any way. Tlicre is 
 the door, my dear, and outside it you will find Creorge 
 Street, Kentish Town, London, England. Cry Havoc, 
 my dear, and let slip the dogs of war in George Street, 
 hey? You want a little wild talk, my son, and your 
 Mazzini is not handy for you. Talk your wild talk 
 out to me, my son, instead of to your IMazzini. Our 
 dear one is safe, no douht. I say to you that your 
 temper is too hot about affairs, and the king is not 
 ready. Scold me, dear child." 
 
 The dear child IJoginsky took him at his word, and 
 scolded with a vengeance. 
 
 " King not ready .-* Did ever you hear of a king 
 who ever was ready, unless he was pushed on behind 
 by an overwhelming democracy? I cry out, from the 
 inmost depths of my burning heart, for a democracy.
 
 THE JPPARITION OF MADAME GEORGEY. 193 
 
 and you talk to me of kings. Eoll a king's head 
 before the coalised scoundrels as Danton did. Let 
 the great heart of every nation speak out in a uni- 
 versal suffrage." 
 
 "As in Poland for instance, my child," said Count 
 Frangipanni. " How — knowing, as you do, that the 
 peasantry are most naturally bound to the Eussian 
 side, to the side of order, to the side which will give 
 them some sort of peace and security — can you talk 
 such nonsense ? Kings are of value, orders are of 
 value. All should be utilised in the great cause of 
 nationality, with democracy if necessary, without de- 
 mocracy if possible. Come, child, no more of it. Am 
 I not an aristocrat myself? You forget your man- 
 ners, my dear ; and you forget also that you are an 
 aristocrat yourself : proscribed it is true, but Louis 
 Napoleon Buonaparte was proscribed till the day be- 
 fore yesterday. Nothing can ever make you anything 
 but Count Boginsky, you know. And you lose your 
 temper over it all, my son. You entertain personal 
 feuds, and have your reminiscences. Now you should 
 copy me in that. I have no personal feeling towards 
 any one in the worhl." 
 • VOL. I.
 
 194 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 Boginsky laughed, and, throwing himself hack in 
 his chair, hurst into song, set hurriedly to some wild, 
 whirling dance music— and into no despicahle kind 
 of song either; for he had a fine tenor voice, a good 
 knowledge of singing, and was, hesides, singing very 
 noble words : indeed, there are but few better : — 
 
 " I heard last uiglit a little child go singing, 
 'Neath Casa Guidi windows by the church, 
 '0 bella liberta, bella ! ' Stringing 
 The same words still on notes, he went in search 
 So high for, yon concluded the upspringing," &c. &c. 
 
 The older man's face flushed np. " But I have no 
 personal feeling towards any man Avhatever," he said. 
 " This is not the time for excitement either. Be quiet." 
 
 No personal feeling whatever, my dear Count Au- 
 relio Frangipanni 1 You are quite sure about that ? 
 You and Boginsky had argued together about politics 
 a long time, and you had always ended by asserting 
 that you had no personal feeling against any one in 
 the world : while our wild young Boginsky was for 
 hanging up half the European statesmen in a row. 
 The above conversation with Boginsky is not very im- 
 portant, and is only a variation on a hundred others ;
 
 TUB APPARITION OF MADAME GEORGEY. 195 
 
 but it ended by proving that you had a strong per- 
 sonal feeling against one man at least. 
 
 For, while they were idly waiting for their dinner 
 — Frangipanni having pronounced against singing of 
 all kinds, even against Barrett Browning engrafted on 
 Strauss, and certainly producing revolutionary fruit — 
 there came a ring at the bell. Then there was a 
 conference in the passage ; and then the draggle-tail 
 servant girl, a shrewd enough little cockney on most 
 occasions, who had shown in more princes than one 
 into that parlour in her time, and who did the general 
 work of the house, opened the door, and said — 
 
 "If you please, sir, here is the Prince of Castel- 
 nuovo." 
 
 The effect of the little cockney maid's words was 
 something fearful to see. The calm middle-aged gentle- 
 man, Count Frangipanni, without the slightest personal 
 feeling towards any one in the world, bounded on 
 his feet, and cried out, " Death and fury ! give me my 
 sword ! Is he mad to himt me down here ? My sword, 
 Boginsky ! my sword ! Traitor, you are holding me ! " 
 And the ferocious and sanguinary democrat, who was 
 ready to hang up half the statesmen in Europe in a row, 
 
 2
 
 196 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 threw himself on his hrnthor count, and held him hack 
 by sheer force, saying, " Now you are going to make a 
 fool of yourself, you know. You would he an assassin 
 at this moment if I was not here to take care of you. 
 Sit down in that chair and hold your tongue. You have 
 bitten your mouth in your passion, and the hlood is 
 running. Suck your lower lip, and swallow the hlood. 
 Don't let liim see it ; and, if you possibly can, sit quiet, 
 and let me do the talking." 
 
 Count Frangipunni had done what he hated, doing 
 beyond most men — had made a fool of himself, and 
 been detected in the act by a very pretty woman. 
 He was standing in the middle of the room, towering up 
 in a dignified attitude, white with rage, the very veins 
 in his forehead swollen, and Count Boginsky was still 
 holding him back with both hands, and begging him to 
 be calm ; A\hen there entered to them a very handsome 
 woman in a white bonnet, a rich Mdiite lace shawl over 
 a silver-grey moire antique dress, and delicately fitting 
 cream-coloured gloves — a monsti'ous constrast to their 
 shabby squalor — who l»egnn, "I beg a thousand pardons," 
 and then stopped in sheer wonder at the astounding 
 appearance of the two men before her.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE PRINCESS, AFTER AN INEFFECTUAL EFFORT TO COMPOSE 
 MATTERS BETWEEN ITALY AND AUSTRIA, HAS A LITTLE 
 TABLE-RAPPING. 
 
 Count Feangipanni was the first to recover his presence 
 of mind. He advanced, bhishing deeply, towards oiir 
 old acquauitance the Princess of Castelnuovo. Boginsky 
 stood staring open-mouthed, utterly taken aback at 
 what one may be allowed to call this " sell," and 
 apparently very much inclmed to laugh. - 
 
 Frangipanni took her for a foreigner, probably because 
 she was so well dressed, and spoke to her in his kind of 
 French. " I owe Madame a thousand apologies for dis- 
 covering me in such a lamentable disorder. My serene 
 Madame will have the complacency to bend her power- 
 ful mind to understand that I am getting old, and am
 
 198 SLLCOTE OF SI L COTES. 
 
 subject to dblouissements. The sudden announcement 
 of the name of so eminent a princess," — here he began 
 to remember that she was an En^^lishwoman — "of one 
 so devoted to tlic Ted — 1 bal)ble — to the Austrian 
 interests, produced a recuiTence of my mahidy. I am 
 unfortunately Italian in my sym])atlues. The noble 
 kinsman of Madame, unless I delude myself, ornaments 
 still the court of Vienna. jMay 1 d(j the lionours of our 
 miserable menage, and may T receive the commands of 
 Madame ? " 
 
 Madame, with her silly good-nature, never cared to 
 inquire his name. " You may depend on it," she said 
 in her French, wliich was mucli queerer than Frangi- 
 panni's, " that these ehlouissements are all nonsense. 
 Don't let them cause y i m any inconvenience. A soupqon 
 of brandy in your tea of a morning will set you all right. 
 Every one has them more or less, tliou^h you certainly 
 do seem to suffer more tlian most, I nnist say. None of 
 you Italian patriots have nnicli digestion to speak of, 
 you know : that is why you are so troublesome. But I 
 am seeking Herr Kriegsthurm, and that silly girl told 
 me he was here. I make then my apologies and with- 
 draw."
 
 THE PRINCESS HAS A LITTLE TABL E RAPPING. ] 99 
 
 And she withdrew. Boginsky had time to say, " Is 
 tliat the Englishwoman whom the traitor Castelnuovo 
 married for her money ? " when she came back again, 
 and, standing before the door, opening and shutting her 
 parasol, said, in her native tongue, 
 
 " Does Monsieur speak English ? " 
 
 " He does." 
 
 " Will you allow me to say, sir, that I hope there is 
 no ill-will between us. I begin to think that I know 
 Monsieur's face, though I cannot remember his name. 
 Will he favour me with it ? " 
 
 " To oblige Madame, anything. I am the unhappy 
 Count Aurelio Erangipanni." 
 
 " Oh, my good gracious goodness ! " said the poor 
 Princess, dissolving into tears, and using a lace pocket- 
 handkerchief most unaffectedly. " This is the most 
 dreadful thing which ever happened to me. My dear 
 sir, I give you my honour that I thought you had been 
 dead some time. And to find you alive, and in this 
 miserable state, makes me so deeply unhappy. Can 1 
 do nothing ? " 
 
 " Madame's disappointment at finding me alive is 
 most natural. Madame's offer of assistance is most
 
 200 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 natural also, as it comes from her kind and generous 
 heart. But slie must, with her intuitive good taste, 
 perceive tliat the acceptance of any such offers is im- 
 possible on my })ui't. I feel sure that Madame will 
 see that without taking offence at my plain speech." 
 
 So spoke the Italian gentleman to the Englishwoman 
 whom he hated and despised, and whose husband had 
 betrayed him most shamefully, in more ways than one, 
 as he believed by her instigation. There was just a 
 little irony in it, but the Princess had not brains enough 
 to see it. 
 
 " I am so very sorry for all that took place. Count, and 
 })ulitics are politics, and your side were not blameless, 
 you know, and 1 have plenty of money, and I am sure 
 that my sainted Massimo, now in glory, would approve 
 almost anything you would mention in a pecuniary 
 point of view. Do think of it." 
 
 " I will, Madame, and politely decline it." 
 
 " I am afraid I have offended you by the offer of 
 money. Forgive me. I am powerful at Vienna : I 
 represent the Protestant interest there to a certain 
 extent. Can I do nothing politically for you? If you 
 could manage — to manage you know — so far as to let
 
 THE PRINCESS HAS A LITTLE TA BLE RAFFING. 20 1 
 
 me take in yoiir submission ; I could manage almost 
 anything for you. Now do speak the word, my dear 
 soul, because I really had not anything to do with it." 
 
 So she dragged her coarse-toothed harrow over the 
 nervous and delicate, almost fanatical, soul of poor 
 Count Frangipanni. It seems that the men who came 
 back in the best case from the ghastly nightmare 
 Moscow expedition were the Neapolitans — the most 
 sensitive, most passionate, and yet the most enduring of 
 men. Count Frangipanni was one of them. 
 
 " Madame's offers are most politely declined," said he, 
 very gently indeed. 
 
 " Then," she said, " I wish you would tell me where , 
 Kriegsthurm is." 
 
 We have most of us known more than one man who 
 is under the delusion that if you curse and swear in a 
 foreign language, God does not hear you ; indeed it is 
 not an uncommon delusion. Kriegsthurm, who had 
 overheard the whole of this from the open door of the 
 parlour, across the passage, must have been under this 
 impression, or he never would have dared to swear to 
 himself in the way he did. Polyglot spy as he was, he 
 exhausted nearly every oath in Europe over the un-
 
 202 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 utterable stupidity of the servant-girl wlio had brought 
 about this rencontre. The Princess's very presence there, 
 inquiring for liini, lie argued, Avould prove tliat he had 
 at one time been in relation with the traitorous Italian- 
 Austrian party ; and, if she accidentally let out any- 
 thing about their former relations— wliicli, as the most 
 loose-tongued woman he had ever met, she was very 
 likely to do— Frangipanni and Boginsky would set it 
 about among other refugees not so scrupidous as them- 
 selves, and it would be totally impossible for him to 
 leave England without the chance of a knife between 
 his ribs. " And what the mischief does she want here?" 
 he kept asking himself in the intervals of swearing. 
 " Does she want foreign intelligence, or lianky-panky, 
 or what the deuce does she want ? " 
 
 Hanky-panky, it appeared. She wanted spiritual 
 intelligence of the last moment, on a subject which 
 had agitated and distressed lier extremely. She had 
 scarcely taken her seat, and liad not been half a minute 
 in tlie room, when she had told him tluis much. The 
 wonderfully dextrous scoundrel was perfectly ready fur 
 her even in that time, and interrupted her. 
 
 "My dear patroness need not delay over prelimi-
 
 TUE PRINCESS UAS A LITTLE TABLE RAPPING. 203 
 
 naries. T have been, in consequence of the spiritual 
 rapport which exists between your highness and my- 
 self, in a state of extreme agitation for these two 
 hours. You have only to look at me, madam, to see 
 that I speak the truth." 
 
 " How will that do as to time ? " he thought. " I 
 know she has come straight to me ; hut did she get 
 the news at Silcote's or in town ? And what the 
 deuce is it ? " 
 
 He certainly did look disturbed ; even such a 
 cunning rogue as he cannot swear himself into a 
 blind rage one minute, and remove ail traces of it 
 in the next. Tlie Princess was very much delighted. 
 
 " I was certain that we were still en rapport, my 
 faithful Kriegsthurm. How can 1 reward you ? " 
 
 " By sharing your anxiety with me, madam. It is 
 worry enough that I, in the interests of the court of 
 Vienna, board at my house two dark assassins. I beg 
 you to remove this new cause of anxiety as quick as 
 possible." 
 
 " Then you have no notion of its cause ? " asked the 
 Princess. 
 
 " Madam, what time have I had to consult any of the
 
 204 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 usual oracles ?" And lie reflected, " Tlie first shot was 
 a good one with regard to time ; slic lias heard some- 
 thing in London. Then lie went on. " Ihit you are fa- 
 tigued with your long journey, madam ; long travelling 
 in a railway is most fatiguiu"-, and the Great Western 
 caridages are not M^ell ventilated. May I get you a 
 glass of wine ?" All because he knew the woman's 
 habit of chattering, and because he knew, also, that 
 suggestions of time and place woidd suggest ordinary 
 ideas to her feeble mind, and make her chatter." 
 
 " I have not come far," she said, " I got my cab at 
 the end of York Street. So I had not far to walk. I 
 am not tired, but I am very much distressed." 
 
 He had it all now. She had come from the 
 barracks. 
 
 " I have l)een distressed myself, madam, for a long 
 time on the same subject. The original mig-chief arose 
 from Mars crossing A^enus at the hour of nativity in 
 the house of death. Your nephew has not been to 
 blame ; no man could light against such influences." 
 
 " I don't understand astrology," said the poor Princess. 
 (" Thank heaven !" thought Kriegsthurm, " for I am sure 
 /don't. What an awful fuol this woman is. I wonder
 
 THE PRINCESS HAS A LITTLE TABLE RAPPING. 205 
 
 wliat she will stand over this business ? ") " I am sure, 
 as you say, that my poor Thomas, my favourite nephew, 
 has been born under evil influences, and is not in the 
 least to blame. But I want a spiritual consultation 
 with you, as to whether his father is likely to pay his 
 debts after this dreadful fiasco, and if not, what is to be 
 done. This last business is the worst of all, and the 
 Horse Guards have taken it up." 
 
 " We had better have a spiritual consultation, madam. 
 I think everything is ready. Shall we begin ? We 
 cannot begin too soon," he added ; for he wanted time 
 to think, and did not know as much as he wished. 
 
 " Will you darken the room ? " said the Princess. 
 
 Not if he knew it, thought Kriegsthurm ; he wanted 
 to watch that foolish handsome face in broad daylight. 
 "The spirits who communicate with me, madam, do 
 not require darkness," he said ; and so the rogue and 
 the fool sat down, and put their hands on a table. This 
 seems wearisome and ridiculous ; but please to re- 
 member that, scarcely four years ago, a large minority 
 of educated people were either playing at, or playing 
 with the same idiotic game, and that many are playing 
 at it still.
 
 2C6 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 " If you are not goin*,^ to darken the room," said the 
 Princess, " 1 tliink I will lake a glass of sherry. I am 
 so awfully afraid of seeing something. I don't mind 
 the knocking so much after a time, hut 1 couhln't 
 hear to see anything. I should die of fright." 
 
 She had her sherry, and they sat down again. For 
 a very long time there was silence, Lut at last the 
 Princess gaye a scream, for which Kriegsthurm, now 
 on the high horse, rebuked her with a scowl. The 
 rapping had begun ^^'ith what jVIr. Dickens calls " a 
 runaway carriage double." Kriegsthurm frowned her 
 into silence, and began taking down the numbers of the 
 raps on a piece of paper with a pencik The raps all 
 came from beneath the table in rapid unaccountable 
 groups, and l)y degrees, the table became agitated, and 
 they had to stand up, and then the table, being depriyed 
 of the assistance of Kriegsthurm's great ugly sausage- 
 like knee, l)ecame quiet again. I don't know how he 
 managed the matter, but it was like a fourth-class 
 amateur conjuring-trick from beginning to end — not 
 to be compared to Frikell or Stodare's worst ; but 
 haying to do it before a yery silly person, he dared, 
 like those gentlemen, to do it in dayligiit. Tlie result
 
 THE PRINCESS HAS A LITTLE TABLE RAPPING. 207 
 
 is what we have to do with, however. When the raps 
 had ceased, the table was quiet, and he had had 
 time to think the matter over, it appeared that the 
 following was the commnnication from the other 
 world : — 
 
 " Captain Tom Silcote has undoubtedly made a 
 worse mess of it than ever he had done before. Tliere 
 is no chance whatever of his father's paying his debts 
 again ; and any attempt of his most amiable aunt's 
 doing the like thing will bring on her the anger of the 
 spirits, at present well intended towards her, and may 
 induce them to plague her, for her good, with a Polter- 
 geist. Tliere is no fear that Captain Silcote will marry 
 the Signora Maritornes, being married already, and 
 knowing well what he is about. He had better go to 
 Vienna (" Cheeze it abroad," it stood in the original 
 
 pencil MS., before Kriegsthurm had time to bring his 
 mind to bear on details), where his aunt's purse and 
 influence will aid him. Outlawing will be his portion ; 
 and let him keep clear of dark places in Italian territory, 
 lest they should find out that he is his dear aunt's 
 nephew." 
 
 So much had he time to concoct under the circum-
 
 208 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 stances. He got rid of his visitor, and went anxiously 
 Lack to his two lodgers. 
 
 They had no earthly suspicion of him : as loyal 
 gentlemen themselves, they never dreamt that a man 
 Avlio had liecome their familiar friend in misfortune 
 could he a traitor and a spy. Frangipanni talked per- 
 sistently in a solenni monotone about his wrongs in 
 general, and the injuries received from Castelnuovo, 
 all dinner time ; and warned Kriegsthurm against 
 having anything to do even with his English wife, who 
 could not but be treacherous from the name she bore. 
 
 As for Thomas Silcote, his fiasco was in the morning 
 papers. In a spirit of sheer mischief, he had persuaded 
 that reckless Spaniard, Madame ]\Iaritornes, to go for a 
 tour, leaving her engagement, at the cost of thousands 
 upon thousands to herself, and the gTeat indignation of 
 the public. It was so openly and notoriously tlie work 
 of Thomas Silcote, and came at the end of so many 
 other shameful scandals, that his collapse was instan- 
 taneous. The army authorities interfered, and he was 
 recommended to sell out. Frantic efforts were made 
 by some of tlie tradesmen to catch him, 1>ut he antici- 
 pated all the ne, exeats and amved safely in Vienna.
 
 CHAPTEE XVIIl. 
 
 SOME OF THE SQUIRE'S PLANS FOR ARTHUR. 
 
 " And so that business is over and done with," said the 
 Squire to Arthur one morning before lunch. "And 
 now the best thing you can do is to go over this after- 
 noon and begin to make the agreeable to the eldest 
 Miss Granby. It will be all right; I sounded old 
 Granby on the matter. And at the same time write to 
 those Oxford peoj)le, and resign your fellowship — cut 
 the shop altogether, and pitch your white tie overboard 
 at the same time. It is not too late even now to leave 
 the Church and go to the Bar. Don't let me see those 
 black clothes any more. You must act up to your new 
 position. One parson in a family is well enough, but 
 the head of a family never ought to be in orders." 
 VOL. L p
 
 210 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 Silcote said all this in a Mundering halting sort of 
 way, with his eyes turned from his son, wandering up 
 and down ; he jingled his watch-chain also while he 
 was saying it, and was evidently doubtful, if not actually 
 afraid, of the wav in which it would be received. He 
 was not at all reassured by Arthur saying, very coolly, — 
 
 " I don't half understand you. I. thmk wc. nuist have 
 an explanation." 
 
 The Squire knew perfectly well how hopeless it was 
 to attempt to l)ully Arthur. Still, no point would be 
 lost by riding the high horse at first, whereas one or 
 two points might be gained. He was so afraid of 
 Arthur that he had never unrolled his new plans to 
 him, but had trusted that, when they were all in train 
 and lialf-accomplished, Arthur would submit to them 
 from necessity. Hence his confused announcement of 
 them, which puzzled Arthur extremely. 
 
 " I am going to submit to no explanations or dis- 
 cussions whatever. You are now the heir of the house, 
 and I shall trouble you to behave as the heirs of great 
 families are generally expected to behave ; with sub- 
 mission to the head of the house. Yesterday you were 
 nobody, a mere fellow of Balliol or some such place.
 
 SOME OF THE SQUIRE^S PLANS FOR ARTHUR. 21 1 
 
 To-day you are the heir to a very great property ; and, 
 with your talents, you must end in the House of Lords. 
 I have let you have your own way while you were a 
 younger son. I insist that you obey my will now you 
 are the elder." 
 
 " You don't mean to say that you have disinherited 
 Tom?" 
 
 " Of course I have disinlierited that scoundrel, sir. 
 This morning I have made a new will, leaving the 
 whole of the property unreservedly to you. But I will 
 have my conditions fulfilled. Nothing can prevent my 
 leaving everything to St. Mary's Hospital if I choose. 
 It does not take long to make a will, sir." 
 
 " You have done a very foolish thing, and a very 
 unfair thing," replied Arthur, steadily. " Tom will do 
 very well in time, and it was you who spoilt him, as 
 you are spoiling Anne. As regards myself, you might 
 have had the civility to consult me before burdening 
 me with this wretched property and its responsibilities, 
 and ruinmg all my plans for the future. I have marked 
 out a plan of life for myself, and the possession of great 
 wealth don't enter into that plan at all,— in fact, would 
 ruin it. Conceive a man of my talents and ambition, 
 
 p 2
 
 212 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 and A\'itli my fanatical ideas of the responsibilities 
 of wealtli, having to drag out his life among the 
 wretched details of a Large English estate ! You must 
 he mad." 
 
 " Better men than you have done so, sir." 
 " Il'm," said Arthur. " AVell, givmg you that point, 
 the more fools they. If you don't do your duty by your 
 estate, you are a rascal ; if you do, you cut yourself oft' 
 from everything which makes life valuable. You, for 
 one instance, make yourself a member of a particular 
 order, and l)y degrees imbibe the prejudices of that 
 order. 1"1I defy any man in the world to associate 
 hal)itually with one set of neighbours, and not take up 
 with their prejudices. And I want no prejudices. 
 There is loriggishness enough at Oxford iov me. A 
 word (jr a plirase too often repeated gets a fictitious 
 value, and at last is worshipped as a sacred truth ; 
 and he who dares handle it in any way roughly is a 
 heretic and a villain : the word Eeform, for instance. 
 Now about IVIiss Granby. I have not the honour 
 of the young lady's acquaintance. INIay I ask -wdiy 
 her name was mentioned just now, as a matter of 
 curiosity ? "
 
 SOME OF TUB SQUIRE'S PLANS FOR ARTHUR. 213 
 
 " She lias eighty thousand pounds, Arthur, and, if I 
 couhl see her my daughter-in-law, I should not have a 
 wish uugratified." 
 
 " You want to see her eighty thousand pounds in the 
 family ? " 
 
 " Precisely." 
 
 " Then why don't you marry her yourself ? You are 
 not old, you are quite as good-looking as ever I remem- 
 l)er you to have been, and she would sooner have you 
 than me. There would not be the same disparity in 
 your ages. You know she is old enough to be my 
 mother." 
 
 "Then you are determined to thwart me in this?" 
 
 "Most assuredly." 
 
 " Take care, sir." 
 
 " I shall take very good care I don't marry IMiss 
 Granby. Come, don't let us quarrel ; we quite under- 
 stand one another. Tom will distinguish himself, and 
 be taken Ijack into favour again. You know he has got 
 a commission in the Austrian army ? " 
 
 " No. It is impossible. The regulations would not 
 permit of it." 
 
 " Nothing is impossible to our aunt, the Princess,
 
 214 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 at Vienna, it seems. She lias managed it. He is 
 fiddling at the top of the tune there." 
 
 " With her money, I suppose ? " 
 
 " So / suppose." 
 
 " He will ruin her, as he woidd have ruined nic." 
 
 " I fear there is very little doul)t of it." 
 
 " Can't you warn her." 
 
 " Yes, I can warn her, and so I can warn her brother, 
 my most gTacious father; and so I can warn the 
 thorou<>h-Q;oin2; Eadicals : but with the same result in 
 every case." 
 
 " It is a l)ad business," said the Squire. " Your aunt 
 is very foolish, Arthur. And she has got a very pretty 
 bit of money of her own. She has a terrible slippery 
 tongue, but she can't have a bad heart. Arthur, I 
 believe she is very fond of me still, and I have not 
 spoken a civil word to her this twenty years." 
 
 " ]\[ore shame for you," said Arthur. " ^^^ly can't 
 you be kind to her ? It is all nonsense, you 
 know," 
 
 " Is it ? " said the Squire. " Come, I wish you would 
 drink some more of this wine ; it is real Clos Vourgeot, 
 of the first cms. I imported the hogshead with Cass of
 
 SOME OF THE SQUIRE'S PLANS FOR ARTHUR. 215 
 
 JSTorthcote and Sir Charles Haselburn ; you can get no 
 sucli claret at Oxford." 
 
 " I am aware of it ; but T take very little wine." 
 
 " I fear you don't take enough. What makes you so 
 pale ? You get paler year by year : sometimes you look 
 quite ghastly." 
 
 " Yet I never look ?//, do I ? I work a great deal — 
 a very gi^eat deal — and very much by night. In con- 
 sequence of something a fellow-tutor said to me a few 
 years ago, I determined to work mathematics up to 
 the Cambridge standard, and I have done so. I am now 
 examiner, and correcting the papers last term has 
 pulled me down. Don't mention my health. I dislike 
 it. I am perfectly well." 
 
 " On your honour ? " 
 
 " On my honour. I have never had a day's illness 
 smce I was a boy. The reason I dislike the mention of 
 it is that, to me, the loss of health w^oidd be such a 
 hideous disaster." 
 
 " I wish I could see you well mamed, Arthur." 
 " I thought we had done with Miss Granby." 
 
 " So we have, if you like. One could as soon make 
 water mix with oil as make you marry any one you did
 
 216 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 not like ; unless you made it out to be your duty, and it 
 don't seem to 1)6 part of your duty to obey your fatlier, 
 "VVe will say nothing more about lier. I should not 
 
 object to any other, proNidcd she was ; provided 
 
 she met your views, of course. Is there such a one ?" 
 
 Arthur, usually so pale, was, in spite of himself, 
 burning red as he answered steadily, " No." 
 
 " You are perfectly certain that you mean what 
 you say, Arthur, and that there is no young lady 
 whatsoever ? " 
 
 " I am perfectly certain," replied Ai'thur, looking his 
 father steadily in the face, and getting by degi-ees less 
 fiery hot about the ears. " There is no one whatever ! " 
 
 " I am delighted to hear it," said the Squire. " It is 
 a great relief to my mind. That sort of thing never 
 
 does, depend ujxtn it Well, I'll say no more. Now, 
 
 can I do anything for you ? You must want some 
 money." 
 
 " I don't want any money, thank you. But I shoidd 
 be very glad if you would reconsider the measure of 
 turning the M'idow Granmore and her sons out of 
 their farm." 
 
 " They shall sto}) in if you like, at your request."
 
 SOME OF THE SQUIRE'S FLANS FOR ARTHUR. 217 
 
 " I only -want justice done. I only want to see that 
 you don't do yourself more injustice with the country. 
 "VVliat is your case ? " 
 
 The Squire stated it eagerly and volubly — delighted 
 to have a chance of justifymg himself before a perfectly 
 unliiassed person. " Case, sir ? it is all on my side. I 
 allowed her and three lubberly sons to keep the farm on 
 after Granmore's death, on certam conditions as to crops 
 and fences, not one of which has been fulfilled ; they 
 have neither brams, energy, or capital to fulfil them. 
 She is ruining my land. She is destroymg the capital 
 on which she professes to be paying mterest. She is 
 living on me. She is breaking every law of political 
 economy ; and I have given her notice. I cannot have 
 my land destroyed by other people's widows : but, after 
 all, it is as good as your land now, and, if you say let 
 her stay, she shall stay. Only I warn you that, if you 
 are going to manage the estate on these pruiciples, you 
 had better let me marry Miss Granby in real earnest, 
 and accept a rent charge." 
 
 " Well," said Arthur, " in strict justice your case is 
 a good one ; she has certainly no more right to ruin 
 your land than to pick your pocket. Send the baggage
 
 218 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 packing. You are only a capitalist, you know, and 
 must, in mere honesty towards the State, behave as any 
 other capitalist. If she is actually over-cropping the 
 land, she ought to go on every ground. I am quite 
 convinced." And so Ai'thur rose, whistling. 
 
 " Is there no middle course ? " said the Squire, before 
 he had reached the door. 
 
 "Eh?" 
 
 " Any middle course. Nothmg short of turning her 
 out ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, there is a middle course, if you think your- 
 self justified in pursuing it, Eenew her lease for a 
 shorter term on more stringent conditions, and lend her 
 some money at four per cent, to start M'ith. She knows 
 what she is about fast enough. That is a middle course. 
 I don't recommend it, or otherwise ; I only point it out." 
 
 "Well, I will follow your advice then, young sir. 
 Is it the new fashion at Oxford to incur obligations and 
 shirk out of the acknowledgment of them, — to persuade 
 a man to do what you wish in such an ill-conditioned 
 manner that the oliligation actually appears to be on 
 your side? I will do as you wish, Arthur, and most 
 luunbly thank you for asking me."
 
 SOMH OF THE SQUIRE'S PLANS FOR ARTHUR. 219 
 
 Arthur left the room, and was gone aljoiit ten minutes. 
 When he returned he came in very gravely, and laid his 
 hand on the Sqiiire's shoulder. 
 
 " Father," he said, " I thank you very heartily for all 
 your kindness to me, more i)articularly in this matter 
 about the farm. I will, in everything, follow your 
 wishes as far as they do not interfere with my private 
 judgment. I have not behaved well to you to-night, 
 and I ask your forgiveness."
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 SOME OF ARTHUR'S PLANS FOR HIMSELF. 
 
 It cost liini sometliiug to say those last M-ords, even 
 to liis o\vn lather. 
 
 How far can a man, even of the strongest will, 
 succeed in curing the faults of his character ? He may 
 repress them, and hide them from the eyes of other 
 people almost entirely, hut they are there incubating. 
 And when the moral system gets out of ordur, the 
 moral gout gets twitching again. A man has generally 
 contracted all the faults of character he M'ill ever he 
 plagued with this side of the grave before he is sixteen; 
 some being hereditary, st)me coming through foolish 
 liducation, and some through evil oj)portuuity. The 
 life of the most perfect saint would Ije the life of a man 
 who by misfortune had found himself at years of dis-
 
 SOME OF ARTHUR'S PLANS FOR HIMSELF. 221 
 
 cretion the heir to a noble crop of evil moral instincts, 
 including of course the accursed root of the whole evil 
 tree, selfishness ; and yet wlio had succeeded, through 
 all states of ill health, poverty, and the temptation of 
 prosperity, in keeping them in repression ; in never 
 even betraying to the world the fact of the tempta- 
 tion ; the fact of the evil disposition existing at all ; 
 knowing himself to be often in wish a sinner, yet, 
 acting throughout his life in every relation like a saint. 
 Such a character is possible, and yet even of such a 
 character one could not say that he had cured his 
 worse instincts ; one could only say that he had most 
 nobly suppressed them. 
 
 There are those who hold the very noble and glorious 
 belief that, through the grace of God, and the persistent 
 imitation of Christ, evil instincts themselves become 
 eradicated, and at the last that the soul itself quits the 
 body in perfect accord with her Sa^dour. Of such a 
 divine creed let us speak with reverence, and deep 
 admiration. "VVe have not to do \di\\ such great and 
 deep matters here ; but only to watch how circum- 
 stances acted on a clever man's habits of mind, 
 changing them from time to time.
 
 222 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 "We were speaking of Artliiir Sileote ; a man who 
 took pride in dexterously, and with shrewd common 
 sense, steering clear of the Pantheists of those times 
 on the one hand and the Tractarians on the other ; and 
 destructively snapping, bitterly enough at times, at the 
 weak points of each ; and constructively building up a 
 most queer and adaptive form of orthodoxy, which the 
 more advanced and embittered spirits on either side 
 agreed (in that if in nothing else) would certaiidy get 
 
 him a bishopric in the end. 
 
 He was no saint, although a man of perfect purity 
 in morals, and one who made duty and self-sacrifice 
 (as he thought) the first object of his life. If you told 
 him that ambition and love of power were the main- 
 spring of most of his actions, he would honestly admit 
 it, and say coolly in addition that he felt himself fit for 
 power, and that it was therefore his duty to acquire it. 
 Continual and miinterrupted success from his very 
 youth had developed in him that form of selfishness 
 which we call self-confidence. He had, with his self- 
 confidence, taken stock of this same vice among other, 
 real and imaginary, imperfections, to be cured in his 
 scheme of making himself a perfect and successful
 
 SO^JE OF ARTHURS PLANS FOR lUMSELF. 223 
 
 cliaracter; and, as Mr. Pip when he ^va^ote out a 
 schedule of his debts and left a margin, thought it 
 was as good as paying them, so Arthur, when he wrote 
 down " overweening self-confidence " in the analysis of 
 his character, alongside of gluttony and laziness, 
 thought that the former devil, being en visage, was of 
 necessity laid with the two others. Nevertheless 
 Arthur had been a prig at school sometimes, and, in 
 spite of all his spasmodic efforts to the contrary, was 
 a little of one now. He was a man whose goodness 
 shamed one, but he was without the quality of honlwmie 
 now, as he was five years before, when the old tutor at 
 Balliol warned him of this fault in his character, and 
 when he so faithfidly determined to amend it. 
 
 His influence among midergraduates was less than 
 nothing. The year of his proctorship he was nearly 
 howled out of the theatre ; although no one was able to 
 bring a single case of injustice against him. Perfectly 
 without blame himself, he was utterly unable to make 
 allowances for lads scarcely yomiger than himself. He 
 had been warned about the reckless stinging use of his 
 tongue by Avise and good friends, and he thought he 
 had conquered that habit at least ; but with overwork
 
 224 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 llic old lialiit came hack, and lils sentences against under- 
 gi'adiiates were emhittered sometimes hy cruel words, 
 so that men said tliey would sooner be rusticated hy 
 the other proctor tlian gated hy him. His manner ^s 
 an examiner, too, was cold, contemptuous, and in- 
 exorable ; the " sliady" man, whose cruel fate left him 
 to Silcote of Ballioli felt himself half plucked before he 
 began. And yet these were about half a dozen men, 
 all of the first mark in the university, who believed in 
 him, as Juurdan believed in the young artillery officer 
 Buonaparte, and who swore that he was not only the 
 cleverest, but the best and kindest fellow alive. 
 
 His ideas about women, about their powers of in- 
 tellect, their great weight in tlie social scale — whether 
 just or unjust, — their natural capabilities of learning 
 losical reasoniufj — whctlier tlieir sentimental conrlu- 
 sions came from an infeiitjr intellect or from the want 
 of a university education — are not ol' mucli value, see- 
 ing that he knew nothing whatever about them. But 
 he woidtl real it you off by the yard abuut women, 
 with liis liands in liis pocket comfortably, and would 
 leave you with the impression tliat they were to be 
 tolerated, but that he did not think much of them.
 
 SOME OF ARTHUES PLANS FOR HIMSELF. 223 
 
 Miss Austen ! Oh certainly, but tlien any one could 
 write a novel. Her novels far better than Smollett's or 
 Fielding's ? Certainly, they were more entertaining 
 and w^ere without the element of coarseness. Mrs. 
 Somerville and Miss Herschell? They had shown a 
 certain capacity for figures. Mrs. Hemans ? Pretty 
 idea of rhythm and pathos. IVIiss^arrett ? Well, he 
 would give you Miss Barrett, if you came to that, 
 provided you admitted her to be an exception — other- 
 wdse would argue on until it was time to knock out of 
 college. Madame Dudevant, then ? No, on no account. 
 She only reproduced that rebellion against formulas 
 which expressed itself in the lower thought of the 
 Reformation and the French Eevolutiou. Mere over- 
 stated cases against old formulas did not constitute 
 original thought. She was Heine's youngest sister's 
 ghost, w^ithout his powers of epigram or rhythm. 
 Miss Bronte ? A good and nervous, though coarse, 
 describer of a narrow landscape. And so on : on this, 
 as on every other subject, apt to be bitter when he 
 knew his subject, and trying to be smart when he 
 did not. 
 
 One Christmas-day, as the reader may remember, a 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 SIICOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 most absurd accident threw liim very awkwardly against 
 his brother's governess, IMiss Lee. He had entertamed 
 a considerable objection to that young lady, and his 
 more intimate introduction to her had been exceedingly 
 unfortunate ; but fate would have it that he should try 
 to remove that awkwardness by sitting beside her and 
 talking to her. perfect physical beauty and grace, 
 combined with propinquity and opportunity, will have 
 their due effect as long as there are finely-organized 
 men and women in the world ; and so Arthur, by the 
 end of that somewhat memorable evening, discovered 
 that Miss Lee was not understood where she was, and 
 that her studies required directing, and her mind 
 forming : in short, he determined to devote a little of 
 his spare time to taking Miss Lee in hand, and seeing 
 whether or no it was too late to make anythmg of 
 her. 
 
 Apparently there were considerable hopes that Miss 
 Lee woidd not become an utter castaway. He evi- 
 dently had great expectations of doing something with 
 her, though it was rather late in the day ; some hope 
 of providing her with fixed opinions on w^hich to shape 
 her character, and of giving her an object in life. He
 
 SOME OF ARTHUES PLANS FOR HIMSELF. 227 
 
 took to his task M'itli a will, and Miss Lee's profound 
 submissive reverence evidently gave him satisfaction, 
 for he persevered in a way which drew the warmest 
 praise froni his brother. She was ignorant of poetry 
 (she suppressed the fact of a tolerably extensive ac- 
 quaintance with Byron) ; she must be introduced to 
 the exquisite tender purity of Tenngrson, and have the 
 deeper passages explained to her — sometimes, Madam 
 Dora declares, in the square by moonlight. She was 
 ignorant of history ; he was kind enough to read to her 
 aloud the account of a Highland fight, in which thirty 
 people were killed with the usual brutality, in the 
 sonorous prose of the late Lord Macaulay. Further 
 Miss Lee's touch on the piano was most unsatisfactory, 
 it wanted firmness for sacred music ; and nothing but 
 Arthur's continued attention cin-ed her of the odious 
 habit of keeping her wrists higher than the keys. In 
 short, it was the old story — Monseigneur amused him- 
 self. He was short and sharp with her at times, and 
 at times angry, for the poor girl, though not naturally 
 dull, was didl by habit ; and, used as she was to reck- 
 less freedom, at times his drilling and his exigence 
 were almost unbearable. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 At first she subiiiittcMl to liiin, and used her every 
 effort to please, from mingled motives of respect, oi' 
 fear, and of the wish lo attract him. He was in her 
 eyes a very great man indeed, a king among men, a 
 man respected, consulted, and looked up to hy all the 
 other men she knew of, the savage old Squire included; a 
 man whose prestige was paramount in then- little world, 
 and A\hom she, a.nd indeed others, helieved to have the 
 same weight and consideration in the world as he had 
 in his own family: there are such men in most fami- 
 lies which are removed from the real world. So she 
 had hegun l>y trying to please him, and gain his esteem 
 (and his admiration too, perhaps, for she had a looking- 
 glass) ; and went on to find that he was wondrous 
 handsome, and that liis s])eoch was so pregnantly sug- 
 gestive of all kinds of unknown knowledge, and of 
 sources of inlelleetual i)leasure of which she had never 
 dreamt, that she had forgot ahout her beauty, and won- 
 dered how he could ever have taken the trouble to 
 notice one so far inferior to him in every way as herself 
 If after that fiasco of his on the Christmas evenhiir, 
 she had thought of attracting him by her face, that 
 idea soon passed away. She forgot herself by com-
 
 SOME OF ARTHUR'S PLANS FOR HIMSELF. 229 
 
 parison of herself with him ; in short, to use the old 
 formula, the poor girl fell desperately in love with him. 
 In an innocent silly way she had thought she would 
 have liked a lover to fetch and carry for lier. She had 
 got one Avith a vengeance ; but there was no fetch and 
 carry about this one. 
 
 And Mr. Arthur all this time? Why, Mr. Arthur 
 could look his father straight in the face and say there 
 was no woman in the case at all, and mean it too. But 
 his temper began to suffer in these tunes. In Con- 
 vocation and in Common Eoom he was getting an ugly 
 name in that way, and his best friends were lamenting 
 it. His enemies, who were many, allowed him any 
 amount of ability, but said that his temper had always 
 been bad, and was getting worse, and that his temper 
 ■ would shelve him effectually. His friends said that 
 there was not a better-hearted fellow in Christendom, 
 Ijut that he was trymg too much, and that his nerves 
 were getting shaky. Neither party knew that his fresh 
 irritability arose from the fact that he was thinking too 
 much of his brother's governess, and steadily trying to 
 deny the fact to himself, — that towards the end of each 
 term he had nearly succeeded in forgetting, or believing
 
 230 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 that lie liad forgotten, the existence of such a person ; 
 Ijiit that [it the beginning of each vacation his wilful 
 legs carried hiiu to his brother's schoolroom, where he 
 saw her again, and found her improved in intelligence 
 anil beauty each time ; proving by her improvement 
 that .she had 2)erpended every hint and suggestion of 
 his, and acted on them with diligent reverence, and an 
 intelligence which seemed to " square " itself (mathe- 
 matically speaking) month after month, and promised 
 in time to become very great. He began to see that in 
 this sometime dowdy careless girl there existed a very 
 noble nature, and not a little intellect; and that he 
 had awakened them. He wished he had never seen 
 her a hundred times a week. If he ever, in his in- 
 exorable plans, " contracted an alliance " (he had no 
 idea of your Darby-and-Joau marriages) he must have, 
 first of all, " connexion." Such a preposterous action 
 as that of marrying Miss Lee meant ruin, retirement to 
 a college living, and a wasted life. It was not to be 
 thought of for an instant. And besides, the girl's 
 manners ! He could not train her in other ways ; but 
 what man coidd speak to a woman on the subject of 
 manners ? It was a worse matter than the " con-
 
 SOME OF ARTHURS PLANS FOR HIMSELF. 231 
 
 nexion" business. Yalioo brothers-in-law were bad 
 enough, but they might be pensioned. A wife whose 
 family was without interest was bad enough too ; but 
 a wife who was so utterly without knowledge of some 
 of the ways of the world as was Miss Lee, was quite 
 out of the question.
 
 CIIAPTEE XX. 
 
 SOME OF MR. BETTS'S PLANS FOR HIMSELF A2^D 
 
 OTHERS. 
 
 One of the circumstances which it now hecomes neces- 
 sary to notice more prominently is the extraordinary 
 friendship which had sprung up between Sc[uire Silcote 
 and Mr. Betts. 
 
 It had bec;un in the battle-royal with the Sir Hufjh 
 Brockliss faction, about the removal of St. Mary's Hos- 
 pital into the country. IMr. Betts's shrewdness, his bold 
 bull-dog style of fighting, the rough carelessness of 
 speech natural enough in a somewhat coarse man 
 finding himself among superiors, who were perfectly 
 aware of his antecedents, and very much inclined to 
 snul) him ; more than all, perhaps, his intense dislike 
 and contempt for Sir Hugh Brockliss — natural enough,
 
 MR. BEITS' S PLANS FOR HIMSELF AND OTHERS 233 
 
 also, for men of his class are very apt to hate the class 
 next above them : all these things, combined A\'ith the 
 profoundest respect for the Squire himself, had won 
 Silcote's heart, and he had admitted Betts to his inti- 
 macy in a wonderful manner. As time went on he 
 found that Mr. Betts suited him, and became necessary 
 to him ; and Arthur, coming suddenly from Oxford once, 
 was very much astonished to find Mr. Betts quietly 
 ensconsed opposite his father before the fire, with 
 dessert and wine between them, as comfortaljle as 
 could be. 
 
 " This is queer," he thought, " but it may lead to 
 good. Algernon's head trumpeter as tlie governor's 
 chief confidant. If tlie feUow will not trumpet too 
 loud, this may lead to a great deal of good. I wonder 
 if he has tact enough to see that." 
 
 He had quite as much tact as Arthm- in his way. 
 He once, m a natural manner, when the conversation 
 led easily up to the point, mentioned Algernon's noble 
 behaviour to him in a manly straightforward way, and 
 left the leaven to work. 
 
 " It'U end in a legacy, mayhap ; but, as for that, 
 the Squire's is a better life than Algernon's. I'll do
 
 234 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 all I can ; but time is the word, and caution. That 
 old Princess ! I wish she was choked with her dia- 
 monds, or smothered in one of her satin gownds, or 
 hung in her o\m A^alhinceens. I'd give a ten pun' 
 note, my lady, to know what games you have been 
 up to in foreign parts in your time, and why you are 
 everlastingly bobbing up and down to Ki"iegsthurm's 
 in a black veil. There's a nail loose in one of yoiu" 
 shoes, or vou wouldn't be hand in "love with the most 
 pig-eyed, false-hearted, ten-languaged " (Mr. Betts !dis- 
 trusted, ^\ ith a true British distrust, those who spoke 
 foreign tongues) "rascal in Europe. I could buy your 
 secret of him, my lady, if I was rich enough ; but where 
 would be the use of sporting my shillings against your 
 pounds ? Old Frankypanny knows all about you, too, 
 but he is such a stuck-up, honourable, poverty-struck 
 old swell that I as much dare ask the Duke of Norfolk. 
 There's old j\Iiss Eaylock, too ; I was present when she 
 was in the library, rummaging among the old books 
 according to custom ; and she was talking as pleasant 
 to me as need be, and as confidential ; but when you 
 came in, rustling with your silks, she shut up, did the 
 old girl, all in a minute, as tight as a Chubb's safe, and
 
 MR. BETTS'S PLANS FOR HIMSELF AND OTHERS 235 
 
 begins a bowing and scraping, and sticking ber old 
 nose in tbe air ; aye, and looked tbe princess all over, 
 as well as you, and better too. She knows. But sbe 
 is no good. One of tlie same sort as T'rankypanny. 
 That Boginsky, be is a regular young sieve; he'd be 
 the fellow to work, but I never did trepan a loose- 
 mouthed man, except in tbe way of business, and 
 I never will. Nevertheless, my fine Madam, I am 
 deeply indebted to you for your well-meant effort 
 to hoist me out of this; and, if I can put a spoke 
 in your wheel, you may rely on my doing so with 
 a thorough good wdlL" 
 
 For the Princess strongly objected to the introduction 
 of Mr. Betts at Silcotes. Among her better reasons for 
 this, one can see that she distrusted him because he 
 belonged strongly to the faction of the dispossessed 
 prince Algernon; and it was possible, wdth such a 
 whunsical man as her brother, that his old dislike of 
 Algernon might die out under new influence, to the 
 terrible detriment of her darling Tom, now become a 
 pest and an expensive nuisance to his father. Arthur, 
 in case of being heir, w^ould deal nobly by his brother : 
 from the A\Tonged Algernon Tom could not hope much,
 
 236 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 she argued, not knowing tliat tlie Quixotic Algernon, 
 in his blind devotion to Tom, would have most likely 
 given him back nearly everything, or, at least, would 
 have trusted him witli far more than would the 
 shrewder Arthur. Amono; the more i<4nol)le motives 
 for her dislike of ]\Ir. Betts was the fact that Mr. 
 Betts, having done a vast deal of foreign business in 
 his life among shaky Continental bonds, was intimate 
 with a great many very shaky Continental characters, 
 and chiefly with Kriegsthurm, whose close acquaint- 
 ance with the chances of foreiun revolutions had made 
 him a most useful man in old times, and whose 
 information he had paid for handsomely. She knew 
 that Betts and Kriegsthurm ^^•crc intimate, and, with 
 her usual foolishness, asked her brother if he was 
 aware of the sort of character he was bringing into 
 Ills house ; giving an account of Betts's bankruptcy, 
 with a great many fresh particulars, invented, I fear, 
 on the spot. Silcote had told her that he was quite 
 aware of jMr. Betts's bankruptcy, but that he liked 
 the man. He said it so very quietly, that she saw 
 at once that she had only, by being too quick and 
 eager, aroused the old obstinacy in him, and gave
 
 MR. BETTS'S PLANS FOR HIMSELF AND OTHERS 237 
 
 up her point directly : becoming at once intensely 
 civil and polite to Mr. Betts. 
 
 A woman who shifted her tactics in the most 
 transparent manner on the smallest occasion, a woman 
 who in details never knew her mind for two days 
 together, and yet who, with regard to a few great 
 objects, which her weak brain was capable of under- 
 standing, could show a persistency to which the stupid 
 narrow obstinacy of her brother was as nothing! 
 Some person remarking once to Miss Raylock that 
 they wondered how such a very decided person as 
 the Squire could have such a very weak and silly 
 sister, that shrewd old lady remarked, " You little 
 know her. She is a thousand times more Silcote 
 than Silcote himself. She is the greatest livinsf im- 
 personation of Silcotism, which has found its latest 
 development in that, to me, dreadful young gentle- 
 man Arthur. You may prevent her having her own 
 way, but it will take two or three of the best of you 
 to do it. And she is not a bad woman at bottom." 
 
 From this time one of the leading purposes of the 
 Princess's life was the elimination of Betts. She did not 
 exactly know why, or even settle with herself whether
 
 238 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 or 110 it was Letter to make a friend of him. She 
 knew what she wanted done, and Betts was in the 
 way of doing it. Bt;tts was a cleverer person than 
 herself, and she was afraid of negotiation on that 
 gi'ound. lie must be removed. She had only lier 
 old set of weapons to fight with — misrepresentation, 
 patience, and affectionate politeness towards the victim. 
 Betts knew her object, and understood her artifices, 
 and she was perfectly aware that he did so : but 
 she knew, better than twenty Bettses, the power of 
 everlasting affectionate civility : it lulls the most 
 hard, bitter man to sleep some time or another, 
 particularly when it is administered by a princess. 
 The victim is sure to become confidential sooner or 
 later, and . commit himself. Her instincts in this 
 respect were better than Betts's shrewdness : but, un- 
 fortunately for her, Betts had nothing in reserve about 
 his previous life with the exception of his bankruptcy, 
 of which all the world knew. She, on the other hand, 
 felt perfectly certain that a man who was on the best 
 teniis with her beloved Kricgsthurm must have some 
 fact in his biography in reserve ; which fact could be 
 bought from Kriegsthurm for a consideration, and made
 
 MR. BETTS'S PLANS FOR HIMSELF AND OTHERS. 239 
 
 useful. And Kriegstliurm was a great silent ox of a 
 fellow, who was not to be suddenly or spasmodically 
 moved without a large outlay : and Tom was very 
 expensive to her now that his father had pitched 
 him overboard ; and so all outward and visible action 
 against Betts was given up for a while. 
 
 In a short time Betts saw this ; he kept his eyes 
 on her very closely until he saw that she was passive, 
 and then, knowing all the time that she was the 
 key to all the cross purposes in the house, he began 
 his work. He neither saw end or object at first ; he 
 only saw that the Dark Squire (whom he found to 
 be not such a bad fellow after all) had_ been abused, 
 and he guessed that the Princess was at the bottom 
 of it all. The first thing to do was evidently to 
 gain an influence over the Squire, and that was not 
 very diftlcult. 
 
 What the whole Silcote family are plagued with 
 appears to be a kind of moral ossification of the brain. 
 Sometime in his earthly career each member of this 
 family seems to get an idea into his head, which 
 never can be got out again without severe worldly 
 affliction, and the patient efforts of all the well-
 
 240 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 meaning Iriends uf the laniily. And a noticeaLle 
 tiling- is, that obstinate families of this kind have so 
 many friends. The most foolish obstinacy among us 
 does beget some respect. Silcote liimself, in spite 
 of his brutal rudeness, was most highly respected 
 and feared in the county. Arthur was respected at 
 Oxford. Algernon, when he began to develop the 
 family failing, w^as respected even by the Protestant 
 party in the parish : even Miss Eaylock respected 
 the Princess, though she declined to acknowledge it. 
 But we have to do with Silcote himself now. His 
 particular form of the family failing had led to his 
 shutting himself out of all society, until he began, 
 as a shrewd man, t(j see that he was falling behind- 
 liand with tbe world. To him appeared P)etts, keen, 
 cunning, antl wise in the ways of the world from 
 wliich the Squire had dissociated himself so long. 
 Is it any wonder that Betts's influence over him 
 very soon became almost equal to that of Arthur ? 
 
 "I want to see the right done here," Betts said 
 to himself; "but it is all so wrong, that I don't 
 see my way to the right. The Squire is not wise, 
 but that is a family failing. However, here is twelve
 
 MR. BETTS'S FLANS FOR HIMSELF AND OTHERS 24 1 
 
 or fourteen thousand a year to be manceuvred, right 
 ■way or wrong way, and it is a precious sight better 
 fun working other folks' money than your own. — All ' 
 there you are, my good friend Squire Silcotes, coming 
 over the lawn to consult me about buying those 
 Welsh l)\illocks, knowing perfectly well that I know 
 no more about bullocks than I do about church 
 decorations. If I was a fool I should pretend to 
 know something al)out them, but as I ain't a fool, 
 I shall chaff vou al)out coming to a stockbroker for 
 agricultural information. All you Silcotes want a 
 dry nurse to take care of you ; only she mustn't be 
 particular about having her shins kicked, or her nose 
 bit off." 
 
 "Mr. Betts," said the Squire, "would you mind 
 coining down to the green, and looking at some Welsh 
 bullocks for -me ? " 
 
 " I've no objection to look at your bullocks, Squire, 
 only bargaining that you should tell me which is the 
 head and which is the tail." 
 
 " I wanted your advice with regard to buying 
 them." 
 
 " When was the bailiff took ill, then ? " 
 
 VOL, I. R
 
 242 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 " lie is not ill." 
 
 " Then why don't you ask liira aliout the hullocks ? 
 He knows a deal better about them than a stock- 
 broker. You ask too much advice, Squire ; and, what 
 is more, take too little."
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 JAMES HAS A WET WALK, 
 
 " Stand there/' said Dora, " and I will show you 
 how it all was. You are not quite in the right place 
 yet. You must stand close to the fire, with your 
 hands spread out, blinking your eyes. There, that is 
 just exactly the way you stood on the very first night 
 in that very same place, with all the dogs round you, 
 and your face all bleeding and bruised, and your 
 dirty little cap in your hand, and your dirty little 
 smock-frock all over mud ; and you looked such a 
 poor little mite of a thing that I cried about you 
 when I went upstairs, and was peevish with Anne 
 because she wanted to go on with the silly play about 
 Esquimaux." 
 
 James Sugden stood for a few minutes looking into 
 
 E 2
 
 244 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 tlic; fii'c, without answering. He liiul i^rown to be a 
 very liandsonie upstanding young fellow indeed ; with 
 more than the usual shares of ])hysical heauty, and a 
 remarkably clear resolute pair of eyes. There was 
 also a dexterous lapid grace about all his movements, 
 not generally observable in sixth form hobbedehoy 
 youths. He still wore the uniform of St. ]\rary's, and 
 was in a<>e about seventeen. 
 
 For the first time he had been invited by the 
 Squire to spend his Midsummer vacation at Silcotes 
 and join Algernon's children in their yearly holidays 
 at their grandfathers grand house. He had hitherto 
 spent ;ill his vacations since the removal of the school 
 in Lancaster Square ; and the summer vacation had 
 been very dull to him ; for Dora and Eeginald, with 
 the younger ones, had always been at Silcotes. He 
 had b(>en condemned to draii on tlio burnimi Ions:: 
 summer days alone with Algernon and ]Miss Lee, and 
 had always longed intensely for tlie time to come 
 to return to school. This year, however, jNIr. Betts 
 had written to him to say that he was to render 
 liimself at Silcotes by live o'clock on the twentieth 
 of June without fail. So, committing his box to an
 
 JAMES HAS A WET WALK. 245 
 
 intricate system of cross country carriers — each of 
 whom was supposed to meet the other without fail 
 at obscure villages, and remember a vast number of 
 obscure directions — -he had said good-bye to Ids old 
 friend, Ben Berry, the porter, and, taking only an 
 ordnance map and his sketch-book, had started from 
 St. Mary's by the Lake early in the summer's morn- 
 ing, with his face set straight towards Silcotes. " Only 
 two half-counties to walk through, before the after- 
 noon, my Ben," he said on starting. " Not mucli that, 
 liey ! Not so bad as the journey down here." 
 
 A resolute young fellow enough. A Silcote could 
 not have been more resolute, Tlie glory of the day 
 waned as he walked stoutly on, until he saw his 
 familiar old Boisey in the hazy dim distance at noon. 
 The distance was very hazy, and the air was very 
 close and hot, yet he held on through a country 
 utterly strange to him, choosing always, by that geo- 
 graphical genius which one sees in some men, but 
 not in very many, the roads which would suit his 
 purpose, and end somewhere ; in preference to those, 
 apparently as much traffic- worn as the others, which 
 only delude one by leading to the parsonage house
 
 246 SaCOTK OF SILCOTES. 
 
 and the cliurch. The course was north-east, and the 
 great ^Ups of thunder-cloud, creeping up througli the 
 brown haze, liad met him and were overhead when, 
 havini-- crossed the infant Loddon at Wildnioor, and 
 having deLayed to pick, for Dora, a nosegay of the 
 beautiful geunis and orchises, which to liini, coming 
 from the heath-country, seemed so rare and so rich, 
 he turned into the deep clay lanes towards the heath. 
 By this time every one was getting to shelter, and 
 the thunder was loud. The landlord of a little road- 
 side inn he passed urged him to stay, and not go 
 aloft on the desolate open heath, where a man had 
 been killed by the lightning not long before. But 
 weatlier mattered little to the shepherd lad, and he 
 pleasantly declined, saying, that " lie had not time." 
 The landlord looked curiously and admiringly after 
 the swift-footed pleasant-looking young gentleman as 
 he sprang up the steep ascent towards the thunder; 
 but James never paused, although the storm came 
 down fiercely now, and Boisey was hidden from him 
 completely. In Bramshill Park, the lightning was 
 leaping and blazing all around him, lighting up the 
 dense cloud of rain in everv direction, and once, with
 
 JAMES HAS A WET WALK. 247 
 
 a snap and a roar, it shone in blue and white reflec- 
 tions from every window in the whole of the vast 
 fa9ade of the house, showing him that he was close 
 to shelter. But the humour was on him now ; he 
 would walk on, though not altogether recklessly ; tlie 
 storm had settled down on the park, and was tearing 
 and riving at that most beautiful spot, till it had 
 exhausted its fury ; even in his headlong humour he 
 knew this, and kept away, as far as possible, from 
 the trees. Before he had been long in the park he 
 had received his caution on this head : a great oak 
 loomed on him out of the rain, and he suddenly saw 
 a bright spark in one of the forks of it ; and before 
 he could put his arm over his head, eight centuries' 
 gi'owth of timber was scattered around liim among 
 the fern and the heather. Yet, though he saw the 
 figui'es of men about the stables beckoning him to 
 stay for shelter, he held on. He had set it in his 
 mind to be at Silcotes by five o'clock, and he held to 
 his resolution with steady good-humoured tenacity. 
 
 The next village and street was a stream of water 
 as he passed through it ; no soul was out of doors ; 
 and, as they saw him pass, they wondered whether
 
 2-lH SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 lie was penniless or desperate to walk in such weather. 
 Had some of them known that he was hound ibr 
 Silcotes, they would not have wondered at all : it 
 Would have merely been ILandet going to England. 
 l'>y tilt' time he had passed ]>ear Wood, lie had suc- 
 ceeded in walking down the storm, and Uoisey was 
 close before him in the sunlight of a very prac- 
 tical and (piiet sunnner's aflernoon. The reckless ht 
 passed when he found himself in decent and ordinary 
 weather, and he began to bethink himself how he 
 should look at his iournev's end, and what the 
 Squire would say of him in his present very untidy 
 condition. 
 
 The uniform of St. ^Mary's, carefully d(; vol oped by 
 the theoretically-minded Arthur, and the really practi- 
 cally-minded INIr. Letts, was as well calculated to 
 recover iVom the effects of weather as that of a Trench 
 soldier. Yet, in his intense eagerness to see some bit 
 of the old country again, to be again within the range 
 of his earlier experiences, he begrudged even the time 
 it took to dry his clothes, which he did at a river- 
 side inn. He now got into the old country at last, 
 and changed his pace suddenly ; for, anxious as he
 
 JAMES HAS A WET WALK. £49 
 
 was to get to the Silcotes' country, he was anything 
 but anxious to meet the Squire. 
 
 He had come so fast, that even the drying of his 
 ch)thes and the dawdling along by old familiar paths 
 did not make him late. Eveiy hedgerow w^as familiar 
 to him, and such an incident as the mending of a 
 stile, or the filling up of some time-honoured gap, 
 was of strange importance, and tempted him to delay ; 
 but, nevertheless, as the turret clock struck live, he 
 peered through the open door into the dark and 
 empty hall. 
 
 Empty but for one figure. Silcote himself Avas seated 
 before a wood fire in the great cavernous fireplace, 
 and which was never without fire, summer or winter. 
 Hearing a footstep on the threshold, the Squire rose, 
 turned, and looked steadily at him for one moment. 
 
 He was not changed. There was the same sturdy, 
 strong figure, and the same grizzled hair, so familiar 
 to James from his childhood. It was the same old 
 " Dark " Squire w^ho advanced towards the young man 
 as he stood, hesitating and modest, in the porch ; but 
 there was a look about that Squire which James had 
 never seen before in his cursory observations of his
 
 250 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 face. Sometliin,!^ had gone very wrong Mitli the Squire 
 this morning. Things generally did go wrong with 
 him, hut the effect generally was mere petulance and 
 ill-temper. On this occasion the Squire came forward 
 with his head bowed down, and an expression of gi-ief 
 and terror on his face. James thought he was coming 
 to speak to him ; hut, to his gTcat astonishment and 
 alarm, Silcote passed him steadily, waving him on one 
 side with his hand, and then stood in the porch beside 
 him, but looking away from him, and said, — 
 
 " It is of no use. I will not recall \\\n\i I have done. 
 You have had chance after chance, and you have turned 
 persistently to evil. Even if God pleases to deal with 
 me as heavily as He threatens, it will not benefit you. 
 WHien all is d(jne, I may fall back on another beside 
 you. You have no right here ; this is one of the innu- 
 merable theatrical follies of my sister. You ha,ve had 
 my answer once, and, even in tliis deep affliction, I have 
 all my own obstinacy about me. The house is at your 
 disposal, but I am not accessible. The Princess and 
 you have arranged this between you. Pray carry out 
 your arrangements in my house to the utmost. I wash 
 my hands of the whole matter. I only caution you of
 
 JAMES HAS A WET WALK. 251 
 
 the extreme danger of your presence here, and assure 
 you that I will do nothing whatever to stay the eoui'se 
 of justice." 
 
 It was evident to James that the Squire had driven 
 himself mad at last, as his mother always said he would. 
 Thinking it best on the whole, however, to justify 
 himself, even to a madman, he tmnied to Sikote, as he 
 was passing on, and said humbly enough, — 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, but it was by your own 
 orders that I came here." 
 
 Silcote turned, and looked on him again. At first he 
 was confused for a moment, but recovered himself very 
 quickly. " My boy," he said, " you must be young 
 Sugden. To be sure. You were to be here by five, 
 and are punctual. That is good. I have had afflic- 
 tions, my boy," he continued, drawing near to him, 
 attracted by his bright, honest look, and evidently glad 
 to explain himself to any one. " I have had great 
 afflictions through all my life, and the heaviest has come 
 this morning. They confuse me at times, these afflic- 
 tions of mme, and I took you for my son Thomas ; you 
 are like what he was. Be a good son to your mother, 
 boy, for she is a good woman. God is hard on bad sons
 
 252 SILCOTE OF .SILCUTES. 
 
 and bad fatliers ; the Syi'ians were right there. As for 
 you, I hear lu^tliiiig l)ut good of you; all kinds of good 
 fi'oni every one. You will die young, but lluit is no 
 matter: the good ones always die young, — Cleobis, vou 
 know. ]\rake yourself ha})py here : hear lait a word in 
 private. Hold your tongue about what you have heard 
 nie say just now. Let it be a secret between us, boy. 
 Dora is in there ; go in and find her. Don't fall in love 
 with Anne, mind; she is too much of a Silcote : choose 
 Dora. Go in and keej:) our secret. Not a Mord to any 
 soul, or it will eome round to Arthur at last : he gets 
 hold of all our secrets in time." 
 
 James felt a little more dazed than he was in the 
 height of the thunderstorm in Bramshill Park. Here 
 was a curious reception after a curious headlong journey. 
 The first average and commonplace incident which befell 
 him during that somewhat remarkable day Avas his 
 meeting Muth Dora in the hall. She was connnonplace 
 enough, as she always was, for she at once made him 
 stand before the smouldering fire, and spoke to him the 
 ■\\'ords which stand at the beginning of this very 
 chapter.
 
 CHAPTEli XXir. 
 
 THE MAX IN THE MACKINTOSH, 
 
 " And /," said Dora, " consider that you have improved 
 since that time, immensely, both pliysically and morally. 
 Other people, as for instance my annt, may hold the 
 opmion that you are in danger of becoming a very 
 shallow young spark. Miss Lee, whose opmions, more 
 particularly when directed and mspired by my uncle 
 Arthur, I am bound to respect, may be of opinion that 
 we are both getting too old to continue oiu" former 
 intimacy. I am not here, however, to combat other 
 peoJ;)le's opinions, so much as to express my own. And 
 to tell you the honest and plain truth, James Sugden, 
 I have watched you pretty closely for some years, and 
 I think you will do." 
 
 " And you will do in time," said James ; " that is, if
 
 254 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 you will think l)(3fore you speak, and when you have 
 made a mistake think again and mend it. Which you 
 don't do now, you know. There, that is flippant enough 
 to suit the Princess. Now, let us be comfortable. How 
 are you, and what's the news ?" 
 
 " I am very well, and I may have some news, or I 
 may not." 
 
 " / have had an astonishment, to-day," said James. 
 
 "So have I." 
 
 " Are you going to trump my trick, as usual ? " said 
 James. 
 
 Said Dora, " I can't tell till you have played your 
 card." 
 
 And then James remembered that he was bound by 
 all rules of honour not to say a word of what had 
 passed between him and the Squire, and so he told her 
 that he could not play his trump. 
 
 " Then any small card will do for the trick," said 
 Dora. " I have been utterly astonished at the size and 
 colouring of my grandfather's quilled German asters. 
 Now." 
 
 " There is something more than that, Dora, I know." 
 
 " I suppose you do, unless you are a goose ; l)ut, if
 
 THE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH. 255 
 
 we are to play the great game of astonishment, you 
 shall not hold the triiinps in your own hand." 
 
 "I can't play my trump, Dora. I can't tell you 
 what I have heard in the last twenty minutes. Answer 
 me this. Is there anything wa^ong in the house ? " 
 
 "You give up the game ?" 
 
 " Entirely." 
 
 " Well, then, I will tell you ; and I am very glad we 
 are alone together. I fear there is something very 
 wrong indeed. There has been a long interview be- 
 tween Arthur and his father in the library. Uncle 
 Arthiu' came out first, looking as pale as a ghost, a deal 
 more like death than life, James, I assure you ; and, 
 after a time, grandpapa came out crying, — ay, he did, 
 and sat there before the fire with his head in his hands 
 for I don't know how long." 
 
 " Why, I saw him sitting so myself," said James. 
 
 " Did you ?" said Dora, " Well, that is an important 
 and valuable fact, supposing any one had the audacity 
 to question my statement. At present we can keep it 
 in reserve. The question is, what is the matter ? " 
 
 " I wonder what it is," said James. 
 
 " I suppose you do, imless you have determined to
 
 256 SILCOTE OF SIICOTES. 
 
 give up woudering for tliu rest of your life. / wonder. 
 Any gal)y ran wonder," 
 
 "After all, you know," replied Jame.s, "you haven't 
 any right t(^ wonder, because it is no possible business 
 of yours. And you have no right to catch me up 
 so short. I dare say you think that sort of thing very 
 fine, but I don't. I don't approve of it. You are 
 fond of doing it to nie when we are alone, Init you 
 know you never dare do it before company, for fear 
 of my picking you u]i. I thought you were going to 
 be comfortable. If this is what you mean, you had 
 better be ?i?icomfortable." 
 
 " 1 am uncomfortable," said poor Dora, stamping her 
 foot, and beginning to cry. " I meant to be so nice to 
 you, and I am so very fond of 3"ou " 
 
 As this is an eminently unsentimental story, I will 
 omit what ])assed before James and Dora were standing 
 looking out of the window together, perfectly " com- 
 fortable." "Paul and Virginia" is not out of print, 
 surely, though 1 have not seen it lately. 
 
 I'ut though Dora was "comfortable" enouijh Avith 
 James, she was far from being good company ; at least 
 to any one but him. Everything was going wrong, it
 
 THE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH. 257 
 
 appeared, at Lancaster Square (she said that things in 
 general were all mops and brooms, an expression which 
 we are forced to trace to Miss Lee in her earlier form 
 of development) ; grandpa Betts was always here now 
 (meaning at Silcotes) ; and poor pa had not a sound 
 head left in the house to guide him except hers. There 
 was only one pupil left now, young Dempster, who 
 had only stayed on to propose to her, and had got liis 
 answer. There were no new pupils coming. The 
 weekly bills were all in arrear, and likely to be, for 
 her father had declared for ritualism, and the pews 
 would all of them be empty in three months. It was 
 a sudden resolution. He had been brooding over the 
 matter for a long time; but after his recent visit to 
 Oxford he had decided, and declared that nothing 
 would move him now. If grandpa Betts had been 
 by Ins side, he could have made the thing more palat- 
 able to the parishioners ; he always warned pa to let 
 them down to it very easy ; but then he was here, con- 
 coctmg business of some sort with grandpa Silcote, and 
 so what was the use of talking. Algernon's health 
 was worse than ever, and he had to swallow a kind's 
 ransom in cardamums and gentian, and, though the 
 VOL. I, s
 
 258 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 doctor miglit wait for his money, tlie grocer certainly 
 would not. Then she passed to Miss Lee. Passed to 
 Miss Lee, and stopped. "I cannot speak of her. If 
 I dared tell her that she was nejirlectinjT the duties 
 nearest to her, she would only say that slie is fulfilling 
 higher ones. I M-ish she coidd find time for both. 
 But she can't, and she is a good woman. Believe in 
 Miss Lee ; will you, James ?" 
 
 " The last saint in the calendar ; certainly," said the 
 public school-boy. "About the Princess, for instance. 
 From a gi-eat variety of hints I have received — or, 
 to be perfectly truthful, from a vast number of- con- 
 versations I have heard, as an unappreciated and un- 
 noticed fourth party in your father's house, between 
 your father, Arthur, and the banished prince Thomas — 
 I have formed the conclusion that she is at the bottom 
 of every piece of mischief which happens in this house. 
 How does she stand affected in the present instance ? 
 Here we have all things going wrong, both at my 
 old home in Lancaster Square and at this ncM' home 
 here at Sileotes. A woman is at the bottom of it 
 you know. Tell me about her movements, and I will 
 form my judgment."
 
 THE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH. 259 
 
 " Vanity Fair, Vanity Fair," replied Dora at once ; 
 " you are talking Vanity Fair, my lord. The book that 
 makes every schoolboy who has read it believe that he 
 is a man of the "world. Bless you, / read that book, 
 and thought it was the key to the world. But Miss 
 Lee and Aunt Mary have cured me of that. Don't 
 talk Vanity Fair. Be a boy." 
 
 " And don't you give me your father's remarks on 
 that book at second-hand. Come now." 
 
 " I think we had better have no more of this crude 
 babble," said Dora. 
 
 "■ And there spoke your uncle Arthur," said James. 
 
 " Well, here come Eeginald and Anne," said Dora. 
 " My dear James, we shall never do Beatrix and Bene- 
 dict. We have not the art. Let us be friends." 
 
 There entered now a pale, delicate, but very amiable- 
 looking boy, a boy say seventeen, and with him a very 
 beautiful girl, of nearly the same age. The pair were 
 indescribable, simply because there was nothing to 
 describe as yet. 
 
 They were merely a well-looking enough boy and 
 girl, but in no degree remarkable as yet in outward 
 appearance. To the shrewder, and younger, or rather 
 
 s 2
 
 2G0 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 more slowly-developeJ ])air who watched their entrance, 
 there was something observable : they liad been qnar- 
 relling, and were not on speaking terms with one 
 another. James and J)ora " sparred" continually, but 
 never quarrelled. Eeginald and Anno, who always 
 paired off together, seldom or never " sparred," Ijut 
 spent their time between strongly ostentatious bursts 
 of affection and long periods of sulks. They were 
 sulking at one another now, in a more than ordinary 
 way ; and Dora was so fully aware of this fact, and 
 followed her kindly instinct so far, as to go across to 
 James, lightly pass her hand over his hair, and lay 
 her hand on his shoulder. James, in the most acci- 
 dental manner, managed to turn his head and touch 
 that hand unseen, and so w\as enlisted on the side of 
 the peacemaker. 
 
 " I have come through such an awful storm," he said, 
 as soon as the usual greetings were given and ex- 
 changed, though without moving, for fear of Dora's 
 hand going from his shoulder. " Thunder, and light- 
 ninir, and rain, bevond belief. ]>ut I had some one 
 to see at the journey's end, and I never flinched, 
 Dora"
 
 THE 31 AN IN THE MACKINTOSH. 261 
 
 " You were afraid of grandpa's being angry if you 
 were after your time, and you were more afraid of him 
 than of the thunder." 
 
 "Well, there is something in that," said James, 
 throwing back his head, and looking up in her face 
 laughing, " though it may not have been pretty to say 
 so. I knew there was a Silcote, male or female, young 
 or old, at the end of the journey ; and that I was pretty 
 sure to get my nose snapped off somehow. Eeggy, old 
 man, it was lucky for you that you came on two days 
 before me, you would have got drenched. There has 
 been no storm here." 
 
 There seems to be an Avenc-er who waits on the 
 heels of good-natured people who try to solve (in a 
 chemical sense), or water away, a quarrel by common- 
 place. When I say an Avenger, I don't in the least 
 mean your Nemesis. Your Nemesis acts on settled 
 law, principle, and logic, through long periods of time ; 
 sometimes so long, that a matter of exactly eight cen- 
 turies will go by without a sign of her. She belongs 
 to the atmosphere of tragedy, with which we have 
 nothing to do. The ordinary Social Avenger holds 
 the same relation to her as Mrs, Sherwood's Inbred
 
 262 SJLCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 Sill (the only ngreeaLlc character in the " Infant Pil- 
 grims ") holds to Milton's Satan. Your Nemesis is 
 deliberative and inexorably just ; your Avenger is 
 sudden and eminently unjust ; acting, for instance, in 
 this case, only on the very vague basis that you have 
 no business to talk commonplace on any grounds 
 whatever. The Avenger came swiftly down on James, 
 and uave it to him. The thunder-storm was the 
 very point on which Eeginald and Anne had been 
 (quarrelling. 
 
 " I am glad to find myself confirmed," said Anne, 
 from the window in which she was sulking. " There 
 has been no thunderstorm here ; and there will be none. 
 And he has hurried me home here, from where we were 
 comfortably by the river, watching the fish, because he 
 said there would be thunder directly. He would not 
 have his health if he did not have his own way." 
 
 A tremendous crash of thunder among the beech- 
 woods close by only made matters worse. Reginald 
 was right, wdiich was ])rofoundly exasperating ; and, 
 what was more, took every opportunity of reminding 
 her of it, in the pause between each blaze of lightning 
 and each rattle of thunder, till his voice sounded like
 
 THE 3IAN IN THE MACKINTOSH. 2G3 
 
 a response in some terrible litany. The quarrel was 
 not mended that night. 
 
 But the liours, and the Lulls which announced the 
 hours, were as inexorable at Silcotes as at any Trappist 
 monastery. In spite of a wild imbroglio of weather 
 outside, the dressing-bell rang its defiance to the 
 thunder, and they went to dress. Then the dinner- 
 bell rang, and they came one by one into the blue 
 drawing-room, bluer than ever with the continual 
 flashes of lightning ; and were marshalled solemnly l)y 
 the butler into the long oak dining-room ; where these 
 young people were set solemnly down to their soup, in 
 a thunderstorm, with a butler in black, and four foot- 
 men in crimson plush breeches to wait on them. 
 
 Eidiculous enough ! The youngest footman was the 
 most intimate and bosom friend of James in the old 
 days, and James was dying to compare notes ^^'ith him : 
 but there was an awful gulf between them now. They 
 had been school-mates, and had been shepherd-boys 
 for neighbouring farmers, and many times had sur- 
 rej)titiously driven their sheep close together at the 
 risk of their mixing, at the risk of a terrible beating, 
 that they might while away together some few of the
 
 264 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 hours of a ^vinte^'s cluy by tlie interchange of such 
 hiuiKin thought as was working in tlieir dull little 
 l)rains. But the tall young footman took no notice 
 of the handsome young scholar, beyond insisting, in 
 spite of a martinet Ijutler, on waiting on him, and 
 on him solely, and plying him with every kind of 
 sauce, the wine not as yet being within his juris- 
 diction. 
 
 In the midst of this very awful dinner, the Princess, 
 now seen for the first time, swept in solemnly, and 
 took her place at the head of the table. It had 
 pleased her, for purposes of her own, to dress herself 
 like jNIary Queen of Scots, and she sat there and 
 presided at the table, with her jewels and lace 
 lit \\\) every moment by the lightning, looking as 
 theatrical as she could possiljly have wished herself. 
 In general she was very cheerful and pla}'ful with 
 the childreu, but something had happened in the 
 house that morning, and she was determined to make 
 the most of it. She gTeeted them all courteously, 
 l^ut scarcely s[)<»ke, and left them again as soon as 
 the dessert was on the table. Of the Squire or of 
 Arthur there was no sitjii.
 
 TUE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH. 265 
 
 The young people got free soon after this, and 
 James's first movement was to catch his quondam 
 friend, the youngest footman. Time was sliort, as 
 it might please the Squire to come doAvn for coffee, 
 and he dreaded offending him. " George, old fellow ! " 
 he said, catching him in a passage, " what is wrong 
 in the house ? Do tell me." 
 
 " It's Mr. Arthur," said the young man hurriedly. 
 " He lias been having fits, and kept it to himself. 
 r)Ut he can't live three months. That is what is 
 the matter." 
 
 The storm swept by, and left a steady down- 
 pouring rain. Eeginald and Anne had gone away 
 to different parts of the house, with their childish 
 quarrel still festering between them, and Dora and 
 James sat together before the wood fire in the great 
 liall, alone and almost silent, complacent in one 
 , iuiother's company, comparing notes and exchanging 
 opinions on the past and future. 
 
 The wliole of the house was nearly silent; there 
 was only to be heard the whisper of the now distant 
 thunder, and in distant offices the deadened sounds 
 of the great domestic life which it pleased the
 
 2{)() SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 Squire, in liis useless ostentation, to keep around 
 him. A footman had come in, and In-ouglit a tray 
 with wine and water. The Lutler had come in a 
 long time after, and, having looked around him, had 
 disappeared again like a black respectaljle gliost, who 
 wished to assure himself that the other ghosts in 
 that great hall were conducting themselves properly, 
 and not nnnnying his master's guests before the 
 proper hour of night. James had not told Dora 
 anything about her uncle Arthur ; and they had 
 arranged to be " comfortable " together, and were 
 carrying out their intention, with the example of 
 Reghiald and Anne before tliem, by saying the first 
 thing which came into either of their heads, and not 
 contradicting one another (which is the true base of 
 the art of conversation) wdien night suddenly became 
 hideous. I tliiidc, when we were first introduced to 
 the Silcote menage there were about a dozen blood- 
 hounds. Since then the breed had become valuable, 
 and ISIr. George had paid considerable sums of 
 money for several of them. The Squire never ob- 
 jected to the turning of an honest penny, and had 
 kept up the breed, so that there now were some
 
 THE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH. 2G7 
 
 twenty of them, and they all began barking and 
 baying at once. 
 
 James and Dora had hardly time to say, "Some- 
 body coming," when a step was heard at the hall- 
 door, close opposite to them, and the man who trod 
 tliat footstep, whether frightened by the horrible 
 noise of the dogs, which he had every reason to 
 believe loose, or anxions to get out of the rain, or 
 unable to find the bell, began rattling at the door 
 with all his might. James, witli a certam terror 
 of the dogs in his own mind, solved the difficulty by 
 walking across the hall and letting him in. 
 
 The man he admitted at once walked half-way 
 across the hall before he spoke. Then turning to 
 James he said, " Yovmg gentleman, I guess from your 
 uniform that you are in the navy. Sea-goirjg is 
 notoriously good for the nerves, as Trafalgar shows. 
 But even at Trafalgar there was no talk of Lord 
 Xelson being eaten alive by bull terriers. Conse- 
 quently I hope you and this young lady will excuse 
 my abrupt entrance. I wish you a good evening, 
 miss, and all good fortune." 
 
 He was a lean, sallow, black-whiskered man of
 
 268 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 a doubtful ao-e. He stood before them dressed in 
 luiiL'kiulusli, diipjjiug, and tliey wondered witli a very 
 great Nvonder who he coukl be. 
 
 "You need not be afraid of the dogs, sir," said 
 James; "Mr. Silcotc generally keeps them tied up. 
 And there has been no accident with tlieni for above 
 a week. Did yuu want Mr. Silcote ?" 
 
 " No," said the man in mackintosh ; " unless I am 
 mistaken, I want to speak with this young lady by 
 the fire. ]\Iiss Lee, I believe ? " 
 
 " No," said Dora, rising ; " I am not Miss Lee. 
 I anv Miss Silcote. j\Iiss Lee is my governess." 
 
 " Is not Miss Lee here, then, miss ? " 
 
 "No," said Dora; "she is not here. She is at my 
 father's house in Lancaster Square." 
 
 The man in mackintosh actually swore in tlie 
 presence of Dora, but apologised for it immediately 
 afterwards. "That is your private inqiury oftice 
 business, miss, all o\cr. They can't be employed 
 to trace Miss Lee for us, Init what they nmst trace 
 her forty mile too fur, and put our people to ten 
 pounds extra expense, if that mattered. — By the by," 
 he added, turning to James, "now we are on the
 
 THE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH. 269 
 
 spot it may be worth while. Do you know these 
 parts, sir ? " 
 
 " Pretty well," said James. 
 
 "What is the name of that village I came through 
 just now, outside the park gates ? " 
 
 " Beechwood," said James. 
 
 " You don't know the name of Sugden in con- 
 nexion with these parts, do you ? " said he in the 
 mackintosh. 
 
 " My name is Sugden," said James ; " and I was 
 born and bred there." 
 
 "Thank you," said the stranger; "and Miss Lee, 
 you say, miss, has not come to spend her holiday 
 here with your gTandpa, Ijut is it at Lancaster 
 Square ? Thank you very much, miss. I am sure 
 I hope you will excuse the mistake of addressing 
 a young lady as the young lady's governess, but 
 Miss Lee was described to me as being of remark- 
 able personal attractions, and so the mistake Avas 
 perfectly natural. Mr. Sugden, if you are not too 
 nervous to see me out of the avenue, or if any of 
 Mr. Silcote's people had such a thing as a lantern, 
 I should feel more comfortable about getting back
 
 •270 SILCOTE OF SILCOTES. 
 
 to my fly at the lodoe. Tlie driver remarked that 
 the Squire objected to hired vehicles in his grounds, 
 and, on remonstrance, said lie would see himself ixxxilxox 
 before he'd go a yard further. You will go with me 
 there ? Thank you." 
 
 James went with him to the lodge. The man was 
 profoundly respectful to him during their short walk, 
 and, on getting into his fly, said, — 
 
 " Present instructions are bindmg, sir. I am not 
 going beyond them when I ask you to present 
 my respectful compliments to your mother. George 
 Thompson is the name, sir. I wish you a very good 
 night." 
 
 And so he drove off. And James, returning, found 
 that Dora was gone to bed, and that the only 
 occupant of the hall was the Princess of Castel- 
 nuovo, as ]\Iary Queen of Scots, who was standing 
 l)eforc the fire with a l»edroom candlestick, in an 
 attitude. 
 
 "There has been a man here, boy?" she demanded 
 of him. 
 
 "Yes, my lady." 
 
 "German?"
 
 TUE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH. 27 1 
 
 ''1^0, my lady." 
 
 " Italian, then ? Do not prevaricate." 
 " I am not prevaricating, my lady." The man was 
 an Englishman." 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : 
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 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 380 430 9