AU'J7
-1<?3
THE DUEL ISETWEEN LOUD CHARLES BAKTY AND CAI'TAIN HKRTlKKn.
{I'Voiii a D) auing l>y Walter Pai;et.)
A list in l-llUoi. I
AUSTIN ELLIOT
AND
THE HARVEYS
• » 1 ' » » » '
• . » .» » » '
BY
HENRY KINGSLEY
NEW EDITION
WITH A FRONTISPIECE BY WALTER PAGET
LONDON
WARD, LOCK AND BOWDEN, LIMITED
WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C.
NEW YORK AND MELIiOURNE
1895
[A// rights resen>ed]
AUSTIX ELLIOT.
823887
AUSTIN ELLIOT.
CHAPTER I.
It so happened tliat, iu the early sprmg of the year 1789, three
young men, each equally full of health, hope, honour, courage,
and curiosity, separated at the gates of Christ Church College,
Oxford, to pursue divergent paths across that world, which at
that time seemed, to tliose three, only a sunny fairy-land lying
betwixt them and the grave — only some enchanted land full of
glorious adventures, and they three young knights ready to
achieve them.
To one of the three — the youngest and the most famous, by
name Jenkinson — we shall only allude incidentally. "With regard
to the other two, George Hilton and James Elliot, we shall have
to be a little more explicit.
George Hilton, the handsomer and cleverer of the two, went
abroad, and, having met his friend Jenkinson at the storming
of the Bastile, came home again in September, bringing with him
a lovely, fragile, little being of a French wife, a daughter of the
Due de Mazagan, who had been pleased that his daughter should
marry this fine young English merchant, and be out of the way
of those troubles, which he saw gathering so darkly, and so
swiftly, over the head of his devoted order.
He could not foresee that she would be dead before Christmas ;
still less, that in the Conciergerie and on the guillotine, he should
rejoice that there was one loving heart the less to mourn for him.
But so it was : the poor gentle, hajipy, loving little creature died
in her husband's arms, almost before that husband knew how well
he loved her. The grand old Duke made his last bow, when he
took precedence of his old friend the Marquis de Varly, on the
scaffold, looked at the sovereign people through an eye-glass,
shrugged his shoulders with infinite contempt, and died. The
4 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
gallant young Yicomte Tourbillon, who should have been duke —
George's dear friend — yielded to circumstances, and entered the
Republican anny ; and George Hilton, disgust^'d with the world,
from sheer want of anything to do or care about, plunged head-
long into commerce.
Bringing apparently a keen, clear head, a reckless courage,
and a vigilance which slept not by day or by night, to the assis-
tance of his father's house, he tided that house successfully
through those terrible revolutionary years, and raised it at last
to be one of the great commercial houses in England. From very
shortly after he assumed his place as an active unit in the firm.
Ins father and his father's old partner submitted to him ; and
from that time these two terrified old men found themselves
dragged (if one may use such an expression) by the heels through
a seething whirlpool of audacious speculation, powerless and
hopeless, only to emerge again, with wealth and credit such as
they had never dreamt of, before this valiant, gloomy young man
had joined them. There might be terror on 'Change, or panic in
Lombard -street ; but though these two might sit cowering in their
chairs, fluttering papers which they scarcely understood, in their
trembling fingers, yet there was always one figure before them, in
which they felt forced to trust, the figure of George Hilton — the
figure of a tall, handsome man in dark clothes, with a set austere
face, who rarely spoke, into whose eyes they gazed with a look of
awe, and a look of supplication painful to witness. Always kind,
he was always undemonstrative, and they looked up to him as
some god who held their fate in his hands.
Once he broke out. When an old clerk came into the room
where they sat, and, with a face only more ashy pale than their
own, told them the terrible disaster of Austerlitz, the two old men
fell to feebly wailing ; but the younger, leaping from his chair,
gave a wild liurrah, which made the respectable old ledgers on the
shelves shake the dust off their leaves against him.
People began to talk. They said, '* This man mamed a
Frenchwoman. His fiivourite brother-in-law has notoriously
deserted the traditions of his family, and become a rabid
Buonapartist. He is a colonel in the Guards. This man,
Hilton, is making money in some underhand way by means of
his brother-in-law." It was partly true. George Hilton, with
a keen and well-judged confidi-nce in French arms, had advanced
an immense sum shortly bet\)re this to liis brotlier-in-la\v, witli
which to speculate in the French Funds. Austerlitz had been
won, the coalition broken, and the Hiltons had i)ocketed forty
thousand pounds. Since Lord Loughborough and Sir Jolin Scott
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 5
passed their Treason Act in 1792, no man had driven liis coach
and four throiij^di it to ^'reater jnofit than Georj^'o Hilton.
Some sliaqi and traitorous tradin;^ went on in those times ; and
we are sorry to say that the house of Hilton and Co. were always
looked upon as hein<,' di'cjdy en<,'af,'ed in transactions which, evt-n
by the commercial world in those days, were considered dangerous
and odd. Even at that time, when certain trades were paralysed,
and there were so many needy merchants n-ady to sacrifice almost
any principle to keep themselves afloat, the house of Hilton and
Co., with their enormously increasing wealth, were looked on
askance. They always seemed to have such wonderfully correct
infonuation from abroad. The Jews mi^ht follow George Hilton
about the Exchange with bent body and sliding foot, to listen and
see whether some priceless hint might not fall from him ; but
the Christians were only distantly polite to him, although, when
he had once been known to take a commercial step, there were
hundreds eagerly ready to follow his example.
We have hardly to do with the ways by which his enormous
fortune was made : our business is more with what ultimately
became of it. There are plenty of houses, eminently respectable
now, whose books, from 1790 to 1815, would hardly stand a closer
examination than those of Hilton and Co.
And also the history of the accumulation of this fortune must
be told ; because, in the mad and successful pursuit of his wealth,
George Hilton had reached the age of fifty years before he bethought
him that there was no one to inherit it.
The gold that he had wallowed in for thirty years had left its
dross upon him ; and the George Hilton of 1819, was a sadly
difterent man from the George Hilton of 1789. The sarcastic
young dandy had developed into a cokl, calculating man of fifty ;
a man who seldom spoke in the House, but always shortly and
to the puiijose ; a man who had refused office, some said ; an odd
man ; a man no one liked very much, but a man so careful in his
facts, that when he spoke he put every one else, save four or five,
in a flutter ; a man who would contradict the Iving on his throne,
and had never had a genial smile or a joke for any man in the
House, save for one. Lord Hawkesbury. After 1806 he laughed
and joked no more in Parliament. Lord Hawkesbuiy never
forgave him the Austerlitz afliiir before mentioned. He kept
on speaking terms with him for a time, but after his removal into
the House of Lords, in 1808, George Hilton found himself with-
out a friend in the House, and only one friend in the world — that
is to say, James Elliot, the third of those we saw at Christ Chmx'h
Gat« in 1789.
6 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
In 1819, then, he married. The wife he selected was a French-
woman. She was a cousin of his first wife's, and a daughter of
an emigre count, Commilfaut, very little, very pretty, and an
intensely devout Huguenot in religion. This marriage was a
happier one than his first. She Avas soon the mother of two
children, Eleanor and Robert.
CHAPTER n.
With, perhaps, less energy and talent than his friend George
Hilton, James Elliot, the second of the two men mentioned in the
first page of this book, contrived, in after life, to land himself in
a higher position in the world tlian did his friend. His taste
would have led him into political life — for who could have been
at Christ Church with Canning and Jenkinson, and not have been
ambitious ? — but his fortune was fiir too meagre to allow him
to think of it. He remained at his college, living on his student-
ship and his small fortune very happily indeed ; keeping up a
constant correspondence with the richer and better-born men wlio
had gone out into the world to fight in the great battle which was
then raging.
So his politics were confined to the common-room. But some-
times he appeared before the world and had his say with the rest.
He wrote a pamphlet once which made a sensation ; he found this
very charming. Here was a way to make himself heard. He
wrote another pamphlet and then another. They were all good.
His assumed signature began to be looked for, and people began
to ask who he was. These pamphlets of his were very humorous
and full of stinging allusions, which, we daresay, made men laugli
then, but which now fiill dead on the ear of any but a very old
man indeed. Some of them have absurd titles, such as one
(1801), "Choking the Black Dog with Butter"; and again,
same date, '' Shall we have the Doctor's 13oy or tlic Constable ? "
]>y which last delicate allusion to Lord Sidmoulli, it appt-ars, not
that it is of any great consequence, that he was in favour of a
vigorous prosecution of the war, and that his enthusiasm was
sliglitly too strong for his manners.
The art of pamjjhleteciring becomes, lik(! most otliers, more i-asy
by practice. James Elliot got to a great perfection in the art.
He had considerable humour, and so his half-truths were put
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 7
forward under a cloud of ridicule, luid before people had douo
lau^'liiu;^', the question liad gone hy. lie never spared but one
man, Mr. Jenkinson. Ouce this gentleman (developed into Lord
Hawkesbury since 1796) was accused of having written one of
these pamphlets himself, but tlie very next one which appeared
under the same signature, entirely dissipated that notion. Lord
Hawkesbury came in for his sliare of good-humoured railing abuse
with the rest. It was evident that this man, this " Beta," as he
chose to sign himself, was a man of great ability. Nobody was
safe with him. His principles wanted fixing: he had no principles
at present. They must really be fixed. Such a man was lost to
the public business of the country.
In 1808, then, his old friend. Lord Liveq)Ool, with the full
consent of all his colleagues, oftered place to his old friend and
correspondent James Elliot ; the place of Inspector of Shoals
and Quicksands, worth £1,500 a year. And of all the appoint-
ments made by the good Lord Liverpool during his long tenure
of office, this was perhaps the best. It was made in quieter and
less anxious times than those which followed — in the merry old
war times, when a man's friend was his friend still, and one knew
one's friend from one's enemy — when one's heart could warm up
at thinking of dear old Jim Elliot's delight at getting this place,
and one still had wit or folly enough left in one to put a few lines
of doggrel into the postscript of the letter giving him the ofier of
it — in the times which came before the Peace, and before those
weary fifteen years when one sat and drove, or tried to drive, four
such terrible liorses as Peel, "Wellington, Huskisson, and Canning,
four-in-hand, only to drop down dead from sheer anxiety and over-
work at the end of it all. Peace be with Lord Liverpool's ashes !
We very strongly suspect him of having been a good and noble
man.
The last Lord High Inspector of the Shoals and Quicksands
was Admiral Sir Foreland North, who died in 1707. He accumu-
lated a fortune in that office, and was made Lord Sands of God-
win. It was found that he had scandalously neglected his duties,
and the peculiar revenues of the office being found remunerative,
it was put in commission, my Lords of the Shoals and Quicksands
being required to pay an Inspector so much a year, and to pocket
the rest of the revenues themselves. This was found to work
very well ; it created patronage ; and the Inspector being liable
to forfeiture of his office for neglect, the work was better done
than in the old times.
The revenues of the office of Lord High Commissioner of the
Shoals and Quicksands were derived from several sources. Heavy
8 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
tonnage dues were demanded from all ships which passed through
the Needles, came within three miles of Eddystone Rock, passed
St. Michael's Mount without letting fly top-sail halliards, threw
empty bottles or garbage into the sea within three miles of any
one of the Cinque Ports (counting from Old Hythe, and including
eight miles east of Deal), passed through the Steat of Skye, and
did many other things too tedious to mention. These revenues,
though they doubtless cost a great deal to collect, paid in a great
deal of money. The office might sometimes once a year have
a grand battalion day in the Arches, and might have to spend
several thousand pounds in proving " that John Smith, of the
Hope schooner, master mariner, was within three miles of the
port of Sandwich when, on the day aforesaid, he did then and
there, not having the fear of God before his eyes, wilfully,
maliciously, and devilishly, cast into the sea, sundry, that is
to say, five hundred glass bottles, against the peace of our Lord
the King, &c. &c." ; yet, in spite of all this, the revenues ot the
office were, for many years, a very pretty provision for five lords,
and an inspector to do their work. There were good years and
bad years. Sometimes John Smith would prove his case — prove
"that he was a good five miles off Sandwich ; that, being dis-
guised in liquor, he had only thrown his empty brandy-bottle
at his apprentice's head, and that it had gone accidentally over-
board, and had floated within the prescribed limits"; in which
case, my lords would take it up to Chancery, and have to pay.
But the Inspector always got his salary ; and my lords made
a pretty good thing of it on the whole.
But after sixty years or so, master mariners began to have the
fear of God before their eyes, to go round the Isle of Wight, to
let fly topsail- halliards in the right place, to keep clear of the
Eddystone, to kick the apprentice into the lee-scuppers before
they threw the brandy-bottle at him — to conform, in fact, more or
less, to all laws, human and divine ; which proceedings had tliis
result : that the Lords of the Slioals and Quicksands were left
without money to pay their Inspector. It became necessary to
supplement their revenues by a i)arlianientary grant, which was
done. But thi; ])arliam('ntarv grant was so siiiiill, that, since
1795, the position of a Jjord of tlie Shoals and Quicksands had
been merely an lionorary one. Parliamt'iit })aid tlieir Inspector.
Sometimes they got twenty ]t()iMids apieci' ; soiin'times they did
not. But Government allowed them a yachl, and the Inspector
had the use of it.
When !\Ir. I'illioi took the nlacc, in ISOO, lie loiiiul evervtliin;'
in confusion. Tlicre were lilty squabbles on iiand witli the Lords
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 9
of the Ailmiraltv on the one liaiid, and with the Trinity Board
on the other. He set to work like a yoini^' ^'iant, altliou^di lie
was now forty years of age, and brought evi-rytliing into order.
He liad no special knowledge ot his subject, but he soon knew
more about it than any one. Wlu-n a man has learnt how to
learn, he can soon learn anything. Tlie '* experts " conncctrd
with his ottice, coasting skippers, pilots, lighthouse-keepers, and
sucli people, came to him with their facts, put them before liim,
and looked at him, as much as to say, " Here are our facts, can
you generalise troni them?" They veiy soon found that he could.
They were pertectly contented. It was a very good appointment.
j\ly Lords of the Admiralty were high, and the Trinity brothers
were mighty with him. There had been '* heats " between these
two great bodies on the one side, and the Commissioners of Shoals
and Quicksands on the otiier, in which my Lords of the Slioals
had left their Inspector to bear the brunt. The story of my Lords
of the Admiralty having threatened to fire into the yacht of the
Shoals and Quicksands, on the Motherbank, must be untrue, for
the Adnnralty yacht had no gun on hoard. Therefore, how could
they have threatened to fire ?
]Mr. Elliot composed all these difficulties, and got his office into
noble order. His beloved Lord Liverpool used to point to him
with pride : " J/// man, gentlemen."
But what with soothing my Lords of the Admiralty, and doing
battle with the Trinity House, for leave to do their work, it was
eight years before he thought of marrying. When he did think of
it, there was no doubt about the lady whatever. He married a
certain Miss Beverley, a lady of thirty-one, gentle and good, like
himself ; and on his fifty-second birthday she bore him a noble
bov.
CHAPTER III.
It is with the fortunes of this boy, Austin Elliot, and with the
fortunes of George Hilton's little girl, Eleanor, that we have
principally to concern ourselves.
Mr. Elliot had lived in an atmosphere of politics ever since he
was nineteen, and had known, and known well, some, nay most,
of the leading men of his time. He had his grievance, his
crotchet, like most other men, good or bad ; and his grievance
10 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
was this : That he, James Elliot, mif^ht have succeeded in public
life, if he had uot b^en so unfortunately poor. He was very likely
right. No one will ever know whether he was right or not ; the
thought was a little, carefully unexpressed, grievance to him.
He never got sour over it, he never expressed it in words ; but
the thought that he had been only prevented from holding a very
high place in the world by his poverty, was at times a source of
vexation to him, more particularly whenever he saw a beggar on
horseback, or a fool in a high place.
He was poor no longer : he had a good place, his wife succeeded
to a very good fortune, and his boy, Austin, was growing to be
one of the handsomest, cleverest, bravest lads ever seen — a boy
who at ten years old showed, as his father thought, most singular
and precocious talent.
At this time, when Austin was ten years old, and when there
was no doubt of his being a very clever boy of his age, Mr. Elliot
took the great resolution of his life. That boy should be educated
as a statesman. "That boy should be prime — Hush — don't let
us talk nonsense," said Mr. Elliot to himself, with a radiant
smile, as he sat one night over the fire, and saw various things
in the hot coals.
The idea was rather a grand one. Mr. Elliot's creed was,
that statesmanship was a trade, and tliat a man must serve hia
apprenticeship to that trade as to any other. A man should be
trained to politics early, if he was going to succeed. Look at
Pitt the younger. (He could not liave read Lord Macaulay's
" Life of Pitt " ; it would have killed him. Lord Macaulay's
atrocious suggestion, that Pitt was not the most sublimely wise of
the human race, would have cut the ground from under his feet.)
Yes, a statesman must be trained ; of that there was not the least
doubt in the world.
And he, James Elliot, would train and educate one. His own
boy. If he, with his intricate knowledge of every political twist
and turn for forty years, could not do that, who could ? And see
the material he had to work on ; was there ever such a boy ?
"Never," said Mr. Elliot: "Seldom," say we. He certainly
was a boy of the very highest promise, and the man who doubted
that Mr. Elliot would succeed in making a leading statesman of
hhn nmst have been a foolish person. It is no use for that man
to say that Mr. Elliot did not succeed. By all rules he sliould
have succiH'drd, tlnavfon; tlie charge of folly stands.
So Mr. Elliot was going to educate his son for a stali'sman.
But how ?
This was the most delightful probloDi. Tlie thought o'i it made
AUSTIN I^TJ>IOT. 11
Mr. Elliot's f,'oocl face {^low ■svitli liappincss. Here was a Leant iiul
Boul, a iioMe intellect, ready to receive any impression whatever.
Mr. Elliot worked at his task with a will, but he perhaps bc^^'an it
a little too early. The young ambition must be excited by the
recital of noble needs, and so little; Austin heard many a lon^^
story of great debates, grand political tricks, and so on, wjjich
were far from interesting. At the same time, Mr. Elliot was very
furious with the conduct of a certain great statesman on the
Catholic question, and found it rather pleasant to denounce him
to the wondering Austin, who, at ten years old, had acquired a
distinct idea that Parliament was a place something like school :
and that Sir llobert Peel was a traitor many degrees worse than
Guy Fawkes ; had a distinct belief, indeed, that, when every one
had their due, the Right Honourable gentleman would be carried
about on a chair, with his boots ou hindside before, and all the
straw coming out at his knees.
When Austin was ten years old, his mother died, and he was
left more exclusively to his fiither's care. And then these two
contracted a strong personal affection for one another, which
lasted to the very end, and which was never clouded for one
instant. It was well for Austin to remember that hereafter ; well
to remember that he had never cast one shadow on his father's
kind, gentle face.
This boy Austin grew so rapidly in both moral and physical
beauty, that the absurd chimerical plans of his father seemed to
become, year by year, more probable of fulfilment, and his old
friends began to leave laughing at him and to confine themselves
to shaking their heads.
There can be no doubt that the boy was not perfect, but really
he was one of the finest and noblest boys ever seen. He made a
great success eveiywhere. Possibly it would be better, instead of
cataloguing his various perfections, to ask you to think of the
handsomest and most amiable boy you ever knew, and call him
Austin Elliot. You will know him as a man ; let us skip his paedeia.
One of Austin's earliest recollections was that of going to play
with Eleanor and Robert Hilton ; for, after Lord Liverpool's
death, James Elliot resumed his intimacy with his old friend
George Hilton once more. He had always kept up his ac-
quaintance with him, but it had not been very close for many
years. Lord Liverpool had never forgotten the affair of the
French Funds. It was the sort of thing tliat he could not
forget ; and, indeed, it is not a pleasant subject to dwell on.
James Elliot never mentioned George Hilton's name before him,
but he would not throw his old friend entirely overboard. And
12 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
after Liverpool and Canning died, with the harness on their
backs, the world was very lonely to him, and he once more grew
intimate with his old friend, whom he had always tried to defend,
even against his own conscience.
Eleanor Hilton was not, as a child, beautiful, or even pretty.
At first, her features were too square and prononce ; but, from
the very first, she was as gentle, good, and sensible as a child
might be. Robert, on the other hand, was peevish and some-
wliat violent. He had, also, a strange wayward mendacity — at
times refusing to tell a lie to save himself from punishment, at
another lying without an object. A still more fatal vice had not
hitherto shown itself, but was developed afterwards.
When Eleanor was twelve and Robert ten, their mother died ;
and, nearly at the same time, Austin Elliot went to Eton, and
Robert was left with Eleanor to the care of a governess. Had
old Hilton known as much about the boy, as the governess and
Eleanor, he would never have, in all probability, sent the boy to
Eton ; but so it was. He followed Austin to Eton after two
years ; and we need hardly say, after the character we have before
given to Austin, that he Avas affectionately kind to his old play-
fellow, and did all for him he could. But Robert soon began to
go wrong : he was always in trouble. Nothing serious, however,
took place till after several months.
There came to Eton the very same half, and to the vei'y same
house as Austin, a certain Lord Charles Barty, of the same age
as Austin, and by no means unlike him in person and manners.
In a very short time, a great boy-friendship sprang up between
the two. In the very first letter he wrote to Eleanor his new
friend was mentioned, in most enthusiastic terms ; and his
intimacy with this friend seemed to increase as it went on. It
is useless to describe Lord Charles Barty as a boy, for we shall
see him hereafter in manhood, in far more terrible places than
the old playing-fields, or the ]3rocas or Surly, or any of thosii
places one hears Eton men talking about ; nevertheless, it is
necessary to tell you that, like Austin, he was a noble and manly
fellow, and that he was as wortliy of Austin's honest love as
Austin was of his.
Wiien Robert Hilton appeared, alU-r two years of friendsliij)
between tliese two, whether it was Ihrougli ji'alousy, or through
mistrust, or what, it is impossible to say, but Jjord Charh's Barty
took a vioh'ut dislike to him. To obviate this, and to interest
liis friend in poor Robert Jiilioii, Austin tohl him what he had
not very h)ng known for liimself, that he was in love with Eleanor
Hilton, and that this was her brother.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 13
All the chivalry in Charles Barty's heart fired up at this. One
slnup p;in<^ of jealousy shot throu^'li him when Austin told him
tliat there was one in the world preferred to himself, hut it was
instantly smothered and killed. Ho would have liked a few more
years of his friend's undivided love, hut it was not to be, Austin
was in love, //rt^c/r. Mrs. Austin's brother must be taken u}),
whatever might be his faults.
It is no use trying to laugli at all tliis, by saying that Lord
Charles Barty and Austin were neither of them fifteen. They
were quite as much in earnest, if not more so, than if they had
been five-and-twenty. Lord Charles took up Robert Hilton and
patronised him and was ati'octionate to him and fought liis battles
for him to the death, but all in a high and mighty manner, and
under protest.
But the catastrophe came. One day, while Austin and Charles
Barty were out at cricket, or what not, a boy, at home in disgrace,
came into Lord Charles's room and found Robert Hilton at his
desk. He seized him and raised an alarm. The master was
fetched, and the wretched boy's boxes were searched. Every-
thing which had been missed in the house for a long time was
found there. The habit which the governess and Eleanor had
noticed in him, and which they dared not mention to his father,
was confirmed with a vengeance. The lad was a thief! When
Austin and Lord Charles came innocently home, laughing, they
found the whole mine sprung under their feet. Either one of
them would have given their right hands to save the lad, whom
neither liked, but it was too late.
He was so very, very young, they pleaded for him. Austin
and Lord Charles w-ent personally round to the other boys whose
things had been stolen and begged their forbearance. He v.as so
ver}', ver}' young. I need not say what English boys did under
those circumstances. There was no scandal : he was sent home.
So it came about, that George Hilton's inordinate, and some-
what unprincipled love of gain began to be revenged on him in
the person of his only son. He knew it and felt it as keenly as
any one, but he hardened his heart. He refused to see the boy
for some time, and he saw him but very seldom until he died.
It becomes necessary that we should follow Robert Hilton to
the end, before we return to Austin and Eleanor, and it is very
shortly done.
This case was the one on which the Rev. Letmedown Eas}'
gained his present enormous and justly-earned reputation lor
keeping young bears from growling, by feeding them with the
toast from under the asparagus, with the ends of the twists, the
14 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
eggs out of the pigeon-pies, and other soothing dainties, until the
whole thing was hlown over and everyhody had forgotten all about
it. He well earned the thousand pounds which George Hilton
paid him for keeping his son five years without scandal, and for
sending his father a good character of hhn each lialf-year. The
Rev. Lctmedown was not such a very great rogue ; he undertook
to whitewash the boy, and he whitewashed him. He kept him at
his parsonage in Essex safe out of temptation for five years, until
the whole thing was forgotten. He was paid for doing it and ho
did it.
Our already old friend James Elliot begged his son not to
renew his acquaintance with Robert Hilton, and Austin ac-
quiesced. Old Hilton never allowed his son to come into the
house, and so Austin never saw Robert after his unfortunate
departure from Eton. It was no fault, however, of Austin's ; if
Robert had ever been allowed to come home by his stem old
father, they would have seen enough of one another. For
Austin's love for Eleanor grew stronger year by year, and he
was always with her.
More of this immediately. Just before Austin went to Oxford,
Eleanor wrote to him that Robert and her father were reconciled
at last, and that Robert had got his commission. At this point
Mr. Easy's fictitious respectability suddenly and lamentably broke
do^vn. Before Robert had been three months in the amiy, people
began to talk. Gossip was followed by open accusations, accusa-
tions by court-martial. The end was swift, sudden and sure :
Robert Hilton was disgracefully expelled from the army.
CHAPTER IV.
The private residence of the Inspector-General oC Shoals and
Quicksands was at Mortlake, his official yacht generally lay at
Gravesend, and his office was on the terrace of Somerset House.
The duties of the Inspector of Shoals and Quicksands are, to
inspect tliem, and to report on tlie state of them to my Lords.
Tliis is done firstly by examination of local witnesses, and secondly
by personal experience. The fornua* of these two metliods is, of
course, in some measure perfornu^d at tlie office, and the second
mainly by means of tlie yacht.
The office is one of the freshest and breeziest in London. On
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 16
a siimnior's day it is a vory clioorful spot ; the stoamers dasliing
coasclossly up uiul down, and the rivor niiininf,' in a f^n'at ^deam-
in{4 l)iind eastward towards St. Paul's. AVlicn tlu; wind is lilowinj,'
strongly tVoni the east or south-east, hriuging with it, in spite of
miles of brickwork and smoke, a fresh wliiti" of the wild glorious
sea, and lashing the river into waves, it is a phasantir and fresher
place still. But the best time to be about that ofhce, is in a gale
of wind from tlu; southward, or south-westward ; when the glass
rattles in the windows and the driving rain comes spinning into
the lobby, when the door is opened ; and when the most prosaic
clerk, wearily copying the ** statement of William Grumble, master
of the light-ship on the St. Margaret Sands, concerning the shift-
ing of the N.E. Channel," cannot help staying for an instant to
wonder how it fares with William Grumble in his light -ship just
now ; when the chimney-pots are flying, the water barometer
varying four or five inches every quarter of an hour, and the
gulls up the river in dozens.
Ever since he was a boy, and a very snnill one, Austin had
been very fond of the oflice : it had always been a great treat to
him to be allowed to come to the office, and plague his father, at
his great square leather-covered table. When his father wouldn't
stand him any longer he used to go out and " skylark " with the
clerks, who, you may depend, did not oltject to that sort of thing.
But presently, he being a very noisy boy, his father would come
in, and turn him out of the clerks' rooms into the lobby, to
disport himself there.
And an uncommonly merry, gentlemanly set of fellows were
those aforesaid clerks as one could wish to meet with. No chief
of any Department had his clerks better in hand than James
Elliot, and no one scolded less — but we will say no more of this.
Though the clerks were meny young gentlemen, yet when turned
out of their rooms, Austin found in the lobby men he liked still
better than the clerks.
Men with cabn clear eyes, and deliberate thoughtful speech.
Most of them men with brown horny hands and grizzled hair.
A few^ of them dressed in rough pilot coats ; more, in old-
fashioned long-tailed coats, with brass buttons ; more of them
still, soberly dressed in unobtrusive black, but all with the same
cahn clear eye. These were the lighthouse-keepers, or such as
they — men of the storm, of the lee shore, of the reef, of the
quicksand — men from the lonely station standing far seaward on
the thunder-smitten cliff, or from the solitary lighthouse, on the
surf-washed ledge, miles out in the raging sea.
It was well for this golden-haired lad, with his beautiful face.
16 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
to stand at the knees of such men as these, and listen to tliem ;
to hear from one, how on a night, when sea and air were all
mixed together in deadly turmoil, the light-ship he commanded
broke loose without their knowing it, and was carried over
dangerous sands, and thrown high and dry and safe on the beach ; and
from another one, how he and his mate sat up one such night in the
lonely lighthouse, five miles from land, watching the corpse of tlie
third and oldest of them, who had died tliat morning — and how,
while they sat there, they heard, but could not see, an unmanage-
able and dismasted ship strike the rock and go to pieces, a
hundred feet below them ; and that, creeping do^^'n and opening
the lower door, and looking out into the black horror of darkness,
they could hear in the night, close to them, the crashing and cracking
of timbers, and the sound of men, women, and children calling
on God Almighty for help ! There was nothing there in the
morning, said this one, in answer to an unexpressed inquiry from
Austin's blue eyes. She had struck at low tide.
Yes ; the office was a pleasant place enough, but there was
something better than the ofHco — the yacht. Once a year, in the
beginning of recess, there would come a long blue letter from my
Lords of the Admiralty (not our Lords), tlie gist of which was
that the Inspector of Slioals and Quicksands was to hold himself
in readiness to accompany their Lordships in their annual inspec-
tion of buoys. Austin, of course, went with his father on these
occasions, and enjoyed it mightily ; for, as he says in his reckless
disrespectful way, that my Lords are a deuced jolly set of fellows.
When they were accompanying the Admiralty yacht they used to
see a great deal of very pleasant society, and Austin had quickly
won the hearts, not only of the Quicksand Lords (who held him
being their own property), but also the hearts of all the Admiralty
Lords, excepting one dreadful old sea liord, witli a cork leg
and a grievance about his wife's nephew, whom nobody could
manage.
Golden, glorious days were these. Sometimes the two yachts
would come sti-aming swiftly and suddenly into the liarbour of
some great arsenal, by the ugly hulks, and under the rolling
downs, flattened on the sunnnit by dismantled fort iticat ions, and
so through her Majesty's fleet. lUit however swiftly and suddenly
they came, they could never take them by suii)rise. Always, as
tlio Admiralty yacht passed the first sliip, the great guns began
booming out their salute, and sliip after sliip took up witli the
glorious music, until the vessels of the ear began to throb with
tlie coiicussioii of tlie air, and in calm weatlu'r the harbour would
bo filled witli drilling smoke ; for the time when these things
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 17
happened was long ago, before gunpowder was so much needed
for other purposes as now, and before we saved £30,000 a year
by stopping unnecessary sahites.
And once it came about that there was a discussion, as to
whether or no a red bu(\v sliould be }»ut at tlie outer edge of the
Swing, to mark the entrance to the Mary Anne Cliannel. Mr.
Elliot went to the chief Admiralty Lord, and represented that he
thought it necessary. As a general rule, Mr. Elliot's suggestions
were promptly attended to ; but on this occasion, my Lords hum'd
and hah'd a great deal. One said that there had been a good
deal said about Naval expenditure lately, and that if it were
necessary to have a buoy at all (which, mind you, he did not for
one instant admit), he was for having a blue buoy instead of a
red, because every one, who knew the least about their duty, were
well aware that blue paint could be got a farthing a pound cheaper
than red. Another denied this in toto, and said that red paint
was cheapest. A third denied the existence of the Maiy Anne
Channel altogether. A fourth contradicted him Hatly ; but said
that if the wreck of the Mary Anne was moved, the sand would
silt in again, and then what was the use of your buoy ? Mr.
Elliot, like a man of the world, contradicted their Lordships,
individually and collectively, and insisted on a buoy, and a red
one, too ; the red paint was just as cheap as the blue. As
Mr. Elliot had foreseen, their Lordships had a squabble among
themselves, which ended in their turning on him, and ordering
him to proceed at once on board his yacht, the Pelican, and
proceed to Portsmouth to await their Lordships' orders. At the
same time, a curt, short message was sent quickly down by the
telegraph — which at that time was a thing like a windmill gone
mad — to the commander of the Admiralty yacht Falcon, to hold
himself in readiness to proceed to sea with their Lordships at
once ; and then their Lordships departed to Belgrave and
Grosvenor Squares, and where not, to pack up their things, and
told their ladyships that it was getting intolerable, that they
could not and would not stand being dictated to by a subordinate
any longer, and that they were going to see into the matter for
themselves.
The result of all this dire anger, and all this Spartan self-denial,
was as follows : — The Commons were adjourned, leaving Daniel
O'Connell to the mercy of the Lords, but Parliament was not
prorogued. The August sun was shedding a mellow sleepy liglit
over cape and island, a gentle west wind was blowing up Channel,
scarce strong enough to whiten the purple waves. And well !
If their Lordships in such case, having the power to go to sea,
3
18 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
had stayed on shore, they would have deserved impeachment, or
a coutemjit -worse than impeachment. However this may he,
however angry their Lordships may have heen with Mr. EUiot,
there was no cloud, not the faintest speck of one, on any of their
faces, when he hoarded the Falcon at Spithead and reported
himself. Three days afterwards, Austin, expressing himself in
that low, slangy way which the young men of the present day
seem so anxious to adopt, said that my Lords were " uncommonly
larky." This, however, is certain, that Austin and his father
dined on hoard with their Lordships ; and hefore the soup was off
the tahle the great paddles got to work, and the Falcon, with the
Pelican close in her wake, went thundering down the Solent, and
so out into the leaping summer waves of the Channel ; and that
as the summer sun went down, Portland was hanging to the north
— a vast purple wall overrun hy threads and hands of green ; and
that Austin and his father were put on hoard their own yacht at
eight hells, speed heing slackened for the purpose. And when
they got on hoard, Austin remarked to his father that they seemed
to be in for rather a jolly spree.
Then folloAved the short summer night, and soon after dawn
Austin was on deck looking at the Start towering up to the north,
hlue, purple, with gleams of golden green. And while Austin is
looking at the Start, let us look at him once for all, because his
personal appearance will not greatly change before this story gets
well-nigh told.
A very short description will suffice. We only wish to give you
such an idea of his personality as to make him real to you. From
a beautiful boy, he had grown to be a very handsome young man
— as some said, one of the handsomest ever seen. He was light-
haired, with a rather dehcate brilliant complexion, and blue eyes.
His figure was very good, his air graceful, his manner winning
and gentle, liis dress always perfect, his conversation easy, clever,
and inexhaustible, all of which things caused every woman, high
or low, whom he met, to get uncommonly fond of him. But
besides, he not only had the women on his side, which
many a handsome young dandy has had before, but also the
men.
Tlie reason that he had the men on liis side was, that he Avas
a good fellow, and that means a good deal ; so much so, that it
is impossible to describe, with any exhaustive accuracy, what it
means. Althougli we all of us know a good fellow, it is hard to
be made to define one. Austin was one, certainly, lie laughed
with those who were merry, he condoled with tlioso who were sad,
nursed those who were sick, k-iit money to those who were poor,
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 19
was a good companion to those who were rich, and earned corafort
to those who were in love. Many others do all these things, and
yet arc not good fellows. Austin was a good follow, for he was
in earnest, and any one who took the trouble might see it. He
was now at Oxford, and althougli his diligence might have been
greater, yet his tutors had great hopes of a very high degree for
him. Rarely does one find a young man of prospects more
brilliant than those of Austin, as he stands this morning on the
deck of the yacht, looking northward at the Start.
So the two yachts went tearing down channel, as though their
errand were to arrive at the Swing before the channel was silted
up, and before the second sunset they were passing St. Michael's
Mount ; the third day they were gazing in amazement at the
AVorm's Head, rising like a serpent out of the sea ; the next they
were at the Swing.
Here there was an accident.'-' Austin was on board of the
Falcon, and, as they approached the shoal, their Lordships all
began wrangling once more on the buoy question, which had been
shelved just now, in the pleasure of the voyage. There was no
need for them to have troubled themselves about it, Mr. Elliot
would have explained, but no, they were not coming five hundred
miles for nothing, and so they began to wrangle.
The commander asked, should he steer by the Admiralty chart,
or by Mr. Elliot's directions ? Mr. Elliot must be made to know
that their Lordships were not going to be hoodwinked by a sub-
ordinate. By flie Admiralty chart if you please.
Thump, bump ! up goes her nose two feet in the air, and doAMi
she goes on the port side. The senior Lord goes into the lee-
scuppers, and Austin indecently bursts out laughing. The Falcon
was aground hard and fast. This is Austin's account of the
matter. It seems somewhat apocryphal.
She was off again at high tide, with the loss of some copper.
But the effect of the accident was, that they roimded the Lleyu
and made for Liverpool.
It was a very important voyage this for Austin, and the con-
clusion of it more important still. Austin had been by this voyage
thro^Ml into such close and intimate familiarity with some one or
two leading men, as commonly happens on board ship ; where
intimacies are so rapidly made, as to astonish those who are not
* If Austin is correct about this accident, there must have been two
accidents to the Admiralty yacht, very similar : for it is a matter of
histor}- that my Lords bumped themselves ashore in the Bristol Chaunel
in 18i0. They should be more careful. What should we do if anything
were to happen to them ?
20 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
in tlio habit of going to sea. Austin had used his time well. He
was as irresistible as usual. He had never been presented to
their own senior Lord before he went on board, and considered
such an event ratlier a great one for a lad at the University,
without any pretensions to birth. But after four days at sea, he
had laughed when he picked that Lord out of the lee-scuppers,
and that Lord had somewhat eagerly appealed to his opinion,
against another Lord, as to whether or no he had prophesied the
accident. Which was getting on very well indeed.
But better than this happened to him. They turned into the
Strait, and dropped anchor at Caernarvon ; the senior Lord of the
Admiralty was going to disembark there, and post to his estate
in Merionethshire. Austin's ears actually tingled with deliglit
when the senior Lord asked him to come with him, and spend a
fortnight with him and his family among the mountains.
Austin was ambitious, and he knew that one of the roads to
political greatness was the being well thought of in certain
quarters. But he was no tuft-hunter, and he knew besides that
the only way to gain a footing in a house was, to come in at the front
door and not at the back. From his first acquaintance with Lord
Charles Barty at Eton, he had had the full run of Cheshire
House, but, since he had been at the University, his sense had
told him that he had better not go there till he was asked. In
spite of Lord Charles Barty's friendship for him, which developed as
they both grew older, Austin had, for the last three years, managed
to avoid entering the house, until the time should come when he
might be asked to do so by much more important people than his
old school-mate.
But here was a real triumph. The senior Lord was a very
great man indeed. There were very few greater. Austin had
only been presented to him four days before, and had laughed at
him but yesterday when he picked him up out of the lee-scuppers,
and yet here was his Lordship insisting on his coming home with
him. It was a very great strokt; of business to a young man so
anxious to push himself in the world as Austin.
Even at Caernarvon Austin's wonder was excited, not mori-ly
at tlie reverence whicli was paid to his Lordsliij), but also at the,
if possible, greater riivt^'ence paid to himself. He was very much
amused by, and puz/led at it. Tlie landlord at Caernarvon bowed
to him, and called hint " My Lord." " Simple people these
AVelsh," tliought Austin.
Ihit he did not think so vi-iy much of it, for this dav was an
era in his life. For the lirst time he saw mountain scenery —
and I tliink the reader will agree with the author tliat, of all
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 21
the introductions to mountain scenery, that of the road from
Ciioniarvon to Llanhoris, is one of the most sudden, most
startlinj,', and most bcautiriil.
My Lord, whom we will now call Mr. Cecil, sat opposite to
him, and was very much pleased with his boyish enthusiasm ;
and, indeed, tlie entliusiasm of a young person, when they first
find their visible horizon tilted up some ninety-five degrees, is
very pleasing. ^Nlr. Cecil sat and smiled at him, with an air of
calm pride on his face, as if he had made it all himself, and was
pleased to find that his trouble was appreciated. But as we all
do this, when we introduce a friend to some new scenery, we must
not be hard on Mr. Cecil.
In the very middle of the finest part of the Pass, there came
riding towards them a veiy tall, important-looking gentleman,
with very black whiskers. He stopped and saluted ]Mr. Cecil,
and looked with such lively interest at Austin, that the poor
young gentleman felt inclined to laugh. The gentleman with the
black whiskers asked, with a sweet smile, to be introduced.
When Austin was introduced as Mr. Elliot, the gentleman looked
very much disappointed and aggrieved, and was many degrees
shorter in his speech towards Austin than the latter had supposed,
from previous symptoms, he would have been.
It was a memorable and delightful day. A lucky rogue was
Austin, to be shut up tete-a-tete in an open camage with one of
the most agreeable and famous men in England, and driven
through a continual succession of such beautiful scenery. Mr.
Cecil, on his part, was delighted with Austin's charming manners
and ingenuousness. He listened kindly and with interest to his
confidences, to his anticipations of a career in the world ; and
made Austin blush with delight by saying, that from all he had
seen of him, there was nothing whatever to prevent the realisa-
tion of a very great portion of his hopes.
But the most beautiful among all the beautiful objects seen that
day was the one seen last. More beautiful than a million silver
threads of water streaming from ten thousand crystalline peaks.
More beautiful than all the soaring ranges of feathering birch,
which hung pui-ple over the winter snow, or shone golden over the
summer feni, in all glorious CaernaiTonshire.
And it was this. As the summer sun was still blazing on the
topmost crag of Snowdou, and as each of the fourteen little lakes
of that most exquisite of mountains was sending up its tribute of
mist to WTeathe all night around the brows of the sleeping cliffs —
at such time Mr. Cecil and Austin came to a wall, inside of which
was a dark band of plantation, and Mr. Cecil stopped the carriage,
22 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
and said, — '' This is the beginning of my park. Let iis get out
and walk ; we shall be at the house as soon as the carriage if we
go by the short cut."
So they got out, and the carriage drove on. Mr. Cecil opened
a gate in the wall, and said, " Come on."
And Austin, standing in the road and looking at Snowdon,
answered, — " One minute more, only one minute more, with the
mountain ! Remember this is the first time I have ever seen this
sort of thing. See ! the black, pui'ple shadow is creeping up, and
gaining every instant on the golden glory lingering around the
summit. And look, Mr. Cecil, every wreath of mist from every
wrinkle and hollow among the great slate buttresses is turning
from a fleecy white to a pale, ghostly blue. I beg pardon, I am
keeping you waiting. People generally make asses of themselves
when they are first introduced to mountain scenery."
'' Generally, yes," said Mr. Cecil ; " but you are slightly poeti-
cal for a young gentleman who proposes to succeed in politics.
Come on, I have something to show you finer than that mountain
before you get any dinner."
He was right. The path grew steep and rocky as it wound
do'wn through the dark wood, and to the right Austin began to
distinguish a dim abyss, and to hear a sound as of a mighty wind
coming through the trees ; and then suddenly they stood upon a
slight bridge, and were looking up at a broad cascade which
streamed and spouted a hundred feet overhead.
He gave a cry of honest delight at the glorious spectacle. Ho
was standing, still absorbed in it a few minutes afterwards, when
he was touched on the shoulder.
He turned, expecting to see only his host, but beside him was
standing the most beautiful girl he had even seen, with her arm
round her father's waist.
*'My daughter! " But was it really his daughter, or was it
some beautiful fairy of the stream, some being born of the amber-
coloured water, of the white foam, and of the last rosy tints that
hung on the cliffs overhead ? Such for one instant was his silly
fancy as he looked on this sudden apparition, at lier light brown
hair, her pure red cheek, and her white gown. "Was it I'ated that
every one who met him this day should look disappointed '? ]\Iiss
Cecil, the most amiable as well as the most beautiful of women,
even she seemed to liave some sliglit shade of disappointment on
her face. It was inexplicable, but very annoying.
If her beauty showed to advantage amidst the seetliing mist
of the waterfall, it did not sliow to less advantage under tho
shadows of tlie woodlaiidj as slie, her fatlier, and Austin walked
AUSTIN ELT.IOT. 23
home tof]j(tli(r. Not to less advantage at all events to Austin,
but to greater. And in his eyes her beauty seemed to increase as
he looked at her, and grew even more divine at each turn of tlie
head and at eacli fresh expression of the face. Austin had never
seen such beauty before — Mr. Cecil had. Tlio beautiful girl's dead
mother was even more beautiful than slie.
From the windows of Tyn y Rhaiadr (the fann of the water-
fall), you can see, on a fine summer's night, Snowdon hanging
aloft like a purple crystal, and tlie arch of twih'glit creeping along
behind it from west to east, through the short summer night, until
it begins to flash and blaze into a dawn more glorious than the
scarce -forgotten sunset.
And all through that night, until the arch of sunrise had grown
from dull orange to primrose, and even after, when the sun him-
self had looked over the distant Glyder, and the long shadows of
tree and rock were cast along the dewy sward, and the mowers
began bnishing through the grass, and the munnurs of many
waters, which had waxed and waned dully on the ear through the
night, had died before the jubilant matins of a thousand birds ;
until such time did Austin sit at the open windows of his bedroom,
and look out on the glorious prospect and all the wonderful
changes of colour which take place between dawn and sunrise, but
as one who saw them not.
For the arrow had gone home this time up to the very feather.
CHAPTER V.
Austin sat and thought what he could recollect to have heard
about her. He had not been much into society where he would
have been likely to have heard much about her. Many of the
clerks in his father's ofHce would be likely to know more.
He remembered one thing, however. He had heard that she
was an only daughter and an immense heiress, and that all the
estates in four counties would go to this young beauty. And he
was desperately in love with lier.
He saw nothing absurd in this ; he did not get up in the dead
of night and stealthily fly the house, without looking back for
teiTor. No ! he waited impatiently foi' day that he might see her
again, and get more madly, hopelessly entangled with her than
ever.
24 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
If she had shown a trifling disappointment when he came the
night hefore, she seemed to he very much pleased with him next
day. She met him with ease, and almost with familiarity — with
so much familiarity indeed, that he, not knowing the cause of it,
was very nnieh delighted indeed.
She had gone into her father's dressing-room that morning, and
said —
'' Father, dear, who is this Mr. EHiot whom you have brought
home ? "
** He is a young Oxford man. He promises uncommon well.
They say his degree will he very good indeed, and he is very
ambitious. He may end by being a man of some mark. Who
knows?"
" Is he nice ? "
" Can't say, I am sure. That is your business. He is to marry
that old scoundrel Hilton's daughter, and go into Parliament with
her money, I believe. I have brought him down here for a few
days to make his acquaintance, and introduce him to Mewstone.
He will be useful to him. He must pack oft" soon, for he takes
his degree in the October tenn."
*' When is Mewstone coming ? " said she, with a sigh.
** When he chooses," said Mr. Cecil, laughing ; '* you will find
that out."
Miss Cecil laughed — the most charming merry laugh you ever
heard — and then sailed away downstairs, to entertain that poor fool,
Austin Elliot.
Before she had been five minutes in the room with him, he saw
that his first estimate of her extraordinary beauty was by no means
too great. Not only was her fjice as nearly perfect as possible ;
not only were her brilliant, yet quiet, hazel eyes the most beauti-
ful eyes he had ever seen ; not only was her golden bro^Mi hair,
looped so carelessly and so gracefully around the perfect shaped
liead, beyond comparison in the world, as he thought — all these
things he had seen approached ; but her grace of manner — a grace
Ik; had read of as bi'ing achieved by some great actresses — was
something which he had never seen approached— a grace seen only
in repose, and her repose was continual. She moved, of course ;
but there was no point of time about any of her movi>nients : you
could not say that at such a time she did so-and-so. Slie only
slid from one posture of infinite grace into another. Austin
tlioiiglit that tliere was as much dWVerence be(\ve(>n lier motions
and tlios(! of anotlier woman, as betwi'en tliose of a doe in the
wild woodlands and those of a soldiei doing his exercise.
" I am so gl:i(l my fither brought vou home with hiui," she
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 25
said. " I was rather dull liorc, all alone with the waterfall and
the dof^s. Will you }»k'aso till ine ahout the yacht nniniii^
ashore ? Please make nie lauf^h ahout it. I am sure you can if
you choose. I can always like }k'0J)1(' who can make nic lau^^di."
Austin certainly could do that. He descrihed their Lordships'
squabble — the heartless obstinacy of the connnander, his sardonic
«^'rrn when he had made their IiOrdshi})s run the yacht ashore, and
the extraordinary infuriated hea}) of administrative talent of the
highest order, wliich lay kicking on the deck, at the first bump on
the sand. He would have given five pounds, he said, to have
been on board his father's yacht at the time, and seen his f\ither's
fiice. The expression of fun, he said, tempered with propriety,
which would have been seen in that face, would have been better
worth seeing than the whole of their seven Lordships fighting
together in the lee-scuppers.
She laughed very heartily, and she said, " I think I shall like
you very much indeed. Will you come and walk with me this
morning ? My father will be busy on the farm. My father tells
me you are going into politics. Will you tell me, for I have not
seen a newspaper, what are people saying about this O'Connell
business ? "
*' W^ell," said Austin, '* they are saying all kinds of things. Mr.
Cecil hopes that the Lords will reverse the judgment of the lower
courts. I entirely disagree with your father. There is some-
thing very charming in that. I, Austin Elliot, distinctly tell you,
Miss Cecil, that I disagi'ee with a privy councillor and First Lord
of the Admiralty. It makes one feel taller to say it. I have a
good mind to tell him so himself."
" Better not," she said, laughing ; '' such presumption might
ruin your prospects. And now let us leave politics and come and
see the dogs."
There was, in and about the kennel, almost every variety of dog
conceivable. There were deep-jowled dogs, with sunken eyes and
wrinkled foreheads, at the first distant note of whose bell-like voice
the hunted slave in the Cuban jungle lies dovra. and prays for death ;
yet who here is a stupid, blundering, aflectionate brute, who will
let you do as you like with him, and casts himself on his back at
Miss Cecil's feet. English bloodhounds, too — stupid, sleepy, good-
natured, slobbering. 8t. Bernard's, too — dogs of the snowstorm
and the avalanche, wise-looking dogs, self-contained, appearing to
know more than they choose to say, but idiots withal notwith-
standing, and very great idiots, as are many self-contained and
wise-looking animals beside they. A great rough Newfoundland
dog, chained up. Marry, why ? Because he had been the pet of
26 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
the house, until one clay he had become Must, Berserh, or what
you clioose to call it, until the devil, or the seven devils, which
lurk in all Newfoundland dogs, gentle and docile as they are, had
broken loose, and Mr. Cecil had had to fight with him for his life
in his own dressing-room. There were two French poodles, which,
as Mr. Sala says somewhere, so truly, " You can teach to do every-
thing but love you." There was a British bull-dog, white, with
small eyes ; so short-sighted as to be obliged to examine every-
thing with his nose (which gave Austin a creeping up his back),
and with a wicked, lowering face ; yet which bull-dog turned out,
like most other British bull-dogs, to be a good-natured, kind-
hearted fellow, and a firm friend, as soon as he had (by smelling
the calves of their legs, a neiTous proceeding) found out his friends
from his enemies.
And Austin, finding that the bull- dog, instead of biting his legs,
wagged his tail at him, and proposed to accompany him further,
broke out into raptures.
*' Miss Cecil, I have never seen such a collection of dogs as this !
And I am a great fancier of dogs."
*' You have not seen them nearly all yet," she said. " This is,
I believe, the best collection of dogs in England ; or rather, I
should say, better than any in England, for we are in Wales. You
know how they came here ? "
''No."
" My poor brother chose to have the best dogs in England ; it
was a passion with him ; and since his death, my father has chosen
to pursue his hobby. You know about my brother's death ? "
" Oh, yes," said Austin, who knew nothing at all about it, but
who did what was possibly the best thing he could do, utter a/acoii
lie 'paiier (for it was nothing more), and try to turn the subject. At
the same time he reflected, that it would be well for young men
like himself, not in society, before they went into a house, to in-
form themselves somewhat about the history of that house, to
prevent mistakes.
" Do you really know about my brother, Mr. Elliot ? " said Miss
Cecil.
" Well, no," said Austin, " I do not, since you ask me twice.
Remember, I am only an undergraduate at Oxford, and that I knew
nothing even of Mr. Cecil, except tliat he was one of the first men
in England, and liad given such and sucli votes, until he asked mo
here."
"I like you very niucli," said she ; "you are so well-bred, and
have so little })retension. T only wanted to mention my ])i>or
brother, whom 1 hardly rcimcuiber, to warn you wliat not to talk
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 27
nl)Out with my fatlior. Ho was; (lro\MK'(l Lnatiiif^ at Eton. And
you will liud that it is as well to know all this sort of thing in the
world."
Miss Cecil, the oraclo, was nineli younger than Austin : but she
had been out two seasons, and knew a great deal of the world ;
and he was at the University and knew absolutely and entirely
nothing. If he had, he would liavc known what a consummate fool
he was to fall in love with her, recklessly to go on feeding his
passion; and above all, what an utter fool he was to hope that it
would have any other than one conclusion.
" I know nothing of the world, or about people, yet," he said ;
" I suppose the knowledge of people and their belongings will come
to one in time. It seems tiresome to get it up. Do you know
that none of the best fellows who I know are up in that sort of
thing ? Now, there is Lord Charles Barty, he is coming on very
well indeed ; but, mind you, I believe if you were to put him into
a corner he would not be able to tell you who his grandmother's
father was."
Miss Cecil laughed. " I daresay not," said she. ** I know.
His grandmother was a Leyton, daughter of Sir Robert Leyton, of
Broadash. Leave the pedigrees to the women. One of the great
uses of a woman in society is, I take it, to tell her husband who
people are."
So she talked to him, as one would talk to an intelligent boy
sent to one for a holiday ; and yet the fool loved on more madly
than ever.
'* Come on," she said, " and let us see the rest of the dogs ; "
for this conversation took place at the fountain in the centre of
the kennels, and they had only come up one avenue, and only seen
one-fourth of the dogs as yet.
And as they turned to go she said —
" I like you very much, as I told you before. And to prove to
you how much I like you, I will give you, out of these hundreds
of beautiful dogs, the dog you choose — the dog you think that you
will love best ; and I only annex one condition — that whenever
your heart warms towards that dog, 3'ou will think of me, and think
how much I like you. I have heard a gi*eat deal of you. I rather
believe that you did not know of my existence before you came
here. But I have been in love with you for a long time."
Miss Cecil and Eleanor had been friends and correspondents ;
Austin did not know this. He was not coxcomb enough to take
her cool free-and-easy expressions as advances to himself, and yet
he was foolish enough to think that they foraied a basis of opera-
tions. He had hopes.
28 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
He was a gi-cat fool ; but I would not have cared to \\Tite his
history if he had not been. Let us be Jacobin, democratic, and
revolutionaiy for a season, until our reason returns. If a man is
thrown into intricate relations with a woman, however much his
superior in rank, that man is justified, if he so i)lease, in falling
in love with that woman. A man may fly from a hopeless passion,
and be miserable. Granted. A man may yield to a hopeless
passion, and may behave hke a gentleman, and keep it all in his
own breast, and tell no one but the friend of his heart, and be
miserable. Also granted. But if a man comes to me and says,
that although he was with such and such a woman, he didn't allow
himself to fall in love with her because she was above him in rank,
I choose to tell that man that he is no man at all, and no more
knows what love means than a horse or a dog.
Now they began looking at the terriers. There was one snow-
white English terrier of such amazing beauty, that Austin very
nearly chose it, but fortunately did not. Then there were some
black and tans, equal in beauty to the white ; Dandy Dinmont
terriers, as long and as lithe as otters ; and pert, merry, sharp
little Skyes ; rough long-legged English fox teiTiers, wliich ran on
three legs, like Scotch terriers, and held their heads on one side
knowingly. Austin was more and more delighted every step. He
knew all about every dog ; but at the last he was stopped. He
came across four little dogs, the like of which he had never seen
before.
Little, long-bodied, short-legged dogs, a dull blue-gi'ey colour,
with clouded black spots ; sharp, merry little fellows.
*'What dogs can these be, Miss Cecil?" he said. ''I am
quite at fault."
*' Cannot you guess ? Why, they are turnspits, and all with
the turnspit peculiarity. The right eye is not of the same colour
as the left. I suppose you will hardly see such dogs as these in
England. Will you choose one ? "
Although one of the queer meriy little rogues begged at him,
he said No. ** Tliey are a sight," he said, *' a sight worth
seeing, but I will not choose one. In an artistic point of view,
they are ugly, and they suggest to one the blue dogs which the
Cliinese fatten for table. No. I hardly dare to say so, but of all
tlie dogs liere I woidd soonest havt; that incoiiiparabh» wliite
terrier. I liave dreaiiii'd of sucli a dog as tliat, but I never saw
such a one."
*' It is liardly possible tliat you can have. He is yours, with a
thousand welcomes. I hope he mav Hve long to remind vou of
me."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 29
*' I need no dog to do that," said Austin ; " but I cannot take
such a princely piesont."
She hiuglied. " It is done," she said ; '* the election is made
for good or evil. Come and take possession."
The election, so terribly important as it turned out, was nearly
made. Who could guess, on that happy summer's day, how much
was to depend on the choosing of a dog ?
*' For the want of a imil the shoe was lost ;
For the want of a shoe the horse was lost ;
For the want of a horse tlie rider was lost ;
For the want of a rider a kingdom was lost."
If it were not that we knew that a tender, loving Father
Avatches over us with all-seeing providence, each action of a
piudent man's life would be accompanied with such a feeling of
terror of ultimate consequences, that life would become a burden,
and the grave rest ; or w^e should run, like the Turks, and some
of the West country sects, into the opposite extreme of saying
that it was all " Kismet," that it mattered not wdiat we did.
The white terrier was so nearly chosen, in spite of Austin's
strong repugnance to accept such a valuable present, that they
had turned, and Austin's hands were eager to seize the beautiful
little animal, and call him his own, when, in the wood behind
them, there was a wild jubilant bark ; in another instant there was
a rush past them, as of an eagle coming through a forest ; in the
next, a dog, difi'crcnt to any they had seen before, was madly,
joyously careering round and round them in ever-narrowing
circles ; and in another he was leaping on both of them, and
covering them with caresses.
But he saw that Austin was a stranger, and paused to look at
him, and after a moment he reared up against him, and said with
his beautiful soft hazel eyes, as Austin thought, " Choose me,
choose me, and I will follow you through it all, even to the very
end."
It was a most beautiful Scotch sheep dog, black and tan and
white, with a delicate smooth head, the hair of which began to
wave about the ears, until it developed into a deep mane upon the
shoulders. The author has described such a dog before. The
Scotch sheep dog is the highest development of the brute creation,
in beauty, in sagacity, and in other qualities, which one dares, by
leave of Messieurs of the Holy Office, to call moral. This was the
most beautiful dog of that variety ever seen. If the reader wishes
to realise the dog to himself he can do so thus. In Landseer's
picture of " The Shepherd's Bible," the dog which is standing up
30 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
is very like liim ; though the clog I am describing is drawn from
the life, and from a handsomer dog than he.
" This is the dog for me," cried Austin. " Why, you beauty !
Miss Cecil, I would give anything for this dog. Just look at his
eyes, will you ? Can I have him ? Does he belong to any one ? "
" Yes," she said, laughing. " He belongs to you. He is worth
all the white terriers that ever were born. I like you the better
for your choice of Robin."
At this moment a harsh voice behind them said —
" How d'ye do. Miss Cecil ? By Jove ! that dog is a deuced
clever dog. He began by pitching into me, but wiien your father
said, ' Go find, Robin,' he became docile, and brought me on your
track like an Indian. Is he yours ? "
" He is Mr. Elliot's. How do you do, Captain Hertford ? "
said Miss Cecil, very coldly.
CHAPTER YI.
Captain Hertford, the man who had just found the group, was
a man whose personal appearance requires some slight notice, and
but very slight. He was a very big, thick-set man. He had a
broad red face, the principal features of Avhich were lowering bushy
eyebrows, beneath which were cruel, deep-sunk, light blue eyes ;
and a thick, coarse mouth, too big to be entirely hidden by the
moustache which met his deep red w4iiskers. The expression of
his face was, towards men, scowling and insolent ; what it was
towards women I know not, but should fancy that, if it was
intended to express admiration, it was more repulsive than his
ordinary look of defiance and ill-temper.
He looked with intense eager curiosity at Austin. Austin did
not look with much curiosity at him, or he would have seen him
bite his lip impatiently. He might have been flattered had he
heard the Cu])tain say to liimself, '* Consume the young beggar,
he is infernally handsome."
" You arc unexpected. Captain Hertford," said Miss Cecil, " but
not the less welcome. Whence have you come '? "
" I have been at Brussels with Mewstone. I stayed a day or
two there after him. He got hold of the old Countess Pentelles,
and carried her oil' to Malines with him. They seem to have been
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 81
pretty busy those two clays. The bill has come to me in the course
oi" business."
"Is it very large ? " said Miss Cecil, laughing.
" A little over tliirty thousand francs."
" That is very extravagant."
" I don't know," said Captain Hertford. " I don't think it is
so very bad. Kenicnibcr what it must have cost to get the old
countess to leave her box at the St. Hubert, witli Levasseur
starring from Paris, and pack oil' to Malincs with him, with her
rheumatism and her monkey. When I looked at the bill, I
pointed to an item of live thousand francs, and I said to him,
' That's the old woman's share ; ' and he laughed and said,
* Yes.' He got her uncommon cheap, I think, at that. She is
the best judge in Europe. They would have cheated him hoiTibly
if she hadn't gone with him."
Austin had no more notion what they were talking about than
the man in the moon. He looked at them both with wonder.
Miss Cecil be£jan again —
o o
" Well, on the whole, he could not have done better. I suppose
the poor old devotee will put it on the shoulders of some Bambino
or another. Poor old lady ! "
" What a delightful rummage she must have had. There must
have been a great excitement at Malines at her appearance."
" What detained you in Brussels, Captain Hertford ? "
" Well, a very unpleasant affair. An affair touching my personal
honour."
*' Have you been out again ? " she asked, turning sharply upon
him.
" No," said Captain Hertford. "A young fellow, an EngHsh-
man, had forged Mewstone's name to a hirge amount. I followed
him to Namur, to see whether I could recover anything. But
when I got to Namur he had escaped me. My honour was
concerned in catching him, for he was my acquaintance, not
Mewstone's."
" Did you follow him no farther ? " she asked.
" There was no need. By the by, Mewstone is in London,
and will be here the day after to-morrow."
" Is any one there to act for him, as the Countess Dentelles
did at Malines ? "
" No," said Captain Hertford. " I turned him into Rundell
and Bridges, as I would turn a young colt into a clover-field.
They won't cheat him. It is all convertible property. Will you
introduce me to Mr. Elliot ? "
She did so. Captain Hertford did not scowl on him, but smiled.
32 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Austin thought possibly that his smile was not a pleasant one, but
he did not care for tliat. This man had been talking for ten
minutes to this woman, and Austin had not the least idea of what
they had been talking about. This man could talk to her and
amuse her, when he sat mumchance. He would make himself a
pupil of this man. This must be one of the men of the world his
father talked of. But had all the men of the world scowling eye-
brows, and great coarse mouths, like this one ?
Austin laughed as he asked himself this question. He had
seen other men of the world. His father, and Mr. Cecil, and the
six other Lords of the Admiralty, quite diflerent in appearance to
Captain Hertford. He did not like the look of this gentleman,
but he would be his pupil. He was as eager for Captain Hert-
ford's acquaintance, as Captain Hertford was for his.
They walked back, all three towards the house, and Miss Cecil
went in. Captain Hertford proposed that they should extend their
walk, and smoke a cigar.
Austin was delighted. As they turned on the broad gravel
walk, Austin noticed for the first time that the dog Robin was at
his heels. His tail was down, and his ears were down. He was
waiting for orders from his new master. The dog had taken to
him. What that means I cannot tell you. I don't know, and
you don't know, any more than this, that sometimes dogs take to
men, and sometimes they don't. And we shall none of us know
any more about the matter until the kye come hame.
Apparently, also, Captain Hertford had taken to Austin. His
sudden affection for Austin is not nearly so mysterious a business
as that of the dog's. We shall find out the reason of that before
the kye come hame.
" Where shall we go? " said Captain Hertford.
" Anywhere you like," said Austin, with the frankness of a boy.
" I want to talk to you. I want to make your acquaintance. And
any one place is as good as another for that."
Captain Hertford turned and looked at him as he said this.
There was almost a smile on his face, as he heard Austin say this ;
but when he looked at him, and saw how handsome he was, he
scowled again. It is just possible that this was an important
])()int in Captain Herl ford's life. Austin, with his fresh inni^cence,
might have won him back to better things possibly. Who knows ?
But Austin stood between him and the light.
Hertford walked in, jtiilliiig liis eigiii'. He began the conver-
sation.
" By the by, Elliot, you know tlie Hilton's, don't you '? "
*' Infinitely well."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 83
" Tlu'ii I am afraid that tlio be^'iniiinf^ of our acquaintance
won't 1)0 very pleasant. I was detained in town on their
account."
" Indeed."
" Yes. You heard me speakinf» about an affair concerning a
3'oung Englisliman, whicli detained me at 1 Brussels."
'' Yes."
** Did you ever know Robert Hilton ? "
" Yes ; at Eton, poor lad. P)ut I have never seen him since."
** Y'ou will never see him any more."
" Oh ! Captain Hertford, don't say that. Do you mean to say
he is dead?"
*' If you are going into the world, you must learn to bear these
things with composure, Elliot. Now, lean against that rock, and
look me in the face. Robert Hilton committed suicide the week
before last, at Namur."
" Suicide ! "
" Y''es, suicide."
" God forgive me ! I was going to say, that he would not
have been so bold ; so Poor lad. Y'^et, I don't know.
Was there anything new against him ? "
'' Yes. I will tell you what there was against him. He forged
Mewstone's name."
''Good God!"
" Yes. And when he thought it must be discovered, fled to
Namur. I sent a man after him. A letter from Hilton, to me,
crossed him on the road. It announced his intention of making
away with himself. I was furious. I thought it was a miserable
ruse to escape. I followed my friend to Namur. And there I
found the whole business unfortunately true."
*' Does Mr. Hilton know of this ? " said Austin, eagerly.
" Yes, I broke it to him."
''How did he take it?"
" Very quietly. You know the whole thing is very sad, and
very lamentable ; but Hiltcn is a man of the world. And with
regard to this boy, the bitterness of death was passed. Y'ou
must know that. He was a mmivais siijef. I don't mean to say
that the old man was not deucedly cut up, and all that sort of
thing, but he took it very quietly."
" Poor Eleanor," said Austin.
'' Y''ou mean Miss Hilton," said Captain Hertford. " Well,
she was very much cut up. But she will be consoled. Y'ou see
this leaves her in undisputed possession of nine thousand a year at
her father's death."
4
34 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
*' She ! she weigh nine thousand, or nine millions against
her brother's lite ! You don't know Eleanor Hilton, Captain
Hertford."
'* Nor you either, I fancy," said Captain Hertford, laughing.
"Did I say she weighed money against her brother's life?
Don't I know that she would pitch it all to the dogs to have him
back again ? All I said was, that she would console herself ; and
you will find that inexorably true. So she will."
** Indeed," said Austin. "I suppose she will. After all, the
poor fellow was a sad source of anxiety to them. It is perhaps
bettor she should forget him."
'' What a child you are, Elliot," said Captain Hertford.
'' Five minutes or less ago you were ready to fight me — I saw
it in your eyes — for saying she would console herself. Now you
endorse it, repeat it, and say it were better she should do so."
This was what some gentleman in "Martin Chuzzlewit "
calls "Dreadful true." Austin had the good taste to acknow-
ledge it.
"I ought," he said, " to go home, I think."
"Why?"
" I don't know. I should like to be near poor Eleanor in her
trouble."
" Are you caught there, then?" said Captain Hertford, turn-
ing the other way, and adding, " I wonder if he has any head of
grouse here."
" I ? " said Austin. " Oh dear, no."
" I thought you had been."
" No," said Austin, blushing and hesitating. " Eleanor Hilton
and I have been brought up like brotiier and sister, you know."
" Oh, indeed. I had heard that you and she were very good
friends. What a beautiful girl this Miss Cecil is."
"Is she not?"
" I suppose you are not caught there ? "
" After twenty-four hours," Austin had voice enough to sav.
" No; I don't tiiiiik I am."
"Then you must be a great fool, Elliot," said Captain
Hertford.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 86
CHAPTKII Vir.
One cfiiinot help douLtin^' wliotlicr or no Austin would have
writtrn to Eleanor ahout liis new passion, even had slie not
heen in trouble about her brotlier's death. At all events, he did
not. He merely wrote her a kind ati'eetionato letter, full of con-
dolence ; but said no word of ]\Iiss Cecil.
This was an exception to his general rule. For he usually
fell in love with a fresh young lady, more or less ineligible, every
tln-ee months ; and invariably told Eleanor all about it. So that
poor Eleanor used to get into a state of confusion ; and was in
the habit of confounding the last young lady, and the last but one,
to Austin's great vexation.
But he wrote to Lord Charles Barty. He told him about Miss
Cecil, her beauty, her wit, her grace, and how he was madly in
love with her ; and he directed the letter to Turin. For in this
year the Duke and Duchess of Cheshire invaded Italy, with an
overwhelming force, exacting tribute from the various people
over whose necks their chariot wheels passed, taking with them
also scholars and experts, to show them the best things in the
way of art, on which to lay their hands, as did Buonaparte, but,
unlike Napoleon, paying for them, in hard cash, about twenty per
cent, above their actual value.
Lord Charles Barty had a long letter ^Titten to Austin, and
ready to send, when he got Austin's. Lord Charles's letter was
full of flippant good-humoured nonsense. He had tried to whet
his wits upon everything he had seen, and it is quite possible that
he had made an indiflerent success. We shall never know about
this, however, for when he got Austin's letter he burnt his own,
wrote a new one to Austin, an eager hasty one, of only six or
seven lines, put it in the post-office himself, walked up and down
until he saw the Diligence depart for Chambery, and then bit his
nails and stamped when he considered that his letter would be too
late to do any good.
Lord Charles Barty was not very clever : in fact, the Bartys
are not a clever family. But they have higher qualities than
cleverness. "In the house of Waverley the qualities of honour
and generosity are hereditary." So it may be said about the
Bartys. Lord Charles Barty would have telegi-aphed to his
friend Austin ; but, alas ! in 18-44, the only piece of telegraph
working was from London to Slough, and from A'auxhall to
Woking ; consequently there was none to Turin. He would have
given up his holiday, and posted home, but he knew he would be
36 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
too late. Ho could only fret and fume, until he told bis father,
who looked very grave, and said, that either Mr. Cecil, or Austin,
or Miss Cecil, must he very much to blame.
Aud meanwhile poor Austin continued making a fool of himself
with Miss Cecil. Her manner was \ejry affectionate towards him.
She bad known Eleanor Hilton, having stayed with her at a
country house, and she had done what every one else did who piw
Eleanor — got very deeply attached to her. This she told to
Austin the very first morning of their acquaintance ; but she had,
of course, not told him something else. To wit, that some one
had told her of Eleanor's having been engaged to mari-y a young
gentleman, by name Elliot, ever since she could talk. She was
very anxious to see the man on whom so much of Eleanor's
happiness depended. And she was delighted and charmed to find
him so worthy of her. That was all.
And so he walked and rode and drove and read with her day
after day, getting more hopelessly entangled. Captain Hertford
was very busy, or seemed to be, with her father, and left Austin
to cavalier Miss Cecil. Mr. Cecil and Captain Hertford did really
seem busy ; but if they had not been, the latter would have con-
trived to leave them alone together. He had his reasons.
Once in the week or ten days, he went out with the Captain to
walk idly across some farms to see some improvements. The
bailift' was with them. A farmer, catching sight of them at a long
distance, made towards them, and then, hat in hand, and address-
ing Austin every tenth word as "My Lord," began with Welsh
volubility to lay a case about draining improvements before him,
and pray his assistance. He had gone on ever so far before the
steward had time to stop him in a few hurried words of
AVelsli. The man scowled on Austin, turned on his heel, and
departed.
When he was alone with Captain Hertford, Austin said to him,
" It is a very curious thing, do you know ; but in the few days I
have been here, that same thing has happened in diilert-nt ways —
not once, but a dozen times. I met a man in the pass of
Tjlanberis, wlien I was coming here with Mr. Cecil, who first of
all asked, with the greatest ciiijiris.scniott, to be introduced to me ;
and then, when he heard my name, looked very much inclined to
kick me. I hope no oiu> will do that. Has any man called Elliot
done anything very bad in these i)arts ? "
" Not that I know of. But I will tell you what I tiiink. I
fancy, mind, that seeing a handsome young dandy like you,
brought down here by Mr. Cecil — mind, I only fancy — that the
people think that you arc going to marry Miss Cecil."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 87
"Then why," said poor Austin, '* tho moment tlicy hear my
name, do tliev find out tliat I am not the man ? "
Tliis was awkward. Captain Huittoid hiu^dud, and said, *' I
am sure I don't know." In another moment, Austin would,
aecordini:^ to all laws of probability, have asked him whetlier Miss
Cecil was engaged to any one. Possibly Captain Herttbrd knew
that, for he said, before Austin had time to say anything, " Miss
Cecil tells me that she gave you the choice of all tlie dogs in the
kennel. Rather a compliment, eh ? What the deuce made you
choose that infernal sheep-dog? "
Austin was on liis own dung-liill immediately. Captain Hert-
ford knew he would be. "Why did I choose Inm ? " he said.
'* Because he is the best specimen in the kennel."
" The most perfect specimen ! " said the artful Captain,
scornfully.
''Yes."
"What! a finer specimen than that glorious white terrier?
You must be a fool, Elliot. Why, there is not such another dog
in the world as that white terrier. Snow-white as he seems, you
can see, in certain lights, the markings of a perfect black and
tan under his white hair. There is no dog like him in
England."
" He is only an Albino black and tan," said Elliot, scornfully.
" He is a beautiful beast, and he is worth thirty guineas, I allow ;
but do you know the points of a Scotch colley ? eh ! "
" Can't say I do," said Captain Hertford. " Can't say, either,
that I know the points of a costermonger's doiilvey."
"Ah ! " said Austin, " then you sec I do. I know the points
of any dog under the sun. Tliis dog Robin is perfect in all
points. Here, sir ! here! look at him."
Captain Hertford looked at Robin, but Robin did not look at
Captain Hertford. He caught his eye for a moment, and then
laid his leaf-like ears back, dropped his tail, went behind Austin,
and loped, or lurked, in his walk, which means, that he moved the
two legs which were on the same side of him together.
Captain Hertford laughed, and changed the subject. He had
done what he wanted. He had prevented Austin from asking an
awkward question. There were three or four days to spare, by
his calculations. He saw that Austin had fallen deeply in love,
poor fool, with Miss Cecil ; he wanted him to get deeper and
deeper in that hopeless passion. Eleanor Hilton was heiress to
nine thousand a year. He had an introduction to Eleanor through
her brother's unfortunate death. Austin must bo entangled with
some one else for a time.
38 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Captain Hertford, however, was playing a very dangerous game.
He was " necessary man " to Lord Mewstone. He had heen sent
to Tyn y Rhaiadr as his avaiit courncr. He had found Austin
there, in the veiy act of failing in love with Miss Cecil.
He had come to England from Brussels, with the idea that
Eleanor and her nine thousand a year were worth getting at. He
had heard that Austin was supposed to be engaged to her. He
had come to Tyn y Rhaiadr, and found him, of all men in the
world, there, and he had acted as above. His plans were not well
developed, and might be changed ; but he had no doubt of this —
that if he let him commit himself deeply to Miss Cecil, it must be
better for his plans in the long run.
CHAPTER YIII.
But, on the eighth day, Austin's eyes were opened to the true state
of the case in this manner : —
It was Sunday morning ; Mr. Cecil and Captain Hertford had
not gone to church, pleading that the service was in Welsh.
Miss Cecil had gone, however, and Austin had gone with her.
They returned by the path which led past the waterfall, where
he had first seen her, and there, upon the giddy bridge, in the
presence of the great sheet of rushing foam, he knew his fate.
On the rocky path above them stood a tall and handsome man.
Miss Cecil gave a little cry Avhen she cauglit siglit oi him ; and
when Austin saw her two little gloved hands tremblinfj oat from
under her shawl towards him, he knew everything. The eager
movement of those little hands was as stern a death-blow to his
hope, as though the man who stood above her, and held out his
arms to her, had taken her in them, and cast her into the seething
cataract a hundred feet below.
Alas, poor Austin ! He was a gentleman, and looked earnestly
at the waterfuU, lest he should see the meeting. When he looked
round again tliey were standing side by side, radiant, hand-
some, and joyous ; and he could see tliat she was talking about
Iiini.
So lie Went up to ilieiit, and was prescnti'd by ]\Iiss Ct-eil to
Lord Mewstone.
Every one had known of the engagement between IMiss Cecil
and Lord Mewstone for montlis — every one except, apparently,
AUSTIN ELLIO'T. 30
poor ii^niomnt Austin. All Mr. Cecil's cnoniions estates went to
his diiu^'litor. These estates bordered, in two counties, on those
of Lord Mewstone. His niiirriji<,'e with INIiss Cecil would well-
ni<^di double his ulreiuly *^'re:it weiilth. I\Ir. Cecil had refused
a peeraj^'e, because he saw tliat it would take place, and it was not
worth while leavinj^ the House of Commons — havin;^ no nuile
issue, and bcin^' in full work — at least not at present. There
was as much land as goes to make some independent states.
Tliere were deep political considerations at stake in this great
match. It was an affair of enormous importance, and here was
poor ignorant self-contident little Austin, tlying his kite in the
middle of it all with a calm unconsciousness of the hict that the
only human being tJicre who guessed his secret. Captain Hertford,
was at one time laughing at, at another time admiring his
amazing impudence.
'*By Gad!" said Captain Hertford to himself, ''what the
deuce is it ? Is it innocence, or is it mere vanity ? If I had had
that amount of unconscious impudence early in life, I might have
done better."
People said that this marriage of Lord Mewstone with Fanny
Cecil was a family and political arrangement. If so, it was an
uncommonly fortunate one, for each of them loved the ground
which the other walked on. Let us wish them good-bye for ever.
Our way lies in a very dilFerent direction. We must quit this
happy house among the Welsh hills ; but I am sorry to say wc
must take away Captain Hertford with us, and keep him with us
altogether, or nearly so.
Austin's adieux were easily made. The poor miserable lad had
only to say that he would take the opportunity of travelling as far
as Chester with Captain Hertford (there was no railway farther
than Chester in 1844), for that he must join his reading party.
He received a hearty farewell from every one, and jumped into the
carriage beside Captain Hertford, to go to Bangor.
And when Captain Hertford looked at him, he saw that his fiico
was changed since yesterday. Yesterday it w^as the face of a
remarkably handsome young man, with meny blue eyes. To-day
it was the same ; the features as regular as those of Buonaparte
or Castlereagh ; the firm cut mouth, with the lower lip slightly
pouting ; the short curling brown hair, the pure complexion, were
all there ; and yet there was a difference since yesterday. Austin,
as he sat in the carriage, was as handsome as Buonaparte or
Castlereagh, but had now, though his fiice was at rest, a look
which Lord Whitworth must have seen on the face of the one, and
Mr. Raikes on the face of the other — a look of angry, furicus
40 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
defiance. It was expressed in only one feature — in the eyes.
Austin's great blue eyes, always set a trifle too near his eyebrows,
were now iirominent, surrounded with a black ring ; and whenever
Captain Hertford spoke to him, he turned them on him angrily,
though his spi;cch was gentle. Those eyes seemed to say, " How
dare you disturb me ? " And as Captain Hertford looked on
them, the veteran warrior and bully said to himself, *' The fellow
will do. He has power."
And he remembered the look of those eyes, when Austin was in
that humour. The old calm look soon came back again, and
Captain Hertford never saw that look in them any more until the
16th of May, 1846 — the night on which the Corn Law Bill was
read the third time in the Commons.
But after a very few miles, scarcely more than one, a change
took place. Austin was disappointed and humiliated beyond what
one can well conceive, and he also fancied, and most properly, that
he had been deceived by Captain Hertford. But the great good
heart, which, in spite of all weakness and conceit, dictated all his
actions, told him that he must speak to some one. There was no
one but this red-faced, red-haired soldier, with his sly little eyes,
his coarse moustache, and his great gluttonous mouth ; and so he
must talk to him. He had the strongest repugnance to him per-
sonally. Yes. He liad deceived him and played with him, and
hurt his pride. But — well — the man was a man. The fellow
could ride, for all his little deep-set eyes. Not only could ride,
but would ride ; not only would ride, but had ridden, so deep into
a regiment of infuriated Affghans, that the squadron, which hated
him while they followed him, could sec nothing of him but the
sword which flickered about his head.
So he was a man at all events, though he might be only a led
Captain of Lord Mewstone's. And Austin must speak to some
one. And so the expression of the eyes changed altogether when
he next spoke to Captain Hertford. He had the dog liobin's head
between his knees, and was smoothing his round lorehcad, when
he looked up suddenly, and said to Captain Hertford, in a low
voice —
** I was in love witli that woman."
Captain Hertford looked uneasily at the coachniau, but Austin
had calculated on that, and spoken very low. Ca})tain Hertford
said —
" Well ! well ! and are in a rage with me, are you iu)t ? "
Austin was easily disanned ; he said quii'tly, ** No ; I am in a
rage with no one but myself. AVhat right lias a poor ignorant
boy, like me, to be in a rage with a man of the world like you ? "
AUSTIN EIJ.IOT. 41
Ciiptain Hoitford tunu'd siultloiily upon him, and tlicn tnnicd
suddenly uway aj^ain. "I tliOU«,'lit," lie said, " tliat you nii^'lit
be an^^rv because I did not tell you that she was engagid to
Lord M."
" No. You wore not called on to do so. What a fool I must
have been on the other hand, eh ? "
" Well, I don't know there : you are singularly handsome, and
very ambitious. That sort of thing happens very often. There
was Charley Bates and Miss ])awkins, for instance. Charley had
led a deuce of a life with her uncle, old Fagin, and Jack Dawkins,
her brother, a fellow that every one knew, but who had gone to
the devil lately. Old Fagin got hung, no one ever found out wliat
for, and Charley hadn't got a rap. So what does he do. Makes
up to Miss Dawkins, who had come into the old man's money (her
mother was a Moss — one of the Monmouth-street Mosses — who
had married Fagin' s brother, about which there was a story, sir,
and a devilish queer one, if you come to that) and mamed her,
and made her cut the shop, and went into a quiet farm in the
grass shires," &c., &c.
Mutatis voiuinibus, this was about the value of the consolation
which Captain Hertford administered to Austin, as they drove to
Bangor. It was possibly as good as any other ; for the way of
consoling a gentleman in Austin's circumstances has got to be
discovered, as far as the author is aware.
When Austin got to town, he found a letter from his father.
Mr. Elliot had not returned from Liveqiool. Certain Brethren,
feeling that they had quite as good a right to a holida}^ as My
Lords of the Admiralty, had made the discovery that the man
Elliot had taken all the Admiralty Lords up in their yacht,
and that they were (no doubt) tampering with the buoys on the
Sani Padrig, which buoys were their business. It was intolerable.
They started in thctr yacht in hot pursuit, overtook the miscreants
in Beaumaris Bay, had a wrangle, and then steamed oil' to the
island of Mull, the two yachts racing tiU the boilers primed, to see
whether the new lighthouse had been painted red, according to
Mr. Elliot's suggestion, or white, according to their (the Trinity
Brothers') orders. But they had a pleasant time of it, and dined
nnitually with infinite good fellowship, in spite of all this divine
wrath.
Austin was still smiling over this letter, when he took up another.
It was in Eleanor's handwriting, and ran thus —
''If you do come home unexpectedly, dear Austin, pray come
and scj me at once. Father is very ill."
"E. H."
42 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Austin rang for liis servant, and asked when the note had
come.
"Not half an hour ago," the man said. Austin started at once.
Tlie Hiltons lived in Wilton Crescent. He hurried there as
quick as he could.
He was shown into the dining-room. Of course his first
question was, " How is Mr. Hilton? "
He was worse. Miss Hilton would conic down at once
however.
There was a footstep in the passage he knew full well, and he
looked out of the window. He felt disinclined to see Eleanor for
some reason ; he would have to tell her of this foolish business
about Miss Cecil, and was disinclined to begin. He heard the
door quietly opened and the gentle rustle of a woman's dress, and*
he knew that Eleanor Hilton was in the room, so he turned and
confronted this terrible lady, and felt his heart beat the quicker
as he did so.
There stood before him a tiny delicate dark woman, dressed
very neatly, in very quiet colours. She was like a little fragile
brown moth, a thing you may crush with your finger ; and the
wee little elfin thing stood before him with her hands crossed for
an instant, Avithout speaking. If Austin had looked at the eager
twitching of those hands he would have known something even
then. He knew what that motion of the hands meant a day or
two before, when he saw Miss Cecil raise her hands towards Lord
Mewstone ; but he did not notice it now, for he Avas looking into
her face.
Was it a handsome face ? — ah, no ! Was it a beautiful face ?
— all, dear, yes ! Her hair was banded closely down on each side
of her great forehead, and her eyes, her clear large hazel eyes,
said as plainly as words could have said to him, "I am a poor
little body and very ugly, but I will love you if you will let me."
All her features were very regular but very small, and though her
upper lip was sharp and her chin was short, the mouth was the
best feature in her face ; though it might be set too near her nose,
and too near her chin, yet it was an exceeding tender nioutli ;
although it was as sluirp cut as Sarah Siddons', it helped almost
as much as the gentle eyes and the oi)en fort-liead to make you say
to yourself, " What a dear fragile lovable little body it is."
The author wonders wlietlier or no it would not have been
better if he liad said at llist that she was like a gentle bright-
eyed little brown niousi;. It is possible that it nuiy he. so.
** I knew," slie said, coming up and taking his hands, "that
you would come to me."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 43
*' Dear sister," ho said, looking into licr t'uce, " of course 1
came to vou. How is he ? "
" Worse."
"Who is here? "
" No one but Aunt Maria."
" Isn't she too much tor liini ? You know I have a profound
respect for Aunt Maria, but at tlie same time you know "
At this moment Aunt Maria, alwjivs profoundly penetrated with
the idea that young people should not be left too long alone
together, came into the room.
She was a big, red-faced woman, with a Roman nose and a
protruding chin. A woman of presence — of sucli powerful presence
that when she entered the room at one end and you were at the
other, with your back towards her, you knew it. Was it merely
by the vibration of the air, one wonders, or is there, after all,
such a thing as animal magnetism ?
She was a stern woman, with bangles and brooches and a shawl.
She revolved in her orbit, surrounded by an atmosphere of
Patchouli, calculated, by people curious in astronomy, as being
from eleven to twelve times greater than her own diameter.
The moment that Austin found himself within the atmosphere,
he spoke, and asked her how she did. She kept her nose in the
air, and motioned Eleanor out of the room.
" My poor brother is dying," she said ; " and, my dear Austin,
he wants to see your father. What is to be done ? "
*' Why, we can do nothing, dear Miss Hilton ; my father is in
the Hebrides. Let me see him."
" It might be unwise ; I really don't know what to say. Whether
or no a strange face "
** Mine is not a strang<^. face, Miss Hilton."
'* No, no ! but I am in terror ; it is your father he wants. When
did you come ? "
" Just now ; Eleanor wrote for me."
" She did, did she ! It was giving you a great deal of trouble,"
she said, looking very angry.
Now Aunt Maria did not want Austin to see old Hilton, if she
could decently help it, for these simple reasons. He had been
raving to see Mr. Elliot ; and one of his great anxieties was, as
they gathered from his talk, that Austin should marry Eleanor.
Aunt Maria was veiy strongly opposed to this. She was selfish.
She had great power with Eleanor, and Ek-anor would be an
heiress. Eleanor mitjht never marry at all, wjiicli would be for
her benefit, and if she did marry she might marry a better man
than Austin. She was a silly woman as well as a selfish one.
44 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
She was taken by suqirise at Austin's appearance, and not knowing
very well what to do, did what silly women generally do when they
don't see their way — that is to say, did nothing, but opposed
everything. So she tried to prevent Austin from seeing Mr.
Hilton. She failed, as we shall see ; and though the inteniew
was not veiy important at first sight, yet it had some slight effect
on the course of the story. Aunt Maria's intrigue against Austin
(in which she was, according to her light, conscientious) grew to
be much more important afterwards. She was a foolish woman,
but her obstinacy, and her want of sensibility, gave her a terrible
power. Greater and stronger people than dear Eleanor have sub-
mitted to an Aunt Maria for very peace' sake.
Austin would never have seen Mr. Hilton, I believe, if it had
not happened that Sir Rufus James, the doctor, had happened to
be upstairs, and had come into the dining-room on his way to his
carriage. Austin looked in his kind gentle face, and ignoring
Aunt Maria, said —
" Sir Rufus, look here. Mr. Hilton wants to see my father,
and he is in the Hebrides. Don't you think I might go up and
see him ? "
The doctor looked kindly on him, and said, "Certainly. It
may please him. It will do no man any harm to look at you, my
boy. You have your mother's eyes. Yes, go and see him."
And so Aunt Maria was vanquished, and Austin went upstairs.
It was hours before Mr. Hilton was sensible again. He was lying
in an uneasy slumber. Austin came into the room, went out again,
and waited.
At last the message came. He went in and found the old man
sitting up in bed. At first he thought he was sensible, but the
first words of Mr. Hilton showed him that he was "WTong. They
showed him that Mr. Hilton mistook him for his fatlier.
" Ah, Elliot," he said, " I thought you would not miss coming
to see me at the last — you who stuck to me through it all. And
so you have gone before, eh ? "
Austin muttered something or another.
"Yes, you are like the others, you speak inarticulately. I can
hardly catch what you say. I shall b<; abb; to hear you better
soon. I could not hear them very well. AVhy were you not here
with them?"
Austin again said something. He was beginning to get awe-
struck.
" It was such a pleasant meeting," continued the old man.
" It was in the middle of the night. INfy daughter 1'jleauor hi ard
me laughing with them, and she came and sat on the bed, just
AUSTIN ELLIOT 45
whore she is sitting now, and listened to us three. Did you not,
my darling? "
Eleanor said. Yes, that slic had sat on tht; hed at half-past
twelvt! for some time, and she grew pale.
** Yes," he said, " she sat there ; and wlio do you think sat in
those two chairs on each side of the hed ? "
**I can't tell," faltered Austin, who hegan to fi-el his iiair
creep. For the old man hefore him was talking as clearly as
ever, and yet he was delirious, and did not know him.
** Can't tell, foolish man ! Why, Jcnkinson sat in that chair,
and Canning in that, and my daughter heard us laughing, all three
of us, and came to listen. Is it not so, little one ? "
** I heard you laughing, dear father, and came and sat on the
hed to listen."
" See. She confirms me. Jenkinson had on his hrown coat,
and Canning was laughing at it. But the strange thing was, the
alteration in them. They did not look haggard, and anxious,
and worn old men, as they looked when we saw them last, hut
they had round merry beardless faces, just as you have now, and
as we all four of us had at Christ Church fifty-five weary years
agone.
" I mentioned that unhappy Austerlitz afi'air to them, hut they
said that was forgiven years ago ; that where they were everything
was forgiven, and that the tears were wiped from all eyes. I will
try to sleep a little hefore I wake and die."
After this he leant against his pillow for a minute, and then,
with an anxious look, turned towards Austin, and said —
*' Elliot ! Elliot ! are you there still ? "
Austin answered promptly, " Yes." It was no use undeceiving
him now.
*' I was nearly," said Mr. Hilton, " forgetting the most impor-
tant part of it. Elliot, do you think your son will marry my
daughter, Eleanor? "
Austin dared say nothing.
" I can't hear you. I wish he would. She is ugly, hut she is
amazingly gentle and good. She will have an immense deal of
money. He is good, clever, and ambitious. With her money, he
will he Prime Minister if he sticks to work. I wish it could be
managed. I can't hear you.
" I put the case to Jenkinson last night. He said she was
pretty ; but he is a fool, she is not. He said that he might do
anything in the world with her money. Speak louder.
" Without her money he will be an office-hunter. He may
have the world at his feet with my daughter's money. The doctor
46 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
told me that that old rat, Cecil, had got him home, to throw him
against that handsome daughter of his, and use him as a foil to
bring MeAvstone to the point. You must know, Elliot, that he is
only fooling the poor hoy ; hut if he marries my girl he may have
his revenge on fifty prigs like Mewstone. See to it. See to it.
Good-nigiit."
We have slightly sketched Mr. Hilton's career, and this was the
end of it. He fell asleep, and awoke to die.
Let the cunning, avaricious, yet generous and high-minded old
man sleep in peace. He made one terrible mistake in life — his
treasonable investment in the French Funds. He said on his
deathbed that " Jenkinson " had forgiven him. I dare say i*t is
true.
CHAPTER IX.
So after Austin went home, when poor Mr. Hilton was dead, he
found these two sentences ringing in his ears — '' He might be
Prime Minister with Eleanor's money," and " That old rat, Cecil,
had him there as a foil to bring Mewstone to the point."
About the first of these sentences I have nothing to say ; about
the second I have this to say — that whoever put that into the
dying man's head told, unwittingly, perhaps, a very great false-
hood. You know that from what has gone before. If ever there
was a love-match between two folks, that match was between Lord
and Lady Mewstone.
We have very little more to do with them, or with people in
their rank of life. Austin was getting out of his depth, and we
must follow him. But Austin was bred to ambition from his
cradle, and that visit to Mr. Cecil's house, combined with one
sentence which Mr. Hilton let fall on his deathbed, influenced that
ambition, whatever there may have been of it at that time, ten-
fold, although after the one great eftbrt of his life that ambition
went to sleep again.
For he began to think, " Who was this Lord Mewstone, to come
cranking in that style ? and who was ho, Austin Elliot, that a
cunning old man of the world should use sucli a stinging, coarse
sentence about him as that . . ." '■
He was both handsomer and cleverer tlian Lord Mewstone ; he
* I liavc abstaincil from printing that sentence : it is as well to avoid
unnecessary coarseness.
AUSTIN ELIJOT. 47
knew tluil very well, as did every one else. He had some private
fortune. What was there in a youni^' fiHow in his position which
niadi' tlu'si! nun of tlie world treat willi contcnipt the idea that he
should marry her? She came of an old county family, hitherto
not ennohled, so did he. Her family had certaiidy laid house to
house and field to field. His fiimily had done rather the contrary.
There was no earthly reason for it save this, that the world —
that world in the dread of whose opinion his father had hrou^dit
him up — wouldn't hear of such a tliin^'. And tluai he be^^an to
say, " What right had the world?" and so on. He had been a
submissive young whelp hitherto, but t!ie world had (as he
thought) tried to take his bone from him, and he growled. But,
like a good dog, he soon went to kennel, and behaved himself.
Another speech of the old man's still lingered pleasantly in his
ears, " He might be Prime Minister." That was ver}- pleasant
to think of. He might be a greater man than that prig INIewstone
still. His degree would be a high one, there was no doubt of that.
The world was before him, and all that sort of thing ; but the old
man had annexed one condition to his being Prime Minister, and
that was, that he should have Eleanor's money.
And so he took a resolution, not, I hope, unworthy of him. A
fortnight after Mr. Hilton's funeral, he ordered his horse to be
saddled ; he mounted it, whistled to Robin, and rode off through
the pleasant lanes and commons of Surrey towards Eslier, -where
Eleanor was staying, accompanied by her Aunt Maria.
Sometimes, under very happy influences, men who have just had
a terrible disappointment in love will so fiir forget it as to whistle,
and, to outward eyes, appear for a short time as if they had for-
gotten it. Such was the case now, as Austin rode along the deep,
over-arching lanes, and past the pleasant village green, with his
dog bounding before him, and looking back to see if he were
coming.
He had not ridden very far before he came to a deep, dark lane,
with a silver ford at the lower end, and a clacking mill, with a
pretty flower garden, and bees. It was a very beautiful place, and
as he stopped to look at it, he heard a horseman riding quickly down
the lane towards him.
He turned, and saw approaching him, on a noble horse, a young
man in white trousers, gallantly dressed, who waved his hand to
him. Austin took off his hat and waved it in return. The next
moment, the new-comer was beside him, and their hands were
locked together.
*' Dear Austin ! " said the one.
" My dear old fellow ! " said Austin.
48 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Perhaps the miller's daughter, looking out slyly from behind
the sunny flower-beds, faint with wallflowers, at these two noble
young men, who rode,
" A bow-shot from her bower eaves,"
in the summer sunshine, said to herself, that they w'ere the hand-
somest and noblest pair of brothers she had ever seen. Perhaps
she talked too much about them walking home from church next
Sunday with her sweetheart, and made him sulky about them,
until he and she kissed and made it up again on the Sabbath
eventide, between the tangled hedges of dogrose and honeysuckle,
under the whispering elm-trees. Who knows ? But whether this
happened or not, she might have walked all England through, and
not found a handsomer pair of young men than they.
The young man who had overtaken Austin was Lord Charles
Barty, the friend of his heart, as like Austin in mind as he was in
features. Their friendship had begun at school, and had never
weaned, had never had a shadow cast over it as yet, and it lasted
on to the very end, just the same, without let or hindrance, till
the whole business w^as done and finished, and people began to
take their partners for the next dance.
After describing Austin, there is hardly much need to describe
his friend, for they were not unlike in face at this time. They
were both blonde, handsome boys, really nothing more. Not a hair
on either of their chins which they dared (not being in the cavalry)
to let groAv. If both faces had ever developed, we should, I tliink,
have found that Lord Charles's face was the most aquiline of tlie
two, and that his eyebrows were more lofty. But there was not
much character in either of their faces just now. It would require,
as any one might see, a great deal of the padding to come oft' those
faces, before you began to see the death's-head underneath.
" I know w^here you are going to, old fellow," said Lord Charles,
as they rode together. " The butler told me, and I came on after
you. I am glad you are going there."
" I am only going, Charles, to prevent my ever going again,
perhaps."
''Do you mean to say that you are going to give up Eleanor
Hilton? " said the other, looking serious.
Charles told him what had passed at Mr. Hilton's deatlibed.
Lord Charles rode in silence a little way, and at last said —
'' You can't be wrong, Austin, because you are acting honour-
ably. But is there nothing else you have not told me of? "
" Of course there is. Your letter came too late, and all the
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 49
mischief was done. All the whole business was inextricably
entani^'led (lie used four or five participles, which would not rt-ad
well, and so we put it like that) before your letter arrived. And
besides, before your letter came, Mewstoue was there, and I saw
it all."
*' I am so sorry, by Gad ! What a nuisance it was you didn't
know," said Lord Charles.
" Old Hilton said, on his deatlibed, that Mr. Cecil had taken
me there to make Mewstone jealous."
" Who said that, Austin ? " said Lord Charles.
" Old Mr. Hilton, on his deathbed ! "
'' Well, ' lie inortuis,' &c. But he was utterly mistaken, njy
boy. Li his sober senses he never coupled such a vulgar intriij[ue
as that with the name of such a man as Mr. Cecil, much as he
might hate him. There were never two fools more in love with
one another since the world began. Will you let me burn your
wound out, my boy? It will hurt, but the wound will heal. I
know from fifty fellows that these two fell in love with one another
at first sight. That marriage happens to be a splendid family
arrangement, but it is only a parcel of cackling idiots who say that
it was made up from family motives only. Let us be just."
" But why — now I know the truth, I still ask why was I to be
considered so far below her ? " And poor Austin repeated a coarse
expression of the old man's, alluded to before.
'' Who said that about you ? "
" Old Hilton."
" God forgive him, Austin ; he was a fool. Austin, that man
lost eveiy friend in the world but your father through short-sighted
cunning. Even Lord Liverpool never forgave him some dreadful
business about the French Funds in 1806. You must not think of
the words of a soured, ill-tempered man like that. Mr. Cecil is
as incapable of saying or thinking such a thing as my own mother.
And as for Fanny Cecil, she would have married a Welsh curate if
she had chosen. But now, old fellow, to be perfectly just, we
must remember this, that in the world the marriage of Lord Mew-
stone and Miss Cecil was as well-known a fact as that Graham
opens the letters. Old Cecil never contemplated the possibility of
your being ignorant of it. You are not in the world, or of the
world yet. Neither am I, but I sit and listen even now. I hear
all these things : you do not as yet."
So did Lord Charles Barty comfort his friend. His friend had
more brains than he, but knew less on some points. When people
begin to swim on the edge of that pool which is called society,
they should take care not to get out of their depths as did Austin.
5
50 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
*' How glorious it is," said he, " to have your clear old voice in
my ears again, to give me comfort. I am a different man again.
Tell me, old Mentor, who is Captain Hertford ? "
** Have you met him there ? "
Austin told him how.
"He is Mewstone's henchman. I believe Mewstone has been
fast, very fast. Captain Hertford is cruel, brutal, false, gluttonous,
and treacherous."
'* Then why has Lord Mewstone anything to do with him ? "
"Because such men are useful. Let bygones be bygones. I
really know nothing more than this. I heard that character of
Hertford from my blind brother Edward, who is always right."
" But does ' tlie world ' know this of Captain Hertford ? "
" I don't know. I don't know the world yet ; but I know that
much about Captain Hertford."
*' The world seems to be fond of easy-going, Charles."
" Let you and I go into it hand-in-hand together, my boy, and
see what it is like. And, Austin, I begin to see that there is
another great world down below us, of which you and I Imow
nothing — the world of commerce and labour."
" You are beginning to find that out, are you ? " said Austin.
" I think I am. It is there ; and it is beginning to mutter and
growl under our feet even now. Did you ever read Humboldt's
Travels?"
"No."
" Nor I ; but I have looked into them. He says, in the Andes,
that the earthquakes are preceded by the most terrible under-
ground thunder ; it begins muttering and growling, and then it
swells up into a horrible roar. After this the eartli gapes, and
those fools who have not moved their property and their persons are
swallowed up. Have you heard this underground thunder yet? "
" Yes, but very few else," said Austin.
" You are mistaken. Many have heard it, and are prei)aring
to move their goods. All we want is a leader, to show us what
move to make."
" Is there such an one ? " said Austin.
" There is."
" And the gentleman's name? " said Austin.
" Robert Peel."
" And you have found that out, too," said Austin. " By Jove,
Cliarles, 1 believe we havi; only one bcart between the pair of us."
"Hurrah!" cried Lord Cliarles Jiarty, breaking into a mad
gallop across a common, and waving his white hat over his head.
" Come on, friend of my soul, and let us follow him through it all
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 51
' — tlirougli nlisropreSi'Utation, tliroiigli oblcxjuy, down to political
death itself, wliieli will only end in a more ijlorioiis political resur-
rection. An adventure, Sir Kni.L,dit, an adventure. A Peel ! a
Peel ! to the rescue ! Who is the laj^'gard that won't win his spurs
in such a cause ? Peel to the rescue. Hurrah ! "
Now it so befel that there were a great many geese on this
common, over which Lord Charles Barty rode so madly, ciying
out the name of a certain right honourable baronet ; and he had
the misfortune to ride over one of these geese, and on his return
had to pay five shillings to a vociferous old woman who saw him
do it. But of all the geese on that common, were there, do you
think, two greater geese than Austin Elliot and Lord Ciiarles
Barty? But that is exactly the sort of stufl' that some young
fellows talked in '41. We are all much wiser now, are we not?
CHAPTER X.
Thlir gallop brought them across the common and to the house
where Eleanor was staying with Aunt Maria. Here Austin's
friend left him, and went to an inn, and put up his horse to wait
for him ; and Austin rang at the bell.
The house was a great red-brick house, with narrow windows,
standing a long way back, with a wall and two carriage -gates
beside the road. There were also two cedars, a big bell in a little
pent-house just inside the gate, and a big dog, who barked when
you rang it. That house will be taken by a doctor, and made
a private madhouse of some day, as the march of intellect goes
on, and London expands. If it were ten miles nearer town, it
would be snapped up at once for that purpose. If you ask,
''Why for a madhouse, not for a school?" the answer is, that
the grounds are too large for a schoolmaster, and until they began
to build it in, and take the land otf his hands, it wouldn't pay
him. The house before wiiich Austin stood will become either a
madhouse or an institution of some sort or another.
A great deal might be said about these old suburban houses.
The author would like nothing better than to dwell on their
peculiarities, but this is not the place for doing so. He begs the
reader's patience for only a very few words about them. They
were built, most of them, in the beginning of the last century, and
have been degraded and degraded from one purpose to another,
52 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
eacli one lower than the last, nntil they are pulled down because
thev interfere with a new terrace; or square. The general fate
which awaits all of them is degradation and death, but sometimes
they are preserved eyen in the midst of the great flood of bricks,
and then they fetch high rents.
Did any reasonable man ever go to walk through the western
l)art of Chelsea on to Walhani Green and Fulliam, if he could
manage to walk anywhere else ? Most likely not. And yet there
are some houses standing about there which ^^■ill make a man
think, if he chooses to think. Take one of those suburban houses,
built about 1700, and think about it, and people it over again witli
three generations. Take a long, low, back-lying house in the
King's Road, Chelsea, in front of which they have built shops.
That was once a quiet gentleman's house, with elm-trees round it,
where several generations of children tumbled downstairs, and fell
out of window, and lost their tops and balls in the water-butt, and
laughed and cried and quarrelled and made it up, until they grew
to handsome young men and women. How many pairs of happy
lovers went a-courting in that sunnner-house at the end of the
garden ; before Mr. Mullins took it and made a madhouse of it,
and the woman who thought she was queen, took possession of the
summer-house, and hunted us boys out of it when we dared go in ;
and before they put Miss H , a strong, red-faced woman, with
a big throat and thick lips, into the okl nursery, where she
screamed and yelled and tore niglit and day for above a year, till
it pleased God to put an end to her misery.
And when the madhouse was removed to Putney, Waterer
took the house and grounds, and exhibited his rhododendrons and
azaleas there. And all society came down to look at them, and
the line of carriages extended far up and down the King's Ivoad.
Then the dreary old garden, in which the madwoman used to walk
so Avearily up and down^ was filled with a blaze of flowering
American plants. And on the very same ground where the
author, a friglitened boy, looking over the palings, has seen poor
Miss II , in her strait-waistcoat, cast herself screaming down
among tlie caljliagcs-iilants, and bite the earth with her teeth ; on
tliat veiy same ground all the dandies and beauties of London
were! walking and talking. The last I kiiow of that piece of
ground is, that tlu' man who lets flys had laid it down in oats.
!Sic tridisil, (Vc. That is the history of one suburban house,
carefully lold, and there ari- very many with far stranger histories
than tliiit.
The study of these «»l(l i-ed -brick suburban iiouses has given
the author so much jiKasiire in his time that he has tried to
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 63
f^ive tlic reatliT some iutcTcst in tlicni, iuid niako liiiii partiikt;
of tlu! Siiino pleasuiv. Tliis is the only time lie means to otlend
in this way in this story, and so he casts liimself on his reader's
mercy.
Austin, Avlio liad dismounted, ran^t,' the hell a«^Min, and aj^^ain
the hi,!^ doj^ harked ; this time, also, a door was opened, and
Austin heard a man, apparently a footman, say, " Four ouneos is
four, and two (piarters is a ti//y, and a hoh lost tossing makes two
half-hulls and a hender, don't it, you a,i^gravating minx?" And
then, instead of coming to Austin's assistance, Austin heard him
shut the door again.
So he had to ring once more. This time he heard the door
opened again, and footsteps approacliing. Immediately the wicket
in the carriage-gate was thrown hack, and in the aperture stood a
little lean old footman, with a cross face and veiy grey hair, who
cried out, " Now then, young tellow ! "
'* Now then, young fellow," said Austin, "how ahout the two
hall-hulls and the hender ? "
The old man laughed : — " It's them gals, Mr. Austin, got a
shilling of mine among un somewhere, and wants to bounce me out
of it. Told me you was the baker's boy, too. Come in afore sho
sees you, else she'll not be at home. She is gallivanting in the
paddock with Captain Hertford.''
" The deuce ! " thought Austin. " Who is Captain Hertford ? "
he said.
" The gentleman as you met in Wales the week afore last, when
you fell in love with Miss Cecil ; and as you travelled with and
told all about it ; and as come and told ivc all about it. That's
about who Captain Hertford is. Master Austin."
"But what is he doing here?" asked Austin, only half
aloud.
" Making love to the old woman," said the old man, speaking
very loud and plain.
" Confound you, James, don't be a ridiculous fellow," said
Austin, laughing. " Making love to Aunt Maria ? "
" That's about the size on it," said James. " Now come quick
into the stable-yard afore she sees you. You wouldn't see much
of Miss Eleanor if she caught sight on you."
"How is Aunt Maria?" said Austin, in the stable-yard, after
a groom had gone oft' with his horse.
" Owdacious," said James. " Drat her, she always were
owdacious, worn't she 9 " he continued, scratching his head.
When he saw Austin frown and shake his head : "I mean she
always were a owdacious fine woman of her age."
54 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
'' Where did you say slie ^Yas ? " said Austin.
"Where is she?" said James, getting desperate and re-
bellious. " Why, she's upstairs, and she's do\Mistairs, and she's
in my lady's chamber ; all three at once sometimes. She always
were a deuce of a woman to come round a corner on you sharp :
but since the will was read, she shall come round a corner again
any woman in England for a new hat, or a tripe supper for eight.
The gals is losing flesh over her. They was giggling upstairs
the day before yesterday, and I see her come slipping out of tlie
drawing-room like a old pussy-cat, and so I hits myself down the
back-stairs W'ith a tray-full of glasses, and brings her tluit way,
and now the ungrateful minxes w^ants to do me out of a shilling."
** I hope you caught it, sir ? " said Austin.
''Catch it? There, let's talk about something else, Master
Austin. However, I can always stop her when I have had enough.
Come on."
" I hope you didn't answer her."
."I only told her not to regard my feelings, for that I was used
to the ways of old people, and that when people came to her time
of life, they naturally got brittle in the temper, the same as they
lost their teeth."
'' How could you say such a thing, James ? You know if you
go on like that she will be obliged to ask Miss Eleanor to dis-
cliarge you. And I warn you that, deeply attached as I and she
are to you, I could not say a w'ord in your favour."
" She'll never ask Miss Eleanor to do that. I know too
much." And so saying, he opened the drawing-room door, and
announced —
" Master Austin."
Eleanor rose up and came towards him ; she held out her hands
towards him, but that was not enough ; she took both his hands
in hers, but that was not enough either ; so the poor innoe.uit silly
little body burst out a-crying so piteously that Austin took her iu
his arms and kissed lier.
" I am so miserable, dear brother," she said. "How kind of
you to come to me."
" And I, dear sister, am so unhappy too," said Austin, wlio,
ten minutes before, had been galloping and shouting with Lord
Cliarles Barty across tho common. He did not mean to be
hypocritical or uiih'ue. He did really think he wa-; unliai>i\v, and
so he was.
"What is the matter, dear Austin?" she said. "1 ask for
a very selfish reason. If you Avill tell me your sorrows, I shall
Qertainly forget mine. So you have been staying at the Cecils' ? "
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 55
'* Yes."
*' And what did you think of Ali, Austin, 30U wroto mo
no merry hitters from there. You wouhl not conluh; in me uhout
that. I expected a h)n.L; h'tter, iiUed, as usual, witli wihl ad-
mii'ation for the hist inelij^'ihh; youn«^ h-^idy ; hut when none
came, I, knowing Fanny Cecil, knew what had happ«;ned at
once."
"What do you mean?"
"Knew tliut vou had fallen in love for the first time in j'our
life."
" By Jove, Eleanor, you are right I How you guessed that I
cannot tell."
If these two — this handsome, nohle young lad, and this quiet,
dark -haired girl — had at that moment been in the Palace of
Truth, Eleanor would have answered —
" Because I have loved you and none other ever since I could
love any one, and because I shall never love any other man as I
do you to the day of my death."
l*)ut they were in an old red-brick house on a connnon in
Surrey, and Aunt Maria was plainly to be seen in the paddock
walking with Captain Hertford. They were in a palace which was
not of truth, and so she only said —
" No one could doubt it who knew Fanny Cecil. I could
have told you that she was to marry Lord Mewstone. I Avould
gladly have saved you this, brother, but I never dreamt tliat
you were to be thrown against her in that way. When I heard
you were there I dreaded that it would happen. Why did not
Charles Barty warn you ? "
" He did ; but his warning came too late."
"Ah! he was at Turin. ■ Austin," she said, very quietly, "I
want to speak to you."
Austin looked up at her. Her hands were quietly folded before
he)", her eyes more brilliant and prominent than usual, and she
was very pale. Her mouth was tightly set, and there was not
a twitch in the muscles of it. The upper lip and the chin,
both too short at ordinary times, seemed sliortcr than ever now.
Austin began to see what she would be like when she was an old
woman.
Eleanor loved Austin so deeply, as never man was loved before,
she thought. Better than hersi'lf by far ; for by the very slightest
management she might marry him, advise him, feed his ambition,
give him wealth and ambition, triumph with him in success, con-
sole him in disappointment, get him taught the ways of the world,
bring him into society by her wealth — nay, more than all, teach
56 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
him to worship at the same altar with her, to love the same God,
to trust to tlie same hope of salvation — she would do none of these
things ; she was going to give him his dismissal for ever — with a
sliGfht reservation.
And wliy ? Because Austin could never love her. Because if
he did not love her he would merely marry her for her money.
And then the consciousness that he was untrue to himself would
prey on him, and render him miserahle, lower his moral tone, and
make him feel that his whole career was a fiilse one.
That is the way she reasoned — that was the way she accounted
for her conduct. She was one of the host and nohlest little
women that ever lived (as the reader will confess when he has
read the book to the end) ; she reasoned in this way — it was
satisfactory reasoning enough ; but, nevertheless, her own soul
said something else, and would make itself heard, it said : —
*' He shall love me, and woo me, before he win me ! " But she
said —
" Austin, do you remember my father's deathbed ? "
He said, *'Yes!" He could hardly believe that she could
anticipate the very matter on which he was ready to speak. But
she did so.
" I can speak to you quite openly, now your heart is so
deeply engaged. You must forget everything that passed, every-
thing he said, every hint he gave, or we must part here, once and
for all."
'' I know it," said Austin. " Things might have been which
can never be now. My heart is gone ; I came to tell you so. I
came to tell you that I would bo your brother, your servant ;
would go through the world at your side ; that your husband
should be the friend of my heart ; but that your wealth alone
would render it impossible for me to be more. Therefore,
having said this to one another, we can now go through tlie
world hand in hand, on just the same terms as we have hitherto
done."
" We will, Austin. I will be aunt Eleanor to your children,
and sister Eleanor to you ; but don't leave me all alone. You
are the only friend I have. I dare talk to you now, brother, vou
see."
So they talked confidentially, till there was an alarm of Aunt
Maria, and tlien Austin went away ; this highly iilatonic arrange-
ment being brought to a satisfactory termination.
A very satisfactory one, indeed. Eleanor, two minutes after-
wards, had locked herself into her bedroom, and thrown herself
ou her bed, in a wild passion of tears, wishing that she had nevei'
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 57
been born ; ^vishin;4 that Austin liad never seen Miss Cecil ; wisli-
ing that she niij^'ht die in her ^'riet' ; doin^' civerythin^', in sliort,
but bhiming Austin. And there sho hiy, till the ttnnpest of her
t^oief l)('«^Mn to f^'et less stroni^, and its <^Mists less trer|U('nt and
violent, and at last raised licr weary-worn little fare up, and pre-
pared to go downstairs, and be liiriously scolded by lier cruel old
aunt. Yes, this half of tlie arrangement was very satisfactory ;
now for tlie other.
When Austin got back to Lord Charles Barty, ho looked as
black as tliunder. He quarrelled witli his liorse, he quarrelled
with his dog, and was very niucli inclined to quarrel witli Tjord
Charles ; but that was not an easy matter at any time, or by
any person. So he contented himself with sulking all the way
home, and giving short answers. Lord Charles was surprised at
this. He had never seen Austin cross so long before. He did
what every good fellow ought to do, when his friend is angry : he
appeared concerned and anxious, but spoke of inditi'crent matters,
leaving Austin to open his grief to him.
When they came to Mortlake, Austin said, ''Let us ride on to
London, Charles."
" Yes, suppose we do. I should like it. Will vou take
Robin?"
" Yes, I tliink so. You can trust him anywhere."
"Yes, he is a wise fellow, that Robin," said Lord Charles.
" * W^iy forrid, Min ! ' that's what the Scotch shepherds say to
their dog. See, he is gone away like a thunderbolt after
imaginary sheep. He is a fine fellow."
''I say, Charles."
''Ay, "ay!"
" I have made such a cursed fool of myself."
So the second half of the grand platouic arrangement seemed
far from satisfactory also.
CHAPTER XL
Late as it was, Austin and his friend posted ofi' to join their
reading party at Bangor, and with them went the dog Robin, of
course.
There were nine of them in that reading party, and they spent
that summer — one of those happy golden periods which surely
58 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
comes at least once in a man's life, unless lie be an excoptionally
unfortunate one. Very unlucky must the man be who has no
golden age to look back at fondly in after years. Dull must be
the life of a child who cannot say, " Once, in spring-time, I went
into a meadow, and gathered cowslips."
Lucky, again — fortunate beyond most men — must these nine
have been, if any other period ever came, in any of their lives,
sulHcienily happy to make them forget this summer of theirs at
Bangor, in 1844 ; a time of youth, health, hope, ambition, and
friendsliip. Snowdon was behind them, the sea before, Anglesey
sleeping in the sunshine, the Ormshead floating like a blue mist
in the liorizon, and Penmaenmawr towering black and awful above
the little wliite farm in the wood at Aber. Golden sands, blue
sea, and slow-sailing summer-clouds aloft.
Were they idle ? Oh, dear, yes. Seven of them, God bless
thom, were horribly idle. The good Professor scolded, predicted
that they would all be either " gulfed " or '' ploughed " ; said he
sincerely hoped that they would be ; said that the foundations of
justice Avould be sapped at the root if they weren't : but it was no
use ; they all loved him too well to mind him. They were very
good for a few days after one of these terrible jobations ; but then
two of them would be missing at their hour, the Professor would
go to their lodgings, and find from their landlady, that some idle
villain of a university man, who was not going to be in the
October term, had arrived promiscuously in the town, and had
induced them to go off to Llyn Ogwen, or some of those places,
the names of which the good Professor will hate to his dying day.
Hay ton and Dayton went and lodged at Garth, because it was
out of the way, inconvenient, and dirty, and a mile from tlie scene
of tuition. Hayton, who was fat, fished for four months from the
end of the pier, and caught nothing, but smoked 8 lb. oz. of
tobacco. He also, during this time, made love to ]Maria Williams,
the pilot's daughter, and proposed to her on Michaelmas-day,
after the goose dinner, on whicli occasion she refused him in
favour of Owen Owens, a young sliip-carpi'nter. Dayton, mean-
while, bought the yacht Arhj/dauos, of 1 cwt. register; length
between per])endiculars, feet t inclies ; extrt>nu' breadth, 18
inclies ; dciptli of hold, '2 feet G inchcis ; and essayed to drown
himself therein ; and did not succeed merely because, whi'uever
he put foilli into the deej), three; or four small fishing-boats used
to follow liiiii, and wlu'U he was capsi/cd —which happened every
time but onc! when he went out — used to \nc\i him up, and fight
for him, at tlu; rat(! of half-a-crown a hesul per uuin, and a shilling
for boys ; being at the rate of thirty shillings a voyage.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 50
Ilortoii and Morton did not live in Bani^or, bnt stayed at Al>cr,
fivo mill's t)ll', Lc'caiise it was out ot" tliu way and more i'X})ensivi' ;
and they got so attaclicd to the good people tliere, and the good
people there so attaclied to them, that they refused to move into
the town, though the Professor fulminated about it. They were
the most tiresome fellows of all ; for, not content with idling about,
shooting seagulls and stints themselves, they would thiidc nothing
of getting half the party to dine with them, and, after dimier, of
seducing the whole lot of them up the glen by the waterfall, and
over the summit of Carnedd lilewellyn to Capel Curig, a trifling
distance of fifteen miles or so, and sending them home to iJangor,
after a cou})le of days, by Nant Frangon.
The other live lived in ]>angor, and were not so intolerably
idle as these two. Only two of the whole ]>arty read really steadily
and wi'll, and those two were Austin Elliot and Lord Charles
Barty.
Was Austin happy ? I am afraid so ; although he would have
been very angry if any one had accused him of it. He was by
way of being miserable. He thought he was, but he was quite
mistaken. In the first place, lie was getting over the disappoint-
ment about Miss Cecil ; and in the next, there is pretty nearly as
much pleasure as pain in an aflair of that sort. For is that
strange wild yearning jealousy, pain? Catch me a man, a penni-
less, friendless man, with all his hopes broken, and all his friends
gone, and ask ///;//. Ask what be would give to feel his bitterest
disappointment of this kind over again.
No, he was not unhappy. A nine days' affair of the kind does
not, in this barbarous island, hit so very hard. The more refined
French smother themselves with charcoal ; or, as two of them did
a few years ago, take a warm bath, put on a clean shirt, and blow
their brains out simultaneously, leaving behind them what we
barbarians would call a horribly blasphemous paper. But
Austin's case was nearly safe, and so he read hard, and made it
so.
This visit of his to Tvn-y-Rhaiadr w'as a veiy important one ;
for he not only fell in love with Miss Cecil, in itself an important
affair, but he also made the acquaintance of Captain Hertford ;
and, moreover, had the dog Piobin given to him as a present.
They had been at Bangor about a month, when one day Austin
W'ent out to Aber, in the afternoon, with Horton and ]Morton, for
he was rather fagged Avith work, and left Lord Charles at home at
Bangor over his Pindar. They went a-fishing for the smallest
sample of trout I know of on the face of the whole globe, that
evening, and caught a few of them ; and in the evening stood
CO AUSTIN ELLIOT.
midcr the higlicst Avatcrfiill in Wales, and saw the lace-like
threads of water streaming over the black rocks from a height
of one hundred and eighty feet, and after that turned men'ily
homewards.
Between the waterfall and the sea at Aher is one of the most
extraordinary shoreless chasms I have ever seen. The stream
runs through it, but, as we used to believe, no man has ever been
tln-ough it since Creation. It is half a mile long, a succession of
shoreless lyns and slippery rocks. And Austin, coming to the
upper end of it, proposed to swim through. He never did, though
some one else has actually done so since ; for as he was beginning
to undress himself, with that eagerness and haste with which
young British and Irish men of three-and-twenty hail the oppor-
tunity of dro^^^ling themselves, or breaking their necks, llobin
bounded joyously forward, and some one appeared coming rapidly
towards them. They saw, in a few minutes, that it was Lord
Charles Barty.
''Austin," he said, breathlessly, "the Lords have reversed the
sentence of tlie lower courts, and acquitted O'Connell. The only
one of the four who went for him was Brougham."
" I told you so," said Austin. " What a noble way of smother-
ing him. And old IJrougham against him, eh ? Lord ! wliat a
world it is ; — old Brougham, eh ? Conceive the slyness of the
man, will you ? "
'* Don't you impute low motives," said Lord Charles ; " it is the
habit of a young and unformed mind."
''Go to Bath," said Austin. " I say, I am going to swim
through this chasm."
"No, don't be an ass," said the other. "Come and walk
with me ; I have something to tell you."
" So you didn't come all this way to tell me about Dan, then ? "
said Austin.
"No," said he. "I got tired of my work, and I thought of
you and the otlu-r fellows liaving a jolly evening here, and I came
out ill a car. Besi(l"S, I have seen sonu; nnv since you left."
"Wlio?"
" Wliy, Lord aiul Ijady IMewstone. Tliey liave come from
Chester, and are going on to Tyn-y-Bliaiadr to-morrow morning.
He has called at your lodgings, and lit; is going to call again ; and
— and I tlioiiglit I would come oiil and tell \(>ii, old fellow ; lliat
is all."
" By Jove, you are a good fellow," said Austin ; " wlial tlu' deuce
should I do witliout you ? What had I better do ? "
" Jjet us stay iiere. You don't know what Hertford mav have
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 61
said, or what she has heard. As for him, his nose is far too high
in tho air for him to supposi' tliat you had ever thon,L,dit of lu-r
otherwise than as a goddess. Hertford would never have dared to
let him hear anything. If he had, he would not be so aflectionate."
" Ijut do you tliink tliat she has ever guessed ? "
" Lord knows ! I don't nnderstand women. Hertford knows
that you were deeply taken with her. How do you or I know
whether he hasn't used that knowledge to keep his position with
her ? How do you know, that in a gentle way, he has not let her
know that he knows it, and so avoid the coiiffe which he would
most certainly get, the moment she came into power ? She is
afraid of ^Mewstone — everybody is afraid of him. I wouldn't go
back to Bangor to-night. Stay here tdl they are clear oflf; it
won't do you any good to see her again ; and if she sees you, and
ii Hertford has been saying anything (may the deuce confound
him !) she might look confused, or something. So let's stay
here at Lewis's and have a rubber."
And so they stayed and had a rubber, and poor Austin played
very bad, trumped his partner's (of course. Lord Charles', for
people generally pay dearly for actions of good nature in small
things) knave, led out strong suits of trumps without any suit to
follow, " bottled " them wlien his partner led them j&rst time
round, drew two trumps for one — did, in fact, everything but
revoke, from which he was kept by a mere brute instinct. Instead
of thinking of his cards, he was thinkmg of Lady Mewstone, about
whom he had as much business to tliink as of Noah's eldest
daughter, about whose existence we have no information. But he
had a patient, affectionate partner, who only laughed louder at
each blunder. Lord Charles would do more for him than lose
three-and-twenty shillings. Austin paid him for all his ati'ectionate
forethought one day. "We shall see how.
The next morning, Lord and Lady Mewstone had disappeared
in a cloud of dust towards Caernarvon. And Austin and his
friend walked into Bangor, in time to take their hour with the
good Professoro
The next night but one, Austin sat up very late over some
work. He had hardly been in bed more than three hours, when
he was awoke by being shaken, and, turning over, saw Lord
Charles standing over him.
" Let me sleep," he said. " I am so tired. I have hardly got
to bed."
" Get up, Austin," said the other. " W(.' have been down to
bathe. There is a screw steamer coming up the Straits. I am
nearlv sure it is the Pelican/'
6^ AUSTIN ELLIOD.
Austin was out of bed in a moment, and dressing quicldy, ran
down to the point. It was the dear old Pelican, lying about two
hundred yards out from the point, with a little steam coming from
her steam-pipe, every now and then giving a throb or two with
her propeller, just enough to keep her beautiful sharp bows
stationary against the green sea-water, for the tide was setting
strongly down the Straits towards the bridge.
They have never improved on the model of the Pelican any
more than they have on the model of the Great Britain. The
lines of the Pelican, however, were more like those of the Himalaya
than those of the Great Britain. If you put your two hands
together before your face, expand them till they form a right
angle with one another, and then bring them together until they
form half a right angle, your two hands will have nearly represented
the sides of the Pelican from bow to stern.
The Professor, and Horton, and Morton, were all there after
their bathe, and, as Lord Charles and Austin came up, were
admiring the beauty of the vessel. And, after a moment, Austin
said —
"It ifi the Pelican, and there is my governor. Let's all come
on board."
There never was such a reasonable proposition. They all
bundled into a boat together at once. The Professor, when they
were seated, reminded Horton that his hour came before break-
fast, and that therefore they must not be more than ten minutes.
Horton, finding himself on the high seas, grew insolent and
mutinous, and broached the extraordinary theory, that the powers
and jurisdiction of a coach or tutor did not extend beyond low-
water mark. The Professor fired up at this, and challenged him
to produce his authority, and they were in full wrangle, and both
beginning to get angry, when the boat swung to under the
yacht's side, and they all had to tumble up on deck. It now
appeared that the dog, liobin, had stowed himself away under
a thwart, and, having discovered himself, was walking about
in a dangerous way over the top of everything, proposing to
do frightful things with himself, unless taken on board. Wlieu
he was hoisted on deck, during which process he was as good as
gold, he sent Aunt Maria's Pomeranian, head over heels, down
the engine-room ladder.
At the gangway they were met by a handsonu' old gentleman —
a genial, good-tempered-looking old gentleman — whose eyes
brightened up when they met Austin's, and there, somehow, they
were all looking another way for a moment, as gentlemen will on
certain occasions. But only for one moment ; in tlie next Austin
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 6d
was Introducing them to his father, with an air of triumph in his
liandsomii face, as if he was saying, '' Conu; now, whicli of you
lias got sucli a governor as I ? "
"Mr. EUiot," said the Professor, "one of my i)ui)ils has
mutinied in the hoat, and lias insulted me. He says tli.at my
authority does not extend heyoiid low- water mark."
'• He is perfectly right, my dear sir," said ^Nfr. Klliot. " I
know, in the way of husiness, a little of that sort of tiling, and you
haven't a leg to stand on. If it were not so, your authority is
merged into mine on my own deck. Ask Phillimore — ask any
one. Gentlemen, I request that you will immediately come aft.
Lord Charles Barty, a word Avitli you."
He spoke to him for a moment, and then Lord Charles ran to
the engine-room ladder, and roared out — " Go ahead full speed,"
and then ran to the side and called out — '' Cast off the painter
there." And cast off that painter was, and ahead at full speed
that vessel wwi, with the Professor protesting against piracy and
deforcement, threatening to take the matter into the Arches, pro-
testing that Hayton was coming for his hour at ten, that he would
he plucked, and that his widowed mother would sink into her
grave hroken-hearted ; hut the cranks were gleaming, and the
screw was spinning, and her head was for Holy Island, and they
were all laughing at him, and so the Professor laughed himself.
" Father," said Austin, " you have stolen Aunt Maria's dog, and
my dog has tumbled it down into the engine-room."
Mr. Elliot had no time to explain, for, coming aft, they saw
that there were two ladies on hoard, sitting close to the wheel.
The one, a large red-faced, ill-tempered-looking lady, who was
Aunt Maria, and a sweet, gentle, dark-looking little lady, almost
like a Frenchwoman, who was Eleanor.
" By Jove," thought Austin, for an instant, " Eleanor is really
very pretty. And how well she dresses ! "
Mr. Elliot presented the Professor and the pupils to Aunt Maria,
and she received them graciously, though she was horribly cross
(why, you will guess soon). So Austin and Eleanor had just a
few words together by themselves.
" Dear Eleanor."
''Dear Austin."
" How on earth did Aunt Maria and you come to go to sea with
the governor? If she offers to marry him, I'll "
*' Don't be ridiculous, Austin dear. Suppose she was to hear
you?"
" She couldn't hate me worse than she does. I was only
joking. I know the governor too well. But how was it?"
64 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
" I had to have a change of air, and Mr. Elliot asked us. We,
neither of us, mind the sea, you know. So we came."
They had time to say thus much, and then it hecame necessaiy
to introduce the Professor and Horton and Morton to Eleanor.
Austin stood heside her Avhile they were presented. There was
one look in all the three faces, that of pleased admiration. He
looked at her again.
" I never thought Eleanor pretty," said his most serene,
illustrious, and imperial high mightiness to himself. " But these
fellows seem to admire her. University men always admire every
girl they come across," continued the hldse man-of-the-world, who
had just been confessing to his friend that he knew nothing of
that world. " And, besides, she has a sweet little face of her
own," concluded the real Austin Elliot.
So she had. At breakfast, in the pretty decorated cabin, while
the green water was seething past them, and through every open
port-hole, the purple Caernarvonshire mountains were seen over
the summer sea, as though set in a frame : at that pleasant break-
fast, in the fresh morning air, it was evident that both Horton
and Morton were quite of tliat opinion. Whetlier they talked to
lier_, to Austin, to Lord Charles Barty, or to one another, they
always looked at her, and watched to see what she tliought of
what they said. They were two clever young fellows, but they
seemed more brilliant than usual this morning ; they were two
handsome young fellows, but they seemed handsomer than usual
now ; there was a grander air about them than usual. In
ordinary times, among their fellows, they could be coarse and
rude with the rest ; but here, before this dark-eyed little girl,
there was an air of high-bred chivalrous courtesy al)Out them, not
only towards her, but towards every one else. There was some-
thing about Eleanor which had changed them, had put them on
their mettle. There ivas something in that girl after all. Austin
was getting proud of Eleanor, in the same way as a Scotchman
is proud of Glenlyon, as if he had helped to make it.
And Tiord Charles r>arty, good soul, sat and lookinl on, and
hiugluid to himself — things were g(Uiig on as he wislied.
Aunt Maria was by way of being a cK'Ver woman ; and, indeed,
sli(! was a clever woman in om; way, tliongh possibly if one had
told her the grounds on which oni' consideri'd her clever, she
would have been very angry. She could talk about nearly every-
thing, and had so nnich of the dexterity of a woman of the world,
tliat her knowledge, by no means small, was madi' to go a very
long way. She was very cross at Austin's getting Eleanor at the
other end of the table, among his friends ; but she knew it was
AUSTIN ELLIOr. 66
no use being cross. The Professor had been handed over to her
bodily, and she applied litTsolt" to lier task with a will ; and her
task was twofold — to show oli' her own knowledge to him, and to
pick his brains for future use.
CHAPTEli XII.
After breakfast they all went on deck. Now, Mr. Elliot was an
old-fashioned man, who hated smoking, and never for one instant
tolerated it on his quarter-deck. But this did not prevent Austin
wanting a cigar ; and, besides, he w^anted to think somewhat —
wanted, in fact, to think about Eleanor, and the cause of her
amazing success that morning. "The little brown thing," he
thought, " how wonderfully pretty she is ! "
The moment he came on the main deck, Robin loped up to
him, and jumped on him ; after that he dropped his tail and ears,
and followed him.
The proper place to light your cigar is in the engine-room,
particularly when the chief engine-man is your most particular
friend and gossip. So Austin went down the engine-room ladder,
while Robin stood atop, with his head on one side, one ear up and
the other down, waiting to see whether or no his master would
come up that way again, or w^iether he had to run round and
meet him somewhere else. Aunt Maria's Pomeranian came and
looked down too, but, not being able to understand the situation,
sat on the deck and proceeded with his toilet.
" And how's a' wi' ye, Master Austin ? " said the chief engineer.
" How's a' wi' ye, my bonnie young gentleman ? "
" So so, George. Well enough. I say, old man, you haven't
got that meerschaum of yours ? Let us have a quiet pull at it,
with some of the Cavendish. When I do come to sea, I don't
care a hang for cigars."
Austin had some otlier low tastes beside dog-fancying, you see.
He preferred tobacco to cigars. He had his wicked will, and
when he was in the first stage of complaining, he said —
** How is she, Geordie ? "
" She's vera weel. She's going her sixty-twa."
" Those boxwood bearings didn't do, did they ? "
" They didna do so bad, but the hornbeam are better. Aye,
none but a Scotchman would turn ve out such engines as thev."
G *
66 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
*' Why, they are Penn's, of Greenwich."
" Aye ! aye ! aye ! they are Penn's, of Greenwich, De'il douht
it. There's his name on them. But wha made 'em ? A Scotch-
man, sir; a Falkirk man."
*' I don't believe you, Geordie. I have a good mind to take
you by the hair of your head and bang your head against the
comimnion-ladder, for that dreadful story."
'' Oh, ye'll no do that to yer old Geordie. Hey, my bonnie
bonnie boy, ye have got some Scots blude in ye. Never such a
bonnie boy as you came out of England. Where got ye yon
dog ? ';
** Miss Cecil give him to me."
Geordie turned his noble AVilkie-like face round on him for one
instant, and then turned it away again. He said —
" Mistress Cecil ! That's my Leddy Mewstone."
And Austin said "Yes." That w^as all they said ; but Austin
knew that, somehow, his old friend George had heard something
about him and Miss Cecil, so he held his peace.
" Yen's a bonnie dog," continued Geordie. " There is na such
dogs in the world. No, my bonnie — my gude sir, I mean to say —
no man kens what bonnie dogs are yon. 'J'hat dog would follow
you to death."
Austin peeped up the companion, and saw that they were all
come out of the cuddy, and were on the quarter-deck (which, in
this ship, was merely the roof of that house on deck which was
called the cuddy). He had not finished his pipe yet, and
determined to go forward ; so he passed by the machinery, and
came up by the fore-companion, and found himself among the
crew.
The watch were congregated round something — something with
a shaq) old voice belonging to it, which Austin thought was
tolerably familiar to him, more particularly after he had heard it
say —
** Believe that yarn ? In course I believe it. As a general
rule, mind you, sailors is the very drattedest liars as walks. But
this here sliip's comj)any, mind you, forms the remarkablest and
astoundingest exception to that there rule, ever 1 hearn on. 1
should no more tliink of doubting anythink as any member of tliis
shij)'s company took in his iiead to try and make me swaller on,
than I should think of sitting on this here harness-cask, and a
watcliing of cook's boy peeling of the tati-rs with his nasty dirty
little hands."
As tlie old man to whom the voice belonged was doing exactly
what he described, his profession of faith iu the veracity of the
AUSTIN Er.LlOT. 67
ship's company was hailetl with a roar of laii^'htor hy every one
except the man wlio had *' pitched tlie hist yarn." Immediately
after, thty saw tliat Austin was among tlieni, and drew oil", smihng
and touching their locks to him. He was a great favourite here,
as elsewhere.
" Well, James I " said he to Miss Hilton's old footman, for it
was he.
"Well, Master Austin ! " said the old man, nursing one of his
legs on the top of the harness-cask, " and so you're come to sea,
eh ? and hrought a hull hiling on 'em with you. And a elderly
cove, to walk up and down the quarter-deck along of Aunt Maria,
while the young 'uns makes love to Miss Eleanor."
" Don't he an old fool, James," said Austin, laughing.
*' You might as well say to a sailor," said the old man, raising
his voice so that the ship's company might hear him, '*you might
as well say to a sailor, don't be a liar ! I might as well say to
you, Master Austin, don't you he a yoiuu/ fool. Ah, well, we
can't help it, none on us ! We're all as God made us ; we was
all born so, and as such we must remain."
" Were you born an old fool, then, you most disagreeable old
porcupine? " said Austin.
*' No, I warn't," said old James, tartly ; ** I was bom a young
'un. My character has deweloped ; yours will dewelope in the
same way as mine if you live long enough ; which Lord forbid ! "
" Come, old fellow ! you don't mean that ? "
*' Yes I do, when I see some things. I don't want none that I
loves to live too long, and see what I see. And I loves you, and
you knows it."
" What's the matter now, old fellow ?
"Drat the whole country of North Wales, say I! " was the
reply, "with its mountains, and its waterfalls, and its new light-
house on the Lleyn, and its comings on board at Aberystwith, and
its going ashore again at Caernarvon, accause you were at Bangor,
and leaving she to stump up and down the quarter-deck, along oi
a tutor, in her aggi'avating old lilac jean boots ! Drat it aU ! if it
wam't for Miss Eleanor I'd go into an alms-house ! "
At the mention of the quarter-deck and jean boots, Austin
looked there. Aunt Maria was wallving up and do^^^l with the
Professor. She had got on lilac jean boots ; and, what is more,
those jean boots were the most important thing which took your
eye. For being eight or nine feet over Austin's head, and her
feet therefore more than a yard above his eyes, her whole figure-
was (to him) unnaturally foreshortened, as in early photographs.
Austin looked at Aunt Maria for one instant, and saw that
68 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
James was alluding to her ; he turned round to mildly rebuke the
old man, but the old man had boen too clever for him. He had
gone into the galley, and sat himself down alongside of the great
fat jolly cook, in front of the coppers, with his heels under him
like a tailor, watching the pots and pans on the stove. The cook
caught Austin's eye, and gave a fat wink towards Austin, and a
nod at the old man, as if he would say, '' Here he is." And lest
you may think this a liberty on the part of the cook, I must tell
you that Austin had been cook's very good friend ever since he
was six years old.
The engineer had let him know that Captain Hertford had been
on board ; and so "when old James had talked in his grotesque
and rambling way about some one having gone ashore at Caer-
narvon, Austin knew what he was alluding to. Captain Hertford !
What could have made his father take him on board ? And,
moreover, now he came to think, why had his father brought Aunt
Maria to sea with him ? He wished he could get his father alone.
At this moment, the Master came forward.
" Where is the governor, Mr. Jackson ? " said Austin, suddenly ;
*' he is not on the quarter-deck."
*' Alone in his cabin, Master Austin," said the Master ; " now's
your time or never."
" Thanks ! " said Austin, and bolted aft at once. He ran
through the saloon, and opened the door of his father's cabin ; his
father was there, seated before a tableful of papers.
" My own boy ! " said Mr. Elliot ; "I thought you were never
coming to me "
And we will go on to that part of the conversation which
relates to the story which I have got to tell.
"Father," said Austin, "how come you to have Aunt Maria
onboard?"
"Dear little Eleanor was ordered a sea-voyage," said Mr.
Elliot, drumming on the table with his fingers, " and so I oticred
her one, and she accepted it gratefully. Aunt Maria is her
natural guardian, tliough she in of age."
"Who? Aunt Maria?"
" Don't be a puppy to me, on board my own yacht. You know
who I mean."
" His own yacht ! Lord ! " ri'i)liod Austin. " Think of the
pride and conceit of tlie man for an instant, will you have the
goodness ? Lord ! "
" Don't you be a puppy, sir, or 1 shall be very angry with you.
Some one might hear you."
" Did it cut itself, sliaving, in two places this morning, in con-
AUSTIN ELLIOT. C9
sequence of the rolHnc» of its own yacht ; and did it pull two tufts
of nap oft' its best hat and stick them on its countenance ; and
didn't everybody see what iiad happcni-d the moment it appeared
on the quarter-deck, and didn't they all grin and gi^'gle most
confoundedly 1 "
^' Pax ! Austin, pax!'' said Mr. Elliot, tiding to look grave.
" Come, don't waste time here in gibing at me ; you have plenty
of time for that ashore."
" Oh no, I haven't. If you were a civil person, you would
come and live near me. There is not a soul in Bangor that I can
chaff', as I dare to chaff" you."
" Now you are going to be a monkey again.'.'
" No I am not, only a puppy. Man, do you know how I will
pay you out, for calling me those two names ? "
" Austin, my boy, be serious. Aunt Maria will be blundering
down here presently, and spoiling our tete-a-tete y and you will find
her deuced difficult to dislodge."
"Aren't j'ou going to marry Aunt Maria, then?" said
Austin.
*'I have not quite made up my mind about that," said Mr.
Elliot. " I have very nearly done so, but I think there is some-
thing due to her feelings."
Austin was sufficiently sobered now. Ho sat down on a form,
and watched his father eagerly, with a pale face.
" She has fifteen thousand pounds," continued Mr. Elliot. ** A
man at my time of life don't marry for love, Austin. Besides,
you want some one to advise, strengthen, and lead you ; and wdio
is there like Miss Hilton? Yes, Austin, for your sake — for your
sake only, my dear Austin, I have determined to "
Austin leapt up with something like an oath.
"Your gratitude is very natural, my dear boy," said Mr.
Elliot; " mind, it is for your sake alone that I marry. Say not
another word. If my own inclinations were consulted, I should
object to marry the most ill-tempered, unprincipled woman I ever
met. But you are my first object, of course."
" Father, dear father, you are not in earnest? "
" No, but I told you to be, a quarter of an hour ago, and you
wouldn't be. So I have taken this means to make you so, you
butterfly. You see there are two sides to a joke."
" Yours was a cruel one," said Austin.
" Not so cruel as your coupling my name with that old woman's,
my boy ; don't do it again. Now listen to me soberly and
seriously, will you ? ' '
Austin did not reply. He was standing behind his father's
70 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
chair, with his arm roimd his iioch, and their faces so close
together that they touched each tiuie the vessel rolled.
Mr. Elliot went on. ''Attend closely to what I say, Austin,
my dear ; and if anything hajipens to me, remember every word
of it. Coming up the coast I put in at Aberystwith."
" So I heard, dad," said Austin ; " i am on your track."
"And there Captain Hertford came on board. You know
Captain Hertford ? "
" Yes ; go on."
" I know him pretty well. He almost aahed me for a passage,
but I did not encourage him. But Aunt Maria, as we will call
her, came to me and asked for him in set terms, and then, of
course, I treated him with the greatest empressement, and had
him on board."
*' Good, father ; speak low."
** Well, my boy," said Mr. Elliot, with his lips almost against
Austin's ear, " there is a secret between Aunt Maria and that
man, and I'll be hanged if I know what it is."
"Charles Barty, father," said Austin, "gives a very bad
character of Captain Hertford. Mayn't he know something about
Aunt Maria?"
" Go on," said Mr. Elliot. " Let us hear your say out."
"You know that Aunt Maria, when five-and-twenty, followed a
certain captain to India, and came home again still Miss Hilton,
without improving her condition in any way, except getting hersi'lf
cured of sea-sickness, to which fact we are indebted for her
presence here to-day. You know that ? "
"I know it ; go on."
" Do you think tliat ho knows anytliing to Aunt Maria's dis-
advantage, ch ! — anything of that sort ? "
"Perhaps; not a bad guess for a very young man. Do you
know who Captain Hertford is ? "
"I know something about him."
" I know very littl(\ I know that he is unprincipled — that he
is th(! man wlio lielped poor Robert to his ruin."
" llobert Hilton ! "
" Aye I llobert Hilton ; and that he has some secret with
Aunt Maria, and tliat she is lielping him to marry Eleanor
Hilton, and lusr nine thousand a-year ; that is all."
Austin brouglit his fist down on the tabk^ with a crasli, and
said sometliing.
"Don't swear, sir — don't swear," said INFr. Elliot; "it is not
good ton to swear before your father, sir. The only time when
a young man ought to swear, sir, is when he wakes up one fine
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 71
nioniiii<^', and finds tliat lie lias llown his kit(» a dovilisli deal too
lii^'li, and that Miss Cecil liad thuu^dit as much of him as slio
did of the groom that lifted her on her horse. Tiien a man
»iii/ltt swear, sir, even before his father ; but not when he is
leaving a sweet, ainiable, beautiful — aye ! beautiful, in your
teeth ! — young girl to be the prey of a rogue like Hertford. And
— never niiiid ! you had no right to swear in niy presence, sir !
/ don't care about nine thousand a-year, God knows. You will
have about fifteen hundred ; but you are a fool."
** P>ut, father, I love Miss Cecil."
"No, you don't! you love Lady Mewstonc, and are therefore
a knave as well as a fool. D — n it ! here's Aunt Maria herself.
Sit down, and don't begin to grin again, you monkey."
"You had no business, sir, to swear in my presence," said
Austin, as Aunt Maria opened the cuddy-door. "It is not good
ton for the father to swear before his son, sir ! The only time
when an old man ought to swear, sir "
" Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Elliot.
" Has your father been swearing, then? " said Aunt Maria.
" Dreadfully ! " said Austin.
"Then I Avisli," said Aunt Maria, "that he would— I don't
say swear, because I don't uphold that, even in a sainted man like
your dear father ; but I wish he would say something strong
about that dog of yours."
" What lias he been at, Miss Hilton ? "
" At — nothing ! But he is such an ugly cur."
" Well, my dear Miss Hilton, he shall be out of your way in a
few hours. By the by, dad, you must set us ashore at Conway.
Hayton is waiting for his hour with the Professor. The loss of
two hours might pluck him."
"All right," said Mr. Elliot; "her head will be that way
presently — in fact, is so now. I am going on deck."
" Well, Austin," said Aunt Maria, when they were left alone,
" and how arc you, sirrah, eh ? "
"I am very bad," said Austin.
" Good heavens ! what's the matter — meagrims, hysterics, or
what?"
" I don't know."
" They say that you flew your kite at that girl of George
Cecil's, who has married that prig. Lord Mewstone. I denied it
when they told me. I said you were not very wise, but that you
weren't such a fool as that."
Austin looked at Aunt Maria. What a coarse, violent face it
was. Old Hilton's sister. Well, he had a coarse, violent vein in
72 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
him too, and she was something like him. He looked her in the
face for a second, and then said, with a smile, " Give me your
arm, and come on deck. Don't be disagreeable, that's a good
soul;" which course of jDroceeding puzzled Aunt Maria, and
made her do what he told her.
And Mr. Elliot was as good as his word. He took them for a
cruise on that glowing summer's day, and there was not one of
them who did not, ever after, connect the memory of the kind, good
and just old man, with one of the most delightful days in their life.
They went to Holy Island, where the preventive men had grown
pale and flabby, from eating rabbits, and the atmosphere was
laden with the scent of onions, and where the oldest of them
looked, with his long grey hair in the wind, not at all unlike an
old rabbit, with a lot of onion sauce emptied over his head : and
where Mr. Elliot frightened the population out of their wits, by
telling Lieutenant Hodder, of the Coast Guard, that if Sir R. B.
didn't repair a certain wall, he should be forced to *' look him
up," which, being understood by a Welsh bystander, as " lock
him up," and as such being translated into Welsh, caused a
report that evening in the taverns at Beaumaris, that the Queen
had sent down an English lord in a frigate, to seize the persons,
not only of Sir R. B., but of the Hon. Col. D. P., and Mr. A. S.,
and commit them all to the Tower, till they had purged them-
selves of their contempt, which circumstance illustrates the
advantage of a portion of her Majesty's subjects talking Welsh,
while the rest talk English.
And re-embarking they went eastward, and at lunch time were
steaming merrily under the limestone slabs of the Orm's Head,
watching the brimming sea leap on to the black ledges in fountains,
and pour from them in cascades, and Penmaenmawr hanging
1,500 feet aloft behind, a wrinkled mass of purple stone. Tlien
Conway castle, and aft'cctionate farewells in the pleasant summer
evening, Eleanor and Miss Hilton standing on the quarter-deck,
arm-in-arm, and waving their hands at them, to the very last. A
glorious day finished by a pleasant drive home, under the over-
hanging crags, with llobin leading tlie way, a hundred yards
ahead, barking joyfully, as if he so approved of the whole pro-
ceedings that lie could not hold his tongue.
" By Jove," said Horton, as they drove under Penmaenmawr,
'' what a glorious creature it is ! "
" Ah ! " said Lord Charles, '' is she not? "
Austin looked suddenly and stealthily at him, and Lord Charles
took the oj)portuuity, suddenly and stealthily also, of making a
face at Austin,
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 73
•' Is she French, Elliot ? " said ITorton.
'* French ? oh dear, no," repliid Austin. '' She waf? huilt by
White, of Cowcs."
" Who was? " said Horton, in amazement.
" The yacht. TIjo iW/Vrt/?," said Austin.
*' I was talking ahout Miss Hilton," said Horton.
"Ah! I wasn't," said Austin.
" ]jut is she French, you stupid ? " said Horton.
** No, slie ain't," said Austin.
** She looks like it," said Horton.
" Does she ? " said Austin.
"The island of Anglesea, at which we are looking," said the
Professor, suddenly, " is the Mona of the Agricola of Tacitus.
The Mona Cesaris is evidently the Isle of Man. In the latter
case, a corruption of the Latin has been retained ; in the
former
" Well, you needn't be sulky, Elliot," said Horton, nulely
stopping the Professor's good-natured attempt at changing the
subject, by saying the first thing he could think of.
"I ain't sulky, old fellow," said Austin, eagerly; "by Jove,
no. I'll tell you all about it. Her mother was a Frenchwoman.
It was a deuced good guess of yours. She is a noble little body,
is she not ? I am so proud at all of you admiring her so, you
can't think. She is, as it were, my sister, you know."
The Professor, who was sitting next to Austin, quietly patted
him on the back. They were all merrs'- again directly. No one
ever could withstand Austin's good humour, and it was quite use-
less to try. Even for Aunt Maria.
That day, Hayton had come for his hour's logic, and had met
the Professor's mother in the hall. The kind old lady was in
profound despair. Hayton was the only " shady " man of the lot ;
the only "pass" man of the w'hole. The Professor never took
mere pass men. He had made an exception with regard to Hay-
ton, because he was one of the most popular men in the University.
Every day was of importance. It would be so dreadful, thought
old Mrs. Professor, to have one of their men plucked, and poor
Hayton, too ! of all others, the general favourite. She was nearly
in tears when she met him in the hall. She told him that the
Professor had been carried to sea, and was at that present speaking
hull down. What was it ? Was it Tacitus ? She would gladly
lend him Bohn's translation for an hour. If it was Latin prose,
she thought — she said it so kindly and hesitatingly, " she believed
— nay, she felt sure, that she could detect — any — any grammatical
error, if he wouldn't be otiended. 13ut what use was it ? " she
74 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
said. '' The Professor might be away for months. The Duke of
Cheshire's yacht had come, and carried otf Lord Charles Barty, and
the rest of them. And who could tell when they would be back ?
This came of having noblemen in the party. She had always been
against it."
" It's very kind of you," said honest Hayton, '* but it's the
logic. I am afraid you cannot lielp me."
At this moment, Dayton came flying round the comer. " I
say, old fellow," he cried out, '' shall I give you an hour's coach ? "
Old Mrs. Professor shed tears of joy ; and the two patient
young men sat up in the window, with their heads together,
working at the logic, while the others took their holiday on the
shining summer sea.
CHAPTER XIII.
Austin's political education was going on famously. The ultra-
Tory opinions, carefully instilled into him, ever since he could
talk, by his father, were bearing fruit. Austin, at the age of three-
and-twenty, was a very advanced Radical.
I suppose that the very best and cleverest men have a hobby of
some sort, wliicli the rules of society prevent their mounting out
of the bosom of their families. I suppose that every man could
bore you to death on some one subject, if you would only let him.
Mr. felliot had a hobby, and had ridden it continuously before
Austin was old enough to rebel. He had bored him with his
hobby, and that hobby was political talk.
By the time Austin was ten, he determined that, by hook or by
crook, he would be bored no longer. Being too young to know
that there were two sides to the question, he first began his
rebellion by going to sleep, upsetting things, playing with tiie dog,
and so on, while his father was talking. These efforts were
utterly futile. Mr. Elliot not only wanted to instil Tory principles
into his S(m, but he also wanted to hear himself talk. If he could
not do the one thing, he was most fully deti'rmined to do the
other.
However, Mr. Elliot started in one of these political diatribes,
he always arrived at tlie same result— that of praising Mr. Pitt
and tlie Duke to the skies. Wlienever Austin heard one of these
two nan)e3 mentioned, he used to get desperate. He began to
AUSTIN FJJJOT. 76
liato them. And, on flio other hand, licarinc; Fox and Sir Kohert
Peel so steadily and systeniatieally ahnscd, he hc^^'an, out of mere
ohstinacy, to Ioiil,' to licar what tiny would liave had to say for
themselves. If lie could only get hold of facts ahout these two
men, he thonj^ht lie could at all events luivr a wraii^d*; with his
father, which would he hctter fun flian sitting mnnichance, and
liearing about that intolcrahle person, Pitt.
But there was no hope left i'or him whatever. His father had
determined that he should he a Tory, and took care to fonn his
opinions from his own facts. He, good man, so thoroughly suc-
ceeded in boring the boy, that, at twelve, Austin was mad to get
hold of some fiicts on tlio other side, and fight his father. He
did not care about the truth — how should a boy of twelve years
old care much about political questions ? He hated the name of
politics, but he hated Toryism worse. He had, by his father's
management, imbibed Liberal opinions, before he had heard a single
argument in favour of them.
The first weapon he got into his hands was this. Mr. Elliot,
most temperate of men, let out one day, that Mr. Pitt used to
drink a great deal of wine. Austin seized on this, and used it
with amazing dexterity. It is sui*prising what a desperate man
will do with a very inferior weapon. A Roman would show good
fight with his stylus, on occasion : I, myself, have seen Mr.
Dennis Moriarty junior, do the most magnificent battle with
an old fire-shovel, till overborne by numbers. Yesterday only, I
was shown a wooden dagger which had pist been brought from
Naples, a specimen of those which are made in prison by the
Bourbonists, for purposes of assassination, after their knives are
taken from them ; and a very ugly weapon it was. Austin used
his lath dagger — Mr. Pitt's excess in wine — with the gi*eater
success, because his father had always impressed on him that the
great vice of Fox and his companions was drunkenness.
But, after Austin's first half at Eton, he came home with
a large quiver-full of barbed arrows, which he discharged at his
father with enormous eftect. He had got into bad company
there.
The very first day he had been turned into the playgi'ound
there, he, feeling lonely and somewhat scared, found himself
beside another new boy, from the same house, in the same situa-
tion. They made friends that day, and their friendship only
ended with death.
This was Lord Charles Barty : a noble boy of twelve, with
some brains, and more ambition. He came of a great Whig
house. Whiggery, as Mr. Elliot would have called it, had been
76 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
bis "life element" from his birth. When Austin, after a few
days, told him his leading grievance, that young gentleman, aged
oniy twelve, was enabled, by the help of his eldest brother, Lord
Wargrave, to supply Austin with a few smooth pebbles from the
brook, to sling at the Tory giant, and promised to bring some
more soon.
When Austin began casting these pebbles at his father, in the
holidays, Mr. Elliot was both amused and pleased ; at all events
his boy was turning his attention that way. He would sooner see
him a Radical than see him without opinions.
Half after half, the merry battle went on between father and
son. The old Tory sub- secretaries, and such men, who formed
Mr. Elliot's little society, grew greyer under the audacious specu-
lations which Austin brought from Eton each half. " These
opinions," said they, ''were answered when we were boys." — " But
never refuted," quoth Austin. At which his father would rub his
knees and laugh, and the sub-secretaries would say to one
another, that Elliot was getting into his dotage, and " that boy
would go to the devil, sir, as sure as j^ou are bora."
Fired by Austin's speculative questions. Lord Charles Barty
supplemented his usual holiday amusements, which were not
generally very varied, by gaining a little political knowledge — by
picking up stones for Austin to fling at his father. His usual
holiday amusements were these — to interrupt his sister's lessons
as much as possible, and in the absence of the governess, to (as
he called it) make hay in the schoolroom. "When she came back,
boxed his ears, and turned him out, he would go to the stables,
and coax and wheedle the stud-groom into giving him a surrep-
titious mount. Lastly, he would take his blind brother, Edward,
out for a ramble through the park, through the wood, over the
broad turnip-fields, up to the topmost height of KingsdoAvii, where
Lord Edward might lie on the short turf, staring to heaven with
his sightless eyes, and listening to the music of the five tall firs
that moaned in the summer air overhead.
The way he gained his political information was this. When-
ever he dined at table, he used to stay until his father went into
the drawing-room. And in his father's house ho was pretty sure
to find liiniself, after the ladies were gone, sitting next to a pretty
strong Whig. And from this tolerably strong Whig he would
get opinions ; the ultimate destination of wliicli was, that they
were poured out on the head of I\Ir. Elliot senior, to his great
amusement.
So by this process, by Tjord Charles Barty getting arguments
and giving them to Austin, and by Austin letting tlieni against
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 77
his father, Loth these young j^entlemcn found themselves, at
tweuty-three, in a state of very advanced lladicalism. And, as all
young men at twenty-tliree, if they are worth anytliing, have their
hero, so these two young gentlemen had theirs. I need not say
that that hero was Sir Robert Peel. These furious young demo-
crats had been ashamed to confess the fact to one another, the
fact that their fetish was a so-called Tory, before the time when
Lord Charles galloped over the goose on Putney Common. I3ut
so it was.
What w\as the reason that the wildest young Radicals of those
times pinned their faith on Sir Robert Peel ? I suppose because
they knew', that should a pinch come, he would act — would pitch
party formulas to the winds, Horner's resolutions, and the
Catholic question, had shown them that. Their instincts showed
them that he was a true Radic d. As he was in one sense.
AVhen these two young gentlemen were elected Members of the
Union, then the Thames got afire indeed. They uttered the
most dreadful opinions. They came down to that house, sir
(that was little Pickles of Brasenose; he was President), and they
held in their hands all sorts of dreadful documents ; and they had
yet to leani : and they saw the honourable member opposite in
his place, and played the deuce with him. They were the two
most terrible Radicals at the Union, these two. There was no
doubt of that.
But after all said and done, they were neither of them true blue
Radicals. The metal never rang clean and clear. They both
stopped short. Austin politically, and Lord Charles socially.
Austin thought Lord Charles went too far. Perhaps he did.
His proposition was to pull down the old house, and then begin
to think about building it up again, with such materials as heaven
should think fit to send ; or should heaven send no materials, to
let it build itself (which no house ever did yet, except the
American house, which has tumbled down, and will hare to be
built all over again) : this displeased Austin. Lord Charles also
seemed to think that no one should do anything as long as any
one else existed who could do it better ; that we must have the
exactly right man in the right place, or we were naught. At this
Austin fired up, and said that, in that case, Lord Charles and he
might find themselves in the position, the one of a crossing-
sweeper and the other of a shoeblack.
But in Lord Charles's model republic, there were to be no
crossings and no shoes. So Austin's illustration fell to the
ground, and like many other silly people, he abandoned the argu-
ment, from shame of having made a clumsy illustration.
78 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
" Then what the deuce is to become of us ? " asked Austin.
''What does it matter? What are a few worthless martyrs,
like myself, in comparison to the great cause ? "
Austin submitted tiiat it did matter, and that they had better
not be in too great a hurry. He would sometimes, indeed, laugh
at the more wild of his friend's speculations. In theory Austin
was a real Radical ; but he did not wish his theories to be put
into practice.
Lord Charles also stopped at a certain point. He had certain
Radical theories concerning marriage, with which Austin one-half
agreed. For instance, that the human race were all of the same
species, and that no bar should be put to marriages between
young people, if they fell in love. He was a high Tractarian,
and made High-Church thought fit into his political theories with
the most admirable dexterity ; his reverence for marriage and
women was of the highest kind ; and he used to say that of all
things he would admire a nobleman who would marry his
gardener's daughter. Austin agreed ; but when he put the
converse of the proposition about the gardener's son marrying —
eh ! Lord Charles got in a pet, and said that Austin never
would be serious, and delighted in talking infernal nonsense out
of pure aggravation.
" Don't be cross, Charles," said Austin.
*'I ain't cross," said Lord Charles, angrily, blundering over
Robin, and giving him a kick, at the same time using a word,
which will never be used in the great republic.
He ivas cross. Austin had no right to say such horrible things.
Amelia and the gardener's boy. Good God !
Austin did not laugh at him. He had tripped him up, and
was content. The human-race theory would not hold water, it
appeared.
Lord Charles was sulky for a time ; but he called Robin to
him, and put his cheek against the dog's face, in that way asking
forgiveness for having kicked him. Robin begged him with his
great eyes to say nothing about it, and laid his beautiful head ou
his knee.
*' You have been a fool, Austin," said Lord Charles, sulkily.
Englishmen are generally sulky when they have their ow-n weapons
turned against them, have got out of ti'mpor with their friends,
and want to nudve it up.
**Ah! I know," said Austin, laughing. "You mean about
Miss — Lady Mewstonc, you Jacobin ! Conu", let us argue tho
converse of your projjosition on this case. Come on. There is
nothing offensive here. 1 am Lord Mewstone's equal in talent.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 79
and in manners. Wliy should I not have married Miss Cecil ?
I consider she has thrown licrsclf away."
" I don't tliink that. I think tliaf you urn his superior in
everything;, and yet I tliink you made a tool of yourself."
*'\Vhy?"
*' Decause they two were in love with one another, and hecause
you passed by a girl who is far superior to that higiity-tighty,
ambitious, politics-chattering daughter of old Cecil's."
'' Well; I know that now."
"Oh, you do, do you ? And confess yourself a fool ? "
''Yes."
" Then what a sublime fool you will look if you allow Aunt
Maria to bully her into marrying Captain Hertford."
" Charles, you are mad."
"Raving mad," said Lord Charles; "but that is what the
dear old soul is after. She has got the whip-hand of Hertford
about something, and he, I suspect, has got the whip-hand ot
her."
" How do you find all this out ? " said Austin, aghast.
"I listen to the old women talking," said he; "they know a
precious sight more about it than you do."
" Well, but I can't listen to the old women. Tell us what you
know."
" There's Tom going," said Lord Charles ; " hadn't we better
get on with our Livy, if we are going to do so at all ? "
"Come, no nonsense," said Austin; "tell me what the old
women told you."
" The old women didn't tell me anything. But I want to ask
vou a question. Why should not Eleanor Hilton marry Captain
Hertford?"
" Why ! \vhy ! " said Austin. " Do you want to drive me
mad ! Because I would cut the infernal scoundrel's throat, if he
dare to look at her. That's why."
" But it don't matter to you. You have got no interest in
her."
" Charles, I love her."
" Y'^ou always did, I know, in a sort of way ; but with the
memory of that sad affair with the Right Honourable the Countess
of Mewstone so fresh on your heart "
" Don't chaff. The thing is serious."
"I know it is," said Lord Charles; "but tell me one thing
only. Do you really mean that you will ask Eleanor to be your
wife?"
"I do."
80 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
" Hurrah ! Kow I'll tell you all I know. I was in town last
night."
"Well?" said Austin.
" I heard a conversation between my mother and Lord Saltire.
You know Lord Saltire ? "
" He always speaks to me," said Austin.
"Now then," continued Lord Charles, "old Hilton made a
faiw pas, about some French business, in 1806, and every one
cut him, except your father. At this time, Lord Saltire, who had
only had a trifling acquaintance with him before, thought that he
would follow his favourite amusement of flying in the world's
face, by taking him up, saying that he had a profound admiration
for a man with so few prejudices, or some piece of cynicism of
that kind ; and although Hilton saw that Lord Saltire w^as only
amusing himself by ofiending the world, yet friends were scarce,
and Lord Saltire' s humour suited his own, and they two knocked
up some sort of a friendship."
" How did you find out all this ? " asked Austin.
" By listening to the old women at their gossip. Don't
interrupt."
"Just one moment. Have you heard Lord Saltire and her
Grace speak of this before ? ' '
" I have gathered what I have told you from another conversa-
tion. I will now give you the gist of the last.
"Lord Saltire began by saying, 'You don't know any eligible
young gentleman who wants nine thousand a year, do you ? '
And she said, ' There is Charles listening to us, he is in want of
exactly that sum,' and then there was some fun about it, and he
went on. He said that Eleanor was, for some reason, completely
under her aunt's thumb, and that Captain Hertford was eternally
about the house."
" He is never there when I am," said Austin.
" Never mind that. He is there when you ain't there, which
is much more important. He said that he had been to call on
her, after what he had heard, and that it did really appear to be
true : that the poor girl appeared cowed and beaten, and that her
aunt seemed a dragon. But he said, in conclusion, ' That is not
all : the girl is left utterly friendless, and without society, with
this enormous fortune, to the care of this old dragon of an aunt,
and to a captain of dragoons, who is a great rascid. But what is
uglier than all is this : old Hilton had a son who went to the dogs
and died, and the last man who knew anything about him was
this Captain Hertford, who has been a flame of the aunt's.' Now
all this don't look over particularly nice."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 81
** Now we had better p;et on with our work," said Austin.
" By Jove, we must ! " said Lord Charles ; " but you will let
me know what you are goin<^ to do."
"Of course ! How can I tliank you enou^di ? Come on."
And on they went like youn^^ heroes. At half-past three, it
was found tliat Lord Cliarles's handsome blue eyes could not keep
open any longer, in spite of cott'ee and tobacco, and that the curly
head kept tumbling,' down on the " Riddle and Arnold." Austin
roused him up, and started liim across Tomquad to his rooms in
Peckwater. And Lord Charles walked strai^^dit across the grass,
which he had, we believe, no right to do ; and while in that bland
intoxicated state, into which men get at three or four in the
morning, a week before examination, he was thinking that there
must surely be more than 17,000 stars visible. He so nearly
walked into the pool, or pond, called Mercury, that he felt it
necessary to sit down, and congratulate himself on his nan-ow
escape.
Ajid there he found that Austin's dog, Robin, had followed
him. He was glad of this, for he could talk to Robin ; and
Robin was most charmed by the whole proceeding, and sat com-
placently down by the stone rim of the pond, prepared for any
amount of conversation.
** Robin," said this silly young gentleman, 'Met us look into
the pond, and see whether we can tell our fortune." So he
leant over the pool, and saw, at first, nothing but the gold tassel
on his cap. He took his cap off and looked. Still not one hint
of the future, only the outline of his handsome head reflected in
the water. The stars were behind in the dark blue. Not one
single black cloud between him and tliem. Oh ! lying stars !
oh ! false, false water !
But the happy heavy head fell down on something, and Robin
nestled up against him, and dog and man fell fast asleep, there
and then, in the middle of the quadrangle. One of the porters,
who rose early to let the scouts in, saw him lying there, and
roused him up. In times long after, a tall gentleman, stone-
blind, unknown to the porter, but whom you will know soon, came
to the porter, and aslced about the circumstance. And the porter
took him to the place, and pointed it out. " His Lordship lay
here, sir, with his head on his dixenary, and Mr. Elliot's dog
along with 'un ; and I thoucfht he'd a-caught his death of cold
surely."
'' But it never hurt him, you see," said the blind stranger.
" Ah ! no, poor dear ! it never hurt he. Tallv about your
tufts, he were a tult."
7
82 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
CHAPTER XIV.
The very night on wliich Lord Charles slept by Mercury, Austin,
dog-tired as he was, sat up and wrote this letter to his fatlier : —
*' My dear Child, —
" If 3'ou don't take my advice about having your razors pro-
perly set by an ' expert,' the end of it will be that you will be
carried oft' to Bow Street, and charged with attempting self-
destruction. The last time I came into your dressing-room, you
had an open razor in your hand, and had hacked your chin so,
that you were all in a gore of blood. Besides, it does not look
nice to go down to your office, with your face stuck all over with
patches of hat nap. If you have no self-respect, think of me.
" Now attend to what I say, and don't argue, or fuss. Ciiarles
Barty and I go into the schools in five days. The responsibility
I feel in leaving you to take care of yourself, will probably spoil
my degree. Don't add to it, but obey me.
" Dear father, will you do this ? Call on the Hiltons, and see
what is going on there. Catch Lord Baltire, and make him tell
you. It is an ugly business. I don't know what to do.
" I trust it all to you. Only go there and watch Captain
Hertford and Aunt Maria.
''I will come up as soon as the examination is over. I shall
not wait for the class list. I may get a fourth, and I may not.
But I shall be equally dear to you either way, you self-wilh-d
conceited young person."
The answer was : —
" My dear Boy, —
*' You have made me so happy. I will see to what you mention.
I thought you had given her up ; and I have heard nothing new
about Captain Hertford. It will bo difticult for me to get anything
out of Lord Saltire, for I hardly know him ; and I don't ihink he
likes me ; however, I will try. I will watch for you like a terrier
at a rat-liole.
"What care I what degree you take? Suppose you are
plucked, come homo to me, my boy, and I will teach you to
forget it. I had rather, in fact, that you did not take honours.
I tliink tliat you would do in the world <|uite as well without.
Why don't you sl'p in quietly for a pass ? — but, by the by, it is
too late, and I am sorry for it."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 83
(Are there such thiiif^s as wliite lies, after all ? This was either
a black one or a white one, for the old man was in a ftvcrish state
of anxiety ahout his son's de^'ree, if it were only a fourth.)
" Don't you he an impertinent younf^ jackanapes ahout my
cutting myself shaving' ; it will he a long wliile hefore you do
that, you monkey ! "
Lord Charles Barty and Austin went into the schools devoutly
hoping that they might not he "gulfed" (left among the pass
men). lUit diligence and pluck will do great tiling;^. Lord
Charles and Austin, having compared notes, came to the con-
clusion that it was all over with them, and Austin posted oft' to
his father with the cheering intelligence that they were hoth
prohahly "gulfed." Austin had certainly got his testamur, and
so had liis friend, hut they were hoth quite hopeless — so hopeless,
that on the tenihle day, Lord Charles actually went into the
school's quadrangle, and up to that dreadful little door, and
pushed into the crowd to hear the lists read. He thought one of
them might he among the fourth. So he heard the first class
read through with indifterence, hut when Class II. was announced,
and the first name in that class was " Barty, Carolus, ex iEde
Christi," his cars tingled in his head with joy ; and when, after
reading through two C's and a D, the clerk of the schools came
to " Elliot, Augustinus, ex iEde Christi," he sent his cap flying
in the air, and went fairly mad : Austin and he, to their unutter-
ahle amazement, had got seconds.
Then an insane terror possessed him lest any one, flying on the
wings of the wind, should cany the news to Austin hefore himself.
So he posted home to his rooms, told his servant to pack up
a carpet-bag, and away he went, after getting a most fearful
"jobation" from the l)ean for daring to appear in his presence
without his cap and gown.
" What do you mean by this impertinence, my Lord ? How
dare you? "
" I am very son-y, sir. I have got a second, and I am excited."
" Got a second ! — hah ! The University is going to the "
"Deuce ? " suggested Lord Charles, who was afraid of some-
thing worse.
" Dogs, sir, dogs ! How dare you say deuce in my presence !
You can go do^Nii, my Lord."
84 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
CHAPTER XV.
" Now, father," said Austin, the first night of his arrival *' what
have you observed ? ' '
" I have been a diligent and dutiful watchman, Austin ; I have
been there every day for six days, but, unfortunately, I have ob-
served nothing at all."
" Then you think that the letter I ^M'ote to you is all non-
sense ? ' '
"Far from it; I think you are quite right. I know that
woman, Maria Hilton, my dear lad ; I have kno^\^l her almost
all my life, and, unless she has much altered, she is just this — a
selfish, unprincipled shrew."
" She always struck me as being something of that sort."
" I guess, I need not tell you why, that something of this sort
is the matter. You know that she is independent ? "
" No ; I never knew it."
" She had fifteen thousand pounds by hex fatlier s will."
' ' I did not know that ; I always thought she lived on her
brother. But what has that to do with it?"
" Silly ! it makes her independent — it gives an impudence to
her face, and a loud tone to her voice towards her little niece,
which she would never have if she were dependent on her bounty."
" Good ; you are wiser than I."
" That is very easy to be, goose ! Well, she has sailed her
boat in troubled waters, and so has Captain Hertford. I suspect
that they have some sort of mutual confidence, and that both
of them would like to have the whip-hand of Eleanor, and of
Eleanor's nine thousand a year. Slie has no friends — her father
took good care that she should have none, by his obstinate pride
— and at this present moment I believe the case stands thus : —
that Aunt Maria is trying to l)ully and wheedle poor little Eleanor
into marrying Captain Herttord."
"Then," said Austin, "I'll tell you what we'll do — that is,
you and I and Robin."
"And what is that?"
" Why, we'll go to Wilton Crescent, when both Aunt Maria and
Captain Hertford are tlica-c, and I will take a thick walking-stick
and beat him about the licad with it, whili' Robin bites Iter heels,
and you pull her nasty old cap and wig oiJ", and chuck them out
of window."
" I tliink that will be the best i)lan," said Mr. Elliot. " Then I
will come with you at two to-morrow, if I can get away from the
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 85
office. Don't briiiL; too l>i^' a stick, or else you will kill the nmn,
and get hung, and that is very disagreeable — there are always
such a lot of people to stare at you."
"Then that plan of proceedings is settled," said Austin, who
knew how his father loved a *' dry joke."
" Yes, that is settled ; don't be later than two, and don't bring
anything thicker tlian a nialacca cane. Now let us change the
subject. Do you know the Isle of Konaldsay, by Jura ? "
"I have never been there," said Austin, knowing that, now
his father had had his joke, his real plan was coming. •' I know
the song : —
" ' On Jura's heath how sweetly swell
The murmurs of the mountain bee ;
How sweetly mourns the writhed shell
On Jura's shore, its parent sea.'
Is that any use to the present discussion ? "
"A great deal. I see you are in love with the island, and I
shall probably want you to start there to-morrow night, if you can
get ready."
''Hadn't I better start to-night?" said Austin, very much
amused, but knowing perfectly well that his father had a scheme
in his head, and a good one too.
"No, not to-night. Before you start, I want to see whether
Miss Hilton senior, has any objection to come for a cruise in the
Pelican. She has two strings to her bow, and I am the second
one. She will probably come, and bring her niece. The Pelican
is lying at Liveqiool, waiting to take me through the AVestem
Islands. If Miss Hilton dreams that you are to be one of the
party, she either won't come, or won't bring her niece. There-
fore, I order you, as soon as I hare my answer to-mon'ow, to
depart suddenly and secretly to Glasgow, and from thence to get
the best way you can to Jura, from Jura to Donaldsay, from
thence across the Kyle to Ronaldsay, and find out as much as you
can about the set of the tide through the Sound of Islay before I
aiTive in the Pelican."
" By Jove," said Austin, " you are a jewel."
" So the plan of pulling off Aunt Maria's wig falls through for
the present, then," said Mr. Elliot.
"For the present," said Austin.
" Oh, only lor the present, of course," said Mr. Elliot. " Good-
night ; mind your candle against the curtains."
The next evening Austin waited for Lord Charles at Paddington,
for he knew that he would come with the news of the class-list.
86 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
He heard the astounding intelligence of his friend's good fortune
and his o^^^l ; and, just giving himself time to tell his friend the
neat little plan about tlie island of Ronaldsay, he jumped into a
hansom cab, and told the man to go to Mortlake.
The man did not seem to know where it was, so Austin said —
'' Go to Putney, then ! "
Now, in the year 1845, telling a man to go to Putney was the
same as telling a man to go to the deuce. And so the cabman
took off his nose-bag (or rather, the horse's nose-bag), and said,
" Bar seU ! "
" What's the matter with the man ? " said Austin. *' Didn't
you hear me tell you to go to Putney ? "
The man strapped the nose-bag under his seat, took up the
strut, and mounted the box; then he opened the trap- door above
Austin's head, and looking down on him said —
'* I think you told me to go to Putney just now ? "
'* Confound it ! What is the matter with tlu^ man ? "
"Well, now, look here," said the man. "A cabman has his
feelings the same as any other man. You, and such as you, may
think that he ain't, but he have. And when them feelings is
lacerated, he naterally cuts up rough. I never said nothink to
you, but without provercation you tells me to go to Putney. Now
I tell you what it is, I'm hlcnscd if I don't //o, and you may take
your change out of that ! " And go he did.
If it had not been for this little escapade on the cabman's part,
he would have started an instant sooner, and would not have seen
Lord Charles walk past him just before the horse got in motion,
walking between Captain Hertford and a man whom Austin knew
as Captain Jackson — a trilling circumstance, but \\v\\ remembered
after. " Charles has got among the Tories," he said to himself.
And so Charles had.
AVe must pass over Mr. Elliot's sensations on hearing ot
Austin's good fortune. He was both astonished and dcliglited.
** Good heavens ! " he said to himself, " if the dear boy has got a
second with so little exertion, liis talents must be of first-rate
order. See how idle and giddy that lad lias bi'on, by Jovo ! Tiiat
lad can do anything after this. An idle, giddy young butterfly,
and a second : by Jove it is amazing; lie will take tin- world by
storm : for — with liis manners, and ttiiipiT, and talrnts, hell take
the world by storm. I am glad he iiks idlr ; it is a great com-
fort to me that lie was idle. It has shown what he is made of.
A second, too ! "
Mr. Elliot either did not know, or did not choose to remember,
how painfully Charles had worked, and he did not know the awful
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 87
gulf tlu'i'o Wiis Itt'twi'i'ii Austin's st'coiid, jind a fust. Austin
would uot have uiKlcceivcd liiin lor tou tliousiiiid pounds that
uiglit.
They dined t();^'i'tlK>r aloni'. If any younj^' f^'cntlcinan, reading
tlioso pages, makes the rellection that it must have heen rather a
bore for Austin to dino t etc -a- 1 etc with his fatlier, let me assure
him that on this occasion it was not the case. Neither of tliem
bored the other. Once, just after dinner, Mr. Elliot, looking
across, under the lamp, caught Austin's eyes gazing afl'ectionately
at him. lie took no notice, but Austin looked so handsome, so
good, so triumphant, that the good man went up to his dressing-
room for a moment to look for his spectacles.
Perhaps that was the happiest niglit of all. I cannot say, for
Austin had, from cliildhood, waded on breast high among sunnner
flowers, and had hardly known sorrow. That merry face had,
however, the capability of a ditVerent expression — an expression
of sorrow and furious anger combined, such as one sees in the
face of a child when it is what we call '' veri/ naughty " ; a look
which at the same time pleads for pity and hurls defiance. No
man but one had ever seen that expression on Austin's face, and
that one man only on one occasion. The man was Captain Hert-
ford, and the occasion was that of their drive together from Lyn
y Rhaiadr to Bangor.
" And now% dad," said Austin, lolling on the sofa, "about — I
beg pardon — aneut Ronaldsay."
*' You ought to have started to-night, monkey ; and you should
have, if you had got a beggarly third, or anything of that sort.
Of course, I am bitterly disappointed at jour missing your first ;
and I think that, after such a fiasco, you had better get out of
the way till people have forgotten all about it."
** Child, child," said Austin, without moving, "you are out of
your mind ! ' '
" I think it will be the best way. Start for Glasgow to-moiTow
moniing, and after Glasgow you must go north by post."
" How many stamps shall I want ? "
"By post," said Mr. Elliot, scornfully, "and get across the
Kyle of llonaidsay in one of the fishing-boats."
" Yeiy well," said Austin; "now tell me this — What do you
think of Eleanor?"
" You mean really ? "
" Yes, I mean really."
" Well 1 I think she has more detennination and strength of
character in her little close-set mouth than fifty Aunt Marias ;
and that if — well, if there is what you young fellows coarsely call
88 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
a row, that slie might beat Annt Maria. But she is an aflfectionate
and sensitive little thing, and it will require something very much
out of the way to make her show fight at all ; and Aunt Maria is
coarse and ill-tempered, though cowardly ; and she wiU bully that
little thing, and frighten her into submission until — until — some-
thing or another happens to make little Eleanor show fight.
There."
'* A lame and impotent conclusion," said Austin. *' Good-
night."
CHAPTER XVI.
All the coast of Argyleshire, and the Mull of Cantire, and the
mountains beyond, were wakening up under the same sun which
decorated Ben More of Ronaldsay w'ith ribs of gold. Those who
stood on the rough little pier in front of the few fishing huts which
make tlie village of Ronaldsay, and looked eastward, saw the fields
on the mainland gleaming with the gold of spring, and behind them
a wilderness of purple mountain flecked and dotted with wreaths
of silver mist, flying and dissolving before the morning sun. Those
who turned and looked westward saw the sheets of heath rolling
up into the great sharp mountain, embroidered with a curious fret-
work of bright green grass from beside the rocky watercourses.
But whether they looked east or west, there ^^'as a softness in the
air, and a gladness in their hearts, which told them spring was
come, and that the winter, so terrible to them, poor souls, had
gone howling off" to the northward.
The wind was south, and the tide pouring down the Kyle of
Ronaldsay knocked up a little sea. And through that sea, a boat
with two sails came leaping, and springing, and plunging towards
the shore; and when she was near enougli, three or four fine
fellows jumped into tlie surf, and had lier higli and dry in no
time.
And then from this boat there dismounted a young gentleman,
and his portmanteau, and his dog : the like of wliich young gentle-
man and his portmand'aii, they had never seen bi'iori> ; but the like
of whose dog, they had seen very often indeed. It was Austin
and Robin. Austin stood, sph'udidly attiifd, liandsonie, good-
humoured, looking among tlie surrounding liighlands ; and Robin
was making friends with three or four collies exactly like himself,
and half a hundred sliort-legged terriers.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 80
And as lie stood upon tlio bcacli, an old man — almost the only
one who could s})i'ak Kuj^'lisli, 'wiili that courteous indcpondenco
which wc admire so mucli in tlio Scotch, both JliL,'hland and Low-
land, when it docs not develop into impertinence, asked " what
he could do for his honour? "
*' A very well-timed question, sir," said Austin. *' I want to
stay here for a week."
The old fisherman at once did wliat Scotchmen always seem to
do in a diiliculty — sent for tlie minister ; and the minister did
what Scotch ministers always do when tiny are sent for —
came.
" There is not a place in the island into which you can i)ut your
head, sir, except my house," said he the instant he caught sight
of Austin, saying in Gaelic, " Take that gentleman's portmanteau
up to the manse instantly." At all events, up to the manse it
went; shout the gentleman, "Hi!" and "Hold hard!" never
so loudly.
"My dear sir," said Austin, " I never dreamt of invading you
like this. But, to answer for my respectability, I have got a
letter of introduction from "
"Never mind, sir. Just think what an eiwr inous mndhll an
educated gentleman is to me. A week only, said you, sir ? "
"Not more."
" I would it were a year. Are you in Parliament, sir ? "
"Not yet," said Austin, blushing.
"If you were I would ask you to say a word for us poor
islanders, sir. The winters here are unco long, sir, and we are
very very poor. I will show you the wonders of our island, sir.
I cannot show you a natural temple, like Staffa, or an artificial
one, like lona ; but I will show you how men can keep body and
soul together under very adverse circumstances, and be patient,
honest, and godly the while. And when you are in Parliament,
you'll, may be, remember the Island of Ronald.say, and speak a
word for the Scottish poor."
" But what does your landlord do for you ? "
" The island is a loss to him ; and who could be foolish enough
to pitch money into these bogs ? Our place is in Canada, I fear.
The winter is very long, and we are very very poor."
" I beg to call your attention to the fact, my dear sir, that you
have not read my letter from the Mactavish."
" And I beg to observe, my dear sir, that I welcomed you to
my house before I knew you had one," answered the minister.
" Why, my dear sir, if you were deaf and dumb, the mere sight of
your clothes would make you welcome. We see no dyed garments
90 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
from Bozrah here. The Mactavish would piue and die in breeks,
sir."
** He is a good fellow, though."
'* He is, sir. He has the inexcusable fault of poverty ; but
that is nigh his only one."
" How come the family to be so poor ? "
" An old story. In 1545, or thereabout, his grandfather went
away to Edinburgh, with some long-legged, young Highland
chiels ; and he wandered south, the loon, past Dunbar and
Carlisle, to a place they call Derby, or some such name. The
daft, rintherout callant. And the Government asked where he
was going, and he said to London. And so they hanged him at
Carlisle, and the present estates came into the family by his son's
wife."
** And this happened so long ago as 1545 ? " said Austin,
laughing.
" I am not sure," said the old gentleman, with a sly laugh.
** It may have been 1545, 1645, or even 1745. I am only sure
of one thing, that it was na 1845." And, by the time he bad
made his little joke, they had got to the manse.
"By the by," said the minister, before going in, ''you know
that we had him here for two nights in this very liouse."
"What, thePr "
" The Prince, sir."
"Indeed!"
" Yes, sir. Two nights after the StornaAvay business, he
landed here. The wind was strong from the west, and he was
driven across to llonaldsay."
" Yet I thought I could have accounted for every hour of his
time between Lewis and Benbecula," said Austin.
" A mistake, my dear sir. I can show you the bedroom where
he slept. Is it true that Sir Ilobert is going to continue tlie
income-tax in spite of the surplus (not that it matters to me, God
knows); and can you explain me why? Only as a matter of
curiosity : for we are too poor here to mind income-taxes ; but,
God be praised, we are not so poor as the Donaldsay folk."
" Not so poor as the Donaldsay folk." Those words dwelt
with Austin. He had never seen poverty before, and he told the
good minister so fiankly. He saw enougli now. Ciironic poverty
and want of the most hideous kind. The row of cottages, or rather
hovels by the harbour side, were miserable! enough ; but it was up
among the little cot farms in the hill tliat he saw, for the lirst
time, what utter poverty meant; up iu these hovels on the liill-
side, built with loose stone (tiiere is no lime iu Ronaldsay),
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 91
tliroii^'li wliic'h cverv wind of lu-iivon l>le\v, Kuiunier and winter ;
with tlicir little patches of oats and potatoes. Here, indeed, was
more than Irish misery.
*' We depend," said tlie minister, " mostly on our potatoes
here. Konaldsay is a cold island, and oats are swecr to ripen.
The potatoes here look nice."
Poor felhnv ! He did not dream, tliat these same potatoes,
their only hope, would have turned to stinking carrion before
August.
As for Austin, he went in and out of these hovels with his
friend the minister all the first morning ; and then bi'gau thinking
for himself, perhaps for the first time in his life : with what degree
of correctness the reader nnist judge. " All this silly windy
turbulence in Ireland," he thought, "has origin in very great
part from chronic poverty. And yet here are a race of men, as
poor as the poorest Irish, superior to the Irish in physique and
intelligence, by the most enormous interval ; a race who in courage
and endurance are notoriously not surpassed in the world ; a race
attached to particular religious tenets as firmly as the Irish ! one
might almost say a priest-ridden race ; and yet what does one
find ? Patience instead of turbulence, manly independence instead
of servility, and an almost entire absence of crime instead of con-
tinued horrible outrages. It was a puzzle.
" How do you account for it, Mr. Monroe ? " said he, address-
ing the clergyman.
" For what, sir ? " said the old man, looking quietly up.
** For what I have been saying."
"You have been saying nothing."
And no more he had, but only thinking.
He apologised and stated his case.
" The L'ish," said the minister, sti'ongly, " are a priest-ridden
pcoi^le."
" So are the Scotch," said Austin.
" I wish ye were just a minister yersell, ye'd ken how much
tnith there was in that ; if ye had the handling o' em, ye'd find
na a thra^^•ner lot than ye are thinking," replied the old man,
laughing. " l>ut, even if there were a grain of truth in your
assertion of their being priest-ridden, you must still allow that
your Scottish minister is a superior man altogether to your Irish
priest."
'* Why should I allow that ? " said Austin.
"For politeness' sake," said the minister. "But I will tell
you a secret. Not only are the Scottisii ministers a higher class
of men than the Irish priests, but, what is of more importance,
02 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
the Scottish population is as superior to the southern Irish
population as a horse is superior to a donkey."
" That is a libel," said Austin.
" The greater the truth the greater the libel, Master Oxonian,"
said the minister.
" But I won't have it," said Austin ; ''I have seen very noble
Irish people."
" Well then, we must put some of it down to education. There
is the fact, account for it how you may."
*' But look here, my dear sir," said Austin. " Can't one do
anything among these folks ? I mean, can I do nothing ? I
have money. If you were to point out proper cases to me,
couldn't I leave money with them ? You hesitate, because the
lark is singing overhead. Think of the horrible long winter which
w411 come on us so suddenly, and then say whether or no you dare
refuse my offer."
*' "VVe are not beggars, Mr. Elliot. We have no claim on you."
*'I tell you that you have. These are the first poor I have
ever seen, God forgive me. I have no tenantry. I have no poor
with more claim on me than these poor souls. Why, I gave nine
pounds for this pin which is in my scarf, the other day. No claim
quotha ! "
The old man sat silent for a moment, and then spoke low and
quiet. " I dare not decline to take any money that you may leave,
Mr. Elliot ; no, I dare not, when I think of the winter which is
coming. I may never account to you for that money, but I will
account to Christ. He will be a more inexorable auditor than
you, Mr. Elliot. You have guessed, sir, in some way, what we
want. We want money. We have no circulation of money. We
have here potatoes and oats, every bit of which we require, and
fish, which we want also ; but which, being our only staple of
trade, nmst be sacrificed in Glasgow, to get cash for tobacco and
groceries. We have no circulation of money. The Mactavish,
who would give the coat off his back, has to educate his sons, and
gets no rent from the island. He h-aves us alone. We can ask
no more, and have no riglit to ask so much. But he sins against
his tenantry and himself."
''How?"
" His stomach is too high to let the shootings. It lies witli you
and liiiii to niaki; llonaldsay almost a Paradise. You are ricii.
If you could persuade him to \ci you the sliootings, and wiTi' only
to live here tlu'ee months in tlui year, it would make a wondertiil
difference in Ronaldsay. You have no idea what the circulation
of another three hundred pounds a year in the island would be."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 93
** Is there any game ? " asked Austin.
" Not much," said the minister, " at present ; hut if you wouhl
take tlie ishind, / wouhl take eare there shoukl he. I would use
my influence, my dtnxr sir. If "
"Priestcraft," said Austin.
** You are a daft youuLi; irentleman, sir, and I am v<ry an<,'ry
with you. Ihit listen to reason. Yoii will want a moor some
day; go round our island and cxaniiiit' its eajialiilities."
*' I will. Now, here is an envelope, wliich you must pledge
yourself not to open till I am gone."
Tiiis envelope contained an I U from Austin to "Mr. Monroe,
for fifty pounds. Tiie reader must form his own opinion on this
piece of extravagance.
Austin was there for ten days, and hefore three days were
passed, he h.ad managed hy a careless hcmhoniic, or possihly by
some quality far far higher than that, to make himself beloved by
every one in the island whom he met. For there was about him
a gi'eat- hearted geniality, which no one could resist. The Duchess
of Cheshire had said that Charles's new friend seemed a very
lovable person ; and now old Elspie Macdonald, whose grandsons
had been across to Ireland, hobbled up to the manse, with her
dreadful ^Tinkled old face below her shoulders, and gave him a
great shell, " a Chama cor," and refused the half-crown that
Austin offered her. Austin knew as much about shells as about
the Rosetta stone or the Fonetic Nuz ; but he saw that the old
crone meant him a high compliment, and let her see that he
did.
A noble young kilted Highlander w^as told off, by reason of his
speaking Englisli, to show him the round of the island.
*' A remarkable laddie, sir," said the minister; "A Franken-
stein monster of my ain making. I was fearful at one time that
I had lent my hand to the making of a poet ; but that sin has been
spared me among others. He bolts knowledge in a brutal and
gluttonous way, sir, without chewing, like a dog swallowing meat,
a gobble and a swallow, and then ready for more. But he has a
dog's digestion, sir, it doesna turn to wind wi' him, for wliich we
must be thankful. If ye have lent your hand to pit seven devils
of education into a man, ye would choose a man of smaller carcass.
For if such a one as Gil Macdonald gangs awa among the tombs,
it will be no safe for the passers-by."
So for ten days Austin brushed the heather, led by his long-
legged friend, returning to the manse at nightfall, as liappy as a
king, and as tired as a dog. His ten happy days were gone
before he could look round.
94 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
The two yoimg mon, starting early one morning, walked west-
ward through the great bog, which fills up the centre of the
Island of lionaldsay, with the shaq) crystalline peak of Ben
More of Ronaldsay right before them, lying in a dark brown
cone above the mists. And as they toiled across the bog,
through the morning, they saw that mist dissolving, curling,
brooding, in dark hollows, like piles of wool ; rising in fantastic
wreaths, which were melted and swept away by the sea breeze ;
and, as a last poor resource, hiding in clefts and glens, only to
l)erish ignominiously before the steady blaze of the sun, as he
towered stronger and stronger each moment over the distant
hills of Argjdeshire.
So on through the bog, until the heather began to roll and rise,
and then leap up into scarps and terraces, and then run into long
ribs, along which they walked, and saw mirror-like lakes, hundreds
and hundreds of feet below. Some were perfectly calm, and some
streaked with bands of frosted silver, as the wind, wandering into
the sheltered corries, caught the surface here and there. Then
there was no more heather, but a steep cone of yellow grass and
grey stone. And last of all the summit — a breezy platform twelve
feet square. Below, the ocean, with a hundred fantastically
shaped islands : above, the vast blue sky : and around, silence,
except the gentle whispering of the south wind among the grass
stalks.
" Gil ! Gil ! " said Austin, after a pause, '^ this is a glorious
country."
"Aye, it's a braw country," replied Gil, "in summer-time.
But we are unco poor, and the winters are very long."
" I shall think of you in the long winter nights, Gil," said
Austin. " The winter nights are very long."
"Aye, indeed they are, both cold and long."
" If you feel them so, Colin," said Austin, "here in this free
island, think what they must be to poor prisoners, alone in jail.
Think of that. Suppose you or I had to spend tlie winter in jail,
what should we do? "
" / should ding out my brains against the wa', and dee like
a man," said Colin, ra})iclly, snatcliing at the grass. " What
gars ye think such tlnngs ? "
" I don't know," rei)lied Austin, looking out over the sea ;
" the rule of ' contrainj,' I fancy. Being so wild and free up
here, half way between eartli and heaven, nuikes one think of the
other extreme, I su])pose."
" Aye," said Colin, " if the gentles are no miserable by visita-
tion of God, it is forced upon the puir bodies to make themselves
AUSTIN ELIJOT. 95
miserable. It would be a hard business for some of tbem if it
were na for the di''il, who, like a tnie ^'cntleuian, is aye ready
to assist a nei^dibour. Well, some amount of misery is necessary
for the enjoyment of life, I suppose. I suppose you have no wish
unt^ratified in life, that \v make yourself miserable with tliinking
ofjails?"
" I have one wisli," said Austin.
"I may not speir what it is?" said Colin, looking up
eagerly.
" Aye, and get your answer, mv bov. When will the swallows
be here?"
"In a few days."
** I am waiting for one of them. A little house-martin, that
shall be on my bosom till one of us die. I tried to tame a pere-
grine once, but she has soared to her eyrie and left me."
Colin understood him so perfectly that he said not one word.
And if you turn on me, and tell me that there are not here and
there such Highlanders as Gil Macdonald, I turn on you, and tell
you, that you have been staring at mountains while you should
have been studying men.
So Austin, Gil, and the dog Robin, sat for a while on the
summit of Ben More of Ronaldsay, and heard nothing but the
wind among the grass stalks.
" There is not one cloud in the sky," said Austin at last.
*' There is one," said Gil. " I have been watching it this ten
minutes. Look southward."
" By Jove ! " said Austin, " it is the smoke of a steamer."
*' The Swallow is coming," said Gil.
"I think so, indeed, Gil," said Austin, peering eagerly to the
southward. " That must surely be the Pclicnn. Let us huriy
down."
And as they went, Gil said, "Listen to me, Mr. Elliot. We
are going to lose you ? "
" Yes," said Austin ; " I am away with the Swallow."
" Will you take me with you ? I will follow you like a dog,
for as long a time as you appoint, without wages. I "
" Oh, stop," said Austin; "don't say any more. It is quite
impossible, Gil. I don't deseiTe this confidence. And I have
a servant already. You cannot tell how you distress me."
" You should think twice before you refuse me," said Gil,
eagerly. " You don't know the Highlanders ; we are so cunning,
so brave, so devoted. Think twice."
"It is quite impossible. Don't think me unkind, but it is quite
impossible,"
96 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
" I'll think of you in the long winter's nights," said Gil.
''Will ye no come hack to us?"
" Aye, that I will," said Austin, eagerly.
Gil said no more. By the time they got to the town the
population were all out on the heach, looking at the Pelican as she
approached, stemming the surf's current of the Kyle of tlonaldsay
with her heautifal sharp bows.
Austin had been prepared for this. His portmanteau was ready
packed and in the boat. The good minister was ready in the
stern sheets, and two sturdy Highlandmen were ready to stand
to their oars.
"Ye'U come back to us again?" said an old man, as he
jumped into the boat, acting as spokesman to the population.
" Aye, that I will," said Austin. And so he did.
"Are we to say good-bye for ever, Mr. Elliot?" said Mr.
Monroe, after they were in the boat.
'' For ever ! ah, no ! " said Austin. " I will come back again.
Think of me in the winter-time."
" See here," said Mr. Monroe, " I have opened this envelope.
You should take it back. Can you afibrd it ? "
'^ Tush, my dear sir, perfectly. If I cannot, it is not for you
to stand between me and the poor. Come on board, and let me
introduce you to my father."
But the old man would not. He was shy of strangers, he said.
He begged Austin would excuse him, and Austin did so.
As the boat neared the yacht, the steam was shut oft\ The
swell in the Kyle was short and bubbling. Before Austin had
time to say good-bye, they were alongside. In the next minute,
Robin was on board, and the portmanteau. In the next, he saw
there was only Eleanor to receive him, and then looking over the
side, he saw that the yacht was under way, and that the boat had
sheered off for the shore, dropping astern every instant, as the
sturdy rowers plied their oars in the short chopping sea, and the
yacht slid on against the current.
Then he hurried Eleanor up on the empty quarter-deck, and
drawing her arm througli his, bade her wave her handkerchief,
while he stood barelieaded. She did so, and there came a wild
cheer from the shore. Soon after, the village was hid by a turn
in the Kyle, and tliat was the last of Konaldsay for a season.
Gil Macdonald had climbed up on a little clift' near tlie end of
the village, and stood watching it all, with his hand sliading his
eyes ; and then and there he determined that if Austin did not
come back in a year, tliat he, Gil, woidd go soutli, and seek him
again. For tlie most extraordinary thing was, that our merry,
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 97
gentle Austin liad, after only one week's anjiialntjince, l>econio
a sort of necessity to tliis iioIjU; yoiin;^' Hij^liland lion. Hero had
appeared to Gil Macdomdd, frettin;^', after the manner of his
nation, in his miserable little island prison, for the chance to
go forth into the world, and do battle with his peers — here had
appeared to him a noble young Englishman, a high-bred gentle-
man, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, in carriage
and dress far beyond anything (iil had ever seen before ; and yet
this apparition had treated Gil like a gentleman and an equal all
the time he had been witli him. The country where such as he
came from must bo tlie country for a Highland lad to win his way
in. And as for Austin himself, he would follow such a man as
that to the very world's end.
He felt something in his hand. It was the gold Austin had
given him. He almost felt inclined to throw it away, but he put
it hastily in his sporran and resumed his watch.
The yacht slid round the farthest black promontoiT' of Ronald-
say, and the spring twilight came creeping over Argyleshire from
the east, till only the summit of Ben More of Ronaldsay had a
fixint gleam of pink on the side towards the sun, who had now
fairly northed from his equinox. But still Gil stood looking after
the ship, with his hand over his eyes,
We shall see how he came south before Austin came north, and
when and where he found him.
CHAPTER XVn.
Do you care for the man at the wheel ? I do not, one farthing !
Elsewhere he may be a good man or a bad man, or may have eyes
or ears ; but when he is at the wheel, he becomes the man at the
wheel, and is not supposed to have any more consciousness of
passing events than the spanker-boom.
As a rule, you will find that people do 7iot mind the man at the
wheel. They are veiy apt to take uncommon little notice of the
officer of the watch, but of the man at the wheel, they take
actually none whatever. And Austin and Eleanor on this occasion
never troubled their heads about there being such a person in
existence ; and as for Mr. Shipper, the sailing-master, he was
in the forecastle telegraphing with his arms, like a madman, to
the helmsman.
8
98 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Eleanor, it ai)pearccl, had been taken by surprise. She had
run up on deck without her bonnet ; she had thrown a loose grey-
hooded cloak (what was irreverently called in tliose days a fool's-
cap and bells) over her shoulders, and she had her hand on her
head, to prevent her hair blowing about. She looked positively
beautiful ; and when Robin leaped upon her, mad with joy, and
her hair got loose, she looked more beautiful still.
Three times they walked up and down the deck in silence ; but
in all her Majesty's dominions— nay, in all the world — there were
no two hearts so light as theirs.
Eleanor spoke first. " I tliought," she said, *' your dear
father looked guilty. I felt sure we should pick you up some-
where."
'' Did Aunt Maria guess ? "
'•Foolish! no, or we should not have been here. And how
did you like Ronaldsay, Austin ? ' '
" Very much."
"Have you fallen in love with any one there? Remember,
I insist on being told. I always have been told."
" Yes," said Austin, " I have fallen in love at last."
" I should like to see her."
''You shall."
" You will tell me all about it."
" Yes," said Austin, " I will tell you all about it." And, as he
said so, he drew her towards him, and kissed her ; and, as he did
so, his eyes met hers, and slie saw it all now. And her heart
was filled with a peaceful happy content, and she laid her head
upon his breast.
She had won him ; won him from all of them ; the gentlest,
handsomest, cleverest man in all England ; so she thought in her
pride. I should like to have seen the flash of furious scorn which
would liave come over tliat nobler little face if any one had told
her that she was throwing herself away, and that with lier vast
fortune she might have married an earl. She was proud of her
money, and knew the value of it. She was doubly proud of it
now. It would he Austin's.
" And so I caught you all alone," said Austin.
" Yes, all alone. Mr. yAVioi is in the cabin."
" He is most impertinent and disrespectful," s;iid Austin. " Ho
should have been on deck to receive me. How dure hv ? Where
is Aunt Maria ? "
"Oh, good gracious," said Eleanor, eagerly, "haven't you
heard?"
" Of course I have heard," said Austin. " The sea-efulls
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 00
and coniiorants told me, while I was at Ronaldsay. But I
sliouldu't mind hearing your story ; for tiicy all spoke at once,
and ([uarrt'lled and contradicted, and I couldn't make out the
truth of it."
"Why," said Eleanor, "the day before yesterday, she was
scoldin<^ old James on deck, and he answered her just as she was
at the top of the companion, and she turned on him in her lofty,
imperious way, and she caught her foot on the sill, and down the
ladder she went, head over heels, and she has bumped and bruised
herself all over."
" Has she hurt herself much ? "
" No ; but she is terribly cross. She sent for your father to
her bedside, and requested him to put her on shore on a desert
island, with a week's provisions, and some beads and tomahawks.
For she said, that might possibly purchase the forbearance of
savages, although she could not that of a pampered and ungrate-
ful domestic."
" She is afraid of old James," said Austin.
" 1 know she is ; and I am afraid of her."
" You must not be," said Austin.
" But I am, and I shall be. You don't know what a terrible
woman she is. Sometimes only, she is violent. But, at ordinary
times, she has a continuous voluble w^ay of scolding, which is
more dreadful still. She does not raise her voice, but goes on
for half an hour together, indignantly asserting her own case,
from diHerent points of view, until I am confused and frightened.
Any statement of my case only makes her go over the old ground,
a note higher, for another half-hour. She can fairly scold me
into submission. And I warn you that I am completely and
utterly in her power. When she takes to scolding me in that
way I have neither temper nor courage to oppose her. Remember
this."
Austin reflected for a moment. I am glad, he thought, that
old James forms part of that household. " Eleanor," said he,
" do you know who old James is ? "
" Very well. He was a shoeblack-boy, whom my father picked
up out of the streets for charity. They were nearly the same
age. He came to be his seiTant when thev were both sixteen.
He was at the taking of the Bastile with my father and Lord
Liverpool."
"It might be considered only decently polite," said Austin,
" if I were to go and see my father."
" And I ought to go to Aunt Maria."
"She will be in a pretty way when she hears of this," said Austin.
100 AtJSTIN ELLIOf .
*' Of what?" said Eleanor.
" Of my having proposed to you, and of your having accepte^^^-j<~
me," said Austin. At which Eleanor ran away, and Austin went v_
down to see his father.
Mr. Elliot was sitting in the old place, at the head of the cuddy
table, over his maps and plans, and Austin said, '* Well, young
feUow."
And Mr. Elliot said, '^Aunt Maria has tumbled do\\Ti the
companion, and abraded herself."
*' And I have proposed to her niece, and have been accepted,"
said Austin. *' Come on deck, and let me see your dear old face
by sunlight."
So the father and son went on deck, in the spring twilight, as
the yacht sped out from the Kyle of Konaldsay, into the more
open sea beyond, towards South Uist and Benbecula. The man
at the wheel may have smiled at the little passages he may have
noticed between Austin and Eleanor ; but he did not smile when
he saw Mr. Elliot's arm round Austin's neck, and the two heads,
one so old and the other so young, bent down together in consultation.
And so, through the long spring evening, the steamer throbbed
on her peaceful way, against the current, through the Kyle of
Ronaldsay. Right and left, the rocky shores stooped down into
the green sea water, and everywhere land and water were divided
by a slender thread of silver surf. In one place the rocks came
down grey, wrinkled, and bare, clothed for the last few feet only
with a band of black seaweed. In another the rock was less
abrupt, and partly feathered with ivy and yew, and here and
there a pleasant lawn of short green turf. In some places the
rock fell away altogether, and a sheep-cropped, limestone down
came rolling and sweeping to the sea, which here was bounded by
a half-moon of bright yellow sand. In one place there was a
large fishing village, of whitewashed stone cottages, where the
women sat at the doors netting nets, and the old men were
hobbling about tinkering old boats, and where the boys cheered
them, and ran bare-legged along the shore. And, soon after, they
met the able-bodied men of this village, in their iishing-boats,
drifting homewards on the tide. In one place, along this beautiful
strait, tlicre was a flock of slieep, feeding high overhead, watched
by a little Highland laddie, whose dog barked, and ran to and fro
when lie saw the ship, and whose bark was joyously echoed by
liappy ]t()l)in, from the deck. And, at another place, tliere was
a wee bit kirk and a manse, on the hill-side, witli tlie minister out
in his garden, who took ofi' his hat to them, and whose courteoua
salute they returned as the ship sped on.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. \0\
"A liappv land, Eleanor," said Austin; ''a land of si'ttlcd
fiiitli, of inU'llii^'t-nco, of truth, and of ordcir ; a land not so over-
populated but that the best men may be recognised and revered.
Would you like to live here ? "
" I would live anywhere with you, Austin, even in Italy."
And at night, as the sun went down in the west, the ship began
to plunge, and then to roll, and she plunged and rolled under the
reeling stars, across the water which lay between the Kyle of
Ronaldsay and Benbecula, for the south wind, blowing steadily,
met the tides pouring southward through the sleat, and the sea
was heavy.
Eleanor and Austin walked the deck until the stars came out,
and the ship began to dive and leap, and send sheets of spray
flying to leeward, and then she went below\ The steward was
superintending the laying of a cloth for supper. Mr. Elliot was
in his own cabin ; so Eleanor, with an anxious look, feeling that
her time was come, that there was no one to delay and gossip
with, made towards Aunt Maria's cabin.
Aunt Maria was sitting up in her bed, with her maid beside
her. She was in an ill temper, and her coarse violent face
looked more cdarse and violent than ever. There was something
worse than coarseness or violence in those deep-sunk eyes and
knotted eyebrows, but no one saw it as yet.
"Aunt, dear," said Eleanor, " w^hat shall I bring you for
supper? "
"You wicked girl! " said Aunt Maria; " 30U miserable gu'l !
So your lover has come on board, has he ? So all this voyage
was a settled plan between old Elliot and you to meet this profli-
gate young idiot at Ronaldsay ! Oh, how I do hate meanness and
ingi'atitude ! And look at the low meanness of this proceeding !
and then, when you have reflected, if you can reflect, on all that
I have done for you, think of the ingratitude ! "
What Aunt Maria had done for Eleanor was — to live at her
expense to save her own income, and to worry her life out.
Eleanor knew this. But in the presence of this scolding woman,
with her straight overhanging upper lip, her bushy eyebrows, and
her deep-set eyes, she began to feel guilty ; she was, as she told
Austin, a coward, and she said nothing.
"How long has he been on board?" snarled Aunt Maria;
" and what has he said to you ? "
" He has been on board about four hours, Aunt," said Eleanor ;
"as to what he has said to me, all I care for is this — he has pro-
posed to me and I have accepted him."
" And you have dared ? " said Aunt Maria, furiously.
102 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
"Yes," said Eleanor, quietly, '' I have dared: I dare do any-
thing when he is beside me. If you can get me away from him
you may do anything with me. I am afraid of you, and you know
it ; but yuu are afraid of h'nn and of his father."
" Then you have accepted this boy, you wretched girl ! " said
Aunt Maria.
"I have. Aunt."
"And Captain Hertford."
" Captain Hertford ! " cried Eleanor, the warm French blood of
her mother coming to her help, " that villain ! that blackleg !
How dare you couple my name with his ? "
" How dare I, you silly girl ? "
"Aye, how dare you! You would like him to get possession
of me, and then, by his sheer brutality, to get the management
of my nine thousand a year — you would like that ! "
"I think you want guiding, child; but you are out of your
mind to talk to me like that."
"I am not. You and I and Captain Hertford are bound
together by a tie of deep disgrace ; no one knows the truth
but we three. Now% I am a coward, but I am no fool — if you
press me with that man's attentions I will tell Austin everything."
^^ You tell him!" said Aunt Maria, scornfully; "suppose /
were to tell him ? "
"In that case," said Eleanor, "he and I should be married
just the same ; only, if I know the chivalrous soul of the man,
more quickly than if you held your tongue. And in this case
also our secret would be worthless. You would be turned out of
our house — you would have to live on your fifteen thousand pounds,
and Captain Hertford would have to live on you ! "
"Then," said Aunt Maria, scornfully, "if you have this hold
over us, why not get rid of us at once ? Why not tell him ? "
" Ijecause he is going into public life — because I should ruin
him by hanging such a cliain round his neck."
" You arc a fool ! " said Aunt Maria ; " there is hardly a public
man in the country without his skeleton. Tell liim : I defy you I
You know, if you told him, lie would not marry you ; that is the
truth!"
"It is not the trutli, Aunt Maria. You are like all entiri'ly
worldly people, one-half of you, a very foolisli person ; you cal-
culate only by the lowest motives, and never take higher motives
into consideration. Austin is a pure, nobK', liigh-mindcd man,
utterly incapable of anything mean, and I also am acting, 1 believe,
on the highest motives, in keeping this disgraceful secret from
him. lie Avould marry me to-morrow if he knew it. ]>ut \\v sliall
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 103
not know it, for ho would never have the same fearless pride as ho
has now if he knew it."
"If he marries you ho shall know it, and all tlio world
besides ! "
'* I think. Aunt," said Eleanor, quietly, "that it will he better
for you not to break witii mo, and my devoted old Squire, James ;
I think it will be better for you ! " and without waiting for Aunt
Maria's reply she left the cabin.
CHAPTER XVIIT.
This was the last voyage of the good old Pelican under her present
master ; what has become of her now I know not. I have not
even the heart to inqnire whether or no she is still used as the
yacht of the Inspector of the Shoals and Quicksands. Those who
loved every timber, plank, and bolt in her, sail in other ships now.
Our interest in them was the connecting link between us and the
ship, and when they leave her, our interest in the ship must cease.
She becomes, as far as this story is concerned, only a mass of
wood and iron.
In life it is not so. Our aftection for a ship one has once kno\vn
well, is similar to our atiection for a house one has once lived in,
but intensified. Only last 3'ear, I went down to the East India
Docks, and I came across the Onvell. It was like meeting an
old friend. There was a board which said that I must not go on
loavd, and a steward, who tried to prevent me, until I said I knew
her, upon which he yielded at once, and let me go over the old
deck, from stem to stern. It is hard, when on board a ship in
the docks, standing so unmovably still, to realise that one has
seen those steady tapering masts sweeping wildly across the blotched
stars : or those sharp bows leaping madly up towards heaven in
the agony of the stonu : to recall the reeling, and rolling, and
plunging, of the vast inert mass under one's feet, now resting so
quietly from her labour.
Before the morning dawned the Pelican had threaded her way
through the intricate channel between North Uist and Benbecula,
and was steaming easilv alom? under the clifls of the latter island,
and about nine, a preventive boat came otf, and ^Ir. Elliot went
on shore in her.
104 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
** The glass is dropping, sir," said the sailing-master ; " and it
is banking up to the west."
''Make haste, father," said Austin; "don't be long. The
glass is really falling very fast."
" Them as wants to know about dropping glasses," said a voice
behind Austin, " should take my place (and Lord amighty knows
they're welcome to it), and then they'd know what it meant. Them
huzzies of ours is always at it. Why, I dreamp last night as I
see the hull bilin of 'em come down the kitching stairs, one atop
of the other, with no less than six dozen of pipe-stemmed wines,
and all the cut custards."
" The young women do break a great deal of glass, I suppose,
Mr. James," said the good-natured sailing-master.
"Ah!" said James; "I believe you there. They gets a
tittling one another on the stairs, and down they goes. And out
she comes in her dirty old flannel dressing-gown, and gives 'em
all warning over the banisters. She's been a-trying falling down-
stairs herself, now ; but I ain't liearn of anybody giving she
warning."
This strong personal allusion to Aunt Maria forced Austin to
stop a silent internal laughter, which, like Mr. "Weller, he was
trying to " come," and turn round.
" Well, James, how are you? " said he.
"Breaking up rapidly, sir; and thank you kindly," said James.
" I am sorry to hear that," said Austin, with perfect gravity.
The old man was going to make some cynical reply ; but he
looked round and saw they were alone : his whole manner changed
at once.
" Master Austin, my dear," he said, " I see you and she on
deck last night. Is it all as we should wisli it? "
"Yes, James," said Austin.
"I thought so," said he. "Now you mhid an old rogue, and
you keep close to her. It would be a good thing for she (the old
man so cordially hated Aunt Maria tliat he never named her if he
could help it), if she could bully Miss Eleanor into marrying
Captain Hertford, and then that the pair on 'em should have the
bullying and bally-ragging of nine thousand a year. That would
be a good thing, hey ! "
" It will never happen," said Austin.
"You mind it don't," said the old man, and walked forward,
leaving Austin musing.
Tlie glass was dropping very fast, and it was clouding rapidly
up, from the south-west. Lunch-time passed, and Mr. Elliot was
still on shore : tlu^y bc^gan to get impatient. Tliey could sec him
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 105
throu^'li their ^'hisses, walking' iiljout tlio lij^'htliouso, lookin<^ into
everything, directing here, consulting there, as if time were not of
the sliglitest vahie.
"By Jove, sir," said tlie saihng-master to Austin, *' I wish we
had ten miles more sea-room. Boatswain, run up second pennant
and 3174."
It was done. Mr, Elliot was seen to notice it for an instant,
and then turn away. He put up a cross staff in the middle of
the lighthouse-keeper's potato garden, and then sent a preventive
man, a quarter of a mile away, to the top of a hill, to get a line
between the lighthouse and a sunk rock.
The sailing-master took a sharp turn on the deck, and muttered
something. '' Hun out that gun and fire it."
Mr. Elliot did mind the gun. He came down to the beach with
provoking deliberation, and at last got into the boat ; before he
reached the ship, two sharp squalls had passed singing through
the rigging, and a third, fiercer than either of the others, swept
over her as he scrambled on deck. There was scarce time to cast
the boat off, before the storm was upon them in all its fury. They
were relieved by seeing the boat cast up on shore, with her crew
safe ; then they had to think of themselves. The blast was so
terrible and violent, that the yacht, although steaming ahead at
full speed, was making no way at all, and the rocks of Benbecula
not half a mile to leeward.
" I am afraid I have been very remiss," said Mr. Elliot, as he
walked away aft, and the sailing-master followed him.
" Dare you run for the lee of Monach ? " said Mr. Elliot.
" We should be broadside on to Grimness in ten minutes, sir,"
said the sailing-master.
" Then God forgive me," said Mr. Elliot, and went to his cabin.
He had certainly stayed too long. Even now at four o'clock
in the afternoon they were steaming for bare life, and it seemed
losing ground ; the night was coming on, and the gale "was in-
creasing.
All that steam and iron could do, backed by a steady Scotch
head to manage them, would be done ; but the storm was too
strong for them, and the rocks were close to leeward ; their danger
was very imminent. Mr. Elliot and the sailing-master knew it,
and Austin guessed at it.
Eleanor, seeing Austin look so calm, was not frightened — or at
least did not show it. She stayed on deck with him through all
the furious turmoil. They were wrapped in the same plaid ; and,
in spite of the rush and boom of the seas, and the scream of the
cordage, each could hear every word spoken by the other i^s plain
106 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
as though they were walking together in a garden on a summer
afternoon.
At last Eleanor went down, not long after dark. She looked
into her aunt's cahin. That good lady was sleeping quietly, un-
conscious of all danger ; and so Eleanor went to her own cahin
and lay down.
She had looked into the main cabin, and seen Mr. Elliot busy
with his papers and charts. She was quite reassured, and slept
peacefully. But Mr. Elliot was not busy with his papers — far
from it. He was quite enough of a sailor to know their extreme
danger. When Eleanor passed into her cabin, he was leaning his
head on his hands, and anxiously musing. Presently the sailing-
master came into the cabin and spoke to him.
*' She is actually making leeway at times, sir," said he. *' As
the sea gets up she will make more. The danger is very extreme,
sir."
''And no anchorage?" said Mr. Elliot. " If we could only
bite ground, we might, by steaming at anchor, weather it."
" We are in blue water, sir," said the sailing-master. *' If
there is no change it will be all over in an hour."
'' And all my fault," said Mr. Elliot.
'* Nonsense, sir. You were detained ashore by duty."
''Well, let us say so," the old man replied. "It will be all
over in an hour? "
"Yes, sir, thereabouts," said the sailing-master.
When he was gone, the old man lay down his head and prayed.
He prayed for his son Austin ; that such a noble young life should
not be cut off untimely, through his own carelessness. If he had
seen a little further into the future, perhaps he might have prayed
that it might all be over now, and that Austin and he might sleep
together under the wild fretting waves of the Atlantic, aiMl be
spared the evil to come.
The brave little ship was leaping madly, and creaking in every
timber ; and underneath him where he sat the screw was spinning
and clanldng and buffeting the wild waters : sometimes coming
half out of the water, with an angry jerking hiss, and then throb-
bing bravely and diligently at its work ten feet below the surfnce.
It was a mad fight between winds and waves on tlie one hand, and
iron and steam on the other ; and he, and all dear to him, were
tli(! prize.
The noise was so great that he couhl hear no one ap})n):icli him.
A hand was laid on his arm, and he started and looked up. Then
he stood up altogether and looked with astonisliment at the figure
by his side, *
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 107
It was Aunt Maria. iJut she did not look as ho liad ever seen
her look before. She won; the dirty flannel dressinj,'-^o\vn whicli
that impudent old fellow James had mentioned, hut on her head
was a brilliantly gay cap, full of flowers, and in her hand she
clutched an ivory fan, which she held upside down. liut,
startling as her dress was, it was her face that startled Mr.
Elliot most. Her thick, bushy eyebrows almost concealed her
deep-sunk small eyes — and those eyes did not appear very steady ;
— and her complexion, usually such a deep red, was now a dull
sickly yellow.
Mr. Elliot had been in many lunatic asylums in his life, but
neither he nor any other man ever went into one yet without
seeing a middle-aged lady there, who was uncommonly like Aunt
Maria, as she stood before him this night in his cabin.
He rose, in his alarm, and looked keenly at her, trying to catch
her eye. Hers would not meet his, but she broke silence first, in
a hoarse unequal voice.
" I heard every word that your sailing-master said to you just
now\ I know that in an hour w'e shall all be — all be drowned."
" I hope not," said Mr. Elliot, politely. " The ship is in
danger of going ashore, certainly, but there is every chance for
us, Miss Hilton."
'' Nonsense! " said she, catching his eyes, and dropping hers
again at once. " I know that the end of us all is near. I curse
the day when you deluded me into this voyage, that your scatter-
brained son might make love to my niece, and have her money.
Do you know what you have done ? "
"No," said Mr. EUiot, looking steadily at her.
" I will whisper to you." And she whispered to him, and his
face grew a little graver as she spoke.
" Now what do you say ? If by any chance we were to be
saved, would you break off the match ? "
" No," said Mr. EUiot. " In the first place, it don't aflect the
property. I am an executor, and I know that."
" I thought you had set your heart on your son's public
career ? "
'' So I have."
" It will be a noble one with that round his neck."
*' He and I may have our own opinion about that. Why, if
vou believe that we are all to be drowned in an hour, do you tell
ine this ? "
" Because I hate vou ; — because I always hated vou ! "
" Always ? " said' Mr. Elliot.
" No," she said, fiercely, "I loved you once. How dare you
108 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
remind me of it ? I showed it, and that was my fiiult. I
always hated you, and Jenkinson, since that day when I hoard
you laughing at me. How dare you ! I came to tell you this
because I believe that j'ou have not an hour to live, and that I
thought it would aimoy you."
*' May God forgive you as I do, Maria," said the old man.
She turned to go.
" Won't you say ' good-bye,' Maria, for old times sake ? " said
Mr. EUiot.
Aunt Maria would not go so far as that, but she came half
way. She burst into a wild wail ; she broke her fan into a
hundred jDieces, said that she was a miserable, ugly, mad old
woman, who had never had justice done her by those she had
loved, and so went weeping and wringing her hands, back to her
cabin.
''Poor thing!" said good old Mr. Elliot. ''I wish I could
get her out of Hertford's clutches. Small chance of that ! I
must tell Austin all this some day, that is clear, but not yet.
His love is a little too young to stand it yet ; I shall wait till she
has become a necessity to him. By the by, I forgot we are all
going to the bottom ; we shall be ashore on Benbecula in half an
hour."
But when Mr. Elliot said this it was nearly twelve o'clock at
night, and the yacht, so far from tailing on to the coast of Ben-
becula, was driving (tliat is supposing her to go clear of the
stage of Broad-harran, Lion's-head, and Eagle-island, which, as
every schoolboy knows, are the furthest projections of the county
Mayo, in Ireland, to the west) — was driving, I say, straight
towards that part of the Atlantic where I am inclined to place
the still undiscovered island of St. Borondon ; in spite of the
impudent lies of Marco Verde, before the worthy Pedro Ortez de
Funez, inquisitor of the Grand Canary ; who ought to have fried
him in a frying-pan for insulting the Holy Office with his cocks
and bulls. And how it came that the good Piiican had turned
her tail S.W. by S., I will tell you in a few words, before we bid
her good-bye for ever.
Austin, finding the deck untenabl(>, for the driving spray, be-
thouglit him of the engine-room, and he went down there. Old
Murray, the engineer, was standing steadfast before his gleaming
cranks and Itiaping i)istons ; and he saw that the engine was being
worked at a speed he had never seen bi'fore.
The engineer shook his head without turning round, ** If
auglit gives. Master Austin ! "
♦* Is there any danger ? " •
AUSTIN ELLIOT. lOO
*' She'll just hold luir own if iiou^'ht ^'ivcs."
'* I suspect our lives arc iu good hands, old friend," s:iid
Austin, *' and I know no one to whom I would sooner tmst
mine."
The old man looked lovin^dy on Austin, and Austin stood
beside him some time. Suddenly the voice of the master was
heard inquiring for Mr. Austin.
Some one said he was in the engine-room.
"Tell him to come quick. Say I have something to show
him."
Austin dashed out of the engine-room, and up the only open
companion-ladder. As he got on deck, the press of wind nearly
suffocated him, but the ship was steady. There was veiy little
sea, the wind had beaten it down. Above, all was black as ink,
but the sea around them was a wild mist of white foam. The
master shouted in his car —
" Look ahead and aloft ! "
He did so. Ahead of the ship's bows, high aloft, there was a
brighter patch in the inky sky, a patch of blue, in which were
three or four stars, which seemed to reel, and dip, and rise again,
as he staggered on the slippery deck ; and across this patch,
wreaths and wisps of storm-cloud were flying quick as lightning ;
but, awful as it seemed to Austin, these wreaths of cloud were not
going with the wind, but from right to left, nearly dead against
it.
**Good Lord ! " he said, "why, the clouds are flying against
the wind ! "
*' It is a new trick they have got then," said the master;
*' wait and watch, Master Austin, you won't see the like again out
of the China seas. This is what I call a typhoon. I reckon
they have another name for it hereabouts. Watch what happens,
sir."
The patch of blue sky approached them, though not veiy fast,
and as it approached them, grew larger. At last it was overhead,
and as they became aware of it, they became aware of these
things also, — that it was a great funnel into the sky, through a
circular whirlwind of storm-cloud ; and that the moment they
were under it, the ship was becalmed amidst a heavy sea, which
slopped about, here and there, in every direction.
They were actually becalmed, while all around they could hear
the tempest howling and raving. The ship began to make splendid
headway now, with her head S.W.
But in twenty minutes the engines were ordered to go at half
speed, and her head was put N.E. straight for the island which
110 AUSTIN ELLIOT^.
they had dreaded. Ten minutes after, the storm struck them
from that very quarter with increayed fury, and the good Pelican ^
saved, with her engines going quarter speed, was drifting slowly
and safely out into the Atlantic.
And in the morning, when the storm was past, she was leaping
and bounding southward, over the bright blue waves, with a
thousand happy sea-birds skimming and diving around her. And
Austin and Eleanor were on deck together, already forgetful of
the hideous night which had passed.
And now we must bid good-bye to the Pelican, and to Murray
the engineer, and the sailing-master, for our way lies in a different
direction. Austin was about to part from these friends of his
youth, these friends who had pampered and petted him, and to
start in the world for himself. With what success, we shall
see.
A month after his return to London he was on his way to
make the tour of the East, with Lord Charles Barty. At
Alexandria he picked up a letter, which told him that his father
was dangerously iU. He turned homeward, and his faithful
friend came with him. At Malta, he heard that his noble old
father was dead. His burst of grief was wild and childlike, but
his good friend, Lord Charles Barty, stayed him and comforted
him, and took him home gently and kindly, and Austin rewarded
him for it, one fine morning, as we shall see. He got home only
to find the funeral some time over, and to take possession of his
property.
And now we must skip a few months, and pick up our story
again at the end of them. These last events took place in the
spring of 1845. We shall take it u]) again in the beginning of
1846.
CHAPTER XIX.
The year 1846 had begun. Parliament had met, and the murder
was out. Everybody had bc^en })erf('clly certain of it, ever since
Lord Stanley's refusal to join the new ministry ; but evcrvbody
now said that they wouldn't have believed it. After Sir Robert
had got up, inmicdiatcly after the seconding of the address, iind,
in less tluin twenty minutes, announced tliat tlie faihire of tlie
l)otatoes had necessitated his rcisignation, and that his ideas on
the subject of protection had undergone a considerable change ;
AUSTIN ELLIOT. Ill
some people, by far the; larger number, were struck witli profound
adniiration, some were violently angry, some wrre intensely
amused, and all very much excited.
A new political star bad arisen, tbougb as yet it was veij near
the horizon, and its orbit was unascertained. Some time before
Parliament met, the Jhdli/ Litilliiienrt'r, a paper which prides
itself on the earlinass of its political intelligence, announced that
'* they were informed," that the address would be moved, in the
Commons, by the newly-elected member for Granitebridge. Ihit
Sir Robert Peel knew better than that. The address was, on that
occasion, connnitted to the older and wiser head of Lord Francis
Egerton.
The newly-elected member for Granitebridge was no other a
person than Lord Charles Party. A vaciincy for that borough
having occurred by the death of old Sir Pitchcroft Cockpole, the
borough had been contested by Lord Charles and Captain Block-
strop. The gallant Captain was fearfully beaten, to his own great
sui'prise.
The Captain had argued in this way. That Lord Charles,
though coming of a "Whig house, must, being a duke's son, be at
heart a Tory. That was Captain Blockstrop's unalterable opinion.
So he issued a rather liberal address, as he thought ; expecting to
be opposed by the very faintest and mildest form of gentle Whiggery.
When he read Lord Charles Party's address, Austin says that his
hair stood on end, and emitted electrical brushes, and his whiskers
crackled like a cat's back.
Lord Charles's address was the most atrocious and revolutionaiy
document which had appeared for many years. The Captain had
said, " that should it appear that the su])ply of food was likely to
be seriously diminished by the failure of the potato crop, he for
one would listen patiently to any arguments which might be
adduced in favour of a temporary (mark him, a temporary) sus-
pension of the duties," for many of the population of Granite-
bridge Avere bucolic and Protectionists. Lord Charles Party had
disposed of this question, and conciliated the Protectionists by
saying, '' that the Corn Laws were a festering ulcer on the body
politic, and that every hour they were permitted to remain was
another hour of humiliation and disgrace to the country." The
Captain thought that, at some future time, a slight enlargement
and redistribution of the sutirage might possibly be advisable.
Lord Charles Ixirty proposed manhood suflrage and the ballot, to
be taken immediately, as his specific for the potato rot, and every
other disease. The Captain, who seemed really to have taken
some pains to inform himself of facts, thought that, in case of a
112 AtJSTIN ELLIOT.
suspension or abolition of the com duties, some relief should hi
granted to the agricultural interest ; say in a consolidation o
highway districts, or in an alteration in the law of settlement.
But Lord Charles either knew nothing (which is most probable)
or cared nothing, about highway rates or the return of worn-out
paupers from rich manufacturing towns, to impoverished rural
districts. He finished his address by telling the Protectionist
constituency of Granitebridge that, if the agricultural interest
could not take care of itself, it was no one else's business to take
care of them.
But he was elected by 258 against 1G4, for these reasons.
In the first place, the good and gallant Captain had made a
most awful and Jack-ashore sort of blunder. His strong point,
the point on which he dwelt most, was that of Admiralty reform.
Now it so happens that Granitebridge is not more (as the crow
flies) than one hundred miles from the great arsenal of Plymouth ;
and all the trim stone villas about the town have been built out
of the proceeds of filchings of copper, and nails, and ropes' ends,
from the dockyard there. The inhabitants of those cottages and
villas had, each of them, at that very time, three or fom* relations
down in Plymouth, in the dockyards there, filching away their
hardest, at the copper and ropes' ends, that they also might
retire, and build villas like their relations. Now, you know, this
was not the sort of constituency to wdiicli to broach Admiralty
reform. The Captain argued that, being so near Plymouth,
they must be familiar with, and interested in, dockyard mis-
management. This was eminently true, but not in the sense the
Captain meant.
Another point in Lord Charles Party's favour was, that his
name was Barty. The miglity sheets of deep red cornland, which
stretched west from the town, lying in pleasant slopes towards the
south, were all his father's, as far as the eye could reach. The
town itself, and the land about it, belonged to Sir Pitchcroft
Cockpole. They always had a Cockpole, or a Barty for one of
their members. They knew them, and could trust tliem : and
these Bartys too ; they wen; all wild young hawks at lirst (except
the blind Lord Edward), but tlusy always turned out steady,
devoted, ust'ful public servants in tlie end. " Pm a Protictionist,"
said one old farmer on the hustings, *' but I'd soonn- liave Lord
Charles and Free-trade than e'er a one vhv, with Protection.
Though he is a owdacious young Turk, surcl// drat 'un ! "
And a third reason for Lord Charles's ri'turn is this : when
he and his friend Mr. Elliot came down canvassing, there was
no resisting them. They were such a handsome, noble, mciTy
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 113
pair of fellows, that they took tho wann Devon hearts by storm.
Lord Charles went about uttering' the most atrocious revolutionary
sentiments, in an airy, aj^'reeable sort of way, and Austin went
with him, and laughed at him.
One great event of tho campaign was tlic attack on old ^Nlr.
Pilgrim, the quaker, in tho upper Croft. It will illustrate their
very free-and-easy sort of tactics.
On the very first day of their arrival, as Charles Barty, Austin,
and ilm attorney were sitting together after dinner, Ijrentmore
pointed him out as an important and influential man — a man who,
if the Captain ran them close, might make or mar the whole
business.
** You must go to him to-morrow morning, my Lord."
"I'll be hanged if I do. I shall say something temble, and
set him against me. I caimot converi^e with a quaker — I never
tried."
'* You will have to try," said the attorney.
" Wouldn't it be better fun," said Lord Charles, ** seeing ho
is such an influential man, for me to send a letter to him, saying
that I consider him a broad-brimmed old idiot, and that I'll tweak
his stupid nose for twopence. There would be some fun in
winning tho election after that."
" There would, indeed, my Lord. You must go to him to-
morrow. When the Tory man came down, before the breath
was out of Sir Pitchcroft's body, to see how the land lay, he
just called on Mr. Pilgrim, and from what he heard there, went
away again."
" Who was the gentleman — who was the base Tory who dared
to show his face at Granitebridge ? "
" A certain Captain Hertford," said the attorney.
Lord Charles and Austin became attentive.
" He has done a good deal of dirty electioneering work in
his time, and now he is looking out for a seat for himself. He
is engaged to be married to Miss Hilton, a great heiress, I
believe."
" Will you be kind enough to tell him, the next time you .see
him," said Austin, " that he is a confounded liar, and that I told
you to say so? "
"No, Mr. Elliot. A man of my figure, sir, as broad as he is
long, and only ten stone after all, can't do it, sir. It would be
no use doing it, and putting it in the bill. No one ^is rich enough
to pay me for the consequences of telling that gallant captain
that he is a confounded liar. Suppose, sii', that you were to tell
him so, and to say that 1 told you."
9
114 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
" You mark my words, I will," said Austin — " the abominable
villain ! "
"I understand," said the attorney, 'Hhat the young lady is
quite under the influence of her aunt, and — by the by, we must
look over the lists, gentlemen," he added, quickly, for Lord
Charles, after three or four attempts, had managed to give him a
violent " drive " on the shins under the table.
Just outside the town at Granitebridge, there is a long lime
avenue by the riverside. Here, at ten o'clock that night. Lord
Charles 13arty and Austin walked up and down, smoking their
cigars.
The winter's moon was overhead above the leafless trees ; and
far up to the north, in the moor, they could hear the river, here
so calm, chafing among his granite boulders.
*' Austin, old fellow," said Lord Charles, " when are you going
to get married ? ' '
'' I wish I knew," said Austin.
*' There is no cloud between you and Eleanor, is there? " said
he.
'' Not one vestige," said Austin. '* There was a time, Charles,
when I was not in love with that woman ; but there never was a
time when I did not love her."
'* And your love for her grows stronger," said he.
** Day by day, and hour by hour," said Austin. "But she —
does she love me as I love her ? "
'' Ten thousand times better, Austin. I will go bail for
that."
" Then why does she put me ofi"? "
"I do not know. Because, I take it, she is in the hands of
her aunt. You should make a bold push of some kind. Look at
her position, my dear old friend — ^just look at her position. God
help her if anything happens to you ! "
" Her position is not good, certainly," said Austin, pensively.
** It is simply horrible ! Here is a young hidy — a laili/, mind
— with an enormous fortune, very handsome, in her way ; clever
and charming beyond conception, without a soul to spt>ak to in
her own rank in life. My blind brother, and you and I, are the
only friends she has in the world. She is utterly debarred from
all society."
*' You see," said Austin, " her father did some queer things in
his time, and so no one takes her up."
*' The world is very cruel, Austin, but it is not so cruel as all
that. Tlie reason that no one goes near her is, that no one will
have anything to do with her aunt."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 116
'* I suppose that is it," suid Austin ; " luul she is getting worse
and worse."
" Does she drink ? " said Lord Cliarles.
" I fancy so. She is always terribly excited."
" Did you hear of her kicking up a row in church, last
Sunday?"
" No," said Austin. *' Was Eleanor with her ? "
*' Oh, no ; she and Edward were philandering at St. Paul's,
bless the two sweet Puseyites. Austin, whv are you not jealous
of Edward ? "
*' And thereby deprive Eleanor of the only happy hours of her
life. Why, if it were not for your brother, and his sitting to play
her piano, and his taking her about to the cliurches and cathedrals
on a week-day, she'd go mad. Jealous of your brother ! I
watched them one day last week, creeping in under the shadow of
the abbey wall. She was leading him, for there was some anthem
to be sung, which they had heard of, and had gone posting off
across the park to hear. It was Advent time, you know ; and
there are fine anthems sung then, about Christ's coming, and that
sort of thing. And I followed them in, and, when the organ had
done snarling and booming, and the voices began, I watched them,
and there they sat, with their hands folded before them, like two
stone angels. Your brother has a beautiful face of his own, blind
as he is. Somewhat too much of this. One is talking nonsense,
or near it. One always does, if one walks up and down at mid-
night, with the friend of one's heart."
'' May the deuce have a man who don't," said Lord Charles.
" That brother of mine has a noble face."
** Was Lord Edward always blind ? "
" Always. He began to sing when he was five years old."
" He never sings now."
" No, he lost his voice at fourteen. Before that, he used to go
wandering about the house, singing some ballad, or hymn, which
had taken his fancy, to some tune of his o^^^l choosing, in a
strange, shivering, silvery voice. Once, I remember George and
I were in the scliooli'oom, kicking up a row with our sisters, and
plaguing Miss Myrtle : and we heard him come singing along the
gallery, and we all grew silent and listened. And we heard him
feel his way to the door, singing all the time. And he was singing
' Lord UUin's Daughter.' And he threw the door open, while we
all sat silent ; and you never saw a stranger sight. He thought
no one was there (for we were all very silent), and went on
singing ; and his blind face was flushed with passion :
116 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
" ' And still, as wilder grew the storm,
And, as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men.
Their footsteps sounded nearer.'
Yes, he is a fine fellow. Let us, however, return to what we were
talking about."
''That includes a great many things," said Austin. "For
instance : about Aunt Maria making a fracas in church."
*' Oh, a3'e, she did. My people were at St. Peter's, and she
came in, and the pew-opener had put some one in her pew. And
she kicked up a row, by Jove ! and spoke out loud. She was
either mad or drunk.
*' Was there any disturbance ? "
*' Why, no. She recovered herself when every one looked
round. But no one minded their prayers much. Well, I don't
want to distress you, old fellow, but you had better know the
truth. It was a very ugly business. She utterly lost command
of herself. People were talking of it in London, and said she
was drunk."
" What the deuce am I to do ? " said Austin, impatiently.
" Make Eleanor appoint a day for marrying you. Don't bo put
ofi" any longer."
''There's where it is," said Austin. ''She has appointed a
day. She has appointed a day in next April twelvemonths."
" Next April twelvemonths ? "
" Aye," said Austin, " and stuck to it."
" That looks like reading the bill this day six months," said
Lord Charles.
" No," said Austin, " she don't mean that. She is in her
aunt's hands."
" She must be very weak," said Lord Charles.
" No ! " said Austin. " She loves me, as you know. There
is some scandal in the house, most likely about her brother, who
is dead, who robbed you at Eton. Aunt Maria knows somctliing,
and whips her in. What shall I do with that black-hearted
villain, Hertford ? "
" Leave him alone. Give him rope enough to hang himself
withal. If she allows her aunt to bully her into marrying him,
you are well rid of her. By giving him rope, you may bowl out
Aunt Maria."
" You are right. Meanwhile, your brother Edward is there
contiinially ; and she, with her true toad-eating instinct, allows
him to come unchallenged, when my appearance would only make
a scene for poor Eleanor, after I was gone. Lord Edward is
AUSTIN ELLIOT, 11?
«!tbiie-l)liiul ; but not, as I liavo heard, deaf. On some occasions,
Aunt ]\Iaria lias behaved as th()u;^li slie considered that the loss of
t^f one sense mvolved the loss of all. I say, Barty ! "
" Well, old felhnv."
" About Hertford. I know that his scheme is to marry Eleanor
if he can. The end will be, that he will try to get rid of me by
forcinrj me to ^o out with him."
" Damn du('llin«4 ! " said Loid Charles, suddenly.
** So say I," said Austin ; " but that is his game."
Lord Charles chucked his cigar into the road and walked silent
for a few minutes ; at the end he said —
" Dear old fellow ! will you pay attention to me ? That is his
game ; I know it, Edward knows it. He will, in case of his
finding himself outwitted, do that ; he is a dead shot, he will
force you out and kill you, if it becomes worth his while — you
must be very careful and gentle with him."
'' I have been, Charles," said Austin. " I know what you say
is true, and I have been very careful."
" Aye, but it has not been worth his while yet. There is a
strong talk about enforcing the law against duelling. He knows
that. It will be his last resource. If he could get her and her
aunt safe abroad, he would shoot you to-morrow."
The interview with jMr. Pilgrim the quaker was eminently
successful. It took place next morning at eleven, in this
wise : —
Lord Charles was perfectly snappintj to Austin as they walked
towards the house ; and Austin laughed at his woe-begone look,
till he assaulted him in a by-place where no one was looking.
When they got to the quaker's house they were shown into a cool
parlour, to await the great man. Austin took down books from
the shelves, poked the lire, and dropped the poker, made jokes,
laughed loudly at them, and generally misbehaved himself. At
last he came round to the cellaret, and, seeing it w^as unlocked,
prompted by a noble curiosity, he raised the lid. At this moment
a heavy footfall was heard outside the door, and Austin dropped
the lid with a terrible slam, just as the quaker entered the room.
He was a noble-looking old man, and he went straight up to
Austin, with a sweet smile —
*' Lord Charles Barty, I believe," said he.
Austin, as red as fire, pointed to the real man ; and the
candidate, looking as red as Austin, said —
*' I am Lord Charles Barty, Mr. Pilgrim."
"And this gentleman," said the quaker, sweetly, *' who has
done me the honour to look into my poor cellaret ? "
118 AUSTIN ELLIOt.
''That's Mr. Austin Elliot," said Lord Charles, ''and con-
found him, he is always up to some of his fool's tricks in the
wrong place. But he is mad, you know — as mad as a hatter.
No one can manage him Lut me. I wouldn't have allowed him
to take anything ; I don't think ho meant to. He has a mono-
mania for looking into people's cellarets. All his family had.
His — his — his grandmother died of it ; and by Jove, sir, it's
hurrying him to his grave ! "
"Indeed ! " said Mr. Pilgrim, with his mouth twitching at the
corners.
"Oh, yes," said Lord Charles; "hut that don't matter. I
say, Mr. Pilgrim, I Avish you'd vote for me, and get the other
people you can manage, to vote for me. I assure you that I will
make a good, diligent member. All I care for is to get into the
House and find my place in the world. It may seem a conceited
thing to say, but I think I shall make you a better member than
Captain Blockstrop, though he is a gentleman, and a good fellow.
I was going to make you a speech, but that fellow Elliot has put
it out of my head. Perhaps it is all for the best. If I remember
right, there was a lie or two in the speech I was going to make
you. Now I have blurted out the whole truth."
The quaker looked on him with a smile.
"I have two conditions, my Lord."
Lord Charles recovered himself and looked keenly at him.
" Let me hear them," he said, "just to see if they tally with
my own foregone conclusions. But mind, I don't change one iota
of my programme, at your or any other man's bidding."
" There spoke a real obstinate Barty," said the quaker. " My
conditions are these — You are pledged to sweep the corn-laws
into the dust-bin of the past once for ever. Do I understand
that?"
"You may certainly understand that."
"And you and Mr. Elliot are pledged to dine with me the day
after to-morrow, and see what is in the cellaret ? "
" I am pledged to that also."
" Then all shall go well. My Lord, I know you and your worth,
and I know Mr. Elliot and his worth also, though he lias peeped
into my cellaret. I wish you a good morning, my Lord. I have
done one good service for you already. I sent that — that —
military officer. Will Hertford, out of tlie borough pretty quick.
There is a great advantage in lending money at times ; you can
get rid of a man. My old acquaintance George Hilton used to
say that. Ah ! poor fellow. Sad for him to die and leave his
poor little girl all alone in this wicked world. Good morning ! "
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 119
So liaity was rotunu'd ])y a noLlo majority, and lilockstrop
once more went down into the sea in his ship, and put t'oi-th into
the dc'op, taking his naval reforms with him ; and so the Admiralty
was left in peace.
CHAPTER XX.
Eleanor lived at the house her father had occupied for many
years, in Wilton Crescent. It was not a large house, and her
household was small. She saw actually no society. Sometimes
the monotony of her life was broken by tlie visit of an old school-
mate, but tliey never stayed long, nor did she press them. Hers
was not a house for bright young girls to stay in. She felt it.
She knew it. There was something so indefinably coarse, some-
thing so beyond and beside all gentle domestic love, in her aunt,
that she never pressed those girls to stay, and never of her o^vn
will invited them.
She was a strange little being. She had to dree her weary
weird, and she did so, with a depth of love, courage, self-sacrifice,
and shrewdness, which you will appreciate when you know all.
The fairy which had given her such boundless w'ealth, had given
her counterbalancing gifts which made that wealth worse than
wortliless. She would gladly have given it all away, on certain
conditions.
There was one reason why she clung to this wealth. There
was one reason why she still rejoiced that, disgrace her as they
might, that wealth was still her own. It would be Austin's. If
he would only wait and trust her through everything, it would all
be his. If he would only wait and trust her.
She was sitting at her piano. She was alone in her drawing-
room, and the light of the level winter's sun was on her face. If
there was, at ordinary times, a fault in that face, it was, that the
under lip and chin were somewhat too short, and the mouth rather
too closely set. That fault, if it were a fault, was not perceptible
just now, for she was leaning over the keys, with her fingers upon
them, studying the score of the music before her. Every now and
then she would try it, and, each time she did so, the music grew
towards perfection, until at last it rolled away triumphant and
majestic. It was an old Huguenot hymn-tune, which she had
found in her dead mother's portfolio.
120 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
The door opened. Her mouth grew close set again in an instant.
She turned round and confronted her aunt.
Aunt Maria looked very flushed and odd. Eleanor said to herself,
*' She has been drinking." She sat down before the fireplace, and,
after a pause, said, peevishly —
''Well, child."
" Well, aunt dear."
"Well, aunt dear! " she repeated, sharply. ''Eleanor, may
God save you from the bitterness of having a sulky, obstinate
niece, when you are got old like me ! A niece who loves to lacerate
a poor old woman's feelings, by making her ask and cross-question
before she can get one word of information. There, God forgive
you, after all I have done for you. Don't you know that to-day is
the fifteenth, 3^ou wicked girl ? "
" Alas ! I know it well.""
" Have you been out this morning ? " said Aunt Maria.
" Of course I have," said Eleanor, in a low voice.
" WeU."
" I have nothing to tell you. Captain Hertford went with me."
" Dear man ! " said Aunt Maria. " Dear, blessed, sainted man !
And, oh, he loves the very ground you walk on."
" I am sorry he should so far waste his love," said Eleanor. " I
am, I am sorry to say, wicked enough to have the very strongest per-
sonal dislike for him. In this unhappy business, however, he seems
to have behaved kindly and well. I do not judge his motives, I
only judge his actions, aunt. He has behaved kindly and delicately
towards me, and I will try to reward him."
" Ah ! " said Aunt Maria, " if you would "
" Now, aunt, neither you nor he can possibly be silly enough to
suppose that I shall marry him. When I talk of rewarding him,
I mean this. He has gone to stand on the Tory interest at Glen-
port. Before he went, I told him that, if he would, as soon as he
had ascertained the cost of his election, have an interview with my
man of business, he would probably find those expenses provided
for."
" Why, you fool," said Aunt Maria, " that is giving the man two
or three thousand pounds without an equivalent."
" Well, he has a heart somewlu;ro, I suppose," said Eleanor, " or,
supposing he hasn't, he's a gentleman ; and, having taken his prico
to leave me alone, will do so."
*' I tell you he loves you, you fool. I tell you that ho loves the
ground you walk on. lie is a man ; he is worth fifty coxcombs.
You -''
*' Don't scold, aunt. If he does love mo so deeply, I must say
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 121
lie has taken the price of his eh'ction-expenses ratlier coolly. Don't
begin to scokl. I am not afraid of your scolding now. Austin
will he with nic to-day."
** I wish he was dead," said Aunt Maria. *'I wish Charles
Barty was dead ; I wish Edward Barty was dead."
" When they are dead, or when tluy have deserted me, aunt,
you may take me and do what you will with me. God knows they
are the only friends I have on this earth. All houses are shut to
me, aunt. You know that. But I liavt; a heaven you don't know
about. When Austin comes in and talks to me in his sweet gentle
voice ; or when Charles Barty comes pranking in with his merry
nonsense, I am in a different world to the one you know of, aunt ;
and when blind noble Edward and I are at our music together —
then, then, aunt, ah ! where are Captain Hertford and all the
misery then? — miles, miles below our feet, aimt ! "
" You go rambling about to church with that blind fiddling
idiot, in a way which in my time no girl would have dared to do.
People will talk of it. Have you no sense of what is correct?
People will talk about you as sure as you are boni."
" Yeiy few peojile are likely to talk about you and I, aunt," said
Eleanor. " We have learned that much, in spite of our wealth.
If we keep quiet, we are at present insignificant."
Whereupon Aunt Maria began to scold, rambling on from mis-
statement to misstatement, until she had no new misstatement to
make, and then beginning de capo with the original grievance.
And that is the true art of scolding in all countries, I believe.
CHAPTER XXI.
There is a place I know, which is unlike any other place I have
ever been in. It is only the transept of a cathedral, and yet for
some reason it is diff'erent to all other transepts. I cannot t^ll
you why, but so it is. Possibly the reason is, because I have been
more familiar with it than with any other, and because I love it far
better than any other. The place I speak of is Poet's Comer.
On a certain day Austin Elliot was in Poet's Corner, sitting
upon Chaucer's tomb. Those who walked up and down in the
transept only noticed that a veiy handsome and well-dressed young
man, with appearance of extreme youth, was sitting upon Chaucer's
122 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
tomb. No one knew the profoundly deep schemes which were
revolving within that youth's head, or under that youth's curls.
Austin had taken to heart what Lord Charles had said to him
at Granitebridge, and, after a long pause, had acted on it. The
mere fact that he had taken time to deliberate, instead of rushing
off headlong and doing just what his friend had suggested, proved
to him most satisfactorily that he was getting old, sagacious,
knowing — nay, even sly. He had developed a scheme by which
eveiy possible obstacle to the happiness of all parties was to be
removed. He had matured it, and now he was going to broach
it. It required the consent of four or five people, who were about
as likely to agree as his Holiness the Pope and his Majesty the
King of Italy ; but still his plan w^as a good one, and the idea of
failure was not to be thought of.
Things were very unsatisfactory. Eleanor was engaged to him.
He and she loved and trusted one another beyond the w^ay of ordi-
nary lovers. There had never been a shade of anger or jealousy
between them for one second. He was his own master. She was
of age. And yet things were most unsatisfactory.
The fact was that, as we have heard before, Eleanor refused to
be married before the next spring — a whole twelvemonth. And,
meanwhile, she was living, as it w^ere, under the protection of her
aunt — an awful woman, who looked red and wild — who had made a
disturbance in church — who knew no one — whose very appearance
was keeping people in mind of the scandals against Eleanor's
father, which they would have laughed at, and forgotten, long ago,
if they had not been reminded of them by the appearance of this
terrible woman in the Park, in Eleanor's o^vn carriage, every day.
And again, Captain Hertford was a man of very odd character,
and he was continually in Aunt Maria's company. Captain Hert-
ford was known to be a desperate, though successful, gambler, and
a man of such courage and skill in the noble art of duelling, that
he could still hold his head up among the very best in the land.
Every one knew all sorts of things about him ; but any man who
would have refused to go out with the gallant Captain would
prol)ably have had to witlidraw his name from his Clubs. Captain
Hertford was, in short, a notorious blackguard — a weed which can
only grow under the infernal, dcvil-inventcd system of Duello ;
and yet a man with whom it was necessary to be on good terms,
and a Member of Parliament. He sat for a small port in
D shire. The people there had rather wanted a Tory
Mendjer.
Tlu^y had very much wanted their railway. Captain Hertford
had undertaken their railway, and everytliing else they had asked,
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 123
had spoilt II moiety of Eleanor's two thousaiul pounds, and ^^jt in
handsomely.
Such were the two persons wlio seemed to use Eleanor's house
as their own home. Austin's hrilliant plan was, to marry Eleanor,
and huy these two people off — to hrihe them to leave her alone.
It was a fjood plan. Eleanor liad l)ehaved witli tlie most con-
summate discretion. She had never ap))i'ared in puhlic witli her
aunt ; she had only a few old schoolfellows for her friends ;
and, as for going out to any sort of party, in any rank in
life, she never dreamed of such a thing. Eveiy one (for people
were getting interested in her strange esyihile style of beauty, her
immense wealth, her curious nicncK/r, and also her excessive
modesty and good taste) — every one knew of her engagement to
that young Elliot, and thought him lucky. Every one knew that
she saw nobody except Austin and his two friends, Lord Edward
and Lord Charles Barty ; and after every one had seen the mother
of these two young noblemen wait at the door of St. Paul's
(Knightsbridgc) mitil the curious little being came out, dressed in
quiet grey silk, with a big diamond clasp to her cloak, and had
seen the duchess introduce herself, and speak kindly to her, after
this every one knew that she was a meritorious young lady ; and
they were right, for the duchess was never wrong. It was perfectly
evident to every one after this that there stood nothing between
Eleanor and entire recognition, save the elimination of Aunt Maria
and Captain Hertford.
A curious thing was, that Eleanor never appeared in public,
except to go to church. On Sunday morning she was always at
her place at St. Paul's (Knightsbridgc) ; but in the afternoon, and
every day through the w'eek, she went anywhere and everj-where —
the Abbey — Margaret Street — nay, between ourselves, Moorfields
and Gordon Square. She always walked. If no one else was
^'itli her, she took old James ; but this was seldom. Sometimes
Austin would go with her ; but generally her companion was blind
Lord Edward 13arty. They used to walk very fast, for they were
a very strange-looking couple, and people used to stare at them.
They never w^ent an^-Avhere where they had to make many cross-
ings, for Eleanor was nervous about taking him over them. For
this reason the Abbey was their favourite week-day resort, because
the only difficult crossing is at the top of Grosvenor Place : after
this you are in the Parks, and all is plain sailing.
Lord Edward knew every organist in London, and always knew
what music there would be. He used to come to Eleanor's house,
and they two would try to render it on the piano until it was time
to start, and then they would go down to the Abbey and hear their
126 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
has drunk with me fifty times. ' Seggetary State's order,' I says,
* and none of your nonsense ; Lamb and Flag at half-past one, old
boy. How is he ? ' And I seen him. And Lamb and Flag it
was at half-past one, and drat they warders and all belonging to
'em. Here's Miss ! "
Austin and Eleanor dismissed old James, and walked home
together across the Park, through the gathering darkness.
They hardly spoke one word, until wending through the shrub-
beries they came on the lake, and then Austin spoke.
He gently and delicately laid the whole case before her, as we
have made it out for him above. He laid before her the doubtful-
ness of her position in the world while those two people. Aunt
Maria and Captain Hertford, occupied the house ; and she agreed
with him in both.
" My dearest ! " she said, " do you not think that I must feel
all this more acutely than you ? I am not a foolish little body by
any means ; I should get on well in society, and I should be
immensely fond of society. Do you think that I willingly live
with two such millstones round my neck as those two people? "
'' There is a remedy at hand," said Austin.
''I know it, but an impossible one."
" If you marry me at once, you will never be plagued with them
any more. I shall have authority, and will banish them. My
father's old friends will flock round you, and you would take the
place that your wealth and talent entitle you to."
" All this, my dearest, is mere truism. But I cannot marry
you before next April twelvemonth, Austin."
" Now why not, my own ? "
" Ah ! there j'ou must trust me, my Austin. There is a skeleton
in our cupboard. You are going into public life, and I am going
with you ; you will win a peerage, perhaps — at all events, be pro-
minently before the world. We must have the road quite clear
before we start our coach."
" And am I not to know what this skeleton is ? "
" Certainly not, until I tell you. It must not bo said that wo
married while such and sucli was the case. If it be possible, I
would rather that you never knew."
*' But others know."
"We can buy them. You always knew that there were queer
stories about the Hiltons. You have heard the stories about my
father, and you know all about my poor brother, you know about
Aunt Maria. You love me, my Austin ; I have gri'at wealth,
which is all your own, and with which you must make ytnir way in
the world. Thero arc scandals about our family which must bo
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 127
sniotluTcd. Until they aro smothered and the road is char, it
wouhl be fatal to your prospects for us to marry. I am at work
day and night with you only in my thoughts, God knows, my
darling ! to clear the way for you towards honour and fame. I am
working for you, Austin, like a patient little mole, so diligently
and slyly. If you claim my promise next spring, I will at all
events lay all the facts before you, and you shall say whether you
will have me or no."
" You will not tell me now ? "
** No. It may happen that you may never know. On that
wild chance, I keep you in the dark. But still, if you demand,
before you marry me, an account of everything, I shall have to
give it you. At present, your happiness and mine is, as far as
I see, bound up in your trusting implicitly to me. Will you trust
me, Austin ? "
*' I will trust you implicitly, my own Eleanor," he answered
slowly, looking down into her eyes — who would not have trusted
those patient, quiet eyes? — ''I will trust you implicitly. I were
a dog else, I think."
*'Mind one thing, Austin; keep near me, let me see you con-
tinually. Never forget what I told you before. She can scold
me and frighten me into submission at times."
*' Cannot you get rid of her ? "
** No. She would create a scandal when I want all things
quiet. You must do that — you must get rid of her."
CHAPTER XXII.
Although Austin resolved to trust Eleanor most fully and entirely,
yet, if we said that he was altogether satisfied and pleased,
we should be saying that he was something more or less than
human. He icaa a little, ever so little, nettled, and it was a trial
to him, that that great coarse-faced brutal bully should be always
in her house, and, moreover, should know of things which he
might not. He hated Captain Hertford worse than ever ; he hated
Aunt Maria worse than ever ; but, nevertheless, he felt sure that
in a worldly point of view Eleanor was right. The Hiltons wen' a
queer family. If there was, as Eleanor said there was, something
\vi'ong, stiU it was better that matters should be let down easy, and
128 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
the road cleared before they started. He determined to trust
Eleauor implicitly.
It must not be supposed that Austin had come to this resolution
without assistance. After the conversation detailed in the last
chapter, he had sat in his room for an hour or more, and had found
himself get peevish, almost for the first time in his life ; had
begun to feel — dreadful thought ! — that he was being fooled. Men
like him ; men who have never been tried, and have looked only at
the surface of things ; men who believe only in the "words which
represent things, and have no actual knowledge of the things they
represent, are more apt to be jealous and suspicious than those
who have had their noses actually to the grindstone, and know
from experience what good faith and falsehood, trust and mistrust,
really mean.
He was in a fair way to get jealous ; when there was a bounding
foot on the stairs — dog Robin leapt up and barked joyously, and
the next minute Lord Charles burst into the room, crying —
" Come, come, laggard 1 to the House ! Stafford O'Brien is on
his legs, and there is all sorts of fun in the wind ! "
Austin came at once. On their walk from Austin's lodgings in
Pall Mall, he had told his friend everything ; and under the influ-
ence of his friend's affectionate shrewdness, all the mists had
cleared away ; and by the time he had left his friend, and had
squeezed into a tolerable place in the gallery, he was himself again
prepared to enjoy the noble sport which was going on in the arena
below.
Lord Brooke was speaking, but the people in the gallery were
whispering to one another about Lord Granby's speech, which
seemed to have been telling. Before Austin could hear anything
of it. Lord Brooke sat down, and Lord Worsley rose. He nuxdo
some terrible hard hitting. When Austin heard his quotations
from old speeches of Sir Robert Peel's and Sir James Graham's,
terribly telling as they were, he certainly, mad Peelite as he was,
did wish that they had never been uttered ; and he also wished,
most piously, that the noble Baron was on board his yacht, or at
Appuldercombe, or anywhere, save in that House, quoting those
confounded old speeches.
Yet these attacks on his lua-o made him somewhat angry. Of
course they were easily answered, but it was very i)rovc)king, to
have to eat one's words in a laughing house. Austin began to
grow warm with the rest of the world, and left Eleanor pretty much
to herself for a week.
On the thirteenth ho bethought him that he would have a joko
with her, so he sportively sent her a valentine, and on Saturday
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 129
morning, the fourtoouth, hv. went to visit her, intent on hearing the
late of the valentine he had sent her. The door was opened by
old James, who said, " Hush ! "
Austin asked what was the matter.
" Did you ever hear she when she was carrying on ? " asked
the old man ; " listen to her now ! "
Aunt Maria's voice was sadly audible indeed ; lioarse, loud and
irregular, coming from the drawing-room ; Austin muttered some-
thing between his teeth, and went quickly upstairs.
He opened the door, and she ceased when she saw him. She
looked very red and wild, and Eleanor sat opposite to her, with
her hands folded in her lap, perfectly patient, and careless of what
the old woman might say. The old woman had evidently been
scolding her hardest at her. As Austin came in. Aunt Maria held
her tongue, and Eleanor looked up and smiled ; but Austin, being
her lover, could see what others perhaps could not. He had pre-
viously, once or twice, found her in a state of depression after one
of Aunt Maria's scoldings, but on these occasions she had always
been herself again immediately : on this occasion such was not
the case. She looked up at him and smiled, but Austin could see
that she was not herself; that she looked wan, and pale, and
anxious — strange to say, Austin thought he had never seen her
look so handsome before.
He could not help wondering "what Aunt Maria's ingenuity
had found to say, so very disagreeable as to disturb Eleanor's
equanimity : but in spite of thinking about this, he could not help
thinking how very handsome Eleanor looked. She was sitting
opposite her aunt, and was dressed for walking, with the exception
of her bonnet, which lay on the floor beside her. She wore the
long grey cloak which ladies wore just then, which covered every-
thing ; her chin, after her first look at him, had dropped once
more on her breast, and her hands were folded in her lap before
her, with quiet patience : and the dull grey colour of her habit,
and its almost foldless simplicity, harmonised so amazingly well
with the dull patience of her face, that she formed a picture, and
a study of quiet endurance, which made Austin think he had
never in his life seen any one so beautiful.
Aunt Maria was in a blind fury at something. She rose and
left the room without looking at Austin.
'* Has she been scolding you, my own ? " said Austin, bending
over Eleanor and kissing her.
*' Yes, Austin. Where does she learn it all? Where has she
lived ? What has she done ? Austin dear, take me to church."
''Let us come."
10
130 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
*' Aye ! That is good of you," she said. "If it Avas not for
the church I should die under it all. They should leave the
churches open as they do abroad. Come on ; we shall be in time.
Sometimes, Austin, when she is like that, I get away and go over
to the church and find it shut, and then — ah ! then — you don't
know what it is, my own."
"I don't know," said Austin; "but if it distresses you, my
love, I can be sorry. I don't like going to church. You must
teach me to like it."
" I will. Austin, should you be very angry if I were to join
the Romish Churcli ? "
" I ! Angry ! No. I should not be angry. You would find
it a mistake, though. It won't hold water."
" Will the English Church hold water ? " said Eleanor.
" Why, yes, distinctly so. But what on earth do you want to
subscribe to the whole business for ? Surely you get as much or
more at St. Paul's as you do in Cadogan Street. Have you ever
been there?"
"Yes."
" I wouldn't 0.0 ac^ain. I don't think vou have thoudit much
about it. You don't know how much you subscribe to. Have
you been there often ? "
"Yes."
" Don't go again. I don't like your going there. Did Edward
Barty take you there ? "
" No ; I went there by myself. I tried to get him to go, but
he got angry."
" He was quite right. Why did you go ? "
"Because it always stands open. And if you were a woman,
and had Aunt Maria to live with you, and a bitter trouble, which
you can't tell to the love of your heart ; you, Austin, would be
glad to slip away sometimes and get into the quiet church, and
kneel, and forget it all."
" It may be so," said Austin. " Meanwhile, you must pray for
me. Here we are at the church-door. I wish we might sit
together."
" We may pray together," said she. " Austin, will you come
to the Abbey with me to-morrow morning ? "
" Surely I will," said he. And they went into church, he to
one place and she to another, as is the custom in some churches.
When he met her again at the church-door she was still anxious
and silent, and seemed to have a diiibrent expression on her face,
to any Austin had seen before.
On the pleasant Sunday morning he came to take her to the
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 131
Abbey. The look of yesterday had deepened. She looked veiy
worn iiiul anxious, and he was much distressed. The moniinj,' was
a bright, slightly frosty one, and tiie sun streamed into the old
Abbey through the south-eastern windows and fell upon the beau-
tiful young pair of lovers as they sat together. Eleanor was
absorbed in her prayers, but Austin was vacantly watching the
lines of light in the thick atmosphere — how they shifted and
crossed one another as the sun went westward — was wondering
how the deuce those old monks got it into their heads to build
such a beautiful place, and why the fellows of the present day
could not, in that respect, hold a candle to the men of the thir-
teenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries. He thought of these
things in a vague, ruminant, ox-like frame of mind, instead of
attending to his prayers ; with about as much earnestness as a fly
in the sunshine ; and very nearly determined to ask some one
about it. Possibly he might have asked some one, some day ; but
they had to stand up at tliis point of his cogitations, and the mere
act of standing up, set him thinking about the Bill, and what an
awful sell it would be for Lord Lincoln, if Hilyard were to beat
him for South Notts. He went on thinking about the chances at
Newark long after they sat down again. He was actually smiling
at the thought of the Duke's anger against the renegade, and
thinking how much better it would be, if the Duke would keep his
godlike rage penned in his own bosom, when he felt Eleanor's
hand on his arm.
He had been very inattentive, and he blushed and looked down
on the prayer-book which lay open between them. Her finger was
on the very passage in the Litany which the priest was intoning
at that instant — we humbly venture to think, one of the most
sublime pieces of uninspired prayer put up by man to his God ! —
"That it may please Thee to preseiTe all that travel by laud
or by water ; all women labouring of child ; all sick persons and
young children ; and to show Thy pity upon all prisoners and
captives."
Those who do not appreciate fully that passage in the Litany,
had better hear it read out by the captain in latitude sixty south,
when the sea is thundering and booming, and the ship is reeling
and rolling, and the wind is screaming, and the cruel icebergs are
gleaming, half-seen, in the snow-fog, and the horrid long night is
settling down over the raging ocean. They will find out what
"travelling by land or water" means then, I'll warrant them.
The time came when Austin realised one part of this glorious
prayer ; and not the part by any means that he ever dreamt of
realising ; and when he did so he remembered, that, as soon as
132 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
this one paragraph of the Litiiiy was finished, Eleanor removeil
her hand from his arm once more, and went on with her devotions ;
and that he hegan to think how quietly Lord Henry Lennox had
got in for Chichester ; and of the meeting of the labourers in
AViltshire, and what a strange business that was ; and of Lucy
Simkins' speech and Mary Ferris' speech.
And of Lord Charles Barty's furious blind rage when he read
those speeches aloud ; and how, when he had come to the passage,
'* I biled they challucks for my children, and the neighbours said
they was poison ; and I says, then, they'd better die with a full
belly than a empty one," that young nobleman had rushed up
and down the room crying out for free-trade or revolution. And
so, feeding his soul on his own indignation against the protectionists,
Austin, not regarding the service, went on until he was nearly as
furious as Lord Charles himself. And, all the time, quiet, patient
Eleanor was sitting at his side, leaning ever so slightly against
him. She, too, had within her causes, deep enough, of anger and
indignation, deeper possibly than Austin's indignation on account
of the Wiltshire labourers, and his anger against the Duke of
Richmond and Mr. Miles. But the mere feeling of her lover's
shoulder against her own. made her quiet and contented ; and
although the cloud on her face grew darker and darker, as time
went on, yet still, though her face was pinched and anxious, she
was happy. She would have sat there, leaning against his
shoulder, and have died as she sat, with perfect contentment.
When the sermon was over, and they rose up, she took up her
burden once more, and carried it.
''My Eleanor," said Austin, as they walked home, "you are
looking worn and anxious."
'' I am, Austin. To-morrow afternoon I shall be myself again."
" Shall I come to you to-morrow morning ? "
*' No. To-morrow is penance day. You have often laughed
at me as a Tractarian, dear Austin, I do penance once a month."
" Wliat kind of penance ? " said he, trying a harmless joke.
" A pilgrimage, Austin."
'' Wliither?"
" You must not know. You must not follow."
" I will not follow, if you give the order," said he.
" Then I give it," said Eleanor.
Austin was quite contented. In the first place he had thorough
confidence in Eleanor, and had a shrewd suspicion that it was
best not to know too much about the Hilton family history ; in
the next, there were aifairs to the fore; which laigagcd iiis attciutiou
more than the easy confidential courtship to which ho had com-
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 133
mitted himself. This was the spring? of 184G. All Eiif^'land had
j^oiu' politically hkhI, and Austin anion*,' tin; rest. His father had
always placed political success hefore him, as the i^reat ohject on
this side of the grave, while he had spoken with truly ministerial
reserve ahout success on the other. Old Mr. Klliot had hecn
very anxious to make Austin amhitious, and Austin had refused
to be made ambitious ; but had gone about with his hands in his
bri'eches pockets, laughing at the whole business, until
Well, until this year, IHIG. Ever since he was a child, he had
read about great political struggles, just as we used to about the
old European wars, until the Crimean campaign came upon us,
and turned all the familiar printed words about the deeds of our
fathers into letters of blood ; which we eagerly compared with
those which told of the deeds ot our brothers ; and the history of
war became once more a teiTible reality.
Austin had thought that great political earthquakes had come
to an end in 1831 ; that politics were certainly the occupation of
a gentleman, but were not likely to be very interesting, because
there was no question, nor was there likely to be one. Sir Robert
Peel's statement in January undeceived him. The change of
opinion of three of the first men in the country, showed him that
there was sport afield ; and, after the first leonine roar of the
Duke of Richmond, he began to go mad with the rest.
And in this manner the leaven of political ambition, which his
father had so carefully worked into him, had begun to act with a
vengeance. And so, just at the time we speak of, his courtship
of Eleanor, his attention to her afi'airs, his jealousy of Hertford,
and his distrust of Aunt Maria, were quite secondaiy objects :
had his jealousy been excited before, so much as to make him
extort an explanation from Eleanor, it would have been better for
them both.
CHAPTER xxnr.
Austin sat the long debate of Monday out ; and left the House at
half-past two. There was news from India, which was announced
by Lord Jocelyn ; and then the weary Corn Law debate began, and
Sir Robert Peel, getting on his legs, spoke calmly and deliberately
for four hours, explaining what had taken place in the autumn,
and other matters, while Austin sat and listened as patiently as a
134 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
reporter. So the next morning, instead of riding out before
breakfast, he lay in bed, in a happy sleep, till eleven, dreaming,
among other trifles, that Sir Robert Peel had sent Aunt Maria
with a hostile message to Sir John TyiTell, and that Colonel
Evans was escorted to the hustings opposite Northumberland
House by a troop of Sikh cavalry, headed by old James. He
slept so long, that his servant would not stand it any longer, and
woke him ; and as soon as he had breakfasted he went off west-
ward to see Eleanor.
She was quite herself again, though she looked very pale. He
had a happy morning with her. He gave her, from recollection,
the heads of Sir Robert Peel's explanatiou. She sat sewing at
her needlework all the time, and every now and then asked a
question. She not only appeared interested, but she was so.
When he had done, she put her needle into her canvas, and
deliberately expressed her opinion that it was unsatisfactory ; that
the one hitch in it was, that he ought to have gone to the country,
and had not done so. And Austin argued with lier, and tangled
her wool, and said she was obstinate and disagreeable ; but she
stuck to her opinion about the dissolution, and would not be
talked out of it. And so they passed a long happy morning
together, and were both of them sorry when old James announced
luncheon, and they had to go down to the dining-room, where
was Aunt Maria, boisterously good-humoured, and very red in the
face, who amused herself by continuous railing abuse against Sir
Robei*t Peel.
And a most cxcitinf? and delightful month it was. The four
friends — the brothers Barty, Eleanor, and Austin, were more
together this month than ever they were afterwards. Lord
Charles Barty spoke once, and spoke very well indeed ; and
Austin and blind Lord Edward, who had sat patiently in the
gallery to hear him, brought him home in triumphant delight to
Eleanor, and made her give them supper in honour of the great
event ; and a riglit pleasant supper those four noble souls had.
Then all sorts of things happened, and kept them alive. Sir De
Lacy Evans got in for Westminster, at which Lord Charles and
Eleanor were glad, though Austin would have preferred Captain
Rous, as he liked a snack of Toryism in his politics. Then Lord
Lincoln was rejected for Notts, whicli made them all sorry, and
made Lord Charles say what lie would liave done if his father had
dared to influence his election for Granitebridgc. Then there
was a Polish insurrection, which caused quiet little Eleanor to
utter the most ferocious and revolutionary sentiments about the
Emperors of Russia and Austria, and which incited Lord Edward
AUSTIN ELLIOT. iSo
to compose a piece of music expressive of the woes of Poland
and tlu'ir triunii)liaiit rcdressal ; whicli was played by hainmciiii{^
away at the black keys until they were all out of tune, and then
beginning on the white ; and, when they were finished, putting on
the pedals and working botli together in one magnificent crash.
Dut, in spite of all this, the Polish revolt ended as all other Polish
revolts will, until the cows come home ; and the Poles got lovingly
corrected by their father, Nicholas.
Then came the news of Moodkee and Ferozeshah ; and Eleanor
cried about Sir Robert Sale ; and Lord Edward got into the organ-
loft at St. Paul's, and induced the organist to let him play the
people out ; and he played such a triumphant symphony, that the
people all came back again, under the impression that, this being
Lent, the organist had incautiously refreshed himself with strong
liquors on a fasting stomach ; and the organist had to go secretly
to the back part of the organ and let off the wind. It was a
happy month for these four innocent souls, and before their golden
happy laughter Aunt Maria retired into her dressing-room, and
had her meals and scolded her maid there, to every one's great
content.
And Captain Hertford came but seldom that month — whether
he was busy, or because for a time he felt himself beaten by the
young people, we cannot say. It was the happiest month that
these four had had since they had known one another.
Did either of the three others know of the weary grief that was
at Eleanor's heart ; of the dark cloud which settled down on her
face each night, as soon as they were gone, and had left her alone
to the long night-watches ? Not one of them, or they would surely
have said that she was the most valiant and noble little martyr on
earth. Many things had to happen before Austin found it out;
and one of that group never found it out at all.
Patiently she would sit at her window, looking southward across
the crescent, at one light in some sick person's room opposite, and
wondering whether their burden was so heaiT' as her own, until
the last footfall died away in the deserted street. Sometimes
Aunt Maria would send for her after they were gone, and say such
temble things to her, as only one woman can say to another — nay,
as only a woman well practised in scolding like Aunt Maria can
say. But Eleanor would only sit and listen, with folded hands.
She had a gi'ief deeper than Aunt Maria, a grief which made
Aunt Maria's furious scolding sound like the singing of a mosquito
outside the net — a sound which makes your sleep uneasy, but
which does not wake you.
That happy month drew to a close. Ou the 14th they were
136 AUSTIN ELLIOf .
all together. The cloud which had settled on Eleanor's face eveiy
night after they had left her, grew visible by day. On the l-lth
of^March, when they were all together again, Austin noticed that
she looked anxious and pale. Lord Charles's wildest Radical
sallies only brought a faint smile into the close-set mouth, and a
feeble flash into the great grey eyes. Austin knew that the time
of her monthly pilgrimage was approaching, and did not wonder ;
the others thought she was ill. Lord Edward fonned a theoiy of
her having caught cold at churc'i, and she encouraged it.
It was Sunday evening. Lord Edward had gone with her to
the Abbey,'and the two sinners, Lord Charles and Austin, had
not gone with them. They were spending the evening at her
house, and laying out plans for the next week. There would be
no important debate the next night, and Lord Charles said that if
Eleanor would promise to give a supper afterwards, that he would
go down to the House and speak on the Silk question ; but she
said —
" You must not come here to-morrow or the next day. Austin
knows that I cannot receive to-morrow. I have to meet my man
of business to-morrow, and that always agitates me so that I am
fit for nothing the next day. If any of you are going to be kind,
you may call on Tuesday and ask how I am, but I cannot receive
you. I have passed a very happy month. If we four young
people should never pass such another together, let us always look
back on this one. Good-night."
The next month was not such a pleasant one by any means.
Politics were becoming embroiled. Mr. Disraeli was saying the
most terrible things, and Sir Robert's temper was not always
equal to bearing them. Every one was getting hot and angry,
and saying things they did not mean. And Austin, having less to
do with the matter than most others, was rather hotter and angrier
than anybody else. They saw but little of Eleanor, and she for
her part wished that the Corn Bill was done with for ever, either
one way or another.
CHAPTER XXIV.
So littlo did Austin think about tlu; natter wliicli liad troubled
him before, that tlic day of Eleanor's monthly pilgrimage would
have passed by altogether without his having noticed it, had it
not been for a mere accident, tli(> hislory of which is this.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 137
Austin had a veiy good habit of riding out early in the morning
before the streets were full, and the smoke had settled down ; and
on the 15th of April he ^Yoke early, and said that he would ride
out.
He rang the bell, and wlien his servant came he ordered his
horse to be saddled while he dressed, and called " Robin."
The seiTant called *' Robin " too, but Robin was not in his usual
place at the loot of the bed, and on further search it became
evident that Robin was not in the house, nor in the street either.
'* I brought him in last night," said Austin. " Run round to
Miss Hilton's, and see if he is there."
By the time Austin had done dressing, and was standing on the
doorstep, in a pair of yellow riding trousers, and a blue neckcloth,
his man came back. The dog was not there. It became evident
that the dog was stolen.
Austin was vexed and resolute. At last a foolish scullion
"wench, in the lower regions, incautiously volunteered information.
Austin's servants immediately claimed that she should be haled
before him, and interrogated.
She came upstairs in pattens, with a mop in her hand, her hair
all tumbled and tangled, in a dreadful fright. Austin's valet
oftered to hold her mop for her : she refused. He tried to take
it from her ; she fought him and beat him, and was ushered into
Austin's presence, red, triumphant, with her mop in her hand.
Her mysterious communication about the dog amounted to veiy
little indeed. She had found the dog scratching at the door, and
had let him out for a run, " Which the Milk had seen her."
" Find the policeman, and tell him," said Austin ; " as I come
home I will ride round by James's."
Riding about the west end of London before nine o'clock on an
April morning is a veiy pleasant pastime. The streets are nearly
empty, and you can dawdle as much as you like ; while in Picca-
dilly and such places, the air — should the wind have anything of
west in it — is as fresh as it is in the countiy. Eveiybody's horses
are out exercising, too : and you can see their legs, eyes, tails,
and noses showing out of their clothes, and may, if you like, drive
yourself mad, by calculating, on the " ex pede Herculem " plan —
by an effort of comparative anatomy far beyond Owen — what sort
of horses they are, and how much they are worth apiece. You
can also see the British cabman free fi*om the cares of ofhce, and
many other strange sights, not to be met with later in the day.
It was a veiy pleasant ride that Austin had on this spring
morning. He rode slowly over the piece of wood pavement be-
tween Sackville Street and Bond Street, and then trotted till he
138 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
came to the small patch opposite Devonshh-e House (both these
are laid down in good granite now), where there was a horse down
as usual. Then he walked slowly down the hill, and, turning into
the newly-opened park, had a gallop along Rotten Piow, and,
passing out by Kensington Gate, began to feel his way slowly
eastward once more.
Through fresh squares, where the lilac was already budding,
through squares and streets which grew grander and grander,
till they culminated in Belgrave Square itself, and then into the
lower part of the town which lies south-east of it.
It is astonishing how rapidly the tow^n degenerates to the south-
east of Belgrave Square towards Vauxhall Bridge ; or to be more
correct, did degenerate, in those days. From great mansions you
suddenly find yourself among ten-roomed houses. So you rapidly
deteriorate to six rooms, to four, to old bankrupt show vans taken
off their wheels, and moved on the waste ground, like old wora-out
hulks ; and, after them, dust and ashes, and old paper-hangings,
and piles of lath and plaster, and pots and kettles, and swarms of
wild children ; to whom this waste of ash-heaps are mountains,
and the stagnant fever-pools, lakes — who build here for themselves
the fairy castles of childhood, with potsherds and oyster- shells,
and who seem to enjoy more shrill wild happiness, than the
children of any other class in the community.
Austin paused before he came to this range of dust Alps. At
the junction of two low streets, between Vauxhall Bridge and
Millbank, there stood a house by itself, with a garden in front,
and a leafless arbour. This was James's, and James himself, in
his shirt sleeves, was in the front garden, drowning some puppies
in a bucket.
As Austin reined up, and paused before this house, the popula-
tion turned out to see the splendid apparition. Such a handsome
young gentleman, so nobly dressed, on such a beautiful horse,
before half-past ten, was really something to look at. ^^^as there
never a lady of Shalott among those busy worn needlewomen,
stitching behind the dirty blinds, who looked out and tell in love
with this noble young Camelot ? Who knows ?
" She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three puces thiougli tlie room,
She saw the hehnet and the plume,
Aud she looked down to Camelot."
Poor things ! Sitting there feeding on their own fancies, month
by month, it is a wonder how respectable, as a class, these poor
AUSTIN ELLlOt. 130
folks arc. If it were not for the cheap novels, what would become
of them ?
Austin drew up. Mr. James was so busy drowninj^ the puppies
that he did not hear him. So Austin cried out, " Hallo ! "
Immediately he heard an unknown number (he says nine hundred,
but that is an exa^^geration) oi dogs, dash out of barrels in the
back yard, and choke themselves with their collars. Before they
had got wind to bark, a sound was heard as of a strong man
swearing. At wliich these dogs (number unknown, Austin saw
afterwards thirty-five bull-dogs, and a cloud of black-and-tan
terriers, which, to use his own vigorous expression, darkened
the air) all rattled their chains, and went silently back among
the straw.
All except an invisible small dog, who, from the volume of his
voice, seemed to be the very dog in the ''Arabian Nights," which
came out of the walnut- shell. He continuing to bark, was audibly
kicked by the strong man, and Mr. James, having drowned the
last pupi^y, came towards Austin, hat in hand.
Mr. James, a great, handsome giant, was, and is, one of the
most remarkable men in the country. He was the greatest and
most successful cyuoclept, or dog-dealer, in England, and con-
sequently in the world. If a Chinese Mandarin had sent an order
to Mr. James for a dozen fat, blue, hairless dogs, to be cooked for
a fete chauiju'tie at Pekin, Mr. James would have executed the
order by the next mail, without winking his eye. Mr. James was
the gi'eatest dog-ftincier in England, and, I am exceedingly sorry
to say, that Austin was one of his best customers.
I have hinted at Austin's low taste for dogs before this. AYith
all his high political ambition, this low taste was one black spot
in his character. He had an ambition to possess the smallest
black-and-tan terrier in England, apparently for the delectation
of his groom, for they were always kept at the Mews with his
horses. The groom became, to a certain extent, debauched
through these dogs. Prize-fighters and far worse, used to make
court to that young man, and take him to public-houses, free of
expense, for the mere privilege of handling these wonderful dogs,
the largest of which did not weigh more than four pounds. Austin
had sometimes given at the rate of four guineas a pound for them.
Kobin had never considered them to be dogs at all, and had treated
them accordingly.
The enormous sums paid for these dogs, and tlie liict of their
being regularly stolen once a week, and recovered and sent home
by Mr. James, had ended in Mr. James, great man as he was,
being a creature of Austin's. He considered Austin to be a type
140 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
of the real English gentleman, the last hope of a degenerate age.
Consequently, when he had done drowning his puppies and saw
Austin at his gate, he advanced towards him with a very low bow.
" James," said Austin, *' I have lost Robin."
''What o'clock, sir?"
" About seven."
" Then I can't let you have him before to-morrow morning, sir.
My cads were all out before that. Will lialf-past eiglit to-morrow
morning do, sir ? "
" It must, I suppose," said Austin, '* unless he comes home by
himself."
Mr. James was much amused by this supposition. He said
Mr. Elliot would have his joke ; and requested that Austin would
dismount.
Austin did so, and Mr. James called for Sam. Sam came.
The invisible strong man before mentioned — a young man, in his
shirt and trousers, who had not washed himself, and who looked
like a prize-fighter under a cloud — which indeed he was. With
him came Mr. James's own favourite dog — a white bull-terrier,
who smelt Austin's legs and gave him a creeping up his back.
After which he went into James's yard and bought the dog which
came out of the walnut-shell for seven guineas.
Mr. James had not done with Austin. It appeared that in the
next street, towards the river, there was a dog belonging to a
master sweep, which Mr. Elliot must see, if he wanted to know
what a dog was. Austin, having given a shilling to the obscured
prize-fighter, who was waiting for an opportunity to Avash, mounted
his horse and accompanied Mr. James and Mr. James's bull-
terrier.
The master sweep was in his gateway, and between his legs was
a white bull-terrier, exactly like Mr. James's. Mr. James took
his dog by the neck, the sweep did tlie same. Austin called out,
" James, I won't have it ! " but it was too late, the dogs were at
one another's throats, and the douce respectable Mr. James was
transformed into a sliouting bhickguard ; wliih; Austin found him-
self, in spite of his fet'lings of shame, looking on at the most
brutal sport in tlie world. Every man who sets two dogs to fight,
ought to be beaten witli a good thick stick.
Whether it was that the residence of such a great cyuoclept as
Mr. James had debauched the neighbourhood and given to it a
tendency to keep surreptitious dogs: or whetlier tlu^ fact of its
b(ung what I\Ir. ])ickens calls a "shy" iieiglihourliood, with
infinite facilities of sending all dogs to play with the children
on the dust-heaps, in the rear, on the appearance of tlie tax-
AUSTIN ELLIOT. Ill
{^fttlioror, inclucc'd cvciv lioiisiliolder in these parts to keep a
(loj^, I know not. lUit there was a dog in every house; and the
moment the sound of the fight began, tliey rushed forth to see
the fun. Some leai)ed out of the windows of garrets, where tliey
had been confined for their sins ; others walked staggeringly along
the tops of walls, bristling with glass bottles ; some squeezed
themselves, panting, througli impossible places ; and one fell into
a water-butt, where he paddled and sneezed, until his mistress
took him out by his tail, and banged him about the head with her
shoe ; but the result was, that Austin, standing there on horse-
back, with the hope of stopping the cruel work at the first oppor-
tunity, found that his horse's legs were in, as it were, a bath of
dogs, who yelped and snapped and snarled round the two rearing
combatants in the midst.
And then suddenly he became aware that his own dog Robin
was in the midst of them. Whether he had dropped from the
skies, or risen out of the earth, be knew not, but there was Kobin
— his owu Robin — going round and round the dogs, and through
and through the dogs, asking this one how it came about, and
that one who was getting the best of it, and another one what
they had better do ? Robin — gay, handsome, rollicking Robin
was there, making himself agreeable to the ladies, giving the best
advice to the gentlemen, under the very nose of his own master's
horse, not having recognised either horse or master in his excite-
ment.
Austin heard some one call the dog by name behind him. He
tuiTied round, and he felt sick and faint, as well he might.
For there, in the midst of all this squalid blackguardism, was
Eleanor — Eleanor herself. She was dressed in common, almost
shabby, clothes. Her veil was up, and her eyes were red with
weeping ; and on her face was the very expression which he had
expected to see there on this veiy day of the month — worn anxiety,
grief, and shuddering terror.
She was standing on the pavement, feebly crying, " Robin !
Robin ! " but when she saw his face she cried out, " Austin,
Austin ! come to me 1 "
142 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
CHAPTER XXV.
Austin cauf^ht Mr. James's assistant, and got him to lead his
horse home. And in the next moment he was by Eleanor's side,
and Robin was bounding gladly around them. She took his arm,
and they walked homewards together.
Poor Eleanor was very much distressed, and agitated. She
]iad her veil down, and was crying, and Austin gently comforted
her. When she had jiartly recovered from her tears, she said,
"It was so naughty of Robin to run away from me after those
dogs." Austin would have liked to ask an explanation of her
appearance there, but he did not like to. Eleanor was very much
distressed and hysterical, and he wisely held his tongue.
Nevertheless, he was very much inclined to be angry with her.
She had been going to church a great deal lately, — going on week-
days too, — and always to what he would have called " Tractarian "
churches. Once she had asked him if he would be angry, if she
were to turn Papist. Now Austin's sole religious creed, at this
time, was a political hatred, derived from his father, of the
" Catholics," and never having risen so high in thought as
Tractarianism, he felt a nearly equal jealousy of them. He
got it now into his head, that Eleanor had some spiritual
adviser, either very High Church, or Papist, who had per-
suaded her to take these monthly journeys in this garb, to
this neighbourhood, on the grounds of religious mortification.
It was by no means an unnatural conclusion. He was inclined
to be angry with her, and determined to argue with her on the
folly of it.
He was very much inclined to be angry. He had very nearly
succeeded in making himself so, when she pressed his arm, and
said —
" Are you angry, Austin ? "
''No," he said, — "I mean yes. I am furiously angry, my
darling. How do you think that you can please God, by
appearing in such a place as that where I found you, in such
a dress ? Don't you suffer penance enough at home, every
day of your life, witliout allowing a priest to bind a grievous
burden on your back, which he, himself, would not touch with
one of his fingers ? "
Ah ! if she had told him the truth ! She saw his error. She
saw tliat he tliouglit she was making some kind of religious
pilgrimage, and she encouraged his error. In her deep love for
him, in her anxiety for his lionour and fame, she encouraged it.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 113
It was not so voi*)- lone,' iiftcr tliis tlitit, sittin,i^' at her drcssiiiL,'-
table, she noticed that lier hair was sliglitly gi**^'}'. She put down
her hrushes, and thought of her foolish, foolish falsehood.
" Austin," slic said, " let me get to heaven my own way. Don't
talk of this again. If you were sick, or in prison, would I not
visit you ? "
He comforted her, and said no more ahout it, and indeed, after
a few days, did not think very much ; for there was much to think
about elsewhere of a far diilerent sort.
The tiresome iteration of the Com Law debate began, as time
went on, to be relieved by fiercer and fiercer personalities. Honour-
able Members were saying things to one another, such as they had
not said since 1881, and have not said since. In the House it
was bad enough, but in the clubs it was worse, by all accounts.
Honourable and gallant ]Mc'mbcrs at the Carlton, were threatening
to pitch Right Honourable Members and future Chancellors of
Exchequer out of window, in the direction of the Reform Club.
" Or did so, in at least one instance," as Mr. C might say,
in hedging a general statement of this kind, and might also con-
tinue, ''future Exchequer Chancellor not pitched out of window
after all. Honourable major, tlireatening that same, hereafter
apologising with a certain leonine simplicity and honesty, not
without grandeur. On which occasion, also, we find that leonine
major savagely, and with feline snarl (yar-r-r ! To thy caiiTi,
Vermin, lest a worse thing befall thee 1) turning on a certain too
eager jackal of his, a Captain Hertford. Jackal apparently
(judging from infinite annual register, and newspaper-file cru-
dities) without even the jackal-merit of cunning. Only merit,
apparently, having teeth, and biting nobler than he. But a poor
thing in jackals, now happily passed away into limbo, for evermore
let us hope."
To add to the confusion, in this same pleasant month of May,
an opinion began to obtain, among those who were in the same
position, of knowing but little about the matter, but of talking a
great deal, that although the bill was sfao enough in the Commons,
it was not safe m the Lords. This caused a great deal of fidgety
irritation, and Lord Charles Barty went about (to use a trope)
with a pan of burning charcoal on his head, threatening utter
annihilation to his order, should they impudently dare to follow
their own convictions.
In the midst of it all, Mr. Smith O'Brien, driven to the verge
of madness at not making a sensation equal to his merits (O'Connell
extinguished a year since in a blaze of high-handed justice, and
no successor of sufiicient mendacity and talent appearing), con-
144 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
coived the noble idea of refusing to sit on Saxon railway committees,
and got himself shut up, in more ways than one, if the reader will
forgive a piece of harmless slang. He was rewarded for his
heroism, by appearing in the next week in perhaps the best
caricature in Fundi, — "The Naughty Boy who didn't care."^
Altogether, in this month of May, the people were getting
unwisely excited about this Corn Bill, and non-electors bcfjan to
stand about at street-corners and discuss it in a loud voice ;
which is an ugly symptom, in a close -packed city of two millions,
the most open part of it a mere Saint Antoine, not cut up east,
west, north, and south by the boulevards of a paternal Government,
anxious to remain a Government. People were getting very much
excited in the House and out of the House ; and what would have
happened in 1846 if the Lords had thrown out the bill, we are
almost afraid to think.
In the middle of all this Lord George Bentinck got up and
made, what we must all, I think, confess, a most terribly telling
speech against Sir Robert Peel. He unluckily tried his hand on
a proposition about the admission of oats, showing a degree of
ignorance or carelessness almost incredible in a man aspiring to
laad a party. Mr. Goulburn went about with him amidst the
laughter of the House. In the discussion which ensued, Captain
Hertford spoke for a few minutes, and succeeded in making Lord
George's case worse than before. The instant he sat down Lord
Cliarles Barty was on his legs.
It is possible that the House was relieved to find the quarrel
transferred to such insignificant members as Captain Hertford and
Lord Charles Barty. At all events, they appeared so. Lord
Charles did not speak for more than five minutes ; he did not
speak well ; he did not speak like himself. His heart was so
full of furious animosity against this man Hertford, that he said
things he ought not to have said. He insulted Captain Hertford,
and there were cries of Order. He had gone too far ; when he
sat down again beside Mr. Huddcrsfield the lawyer. Radical member
for a city in the West, that gentleman said to him, "You have
gone too far, Barty. That man will have you out."
But Captain Hertford took no notice of it. People were saying
all sorts of things about one another just then. Lord Charles had
not said anything about Captain Hertford, much worse than what
Mr. Disraeli had said of Sir Robert.
Austin had that evening led Lord Edward Barty up into the
gallery, and they two had heard it all. When the debate was
over, and they were waiting for Lord Charles in the old place
under the end of Henry VII. 's cliapel, Lord Edward said —
AUSTIN KLLIOT. 145
"Austin, ClirtiU's liiis insiiltt'<l that man. He will have a
messaj^'t' to-monow morning'. "
Austin said \w hoped not. No mt'ssa^'e came. And then poor
blind Lord Edward got an idea into his darkened head, which ho
acted on, the lull etiect of which we shall sec.
We arc ohlij^'ed, however, to follow ('a})tain Hertford on his way
home this evening. We wish we could take the reader home in
better company.
If any one had been able to see in the moonlight the vindictive
scowl that was on his coarse face, they woukl have augured ill for
any one who should venture to thrust his company on the Captain
in an obtrusive nuiuner that night. A handsome young French-
man, either not knowing or not caring what his state of mind
might be, came up, took him by the arm, and burst into the most
exaggerated form ot French laughter.
'* Ha ! ha ! but ]Milor used you sadly, my dear friend. 13y the
prophet, but he laughed at the most sacred beard of my own
Hertford. Come, let us shoot him. How say you, is ]\Jilor to
be kill?"
Captain Hertford showed no outward irritation at this man's
presence or manner. He answered quietly enough.
**Milor may go hang, rot, anything he likes, for the present,
my friend. Commilfaut, where have you sprung from? "
** From the gallery of the imperial Parliament of Great Britain,
where I have been listening to the burning, furious, and yet lucid
eloquence of my friend Hertford on ze oat. 'Twas a droll subject,
but ' nihil tetigit quod nou ornavit,' like Doctor Goldsmiss in the
triste old Abbey."
" Don't be a fool, Commilfaut."
" I will not when I am dead and buried, perhaps. Till then
fool I shall always be, dear Captain. Come and play the billiard
— one game — by dam ! Only one game."
After a few^ moments' consideration. Captain Hertford said Yes,
and they went towards a billiard-room near the bridge, which was
still open, at all events to the Captain.
The billiard-marker was a rather gentlemauly-looking young
man, though with a decidedly dissipated air about him. Some
day, some wise man will write the lives of eminent billiard-
markers. It ought to be a very interesting book, for the
Hves of most of them have been singularly erratic and tragical.
They began playing, and talked about indifterent matters in
English ; but alter a time Monsieur do Commilfaut having made
a hit, turned to the marker and said in French, " That was a
good stroke, was it not? "
11
146 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
The marker looked stupidly at him and said, " I beg your
pardon, sir?" M. de Commiifaut repeated the question, and
the marker turned with a puzzled air to Captain Hertford for
explanation.
"The man don't understand French, don't you see," growled
the Captain ; " go on."
'*I perceive that the pig-headed brigand does not, as you
remark, understand the language of Europe ; which is a charming
discovery, as we can now discuss a few little matters, which I
would be glad to have discussed." This was said in French, and
from this time the conversation was carried on in French, a
language which Captain Hertford spoke like his mother tongue.
" And how is my sweet cousin? " said De Commiifaut.
" She is a fool," said Captain Hertford, sulkily.
" She is. She don't appreciate me. Has, in fact, refused me
an absurdly small loan of nine thousand francs. Eleanor Hilton
is a 3'oung lady of incorrigibly bad taste. She prefers, for
instance, you to me. Can anything be worse taste, my Cap-
tain ? "
"Nothing, I suppose," said the Captain, wincing. "Women
are strange creatures ; they will sometimes like a man better than
a monkey."
The Frenchman was so delighted with this elegant sally of the
Captain, that he went into the wildest lit of laughter. He gave
his cue to the stupid marker, sat on a bench, and laughed till he
cried. After a time he took his cue again in a feeble manner, but
before he could strike the ball the fit came on again, and he
laughed till he cried again ; by degrees he became quieter, and
went on with his game.
"But I am glad to hear, my little pig — if, as you say in your
Parliament, you will allow me to call you so — tlMt you are at the
best with this infinitely rich cspilu/le, but very obstinate little
cousin of mine, Eleanor Hilton ; and for this reason among others,
that since she has refused me (by the moutli of an aged mounte-
bank, whose ears should be served up an (/rati)i at the devil's next
dinner party) this trifling loan, I am at this moment ' in nubibm,'
which means under ze cloud, unclassical cabbage ! "
At this moment the marker broke out into a short langh, and
they both quickly turned on him. Tlie marker explained.
" The Frencli genlleiiian lias played your ball, sir. I always
notice that too mucli talk don't do at l)illiards any more than at
whist."
The mistake was rectified, and they resumed the game and the
conversation still in French.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. Il7
"I suppose," said Ciiptiiin Hoitfortl, '' tliat you arc going to
nit'iiticn my little debt to you ? "
" His little debt ! Holy grey ! the wealth of these islanders !
Forty thousand fVaucs a little debt ! "
'* / don't call it a little debt ! It is a mode of speech," said
Captain Hertford. " You cannot get blood out of a stone, tiiough,
my friend."
''Alas, no! I know it. For this reason I am overwhelmed
with joy to hear that you are at best with our determined little
cousin ; that you are about marrying her, and about paying me
my poor forty thousand francs."
" You will have your money if you wait," said Captain Hertford,
sulkily. *' I shall certainly marry her, and you will be })aid in
good time."
" I am sure, dear Captain. She has, then, thrown overboard
this handsome young scoundrel — this Elliot? "
" No, she has not."
" I shall watch your play, then, with the greater anxiety. I
have seen him — he is amazingly handsome — and I have seen them
toc^ether. I followed her when she was leadiu;' a blind ]Milor, a
Sir Edward, and she met him — this Elliot — and I watched her ;
and I have had my good fortunes like another, and I can see.
And she loves him."
"I am quite aware of it," said Captain Hertford.
" And what are you going to do ? "
"You asked me to-night," replied the Captain, "why I did not
take a shot at Lord Charles Barty, for his cursed insolence in the
House. I'll tell you why. If I had out Lord Charles Barty, and
even hit him, it would necessitate a slight seclusion abroad, and
the leaving the field in the hands of the enemy. I am waiting
for an opportunity of insulting this fellow Elliot, and killing him."
" Piecommending yourself to my little cousin's good graces by
killing her lover," said the Frenchman. " Well, I have heard of
that succeeding. But that course also, my friend, will involve a
temporary seclusion in the centre of European thought and
intellect, Paris ; and our cousin will be left to lead about the blind
Milor, and will, as I hear, probably take the veil, which will be
the devil itself."
" Xot at all," said Captain Hertford. " If she was got away
fi-om Elliot and his confederate, Lord Charles Barty (who would,
too, were he his second, have to retire also), her aunt could bring
her abroad, and we mi<dit do anvthinif with her. Marker, go and
fetch me some soda-water and brandy."
The marker departed.
U8 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
"Do you suspect he uuderstands French, then ? " said Com-
milfaut.
" No ; but one can't be too cautious. If that girl refuses to
marry me, I have a secret of hers which is worth three thousand
a year to me."
''And what is that?"
" Dear friend," said Captain Hertford, " would it be a secret if
I told it you?"
" Why no," said the good-natured rascal of a Frenchman,
laughing, " only remember my forty thousand francs, or I will
force you to challenge me, and choose swords, old cabbage."
And so these worthies departed, infinitely satisfied. But their
interview compels me to call attention to a little story which I
have to tell. And which I will tell as dramatically as I can, so
that it may not be dull.
This billiard-room, where these two worthies had just held their
villainous conversation, was at that time the nearest billiard-room
to the House of Commons.
Austin Elliot was exceedingly fond of two things. The one ot
hearing debates in the Houses, the other of playing billiards.
When waiting for a debate to come on, what more natural than
that he should beguile the time with a game of billiards ? Still
more natural that he should play his billiards at the house nearest
handy, so as to run ofi' at any time. More natural yet, that he
should, with his hearty manner and open hand, get well kno\Mi
there, say tvr// well known to the proprietor Perkins.
At this point in our narrative, we must go back to a period ten
years antecedent, and begin all over again.
When Austin and Lord Charles were at Eton, there had been
an agreeable plucky boy there, whom they both knew, by name
Mapleton. This boy had gone to Brasenose, Oxford, and from
thence to the dogs ; liorribly in debt, disappearing into outer dark-
ness ; having, in fact, in his wanderings, rambled into that land
in which policemen and low persons of that kind have i)ower. It
was a sad business — the only thing to do was to forget tliat such
a lad ever lived.
But, about six months before this time, Austin had received a
letter from this lad MapK'ton, out of the Queen's Bencli, praying
for lielp for tlie sake of old acquaintance: and Austin had gone
away to him at once, with his good heart full of (*1(1 school recol-
lections, steadily ignoring all lati-r passages in this lad's life.
Only reflecting that he might be saved yet.
He heard tlie young man Ma})leton's story, lie paid the debt
for which he was in prison, and both he and Ijord Charles
AT'STIN ELLIOT. 140
promised tliat if lie slidiild (l('S('rv(! it tlicy would liclp liiia up tlu;
liiddor ii^'.iiii.
At this time it luippciUHl that the tlieii billijird-markcr at
Pt'rlviiis' I'or^M'd Pcikins' iiame tor 00/. lO.s., :iiid ^'(»t the money.
He louiul this so pleasant, it bein^' vacation time, and billiards
slack, that ho be<,'un to steal the billiard balls by twos and threes,
and si'll them in (ireek Street, Soho. This thrivinj^ also, and the
9G/. bein<^ capital untouched, he stole Perkins' cash-box, and
absconded. But, rememberin*^ that there was one more set of
new balls left, he, so to si)eak, /^//-absconded a^oiin, and came
back to letch them. But the measure ot his sins being full, it
fell out that Perkins met him on the stairs and essayed to aiTest
him. They fell downstairs t(\i:etlier, Perkins cut his head open
against the umbrella-stand, and the marker would have escaped,
had not Mrs. Perkins rushed out of the parlour, stunned him with
the hearth-broom, and got in the police. After this there was no
marker at Perkins' but Perkins himself, who pathetically told
Austin and Lord Charles that his tobacco business was going to
the very deuce for want of a billiard-marker, and they both cried
out, " Mapleton," and Mapleton came, and stole no cash-boxes ;
but passed on into higher walks in life after a time.
And this was the young marker who marked for Captain
Hertford and M. de Commilfaut, the night they had their im-
portant conversation. Add to this that, in consequence of five
years' Continental experience, more or less disreputable, he under-
stood French better than Captain Hertford, and from old Eton
recollections, knew a little more Latin than M. de Commilfaut ;
wliicli made him nearly betray himself, at the Frenchman's new
construction of in nuhibwi.
No wonder, then, that he, only now the poor ghost of what he
might have been, or what he might be yet, but with his poor weak
heart full of gratitude, took his post in front of Cheshire House,
veiy early next morning.
By and by the Duke came out, rosy and fresh, eager to get
some pure air before the smoke came down ; to take his two turns
round the square, and his look in at his stables, and wish to good-
ness he was back at Esham, among his beasts. Next came Lord
Edward, blindly staring, with his hand on his valet's shoulder,
away to the north-east for prayers, at Margaret Street. Lastly,
Lord Charles, in white trousers, tall, handsome, and gay, going
one knows not whither ; ready in his happy, youthful vitality, to
go anywhere where a gentleman might. Him the poor billiard-
marker stopped, and into his attentive ear poured all he could
remember of the last night's conversation.
150 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
CHAPTER XXYI.
All he could remember. It amounted to tliis — as far as Lord
Charles could understand it — that this billiard-marker had heard
Captain Hertford say that he intended to provoke Austin and shoot
him ; and that he (the Captain) was assured that Eleanor would
marry him, as soon as that was accomplished. With all the poor
fellow's eager honesty, he made a game of " liussian scandal " of
his information after all.
The marker and Lord Charles Barty played at Russian scandal
with a veni^eance. Lord Charles thou^dit that if he were to tell
Austin of it firsthand, there would be a furious outbreak on
Austin's part, and that there would be a duel, in which, as a
matter of course, Austin would be shot stone dead by Captain
Hertford. So he went up and waited outside of the chapel till
his blind brother came out, and told him (with Russian scandal
variations), and they both agreed that Lord Edward should tell
the story to Austin, softening it in every way ; just to put him on
his guard against quarrelling with Captain Hertford, until there
had been a grand consultation as to what the three friends were
to do.
Blind Lord Edward performed his commission (in the Russian
scandal way) ; he contrived to make Austin understand, that
Captain Hertford had in a public billiard-room, in the presence
of witnesses, asserted that he was engaged to Eleanor, and also,
that he was only waiting for an opportunity to pick a quarrel with
Austin, and shoot him.
About the first part of this communication Austin laughed
heartily ; about the second he looked very grave.
" Edward Barty," he said, '* surely tfou do not distrust
Eleanor?"
'* I would answer for her with my life," said the blind man.
" And I," said Austin. " Tliis Hertford is a creature of hers.
She paid his election bills. He knows something which she
wishes to have hidden from me. That is the reason of their
familiarity. I will challenge her about it, and have it explained.
V>\\i I know \\vx well enougli to know that the idea of her marrying
him is preposterous, mad, not to be entertained by a sane man. She
hates him. She knows and despises him as well as we do. I am
surprised that you should hav<! even rejteatcd such a report to me."
*' Dear Austin," said Lord Edward, "we are all agreed about
that part of the matter ; no one is anxious about that ; it is about
you that we are anxious. / have no doubt but that Captain
AUSTIN ELLIOT. lol
Hc'itfonl believes iliat if lie could <^ci yoii out of the way, and <^et
Aunt Maria to take her iihroad, that lu; would have his way. He
believes that ; we know Eleanor too well. But, old boy," con-
tinued Tiord I'idward, feeling out into his eternal darkness for
Austin's well-loved face, " if tlie do<^ shot you, in pursuing his
villainous i)lan, what would there be left for the rest of us but
misery and remorse, and imi)atient waiting for death, that we
might feel your dear hands again '? "
There was uo one to see the expression on Austin's face now —
an ex})rt'ssion seen by Captain Hertford two years ago on that face
at Tyu-y-lihaiadr, and to be seen by the worthy Captain once
more — an expression of mingled fury and fear. He burst out
with a snarl — •
*' Damn him ! Is he the only man who can shoot with a pistol ?
What sort of a country is this we live in, that a dog like that, by
possessing a certain dexterity — a dexterity whicli a Sikh Soubad-
liar, or a French chevalier d'industrie, could connuunicate to my
own groom — should hold the happiness of us all in his hand like
this ? By God, Edward, it is shameful ! Nothing to be said,
nothing to be done, but by the grace of this low blackleg, who has
the one accomplishment of hitting a man at twelve paces with a
pistol ball ! "
" It is an inevitable evil, Austin."
"It is not inevitable. The land is groaning under the system
of the duel, and the land will be rid of it. Curse on the fool who
invented it, and a curse on all fools who follow it. Therefore,
Edward, a curse on myself ; for let him beware, I will play Best
to his Camelford — mark me, I will ! "
*' I only know this," said Lord Edward, " that I will not have it ;
you shall not go out with that man. I will take measures "
"Your measures, my poor Eddy," said Austin, "would only
necessitate my blowing my own brains out instead of his. lie-
member, that any step taken to prevent a meeting between this
man and me, after what has passed, can only end in utter irre-
trievable ruin to me."
" I know ! I know ! alas, how well ! But you will be careful,
Austin."
" I will not go within a hundred yards of the man," said Austin,
" my anger is over in that last burst. If you could see my face,
you would know^ it."
At this time they were walking arm-in-arm round the garden in
Grosvenor Square.
" See your face! " said Lord Edward, " aye, I wish I could
see your face. Does it seem strange to you, to know a man
152 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
who does not know what seeing means ? I was Lorn hlind you
know, and ever smce I coukl think I have ti'ied to compare the
things I love. They have tokl me you were heautiful, and I liave
tried to reahse your face. Sometimes I have thought that it was
like the scent of violets, sometimes like the noise I hear on the
terrace at Esham on a summer evening, when the children are
playing on the village green down below; and sometimes when
you and Charles get wild over your politics, that it is like the mad
scream of Ernst's fiddle, when he makes all the nniscles of your
back tingle, and the neiTes about your face quiver again. AVhat
a fool you would be, if you were blind, Austin."
So Captain Hertford, by such talk as this, was removed
millions of miles from Austin's consideration. But when his
clothes were ofi' and he was horizontal in bed, the inexorable
Captain reappeared. And Robin, the dog, who slept with Austin,
got impressions, whether of thieves or fire I know not, which
made him sit up till morn, and pant ; for which he got his reward
from the boot-rack at various times in the night ; but still, after
divers more or less dexterous retreats from flying boots, he sat up
and panted conscientiously until morning dawned.
CHAPTER XXYII.
What was to be done ? Lord Charles, his brother, and Austin
all consulted, and the answer was, " Nothing as yet." "Wiiat
could be done ? The very slightest motion on their part would
bring on the very meeting they dreaded ; unless they resorted to
civil protection, in whicli case! there would be absolutely nothing
to be done, according to their code, but for Austin to blow his
brains out.
Poor Lord Edward, sitting in eternal darkness, not being able
to know men's faces and what expression acconipanii'd sucli and
such words, formed a project which no one but a blind man or a
madman would liave formed. His project was this, to sjieak to
Captain Hertford liimself. He liad been in Captain Hertford's
company three or four times, aiul always when Eleanor was
pr(!S(,'nt. He liad never seen iiis cruel, gluttonous face, and lie
iiad only heard his voice ; and the Captain's voice, in the })resence
of Eleanor, his benefactress, was not so unpleasant. It was
subdued to a sulky, respectful sort of growl. And judging iVoiu
AT'STIX KTJJOT. 153
his voico alone, and, pluming liiiiisilt' on liis slircwdnt'ss, Lord
Edward came to tlic conclusion that he was not quite so had
as the others wanted to make him out ; that, at all events, he
would try what could he done witii him. I must tell you liow he
tared.
Captain Hertford's })hin of operations just at this tiuu; was
most certainly nearly tiie same as that which he unfohled to the
Frenchman at the hilliard-tahle. ]3ut we must rememher that
he was a stujiid man, whose cunnin<^ was of a very low order.
He had, as he most truly said, a secret of Eleanor'si hy which he
mi«^dit extort money from her ; hut when that secret was known
to Austin, as he felt sure it would he on the very day of tiieir
marriage, he had cunning enough to know tiiat it would he worth
much less in Austin's hands than in hers. Moreover, were Austin
out of the way, and he safe ahroad, he felt sure that Aunt ^laria
had still power enough to scold Eleanor into going ahroad, in
which case he hoped to get her consent to marry him.
Here is where the man's low cunning failed him utterly.
Eleanor had always heen so gentle and so kind to him, for
the sake of what he had done for her and for the power that
he still held in his hands, that the fool never dreamed that she
loathed his presence, and that she hated the day when she first
saw lum.
Eleanor, in addition to her own terrihle domestic trouhles,
tangihle every-day trouhles — which she and her faithful old
footman hore patiently together, had got, from her native shrewd-
ness, a terror lest Captain Hertford should conceive the plan
of doing exactly what he was thinking of doing now — involving
Austin in a quarrel, killing him, and getting her ahroad, under
the sole protection of her aunt, whose madness was developing
day hy day.
This is what was the matter with Aunt Maria. She was
getting mad. Her fierce fits of scolding were hecoming fiercer,
and sometimes her maid would come up ten'ified into Eleanor's
room in the dead of night, and they two would listen to the
dreadful old woman scolding away to herself helow, as if her maid
was present.
Poor Eleanor did not know which way to turn among all these
terrihle apprehensions. But she made a solemn vow to herself, —
that if Austin were killed and she forced ahroad, that she would
emhrace the Popish faith, and claim the protection of the good
Archhishop of Paris, whom she knew.
So that as Captain Hertford's scheme stood at present, she
would have utterly \ATecked it. But Lord Edward Barty changed
154 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
the Captain's sclicme, and it was never put in execution.
Captain Hertford formed another one, and we sliall see how that
succeeded.
One pheasant morning in this INIay month, date I should say
ahout the 12th, Eleanor and the worthy Captain sat together in
Eleanor's drawing-room in Wilton Crescent. They were quite
silent. Some commonplaces had passed, Hertford had brought
her some Cape jessamine, and she had thanked him, and relapsed
into silence, wondering whether he had anything to say ; rather
wishing he would go, hut on the whole taking rather more notice
of Robin, who had come to her on a furtive visit, than of the
honourable and gallant gentleman.
Her regular, rather small features, had become somewhat
pinched and worn lately, and her air was a little languid. Her
eyes were as brilliant as ever, but her mouth was more closely
set ; and altogether her foce was more marked, and she looked
older. She had had not very much of artificial education, but
she had inherited a certain grace of posture from her mother, and
I know not how many grandmothers and great-grandmothers.
Every attitude which she put herself into was graceful. Her
present one was very so, it was the one in wliieh one most
commonly saw her : sitting in perfect repose, with her hands
folded on her lap, without one fold in her drapery awry or out of
place. She had the art of sitting absolutely still for any lengtli
of time with the most perfect grace ; and that is a most difficult
and rare art, and also a most useful one.
It puzzled Hertford on this occasion. He had something to
say to her, but he was a very stupid man, and he never could
start a subject of conversation without assistance. On this
occasion he got none ; judging from appearances, and knowing
her as well as he did, there did not appear the slightest reason
why Eleanor should not sit in that posture, witli her liands folded
in her lap, in tliat exasperating manner, for the next two hours.
The Captain got angry, and at last he said, — " I beg your pardon,
Miss Hilton."
Eleanor merely turned her head, and looked at him witli
an expression of languid curiosity. She changed lur attitude,
but it was only more graceful than before. Hertford liad to
go on —
*' There is a knock at the door. I am glad of it, for it will
cut me sliort. I liave to tliaiik you for your i-xtiaordiiiary
generosity about my election business. I am grateful, I assure
you."
<*My dear Captain Hertford," slic said, ([uietly, "no one could
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 155
have (loRorvcd my assistiinco more than yourself. I will always
be your IViciul as loii^ as you deserve it."
Tiic door was opened, and James snarled out, —
" Lord Eddard and Lord Cliawls. That gal Susan have
dropped my best eut water-jui,' and broke it. She were a-washinf(
on it at the scullery sink, and she let go on it, and down it come.
Says she's all of a tremble 'cause she dreamt last night, as the
carpenter she keeps company with in the country, cut her throat
with a bevilling plane, and buried her body in a old saw-pit.
Prat her, I wish ho had." And having said this, he departed,
and banged the door behind him, while Eleanor's face was lit up
with a smile.
On seeing Hertford, Lord Charles paused for an instant, and
consequently Lord Edward, w^ho had his hand on his brother's
neck, and was being led by him, paused too. A singular pair.
Both very handsome, singularly alike in feature, dressed similarly
from top to toe ; and yet with such a strange difference between
them. Charles had a pair of bright, honest blue eyes — Edward
was stone blind. Looking at Charles first, and then at his
brother, had the same efiect as if you looked at the well-known
face of a dear friend, and immediately after at the sightless,
staring, marble bust of him.
'' Miss Hilton," said Lord Charles, '* I have piloted Eddy here;
he says 3'ou will take him to church. Do, that's a dear soul, for
I must go. Good-bye."
Hertford had risen too, and when Lord Charles was gone,
looked towards the door; Eleanor said, ''Captain Hertford,
would you mind stopping? I have something to say to you."
And on this the Captain sat down again.
The bell was even now ringing for church, and Eleanor must
hurry away, and put on her bonnet ; and so Lord Edward w-as
left alone with Captain Hertford, and Hertford sat and stared at
the blind man, who groped his way to the piano, and began
softly playing snatches of sacred music. He had never been
introduced to Captain Hertford. There was no reason why
Captain Hertford should speak to the brother of the confounded
jmppy who had insulted him, and so he sat and stared at those
sightless eyes.
Those sightless eyes ! The darkened windows of a house in
which sight lies dead, shrouded in gi'ave-clothes of strange
misconceptions, until the dawn of the Resurrection shall begin
to gleam in the East, and the dead shall rise upon their feet.
The eyes of the blind are more awful to look at than the eyes of
the dead.
156 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Yes, moie awful. The eyus of tlie dt'ad have looked (at one
time) upon the earth in whicli their time of probation lias passed,
and their eyes have carried the outward semblance of their fellow-
men, into their soul. But the blank staring eyes of those who
have been born blind, have looked on nout^dit but darkness from
the beginning : and the soul imprisoned behind them, has only
groped about in the night of its living tomb ; and has learnt to love
only by the sense of hearing and touch.
What a strange riddle the earth must be to a man born blind.
We all know of the blind man, who thought that red was like the
sound of a tiumpet ; and we remendjer it, because it was, in some
sort, a good guess. But think what a puzzle the whole world
must be to a man in this state. Try to remember if you have
ever awaked at night, in pitch darkness ; and how the nibbling of
a mouse was to you the stealthy working of the burglar's centre-
bit ; and the rustlo of a few withered leaves in the night wind,
became the fierce crackle of burnin<jj beams.
Try to think of a man in a chronic state of misconception, and
do not blame Lord Edward Barty for what he did.
Living in a very small circle, under his terrible affliction, with
few^ hopes, few- amusements ; his source of information, the being
read to by his valet — he, labouring under the consciousness of a
want of information, avoided conversation and society. By this
means he had not got the great lesson which society teaches, —
knowledge of the value of words, and so —
And so — after playing at the piano for a time, he stood up.
Captain Hertford sat at the other end of the room, and silently
watched him.
"What a devilish curious thing," thought Captain Hertford,
'' to be always in the dark, like that fellow."
Lord Edward began to feel over the nearest table to him, with
his fingers, as though looking for something. Captain Hertford
was right. There was something very strange and weird in
watching the long fingers wandering about among the china and
bijouterie, or what not, which la}' on the various tabh's ; some-
thing very strange in that beautiful darkened face ; which, with
an instinct, the depth of which no man can fathom, was always
turned towards those white hands wliicli its eyes had never sei'u,
and never would see.
" It is unconnnon curious to think of," thought the Captain,
" but that fellow has never seen any otlier fellow in his whole lif;'.
There is something very horrid about it."
Tliere was. Lord Edward was fi'eling his way softly round the
table, towards Captain Hertford, in sightless silence, getting
AUSTIN ELLlcrr. 157
hearer and iicaicr cvcrv iiislaiit witli liis loiij^' tliiii fiiij^'crs ; it vuis
very horrid. Ilcrttord held liis linalli, and felt a striiii^'c cn-cpin^'
conic over liini. One of his hii; liands was on tlic lal)K', ami Lord
Edward's lon;^' liands wore eoniinj^ slowly towards i(, icclin^' tht-ir
way tlirou|^li the hooks, and press-i)a|)i('rs, and })ap('r-knivc'S, — and
yet Captain Hertford k('i)t liis hand still on the tahle ; there was
a kind of fascination ahout the hlind man's eyes.
At last, Lord Edward touched his hand, he took it up in his,
and Hertford did not resist. Lord Edward spoke, and Captain
Hertford listened, listened to stranj^'e words, words which at first
made him sit dund> with terror, hrave man as he was.
*' Feeling about in the everlasting darkness that surrounds me,"
said Lord Ivlward, " I have come across the hand of a man. It
is a hand which has held a sword, and used that sword at the
gates of death. It is the hand of a brave man. And yet that
hand will soon be slippery with innoceut blood. It will be the
hand of a murderer soon ! "
Before Captain Hertford bad made up bis mind wbether or no
the man who was talking was a madman, as well as blind, the
other went on.
" Captain Hertford ! I cannot prevent you killing Austin Elliot.
It were almost better that lie should be dead, than that he, with
bis feelings of honour, should live on, if I were to interfere and
prevent you fighting him. I do not speak of him. I speak of
yourself. I know that you have laid a plot to assassinate him.
Every detail of your plot is laiown to me. That rascally gambling
cousin of Eleanor's, that Commilfiiut, might be brought into court
to-morrow to convict you of a conspiracy. You are quite in my
liands if anything should happen to Austin ; but I am held down
from taking steps to save him, for the reasons I have mentioned.
I only tell you this, that if anything does happen to him, nothing
shall save you. If you were ever on any provocation to fight him
after this, nothing could save you. I am in possession of your
wdiole scheme, Hertford ; now what will you do ? "
It seemed, from the expression of the Captain's face, had any
one seen it, that what he w^ould do, would be to take Lord Etlward
bv the throat, and beat his brains out against the wall. All he
said was, " Wait, my Lord — wait, will you? You are presuming
very considerably on your infirmity."
" Not I. I am quite without fear, I assure you. If my
life would save Austin's I would gladly give it. I will wait.
Think for a little, Captain Hertford, and tell me what you mean
to do."
Captain Hertford saw quickly that he was in a scrape. That
158 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
if they had got hold of his conversation with Comniilfaut, it would
be impossible for him to fight Austin, without mcurring far more
serious penalties than those consequent on an ordinary duel. He
felt, in one instant, that his plan of having Austin out and shoot-
ing him, was gone to the winds. He gave it up. Austin was
safe from that moment, if he had sense to staij in Ji'iif/land.
But Lord Edward's w^ords, coming as they did upon the strange
fit of superstitious terror, arising from the fact of his creeping
towards him in that strange, silent way, had raised a very mad
devil in him. It is a mere silly truism, a thing hardly worth
repeating to an intelligent person, that bad people are never so
cruelly vindictive as when they are recovering from a fit of terror.
He would have liked to revenge himself on Lord Edward, but that
was impossible. But
But there was Loixl Edward's brother. He could hit him hard
there. They talked of enforcing the laws against duelling, but
was not P acquitted ? They would not dare to do more than
they ordinarily did on such occasions, if he had out Lord Charles
Barty. The young prig who had insulted him in the House, till
even the Whigs called Order. Now he rapidly began to reflect,
now that his rage was turned that way, that his reputation would
be a ragged one if he did not. It would be a political duel. He
had precedent here. Canning and Londonderry ; AVellington and
Winchelsea. Yes, that handsome young dandy should be scape-
goat. He had brought it on himself.
And also Austin would have to go abroad if anything happened.
And Messieurs the French Ofticers were dexterous, and, yes, on
the first blush of it, it would do. So he spoke.
''Lord Edward."
"I listen."
" I will take an oath to you. Austin Elliot shall, if he be so
minded, spit in my face, and I will not go out with him, unless he
comes abroad. Will that content you ? "
" I always said," said Lord Edward, " that you were not a bad
man. I thank God I am right. Let me call you my friend,
Captain."
" No, I will not do that. You have insulted me, and in a
cowardly way, because you knew I could not resent it. I will not
meddle with you. You have a shrewd tongue, Lord Edward."
And before tliey had time to say anything more, unconscious
Eleanor came in ready for church, and It-d ott' Tjord Ivlward.
They went to church, and sat like two stone angels through it all,
until some one, who had come up fioiu Oxford, played out, in a
triumphant hurling storm of sound ; and, wlien the last echo had
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 169
doue Imminiii^' in i\w I'ool", tliry waited to;^'rllur at tlie bottom of
the organ-loft stairs, till tliey heard the woll-knowii sound of his
wooden le,<^' sImiipiiiLj down ; and after an alloctionatc greeting,
carried him oil' to lunch at J'jieanor's.
And this was the result of Lord Edward's interview with Captain
Hertford.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
It was a wild week this which followed. The ** non-electors "
who had be.^'un hy merely sneering at Peel's tergiversation, and
rather laugliing at the Bill, now had got earnest about it, in one
way or another, and were showing a slight tendency to congregate.
The more intelligent among them had found out, or had thought
they had found out, what the intention of the Bill was. The
great fact that the duty was to be reduced at once from sixteen to
four shillings, was enough to excite them somewhat, for bread was
dear. Their excitement was over pretty much, on Saturday morn-
ing, when the Bill was passed, though, as far as this story is con-
cerned, the Corn BiU was never passed at all. It icas read a third
time at four on Saturday morning, but, before avc come to that
period, we shall not be thinking much about corn bills.
Austin was in a very vexed and excited state that week, and he
said it was the Bill ; nay, more, he actually believed it was the
Bill, with which he had nothing whatever to do, not even having
a vote for Westminster. He was excited and angiy about Captain
Hertford.
There was no doubt about one thing, according to the code of
honour of those times. Austin had heard of threats uttered
against him by a buUy and an enemy, and had talioi no notice of
t/u'in.
This consideration was driving him mad all that week. He felt
like a guilty man. What would the world say if they knew all ?
If they knew that he was in possession of Captain Hertford's
language about him, and knew that he had not noticed it. It was
terrible.
'* What would the world say if it knew all? " Unluckily the
world knew a little too much ; and, as to what it would say, Austin
found that out on Thursday.
Lord Charles was in his rooms with him in the afternoon, and
making or trying to make Eobiu sit up in a corner and hold a pipe
ICO AUSTIN ELLIOT.
in his iiioutli- His fiither had given his sister Minny a dog on her
birthday, a spaniel dog, with long drooj^ing ears on each side, like
the Speaker's Avig, which would sit up and smoke a pencil-case ;
and so, why should not Austin's dog ? Which circumstance shows
that this desperate young Jacobin thought of something else
beside the salvation of his country.
Austin was very silent and anxious. Whatever he thought
about, the question always came back. What would they think
if they knew ?
Presently a man came in ; an old friend ; a very tall, awkward
man ; a man who at Eton had been a long shambling lad, whose
shoes were always coming off, and who never could be taught to
swim, or to row, or to do anything in that line, except get in the
way. A fellow who was always getting his eye blacked at cricket,
and his ankle sprained at football. A fellow who was always top
of his form, and was always up half the night doing other lads'
impositions (or whatever they call those inflictions at Eton). A
felloAv who was always getting into trouble for some one else ; who
would have died sooner than betray another boy. Who, as a boy,
had been beloved, reverenced, and bullied by every one who knew
him ; a maker-up of quarrels ; a pleader at school with masters,
at the University with dons ; a high-hearted, noble creature, whose
shoes were never tied, whose hair was always tangled, whose coat
was never brushed, who went on till he developed into one of the
shrewdest and most clear-headed lawyers of the day. Early in
his career he had been christened "Daddy," which name always
stuck to him, and will stick to him, even if he gets on the bench.
He had been to the United University Club, and had heard
conversation there which made him go and seek Lord Charles.
He had found Lord Edward, and having told him what was the
nuitter, had heard from him of his last conversation with Captain
Hertford. He had at once determined to speak to Austin himself.
Also, hearing of what passed on that occasion, he thought that
Austin was perfectly safe, or he would have cut his tongue out
sooner than say what he did.
" Austin, I have been at the Club. Charles Barty, attend to
me, and leave that dog alone. They have been talking of you
there."
*' Aye ! " said Austin.
" Yes ; a certain blackleg bully has been taking your name in
vain ; and they were wondering why you have not noticed it. I,
as a man of peace ; a man who, if need were, would make; no more
of falling on this man Hcrtf{n'd, and beating him myself, sooni'r
than that anything should hai)pen to you ; I, oven 1, think that
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 161
you on<]jht to notice it. Go about witli tliis fellow, in somo public
phico, iind brinL( liiiii to acconiit. If I did not knoic that bo will
not take it up, but will put liis tail between bis left's, lor uncom-
monly good reasons, I would not give this advice; you know I
would nol. (lO about with liiiii, and i'oice biiu to deny what be
bas said. I will go bail that nothing follows."
So sadly rigbt, so sadly ^\Tong.
*' Wbat has be been saying ? " said Austin, quietly.
'' Well, go down to the Club and ask the men there. I will
not tell you. Well, be bas been coupling bis own name and Miss
Hilton's."
** Indeed ! " said Austin.
** Yes, old boy, and you sbould contradict bim, if only for ber
sake. Don't go too hr. Send bim. quietly to bis kennel, and he
will go. If be don't, scud him to me. I will not have you talked
of by a fellow like that. Now, good-bye, go to the Club."
And so he went. Loi'd Charles rose, and began walking up
and down the room, looking very grave, as soon as they were alone.
And Austin said, <' Well!"
Lord Charles said, "Well, Austin."
" There is no doubt about it now, I think you will allow."
**I am afraid not. I am afraid 3'ou must do it. God help us.
All this that Daddy says about his not having you out, may be true,
or may be moonshine. Whichever it is, you must tax him with
what be has said. You may have to go out with him. However,
it will be time enough to think of that, when he asks you : which
Daddy says he won't."
" I don't care which way it goes now. I am perfectly happy
again," said Austin. " Charles, for the last day 1 have felt like
a thief; now, that I am committed to the adventure, I am myself
again. I ought to have been committed to it two days ago. It is
not too late to remedy that. Let us go down to tlie Club, and
talk as loud of Hertford as he has talked of me. My reputation
wiU be right again in ten minutes. Wait for me till I brush my
hair."
When Lord Charles was left alone, he sat for a few minutes,
with his hand on Robin's neck. And then he bent down his head
on the table, and prayed.
What strange kind of prayer was that ? AVas it a prayer for
guidance ? No. It must have been a prayer for mercy and for-
giveness. For he had made the resolution to watch Austin and
Captain Hertford, lest they should come together ; to insult Cap-
tain Hertford himself, and go out with him ; and to save Austin
at the sacrifice of his o^vn life.
12
162 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Why ? Ah ! that is hard to answer. Some natures, however
darkened with regard to a higher system of morality, have in them
a kind of dull, blind chivalry, which will lead them to all lengths ;
and, at five-and-twenty, if we can remember so long ago, friendships
are very warm. Why is Bill led out of the dock to ten years'
penal servitude, because he won't turn evidence against Tom ?
Explain me the one thing, and I will explain you tlie other. I take
it that Bill and Lord Cliarles Barty act upon much the same
motives, only that Bill would not have wilfully compassed the
death of a fellow -creature. Lord Charles Barty's life is a more
graceful one to write about than Bill's, with his beer and his
skittles, and his vague notion that the policeman, protector of
society, is also the enemy of mankind. But, ah ! what a poor
fellow would he be who would not acknowledge that both arc
capable of most chivalrous devotion.
Perhaps the advantage lies with Lord Charles in this ; that he
would actually go to the death for his friend ; whereas poor Bill,
were it a capital matter, would, after standing all day in the hot
court, staring with eager eyes, hot lips, and lowering face at the
counsel for the prosecution ; and with the same hot lips, but with
more eager eyes at his own counsel — after all this, I say, would,
in the end, not being held up by a certain something which some
call chivalry, give way and tell the truth for the sake of dear life :
and would afterwards go away a free man and take to drinking,
and drown himself ultimately in the Regent's Canal, as the only
solution : which we can only hope he will not find to be an
eminently unsatisfactory one.
Lord Charles's resolution was taken, and when Austin had
brushed his hair and had come back, Austin only saw that he
looked grave, and wished that he had looked gayer.
" Come, cheer up, Charles," said Austin, " I am not dead yet.
Faithless friend, you ought to keep up my spirits."
Lord Charles smiled, but did not laugh.
" I know why you can't laugh, old fellow," said Austin. '' Do
you think I could laugh if I was going out with you ? Come on,
let us go to the Club and kick up the preliminary row."
So they went. At the Club, among the old University set, such
few of them who happened to be there, Austin expressed his inten-
tion of morally or pliysically ]>ulling Captain Hertford's nose to-
morrow, wliich was quite satisfactory. Jjord Charles slipped away
and went to Captain Hertford's lodgings in Pall Mall.
An obtuse maid, l)('ing inquinnl of, rcjircscnted tliat llie Cap-
tain was not at home, that lie had gone out of town that afternoon,
that he had gone to INIalta on business, by the two o'clock train,
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 163
Imt would bo back to dinniT I lie next day at five. This boin^^, on
the face of it, an impossibility, in the present imperfect state of
our international coinniuiiication, it became necessary to call in
the Captain's hindlonl Ivuiicinian. The Kin^ of Jiootmakers
deposed that the Captain had been down to Malsam, the town he
represented, to S(*e it' the otlier member, ^Mr. No^o (C), would be
Well enoa<j[h to come up and vote ; and that, also, the Captain
would most certainly be back late the same nif^ht, and that the
maid's story about his coming l)ack the next day at five was a
fiction.
The next morning Lord Charles, never for one instant flinching
from bis purpose, rose somewhat earlier than usual, and having
dressed bimself with great care, and after taking a few turns in a
certain passage, knocked at tbe nursery door, and at once passed
in.
He was greeted with a wild cry of welcome. His little brothers
and sisters were in the position of *' being got up," and were
strewed about like rosy apples. Two of them, still in their night-
gowns, were dramatising a scene in real life, which was at the
same moment enacting in another part of the room — that is to say,
they had stripped a doll stark naked, and were washing it in a
washhand basin — a process which (her bust being of wax, and the
rest of her being of calico and sawdust) rendered her unavailable
in her capacity of doll, for evermore. Another was sitting up in
his crib, and was driving four-in-hand to the "Star" at Kich-
mond, with a pair of list garters, lent by the youngest nursemaid ;
and another was being tubbed. This fellow leaped from the hands
of nurse to embrace his brother ; but seeing the door open and
the way clear, some sort of devil entered into him, and caused him
to run, stark naked as he was, violently do^^^lstairs. He reached
the hall with great success, but was captured by a solemn young
footman, and led back again in a proud and vain-glorious state of
mind. Half-way up the stairs he bit the footman, who hoped that
his lordship was not going to be naughty ; which speech, being
addressed by a very tall man to a naked child of three, struck
Lord Charles as wonderfully funny. Meanwhile, above stairs,
while all the nurses were out on the landing looking for the fugi-
tive. Lady Florence held a regatta in the hip-bath with her
brothers' and sisters' shoes, three of which were unfortunately
swamped and sunk.
Lord Charles kissed them all. His brotlier George was at
Eton, and his eldest brother. Lord Wargrave, in Italy ; so nothing
remained but to see his father and mother.
His father was in high feather. Lord (somebody or another)
1G4 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
had accepted his offer for a certain mare. She had been sent
home, and he incited Lord Charles to come down to Esham on a
secret journey with him, and see her. Lord Cliarles pleaded the
debate, and his father wondered whetlier poor Edward would like
to come. At all events, he might get some flowers from the
gardener, and give them to that quiet little girl that his friend
Elliot was going to marry. That girl seemed very kind to
Edward ; his mother said she was a good little body, and so on.
His mother was in her dressing-room. He did not trust him-
self mucli liere. He said he liad come to wish her '' good
morning." He kissed her and left her.
He asked the servants w^liere was his brother Edward. His
Lordship had gone to church. It was as well. He left his
father's house — a house of order, domestic love, of old renown and
of chivalrous honour — to pursue his adventure with a worthless
bully. When he thought of what this house might be by this
time to-morrow, he grew sick, but never flinched.
Was it ridiculous and out of place, that even now he should go
round to the stables, to have a look at the horses, and to speak a
word with the men ? It was not veiy absurd in him. In his
father's house the servants took rank after the children. The
sen^ants were all from the estates. Forgiveness was extended till
seventy times seven, and discharges for misconduct were veiy rare :
generally attended with utter despair on the part of the culprit,
and with tears and a temporary seclusion on the part of the
Duchess. No ; on the whole there was nothing ridiculous in his
visiting the stables.
He went into every stall and he spoke to every man and boy
there. He was the favourite of the family. He never rebuked
but gently, and he always stood in the breach between the culprit
and his father's anger, to the very last. People who know about
these things say, that in some large old-fasliioned establishments
of this kind, there is a certain devoted aifection which arises
between master and servant, quite apart from interest. One would
fancy that such a thing was quite possible. One has kno^\^l
of convict servants risking their lives for a good master ; is such
a thing impossible among footmen and grooms ? Or is Jenkins,
selfish, cowardly, and effeminate, to go down to posterity as the
type, instead of tlie exception — merely because his master dresses
liim like a Tom -fool ?
We know not. We only know ihat these servants were glad to
see Tjord Charleys, and that he was, in liis way, wisliing tlieni
** Good-bye " ; for at this time he believed that he would never
SCO them again. Ho ordered the man who was supposed to have
AUSTIN ELLIOt. 165
the care of liis person, to brinpj his cab to Mr. Elliot's lodging's
at four, and then he went hack to Captain Hertford's.
The captain had come hack late last night, hut was gone out
early that moruinj^. There was nothing to do but to go on to
Austin's, and to keep him in siglit all day. But Austin was gone
out too : his servant did not know where.
So Lord Charles got breakfiist at his club, and waited im-
patiently. These two men nught meet. Austin miglit have gone
in search of Captain Hertford. Men came and talked to him.
There was very little doubt that the Corn Bill would pass that
night ; there would be a long fractious debate, an iteration of
every argument on both sides, but it would be read. Not that
Lord Charles cared much about it now.
And where was Austin ? He had come home, and going to bed,
had asked for Robin his dog. Miss Hilton's servant, old James,
had called and fetched Robin away that evening. Miss Hilton's
footman had reported, in the course of conversation, that one of
Miss Hilton's maids had lit a bit of fire in old Miss Hilton's room,
with the register down, and finding the room full of smoke, had
run through the streets Jbareheaded, raising the town, till she fell
doA\Ti in a dead faint at the engine-house door.
Austin knew that the next day was the day of Eleanor's
monthly pilgiimage ; if any one had told him that he meant
to watch her, he would probably have struck him. And yet
in his feverish state of mind, he went down early next morning,
and looked at Mr. James's dogs.
He was in that worthy's fi'ont garden, listening to that worthy's
platitudes with a deaf ear, when he saw his own dog, Robin, come
bounding out of a by-street, from the direction of ]Millbank, and
hunt a hen who was taking her breakfast in the middle of the
road. He w^atched the street out of which he had come.
He saw Eleanor come out of that street. She was leaning
on Captain Hertford's aim, and was talking eagerly to him — -
she who was his, by ever}' tie and vow that could be made, was
leaning on the arm of the man that was seeking his life — she who
could keep a secret from him, could be in confidence with that
bully, that assassin ! There was no doubt about his pm*pose now.
Either that man or he should die. The time soon came when
he got his lesson ; the time came when he would sooner have
blown out his own brains, than tire a pistol at the most worthless
man alive, but the time had not come yet.
It was no use following them then ; Hertford would be down
for the debate that night. He went home, and soon after Lord
Charles came to him.
166 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Austin poured out his furious indignation to him, not only,
alas ! against Captain Hertford, but against Eleanor. Lord
Charles only continued to assure him quietly, that the time
would come when he would be sony for what he was saying;
that he. Lord Charles, would go bail for Eleanor with his life.
The weary day wore on —the day which both of them had
looked forward to with such hope. There was no doubt that the
Bill would be read a third time that night, and the Lords dare
uot Alas, how little either of them cared for the Bill now,
or for the Lords either !
At half-past five they both, by tacit consent, went down to
the House ; Lord Charles to his place, while Austin fought his
way into the gallery. At this time affairs might have arranged
themselves anyhow ; the way they did arrange themselves was
this.
Captain Hertford and Lord Charles were both eagerly anxious
to meet, as we know. But at about ten o'clock Lord Charles
remembered that his father would be soon leaving the House
of Lords, as he knew that he was going to Lady Something's
party, or drum, or what not, for he had heard him say so. He
had a desire to see his father again. He saw Austin, as he
thought, hopelessly wedged in the gallery ; he saw Captain Hert-
ford sitting sulkily opposite ; he thought that he might safely slip
out for five minutes and see his father once more.
Austin saw him rise and go ; he saw Captain Hertford rise and
follow him. Then he turned on the crowd behind him in the
gallery, and fought his way out like a madman.
When he felt the cold night wind on his face he found himself
among a crowd, a crowd of all sorts of peoi)le, fidgeting and talking
about what was going on inside i\ic House.'" He felt puzzled and
confused among so many fresh faces, until he saw a policeman
whose face he knew, and asked him whether he had seen Captain
Hertford.
The policeman, touching his hat, said, yes ; tliat Captain
Hertford had lollowed Lord Charles Barty in the direction of
the Beers' entrance. Austin liurried tliat way as fast as he
could go.
At tliat time ihv passage to the Peers' entrance was a squalid
sort of alley. Willi high slab palings on the right, and on the
left a strange wooden building, bcyoml all again an archway. On
the left, also, was a high wooden screen, i)i'rforated with square
holes, which represented, unless we forget. Dr. lleid's ventilating
apparatus. (" 1 tell you," said Lord lirougham once, " that
* The iiulhor left that crowd at u qiuutor past eight or so.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 107
I don't want explaniition, I want air.") Altof^'otlicr it was an odd
sort of transition placi', rtiidon-d more untidy l)y a low railing'
which ran alon^' one side of it, nearly lialt'-way across.
Up this passage Austin hurried, lie was too late. He lieard
voices in disputi>, raised al)ove the coninion tone of conversation.
^Vhen lie came up tliere were three people in a group. One a
peer ; Lord Charles ]iarty, who leant with his back against the
railings ; and Captain Hertford, who was opposite him. These
were the three.
" You have heard what passed, my Jjord," were the first words
that Austin heard. " I have told Lord Charles Barty that he is
a liar."
** And you also luard, Lord Sayton," said Lord Charles,
" that I, walking up here with you, and seeing Captain Hertford
following me, turned on him, and without the least provocation,
told him that he was a bully and a scoundrel, and that I also
repeat my assertion now. I suppose there is nothing more to
be said, unless we intend to scold and light like two coster-
mongers."
"Well, I should say not," said Lord Sayton. ''The affair
seems plain, though 1 am devilish sorry for it ! "
" This quarrel is mine ! " said Austin, breathless.
*'It should have been, by all accounts," said Lord Sayton;
"but you are rather late, ain't you? Do you want me?" he
added, turning round towards the two others.
" No, thank you, Sayton," said Lord Charles.
" I shall be glad of your assistance. Lord Sayton," said Captain
Hertford.
"I spoke to Lord Charles Barty, not to you," said Lord
Sayton. "You can notice that if you like: you will not find
me packed in the Strangers' Gallery of the Commons, when
you want me ! "
" You shall answer for that speech, Lord Sayton," said Austin.
" Very well," drawled that most stupid of men.
They separated, and Lord Charles and Austin wi'ut away
together. After a few steps Lord Charles ran back and over-
took Captain Hertford.
" Shall vou send vour man to-night? "
"It will bo better."
" Send him to Elliot's lodgings ; 1 shall not go home. We
shall never speak again. If anything ha})pens to either of us
don't bear any malice. I shall see you in the morning."
168 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Lord Charles went home at once to Austin's lodgings, wliicli
■were very close to Captain Hertford's. Austin persuaded Lord
Charles to go to bed, which he did without much persuasion.
Austin waited up for Captain Hertford's friend.
He was not long in coming. He was a Captain Jackson,
whom Austin had seen before — the man whom he had seen
before walking with Captain Hertford and Lord Charles Baity
just before he had started for Konaldsay. He had been to India
since, and had come home wounded from one of the Sikh battles,
almost with the news of Feroseshah ; a man of the Indian army,
a good-natured gossiping man, a great Shickaree by his own
account. Austin had listened to his tiger-stories often, and
wished it had been some one else who had come with the message
now — some one possibly, with whom he could have picked a
quarrel.
Captain Jackson began : '' Is there no way out of this miserable
business ? "
*'Do you see any, Jackson? " said Austin, eagerly.
** Well, I am sorry to say that we are determined (utterly
against my Avishes, mind you) to go through with it. Ajid I
am sorry to say that Ave (utterly against my wish), having been
insulted in the House, when we passed it over, and being again
grossly insulted to-night, are determined to have a public apo-
logy."
''That is impossible," said Austin. "But I'll tell you what
I will do."
" I don't tliink you have anything much to do with it, have
you, Elliot? You should say what ive will do."
''AVliat I will do is this," said Austin. ''Barty is in bed
and asleep. I will myself meet Hertford, and excluxnge shots
to-morrow morning, before Barty awakes."
'' I am sorry to say," said Cai)tain Jackson, *' that we, knowing
your nobleness of cliaractor, have anticipated tiuit course of action,
and that we won't have it at all. Lord Charles Barty must apolo-
gise, come out, or "
'* God help us," said Austin.
" Amen 1 " said Captain Jackson, sincerely. " Yon liave never
been at this sort of tiling bt'fore. You will have to leave a good
dr.d to me. If you will trust me, before (lod, to whom we both
must give an account of to-morrow morning's work, I will see
everything fair. You have no pistols."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 109
'' No ! "
"Will you let mc l)rin;^' niino ? Tlioy arc smootli-horcd and
devilish bud. We may get out of it that way. Clot passports ? "
" No, never thouf^ht of it."
" Then you must come with us. Hertford wanied mc that
something was in the wind yesterday, and made me get a family
passport, in which our worthy captain figures as Mr. Jones perej
and Lord Charles, you, and I, as his promising sons. If one
of us is taken ill we can account for it. Hertford, of course,
liaving the character of a man rather too ready for this sort
of thing, wishes to stand with the world as the soul of chivalry.
80 he made me get the passport. God grant it may not be
needed."
" God grant it," said Austin.
'' Once more, Amen. With regard to time and place ? "
" What do you propose ? "
'* I am sorry to say," said Captain Jackson, '' that we, having
provided the aforesaid family passport, are more in a position
to insist than to propose. We, unless you can bring strong
reasons against it, propose the firs at Hampstead, at half-past
seven to-morrow morning. It must be so, my dear Elliot, or
we shall be stopped. The quarrel has been heard of, and the
affair will be stopped else. If you oppose an early meeting, your
man's reputation won't be worth an old shoe."
It was undeniable. Austin agreed, and the Captain departed.
Austin went round to the stables, where his own horses were
kept, and to his terror found that all was dark and shut up. He
did not know exactly where his own servant slept, or he would
have tried to arouse him. What between his terror for his
friend's reputation and his terror at his friend's danger, he was
nearly mad. He was at this moment very nearly going to the
police-office and putting the matter before them, but he dared
not. If he had done such a thing as that, his friend would
for ever after have been socially and politically dead. The
difficulty now was to rouse a sleeping groom without awakening
the others. Lord Charles's groom must be sleeping with one
of his. It was a ridiculous difficulty, but it made him stamp,
and curse the day he was born.
Luck assisted him. A man came into the mews, and as he
walked aside to let him pass he saw it was Charles Barty's
seiTant. He ordered him to bring the cab to his lodgings at five.
O Kit G
" Are you going out, sir ? " asked the man.
"*Yes," said Austin. " You must be secret and quiet. I will
reward you well."
170 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
"I am sorry for it, sir. You was always a kind gentleman.
I will be there, sir, punctual."
Then Austin went back, and going up to bis room, where Lord
Charles lay asleep in bis bed, he sat in a chair all night, listening
to the long-drawn breath of the sleeper.
He sat and thought all night. Ah Lord ! it had all come to
this. His own reputation tarnished, and the friend of his heart
going out next morning in a quarrel which by rights was his.
He knew that, however this business turned out, his own repu-
tation was gone. He had had two hints to that efi'ect these last
few days, and both of those had come from men eminently friendly
to himself.
His reputation tarnished ! Ah, it was maddening. How lucky
that his father was dead, and that his death did not lie at his
son's door, for that would have killed him outright. This man
Hertford had been taking his name in vain. Austin had heard
of it. His own friends at the United University Club had talked
about it. Austin himself had gone down to the Club and talked
threateningly of Hertford. The little world he lived in was expec-
tant ; how would that expectation be satished ? By finding that
be, Austin Elliot, had allowed the friend of his bosom to tight his
battle for him ; by allowing Lord Charles to go out with one of
the deadliest shots in England.
It was unendurable, but there was no remedy in his code of
morality. Therefore, although it was unendurable, it was endured,
like most other unendurable things in this world.
But his own disgrace was not one-quarter of the mischief.
Suppose anything were to happen to Lord Charles ? Suppose
he were to be wounded ? Suppose he were to be lamed for life,
for that was possible — how would Austin feel then ? Tlie cloud
he himself was under now might be cleared away. He might
force Captain Hertford to go out with him — nay ! he was already
determined to do so. It would be necessary. But if his friend
was maimed in this encounter, he felt as though he could never
hold up his head again. He determined that if any one proposed
more than one shot, that the shots should pass through his own
body.
So the short night wore on, and lie sat in his chair without
sle('})ing, trying, from time to tinu', to make out the outline of
his friend's face in tlie dark. As tlu; East began to grow bright,
and the sparrows began to twitter outside the window, he dozed ;
but he must have \\«ikeni'd again within half an hour. The room
was quite light now, and he could see iiis liieiid.
He was sleeping as peacefully as a child. The beautiful face
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 171
"Nvas turiu'd, in its cxprcssioiili'ss n'i)().so, towards Austin. One
bare arm was llirown lialt" out ot" bod, witli tho palm of tlio hand
uppermost, and thi; lin^'irs rtlaxid ; tho otlier was hiid under tho
sleeping man's head, amon«^ his close l)rown curls. It seemed
a liappy sleep, for he smili'd, and babbled inarticulately in his
dreams — a hapjjy schoolboy sk^ep ! Austin had awakened him
from such a sleo]) at Eton, in old times, more than once, to come
bathing, or boating, or bird-nesting. He remembered how that
face had changed, from the half-unconscious ex})ression fixed
on it by some happy dream, into consciousness, into loving recog-
nition of the friend who had awakened him. He remembered all
that, and knew that he had to awaken him once more — to what ?
AVliat expression would the face take now ? What kind of curse
would shine out of those eyes, as soon as the lids of them were
raised, and the soul behind them awoke to the appreciation of the
lamentable tnitli ?
So there grew on poor Austin a horror and a dread of the
sleeper's awaking ; and as he slept on, a new dread — the dread
of having to awaken him himself. But it must be done, and
be done soon. Now there came into his head a something long
forgotten, as long-forgotten trifles will come into men's minds, at
times of awful anxiety like this. It would have made him smile
at another time, but he remembered it now. He had read in
some blackguard book about prize-fighting, that the men who
trained the prize-fighters never awoke them in the morning, but
that they put the window open, and that, after a short time, as
soon as the fresh morning air reached the poor fellows' fiices,
they quietly awoke. He remembered this now, and opened the
window. In a short time, Charles Barty turned m his bed and
awoke. His eyes met Austin's, and he smiled aflectionately ; but
as consciousness came to him, that smile faded into an expression
of anxiety, and almost of horror. If he had sat up in bed, and
heaped curses on Austin's head, Austin could have borne it better
than that look.
Ihit it was late— they must hurry: that was something. They
would have breakfast when they came back. The other people
were to bring a doctor with them, so there w\as nothing to do but
to drive fast. They spoke very little, and on indifierent subjects ;
Austin drove. Once Lord Charles turned round, and talked to
the groom standing at the back of the cab, and gave orders about
his hack being brought somewhere that afternoon. The groom
said that his father's cob was lame, and perhaps his Grace might
like to borrow his Lordship's hack. Whereupon Lord Charles
confounded his father's cob (to Austin), and wished to God that
172 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
his father would find himself in horses, and not be everlastingly
borrowing his.
They were late. When they got on to the heath, they saw a
dog-cart standing, with a groom at the horse's head, and further
on, they saw three men waiting for them — Captain Hertford,
Captain Jackson, and the doctor.
They hurried forward. Captain Jackson and Austin went
apart,- and matters were soon arranged. " We must be quick,
EUiot," said Captain Jackson.
They were very quick. The men were placed twelve paces
apart, back to back, and their seconds gave them their pistols.
Captain Jackson was to give the word. Austin and he retired,
and Captain Jackson said, '' Gentleman, are you ready ? Fire ! "
They both faced one another at the same instant. Charles
Barty raised his hand high over his head, and fired in the air.
Captain Hertford took deliberate aim, and fired two seconds after-
wards. The instant he had done so. Lord Charles leapt a foot
ofi" the ground, and then bringing his heels sharply down upon the
turf, toppled over headlong on his left shoulder, and lay perfectly
stm.
Austin was beside him in an instant, but he was quite dead.
Austin turned the heavy head over, and saw the last sign of life
which appeared in that beautiful face. Two nerves in the hollows
beneath his eyes quivered and throbbed for half a second, and
then stopped for ever.
If I were to pile Pelion upon Ossa with grand words, I could
give you no idea of the catastrophe more terrible than this. Lord
Charles Barty was shot through the heart, and was lying, stone-
dead, at the feet of Austin Elliot.
CHAPTER XXX.
Austin had never seen death before. This was his first intro-
duction to it. He was holding the face of the dead man between
his two hands, and looking down with a sti ange incri'dulous terror
into the sigliih'ss eyes.
And the dead man was his friend, a man he h)ved as David
loved Jonathan. He had never done iuiytliiiig or thought any-
thing, for he knew not liow long, without this man coming into
his mind. '* What will he think about it ? " " What will he say
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 173
about it? " li!\(l always been bis first tboiif^lit after lie bad done
anytbini^'. Now, now
Tlio two otlicrs wtire witli liim in a nioinont. Captain Hertford
said, " Tbis bas all been fair. I am oil' for France." Jackson
broke out into tears. " By God," ho, said, *' tbis is a most
borrible business ! I wisb be bad struck m«3 d«ad before I came
out on this accursed errand ! " But Austin said notbinrr. He
was knooliu!:* on one knee, witli tbe dead man's face botwcon bis
bands, and a claw like tliat of an ea<fb', f^'ripiu^' at liis boart.
" We must get away," said Captain Hertford. " We liad best
be quick. Elliot, you will bave to come witli us."
" I shall stay where I am."
" You are mazed," said Captain Hertford, impatiently. " We
shall be in trouble for tbis. Time is precious. You must cross
with iny passport."
" I tell you I shall stay wbere I am," said Austin, looking up
at Hertford witb that painful look of mingled terror and anger
whicb Captain Hertford had seen before, and which be now
remembered.
" Then I have done my duty and must go," said Captain
Hertford. "Jackson, wo must make haste."
They left him kneeling at the dead man's head. In a few
moments Jackson ran back, while Captain Hertford waited for
him.
" Elliot, don't be a madman. Come away. There will be
the devil to pay for this, God forgive us I You must come with
us. You shall ! "
"I shall stay here."
"You are mad ! Think better of it and come witb us. Y^'our
mind is uone ! "
" I know it is. Good-bye."
So Captain Jackson went reluctantly away, and left Austin with
the dead man.
Lord Charles's groom came next. He touched Austin on tbe
shoulder. " Mr. Elliot," he said, " is my Lord wounded ? "
Austin looked up in his face and said, " Your Lord is dead ! "
He saw the man turn pale and sick. Then he saw him kneel
down beside what had been Lord Charles, and untie the dead
man's neckcloth. Then he opened his shirt and felt his heart.
And lastly, by some strange instinct, he closed the dull staring
eyes, which were never to open again. Then the two stood silent
for a time.
" What is to be done now, sir ? " said the groom at last.
"What is to be done?" said Austin, "Done! says he?
174 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Why, bring him to life again, and let me lie there dead and
cold in his place. "We have been hardly used, Tom. There
is no mercy in Heaven, Tom ; or, if there is, it is all kept for
those who whine and cringe, and I have never done that, nor
has this dead man. What have he and I done that this has
happened ? Answer me that. What have he and I done that
things should come to this ? "
Tom was only a poor groom — a man not wortli your notice in
any way ; but even he had a dull feeling that Mr. Elliot, dear
gentleman ! was beside himself, and was blaspheming in his
grief. If you had given Tom a week to answer, he would have
answered, *' You have both of you done many things to deserve
this ; and the mere fact of your being here this morning proves
it." But Tom did not get a week to think of his answer. He
was thinking of how his dear dead Lord's body was to be decently
moved, before people came about and gathered into a crowd.
The problem was solved for him. Two policemen came up,
and the elder of them said, " Is this gentleman dead, sir ? "
"He is quite dead," said Austin, quietly.
" A duel, sir? " said the policeman.
*' Yes, a duel," said Austin. " This dead man is or was Lord
Charles Barty, the Duke of Cheshire's son ; I am Mr. Austin
Elliot, of the United University Club. I was his second, and
I give myself into custody. Now, do be quick, or the people will
be about."
He had not made many turns up and down before an inspector
appeared, and Austin told him everything. *' You will not take
that groom into custody, will you, inspector? " said Austin.
**I ought to, sir," said the inspector.
'' But don't do it," said Austin. " If it lay in the sphere of
your duty to burn down Somerset House, you would not like to be
taken into custody and leave the business to some one else. Now,
see what that groom has to do. He was bred on the estate, and
will do it quietly. He has got to go to Cheshire House and burn
it down over their heads. He will go into the servants' -hall and
ask to see the old nurse who nursed them all. And ho will tell
her ; and she will tell the Duke ; and tlie Duke will tell the
Duchess, and they will curse my name, and the day I was born,
and shut up the house close and dark. Tianu-ntaiion, and mourn-
ing, and woe ! I beg pardon. jMy head is going o\ov this. If
you knew all the circumstances, you could not wonder at it."
*' God help you, sir ! "
"Amen. But you will let tliis poor groom go? You were
less than a man if you did not."
AUSTIN ETJJOT. 175
That was easily arranged. And ilien came the terril)le business
of removing the corpse : and I will go no further, only hoping
that I have not gone too far already. lUit if I thought that I
could do more than I have done, to give honest men the contempt
and the loathing, that I feel myself for the system of duelling —
for the prineipk' of making tlu; devil arbiter of ditl'erences instead of
God, I would go furtiier. I would go all the length to which Jules
Janin, or tlu^ younger Dumas, have gone in a very diffeniut cause.
Austin walked away witli the inspector of police like a man in
a dream. It seemed to him as if all the universe had sunk round
him, and left him standing on a pinnacle far above the reach of
human sympathy. It was so horrible. It was not so much that
he was soiTy or grieved, or that he could have wept wild tears for
the f\ite of his friend ; that state of mind was not come yet, and
was not to come for a long while. At present, the whole business
was ghastly, horrible, unbelievable. It must be untrue. Charles
Barty, merry, handsome, clever, the most lovable of human
beings, so gentle, so good, such a thorough gentleman — Charles
Barty, the man whose life had hitherto been a sort of beautiful,
merry joke, yet who had shown promise of great things, should
occasion arise, this man could not be dead ! It was impossible
that Death could have dared ! But Austin had seen his body put
into a baker's cart, and had seen the legs fall.
Alas ! Austin, he was dead enough ; and you, my poor butterfly,
having lived five-and-twenty years in a fool's paradise, your
religious faith absolutely nothiiKj, your political creed only built
up out of the formulas used by your forefathers, in discussing
questions which have been extinct many a long year agone ; your
social creed being, that it was a good thing to get asked to such
and such a party, and that you ought to get up pedigrees and
know all about everybody — you, poor Austin, when you saw Lord
Charles put into the baker's cart and driven slowly away, were at
the edge of a very black hell indeed. No wonder that you clung
to the police inspector as a reality, at all events — as the link
which connected you with the world which seemed to have sunk
away under your feet.
It was well that Mr. Elliot was dead, or this would have killed
him with a broken heart. That he who had brought up his son
on foi*mulas, social and political — which meant something in his
time, but which now meant little or nothing — should be out of
the way and not see that painful look of puzzled horror on his
son's face, that was well. Poor Austin was the Louis Sixteenth of
duelling — the last, the kindest, the best of those who stuck to the
old rule — the one most severely punished.
176 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
When they got to the police-office, the magistrate was trying
the people who had got drunk the night before. Austin sent
several special messengers, at the inspector's advice, to old friends
of his father's, and sat wearily at one side of the court, listening
to the other cases.
A chimney-sweep, for nearly murdering his wife. He had been
remanded and remanded again, until the house-surgeon had pro-
noimced his wife sufficiently recovered to go and give evidence.
There she was, a drunken drab, with lier head all plastered up
with bandages. The house-surgeon had thought her dying at one
time, and had sent for the magistrate to take her evidence : then,
under fear of death, she had told the truth, but now, when in
the dock, looking at the miserable, dcgi'aded, brutal hound she
loved so well, she lied and lied in his favour, till the magistrate
threatened to commit her for perjury ; and at every fresh lie (God
help us !) her face seemed to grow grander and nobler, till she
looked almost beautiful. "She," thought Austin, "would die
for that \\Tetclied cur, and I "
Two boys, brothers, ages seventeen and eighteen. They had
got a trick of going to Cremome and such places, and spending
too much money. They had put their silly heads together and
committed a clumsy forgery — a forgery than which nothing more
idiotic ever entered into the mind of man. They had torn a
cheque out of their master's book, filled it up for ten pounds, and
with the most clumsy imitation of their master's signature, had
gone together to the bank and presented it. They were given
into custody at once, and there they were in tlie dock, huddling
together like two frightened sheep. The evidence was conclusive,
and the magistrate asked them wliat they had to say. Where-
upon Tom, the elder brother, moistening his dry lips with his
tongue, confessed his guilt, and said that Bob, his younger
brother, knew nothing about it. But Bob wouldn't have this
by any means ; he asserted shrilly that he had stolen the cheque,
forged it, and had took Tom to the bank with him when he pre-
sented it, because they knew Tom and didn't know he, and also
that Tom was a devil to lie, and always had been, which ask
their mother. The chivalry of these two poor fools towards one
another was one more stab in Austin's heart. Now that the
horrible catastro])he had come, he could see that by rising to the
level of a liigher law he might liave saved liis friend.
Tlien they shoved into the dock a boy who scuffled, and lost
one shoe, and had it handed to liim by Ihe polici-man ; and after
he had i)ut it on, stood up again. A boy, gentlemen, of the sort
worth attending to, because his clay has not been burnt to brick,
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 177
but is still ])liistic. A l)oy who may yot bo maflt! a man if you
can {^('t hold ot" him. Tiu- vt-ry hoy, ^'cntlcmen, ot" all juirsuasions,
from Roman Catholic to Unitarian, that you are, thank you, f(et-
tinj:^ hold of — all honour to you. A boy with a shock head, his
hair down over his forehead, who when spoken to puts his fists
into his eyes and lifts his elbows up above his ears, expecting
a blow. Yon know him, messieurs the Scripture-readers,
brothers of the holy order of St. Francis, district visitors of
the Swcdenborgian, or whatever you call yourselves, you know
the youn<^' doi^' ; and, in spite of all your attempted proselytising
and your squabbling, you all mean him well ! Have wo not seen
your good works ?
This shock-headed boy being put into the dock, and accused of
being concerned, with his elder brother, still at large, in the trip-
ping up of an old gentleman and the stealing his watch, '* didn't
know nothink about it!" and in spite of the truculent cross-
examination of Mr. Barney Moses (from the ottice of Ikey Moses
and Son), and the hints of the magistrate, that in consequence
of his youth he would be held innocent, he still aggravatingly and
perversely persisted in " knowing nothink about it," without
orders from his elder brother.
Then was this thieves' honour higher than gentlemen's honour ?
Was it the same article, or a spurious one ? There was no time
for Austin to think out the question, or he W'Ould probably as a
reasonable man have settled it this way : — That up to this year
1846, the best and highest men in the land had never had moral
courage to decline the test of the duel ; that he was one of the
first victims of a new state of things ; that, acting on the old rules
of honour, he had done nothing with regard to this miserable
business, but what was inexorably right and necessary. That,
through mere ill-luck, his own reputation was tarnished, and his
friend killed. That was the truth ; but Austin could not see it
just now. He placed the honour of these thieves and prostitutes
above his o^^^l, and wished for death.
The charge against him was made. The magistrate required
two sureties of 500L each. They were instantly forthcoming,
from two, or if need were, from a dozen of his father's friends ;
and Austin, after thanking them, went rapidly away and took a
passport for France, and then w^ent to his lawyer.
He and his lawyer sat late. He gave him orders to prepare
deeds, conveying all his property to Eleanor in case of a convic-
tion (which was inevitable),'-' and told him that he would appear
* It seems doubtful whether or no this document or documents
would have been worth the paper they were written on. The law about
13
178 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
and sign them in good time. He then made a short will, leaving
all his property to Eleanor, in case of his death before his con-
viction. Then he wrote to her a short note, requesting her to
make good, out of his effects, the loss of his father's old friends,
with regard to his hail. And then he went home.
His servant was waiting for him. He paid the man's wages,
and gave him a paper, which authorised him to sell his three
horses, his cab, and his dog-cart, at Tattersall's, and to pay the
money into his banker's. This paper was not worth very much in
a legal point of view, but he knew his man, and knew that he
could trust him. He told him also to take care of his dog Robin ;
and should anything happen, to take him to Miss Hilton. Then
he had his landlady, Mrs. Macpherson, up, and settled with her,
while his man packed his portmanteau.
It was four o'clock in the afternoon before all this was done,
and then he sent his man for a cab. His fool of a servant cried,
and prayed him that he Avould let him go with him, but Austin
was pale and resolute, and went alone.
A strange journey. One of the maddest, silliest journeys ever
undertaken. First he went to Calais, and very soon found that
Captain Hertford was not there, and had not been there. Then
he posted to Boulogne, and spent three days there making in-
quiries. Captain Hertford had evidently not been there either.
The Police Bureau knew nothing of him at all. Monsieur must
have been frightfully deceived by interested persons ; no such
person had been there. Monsieur, weary of life, feeling hot about
the bead, thought he would go bathe, and did so. The bathers
sat on the shore, and ate hot f/tiKjf res, and read " Le Juif Errant,"
not yet grown stale, and '' Monte-Christo," which will never grow
stale. But no one knew anything of Captain Hertford, or any
such man. Had not Prince Louis Buonaparte shaved off his
moustaches, put two planks on his shoulders, and walked out of
Ham ? What did Monsieur think of that, as an instance of
French courage ? Hey then ! Monsieur was forced to confess
that the prince had shown courage of the very highest order.
But finding no intelligence of Cai)tain Hertford, he crossed again
to Dover.
U'liere seemed only one port left now to wliich Captain Hertford
would be likely to have gone — he must have taken passage from
duelling iiiiiy be fuuiul in Mr. Siiniucl Warren's article in " Blackwood,"
on the duel between Lord Cardij^an and Captain Tuckett. Our legal
knowledge is insullicient to decide whether or no the conveyance of tbe
property of a man under bail, to a friend, will hidd good. Our own
ignorance on this point is not very surprising. But it ix surprising that
the question, so very important, seems not to be decided yet.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 179
Brir^hton to Dii'])po. lie ini'/lit liiivc j^'onc to Havre ; tliat was
still possible. Austin remembered tiiat lie had said, "lamotl'
for Frauci'," and felt sure that he would fjet on his track. He
was more likely to have {^'one to Dieppe than to Havre. Austin
went down to JJrif^hton, and crossed in the steamer Venezuela,
which steamer, I sincerely hope, is gone to the l)ottom long ago ;
for having endured a gale of wind in her tlirough one night, about
two years before the time I speak of, and having endured many
gales of wind, in many ships, in all sorts of strange seas since, I
have come to the conclusion, that the steamer Venezuela is (or I
hope was) the worst, wettest, and most abominably dangerous sea-
boat ever built.
Mrs. Taylor, of the Hotel d'Angleterre, dead, I fear, many
years agone, the best and cheeriest landlady that ever roared out
of an upper window, — '' Alphonse (you stupid lout, may God for-
give me ! ) Veuez-ici outedcsweet, pour brusser les souliers de
jeune Mossoo ! Drat the man, he's a iliug of his hair ; cochon !
eutendez-vous ? " Mrs. Taylor, I say, knew nothing of Captain
Hertford ; but Austin, going into the public room at the Hotel
Angleterre, met a man whom he knew, who gave him the informa-
tion required. A university man, in ill-health, come over for
change of air and scene.
" This is a bad business," he said. " But, Elliot, mind me, I
don't believe one word of what they say against you. I know you
too well, to think it possible that you thrust forward that poor fool
of a nobleman to light your quarrel. It is a lie ! "
"It is, indeed," said Austin.
" I know it is. I think that this Captain Hertford is sorry for
what has happened. We must be just to all men, Elliot. My
cousin went in the same boat with him to Antwerp last week, and
he says that he looked as pale as death, and as wild as a hawk."
There was still time. The Dart was getting up steam outside
the hotel windows. Austin was not very long in getting on board
of her. Next morning he was at Brighton, the same day in
London. The same night with a iwur voi/a^/er passport, on board
the Antuerpcn ! In twenty-four hours at Antwerp.
At the Bureau of police, he got on Captain Hertford's trail at
last, and he followed it like a bloodhound. Captains Hertford and
Jackson, it appeared, had arrived suspiciously, with very little
luggage, and had taken tickets for Aix-la-Chapelle. He followed
on. At Aix-la-Chapelle he was puzzled again. He was in
Prussian territory, and the police were not so comnmnicative.
But he luckily remembered, that Herr Nielsen Keilleter, the
greatest man in Aix-la-Chapelle, was an old friend of his father's.
180 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
He called on him, and the good old man, little dreaming what
he was doing, gave him his assistance. Captain Hertford and
Captain Jackson had gone on to Cologne, further than which, in
those days, the railway did not go.
Here, at Cologne, he was once more left to his mother wit.
He got hold of a lacquey de place, who desired to show him the
cathedral, the eleven thousand virgins, the skulls of Caspar,
Melchoir and Baltasar, and, as old James would have said,
'' the hull biling," for one thaler. Being interrogated, the com-
missionaire deponed that Captain Hertford was, at that same
speaking, staying in the hotel at Doutz. Austin having paid his
thaler, repaired there, and found only a gentle old Indian colonel,
by name Hauford, whom he disturbed at his dinner. He was
quite at fault again, and had to leave the old man's presence
abashed.
Ah ! it was a weary journey. Hope quite dead, and life quite
worthless. He went out and sat upon the wharf at Deutz, and
looked at the river, sweeping, hissing, boiling on, under the
young May moon.
A great river. The first he had ever seen. It came, tlicy
said, spouting in a thousand cataracts out of the everlasting
snow, and then Avent gleaming and sparkling on through such
wildly beautiful scenery of feathering woodland and hanging
rock, as no one could realise without seeing. There was a grand
catastrophe at Schaffhausen. After that, it was a mere dull
sweeping waste of waters, and at last, down there below Diissel-
dorf, the mighty river, born in the eternal snow crystals, begins
to creep ignominiously towards the sea, through fifty sluggish canals.
So poor Austin sat there for a time, trying to compare his life
to that of the llhinc ; quite forgetting that the river only became
useful and beautiful after its catastrophe at Schafl'hausen, and
that its real usefulness and its real beauty, increased with every
mile, till it reached the sea, and was lost in the eternity of the
ocean. And after a time he held his way across the bridge of
boats, towards the great cathedral, which heaved up its mighty
ribs above the sleeping town.
He gained no further intelligence of Captain Hertford. But in
his eagerness of purpose his wit was sharp. He knew that
Captain Hertford gamed, and would be very likely to be found
near gaming. tables. His ignorance of the world generally, and
the Continent in particular, were so very great, that he did not
know which were tiie places hereabout, where men came to lose
their money. So, with an Englishman's instinct, he sent for the
landlord.
AUSTIN ETJJOT. 181
Tlio landlord's son came : a handsomo yoiinfj fellow, who had
had his nose slit in some childish Ihirsehi-n duel. At Anstin's
question he sccnu-d pn/zlcd. Answered that thrre wer(» fahh'S at
Aix-hi-Chapclle, at wiiich ^VFonsieur (they spoke in l-'itiich) could
have played (hcin^' a forei^fiicr) to his heart's content.
Austin told liini that he did not want to ])lay. That he wanted
to tind a man, whom he was most likely to liiid in the neighhour-
hood of a ^'am in If -table.
" An atl'air of honour, then," said the yonnt^ man.
** Well," said Austin, *' it is something of that sort. I feel
sure you would not betray mc."
The young man at once grew heroic and mysterious. He, too,
had had his atfjiirs, but what imported it to speak of them. He
laid his finger on his wounded nose, and Austin did not laugh ;
thougli when he compared in his mind the childish fencing-match,
in wliich the young man had been engaged, and the atfair in
which he would find himself in a few days, he felt very much
inclined to do so.
This young man informed him, that the next place on the
general route of tourists where one played was a place called
Ems, in the Duchy of Nassau. That one went from hence by
steamer to Coblenco, and by diWjence or voiture, as one pleased,
to Ems. That there were two companies of vapour vessels on
that river, both of wliich professed to take one to Coblence. The
one, the Cologne company, possessing a magnificent fleet, swift as
the wind, officered by gentlemen, supplied with every luxuiy ; the
other, the Diisseldorf company, composed of miserable and rotten
boats, slow, dirty, oflicered by abusive villains, who too often suc-
ceeded in the dearest wish of their hearts, that of ahiiner in the
depths of their noble river, not only their rotten boat, but also
their deluded passengers.
Austin having been previously recommended by a friend to go
by the Diisseldorf company, as being the best of the two, felt
very much inclined, after this exhibition of spite, to do so. He
decided to go on by the first boat, and did so. It was a Cologne
boat.
He remembers that after they got beyond Bonn there was some
fine scenery, or he thinks there was, because a noble young
American, with whom he made immediate acquaintance on board,
kept calling his attention to it. But he was too anxious to care
whether the hills were ten feet high or ten tliousand. His time
was getting short. His bail would be forfeited in little more than
a fortnight, and Captain Hertford as fiir from being found as ever.
He slept that night at the " Giant," at Coblence, and the next
182 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
mornin« rumbled quietly away towards Ems, np the pleasant
Lalm valley, before the mists had fully rolled away from the
summits of the sheets of feathering woodland, which rose over-
head on all sides.
He put up at the Hotel de Russie, and, after breakfast, went
down to the Kursal, which round the Kessel, and the Ivi-anken,
was thronged with all sorts of people drinking the waters ; and
here he loitered for something like half an hour, until some one
pushed against him accidentally in the crowd, and apologised to
him. It was a magnificent Tyrolese, the first that Austin had
ever seen. The man's enormous stature, the honest repose of
his face, his grand dress, and his elegant easy carriage, attracted
Austin. It was a new animal, and a very remarkable one. He
smiled and returned the man's courtesy in French. Following
him with his eyes, he saw that, grand as he was, he was only
the keeper of a stall for the sale of Tyrolese nick-nacks, but he
determined to have some talk with him. He went up and bought
some trifle or another, and engaged him in conversation for a
little time. At last he asked, " Had he a chamois head ? " The
man had not, "But if Monsieur would accompany him to his
brother's stall, he should have his choice of several."
Monsieur did so, and as Monsieur approached our younger
brother's stall, he became aware that Captain Hertford was
standing in front of it, bargaining for a pair of gloves.
Austin turned to the Tyrolese, and raised his finger. The
man, with instinctive high-bred courtesy, bowed, and turned
back to his own stall, and Austin stood, not quite certain how
to proceed.
Captain Hertford bought his gloves, and turning into the main
room of the Kursal, approached the counter in front of the spring.
It was evident that he was going to drink his waters.
He had the red Bohemian glass raised to his lips, when Austin
came behind him, and said, quietly, *' Captain Hertford ! "
Captain Hertford was no coward ; but he knew the voice, and
when he turned he was as pale as deatli. When ho saw Austin's
wild face, the glass he held fell from his hand, and flew, splintered,
in a hundred ruby crystals, about the stone pavement at his feet.
'' I suppose you know what I want of you," said Austin.
"Do you want satisfaction? " said Captain Hertford, in a low
voice.
"Yes."
"It is a mistake. That last business was devilish horrid. i>o
you repeat that you want satisfaction ? "
"Yes."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 183
" Very well, your blood is on your own liciid. Shall you send
to-dav?"
"Yes. Wlio am I to s.-iid to?"
** Jackson and I are at the Hotel d'Angleterre, over the river.
Good moniing."
Ho did not know a soul there ; lie had to go and find Captain
Jackson to get an introduction to some one. Captain Jackson
found him a Frenchman, who was much pleased with the business,
and who proceeded to make all arrangements. He returned soon
to Austin, and told him that they were to walk out that very
evening to a place called Dausenau.
They, at the time appointed, sauntered up along the road, to
the quaint old village, and turned up to the left, into a romantic,
deeply-wooded glen ; through the bright green meadows of which
a bright trout-stream came flashing and pausing, and babbling
pleasantly of peace, and spring-tide, and hope. Austin for one
instant, mad, ruined, and desperate as he was, felt the influence
of the June evening tide, and longed to be at rest — in his grave
if need were — to be anywhere but where he was. Feeling no
fear, but a mixture of grief, remorse, and horror difficult to bear,
preserving reason at the same time.
"While in this frame of mind, he passed near a mill and out
into a meadow, and there was the author of all this misery and
woe before him. In less than ten minutes he was standiutj cool
and calm, face to face with him, with a loaded pistol in his hand.
Surely Hertford's day of reckoning was come. Not yet.
Austin had no more intention of firing his pistol at Captain
Hertford, than he had of blowing out his o^^^l brains. The last
affair had been, as Captain Hertford said, so horrid, that Austin
was determined that he would never again have any hand in a
repetition of such a thing, unless he himself were the victim. So
when Captain Hertford had fired, and he heard the ball whistle
close by his head, he turned coolly away and fired at a piece of
rock among the copse on the right of the meadow.
But Captain Hertford insisted upon another shot ; and this
brought on a general WTangle, during which it became painfully
evident that the gallant Captain had been drinking. There was
nothing to be done but to place the men again, it seemed. This
time Austin again fired away to the right, and, luckily for himself,
was very slightly grazed on the leg. The affair was, of course,
instantly stopped. Austin had fought his first and last duel.
He had satisfied every requirement that the most punctilious
bully could make. He had hunted Captain Hertford over the
Continent till he had found him, had had him out, and had been
184 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
unluckily woundrd Ly him. Ho appealed to tlie three others;
tlu'Y coiifiniU'(l liiin. Jackson said that he would take care that
evcrytliin.^ should he known in London on his return, and Austin
limped off hack to Ems, somewhat lighter in heart than hefore.
He had faced one of his trouhles successfully; his reputation was
secure again ; he could look a man in the face ; he had made due
pilgrimage to the outraged idol, honour, and had done sacrifice.
The god was slightly in his deht — or, at all events, things were
ahout square hetween them. This was, so far, satisfactory. He
knew (who better?) that this fetish he had been taught to
worship, was a cruel and vindictive demon ; but, like a true
idolater, he believed that, by overloading his idol with sacrifices,
he might lay it under obligations, and, so to speak, have a case
against it, a case which, under some sort of law, would hold good,
and must be attended to.
** Was it for this," says the old nigger in that most beautiful
book, "The Cruise of the Midge," after he had pitched his idol
into the lee scuppers in his wrath, " was it for this that I gave
you chicken, and stick fedder in your tail — oh ? " He, like
Austin, had a strong case against his fetish.
CHAPTER XXXI.
Austin made his appearance in due time at his attorney's office in
Lincoln's Inn. The clerks looked very grave, and one of them
showed him into the presence of the old man. Austin saw him
rise hurriedly and turn pale when he appeared ; Austin shook him
warmly by the hand.
"So you have come back," said the attorney. "Ah, foolish,
foolish boy. How I have hoped and prayed that you might be
too late. But stay ; there is time. My dear Austin, let me beg
you on my knees, for the sake of your good name and your
father's memory, to go back to France this night. Think that in
three days it will he too latc^ for ever."
" I cannot, old friend, in honour. The wrong I have done to
the law shall be punished by the law. Say no more about it."
The old man said no more. lie did not liidi' from Austin that
he feared a conviction ; that he liardly knew how it was to bo
avoided.
" (lod's will be done. You fcid sure of a conviction ? "
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 185
"Almost."
" Tlic jmv acquitt<'(l V last March," sngfi^osted Anstiii.''
"Ill tlirt'ct opposition to Kile's suiiiiiiinj^ lUS" said the old
man, lUf^'t'rly. "And why? Bocausc tiny hclieved that it was
Liston's opt-nition which killed S , and not H 's bullet.
That is why. They f^avo him the benefit of that doubt because —
because — well, because their sympathies went uitli P . They
considered him blameless — only a youn^ fellow who had done
what lifty others had done before him ; gone out with his friend."
"And their sympathies will not be with me, then?" said
Austin.
" No," said the old man steadily. " If it kills me to say so to
your fiither's son, I will say it. This duel has been talked about
a great deal. Lord Charles Barty was a young man of great
promise, and the newspapers have written leading articles about
it. It has made a great stir in Loudon. But all ranks and all
parties agree in condemning you. Eveiybody knows, or think
they do, that you and Captain Hertford were rivals for the hand
of this Miss Hilton. Everybody has heard that you went to the
United University Club, and spoke threateningly about Captain
Hertford. Everybody (except myself and those who know you)
believe that you let Lord Cliarles fight this duel for you. Among
others who believe this are the jury. The judge will tell them, in
summing up, to banish from their minds all that they have
previously heard about the case ; but they won't, not if I know
'em ; they never do, coufound 'em. Look at P 's acquittal,
Austin, my poor boy, and there read the story of your own
conviction."
"I see what you mean very well," said Austin; "that in
P 's case they knew, from what they had heard elsewhere,
that he was, as near as possible in such a case, blameless ; that
in mine, from what they have heard elsewhere, they believe me
more morally guilty than the principals themselves : and, there-
fore, that they will convict. Is it not so ? "
" That is the state of the case. But there is time to get out
01 the way. You can make everything good, and so on. It is
notliin|5. You ought to be off now. Come, let us go."
" Xo," said Austin, "I think not. I think, old friend, that
we will see this matter out to the very end. I am so careless of
life now, that I would rather be punished in this world somewhat.
It would, at all events, give me the feeling, to the end of my
wretched life, that if I had sinned, so also had I suffered. It
may not, you say, abate one jot of my eternal punishment here-
* Referring to the Gosport duel.
186 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
after ; but, speaking in a selfish point of view, I would sooner let
this matter take its course. I will not have the whole of the
retribution, which must come on me sooner or later, left for the
next Avorkl."
'* I do not know w'hat more to say, Austin Elliot," said the
attorney. " Must we go on ? "
" Certainly, I have broke God's laws, as w^ell as man's. I
have been mad. Do you know what I have been doing
abroad?"
''No."
'' Committing another crime. I hunted that man, Hertford,
till I found him, and then had him out. I need hardly tell you
that I would have died sooner than fire at him. But in doing
this I have committed another crime, I fired away from him, but
still I gave him the chance of adding to his guilt in murdering
me. I will take my punishment for both, and try to bear it.
But I shall die. Let us speak of business. About those papers
which you were to get ready ? "
"This plan of yours," said the attorney, after a long pause,
** of conveying your property, won't do. I have had the best
opinion about it. Lord Cardigan tried it six years ago, and it is
the opinion of the best men that you had better trust to the mercy
of the Crown. In Lord Cardigan's case, it was a flagrant attempt
to defeat justice. It would not be allowed again. It must not
be even mentioned. Your chance is submission. If you choose
to sign your will, do so. You will go and see Miss Hilton
to-morrow ? "
*' No ; Eleanor has made her bed and must lie on it. I love
her, old friend, but she could keep a secret from me which she
could tell to that cut-throat bully, Hertford."
" I wish I was in possession of facts," said the attorney. '' If
I was, I should find that you were utterly wrong. I know that as
surely as I know that the sun shines. Come, go to her."
" I ouglit not, I dare not, I will not. Have it which way you
will. She, by her absurd aftectation of mystery, helped to make
me mad and jealous. If she cares for me, let her come to me in
prison, and make it up tliere. In prison, I say. They won't
han(/ me, Avill they? Jiy Gad ! they won't dare to do that."
*' Erie," said tlie attonii^v, looking steadily at Austin, " when
summing up in P 's case, laid down tliat every one present at
a duel, either as principal or second, was guilty of murder. They
conhl hang you, you know. Perhaps they won't. Indeed, I don't
believe they will. Transportation for life is generally the next
sentence, after that twenty-one years, then fourteen. Eourteeu
AUSTIN ELLIOT. IR?
years is a dovilish lonpj timo, and you mi^^lit ho at Boulogne to-
morrow moniini,'."
Tliis was the liardost assault that Austin had had. Ho stood
fiiTii under it, and tlio attoraey, seeing nothing was to be made of
him, told him that, it" convicted, ho would prohahly ho imprisoned
ior a month, possibly for six. And after this thoy parted.
Let her come to him in prison, if she really loved him. Let
her explain her deceit there. And there let him tell her that he
had forgiven her — that he was a mined man — that it did not
consort with his honour tliat their engagement should go on — tliat
his pride would not allow him to link an heiress ot such brilliant
prospects, with his own desperate fortunes. Then let them part
for ever.
Austin went to prison in due time, and dreed his weird there as
we shall see. But she never came near him there. And yet
have I done my work so very poorly that you distrust her ? I
hope not.
CHAPTER XXXII.
It was a most interesting case, and the court was crowded. The
newspapers had been clamouring for a conviction. P , they
said, had been acquitted through a false sentimentality on the
part of the jury. The newspapers did not complain of this.
P was as innocent as a man miglit be under such circum-
stances. A noble young fellow, who could not have acted in any
other way ; a man who bore the highest character in every way.
But still a conviction was wanted, and this was the very case in
which to convict. This young man, Elliot, had notoriously thrust
his friend Lord Charles Barty into a quanvl, which should have
been his own, and had sneaked out of it himself. By every law,
human and Divine, by civil law, and by the laws of honour, this
Elliot was the man to make an example of.
The question was, " Would he put in an appearance ? " The
more long-headed and shrewd people said, " Lord, no ! there
was not a chance of it. That you might make your mind quite
easy on that score, my good fellow. That they believed they
knew something of the world, and that they put it to you, as a
judge of human nature, and a reasonable being, whether it was
188 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
likely that ho woitU put in an appearance after three weeks' law."
The men wlio knew Austin Lest, thou<:,'lit quite differently, and
had to endure wliat tlie deep dogs before mentioned said of him,
which, accompanied as it was with that peculiar contemptuous
smile, which the deep dof^s aforesaid generally assume, when they
are being deeper than usual, was very hard to bear, but which had
to be endured (as we said before of unendurable things) never-
theless.
" It was against Austin Elliot's interest to appear. Therefore,
he would not appear." Conclusion not all right, by any means,
in consequence of the omission of a rather important middle term.
It is astonishing how some shallow men, merely from the fact of
denying the possibility of a man acting on high and disinterested
motives, get to think themselves worldly wise ; and it is still more
astonishing, how wiser and better men than themselves shake
their heads, and give them credit for worldly wisdom and knowledge
of human nature. Why, the pickpockets and thieves in any
police-court, will show them what nonsense they talk, when they
place self-interest as the only source of human action. But if you
bray a fool in a mortar, he will only turn round on you, and offer
to prove that he was right from the beginning.
So, when Austin's name was called, and he stepped] quietly
into the dock, and stood there pale and anxious, but perfectly
calm, the wise men were slightly puzzled, but made out in a few
minutes, the theory, that Austin's game was to submit, throw
himself on the mercy of the court, and save his property. Oh !
deep-dyed idiots ! So utterly unable to appreciate the grief, the
despair, the horror in that wild young heart ; and the strange,
half-heathenish feeling, which was there too, that he might, by
suffering in his own person, atone for his sin ; and that by faith-
fully and unflinchingly going through this adventure to the end,
by enduring courageously all the consequences of it, that he might
perhaps raise himself to the level of his dead friend. So the
mainspring of all human action is self-interest, gentlemen ! So
you have never had a friend, and never want one ! Let us grant
you, that the Samaritan was going to stand for Jericho, and was
glad of the opportunity of striking a blow at the Levite interest,
and let us have done with it. He only gave the landlord two
pence, and we never hear of his having come back and paid the
rest of the score. Is that the way you would argue ? Very \\v\[ ;
Ik; did the thing very cheap. He was a long-headed man. You
will ])robably, however, not fhid him in the same circle of the
Paradise of Fools with yourselves.
It all turned out as Austin's attorney had predicted. Eveiy
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 189
iiu'iiil)or of the jiirv had been talking about the duel this three
weeks past.
The escape of Prince Louis Buonaparte from ilani, and the
Barty-Hertford duel, had been tlu' main subjects of conversation
amonj^' them for that time. When they sat in that box, they were
requested to dismiss from their minds all that they had heard
outside that court. A modest request this, to ask twelve men to
forj^'et what tlu'y had been talking about for the last fortnight.
It was not complied with ; it was childish to suppose that it could
be ; no one did ever think that it would be ; Austin was con-
demned before he came into court. Counsel spoke on each side.
The counsel for the prosecution were veiy moderate, the counsel
for the defence did their best, which was nothing. The judge
summed uj) almost in the very words of Mr. Justice Erie two
months before, in a similar case, but every one of the jury had
formed their own opinion ; and that opinion was identical in all
the twelve of them, to wit, that Austin had not acted " honour-
able," and so they found him guilty of manslaughter. A perfectly
just finding, but on perfectly unjust grounds.
The judge gave a glance at the jury, in which, said some who
watched him, there was a slight gleam of contempt. He paused
before he passed sentence, and when he began to speak, he spoke
rather low. " It had pleased Almighty God," he said, " for some
inscrutable reason, to strike down the prisoner at the bar, in the
very beginning of what some had thought would have been a very
noble and glorious career. He, as an old man, earnestly prayed
the prisoner at the bar, that in the solitude and seclusion, to
which he was now to be condemned, that he would take this lesson
to heart, and remember that God only chastened in his infinite
love."
A pause, and a profound silence. The jury felt uneasy, and
began to wisli they had done like P 's jury, and let the young
gentleman oti'.
The judge went on, though his voice was a little husky. " I
would not add one iota to the terrible remorse which I know you
feel. Nay, I would lighten it. Remember my words in prison.
If this chastisement is taken to heart, the time will come, Austin
Elliot, when you may bless the day in which you stood in that
dock. I am condemning you to social and political death. At
this moment a cloud passes over your life, hitherto so bright and
happy, the shadow of which will remain, and will never wholly
pass away from you again, on this side the grave. The jury have
done their duty. It remains for me to do mine.
*' One year's imprisonment."
190. AUSTIN ELLIOT.
The turnkey tapped him on the shoulder, and he followed the
turnkey out, and was <^'iven over to a policeman. He brushed
the shoulder of the next prisoner, a young man, a burglar, who
looked at him curiously, and laughed, and said that it was a good
thing that the swells got it sometimes, though if he had the
giving on it to 'em Austin didn't hear any more than that,
and did not appreciate or care about what he had heard. He
was confused, and felt as if he was going to be ill. He asked for
some water, and they gave it to him, and then he sat doAvn and
began thinking.
A year. This was 1846. Then it would be 1817. What
was the day of the month ? He could not remember, and asked
the policeman.
The eleventh of June. The policeman repeated it twice, and
then Austin thanked him, but his mind was elsewhere. A
woman who sat opposite to him, a weary witness, had got on
odd boots. They were both black jean boots, and were both for
the right foot. One was trodden on one side, and the other
was gone at the toes, but Austin was wide awake enough to see
that they were both right-foot boots. You couldn't take him
in. What a fool the woman must be ; perhaps she was drunk
when she put them on. She looked a drunken sort of a drab.
But there was something funny in it. Austin, God help him,
had a quiet laugh over it ; and soon they told him it was time
to go.
And so he went, patient and contented enough, for happily he
was just now past feeling anything acutely. As he was going
down the corridor, something struck him. AVhen he had started
from home that morning, his dog Robin had followed him, and
would not be driven back. He remembered that now. Ho
asked a policeman, who was standing by, to see after the dog
for him, and take him to Miss Hilton's, in Wilton Crescent, and
said she would give him five shillings. The man said, " Yes,
he would," and thanked him, and as he stepped through the
crowd into the prison-van, he looked round for his dog, but could
not see him.
llobhi had seen him, tliough, and was quite contented. His
master, thouglit he, was busy to-day, and was now going for a
drive. Kobin had waited for Austin in all sorts of places, for all
sorts of times, and had seen Austin get into all sorts of carriages
and drive away without thinking about him. His custom, on
these occasions, was to tear along tlie street, in front of the
vehicle into which Austin had got— be it cab, carriage, or omni-
bus — with joyous bark, ready to take his part in the next pleasant
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 191
advcnturo wliicli sliould bcfiill. So now he daslicd tlin)ii;;li tliu
c'lowdfd Old Jjiiik'V lit tlie hazard of his hfc, raciiif,' and l«ai)iiig
iu front of tlie prison-van which lickl his ruined and desperate
master, as if this were tlie hest fun of all.
The van took Austin to the ^'reat bald jjrison by the riverside,
and he was hurried in. The cruel iron door clanged behind
liini, and sent its echoes booming through the long dismal white-
washed corridors. And tlie clang of that door fell like a death-
knell on his ear. " I am condemning you," said the judge,
*' to social and i»()litical death." He knew it now. The door
jarred, and clanged ; and the world knew Austin EUiot no more.
Outside that great prison-door all was glorious June sunshine ;
the river flashing on, covered with busy craft, towards the tall
blue dome which rose into the air above the drifting smoke, far
away eastward. The June sun smote fiercely on the long prison-
wall, on the quiet road which passed it, on the great iron door
which had shut in Austin Elliott and all his high-built hopes and
fancies. There is not a duller place in London than that river-
terrace beneath the prison-wall. There is never anything to see
there. People who have cause to go that way generally huriy
past ; there is nothing to see there in general.
But for many days after this, people who had passed in a hurr}^
came dawdling back again : for there was something to attract
them, though they would have been troubled to tell you what.
There sat all this time, a dog against the prison-door, in the
burning sunshine — a dog who sat patient and spoke to no other
dogs, but who propped himself up against the nails and bars, and
panted in the heat, and snapped sometimes at the flies. Those
who turned and came back again knew, by their mother wit, that
the dog had seen some one go into that prison, and had sat
himself to wait till he came out again ; and they spoke in low
tones the one to the other, and tried to get the dog away, but he
would not come. And one slipshod drunken woman, whose
husband was also behind that door, urged by some feeling of
sickly sentimentality, which we will charitably attribute to gin, if
you please, lest we should be accused of sentimentality ourselves ;
brought the dog what we strongly suspect to have been her own
dinner, and stood by while he ate it. Robin, poor dog ! made
many friends during his sohtary watch under the buniing prison-
wall ; for the people who pass by Millbank are mostly of the
class whose highest idea of virtue is a certain blind, self-sacri-
ficing devotion — (reasons of such devotion, or merit of object, not
to be inquired into by respectable folks, if you please).
So liobin kept wateh in the burning sun, and got himself"
192 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
precariously fed by thieves and thieves' wives. Sometimes the
great door behind him would be opened, and then he would
lope out into the middle of the street, and, with his head on
one side, peer eagerly up the dim vista of whitewashed passages
beyond. The blue-coated warders would whistle to him, and
say, " Here, poor fellow ! " but he would only shake his long
drooping tail for an instant, almost imperceptibly, and stand
where he was. If there was a stranger present, the blue-coated
warders would tell him that that was the dog of a young swell
they had got inside for duelling, and that that dog had been
there for above a week. Then the door would be shut again,
and Robin would take his old post in the sun, and catch the flies.
For more than ten days he stayed there. At the end of that
time he went away. The great door was open one day, and three
or four warders were standing about. Robin had gone into the
middle of the street, when a very tall, handsome young man came
walking by with his eyes fixed on the prison.
He nearly stumbled over Robin. When Robin saw him, he
leaped upon him, and the young man caught him in his bosom.
And the young man was of the Scotch nation, for he said —
" It's his ain dog, if it's no his ain self. What, Robin, boy,
do ye mind Gil Macdonald, and the bonny hill-sides of Ronald-
sayl"
CHAPTER XXXIII.
So went matters outside the prison-door, in the bright summer
sunshine. Inside that door a generous, noble-mn;ded, unselfish
young man ; a young man who had, in his time, according to
the light which had been shown him, his lofty aspirations towards
the only good he knew of, political and social success ; was left
without a friend or a hope, beating himself to desperation and
death against his prison-bars ? Dare you come in ?
But, in going, we may take this comfort with us : Austin
would have required very long drilling to have made a high
place in public life. Of that I feel quite sure. He was far too
impulsive and thoughtless, fur too prone to believe the last
tiling wliich was told liiiii, to accept the last theory put before
him, and to say that it must be the best, to have succeeded.
Practice would have given him tlie power of closing his ears to
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 193
ar;^niment, and acting only on foiH'f^ono conclusions. Practice
mi^'lit have given him the trick of listenin}^' to his opponent, and
ignoring all his sound argiinuints, catching him when he tripped ;
"vvould have, in time, formed him into a shallow and untriithfiil
dehater of the third class, like — (Heaven help us, where are wo
getting to now ?) He was born for nobler things than to be a
little dog, doing the barking for big dogs, with thick skins and
strong nerves, who meant biting. He would, I fear, have
dropped into a low place. His habit of seeing the best side of
all opinions, and of having none of his own, his teiTor of adverse
criticism, and his almost childish anger against opponents,
would have made him but a poor man i'or public life. He
would have successively believed all creeds, till he had none of
his own.
That June moiiiing we know of, they shut the gate behind
him, and ho knew that it was all over and done. He felt that he
had died his first death, and that the clang of that door was as
the rattling of the earth on his coffin. At that moment, he saw,
so great is Divine mercy, among the burnt ashes of his past life,
one gleaming spark of hope ; he had, at all events, seen the
worst, short of death ; he was young, and the w^orld was large ;
his imprisonment would be over soon, only a year. The world
was very large. There were other worlds besides this cruel, in-
exorable English one.
But that spark of hope disappeared for a time, when the
sordid unbeautiful realities of his prison life began to be felt.
His idea was, that he would be locked up between four walls,
and left to eat his heart, until his time was out. Lucky for him
it was not so. There were rules in that prison so degrading that
his mere loathing of them kept him from going mad. Little acts
of discipline and punctuality, which, in his sane mind, he would
have acknowledged as necessary, but which now irritated him.
He had to go to chapel in the morning ; he had to come out to
the door of his cell, and touch his cap to the governor ; and to do
other things worse than this — little things, which he would not so
much have cared to do when free ; little things which, had he
been travelling in the desert or bush, he would have laughed
over, yet which now, when he was forced to do them, degraded
him. He did not know till afterwards, that, by powerful interest,
all prison rules possible to be relaxed, had been relaxed in his
favour. He did not know that the honest martinet of a governor
was in a state of indignation about the relaxation of those rules,
and held, very properly, that there was no such thing as rank
and influence in his republic. Austin did not know this. He
14
iU AUSTIN ELLIOT.
did not notice, until he came out among the other convicts, that
he, of all there, was the only one whose hair was uncut, and who
wore his own clothes. Then he began to have a faint inkling
that he was being treated leniently, and to think that they had
done kindly by him in not yielding to his wish. For he had
asked them the first morning, when they made him go to chapel,
why they would not let him lie on his bed and die quietly.
it was a long while before he mixed with the other convicts
there. The first night he was brought in he did not sleep at all.
There was a booming in his ears all through the short summer
night, and the power of connected thought was gone.
At seven he had dropped into a short uneasy slumber ; then a
great bell had rung, and the warder had waked him for chapel.
He asked him why he could not let him die in peace ? But he
must come to chapel.
So he slouched in with a hot hea^7 head, and slouched out
again. At the door he saw a warder, and looking on him with
eyes which, though dull and lustreless, had a momentary spark
of ferocity in them, asked him w^iere the he was to go
next ?
" To his cell," the man said quietly, and not unkindly.
Poor Austin blundered on, he knew not wdiither, he knew
not for how long. He knew not where his cell was. Ho went
on for what seemed to his fading intellect, hours. Through one
long whitewashed corridor after another ; at last there were stairs,
and he went down, down, holding on by the balustrade.
At the end was an open court where many convicts were wash-
ing themselves. When they saw Austin they began whistling
and jeering at him. He did not mind it, but stood blinking in
the sunshine, peering about him, till they all stopped whistling
and talking, and remained quite silent — quite silent, poor
wretches ; for Austin, as he stood there in the sunshine, was a
strange sight to look on-. His personal beauty, always great, was
rather enhanced by the fever-flush on his cheek, and the great
passionate gn^y eyes were now, witli the pupils enormously
dilated, staring with the fixed look of incipient delirium.
Unimaginative fellows, these convicts. After a moment's
silence, one of them, as spokesman, said, ''That cove's ill! " and
this so well expressed the feelings of the community, that they
went on washing themselves, and comparing notes about the Past
and the Future ; about what had been done*, and wliat, please
Heaven, would yet be done (in their line of business), leaving
Austin to the care of the warder.
Austin petulantly appealed to him. *' They told me to go to
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 195
my coll, but I can't fiiul it. Tlioy have, taken all my money
away, or I would give you five pounds to take me back, and put
me on my bed ; and I can't promise you anything for certain,
because the Crown has a claim on my property ; but if you will
take me back to my bed, I pledge you my honour as a gentleman
that Miss Hilton w^iU give you live pounds. It is all broken oil'
between us now, you understand — and, perhaps, she has not
used me well, but she will give you that. I want to lie down and
die. Come, now, I would do it for you. We are all the same
flesh and blood, convicts and warders, and Whigs and Tories.
If I had taken care, and not broken God's laws, I might have
been a warder, in time you know, when I was fit for it ; and if
you had gone out witli the friend of your heart on one accursed
May morning, and seen him tumble dead at your feet, you might
have been a convict. If I had been Avarder, and you convict, and
you had come to me with your head whirling round, and ten
thousand remorseless devils tearing at your heart, and asked me
to lead you to your cell, to die in peace, I would have done it ; by
God I would ! Come, now ! "
Poor Austin ! He was near getting release from all his
troubles for a time ; he was in the first stage of a brain-fever.
The warder quietly and kindly took him back to his cell, comfort-
ing him with such comfort as a prison-warder has to give. He
never claimed five poimds from Miss Hilton or from Austin ; he
never thought about what Austin said any more. But his kind-
ness to poor delirious Austin was the best day's work he ever did
in his life. Austin was partly delirious, and never remembered
one word of what passed. The man never told his own story ;
therefore, how came it that after all this miserable business was
over, in happier times than these, this warder found his private
affairs inquired into ; found that the inquirers had discovered
that he, the warder, had started in life as a farmer, and had
incontinently failed in consequence of trying some of ]\[echi's
experiments without Mechi's money, and had been bankrupt,
and glad to be made a warder at Millbank ? How was it that
this warder found himself asked, as a personal favour, to come,
with a salary of £250 a year, and superintend a certain model
farm on a certain island ? Which splendid rise in life was the
consequence of his kindness to Austin on this morning.
Austin was delirious, and remembered nothing of it. He
never told his story. There w^ere none but convicts by. One
of them must have told his story for him. Yes, there was one
convict, a very young man, with a foolish, weak face, who had
come towards Austin the moment he saw him come into the
196 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
yard, and had watched him with a look of eager curiosity, who
had heard it all. This young convict was the maker of that
warder's fortunes.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Austin got back to his cell, and somewhat regained his head in
solitude. He lay on his bed all day, and a little after dark the
warder before mentioned came in, and got him to go to bed.
He slept for a time, not, luckily, for very long. Then he woke
with a feeling of horror ujDon him, a feeling that something
terrible was coming. He got out of bed, and felt for the bell.
Round and round the room, from end to end ; how damp and
cold and strange the walls felt ! — and where the devil was the
bell-rope ? His servant, he knew, slept in the room overhead.
He was ill ; it w^ould be better to call for him. He called out, —
** Edward! Edward! " many times, and waited to hear the door
above open : but it did not. Confound the lad ! — why should he
choose this night, of all others, to be out ? He had better feel
his way into bed again, and wait till he heard Edward go upstairs.
He began feeling his way towards his bed again, but he did not
get to it. In a moment the whole ghastly truth came before him.
For one instant he remembered all that had happened, and he
knew where he was. Then he gave a wild cry, and fell down on
the cold stone floor insensible.
The warder heard him, and came in. He got him on to his
bed again, w^hicli was a lucky thing for Austin, for if he had lain
long insensible on the cold stone floor, in his fever, he would
have died.
His fever was violent and obstinate ; he was often delirious for
a day at a time. He knew the doctor and the warder now and
then. At the end of ten days he was still delirious, but he recog-
nised some one who came to see him then.
Gil Macdonald, pondering about many things, after the last
terrible faminu winter, during which the Ronaldsay folk had lived
on rotten i)otatoes, seaweed, and limpets, had gotten it into his
head that he must, as soon as he could see things a bit right,
and save money enough, go south. South — from his barren,
mountain highland home, w^liere mighty men, such as he, were
eating their heai'ts in starvation and idleness — down to tlie rich
country of England, where there was a career and fair play for all ;
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 197
where a " lon.t^-lof,'f?it hii'laiul chiel " might find his phice among
those hroad-shouhUred, gn-y-eycd, thoughtful Knghsh, and he
welcomed as a friend, not as a rival. Gil had heard the Mactavish
call these men " Cockneys," by which he, Gil, understood, a sort
of effominate follows, onorvatod by living in a wanner climate.
But Gil was too true a Scotchman to set his watch by the Mac-
tavish 's clock, or by Christopher North's clock, or by Professor
Blackio's clock ; and so he had come to the conclusion, liaving
heard Englishmen, who had come north, talking of England and
the English, that they were a manly and noble set of fellows ;
and argued, that if the English were fools, as some tried to make
out, so mucii the hotter for him, who had a strong notion that he
was not a fool. If they were the fellows he thought, why then it
would be all the bettor to live among them.
Besides, Austin Elliot was anEuglishnjan, and lived in England,
and Austin Elliot was the one person around whom most of Gil's
hopes for the future gi'ouped themselves. Austin was the most
heroic and amiable person he had ever seen, and the memory of
him was, perhaps, brighter in the Scotchman's mind, than the
reality. But he must first get south, and see Austin. If Austin
could help him he would ; if he could not, at all events Gil would
see him again — that would be something. So strange was the
admiration of this young man for Austin, he being in many points
— not unimportant ones — somewhat Austin's superior.
One brilliant June morning he landed from the Leith steam-
boat, and strode wondering along the streets, looking at the names
over the shop-doors to see for a Highland one. Having " speired "
of one MacAlister, who was taking down his shutters, and whose
personal appearance gave Gil the highest hopes, he did as he was
told; he walked "aye west" for eight miles or more towards
Mortlake, where Mr. Elliot had lived. He found Stanhope
House, and rang, waiting for an answer with a beating heart.
Old Mr. Elliot, the servant told him, had been dead above a
year ; young Mr. Elliot lived at such a number in Pall Mall.
So Gil, resting a little, and taking a frugal meal at a public -
house, strode eastward again, carefully asking his way at Scotch
shops only — not that he was distrustful by nature, but only
cautious ; and it was an unco muckle city, and a stranger didna
ken. So he asked his way at the Scotch shops only.
Feeling his way, with many mistakes, he came at last to Pall
Mall. Here he made his only non-Scotch inquiry that day.
Seeing a handsome, goodnatured -looking young dandy, very like
Austin, standing at a corner, he took courage to ask him whether
or no that was Paul Maul, The young gentleman answered
198 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
civilly that it was Pell Mell. This made poor Gil fancy that he
was gone wrong again ; he determined to trust none hut his
fellow-countrymen for directions. He walked on till he saw a
Highland name over a shoj), and went in and asked. He was
right this time. The house at which he deteiminod to ask was
the very house where Austin lived : he saw that hy the numher.
He asked the landlord, who was in his shop, unscrewing the
breech from a rifle, whether or no Mr. Elliot lived there ?
The landlord, hearing the dear old music of his native accent,
took off his spectacles, and said at a venture in Gaelic —
'* He did live here, God forgive us ; but he is fretting out his
brave heart in prison now, my son."
Poor Gil sat down. In prison. He remembered almost the
last words they had spoken together at Ronaldsay, and he felt as
if the hand of God had smote him.
" In prison ! "
** Aye, the weary day."
** I have followed him all down from Ronaldsay, all the weary,
weary way, and I find him in prison at the end. Do you mean
the same man as I ? Do you mean Mr. Austin Elliot, the young
Saxon lord, with the laughing eyes, that were blue like Loch Oil,
and Loch na Craig, when the wind sweeps down on them from
Ben More on a June morning ? Have they dared to tie up the
stag in the byre ? Have they dared to put the salmon in the
goose-dub ? Had they dared to chain the scolding peregrine on
the popinjay perch ? "
Thus, in his anger, in furious Gaelic Ossianically spoke poor
Gil. Alas ! it appeared they had dared to do all this, and that
there was no undoing of it at any rate whatever. His fellow-
countryman had him into his parlour, and told him all about wliat
had happened. And when Gil had grown calmer, they had to-
gether a regular good Gaelic palaver, towards the end of which
this astounding fact was discovered — that Gil's great-uncle's
second wife was sister to the Reverend David IMacpherson, a
placed minister, who had served Glen Ramshorn for forty years ;
and tliat the Reverend David's third sister had married the gun-
maker's own uncle's third cousin, an Aberdeen stonemason,
whereby it was as clear as day that Gil was the gunmaker's
nephew. So Gil was good for a bed in Pall Mall, and, if need
were, ten pound or so, for the rest of his life.
That afternoon Gil walked down to the prison, by the river, to
see wliat he could do with regard to getting at Austin. And there
lie found Robin, as we saw. And wln'U he had sjjoken to one or
two of the warders, he came back again to Pall IMall, and brought
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 199
Robin witli liim ; and then, takin<]f off his coat and harin^^ liis
great arms, lie set to work and clcam-d guns, wliile lioljin lay
beside him, with his noso between his paws, and watched him
contentedly. Long into the night he worked, a patient, intelli-
gent giant ; holding tlio creed, that a man was btu'ii to do the
work he found to his hand, and that when the work was done it
would get paid for in some form. And, next morning, when the
slei'py apprentices came lumbering downstairs, there was Gil
again, hard at it, having had a few hours' sleep on the sofa, in
the parlour, with Robin. A true Scotchman — going on their old
good plan, of showing what tlu-y were worth before they bargained
for their wages.
This appearance of Gil ]\racdonald was very important for
Austin, or I would not have dwelt on it. For, the fact is this,
that Gil Macdonald was the only person who ever went near
Austin during his imprisonment. Some cast him off, and some
were prevented from going near him ; we shall know who were in
the former, and who in the latter category soon. Meanwhile Gil
Macdonald was the one link between Austin and the world he had
left.
The gnnmaker, Austin's landlord, Gil's kinsman ! was a west-
end tradesman, and Imcw intimately some very great people. So,
next morning, when Gil, after doing the work of ten men, pro-
posed at breakfast, the utterly untradesman-like scheme of
adopting the plan of the creature Donald, in '' Rob Roy " — to
w'it, getting himself made warder, letting Austin out, pitching the
keys into the Thames, and then — and then — (that part of the
plan not developed yet) ; at this time, I say, the gunmaker,
seeing that his kinsman's notion of morality would not do in such
a southern latitude, rebuked him severely ; but, at the same time,
bethought himself of a certain great man, a customer ; and coolly
waited on that great man, in his dressing-room, for the purpose
of showing his lordship the most beautiful pair of baiTels ever
forged.
When he got into the great man's presence, on these cre-
dentials, he put the barrels on the ground, and coolly told him,
that he had merely used them as an artifice to gain an audience
with his lordship. He then told, shortly and quickly, knowing
that time was precious here, Gil's story ; and made Gil's request,
that he might be allowed access to Austin.
His lordship was very much interested and pleased. " By Gad,
Macpherson," he said, " this is a wicked world. They are all
leaving that poor fellow there to die in his desperation. I don't
say anything about Edward Barty ; but conceive that wicked little
200 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
thing — that Miss Hilton — having had the indecency to bolt abroad,
and follow that blackleg bully Hertford. It is utterly atrocious.
Your request is granted to the full. Let this young fellow have
access to this poor boy. You are a good fellow, Macpherson, and
this young Highlander must be another. I will write to Captain
Somes at once. Good morning."
So Gil Macdonald had the entree to Austin, and he went to see
him that afternoon.
How did he find his hero, his gallant young gentleman, the man
to whom he had meant to come, asking humbly that he might
follow his glorious fortunes ! He had found him at last.
Here he was, on the narrow prison-bed, in the half-lighted cell,
in a close, dead atmosphere, which made poor Gil breathe hard,
as though he had been running. Here he was, deserted by every
one, all his beauty gone, with his great blue eyes staring in the
madness of his fever ; here he was, delirious and alone, ciying
continually for help night and day, to those who never answered,
and who never came.
But he knew Gil, and Gil said, " Thank God for that ! " He
knew him even in his madness, and stretched out his fevered hands
towards him, and said how long he had been coming ; but that
now he was come, they would get away together, to the glens of
Ronaldsay, and wander by the cool streams, among the green
shadows of the wood by the waterfalls. And they would go
together, up into the dark, cool caves, and watch the blue sea
out beyond, in the burning sun ; and he would bathe in the linn,
and his head would get cold again, and then his reason would
come back. But he would never come near the wicked town any
more. His head, he told Gil, had got heated with sitting up in
the gallery of the Commons so long, and hearing the weary
debates. But that was all past and gone for ever. Charles
Barty was dead, and they were all dead but he and Gil ; and
they, too, must get away to Ronaldsay, and leave the hot streets,
and the cruel lying crowds, that haunted clubs and such places,
and lied about men until they went mad. They must get away
from these into the mountains, and end tlieir days in peace.
Gil told all this to the gunmaker and his wife that night, over a
frugal supper. It was not told or heard without tears. Those
three leal and trusty Scotcli bodies made a compact, that though
all the world had deserted poor Austin, yet they would stay by
him to the death. Then llie gunmaker and his wife went to bed,
and Gil and llobin went into tiie shop.
Gil cleaned guns till there were no more to clean. Gil cleaned
guns, making himself grimy beyond concejition. Then he re-
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 201
moml)orc(l tliat one of the apprentices liad boen ordered to clean
a certain j^unlock, the first tliin;^ to-morrow morning. And ho
got possession of this lock, and a certain book, and pored over
them hotli ; while Kohin lay with his nose on his paws, and
watched him with bright clear eyes. After half an hour with lock
and book before him, Gil began to understand the difference
between main-spring, sear-spring, sear, and the rest of it, as well
as lie would have done after a wet morning, in the class-room at
Hythe. Then he asked himself what was the matter with this
particular lock ? Then he compared it with a newly-cleaned one,
and came to the conclusion, that the sear-spring was clogged with
oil. And then at twelve o'clock he took the work to pieces. This
was a bold and remarkable action ; but what is more remarkable,
before half-past one, he had cleaned that lock, and put it together
again (which is not so easy a matter, particularly when you have
no one to show you the dift'erencc between the Bridle pin and the
other pins). When he had done this, he felt proud, and almost
happy, in spite of bis poor hero, who was raving there in his
prison cell.
Almost happy ; nay, possibly quite, for this reason. Gil had
the great want of his heart, the great craving of his whole life,
satisfied at last. He hardly knew it. He knew only this, that
in Ronaldsay, he had always felt, that he was a man lost, and
thrown away, a man capable of he knew not what, and without
means of finding out. Now he found that this gunsmith's work,
little as he knew of it, little as he had done of it, was in some
way filling up a void in his heart. The fact was that Gil, for
the first time in his life, had got to work, and he was as satisfied
over it as is a dog when he gnaws a bone. The feeling of an
Englishman, a Scotchman, and one kind of Irishman, over his
work, is similar to that of a Turk over his pipe. It is a sedative,
l^ut in the one case, the results contribute more towards human
well-being than in the other.
In spite of his late night over the work, Gil was tinlvcring in the
shop before the two apprentices came sleepily squabbling down-
stairs. He went to Austin again that day, but Austin was as bad
as ever, and was as bad as ever for many days. Still Gil was
always with him. Gil grew grimier and smelt stronger of train-
oil as time went on, until the brave young kilted Highlander had
grown into a smudgy gunsmith in a leather apron ; all the romantic
beauty of his personal appearance gone clean away to the free
winds of heaven. Sad degradation indeed 1 That he, the un-
tamed stag of the mountain, should condescend to this ! That
Gil, the idle Highlander, should develop into Gil the sage, shrewd,
202 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
diligent young smith 1 Worse stiU, that our taste should be so
depraved, as to make us admire him the more, the more eager,
diligent, and grimier he grew.
There came a morning, when the warders reported to Gil, on
his visiting the prison, that Austin was better, and had gone to
sleep. He waited till he woke, and then Austin's reason had
returned, and he knew Gil in reality ; not as he had in his fever,
as only one of the figures in the perpetual shadow-dance which
went on before his eyes, in which Gil's figure was only a little
more real than the others. In a week from this time he was con-
valescent, and then they began to consult.
The first thing done was this : — Austin wrote to his attorney,
Mr. Compton, asking him whether or no the Crown had made any
claim on his property. He wrote a very cold, stiff note, for he
was indignant. The old man had never come near him in
his illness. His note was answered by the old man's junior
partner, Mr. Brogden. It appeared that the anxiety and worry
caused by Austin's trial and conviction, had ended by Mr.
Compton's being laid up by a very serious attack of illness.
Mr. Brogden proceeded to tell Austin that the Crown had made
no claim on his property, and would certainhj, he believed, make
none, provided Mr. Elliot roiudned perfecth/ quiet, and let the
whole matter slip by. It would be better for Mr. Elliot not to
communicate with their office any more till better times. Clerks
would talk. Some of the newspapers had been troublesome over
his case. The new secretary was very well disposed to Mr.
Elliot, but they must be quiet. Mr. Elliot might trust them,
and
"The new secretary!" bounced out Austin. ''Is Peel out
then ? Good heavens ! Surely the Lords have not dared !
But what does it matter to me ? "
Gil felt horribly guilty. The fact was, that he had been so
busy with his guns, that he did not actually know whether Peel
was in or out. He felt very foolish, and spoke of other things.
But that night, when he went home, he made his kinsman prime
him witli the details of the great Corn Law storm, which had passed
so high over his head, without moving his hair ; and next day was
enabled to tell Austin that the Lords had not dared ; that the liill
was law ; and that Sir Robert had come to grief over tlie Irish
Arms Bill. lie was so busy over his gun-cleaning business, that
he had not time to ask what Irish arms were. If he had been
made to say what his notion of the Irish Arms I^ill was, he would
probably have tliought that it was the account rendered to Parlia-
ment for certain casualties at Donnybrook Eair, After this ho
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 203
informed liiinsclf al)out politics, but on this occasion he was
rolioYotl, wlion Austin said to him —
" Gil, never let you and I speak of these things again. My
imprisonment hero renders me politically dead. I cannot tell
you, because I have no strength to tell you, how hideous my silly
boy's dream, of succeeding in politics, without one single qualifi-
cation, seems to me now. The Com ]>ill has passed, and has
crushed me under its wheels in passing. Let us talk no more of
these things. I have to begin life again ; I will, God help me,
begin it in another spirit."
It was all very well for Austin to talk like this to Gil, but it
had not very much effect on him. Austin's sad example was no
use to Gil. His kinsman was a politician ; and aft(;r his first
inquiries into politics for Austin's sake, he began making more
for his ovm. He began to take a strong interest in the matter,
and in a month could give his opinion and defend it. His frame
of mind at the end of a month was Radical.
Gil's next enteqDrise, on Austin's behalf, was to go secretly to
Wilton Crescent, and to find out where Miss Hilton was, and what
she was doing. This was to be a very secret expedition indeed.
Gil perfonued it with all his Scotch caution. But his caution was
unnecessary. He, knowing nothing, bluntly brought back this
intelligence — that Miss Hilton, with her aunt, her butler, and the
rest of her household, had started for the Continent, the day after
the duel. There was no one in the house but a charwoman.
Then Austin turned his face to the wall. This was the hardest
of all. She had deserted him then ! He could forgive Lord
Edward Barty — nay, he would dread to see him. He could
forgive his father's old friends ; they had never liked him since
he had turned Radical. But for her to have deserted him, and
thro^^^l herself into the arms of that dog Hertford ! Ah ! this was
veiy, very bitter !
That she, who could make those religious pilgrimages, to such
strange places in such strange company, could not have come to
see him or to ask after him in his misery 1 If she had only sent
old James ! Could she have known that he distrusted her after
that morning — that miserable morning before the last debate, when
he had seen her in company with Hertford ? Could she have
known the cruel words he spoke of her to Lord Charles Barty ?
If she knew these things, it might account for her neglect. She
might be angry with him ; she might have gone abroad in a pique.
No, no ! she could not have known it. She must be false,
false ! She must be falser than it is possible to conceive. And .
be, poor fool ! loved her more than ever — loved, that is to say.
204 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
the quiet, calm little woman who used to sit with folded hands in
church — loved her, in fact, as she used to be — the old, quiet,
patient Eleanor, who existed no longer.
He did not love her as she was now, then. Ah, yes ! that was
the bitterest part of it. Fallen, base as she was, he loved her
more than ever. It was well that he should turn his face to the
wall.
I have shown you, with most inexorable justice, all the worst
points in his character. Most of them — such as his flippancy, his
want of earnestness, and other faults of this class, which he shared
with many young men — were faults of education. These died a
natural death, the moment the prison-gate slammed behind him,
and he was brought face to face with reality. But his worst fault
— a certain jealous pride, showing itself outwardly in almost
hysterical anger — remained there yet. And now, before he rose
from his narrow prison-bed he saw that it was there, and set to
work to conquer it.
He thought over his life, and he saw that fault staring out on
two or three occasions, in a very ugly manner. He remembered
Miss Cecil, and his furious anger at everything in heaven and
earth, when he found out that she was to marry Lord Mewstone.
He bluslied at this, and tried to forget it, but could not.
Then he began thinking of the poor fellow who was dead, of
poor Lord Charles. How often had he half- quarrelled with him
at school, when he had been jealous, because the dead man had
been friendly with some other boy, and Austin had fancied himself
neglected. How often, later than this, had he been fractious and
rude with him, merely because their social positions were so
different, and because he, Austin, was afraid of being called a
tuft-hunter. He remembered now five hundred things w^iicli he
had said to his friend who was gone, which he would have given
the world to recall, but -which could never be recalled.
Again : had he dono his duty by that poor, dead brother of
Eleanor's, at Eton ? No, he had not. He had been too nmch
ashamed of him. He had been angry and indignant at that boy's
very existence. That he and Lord Cli,arles, with their sublime,
high and mighty boy-aspirations, should have a boy given to
tliieving forced on their company ; it had been intolerable. Now
that he was in prison himself, he thought that, periiaps, a little
more genial kindness, a little less high-luinded patronage, might
have saved that boy. IJut it was too late.
Lastly, he began tliinking about Eleanor herself. The old Adam
was a little too strong for him hca-e, yet. For he had trusted her,
as woman was never trusted before. He had let her go those
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 20o
mysterious pllj^'rimagcs of hers, down into this very Millbank
quarter, dressed in licr maid's clothes, and asked no questions.
And at hist he had found her walkinj,' arm-in-arm, in the lowest
part of the town, with the accursed Hertford. lie could not
accuse himself here. Not yet.
And now she had deserted him in his trouble, and gone abroad
after that man.
Still he recognised the fact that, all tlirough his life, there had
been a tendency to jealousy and suspicion, and he detenuined,
even now, that if Eleanor could ever clear herself to him, that he
would forgive her, would tell her so, and part with her for ever.
But still, could she clear herself ten times over, his duty was
evident. He would never link his ruined fortunes to hers. If
she had been penniless, it would have been a diflerent matter.
But as it was, it was perfectly clear it would be dishonourable,
after what had happened, to renew his intercourse w^ith her. The
world would never hold him blameless if he did.
The end of poor Austin's illness was also the culminating point
of his misfortunes ; after this, his affairs began to mend — ver}',
very slowly, but still to mend. When he rose from his sick bed,
and began to walk about his prison, there were still nine months
of conhuement before him. They were weaiy months to look for-
ward to, but he felt he could get through them without maddening
himself, now that Gil Macdonald was coming to see him almost
daily. In his present state of weakness and depression, he tried
to think, tried to hope, that, by mere patience, he might live on
till things came right again. One thing only now was unendur-
able. Poor Eleanor was abroad, alone and unprotected, in the
power of Captain Hertford and her aunt. That was maddening to
think of. Badly as she had treated him, something must be done
there. He thought the matter over as well as he was able. There
seemed only one hope. He got leave from the governor, and wrote
the following letter to Lord Edward Barty :
" My Lord,
*' I know that we can never meet again as friends on this side
of the grave. I know the hoiTor and detestation in which you
must hold my name, after the late catastrophe. But I beg you,
in God's name, to listen to what I have to say.
"You used to love Eleanor Hilton. She is gone abroad un-
protected. Her aunt has taken her away into a foreign country,
where she will be in the power of the man who has caused all this
misery, and his disreputable companions.
" Now I ask you, who have so often knelt and prayed by her
206 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
side, whether you will stand by and let this go on. If you have
a grain of chivalry in your composition, Edward, you cannot, you
dare not. I swear to you, Edward, deeply as I love you, if you,
knowing what you know, stand by and do nothing, that I will cast
you off with the same loathing and contempt which you now feel
for me. Eddy ! Eddy ! for the sake of the love we once bore to
one another, you will save her.
'' I remain, my Lord,
*' Your Lordship's obedient servant,
*' Austin Elliot."
Gil had instructions to take this letter to Cheshire House, and
to put it into Lord Edward's own hands, and get an answer.
Admiral Villeneuve had instructions to form a junction with the
fleet of Admiral Gravina, and to pound and blast the British fleet
from off the face of the waters. Neither Gil Macdonald nor
Admiral Villeneuve were successful, and they both had strong
doubts of their success before they began to execute their orders.
When Gil (having got off as much of his griminess as was
possible) reconnoitred Cheshire House, his heart sank within
him. The house stood a long way back from the street, and
was fronted by a high wall, in which were two carriage-gates.
In one of these gates was a wicket ; and Gil, after a quarter
of an hour's watching, became aware, that this wall and gate
were the outworks of the place, and must be carried, either by
stratagem or force, before he could hope to do his errand.
He saw a great many people come and ring the bell. Most of
the people who brought letters had them taken by the porter, and
had the door shut in their faces. This would not do. Austin
had told him to put his letter into Lord Edward's hand, and get
an answer.
At last he opened his first parallel. He rang the bell, and
asked to sec Lord Edward. The porter answered civilly, but
shortly, "Out of town"; and Gil retired and leaned against a
lamp-post.
The tiling had to be done, and must bo done somehow. Gil
only knew this much : that this was the house of poor Lord
Charles's father ; that the mention of Austin's name miglit not
be a good passport there, and that he nnist be cautious. He was
very much puzzled. If Austin had sent any one but a very cunning
Scot, his mission might have failed altogether. But Gil, with his
patient vulpine cunning, succeeded better probably than an English-
man or Irishman would have done. He had waited some time,
and was thinking of doing all sorts of things, when the wicket was
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 207
opened, and a fine boy of about sixteen, in deep mourning, came
out, and walked away slowly along the street. Gil had heard the
porter call him, " My Lord."
Gil instantly gave chase, and overtook this lad.
" I beg yer pardon, young sir, yu're no Lord Edward Barty,
I'm thinking?"
"No; my name is George Barty. My brother Edward is
abroad. Can I do anything for you?"
Gil paused an instant ; but when he looked again into the honest
face of the lad, he took his resolution.
''Yes, young sir — I mean my Lord — ye're a lord, are ye no?
Open this letter, and gio me the answer to take back wie me ;
for he loves you and yours, dearer than his heart's bluid, after all
done."
The boy opened the letter and read it. He gave no answer at
first ; he bit his lips hard, and tried not, but the tears would come.
Gil walked a little way oil', and looked at the sparrows upon the
house-top.
At last the boy came after him, and touched his arm, and said —
'' Do you see Mr. Elliot ever ? "
** Nigh every day."
" Are you in his confidence ? "
** I should be. I am only a poor Highland lad. But when ye,
all of ye, left him to rot in his prison, I was the only one faitliful
to him'."
'' You are WTong," said the boy, eagerly. " Others are faithful
to him. I am faithful to him. Edward is as true as steel to him.
We know how blameless he was in the matter. We know that he
followed this man abroad, and got wounded. Take tliis letter back
to him, and tell him to bum it. Tell him that Edward followed
Miss Hilton abroad instantly, and has been with her ever since.
They are at Ems now. 8he is in trouble about her aunt ; but
don't tell him this. How is he ? How does he bear it ? "
" He has been at death's door and no one nigh him."
" Poor fellow ! Give him my love — George Barty 's love ; and
say we have not forgotten him."
Gil came back and reported all this. Austin was glad that
Lord Edward was with her. That was very good news. So Lord
Edward was as true as steel to him, was he ? Perhaps. But he
might have ^vl'itten a line to say so. As true as steel, hey ?
" God forgive him ! " he said, the next moment. When did
Lord Edward ever write letters, blind as he was from infimcy.
He could wTite in a way, so Austin had heard ; but since Austin
had kno^\^l him, he had always dictated his letters to his valet.
208 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
He would cast this miserable jealousy out of his heart once and
for all. Edward Barty was true to him ; his delicacy had only
prevented his writing. It was easy to find excuses for a blind
man ; but who could find excuses for Eleanor ? Why had she
not written ? Not one line ; not one short word to say that she
had throAMi him off. His anger against her increased day by day ;
but, alas, his love for her grew none the less. He loved an
eidolon — an Eleanor who never had been, except in his oami fancy
— a true, faithful, patient little being, who always sat with folded
hands, whose face never grew animated, save when he was present.
He had loved such an one, but she had never existed. Eleanor
Hilton, who lived, was false and cruel. Not one line all these
three weary months. How wicked these women could be at times !
Poor Austin's resolution to uproot from his heart his fatal error
of causeless jealousy seemed to hold well enough until he began
to think about Eleanor : about the very person whom he loved
best in the world, and whom, if he had only kno\Mi it, he had best
cause^to trust — the one who had suffered more on his behalf than
any one else who cared for him. It was natural, possibly, that he
should be most jealous about the one he loved best, but it was
very hard upon Eleanor.
She had written to him again and again, letters full of wild love,
tendeiTiess, and comfort. Lord Edward Ihirty had dictated several
notes to him also, and enclosed them in hers. They had left them
to go to post with the other letters.
But Aunt Maria's maid, acting under orders, had brought them
all to her mistress, who had read them, and then put them all into
the fire.
Eleanor's troubles began to get more heavy to bear than Austin's ;
Austin's silence aggravated them very much, she did not know
what to think. Was he desperate, under his terrible misfortune,
or did he know of her secret ? He was in Millbank prison himself ;
could he know ? She told Lord Edward everything. He advised
her to say nothing ; he was getting angry ; Austin ought to have
written.
At this time Lord Edward received the following letter : —
*' Di<]AR Brother,
" I met a big fellow, an awful big fellow, as big as old Hoskins,
but not so fat, in the square yesterday. He spoke like an Irish-
man, and said that Austin was anxious for you to take care of
Miss Hilton. I said you were doing so. He said that Austin
had been dying, but was well again, and that every one had
deserted him.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 209
** Florence has shoved the mignoncttc-box out of the schoolroom
wmdow, and broke the geraniums in the drawing-room balcony,
and has caught it. Jim was sitting on the edge of his tub,
kicking nurse, and the tub turned over him, and the water has
gone down and spoilt the libraiy ceiling. He cauglit it too, but
not so bad as Florence. The houses are up, and we leave town
to-morrow.
" Your affectionate brother,
'' George Baety."
On the receipt of this they wrote to Austin again, but again
Aunt Maria's maid was terrified into stealing the letter, and
again Aunt Maria put it into the fire. Wliat old James was
doing at this time we shall see directly. But the eftect of this
wicked old woman's plot was this, that Austin thought they had
both utterly deserted him ; that he thought that Eleanor, at
least, should have written to him ; and that he was very angry,
and very jealous.
CHAPTER XXXV.
Austin had never been moved into the hospital ; the doctor pre-
ferred dealing with him where he was. Alter a time he began
to get better, and was able to walk about.
At first he always waited for Gil Macdonald, and took his arm
for a turn up and down the long corridor, and then lay do\^'n
again ; but after a time he felt the want of more exercise, and
used to rise and walk out by himself. At first when he began to
do this, he would wait till the long corridor \Yas empty, and then
come out, and begin his solitary walk. To show^ how villainously
penal sentences are can'ied out in certain cases, I may mention,
that when Austin began to recover, the governor called on him
every day (under protest) ; and that if Austin, in his solitary
walk, wanted the support of a warder's aim, it was his own fault
if he did not have it. He was their Picciola — their '' poor little
thing" — their prison flower! — the only innocent man among
nine hundred. What wonder that they (officially) petted him?
Poor, handsome, patient, innocent young gentleman ! Yes I
they grew very fond of Austin — they w^ere just like every one
else.
But after a time Austin began to feel the want of new faces,
15
210 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
although those faces were those of convicts. One night, when he
was getting strong, he lay on his hed and thought, and a strange
thouglit came into his head. This thought put itself into many
fonns before it came to this. — Could not he, Austin, do some
good, infinitesimal it might he, if he mixed with the other con-
victs ? In the eye of the law he was no better than the worst of
them, but he was still higher than the highest of them. Surely
he might do some good.
" By merely mixing with them, and talking to them, we might
raise their moral tone," thought he. Speaking to them of higher
things would — must — do them some good. One does not like
to say that he was -wi'ong ; but still it becomes apparent that he
had not acquired what we call the Australian instinct — that is to
say, did not know a convict or jail-bird when he saw him ; did
not recognise the class of man as a distinct one ; did not perceive
the extraordinary difference, in aj)pearance, between an honest
man under a cloud, and a rogue. In fact, I am sorry to say,
he came to the conclusion that he might raise the moral tone
of the convicts around him by talking to them on an empty
stomach.
He determined to go out into the yard and talk to them ; but
he was still weak, and a little nervous ; and so, putting it off from
day to day, he contented himself by walking up and down the
corridor in front of his cell.
One day there was a fracas there ; it was only a few days after
he was able to walk up and down alone. It was not a very great
riot ; it was a loud dispute between a warder, and a tall young
man in a convict dress. Austin, weak as he was, walked down to
see if he could assist the warder. He found him in high dispute
with the convict, and in the convict he recognised the young man
who had looked at him so eagerly the morning after he had been
brought to prison.
And as Austin looked on the young man, he had sense to see
that he was not quite recovered from his fever ; that his brain had
not quite got the better of the delirium yet. However, he was far
too sensible a fellow to be deluded by any mad fiiucies. ''If a
lunatic," he said to himself, " only knows that he is mad, and can
keep that faitli in his head sufficiently long, he may defy all the
Masters in Lunacy put together." Austin knew that, probably,
his brain was not quite right, and so he banished a certain idiotic
fiiiicy from his mind indignantly. He banislied his first mad
fancy, and took a practical vii'W of things. Here was a young
convict in high dispute with a warder. He would intercede for
tliis young convict; would get hold of tliis young convict, and
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 211
talk to him fihout Slialvcspoaro and tlift musical f,'lassos, until all
the otlier convicts should como and listen with this one. And so
Austin would elevate the moral tone of all of them, until they
should become penetrated with an abstract love of virtue (for
Austin, in his political creed, ij^nored tlie reli^'ious element), and
so they should all become reformed ; which meant, altliou^di ho
did not know it, that all their foreheads should become broader
and higher ; their eyes should look straij^ht at another man's ;
and they should give over fiddling witli tlieir buttons, when they
spoke to an honest man.
It appeared that the dispute with this convict and the warder
was rather a strange one. The young man had been coming up
to speak to Austin, when the warder, too zealous in Austin's
cause, had turned him back. Austin thanked the warder for his
kindness, and allowed the young convict to speak to him.
The young man spoke first. " Your name is Elliot ? " he said.
Austin said " Yes."
" I knew that the first moment I saw you — that morning when
you came out in the yard among the rest of us. I had not seen
you for a long while, but I felt sure it was you."
'' Then you have seen me before? " said Austin.
" Ah yes, often."
" What is your name now," said Austin, " and where have you
seen me? "
*' Then you do not remember me ? "
** No," said Austin. "I had a silly fancy about you just now ;
but I don't remember you. If you have known me, tell me
where?"
" I knew you when you were at Eton. Do you remember
Tollidav's boy, Jim Charlton?"
" Yes."
*'I am that boy."
"Indeed, you are nothing of the kind," said Austin. "Jim
was a light-headed boy, your hair is black. What is the good
of lying?"
"I don't Imow ; no one speaks the truth here. I remember
you, though. You were always kind enough to me ; you used
always to be with a young swell there. Lord Charles Barty.
How I hated that boy. What has become of him ? "
" D n you," said Austin, " you bad better take care."
As he turned fiercely on the man, he saw nothing but a look of
puzzled curiosity ; his wrath was stayed at once ; and when he
had looked at the young man's face for an instant, he considered
whether or no he was going mad again.
212 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
" Don't get in a rage, Austin Elliot," said Charlton. '* "What
has become of that cursed young prig ? "
" Dead — shot in a duel. I was his second, and am here for
it. Will you hold your tongue ? "
" Yes, directly. One question more. What has become of
that other fuUow who was always with you and Lord Charles —
Robert Hilton?"
" He is dead ; he died three years ago at Namur," said Austin.
"May the devil take him," said Charlton. "I shall be out
of this in six months, and I was depending on him. I know
enough about him to bring me in a tidy income. So he is dead.
Well, no loss, except to me. He was a worthless young
scoundrel."
" He was nothing of the kind," said Austin. " He was half-
witted, but he was neither worthless nor a scoundrel. How dare
you speak so of Miss Hilton's brother ? He stole things ? He
was half-witted, I tell you. What have you done that you are
here ? I'll tell you what, little Bob Hilton, poor little devil, was
in some respects immeasurably your superior. Come now."
This was, do you perceive, the way in which Austin carried out
his plan of elevating the moral tone of the convicts around him,
by talking about Sliakespeare and the musical glasses.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Austin grew to like this young convict. He had, it appears,
behaved pretty well, and was a somewhat privileged person.
When Gil was not with him, Austin used to walk a great deal
with this young fellow, Charlton. Gil was glad at Austin's
having found some one in tlie prison of whom he could make
some sort of a companion ; he wondered at Austin's choice, but
respectfully acquiesced. He did not like Charlton, but that was
his fault, of course, for Austin vinst bo right. Austin's heroic
nature, tliought Gil, tliough in other words, could not err : so he
accepted Charlton.
The fact was that Austin, so far from having become less
heroic in Gil's eyes, since his misfortune, had become inhnitely
more so. When he had found his hero in misfortune and dis-
grace, his hero worship only grew tlu; stronger for those circum-
stances. Pity was, in his thoroughly chivalrous mind, superadded
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 213
to his old admiration, and made his lovo for Austin only stronger.
lUit when Austin grow well cnougli to toll him the whole story,
his admiration grew into a sort of harl)arous reverence, combined
with self-congratulation, at his having been shrewd enough to
have picked out Austin as the very man to follow to the deatli.
The fact of Lord Charles Larty having succeeded in thrustin"
himself forward into the quarrel before Austin, was certainly a
distressing accident — but Austin's hunt after Captain Hertford,
his wandering hither and thither after him, with tlie dread of his
trial hanging over him all the time, his patient search after him,
the cunning he displayed in it, his calm behaviour Avhen ho
brought the wolf to bay, and his noble generosity in refusing to
fire at him after all — formed, in Gil's Highland imagination, the
most beautiful and glorious tale ho had ever heard. I suppose
that it is true, that heroic natures are apt to worship an idol
which they suppose to possess the qualities they most admire
themselves. Faithful, high-souled valour were tlie qualities for
Avhich Austin w^as getting worshipped, and his worshipper was
showing those qualities to a higher degree than ever had Austin.
Gil had made friends with the apprentices. They were two
good-hearted, ordinary, English lads, w^ho were not so much for
learning their trade, as having the details of their trade knocked,
so to speak, into their heads. Gil Macdonald was a fellow of
genius and energy. A Quentin Durward of a fellow ; a man who
would not consent to be starved at any price, and so had come
south. The apprentices had asked " Scotch t/ " to have some
beer with them, but Scotchy would not, because he wern't sure
whether or no he could treat them in return. They wanted
Scotchy to go to Highbury Bai*u with them, but Scotchy wouldn't.
They couldn't make friends with him : Scotchy didn't want them
to; he wanted to make friends with them. He did so; he appealed
to their generosity ; and it is a queer sort of English apprentice
who can stand that appeal. Gil got first one of them, and then
another, to show him little tricks in gun-making w'hich he did not
know, and they had gladly done so ; after this Gil would sit up
half the night casing them of their work. Yes, Scotchy was a
good fellow, though he would not go to Highbury Barn. So Gil
and the apprentices got fond of one another, as English and
Scotch lads always will, if there is no fool by to make mischief
between them.
So much for Gil ; and he deserves so much at least. "We must
return to Austin.
This young convict which he had taken up, or to be more
correct, had taken up with him, persisted for a long while in
214 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
calling himself Charlton. He was a fellow of very few words,
but when he did speak he showed some knowledge ot educated
society. He was, to a certain extent, a companion to Austin.
He was evidently, thought Austm, not a gentleman, but he had
seen a great deal of gentlemen. One day Austin fancied that he
might have been a billiard-marker, and asked him the question.
"Yes," said Charlton, **I was a billiard-marker once. God
bless you ! I have been all sorts of things. I drove a hansom
cab once."
''Did you?"
" Yes. I drove one of the cleverest horses ever you saw. The
horse had been in Astley's, and was almost like a Christian, by
Jove ! And one day, wiien I was in the public -house, a fellow
hails my cab, and the watennan runs away after me. And the
fellow gets in, by George ! without noticing that there was no one
to drive, and roars out ' Treasury ! ' and away goes the old horse
like a steam-engine, by himself, and wlien he gets to Downing
Street he comes up short, and sends the fellow forward with the
crown of his hat against the splash-board : and when the fellow
gets out to slang the cabman, by gad ! he finds there's no cabman
there. Yes, that w'as a devilish clever horse, I say ! "
" You can't expect me to believe that," said Austin.
"Why not?"
" Why not ? I'll tell you. Because you are always lying.
Why do'you ? "
*' I don't know. If you tease and plague me about my lying
and thieving, I will not come and walk with you any more."
'* But you must tell me one thing," said Austin. ''Your name
is not Charlton."
" No," said the other, sulkily. " My name is Goatlev."
" What, are you little Bob Goatley, at Tolliday's? I thought I
knew you."
The other, whom we must now call Goatley, wallved sulkily
away.
By the end of August, Austin had recovered his health com-
pletely. Goatk^y and he were still together a great deal. Goatley
always grew sulky, tlie very instant Austin tried to learn anything
about his former life, and at last he desisted from asking ques-
tions. As these few weeks went on, Austin talked a great deal
with him. He so continually attacked, by scorn and ridicule, his
habit of lying, tliat the poor fellow made some improvement,
l^cfore tlie end of Septi-mber a great event occurred, no less a one
than tliis.
It happened suddenly. It came on Austin and Goatley like an
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 215
cartliquakc^ or a ^vllil•l^vill(L They were botli dazed by it, like
two bats ill the suiisliiiie.
Goatley had told Austin, on the 2Gth, that there was a disturb-
ance in tlie prison. lie had not taken much notice of it. One
of the warders, the last thini^ at night, had continued it, and had
stayed a moment and told xVustin the cause of it, but he had
nearly forgotten all about it next morning.
At eleven he was let out to walk in the corridor, and Goatley
was there waiting for him. He told him, that in two of the
corridors, the riot had been most serious. That the prisoners
were all confined to their cells, except he, and a few others who
could be trusted, and that one of the officers had been nearly
murdered.
Everything was quite quiet for two days. At the end of that
time the cells w^ere unlocked, and the convicts were let loose again
to their exercise.
Austin was shrewd enough to see that there would be another
riot. The instant that the men were let out of their cells, they
began to gather in knots, and to talk and gesticulate. The
eflbrts of the warders to keep them apart, and make them move
on, were quite unavailing. The confusion grew worse every
instant ; the warders were being pressed on, and mobbed. They
tried to get the men back to their cells, but they would not go ;
they were encouraging one another to violence, but as yet no blow
had been struck. The warders were as one man to twenty.
Affairs looked very terrible indeed.
Austin whispered to Goatley, '' Keep with me," and pushed his
way through the crowd towards the governor's lodgings. They
met him running, five steps at a time, up the long stone staircase
which led from the lodge.
" Stop, for God's sake, sir ! " said Austin. ** The slightest
spark will fire the powder, now. Your appearance might be
ruin."
He had paused for an instant, but he said, " I must go on, I
tell you. My poor officers will be murdered. I must be with
them. I have a company of the Guards in the yard. It is a
matter of a moment. Stick by me, Mr. Elliot, as you are a
gentleman."
At this moment there was a shout and a yell from one distant
part of the prison, and immediately, in every long-drawn corridor,
it was repeated tenfold. Eight hundred convicts had suddenly
burst into aimless, furious madness ; and there were forty poor
unprotected warders among them.
The governor ran madly on towards the riot. Austin and
216 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Goatley ran with him. As Austin, who had met the governor,
turned to follow him, he saw that the great gate was opened, and
that a company of the Grenadier Guards was coming on, out ot the
sunshine into the semi-darkness of the prison, swinging steadily
forward, with sloped arms and fixed bayonets. Order tramping
on inexorably, to sweep away disorder, by the mere sight of it.
He heard Sir Robert Ferrers give the word "Double," and then
he was after the governor, with Goatley close behind him.
The whole of the corridor was filled with a crowded mass ol
angry, desperate men. Those nearest them had made some
preparations for an attack on this side. So the instant the poor
governor ran towards them, Austin saw him felled to the earth
like an ox, with the leg of an iron bedstead.
But before the man who did that had time to strike another
blow, Austin was upon him. He saw, with the eye of a general,
that this man was the only one tliere who was armed, and that
the possession of this weapon might save the govenior's life. He
caught the man's arm in his, and, bending down his head, bit his
wrist until he let go his hold ; and then, with a rapid, dexterous
blow, sent him tottering and reeling, and spinning round and
round, till he came headlong down upon the pavement like a dead
man.
He glared defiantly about him, but he was the only man there
who was anned. The governor was sitting up, looking wild and
mazed ; before him were two men, both in the convict dress,
fighting on the ground, rolling over and over. The convicts were
crowding round these two men, and kicking one of them whenever
he came uppermost ; their attention to those two men saved the
govenior's life.
Austin had just time to notice these two men fighting, when
the convicts began whistling in a shai-p, shrill way, and whooping,
and yelling. In one instant were all gone. No one was left but
the man he had knocked down, who was snoring heavily, the
govciTior himself, and the two still-fighting convicts —
And Sir Robert Ferrers. The mere sight of that kindest and
gentlest of men, in uniform, with a drawn sword, had been quite
enough for the convicts. Profound tranquillity was restored, even
before they had sc^en a single man of his company.
All this took exactly as long to happen as it took Sir Robert
Ferrers to double across the hall, up some sixty stone steps, and
through the corridor. He rapidly ordered his lieutenant to see
everytiiiiig quiet instantly ; and, putting up his sword, ran to
separate the two convicts.
One had got the other down, and the one underneath was get-
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 217
tiiif;^ black in tlic face. Wlien tlicv ^'ot tlioni apart, it was found
that the winner was our friciud Goatluy, and that the" otlier was
one of the most desperate characters in the prison. Goatley had
saved the governor's life ; there was no doubt of it. The
governor, weak and stunned as he was, called Sir Robert's atten-
tion to the fact ; but Goatley was found to be in a state of wild feline
excitement, breathing short and hard, thrusting cveiy one aside
who got between him and the object of his vengeance, showing the
strongest inclination to go in, and, as Sir llobert said, " finish "
his man. As they were leading the other oil, Goatley made a
rush at him, and Sir Robert interposing, he and Goatley came
do\\Ti together on the floor, and Sir Robert's sword got broke in
two ; but he stuck to Goatley long enough to prevent mischief, and
Goatley was marched off to his cell in a furious, mad, cat-like
frame of mind, ready for any amount of assault and battery.
That evening Sir Robert waited on a certain great personage
with a note from the governor, and gave an account of the whole
business. The great man told Sir Robert something which made
bmi stare.
*' By Gad," said he, '' that is the sort of thing men put into
novels. How very extraordinary ! "
** Is it not ? " said the great man. " But mind, it is all in
confidence. It is best to say nothing."
The next morning an order came down to the prison, for the
immediate release of Austin Elliot and William Browning.
William Browning, it is necessary to say, was the young man,
whom we have known by the aliases of Charlton and Goatley.
Austin slept late, and they would not W'ake him. Was it that
they had a disinclination to lose him ? I think so. When he
woke at last, the warder who had led him back to his cell on the
first miserable morning of his imprisonment, stood beside his bed,
and told him that the gate was open, and that he might walk out
into the world a free man.
After several repetitions, be realised it at last. He tried to
thank the man ; he tried to pray. He succeeded in neither. He
laid his forehead between his knees, and did the best thing lie
could do — he sobbed like a child.
He saw the governor in his bed, and in bidding him good-bye,
earnestly thanked him for his kindness. He went into the lodge.
They were all waiting to say good-bye to him. He must think of
them sometimes, they said. They did not like to say that they
were sorry to lose him, but such was the case ; there was not one
honest face left behind in that gloomy prison now. Austin did
not know till after, that sooner than sadden his dismissal, they
218 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
had kept from him the fact that two warders, whom he knew, were
killed the day before. " They were on duty," they said. " They
would give Austin's love to tliem, and tell them how sorry he was
not to have wished them good-Lye." He did not know till after-
wards that he had sent his love to two poor cold corjises, which
lay under sheets, in the dead-house. No ! they closed the great
iron door behind him without telling him that. And he stood
blinking and trembling without, in the blazing autumn sunshine.
A well-dressed young man was standing in the sun under the
prison-wall, and he came to meet him. Austin saw that it was
Goatley.
*' I did not know you at first," he said. "I have only seen
you in your prison dress. You got your discharge, too."
" Yes. I thought you were going to cut me. I was only
waiting here to say good-bye."
'MVhy good-bye ? "
" Wc can never see anything more of one another. I am far
too disreputable a person for you to know. Say good-bye, and let
us part for ever, Austin Elliot."
" I shall say no such thing," said Austin. '* Y'^ou are coming
with me to Canada, and there you and I, and Gil Macdonald, will
die respectable old men. Come along. It were strange, indeed,
if I deserted you now, my boy."
/ ** If you had," said Goatley, " I would have been back there in
a very few days."
So patient Gil, filing grimily over his guns, looked up from the
vice, wiped his eyes with his big black hands, and said '' Gude
guide us ! " for Austin Elliot was standing in front of him, and
bidding him good-morrow. And that same night, Gil took the
two apprentices to a Scotch stores he knew of; and, at his own
expense, made them and himself also, so very drunk on whiskey
and water, that the outraged majesty of the law required that they
should be all three locked up at 13ow Street, until they had purged
themselves of their contempt. They were not back before eleven
the next morning. lUit Mr. INIacpherson was not angry ; he only
winked. And I\Irs. IMacpherson said, " He's no awake yet. It
does my hc^art good, Gil Macdonald, ye daft devil, to think tliat ho
is back in his ain lioust; again afti'r a'. If all the world were like
you and lie and our gude man, Gil, why, it would be no mucklo
the waur, hey ? "
AUSTIN ELLIuT. 219
CHAPTER XXXVII.
We must K'uve Austin lure for a sliort time ; and this is almost
the first time iu this tale, in which v,e have left him. Ikit we
must leave him, and sec how matters were going on at Ems. If
sternest fate did not say " no," we would have preferred to make
Ems the place in which some pleasant genial story got itself
wound up ; in which every angle in one's tale was rounded off ; in
whose mountain meadows happy lovers met, and parted no more.
But that cannot be. With all its wonderful beauty, it is a wicked
little place. Under the auspices of the Duke of Nassau, the play
runs higher than at most places on the Continent ; there are
many men who curse the day on which they first saw its lovely
winding valleys, and hanging sheets of woodland.
The morning of the duel, old James went off into town on some
errand or another. Towards two o'clock he heard the temble
news and brought it home. He looked so wild and scared, that
his old enemies, the maids, grew frightened too. They forbore to
tease him, or to laugh at him ; but besought him, in eager
wliispers, to tell them what was the niatter. At last he did so,
and then they stood all silent and terrified. " Who is to break it
to her ? " asked one at last.
No one knew ; it was a business no one would undertake.
Even the very housekeeper, who had nursed Eleanor when a
baby, shrank from the task. Lord Charles killed, and Mr. Austin
in prison. God spare her from telling such news. At last, the
youngest and most heedless of the servant girls, suggested that
they should send for Lord Edward.
It was a good idea, but James would not agree to act on it.
He said she must be told at once, lest the news should come to
her any other way ; and, after a long pause, he undertook to go
and tell her himself.
He went up to the drawing-room, and found Eleanor alone
there. She saw that disaster was written in his face ; and she
prayed him, for old love's sake, to be quick, and strike his blow.
He did so ; he told her all, as quickly as he could ; and then she
fell back in her chair speechless. She never said one word, good
or bad. She tried to undo the handkerchief round her throat,
but could not ; then she feebly clutched her hair with her hands,
until one long loop of it fell down across her face ; and then she
clasped her hands in her lap in her old patient attitude, and sat
pale and still.
Old James was kneeling at her feet, and praying her to speak
220 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
to him ; when he heard the door locked behind him. He started
up, and Aunt Maria was standing between him and the door.
Old James, valiant old soul as he was, grew frightened. She had
got on her dressing-gown only, her hair was all tumbled and wild,
her great coarse throat was bare, and her big black eyebrows were
nearly hiding her cruel little eyes ; she looked redder, angrier,
madder, than ever. He saw that she had heard every word ; he
saw that she had locked the door behind her, and was standing
silently scowling at them ; and for one moment he trembled.
But only for one instant. His darling Miss Eleanor was there,
and his courage returned ; he faced her, fiu'iously.
" Give me that key, you old Atrophy ! " he said, (meaning,
possibly, Atropos ; Lord knows what he meant !) ** Give it up
to me, I tell you ! "
" Come and take it, you old dog ! You old thief! you beggarly,
old, barefooted shoeblack boy ! that my fool of a brother picked
out of the gutter, fifty years ago, because you had a face like a
monkey, and made him laugh ! Come and take it ! Do you
hear ? "
James was politic. Aunt Maria was decidedly the strongest of
the two. He fell back on his tongue, which was nearly as good a
one as Aunt Maria's.
** Your brother ! " he said ; " your brother ! Oh Lord ! "
**Put it in Chancery," she said. "Put it in Chancery, you
penniless old rogue ! Aha ! "
James gave a glance at Eleanor, and saw that she was quite
unconscious of what was passing. With infinite shrewdness he
remained perfectly quiet, and let Aunt Maria begin at her.
She came towards her, pointing at her with the key.
** You little snake ! — You little devil ! — You little sly, smooth-
faced, pianoforte-playing minx ! So you set on your two gallant
bully lovers to murder Will Hertford, did you ? He has given a
gallant account of them ! He u a man ! why, his little finger is
worth ten of your Bartys and Elliots ! One dead and the other
in prison ! Oh, brave Will Hertford ! Get up, do you hear, get
up ! you little devil 1 "
" Leave her alone," said old James ; "or by the Lord, I'll "
" Assault your mistress's aunt, and be walked oft* to the
police-station, is that it ? I am going to use you. Master James,
and when I have done with you, pitch you on one side, like an
old slioe. I have won the game ! Take this key, open the door,
and send her maid to her. I have won the game, old snake ! "
It would have puzzled Aunt Maria to say what game she had
won. Originally she certainly was very fond of Captain Hertford,
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 221
and was so still. She had had a plan of marrying him to Eleanor,
and gaining some sort of power over her wealth : this had given
her her intense hatred of Austin ; but, what with drink and
incipient insanity, all power of keeping one plan before her, had
gone long ago. Passion had supplanted reason. Slio loved Will
Hertford still, in a way, and she hated Austin and the Bartys ;
she had nothing left to guide her now but a mad woman's
cunning.
She displayed a considerable amount of it this day. She went
out, and ordered the maids to pack up everything for a long
journey, and shortly afterwards made her appearance, dressed in
the height of fashion, looking quite sane and collected. She
ordered the carriage, went to the bankers and got money, went to
the passport-ollice and got passports ; she went to Mivart's, got a
courier recommended to her ; went to the Hotel Sabloniere, in
Leicester Square, and fetched the gentleman home. Then she
gave directions to the housekeeper about slmtting up the house,
and discharging the servants ; and lastly, she sent the courier to
secure berths on board the S(jho, for Antwerp.
Then she went up to Eleanor. She was sitting near the
window, weeping bitterly. Aunt Maria was in good temper now,
and was very gentle with her.
*' My love," she said, " I am glad you are better. In my grief
this morning I used harsh w^ords to you. Ai'e they forgiven ? "
*' I know nothing of them, aunt ; yet, if you used them, they
are forgiven."
*' Aj*e you better, dear ? "
** I am quite well, aunt ; only my heart is broken."
"Nonsense, everything will come right. See here. Austin
will be liberated on bail, and will go abroad. We ought to go
abroad instantly. Can you travel ? "
'' You can do as you will with me, aunt. Only, dear aunt, I
have been so patient and loving to you, I have never returned you
one angry word. Aunt, for God's sake don't scold me ! "
'' Tut, tut, silly one. Who is scolding ? Come, we start to-
night, bid your maid get ready."
The next night they were at Brussels, and old James made one
of the party. It was his fii'st expedition into foreign parts, since
the taking of the Bastile, and his prejudices agamst foreigners
were as strong as they were in 1792. But there he was, and
there wore three strong reasons for his being there. First,
Eleanor had asked him to go ; second, he was most fully deter-
mined that, happen what might, he w^ould never lose sight of
Eleanor ; and thirdly, that Aunt Maria was most fully determined
222 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
that she would keep this dangerous old fellow under her own
eye.
What could the old fellow do ? His dread of what might be
the end of Eleanor's being carried abroad, was boundless. But
old Mr. Hilton had managed his affairs in life so well, that he had
died, leaving not one single personal friend behind him, but Mr.
Elliot, and now he was dead. There was actually no one left to
appeal to for help, but blind Lord Edward Barty. James
scrawled a letter to him, and Lord Edward started on the trail at
once, and overtook them at Brussels. Aunt Maria showed no
disgust at his appearance ; she was veiy gracious and genial, and
kept her temper for her maid, whom she kept in the most terrible
subjection, partly by her tongue, and partly by wielding against
the unfortunate w'oman a certain supposed clause in her will,
susceptible of instant alteration ; on suspicion of the poor wretch's
having exchanged a single word, in confidence, with old James.
Aunt Maria found walking exercise necessary, and so she used
to walk out every day, to take and fetch the letters from the post-
office, near the Place de la Revolution. Meanwhile, Eleanor had
a piano in her room, and Lord Edward used to come and play it,
and wonder why on earth Austin had not answered their letters.
Old James, both here and elsewhere, was far too much engaged
in a vast, chronic, ceaseless squabble, with the whole Belgian
nation, to be at all available for any reasonable business ; his life
was one great wrangle about the food. And moreover, he had a
most vivid remembrance of holding Mr. Jenkinson's coat-tails in
one hand, and Mr. Hilton's in the other ; of looking cautiously
between the slioulders of those gentlemen, and of seeing all St.
Antoine, seething, and howling, and leaping, and raging over the
bridge, into the Bastile. He fully believed that people in foreign
parts did that sort of thing once a month or so, and that the
Place de la Revolution, where they lived, was the spot set aside by
the Government for the performance, at stated periods, of the
same sort of Devil's dance, which he had witnessed in Paris fifty
years before, for a week or so. He had always been very particu-
lar about his money too, and now was worrying himself to doatli,
from having to change good money, into coins, with whose value
he was totally unac(|uainted. In sliort, the poor old fellow was
in a totally unavailable state for all reasonable business.
When they had been there a sliort time, Aunt Maria expressed
her inieniion of breaking uj) tlie camp, and going to Ems. Slie
was tlu! only person in tlic liouse who read (l((liijiuiui. She read
one morning a short account of tlie duel at Ems, between Austin
and (captain Hertford : she determined to follow him to tliat place.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 223
Nobody opposid Iut, and they went. When their carria^'e
drove up the street, Captain Hertford was standin;^ by tlie arch,
which crosses the street by the KiirsaL Wlien he saw her face,
he cursed and swore so awfully, that Captain Jackson, who was
standing by, said —
*' I say, Hertford, don't use such language ; it isn't good
taste."
'* I can't help it," said he, "when I see that cursed old
woman's face. It makes me mad to think what she has brought
me to : I can't go to England, I don't care so much about that ;
I must resign my seat in Parliament, that is the very deuce, but it
isn't that. It is that young dandy Charles Barty — I can't get
him out of my head. I wasn't sorry at the time — I don't know
that I am soriy now — but he came down so sudden ; it was so
devilish horrid. — Did you ever see anything more horrid ? I've
killed my man before, but not such a lad as he ; it is always
coming back to me — the brandy is no good against it. I tried
that, and it made it worse, so I dropped it,"
" I wish to God you would drop it," said Jackson, fiercely.
*' Why the devil do you go on harping on this wretched business ?
What do you think 1 must feel about it ? "
Captain Hertford remained silent.
" I beg your pardon, Hertford," continued the other ; '' don't
let us mention that duel again. I should be very glad, if you
would tell me the truth about your connection with Miss Hilton."
" I will do so, Jackson — I think you are a good fellow. — Don't
pitch me overboard. — I shall blow my brains out, if you do. Old
Maria Hilton had always a great admiration for me, which was not
reciprocated. But I always kept in with her, and kept friendly
with her. Well ; hang it sir, she bought my company for me.
There ! "
Captain Hertford paused. They walked together down the
terrace, which hangs over the river ; but Captain Hertford had
come to a dead stop.
" You w^ere going to tell me " said Jackson.
"About little Miss Hilton; well, Jackson, if you had been
brought up such a neglected Arab as I, you would have been as
bad as I."
" I might be worse."
"Well, you mUjht ; however," resumed he, slowly, "through
Miss Hilton, I of course grew to be acquainted with her nephew
Robert. He had been expelled from the army, for stealing every-
tliing he could lay his hands on. She asked me to see him at
Brussels ; I did so. I took him up rather, because I thought she
224 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
was fond of him. — Never mind why I took him up. He robbed
me of some letters belonging to Lord Mewstone, and got the
signature copied, by a clever rogue, on to a cheque. Finding
himself discovered, he bolted to Namur, where he committed
suicide."
'' A tender- conscienced thief."
*' Yet he was well brought up : he was Miss Hilton's brother ;
I brought the news back to England. There old Miss Hilton
pointed out to me, that Eleanor Hilton would be a great heiress,
and that I ought to marry her ; and so the scheme was begun : I
went down to Wales ; and found Elliot, the fool, falling in love
with my worthy half-brother's future Countess — I encouraged him."
" But how went your scheme with Miss Hilton ? "
" Hot and cold, hot at first, and afterwards, when she paid my
election expenses, very cold indeed. Still, I always had hopes ;
and the old woman kept them going. ^Vhat led to this miserable
affair was this : I got cleaned out on the City and Suburban, and
some tradesmen were troublesome, and then, I went about and
said that I was to marry her. I was very familiar with her.
Well, I had a secret. — I did not exactly trade on it ; but I used
it. I was a great deal with her ; I am a needy man, and I talked
about marrying her ; and Elliot heard it."
'' People say, that you had a plan to shoot Elliot; and to get
the girl abroad, and that that plan got blown upon, and that you
had out Lord Charles Barty instead. Is there any truth in
that ? "
** Yes, a great deal. That was the plan proposed to me by the
old woman."
*' It seems to have been attended with the most brilliant
success."
'' The most brilliant," replied Hertford, bitterly. '' I have
lost my seat in Parliament : I cannot go to England ; and if
it were not for my wonderful luck at the tables, I should be very
poor."
** Well, you have not told your story altogether consistently,
Hertford. I could not expect you to do so. But at the same
time you seem to have succeeded. You have shot one man, got
the other locked up in prison (tliat is no fault of yours), and now
the girl has followed you here."
"That is true," said Hertford. " The scheme has succeeded
wonderfully. I wish to (lod I liad never hi'ard of it. I am not
rascal enough to go on any furtlier with it, Jackson."
"I don't think you could, could you?" said Captain
Jackson.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 225
'MVhy not?"
" She would lianlly sec you after what you have done. This
lord was her friend, and they say she was fond of KUiot."
" I tell you," he said, *' that if I wen^ ro^Mie enou^di, I could
make her aunt bully her into marrying' nie in a month. You don't
know the old woman."
Ijord Edward Barty and Eleanor had a ])eaceful and quiet time
at Ems. I believe that Captain Hertford was in earnest about
not prosecuting the villainous scheme, which had ended in the
death of Lord Charles ]>arty and the imprisonment of Austin.
Lut if he had ever so much intended to take advanta;^fe of Eleanor's
situation, the presence of the trusty Lord Edward Barty rendered
it impossible.
He was continually with her. He could not be happy without
her. She, with her patient ways, had become a necessity to him.
As for his falling in love with her, he simply never knew what it
meant. He had loved his brother Charles much better than he
was likely to love her ; he at present loved his brother George
much better than her ; he liked her better than Lord Wargrave,
and not so well as Lord George, that was all. She was kind to
him, and he liked her — nay, he loved her ; but he thought that it
would be much pleasanter when all this trouble was over, and
Austin came and married her. Then there would be glorious
times indeed.
Of course the little world of Ems — not an entirely respectable
little world — talked about them, but I don't think any one was
the worse for their talking. The two people whom they talked
about never heard it, and so it does not much matter. Eleanor
and Lord Edward were left in peace all that summer "s\ithout much
to disturb them, except their anxiety at not bearing from Austin.
Aunt Maria was never troublesome now ; they hardly noticed
what she did with herself. Old James called their attention to
her at first, after they had been there nearly a month.
Eleanor was sitting at the piano alone, in her great high bare
room, trying some music. James opened the door very quietly
and came in. She heard him, and turned round on the music-
stool.
She looked ten years older than she had looked before all this
had happened. She had sho^vn her soitow to no one. She had
been eating her heart in secret ; keeping her griefs for the long
dark hours of night, and showing a brave front in the daytime.
She had been doing this months and months before this unhappy
duel. Her hair had grey streaks in it before things came round
again.
16
226 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
" James," she said, '' where have you been so late ? "
" I've been to Marksburg, to see they sojers a marching.
They're marching from St. Goar to Coblence ; pretty nigh two
regiments on 'em. And I goes over in a boiit to see 'em, and
there they was, with kitching candlesticks on their elmets. Fine
men to look at — ah. And then I went in over the way, and seen
'em plaving. Lord, woru't she taking the money in ! "
"Who?"
" She. Have she made her will ? "
'' Do you mean Aunt Maria ? "
** In course I do. Do you know that she have won a thousand
pounds in eight days ? "
" My aunt ! Is she playing ? "
'' Ah ! and winning, too. And so is Captain Hertford. He
and she have had a tussle ; acause he hain't been to see her often
enough."
This was Aunt Maria's employment. She was gambling
desperately. One day in September the end came.
She had at first won, as James had told Eleanor, above a
thousand pounds. Then her luck turned. She lost. She nearly
recovered herself again ; lost once more — began to lose terribly.
She was more than five hundred pounds "to the bad" one
evening when she went to play for the last time.
She had had a quarrel with Captain Hertford. His luck had
been terribly good this season ; he had been winning, and winning.
She took her place opposite to him that evening, and for the first
time cut him dead.
He won beyond all precedent. As he won, she seemed to lose
in proportion ; she wrote cheque after cheque. At last, when she
had lost eight hundred pounds, she got up, and made a scene
which no one there ever forgot.
She got up, and in a sharp snarling voice denounced Captain
Hertford. She called liim an ungrateful hound, unfit to live ; she
screamed out before them, all the plot against Austin and Lord
Charles Barty, and then said that he, Captain Hertford, had
known all along that she was only an illegitimate half-sister of old
Mr. Hilton's. She said fifty other frantic things, which, of
course, no one attended to. The end of it was, that the gamblers
huddled away out of the room like a herd of friglitoned sheep, and
left the terrible old woman standing there in the middle, perfectly
insane, trying to bite at the hands of the two croupiers who held
her.
After a time they were able to move her. They had a terrible
journey with her to England. Her reason never returned.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 227
Eleanor got her safe home at last. Tlieir old liouse at Kshor
had, as I proplu'sicd, been taken as a iiiadlioiisc. Aniit Maria,
poor soul, was taken tliore, and tluTo she stayed till she died ;
always under the impression that it was their own liouse still, and
that the other patients were only so many visitors.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Austin slept long the night after his release. He slept late into
the day, like a tired child, and at last when he woke he lay still,
waiting for the dreadful bell, which in prison had summoned him
and the other convicts to rise from sleep, to quit the paradise of
dreams, and come back to earth ; to the cold, hard reality of the
dull, squalid, hideous prison life.
At first, when he had wakened to consciousness in gaol, he had
always, for a moment or so, fancied that he was back safe in his
old room at home : and that the past was merely a series of bad
dreams : and he would sit up in his bed to shake them off — sit up
and look round, to find his worst dream only too terribly true.
After a time, he grew to be cunning in his sleep ; to know that
lie only awoke to misery, and so to hold on, wdth obstinate tenacity,
to the fag end of a dream, as long as possible, in order that he
might keep it going until he was roused by that dreadful beU ; for
he found in practice, that the poorest dream, underlain as it might
be with the sickening dread of waking from it, was preferable to
the waking itself, and to seeing the four whitewashed walls. The
very stupidest old dream, a dream that he detected and laughed
at while he dreamt it, was better than waking and seeing the
prison walls around him.
On this moniing he dreamt that he was hunted through Hyde
Park by something or another, which was called 974, until he
came to Apsley House, when he managed to rise into the air, and
triumphantly flew nearly over the Green Park, leaving 974 to
come round by Constitution Hill. He wished to keep in the air
until the bell nmg, but he could not. He came do^^^^ in front of
Buckingham Palace and woke.
He waited for the bell. The bell never rung any more for him
• — it rings still for eight hundred miserable souls, but not for him.
After a few minutes, he began to see that he was in his old room
again ; he sat up, and found that it was true. For a minute, he
228 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
thought that the whole past had heeii dreamt, hut the next he
knew that it was real ; that he had been in prison and was free.
He fell back a,i,'ain and tried to pray, but the utterance of his
prayer was swept in a whirhviud of passion.
He rose and dressed himself. His resolution had been made
long ago in prison ; he rose from his bed eahnly determined to
act upon it at once. It was the result of long, calm thought,
when his head was cool, and his intellect perfectly clear and
unbiassed. He had said to himself in prison, " What is the right
thing to do ? When I get free I sliall be excited, my judgment
will not be so clear as it is now. The resolution made now must
be inexorably carried out, without reason or argument, when I am
free."
What was his resolution ? Possibly the most foolish one ever
made — at all events, very foolish, as are all resolutions made in
the same spirit ; that in to say, resolutions made without the
saving clause, " that they may be altered by circumstances and
after thoughts : " these are indeed, it persisted in, not resolutions,
but obstinacies. Austin had made himself a noii possum, and he
was going to act on it at once ; lest the non should be sw'ept away
and high-souled martyrdom should become a more difficult matter.
His grand resolution Avas this — to see Eleanor safe under the
protection of the Duchess of Cheshire (who was very willing to be
kind to her), and then himself goto — where? Why, Canada!
and see her no more : and he carried out his resolution most
inexorably. He knew that she loved him, as he loved her, and
he would not be so base as to follow lier with his ruined fortunes :
that was one argument, and the great one. Besides, she had
shown her good sense and propriety by deserting him, which was
another.
" Gil," said he, sitting by the forge that evening, " I have been
to see my attorney."
"May the deil d n a' attorneys, barristers, and writi'rs to
the signet, and him first of all," was Gil's replv.
''Why?" asked Austin.
*'Why;" said Gil, "why! After lee'ing till the deil dinna
like to hae him, could he no \vc loud encuch to keep ye out of
prison ? Being paid for liis work in hard guineas and everlasting
jierdition, and then no doing it after all. AVliy ? quoth lu'."
" ])on't you be an old fool, (iil. Mr. Compton is as noble and
good an old man as any in the kingdom. You will know it soon ;
you shall meet him."
" Meet him soon ! I'm no saying contrary. Life is short, and
no man's salvation is sure. iUic I'll no speak to him."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 229
" I hope you will, Gil."
"I'm oblcegcd to you ; but there, as licic, I'll choose my own
ncquiiintaucos."
"Don't be cross with me, Gil."
" Cross wi' you. God forgive me ! Cross wi' my aiu master
(ye'll no get a highlandman to say that eveiy day of the week),
cross wi' ye ! "
"I thought you were. T.ook here; that Mr, Compton has
watched niy interests very cari'i'iilly ; ho has brcii a very faithful
friend. The Crown has not claimed my property, and he has
taken good care of it."
" The Crown no claimed your property ? "
"No."
" Have you got your own wealth back again? Has the Queen
gi'en ye back your siller ? "
" She never took it, God bless her ! "
" So ye'll no want to learn the gun trade — so we'll no have to
sit poutering here together, over the domnied old gun-stocks — so
all the happy days I had pictured to myself, are all blasted awa to
the winds. 'Tis a weary ungrateful world."
" It is nothing of the kind, Gil. Listen to me."
"I'll listen to ye. But I did hope to see your lang white
fingers grimed with the rust and the oil, and to hear ye say, ' We've
done well to-day, Gil.' Born an aristocrat, die an aristocrat. Are
ye never to know the weariness of thirsting for work, and the peace
and happiness of getting work to do at last, master ? "
"Don't call me master, Gil ; call me friend."
" The tane involves the tither, I'm thinking, or should, if I
understand it right. Now, I'm listening."
" Then I will speak, Gil, faithful old friend. There are better
trades than gun-making."
" I'm no denying it. The trades of Prime Minister, newspaper
editor, or keeper of a disorderly house, are a muckle deal more
remunerative ; but all three more precarious."
" Xo don't be a fool," said Austin, laughing, " or I won't speak
to you."
" A fool ! quoth he," replied Gil, smiling, and hannuering away.
" I thought we were Radical. If my master is going to tuni
Tory, and object to an honest bit of Radicalism from a puir work-
ing man, why I must turn too, and sing my last song, like a
hooper in the death thraws :
" ' The Deil was aince a Tow,
Tory oh ! Tory oh !
230 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
But he heard another story,
Story oil ! story oh !
" Every gentleman now is a Whig," says he,
" And each devil must dance the new jig," says he:
"And Russell and Grey
Are the men of the day " ' "
" Wliere did you get that mfernal doggrel ? " said Austin,
interrupting him.
" My father's uncle's first cousin singed it at the Deuk of
N 's door, not long agone. They would no have fleered at
the puir Deuk, had they kenned that his ain flesh and hlude
would turn against him. Say yer say, master."
*' If you will let me. Let us be serious, Gil. "Will you come
with me to Canada ? "
^'Hey?"
'' To'Canada."
*' Aye, to the world's end. But there before all places."
" There is a most brilliant career before us both there. I must
not stay in England. If, after what has happened (I speak to you
as the only friend I have in the world, Gil, and the best, save one,
I ever had) : if, after what has happened, I should stay in Eng-
land, I must get thrown against some one, and that would end in
dishonour. Let us come to Canada : are you willing ? "
He looked at Gil's face, and saw that he need not have asked
the question. Gil's face was radiant. He murmured —
" Sawmon, and park deer, and muckle red deer, called wapiti,
whilk they misname Elk ; and real elk, wliilk they misname
]\Ioose ; and a rink at the curling in winter time ; and corn land
five shilling the acre. And he asks me, will I go ? "
*'I see you are willing. Let us go. Let us take that poor
convict Goatley with us. Let us try to do something for him.
Who knows what his opportunities have been, Gil? Do you
agree about that ? "
" God's wrath should light on us if we left him behind. Poor
creature ! There is good in him somewhere, or he'd no have
stuck by you and the governor the day before yesterday. Canada,
quoth he. And you with your wealth there. Think of the poor
starving llonaldsay folk, master : think how leal, and trusty, and
quiet tluiy have been through tliis horrible winter. It is no busi-
ness of yours," continued Gil, laying his hands on Austin's
shoulders, " but, for my sake, and it's the only favour I'll ever ask,
help some of them over. I'll go bail tliat, in mere numey, they
will pay evi'ry farlliing of wliicli you advanco ; but that is only
insulting you. )'iiii know what a grand work is before you. I sen
you know tiuit."
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 231
" I do, Gil ; and, pleaso God, I will do it. Is there no nol»lor
work than ^aiming my lumds with rust and oil, lu'V ? Is mechanical
work the highest or the lowest kind of work, hey ? Would you
have me cast aside all my education, and set to work cleaning
gun-barrels, hey ? How now, old man ? "
" I was ^v^ong ; and wealth, in a good man's hands, is one of
God's greatest blessings. I had a tancy, that you and I might
have gone through tiie world togi-ther, as equals. And the fancy
was dear to me, I'm no denying. But it is gone ; you have nobler
work in hand than gun-cleaning."
So he had. Austin had a grand life's work before him, and he
did that work gloriously well. But neither he nor Gil knew where
his life's work lay, at this time. It did not lay in Canada, but in
a far different place.
"Gil," said Austin, "we will go through the world as friends
and equals, thougli you may choose to call me master. We will
go to Canada, and IMr. ^lonroe shall send us over the Ronaldsay
follvs, and we will call the estate lioualdsay. But I have some-
thing to do first. I shall have to go abroad. I must start to-
morrow, I cannot leave England before I have done something. I
must see Lord Edward Barty, and also, if it be possible, the
Duchess of Cheshire. By the by, where is Robin ? "
Gil pursed up his mouth as if he was going to whistle, and
said —
" It was no my fault."
"Is he dead ? " said Austin, in a low voice.
" No, he's no deid."
"Is he lost?"
" Xo, he's no lost either. It was no my fault ; a dog who will
to Cupar, maun to Cupar. I whistled till my een danced in my
heid, and I cried, ' Here ! lad, here ! The cow's in the potatoes ! '
But he'd no listen. He kept leaping up on her braw grey silk gown,
and she kept bending down to him, and saying, ' Robin ! Robin !
my own darling Robin ! ' till it would have garred ye greet, sir, to
hear her. And he caught sight of Lord John Russell's grey cat
(it was in Chesham Place, ye ken), and hunted it into his lord-
ship's ain area, and ran between his lordship's legs, as he was
approaching his ain door, and misbehaved like any Tory ; and so he
went with her, round the end of the railings, and into her house
with her, and the door was shut."
" With her !— with whom ? "
" With Miss Hilton."
" Is she in London ? "
" I dinna ken. She was twa davs ago. But with these here-
232 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
to-day and gone-to-morrow railways, a body must Lo cautious in
speaking."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
So she was safe in London ; that was something off his mind. Ko
gave Gil long instructions to try and get hold of old James, and
to cross-question him (a hopeful plan), but Gil was not required
to act. A note came irom Eleanor the very next morning : —
'* Dear Austin,
" I sent James to the prison yesterday, and he brought back
the news that you were free. Is this to continue ? Are we never
to see one another again ? "
He replied promptly, and at once : —
"Dearest Eleanor,
''It is impossible, considering everything, that I should ever
meet you, or Edward Barty, again. Our eternal and final parting
must come soon ; it is better that we should not make it more
bitter by another meeting."
This letter was despatched, and, of course, there was no answer
to it.
Eleanor wept bitterly and wildly over it, but she saw no remedy.
She saw that misfortune had soured Austin's noble nature ; that
he was not himself. She must get speech with him ; there must
be something unexplained. In an evil moment she read the two
letters to Lord Edward Barty.
He was furiously angry ; he made her a scene about the matter.
He said that Austin's wrongheaded, obstinate pride was below
contismpt. He, after all, had suffered no more than the rest of
them ; and here was he, in his insane vanity, refusing to answer
their most affectionate letters, until he was out of prison, and then
sending sucli an answer as that ! " I tell you, Eleanor," he said,
*' tliat if we want to get our own dear Austin back to us, we must
let him go at present. He will come to us in the end, my dear
creature, but we must show him tluit we are angry now. We have
sacrificed everytliing to him, and lie treats us like this. It is
monstrous."
"Lord Edward," said Eleanor, " Austin has been deceived."
AUSTIN ELLTOT. 233
"]5y wliom?"
"By me. I liave docoivcfl liiiii. lie has found it out, and lio
distrusts me."
'' Deceived liini ?— al)out what? "
"Never mind. I did it, as I tliout^dit, for tlie l)est. I fear he
has ^ront cause of comphiint ai^ainst me."
" Fiddh'(h'dee ! I won't ask any questions, hecanse I know
something ahout your family history ; hut take a l»hnd fool's advice
— don't run after hhn. Let him come to you. He nil I come,
Eleanor. Let him come, and make his explanation. Wait until
he is thrown against you, as he must he in a week or so. Come
now ; trust me you will find yourself the more hereafter."
" But, if I were never to see him again."
" Pish ! The very fact of your having his dog with you, will
bring on some sort of communication. Leave things to time,
Eleanor ; he will come hack to us, when he is tired of isolation."
This would have been most excellent advice, had it not been for
this : that Austin was just now making every jireparation for the
start to Canada, and that the getting no answer to his last note
hurried his movements.
"It is all for the best," he said ; " she is right not to answer.
She is wise ; it is my fault. She deceived me shamefully ; and
she knows it ; she does not know that I love her, better than ever ;
my honour, as a man, would be tarnished, if I made her any
further advances. I wish to God that her nine thousand a-year
was gone to the devil. I wish she was penniless ; in tliat case I
would go to her to-morrow. But she deceived me, and she has
nine thousand a-year ; and the whole thing is impossible."
So the Canadian preparations went on, and Austin and Goatley
took a lodging in the Commercial Road, to be near the docks, and
to see after the shipping of their " notions."
Gil deserted the gun trade, and came with them, after a week.
They were very busy. Austin was making great preparations ; he
was going to buy a great tract of land in Canada, and to introduce
a new system of husbandry. He was not in the least aware that
all kinds of agricultural implements might be bought in Massa-
chusetts and Connecticut, cheaper than in London. So he bought
away ; bought implements from Dean and Dray, to the tune of
hundreds ; which implements were the best in the world : for
English use : bought, for instance, two or three broad -wheeled
carts with Crosskill's axles, eminently adai)ted for macadamised
roads, but hardly for the backwoods ; and so on. lUit he was very
busy, which was something.
One night, sitting gloomily in his lodging, in the Commercial
234 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
Road, after having been on board the ship all day, he thought of
his dog Robin ; and a desire arose in him to have that dog back
again. The dog was with Eleanor, and he determined to go after
it the next day. He did go after it, and he got it ; and, in this
adventure, he, as nearly as possible, met Eleanor herself face to
face.
He did not meet her ; but if he had, they would have explained
everything to one another ; even that dreadful circumstance, which
rankled in Austin's heart deeper than all : — his finding her walk-
ing with Captain Hertford, in Millbank. This was the fact, which
made him so obstinate witli her. He could have forgiven her
desertion of him, he could have forgiven everything but her deceit,
and his discovery of it.
So he went for his do£(. He watched at the end of the railinsfs
in Wilton Crescent, and he saw lier come out. The dog was not
with her. She was going to church. He waited patiently till
she came back, and still he waited on.
By and by, after more than an hour, the little grey figure came
out again. Ah, Lord ! How Austin loved her. Why did he not
go up to her, and speak ? Because the jealous devil, which he
had made believe to banish, was holding high court in his heart.
Robin was with her now ; he came out of the door like a
thunderbolt. There were five sparrows in the middle of the road,
at dinner. Robin would have nothing of that sort ; he sent them
flying up into the lilac-trees and chimney-pots, for their bare lives,
and then he danced, barking, round Eleanor.
Eleanor was walking towards St. Paul's Church, probably going
to Westerton's. Austin was standing behind the conier of the
railings, at the south-west corner of the Crescent. He saw that
the dog was going with her the other way, and he whistled shrill
and sharp. "I wonder if she will know my whistle," said
Austin.
She did not, but the dog did. He paused, with one ear up, and
the other down ; and his head on one side. Austin whistled once
more. This time, Robin came rushing towards liim, like a race-
horse ; and left Eleanor calling "Robin! Robin! you naughty
dog, Robin, come here, sir I "
When Austin saw that tlie dog was on his trail, and that
Eleanor had not recognised him, he ran round into Motcomb
Street. An instant after, Robin came tearing round, on the grand
circle-sailing ])rin('iple (that is to say, that a circle is a circle : and
that the nearest w;iy from oiU! jduce to anoilier, is a straight line
drawn between tlu ni) ; combined with that of circular storms,
which is, that you go one-fifth per cent, to leeward for every
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 235
revolution. He, Rol)in, sailed on these principles, bnt violated
both. The first, because he assumed himself to he sailing on a
convex surface, instead of (as was the case) practically a plane.
The second, because be did not allow sufficient latitude for his
progressive momentum. The combination of tliese two errors,
actim.' together, caused him to make too wide a circle in coming
round the corner, and to bring himself against what wo may be
allowed to call the leeward area railings of Motcomb Street, and
to give a short howl, at having bruised himself against them ;
which last fact, would be better theorised on l)y Dr. Brown, than
by either jNIaury or Reid.
By the time that Robin had picked himself up, Austin was at
the end of the street. He whistled again, and Robin came
tearing on once more. Austin stepped round the comer, into
Lowndes Street, and waited ; he was safe here. Robin found
him by Gunter's shop, and leaped up, frantically yelping in the
madness of his joy ; and Austin then and there, the street
being empty, or nearly so, took Robin to his bosom, and
hugged him.
*' You never see such a queer start in your life," said one of
the young men at Gunter's, to one of the young ladies at
Miller's (to whom he was engaged) that evening. " I know
him, and all the whole business ; how he was in prison, and all
that. And I see him come cutting round the conier like a lunatic,
and I says, ' He's broke out, and the police is after him ! ' And
I run out to see if I could get him through the shop, or upstairs,
or anything. And then I seen him hugging of his dog to his
bosom. And well I Imew the dog. He used to come into our
place with the whole lot on 'em ; Lord Charles, poor fellow, and
Mr. Austin, and the blind one, and Miss Hilton, from number
fifteen ; and he used to chivy the cat into the window among the
bon-bons, and play the deuce and all. And one day he upset the
table with Lady Dumbledore's wedding-cake on it, and then there
was the dickens to pay. I never see such a dog."
" And so poor Mr. Elliot was glad to get his dog back again,"
said the young lady fi'om Miller's.
" He was so, poor gentleman ; you never see anything like it.
Here he stood, as it might be me, and there was the dog, as it
might be you, and he catches the dog to his bosom "
And the young man from Gunter's immediately received two
sound boxes on the ear, as a caution that prose narrative must
not be assisted by dramatic action.
The Canadian preparations went briskly on. Gil worked like
236 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
fifty Gils ; and Austin, partly in the novelty of feeling free again,
and partly to extinguish thought, worked as hard as he.
Hu would not think : he would not pause. His resolution had
been taken when his head was cool, and must be acted on now : so
he was intensely busy.
Goatley, the convict, worked as well as he could, but that was
not very well. He had a careless, sleepy way of doing things
wliich provoked Gil very much. He never let Goatley see that
he was provoked ; for Goatley was a kind of sacred person to Gil.
He was an unaccountable being, and he had played the man at the
right time. Gil was kind to him.
Austin kept him near him continually ; for he was afraid of hia
meeting some old companion, and getting into trouble ; but Austin
hoped to keep him straight till they got to Canada. He was an
odd, wayward, unaccountable creature. He never gave Austin
much account of himself, that Austin could rely on. If Austin
pressed him too much, he became vacant and irritable ; if further,
a kind of dumb, sulky devil would take possession of him, and he
would hardly answer at all, or only in the most transparent lies,
which he could see irritated Austin.
He at ordinary times spoke but little. Sometimes he would,
after a long silence, break out with an abrupt question. After
sitting a long while one day, he broke out —
" If I was in your place I should take out a large quantity of
potatoes. Maybe they haven't got the same sorts there."
There was nothing more in this than the mere silliness of an
utterly ignorant person. ])ut there was a great deal more in the
way in which, after he had once started this notion, he ran it to
the death. He got it into his head that there was something in
it ; and walking about the Commercial Road with Austin, he was
continually stopping him at every potato shop and making inquiries
about ash -leafed kidneys, and regents, and so on. He was fully
persuaded that he would make his fortune in Canada, by taking
over new sorts of potatoes. Austin told Gil that the poor fellow
seemed mad on the subject. Gil replied —
" A good thing, too. IL' liad better go mad on one single
subject. Mad he is, and will he. He had better gang mad on
ane point, than on a di/./en."
'* Do you think he will go mad, CHl ? " said Austin.
" Deil doubt it! A' this leeing, and tliis talking so and so,
sliows that his brain is softening. It will end in geiu'ral jiaralvsis ;
a slight dropping of the h)\vt'r jaw, combined witli occasional
violence."
"Who told vou that?"
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 287
•' Niu'Lodv. I just, tliiiikin;^' about the younf,' man, ran my eye
over Dr. Tuko's book the ither ni^'ht. I'm no a<,'reein^' with tho
doctor in all things, but he has muckle experience."
Since Austin had taken his degree, lie had confined his reading
to the newspapers. He changed the suliject.
One day, when all things were nearly ready, and Austin had
come to be as well known on board tlie good ship Ain/iliion as the
skipper himself, he took Goatley with him, to help him in stowing
some packages. They worked together all the morning. When,
at noon, they came out on the street again, Goatley said
suddenly —
*' I am going away from vou to-morrow."
'MVhither?" said Austin.
*' To a public-house. To the ' Black Bull,' in the Commercial
Road. I have business there."
"You Avill come to me in the evening," said Austin, *' for you
will not sleep away from your lodgings. I am so fearful of your
getting among your old companions, my poor fellow."
" Is that why you watch me so ? " said Goatley.
" Yes, that is the reason," said Austin ; " you are so weak and
foolish, my poor lad. I think how much I owe you, and think
how anxious I am to give you a new start in life, without tempta-
tion. I do watch you, and I will."
"Very well," said Goatley, "you are quite right. But you
need not watch me to-morrow ; I am going to see a relation, the
only relation I have, who is coming to wish me good-bye."
"You never told me that you had any relations," said Austin.
" I daresay not," said Goatley, sulkily, " but I have. And one
of them is coming to bid me good-bve to-morrow."
" One of them ? " said Austin. " You said there was only one
just now."
" Never you mind what I said ; you've often called me a liar.
Don't you ask any questions, maybe I won't tell you any lies."
Austin knew enough of his man to let the subject drop. At
noon the next day, Goatley left the ship, and Austin, going the
same way, saw him walking rapidly up the Commercial Road.
" It would be mere charity to follow him," thought he ; "I
think I had better follow him. I do not like to trust him.
Robin ! Robin ! "
It was time to call " Robin ! Robin ! " A marine-storekeeper's
cat had been over tc visit a putting grocer's cat opposite, and was
picking her way homewards, across the muddy street. Robin ran
after her. She, like an idiot, ran away, and Robin, by the law of
gravity, or some similar law, bolted after her. The cat, not being
238 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
able to make her own port on the present tack, in consequence of
the enemy being to windward of her, put lier hebn down, altered
her course four points, and made all sail for the nearest harbour to
leeward, which was the pigeon-fancier's ; and Robin, disregarding
the law of nations, made a perfect Wilkes of himself, and chased
her right into the neutral harbour, overturning a cage containing
five -and- twenty "blue-rocks " in his career, and at last succeeded
in forcing an engagement in the pigeon-fancier's back parlour,
under his table.
Here he found himself under the guns of several neutral
batteries, which opened fire on him and the cat with perfect
impartiality. The cat bolted up the chimney ; but Robin, as in
duty bound, returned the fire of the neutral batteries — that is to
say, setting our figure aside, that the pigeon-fancier and his wife
(who were at dinner) tried to kick him out, and that he showed
fight, and snapped at their legs.
At this moment, when war seemed inevitable, diplomacy stepped
in, in the person of Austin. Robin was rebuked. The afi"air was
gone calmly into. Apologies were given on the one side, and
frankly received on the other ; and the whole thing was comfort-
ably settled. Then Austin walked away up the Commercial Road,
with Robin, laughing, with no more notion of what was going to
happen to him than has the reader — perhaps not so much.
He went into the " Black Bull." He asked the landlord
whether a young man had come in just now. The landlord said
what sort of a young man, and Austin described Goatley.
"What, Browning?" said the landlord. Austin had never
heard of him by that name, but felt sure of his man, because the
landlord had recognised him from his description. The reader
will most probably not remember that this was the name given by
the Secretary of State to the convict Goatley.
Austin said " Yes," feeling sure of his man. The landlord said
that he was there ; that he was going to Canada, and that one of
his relations had come to bid him good-bye ; they were in an inner
parlour now.
Austin was glad to find that Goatley had not deceived him. Ho
told the landlord that he would go inside, and take a glass of ale
and a biscuit, and wait for the young man.
So mine host showed him into a rambling old room on one side
of a passage, with some fifty angles in it. There was a bagatelle-
board there, and Austin ate liis bisi-iiit and sipped his ale, and
knocked the balls about. Robin had some biscuit, and lay down
on the hearthrug.
Austin began to be aware that there were voices talldug low in
AUSTIN ELLIUT. 239
anotlicr room — in the room on the other side of the passage,
liobin became aware of it too, and he^'an to be nau^'lity.
At first he only put liis nose a<,'ainst the door and whined. Austin
■went on knockinj^' the ba'^'ateHe-balls about, and making,' the most
wonderful strokes, lie got petulant with lvol)in, and ordered Inm
to lie down ; but Robin would not : he reared himself up against
the door and scratched at it.
Austin made a beautiful stroke : there never was such a stroke.
Some of these bagatelle-boards were very good. He was placing
the balls to see if he could do it again, when Robin reared up
against the door and began barking.
Austin hit him a tap with the cue. But it was no use : the dog
was mad. He did not mind the blow. He began barking furiously,
and tearing at the door with his teeth.
Austin d d him, and opened the door for him. The dog
dashed across the passage, and threw himself against a door on
the other side, which burst open. Austin followed to apologise.
Only two steps. There he stood like a stone image in the
squalid passage, with the billiard-cue in his hand.
He saw a public-house parlour before him, and a dirty table,
and a picture of the Queen, and a horsehair sofa. And on that
sofa sat Eleanor, and beside her tlie convict Goatley. The convict
had his arm around Eleanor's waist, and Eleanor was tenderly
smoothing his close-cropped hair with her hand.
He was amazed for one instant — only for one. When Goatley
turned his head towards him, attracted by the sudden entrance of
Robin, Austin saw it all. Now he understood Eleanor's mysterious
pilgrimages ; now he knew her secret ; now he knew why he had
found her walking Avith Captain Hertford on the 15th of May ;
now he knew whv he had thouE^ht himself mad when he had first
seen this man in prison. All the truth came to him suddenly like
a blaze of lightning on a dark night : when Goatley turned his
face towards him, and he saw it beside Eleanor's, he understood
eveiything. This Goatley, this convict, was Robert Hilton — the
thief at school, the swindler in the army, the forger of Lord
Mewstone's name. It was Robert Hilton, Eleanor's own brother.
And he dropped the billiard-cue, and cried out like a strong man
in pain, " Eleanor ! Eleanor ! I see it all. Can you forgive me ?
can you ever forgive me ? "
240 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
CHAPTER Xli.
There was no great need of explanations after this ; for there was
but little to be explained. In the happy peace which he felt in
having her beside him once more he never thought of asking her
why she had deserted him. That had been the thing which had
angered him more than any ; but it was nothing now. She had
run into his arms with a low, glad cry when she had seen him ;
and he was sitting with her with her hand in his. He was listening
to her dear, dear voice again. Explanation ! — one-half of her
conduct had been explained ; if she could not explain the other —
why, then, what mattered it ? He had got her back again ; what
cared he for explanations ?
She opened the question. "Why did you never answer my
letters, dear Austin? "
" Your letters, faithless woman ! Why did you never write to
me?"
" Edward Barty and I wrote to you until hope was dead, Austin.
Did they all arrive during your fever ? The governor has not
dared to suppress them."
'' The governor dare do a great niany things, Eleanor. He
dared to run unarmed among eight hundred outcasts, for instance.
I don't know whether he dare suppress my letters ; but I loiow
that he would not, if he dare."
They were much too happy to think about the mystery. They
found it all out afterwards- Aunt Maria's maid confessed every-
thing when taxed with it, and threw herself on the ground and
prayed for forgiveness, let her hair down, kicked her shoes off,
made them a lady's-maid's scene about it ; and being forgiven was
carried off whooping and plunging, and holding on tight by every-
thing she could get hold of. And after her departure, when old
James came back into the room to pick up her shoes and her hair-
pins, and so on, he looked very much ashamed of himself, and
confessed that she, meaning poor Aunt ^Earia, had been " too
many for him."
Robert's statement was this, as far as they could trust it. He
said that wlien he ran off to Naniur (he would not go into j)ar-
ticulars) Captain Hertford followed him. That he told a friend of
his (Robert Hilton's) to s})rL'ad a report of his suicide. That his
friend met Captain Hertford and told him. ThatC'aptain Hertford
had, without making any further inquiries, returned to Brussels.
And also that Captain Hertford was uncommon glad not to see him
(itobuit Hilton) iu the dock.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 241
This was all Austin cvit got out of him : from this he formed
the theory that there was something "queer," some gambling
transrction, or something of that sort between Robert Hilton and
Captain Hertford. He never proved it, and poor Hilton, getting
more stupid every day now, never told him ; but he thougiit that
it was the case. Another thing which puzzled Austin was this —
did Captain Hertford ever really hcliive that Piobert Hilton was
dead ? That puzzle was never solved either.
Eleanor's statement was this : Captain Hertford bad retumed
from abroad and brought the news of her brother's death at
Namur. Aunt Maria introduced him as an old friend. She had
seen him a good deal from that time (summer of 1814) until
October, 1815. Then one day he came and told them not only
that her brother was alive, but that he was in Millbank for
swindling. That Lord Mewstone was a most vindictive man, and
that the secret of Robert Hilton's existence should be kept from
him. He was very vindictive about that forgery, for instance.
Eleanor and Austin, when they came to think about it, were of
opinion that Captain Hertford was very anxious that Robert Hilton
should not appear in the dock in the matter of the Mewstone
forgery. They may have done him an injustice, they never made
out anything clearly against him here.
Eleanor, hearing this terrible news, determined that her brother
should be free and out of the way, before she consented to many
Austin. It would have been such a death-blow to all his high hopes,
to marry a convict's sister. She kept the secret from him out of
mere love and consideration for him. No one knew the secret but
Aunt Maria, Eleanor, old James, and Captain Hertford. She used
to go and visit the poor fellow once a month, on the fifteeutli of
each month ; and Hertford, who seems to have pitied her at one
time, sometimes went ; it was on returning from one of these
expeditions that Austin met her, holding Captain Hertford's ann.
Yes, everything was explained. The black cloud had passed
suddenly, and beyond lay the prospect of the future, glorious and
golden : peaceful beneath the calm summer's sun.
CHAPTER XLI.
When Austin left Ronaldsay in May, 1845, the potatoes were just
coming out of the ground, and the women and children, in the
lengthening spring evenings, were weeding them, and opening the
17
242 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
earth between the rows, and regarding them complacently. The
rich dark green leaves were showing handsomely above the dark
ground. It made one's heart swell with thankfulness to see the
noble promise of a harvest. The old wives no longer knitted,
looking towards the sea, where the good man and brave young
sons and husbands were toiling at their weary fishing, but they
took their knitting into the potato yard, and watched here how the
plants came on. And little Ronald, and little Donald, and little
Elsie, and little May, gave over paddling at the pier-end, and came
home and weeded the potatoes, and made believe that they were
sorting the lilies and roses in the Mactavish's grand garden, at
Glen Stora Castle, away yonder in Argyleshire.
Sweet summer settled do^yn upon the island. The old folks
had ease from their chronic rheumatism ; the young men stayed
late on the quay, and the young women stayed with them. Elspeth,
the beauty of the island, did not bring the cows home by herself
now ; when she came down the glen there was always some one
with her :
'* A voice talked with her 'neath the shadows cool
More sweet to her than song"
The potatoes throve bravely. Before you were prepared for it,
the plants were a foot high, covered with purple and white blossom.
And the children gathered them ; the purple ones were my Leddy
Mactavish's roses, and the white ones were the lilies which the
saints in heaven carried in their hands before the Throne, ye ken.
It was a pleasant summer, and the potato harvest promised
bravely. For years the island had not been so merry ; there was
but one anxious face on it, and that was Mr Monroe's. He had
been warned of something, w^hich the others knew not of. Night
after night, he ^vl'estled with God in prayer ; not for himself, ah,
no ! but for those whom God had given him. He prayed, that if
it were possible the cup might pass away ; and it did pass away,
after they had drank of it. Through the darkest hour of it all
the good man's faith in God never wavered for one instant, and he
lived to know how much wiser God was than he.
The minister had a trouble on his mind ; they could all see that.
The older Christians would have had him unburden his mind to
them, but he would not : they were content. He was a sainted
man ; he was one of God's elect ; they were content, though they
would have liked to share his secret sorrow with him.
One day in July, he went to see one of the oldest of his tlock,
a very old woman, with a very quiet, beautiful face : a woman who
was so calmly assured of her salvation, that Heaven had begun
AUSTIN FJJ.IOT. 243
with hor in tliis world. I talkod witli snch a woman in the West,
last year, and very awful and beautiful that talk was ; although
the doctrines which she held were as far apart from my own as the
poles.
Mr. IMonroe found the old woman sittinj^ in the sun, knitting,
and looking at the potatoes. The children were busy weeding
them, all except baby, who desired to weed with the rest of them,
but who was too confused in his mind, as to which were the
potatoes, and wliicli were the weeds, to be trusted. He had been
accommodated with a horn spoon, and a crab's shell with a string
let into it, which served for a cart ; and left to the care of the
colley bitch.
" God save you, minister ! " said the old woman, in Gaelic.
** Will this bravo weather not seiTe to raise the cloud from your
brow ? Am not I worthy to share the secret trouble which makes
wrinkles on the forehead of one whom I shall wait to welcome in
heaven?"
"Why should you share it?" said Mr. Monroe, in the same
language; " why should I darken the glorious evening of such a
life as yours, before the sunset comes ? I will not. For sixty
years you have known nothing but poverty and hard work ;
your husband, your son, and two of your grandsons, have sailed
away, and the sea has devoured them. Shall I throw a shadow
over the few days which remain between you and your rest ? No."
" There is a cloud in the heaven somewhere," said the old
woman ; " your eyes are younger than mine, and you see it, though
I do not. It will burst over Ronaldsay, I know that by your face.
Minister, I would be sorry to take my reward before my 'labour
was done. Let me share your sorrow. The tide flows up and
down the Kyle, as of old, and the full moon floods the creeks and
caves under the cape ; Ben More stands firm in the west. AVhat
is your sorrow, minister? "
** I cannot tell you."
" See the brave potatoes. Raise the cloud from j'our brow,
minister, and look at them. The bravest crop for years. Raise
the cloud irom your brow, and thank the Lord with me. See,
they are harvesting" already."
*' Harvesting ! "
" Go and see."
He went in among the potatoes. The children had done weeding
and were making nosegays of the potato flowers.
* Harvesting. This is the expression we use in Hampshire when the
haulm of the potatoes turns yellow, and it is ripe. I do not know the
Scotch term ; certainly not the Gaelic,
244 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
" Here's minister ! See here, sir, these ones are the French
roses from my lady's garden at Glen Stora, and these white ones
are the lilies of heaven. 'Tis a braw game, minister, is it no ? "
Mr. Monroe looked at the potato haulm. The potatoes were
harvesting with a vengeance : the leaves were getting yellow and
cm-ling up black at the edges. He clasped his hands together and
said, '' Thy will be done, Lord ! "
Mr. Monroe had been warned of this. He had hoped and hoped,
and even now he continued to hope. They dug their potatoes up.
One half of them were rotten, the rest rotted in the places where
they were stored ; *' graves," as we call them in England. At first
they hoped that they might pull through the winter and have seed
for next year. That hope soon left them ; in the first week of
November potatoes were cheaper in Ronaldsay than any one could
recollect. They were all in their little market at once. But at
the end of the month, when the leading Protectionist was trying to
deny the whole business, there were no potatoes whatever. The
potato crop had failed.
I should like to meet with a poet who would make that a line
in one of his poems. " The potato crop had failed." How we
should laugh at him ! A potato is ridiculous enough, but a rotten
potato — bah !
All through November the south wind poured steadily up through
the Kyle, and filled Ronaldsay with mist and gloom. But in the
first week in December, when the days were getting towards their
shortest, the north wind came down, drove the mists away, and
invested the island with a cold, cruel, merciless beauty. Under
an inexorable brazen sky, every crag came out clear and sharp as
crystal, every cataract was turned into a glacier, every little spout-
ing burn on the hillside into a beautiful ice-palace. The lochs
were frozen three feet thick ; but the curling-stones lay neglected
under the bed-place, and the faded ribbons upon the handles only
served to remind the young men of the merry rinks last year, before
the potatoes rotted > and left them all starving.
The old folks died first. That was as it should be. One could
not complain at that ; one might envy them, but one could not
complain. They had had sixty years of this sort of thing, and it
was hard if tliey were not to enter into their rest before the misery
grew to its full head. The loss of the dear old faces at the fire-
side was very sad, and the hearts of those who were left behind
starving ached sorely ; but God had taken them from the misery,
which grew more terrible as the winter went on, and He knew best.
Tlu!ii tlie cliildren began to die, and this was vt;ry bitter — very,
very hard to bear. The bonny bare-legged little things, who had
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 245
done no wront,' ; wlio paddled in tlio surf, that niado wreaths ot
those infernal potato flowers, and called them the lilies of heaven.
This Avoiild not do to think of. To be locked up here in an island
in the Atlantic, without one chance of niakinf; one's voice heard
till it was too late, and to see one's own bonny darlinj^'s dying
before cue's face ! Hush I It was well for the Mactavish that
these men were Scotchmen, not Irishmen ! It was well for the
peace of the kingdom that these things happened in Konaldsay and
Lewis, and not in Manchester and Birmingham.
'Twas a w^eary Halloween for the poor souls. The men who dug
the graves noticed that day by day the frost got deeper into the
earth. The fishing-lines froze like wires, the blocks refused to run,
the sails were as stiff as boards, and tlie women who wearily, with
blue fingers, knocked the limpets oft' the rocks to save themselves
from starvation, began to notice that even the salt water in the
little pools among the rocks was beginning to freeze. And they came
home and told the men, and the men lost heart, and w'ent no more
a-fishing. How could they ? Did you ever sit hour after hour
fishing, with fourteen degrees of frost, and in a state of starvation ?
The men stayed at home, and lay in the bed-places.
And then theij began to die. Yes ! The oldest of the able-
bodied men began to lie down, and to fall asleep, in a strange,
quiet way. Perfectly happy, perfectly calm. They would lie for
a day or two, and at last give over speaking. In the morning they
would be found quietly dead, without the sign of a spasm on their
faces. This is no novelist's fancy ; the author has seen what he
is describing.
All this time the island lay in the bright brazen sunshine, more
beautiful than ever. The ducks and the snipes had fled south-
ward ; the curlew and the peewit had followed them, and the moor
was silent. But for the shadows of the crags and corries, which
sloped so long towards the north ; and for the fantastic glaciers on
the hillside, which in summer-time were wimpling burns, one
might have fancied, if one only used the sense of sight, that it
was spring-time ; the island had never looked more beautiful.
After Christmas it got a new and more awful beauty. The wind
was still steady and quiet from the north ; but Gil Macdonald
pointed out to Mr. Monroe and the Mactavish, a long, low, light-
bromi line of cloud which was backing the lower summits of the
Argyleshire hills to the south-east.
For two days the dun vapour had grown and spread until it had
obscured the sun. When it had fairly disappeared, a broad red
orb, into the snow cloud, Gil Macdonald said, ''I'm wishing you
good-day, old friend, belike I'll never see ye again."
246 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
In the mornint(, the wind, which was in front of the dull cloud,
began to blow. The thermometer rose to six degrees of frost, and
there stayed, and would come no higher, in spite of the south-
east wind. Then the edge of the cloud reached them, and the
dust at the corner of the little street in the village began to grow
white ; and soon after, the air was filled with straying crystals of
snow, which rose and fell, and whirled about, and was driven into
every cranny and corner. And those who looked towards Ben
More saw that the towering peak was rapidly growing from bro^vn
to grey, and from grey to silver.
For two days, the snow came down : and then the north wind
came down once more, and laid his deadly icy hand on the island.
The sky was clear again ; blue overhead, but a gleaming yellow
towards the horizon. Ben More towered up over the vast sheets
of snow, which covered the island ; a tall peak of ghastly white,
barred with lines of purple crag.
The moment the snow cloud cleared, Mr. Monroe started Gil
Macdonald over the hill, through the snow, with provisions to an
outlying family at Loch na Craig, on the other side of the moun-
tain. The wind which had come up with the snow had been
strong, and the south-east side of the mountain was pretty bare.
Gil, the lion-hearted, made brave weather of it till he came to the
shoulder of the mountain, which overlooks Loch na Craig. But
his feet went the swifter in consequence of an anxiety which had
taken possession of him.
He reached the shoulder of the hill, and looked over into the
corrie of Loch na Craig. Then he sat down on a rock. He saw
the whole horrible disaster.
The snow, which they, looking from the south-east, from the
windward side of the mountain, had seen eddying, and curling,
and fuming before the wind ; which they had seen blown from the
steep side of the mountain nearest to them ; had all settled down
here, in this corner of Loch na Craig. All that Gil saw before
him was a vast amphitheatre of smooth white snow ; and in
the centre, a patch of green ice, about an acre in extent. The
sloping sides of snow represented the noble corrie ; and the acre
of ice, showing in the middle, was all that was to be seen of the
live hundred acres of the beautiful Loch na Craig.
He saw that a terrible disaster had befallen. One lililo farm,
near tlie head of a little glen, he thoiiglit lie would force his way
to ; the chimney was yet showing above tlie snow. Alone, fear-
less of the deadly snow slee]), bare-legged in the freezing snow, he
forced himself to the door of that lillle farmhouse, and getting no
answer, he broke it in.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 247
They wciv all dvad. The old folks and the children had died
before, and now the younger men and women had followed them.
All dead. Tliis same accident had happened before. Corrie na
Craig had been tilled with snow ; but then, the huts had been full
with oatcake and whiskey, and the people had lived to make a joke
of it. But now, the peat was still smouldering on the hearth, and
Gil found six of them dead. These people had died more from
starvation than from cold ; and there were three other families,
down by the loch, buried fifty feet deep.
Gil called out, " was any one alive ? " first in a low tone, and
afterwards, when not so scared at the sound of his own voice, in a
louder. He got no answer. He sped away to the village, and
told Mr. Monroe, and the Mactavish, that there were forty less
souls on the island to starve.
Austin's fifty pounds had done good seiTice at the beginning of
the famine. It was as nothing among a population of two thousand,
in a state of absolute destitution, but still it was a great godsend.
Mr. Monroe hoped for all sorts of things : for a mild winter, for
Government assistance, nay, " God forgive him," for the death of
the dowager, Mrs. Mactavish, who had retired to Clapham, near
London, and whose death would put another 8001. a year at the
Mactavish's disposal. But it was no use hoping. Austin's fifty
pounds was gone, and things got worse and worse, and he wrote
to the Mactavish to come to him at once.
Mactavish came instantly. He looked round with Mr. Monroe,
and saw what a disaster was impending. He went back to Argyle-
shire at once. He ordered his two sons home from Cambridge,
and told Mrs. Mactavish to do her duty, and keep the creditors
at bay : to scrimp, save, and borrow every farthing she could, and
send it to him in Ronaldsay He was horribly poor, and des-
perately in debt. He had taken no rents from Ronaldsay for
years ; but the Ronaldsay people were flesh of his flesh, and bone
of his bone ; and so the great coarse, bare-legged, Highland giant
came back to them in their trouble ; to live with them, and, if
need were, to die with them
" Our own people, Monroe. Our own flesh and blood,
Monroe."
As for Mr. ^lonroe, he well earned his crown of glory in this
terrible winter, even if, by long continuance in well-doing, he had
not earned it before. I know that what I have just written will
be called by some people heretical, but it shall stand, and shall
be repeated. He earned his crown ; with his hair growing greyer
week by week ; with the people that he had loved so well dying
round him ; with the souls which he, in his way ot speaking, would
248 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
have said that he had brought to Christ : passing away from him
too quickly for one word of farewell ; that noble man worked on.
I feel that I am unworthy to write about such a man. But there
are such men. If I did not Imow one or two of them, I would
not have dared to say so much about Mr. Monroe.
Lot the glorious fellow be. Let his works speak for him. He
is no fictitious character, though I have altered his name, and
changed his locality. There was another hero developed in this
miserable winter, by name Gil Macdonald.
His restless soul, craving eagerly for work, ot which there was
none to be got, settled down, concentrated itself, in the work
which Mr. Monroe and the Mactavish put before him. By night
and by day, through frost and through snow, he, the best hill-
walker in the island, sped swiftly on messages of help and charity.
But all the Gil Macdonalds, all the Mr. Monroes, all the Mac-
tavishes in the world, could not send the thermometer up above
freezing, and so the people died on, and despair began to settle
down on all of them.
Then Mactavish's money failed. There had been little enough
of it at first, for he had contracted heavy debts, to send his sons
to Cambridge. First, he heard that the bailifl's were in his castle.
Then his wife WTote, to warn him that writs were out against him,
and that he might be taken. Gil Macdonald heard this, and
merely mentioned it about among the young men in conversation.
They were dull, heartless, and desperate enough, these young
men, but it W'Ould have been a bad business for any bailift, who
had tried to follow Mactavish to Eonaldsay.
'* Our own flesh and blood, Gil. Our own flesh and blood."
Things w'ent on from bad to worse. Wearily each night
Mactavish and Mr. Monroe met, only to tell each other of
some new disaster. One night Mactavish refused even the
miserable supper which he and Mr. Monroe allowed themselves,
and walked sulkily up and down the room. At last he broke
out. He threw up his arms, and clutched his hair wildly in
his hands.
" I will not bear it, Monroe ; I will not bear it."
" Be quiet, Mactavish ; dinna rebel."
"I tell you that I will rebel," he answered furiously; doing
exactly as Austin did on one occasion. ** I tell you that I will
not bear it. I tell you that God is unrighteous, unjust, vindictive.
I have done enough to deserve His anger, but these poor sheep,
what have they done ? "
** Colin, Colin ! " said the old man, throwing himself down
before him, and clasping his bare knees, " dinna blaspheme in
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 249
your wi'iitli. Trust God, and think tluit every wild word uttered
now, will be a worm to eat your heart till you meet him."
*' I will not ! Tliere is no mercy in lieaven ! My own people
dyin<^ like dogs, and no help. I tell you that I will curse God
and die ! "
" Ye may curse God, but ye'U not die, my ain boy. He will
punish you for this. He will let you live Mactavisli, till every
wild word you have uttered just now will be a scorn and a loathing
to you, till you see your folly and wickedness, and beg for for-
giveness."
*' Words ! words ! What is the use of cramming one's ear with
them? I am hopeless and desperate, I tell you. What are
words to me ? Feed my people."
*' Perhaps, Colin, by a little patience and humiliation they
might be fed. Will you listen to me ? "
The Mactavish sat down and listened, and as he did so, his
face grew calmer. At last he said, " Say no more, Monroe.
I were worse than a dog if I did not."
He Avi'ote the following curious letter : —
" Grandmother, — I am humbled. I am humbled by famine.
My people are dying here like sheep. I ask for nothing for
myself — I only beg for them,
*' I ask your forgiveness, certainly. I was in the WTong, let us
say. My pride is so broken, that I will allow anything. You
will gain your suit about the farms at Inverhadden. I'm a ruined
man, and have no more money to spend on law.
" Sjnd me a thousand pounds' worth of food here instantly. If
you don't, we are all undone ; for it is useless asking my mother.
Forgive me or not, grandmother, but, in God's name, save the
Ronaldsay folk !
" Mactavish.
'' To the dowager Lady Tidlijgoram, Bar rock Lodge, Argyle-
shire.^'
To which Lady Tullygoram replied —
" Ablins, my ain Colin, we may botli have been too tenacious
of our rights. A body does na like to see herselt wronged out
of her o^^^l dower riejhts. The three Inverhadden farms have
gone w^itli the dower-lands of Tullygoram, for sax centuries, and
I was no justified, in the interest of future dowagers, in giving up
my rights. God kens, my bonny boy, I bear ye no ill-will.
** I send you twa hundred pounds. With the help of God,
250 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
I will keep the Ronaldsay folk for you till better times. I have
cleared the execution out of your castle and sent the two lads back
to their studies. Though what the deil garred j'e send them to
a Cockney university, I dinna ken.
" Elspeth Tullygoram."
So poor Mactavish was humbled, and prayed to be forgiven for
the wild words he had used in his madness : let us hope he was
forgiven. Better times began to dawn on them after this ; but
things are not mended all at once. When the tide is receding,
and shipwrecked men, who have clung all night to the rock, begin
to hope that the worst is over, and that their way to the shore is
safe ; often there comes some angry receding wave, and once
more washes high above their heads, and makes them despair
again.
So it was with the Ronaldsay famine. The Mactavish departed
at the end of January, leaving things in a much better state. In
February the frost broke, and then the new enemy appeared —
typhus, bred by starvation and hardship. At first the people
began dying nearly as fast as in the famine ; then it got better,
and then it got worse. Lady Tullygoram and the Mactavish did
all they could — tried to keep a population of two thousand, for
a year ; with indift'erent success, as you may imagine. When the
men got to their fishing again, the island got more cheerful. But
there were no seed-potatoes. The last money that Lady Tully-
goram could scrape together, was spent in buying seed-potatoes.
She paid, noble old body ! two hundred and seventy pounds for
them in Glasgow, and sent them off as fast as they could be
bought. The Ronaldsay folk got them all into the ground by
the first week in April.
Gil Macdonald waited and saw the potatoes put in. He saw
them come up ; they looked bravely. He waited still longer ;
everything seemed mending. Then he started away, and came
south to London to find Austin.
They began to dig in September : they were all rotten again —
worse til an last year. Tiie sun began to south towards another
winter worse tlian the last. Lady Tullygoram had spent every
farthing slie liad. Tlio Mactavish was as good as ruined : there
was notliiiig but blank despair before tlieiii,
A Highland Society agent came over, and talkrd to Ihem ot
fair lands sixteen thousand miles away. Some })repared to go,
l)ut for those wlio stayed (for only a few could go) what a pros-
pect ! Mactavish had applied for the Government loan, but,
as he said, there was not the wildest probability of his being able
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 251
to set ono man to work ou the money before next spring. Things
looked blacker than ever.
Mr. Monroe preached patience. On a Sabbath-day in Novem-
ber he preached earnestly and almost fiercely to them. "I tell
you," he said, "not to rebel. I tell myself not to despair. I
tell (say you) the surf not to moan on the reef; the wind not
to whistle through the heather ; the burn not to roar in the linn.
Still I tell you to be patient — you, whose children have died
before your eyes. I tell you to trust in God. You and I will
meet at His throne, and then let none of you look nie in the face,
and say that I did not tell you this, that you must trust in God,
for He cannot be unjust.
** Unjust! Is there one man or woman in this church to-day
who does not envy those who have gone before us, and are waiting
to welcome us — when we have dreed our weird — when we have
done our day's work — when this tyranny is overpast ? My ain
people, for whom I have wrestled night and day in prayer, do not
rebel. The riddle may whiles be hard to read, but trust God.
Do I pray for rest ? No. I only pray that I may be spared
to see the end. The wild winter is coming down on us once
more. Let us pray that we may win through it, or, if not, that
we may die trusting in God."
So he pleaded to them on the November Sabbath ; and in the
evening, m solitude, he prayed for them — prayed as he had done
the year before — that the cup might pass away.
Ou the Monday morning, the answer to his prayer came. Over
the morning sea, across the Kyle, from the mainland, a boat came
plunging and leaping across the short, chopping swell, c.iused by
the meeting of the tide and the south wand. The boat came over
with a mail-bag, and in that mail-bag there was only one letter,
and that letter was from the Mactavish to Mr. Monroe.
** Dear old Friend, —
'' May God forgive me if I have done wrong. What could I
do ? It is like tearing my heart out by the roots, It is a
bitter, bitter dispensation.
"I have sold the island of Ron aid say to an Englishman. It
was the only chance of saving my own people — my own no longer
— from starvation.
" They say he is noble and generous. He is, I know, veiy
wealthy. He will, with his wealth, if he keeps half his promises,
make the island a prosperous and a hap}>y one. I have no heart
left to say more.
" Yet I must go on. You must be gentle with him. You must
252 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
tell the people to be gentle and polite to him. You know how proud
and captious these English are. Give way to his every whim. If
he is properly flattered, he may be induced to settle and build a
house on the island ; to do by the island what I, God forgive me !
have never been able to do.
" He will bo with you directly, Monroe. Be prepared. Get
him to settle there. The pampered Cockney has got some whim
about the island. Flatter it. Oh God, Monroe, that it should
have come to this ! "
Mr. Monroe turned to the few old peasants who were standing
round him, and said —
** Here is bitter news. The Mactavish has sold the island."
"And us with it," said the eldest of them. *'Aweel, things
could be no waur. But hech, sirs ! For a Mactavish to sell his
aiu flesh and blude to the Duke of Argyle ! "
** It is not the Duke of Argyle. It is an Englishman."
**It does na much matter," said the old man, "that we, who
beat the dust out of their coats so brawly at Dunbar, should be
bought up by them, body and banes, like kye."
''Which battle of Dunbar do you mean? " said Mr. Monroe,
sharply. '' You seem to have forgotten either the first one, or the
one we call Preston Pans. There were Uvu battles by Dunbar, old
man. Don't be a fool. Come home with me ; I see hope in this."
So he did. This Englishman had money. Englishmen were
noble and generous, in spite of their airs and graces. So Mr.
Monroe, after laying his head on the table and weeping, because
the Mactavish was no longer master of the island, raised his head
and smiled, because the island had been sold to an Englishman ;
who was very likely an insolent and exacting person, but who, at
all events, would take care that his tenanti7 did not starve during
the next winter.
Scotch pride is harder to humble than even English pride ;
but such a winter as 1845-46 will humble even a Scotchman's
pride.
God forgive Mr. Monroe ! The dear man went as near — well
— fiction, as any man should. He did not know even the name
of this abominable Englishman, but he represented him as a model
of higli-hearted generosity. As for his wealth — there — l\Ir. Monroe
felt justified by rej^resentlng it as enormous, but unluckily ho
launched into figures, wliich he slioiild not liave done ; and these
figures grew under his hand, and got beyond his control in the
most terrible way. Sometimes ho "harked back," and ti'ied to
make them snndler by ten thousand a year or so ; but the llonaldsay
AUSTIN ELTJOT- 253
people (lid not like tliat ; nnd so at last he expressed the income
of the London Shopkeeper hy waving his two hands abroad ; as
much as to say, that your fi^'ures failed to express the immense
amount of income, of this Cockney sliopkocpcr.
At this same time Mr. Monroe committed himself to the state-
ment, that the new ownca- of Pionaldsay was a cheesemonj:»er — and
what was more awful still, a cheescmon.i^er in Piccadilly. Mr.
Monroe denies having ever said such a thing ; but one morning
he was taxed with it, and instead of boldly denying the matter on
the spot, he wealdy gave in to it, and prevaricated. From this
time it was an accepted fact that the island had been bought by a
cheesemonger in Piccadilly, which was a street in London. Mr.
]\Ionroe never knew how this happened, but the folks were in a
state of excitement, and he did not dare to contradict them. He
went about like a guilty man — hoping, for his soul's sake, that
some one ini(i]it have told him, that it was a cheesemonger in
Piccadilly, and that he might have forgotten it. He knew nothing
of the new owner of Pioualdsay — not even his name : nothing, save
that he might be expected any day ; therefore this astounding
canard about the cheesemonger was annoying. His object was to
prepossess the people in favour of the new owner, and to get that
new owner to stay on the island. At this time the good man was
overheard to wish, that that feckless billie, Gil Macdonald, had
stayed at hame, and not gone daundering down south.
But at last the cheesemonger from Piccadilly came, and took
possession of his property after this manner : —
One morning, in the end of November, five or six days after
the receipt of the Mactavish's letter, it was reported to him that
a steamer had rounded the south point of Donaldsay, and was
bearing up for Ronaldsay. She carried no pennant. It was not
the Shoals and Quicksands Lords coming their rounds. This was
your cheesemonger coming to take possession.
So it was. A small screw steamer came up, and eased ofi" the
pier at Ronaldsay. Mr. Monroe tumbled into a boat, went on
board, and clambered into the waist.
Some one came forward to receive him — Gil Macdonald. No
other. Mr. Monroe started back ; but the cheesemonger fiction
had been so burnt into his brain by repetition, that he said —
*' Why, Gil, ye telled me in your letter that ye were in the
gun-making trade — guns and cheeses ! Is your master a general
dealer, then? "
He passed on towards the cheesemonger and his wife, who stood
on the quarter-deck. But there was no cheesemonger there ;
Austin Elliot and his wife Eleanor stood before him. Austin
254 AUSTIN ELLIOT.
said, " Dear Mr. Monroe, I am your new landlord, and I am come
to live and to die with you." And the minister cast his hat on
the deck and said, *' God has been very good to us, Mr. Elliot —
God has been very good to us."
And so just when a story gets to be worth telling it has to come
to an end. I have told you how Austin Elliot, generous, and
ambitious, got fed on wind — would have gone. Lord knows where,
if it had not been for his dog. Now that he has developed into
a useful man, we must leave him. The story of the work which
he and Eleanor did in Ronaldsay would be but dull reading.
Once more the morning sun rises behind the hills of Argyle-
shire ; once more the summer's morning raises the peat-smoke
from a thousand cottages, in ten thousand purple valleys ; once
more the dawn smites the peak of Benmore of Ronaldsay, and
creeps down ; until the island awakens, and the men of Ronaldsay
come abroad to their labour.
But it shines on a new Ronaldsav now. On vast tracts of vouns^
larch plantations, emerald green, among the dark heather ; on
broad yellow patches of soil, turned up on the lower hillsides,
where they are trenching the land for agriculture ; better still, on
sheets of lye and clover, giving good promise of a noble harvest.
No more famine, no more dull, heart-gnawing sorrow, in Ronaldsay
now. "He may do oin/thiu// with Eleanor's money," said old
Mr. Hilton, on his death-bed, little dreaming what he would do
with it ; little dreaming that his ill- earned money would be spent
in making the desert of Ronaldsay to blossom like a rose.
See the morning comes lower yet, and lower, until it shines
strong and full on a new castle, built on the rise behind the village ;
on a broad stone terrace : on a little dark lady who walks abroad
in the dew to look at her flowers, and leads a brave little lad, of
three years old, by the hand.
A peaceful, calm little lady, dressed all in grey. She says to
the toddling boy, "Come on, Charles; let us be ready to meet
father as he comes from the hill ! " and presently Austin comes
brushing through the heather towards her, and takes his boy in
his arms ; so he and Eleanor walk slowly home along the terrace.
Who are these aloft here, on the windy mountain, in the moniing
air ? A strange pair. One; is a gigantic man, a kilted Highlander,
with a square thoughtful iact>, who is leaning, in repose, against
a rock ; the other is also a tall man, but stone-blind, who tunis
and feels in tlie dark for his companion, though the level sun is
blazing on his face.
AUSTIN ELLIOT. 2r,r,
" Ami so yo're no going to It'avc us, my Lord," says tlio High-
lander. **l)inna leave us, my Lord; you have made yoinsclt' a
necessity to us. I never flatter any man bom of woman ; but
I must say this nuicli, you would be sair missed in llonaldsay.
Why, the bairns would greet, and tlie dogs would howl, if they
missed your kind d:irk face, at the quay end, when the ])0!its come
hame. Dinna gang south, my Lord, into that weary hurly-burly,
with a' its Whiggeries, and Toryisms, and Papistries. Stay witii
them that love you, and play on your bonny new harp."
" I think I will live and die in llonaldsay, Gil," said the blind
man. "It is kind of you to lead me up here. I am looking
towards the sun now, for there is something in my eyes, which I
think must be light ; I must be looking towards those purple
mountains on the mainland, you tell me of. I love to look
towards the east, Gil ; for the light which will open my eyes, and
show me the faces of those I have loved so well, will come from
thence, on the morning of the Resurrection."
So Lord Edward Baity and Gil Macdonald stood on the shoulder
of Benmore, and looked eastward ; while Robin the dog sat like a
statue among the heather at their feet, and looked eastward also.
And so the whole story comes to an end.
THE END.
TIIE HABVEYS.
18
The Author thinks it due to Himself to say
that this Novel ivas ivritten seven years ago.
Some of the chapters in it being considered too
realistic, though perfectly true, the Author cast
it on one side for a time. The j^^'csent talc is
very slightly altered in form, and the doubtful
chapters are omitted.
THE HAKVEYS.
CHAPTER I.
MY FIKST VIEW OF HAWKINS THE SUCCESSFUL.
How well I remember the afternoon of a dark November day,
when my father and I sat painting together in the gathering
gloom : even now, when it is all over, I cannot think of that
afternoon without a quaint mixture of feelings. I was only eleven
years old at that time, yet now I have a tendency to be glad and
sorry, to laugh and to cry, when I think of the man who came to
me for the first time that afternoon.
The door was suddenly opened from the outside, without any
announcement whatever, and a loud voice — a voice I knew so well
afterwards — roared out —
" What, Harvey ! daubing away, eh ? — daubing away ! Hah ;
it was that daubing which spoilt your degree ; and now you are
teaching it to your o\\ii son. How are you, my dear old chap ? "
My father's kind, worn face turned towards the new-comer with
a smile, and while he was shaking hands with him.
A very tall and handsome man, about thirty-five, even now
getting somewhat stout, with very grand black whiskers, and fine
teeth, dressed witli singularly good taste — in fact, very fashionably
— but only showing that he was a clerg}'man by his white tie.
What was most singular about the man, however, was a look of
wonderful comical bonhomie, which lit up his whole face, from the
smooth forehead which dominated a pair of always arched eye-
brows, down to the comical and gentle mouth and chin. I took
an instinctive liking for the man at once, but, from some reason
or another, thought that he would never get on in life, or be any
richer than he was at present. How far I Avas right the reader
will find out for himself, or, indeed, the heading of this chapter,
259
2G0 THE HARVEYS.
which is by no means satirical, will show. I only, however, had
to look on him and like him.
'' Well, how are the boys ? " said my father, cheerily.
" I have given the whole sixty of them fifty lines apiece, and
kept them in for the rest of the term," said Mr. Hawkins, with a
radiant smile. '* I must be firm."
"You must, indeed," said my father, laughing, " and you seem
to be. What did they do ? "
*' Well, I did not happen to attend class at all this morning,
and the boys were left entirely alone with the monitors ; and they
got the biggest monitor, Jack Rawlins, do^Mi among them, and
poured a pint of ink over him out of my private bottle ; and he
was forced to be sent home in a cab ; and, God bless the fine
fellows, not a soul of them will sneak on the other, and so I have
sent Jack Rawlins to the bottom of the class, which will lose him
his remove, and have given the whole class fifty lines, and kept
them in till the end of term."
'' But you should not have left the boys alone for four hours,"
said my father, with his shoulders shaking. " What will the
Committee say? "
*' Let me catch them saying anything! They knew I had a
curacy, and agreed that I was to attend to it. I'll not hear a
word out of their heads ; let them pay me the 120/. which Lord
Frogmarsh pays me, and I will give up the curacy."
" I don't think you would, Hawkins," said my father.
*' Well, perhaps you are right ; I don't know that I would.
Lord Frogmarsh has as good as given me a living. I shall hold
on by the curacy."
" And let the boys pour the ink over the monitor's head."
*' Ha, ha! " said Mr. Hawkins, laughing ; *'you should have
seen Jack Rawlins : they won't get his face clean for a month."
*' You are as bad as any of them, Hawkins," said my father ;
*' or, at least, you were, both at the school and the university."
*' Well, perhaps I was," he said, apparently delighted.
" You want taming," said my fatlier. " When you get a living,
you will marry, and your wife will tame you. You will marry, I
know."
" No-o-o," said Mr. Hawkins, ore rotimdo, with an emphasis
which I well remembered a few years later. " By the by," ho
continued, " do you want a pupil ? "
*' Yes, Very badly," said my father ; "I sha'n't get through
the year without debt if I don't have one."
" Well, then, I have got you one — a good boy enough, but
utterly ignorant. He has been a waterman's apprentice at the
THE HAKVEYS. 201
riverside, and has come into more mouey than you or I ever hud,
in consequence of his grandfather, a great huildcr of houses at
Chelsea, having qnanvllcd with his relations, and left all his
money to this lad. llis mother asked me what yuur price was,
and I said, in such a case as this, not under 150/."
" My dear Hawkins, I would have taken GO/."
** Yes, hut you weren't asked. Can he come the day after to-
morrow ? Good-bye."
When he was gone, I asked my f\ither who he was.
" Hawkins, second master of the North- West Ijondon Grammar
School, an old friend at school and university. He has some
trille of private fortune, and a fellowship, so he does not take
pupils, hut sometimes sends me one, when he hears of one."
" Is he a very kind man ? " I asked.
'' I think that he is the very kindest of men ; hut, for his
own ends, he has taken a cure of souls in the country ; and
consequently his class are left to run riot until one o'clock every
Monday. He is a very fine preacher, and, hut for his reckless
htnho)ii'u\ might have been a bishop. As it is, he will never be
successful in life."
CHAPTER II.
SOMETHING ABOUT THE HARVEYS.
Very early in life my father had begun to fail, and, in fact, was a
ruined man in the opinion of the most experienced Dons long
before he took his degree. My father was not ruined by dress,
dice, profligacy, or horses, any more than he was ruined by idle-
ness, for he w'as diligent at lecture, and always got through his
examinations to the very day. What ruined my father was his
persistent culture of modern literature, and painting. The dear
man never could paint to a marketable extent, but he never did
anything else if he could help it. It is difficult to say why he
never could paint anything which any one could buy, because he
is one of the best art-critics I ever listened to ; but such was the
fact : it seems a specialite of the greatest art-critics that they
cannot paint themselves, and when I read the astounding assertion
the other day, made by Mr. Disraeli .in " Lothair," that the critics
were those who have failed in art and literature, I began to think
about my own case and that of Jack Yemey, Jack never could
2G2 THE HARVEYS.
get ten pounds for a picture in his life, whereas I well, I will
not in any way, but I would engage, if it was worth my while, to
niake ten times as much with my h'ft hand as he could with his
right. Verney is my principal critic in several papers, and his
persistent efforts to write me down are intensely amusing. '' We
have warned this artist time out of mind that his use of chrome is
excessive in his middle distance ; " or, *' Will this artist never
understand that the surface of water, however small, is round,
and not Hat? " or, where he gets personal, as he sometimes does,
'' This artist has this year given us another portrait of his brother,
Captain Harvey, this time in the character of Leander. We wish
that he would get some other model ; " or, '' ' My Aunt,' by Mr.
Harvey, is supposed to be a portrait of Lady Edith Harvey playing
the piano, with the Comtesse d'Estrada behind her. The piano
is very good, but we sliould not have recognised either of the
ladies." Such was the help I got from my own fellow-student, at
the very darkest time of my life, when I was exhibiting and selling
oft" everything at any price to raise money.
There had been some considerable sum of money in our family
at one time. My father's elder brother had that money, twenty
thousand pounds, my father said, and had made ducks and drakes
of it. He was a Captain of dragoons, and as he was of an atfec-
tionate and domestic turn, he thought that it would be selfish to
make away witli all the money single-handed, and in consequence
married very foolislily a certain Lady Edith Devereux, daughter
of the Earl of IJallykilglass, wlio has repeatedly told me that slie
was to have had 8,000/., but never got a sixpence of it. My
Aunt Edith was a young lady of the most amazing beauty, and
there were wild legends in our fimiily that she was a splendid
singer, and had once made Italy ring from one end to another by
appearing in the character of Adi'lgisa at La Scala, wlien INIalibran
was taken suddenly ill. Where Miss Lee got this story from I do
not know, and she never could tell me ; I only know that my aunt
never sang one note at our house after she came to stay witli us.
My uncle fell in love witli Tjady Edith in her second si'ason,
Avhen she was M'itliout all doubt the greatest beauty in Ijondon.
They were marricnl in Scotland, having run away, at the advice of
the then Earl of ]'>allykilglass, it was said, to avoid the expenses
of a regular wedding. After which Ihey sot to work spending
their 20,000/., and managed it hnndsomcly in about three years
and a half. I\ry uncle then found that his principles required him
to go to Spain in aid of that most ill-used man, Hon Carlos, and
he went there, with the price of his commission, taking my Aunt
Edith with him, who assumed the garb of a Sister of JMercy, and
THE HARVEYS. 263
worked among tho anibiilancos, going nndi-r ihr vcrv oftrn, and
ivceiving on one occasion a vory ugly wound from a liritisli bulU't
on her arm, a wound wliicli I have often seen. Her last act in
this character was the searching for tho body of her own husband,
and gi'tting it buried in a grave by itself. After this my aunt
Lady Editii disapjieared for a very long time, and what became of
her she always rtl'iised to tell us. I fancy she lived a grtat dial
in Italy, for she was very fond of talking to organ-grinders in
their native tongue, though slu^ ni>ver allinved them to play a bar
in her lu-aring.
]\Iy father took an ordinary pass degree, but, being on a founda-
tion, would have proce<.'(U'd as a matter of course to a fellowship.
He, however, decided not to taki' it, but, to every one's astonish-
ment, married a young lady, a clergyman's daughter, who had
been a governess, as poor as himself, and went as her father's
curate. It is not quite certain what they lived on for a long time,
unless they lived ou my grandfather, which I suppose must have
been the case, for there was nothing else ou which they could have
lived ; but after my brother Dick, myself, and my sister Dora had
been bom, a stroke of fortune came to him. By the intluenco of
an old fellow-student, he was appointed to the peqietual curacy of
St. Bridget's, Camden Town, with a salary of 880/. a year. He
moved to that locality, and took a house in Bridget's Square : in
three years more my father found himself left, with five children,
a widower.
I remember the night of my mother's death well, though I can
scarcely remember her. ]\ly father said ofti-n to me that she was
very beautiful, and that I was like her. Now one of the things
which has vexed me very much all my life is that I am anything
but handsome, and so my fiither must be wrong one way or
another ; but the result was the same, I was her favourite son.
He told Miss Lee once that both Dick and Dora were like their
uncle, Captain Harvey, and Miss Lee remarked that Captain
Harvey must have been a remarkably handsome man.
My brother Dick was a year or two older than I when my
mother died, and I was nearly ten. I remember on the afternoon
when we came home from the funeral that everything seemed to
have stopped and come to an end ; that there was no more light
in the house, and that there was no management at all. Our
meals were never ready at the proper time, and then were never
cooked. We made a holy alliance against the servants, and the
Servants did the same by us, and as time went on the muddle got
more and more terrible. I have known Dick out all night when
he was twelve years old, and come home with plovers' eggs, and,
2G4 THE HAEVEYS.
I believe, pheasants', wbicli we had for breakfast, under my
father's face.
I sujjpose there never was such a very queer household as ours,
for a year or so. Dick was sent to school, but he never seemed
to learn anything in particular. He could read, write, and sum,
and get on with his Latin Grammar, and construe a little. His
terminal reports from school were always nearly the same. Latin,
bad ; Greek, very bad ; arithmetic, veiy bad ; conduct, excellent.
My father, very early in Dick's life, began to cast about what he
was to do with him, and always ended his cogitations with a deep
fro^^Ti. Dick was one of the most beautiful boys I ever saw or
knew ; but, oddly enough, although I always knew that fact, he
never did. The maids and his friends told him how handsome he
was, but he hardly knew what they meant ; and if they gave him
sweetmeats for being handsome, he took them most handsomely.
Although his conduct at school was most excellent, it most
certainly was not so — I was just going to say ashore, but I mean
at home. He was, at home, very boisterous, but his fits of
nonsense were alternated by long spells of sleep. He was
perfectly innocent, intensely lazy, and no person I ever heard of
saw him out of temper.
If Dick was handsome, and did not know it, Dora was hand-
some, and most certainly did. She was fantastically conscious of
it, and most certainly ought to have been an actress. She was
never well-dressed when she was a child, but she had a way of
making the most of her shabby frocks from the earliest youth,
sweet little coquette as she was. I never saw a bolder or more
self-possessed child or woman. I took her out for a walk once when
she was very young — not more than nine — and we came past
the Botanical Gardens, and saw flowers inside. Dora said, '' I
shall go in and ask for some of those," and I let her go, and
watched her. One of the gardeners tried to drive her back, but
she drew herself up, and said, *'I am Miss Harvey, the niece of
Lord Dallykilglass, and I want your master, not you."
She got to one of the head functionaries of the garden, and
came back loaded with floAvers; and she was actually told to come
again as soon as those were faded. There was an impe'rial
splendid beauty about the child, as there is about the woman,
which nothing can resist. Slie brightened our squalid house as
much as lier constantly supplied flowers.
As we began to grow up, our house became more and more
muddled and dirty ; and, as we cost more, my father became
poorc^r and pooriu". Tlie windows got broken, and never mendi'd ;
the doorstep was never cleaned, and llie cliildren filled it, and
THE HARVEYS. 265
played on it, except wlien my two youii!:,'er brotliers, headed by
Dora, would make a raid on tliem, which generally ended in a
free fight in tlie street, to the scandal of the nci<,dihours. ^ly
fiither did nothing but preach and paint, of both which things ho
was passionately fond, until one day it became necessary to give
Dora some other education and some other manners than those
which she was getting at present.
INIy father had some friends in the West, notably a Devonshire
vicar : he sent to him for a governess, otl'ering thirty pounds a
year. Ho could not have sent at a more opportune time. A
neighbouring clergyman, a widower, had died, leaving three
daughters, nearly unprovided for. The eldest would be only
too happy to come at such a salary, which would enable her at
once to put the eldest of her youngest sisters to school at
Crediton. The vicar told my father that the girl cried with joy
at such an unexpected piece of good fortune, and my father said
to me, " Think of iiiij being able to make any one happy by
a stroke of good fortune ! We must make this young lady
welcome."
"Dora," he said, that evening, ''you have a new governess
coming to-morrow."
'' If a governess enters the house, I leave it," said Dora, and
bounced out of the room.
Miss Lee arrived the next day. The good vicar had said that
she was very young, and had the ordinary accomplishments of a
lady, which means more or less, as the case may be. She was
certainly veiy young, and I have since extorted from her the
confession that she was only just turned sixteen, but there was one
thing about her which the vicar never had mentioned, for fear my
father should object to have her in the house with the pupils which
my father now contemplated taking. Miss Lee had that sad
fault common to the majority of Devonshire women — she was
most wonderfully beautiful.
She was tired with her journey, and terribly frightened at
almost the first new faces which she had ever seen. Biddy, the
servant, let her in, and the poor child had some wild idea that she
ought to take off her bonnet before she met my fiither, so she
took it off as she came upstairs ; Biddy, our Irish girl, threw
open the door, and made the startling announcement, "Here's
the new governess come to her situation, and that divil of a
cabman would have chated her of two shillings but for me : bad
cess to him." We saw before us this very lovely apparition, with
one side of her hair all down on her shoulders, her bonnet in one
hand, and her slender little purse in another. My father stood
266 THE HARVEYS.
for one instant amazed, and then, like the thoroughly chivalrous
soul that he was, darted forwards and kissed her, saying, " My
love, we will try to make you happy ; indeed we will ! "
" Let her have her tay, then," said Biddy. '' Give her her
tay. Heavens, be my bid, but she's the very image of my own
sisther."
I thought that there could not be any strong likeness between
the two sisters, for our good noble Biddy was as like one of her
native potatoes in face as may be.
" Go and fetch Dora, Charles," said my father to me, and I
saw him leading the young beauty to the sofa as I went out to
seek Dora.
I regret to write down what follows, but Dora had fulfilled
her threat of leaving the house, which fact I communicated to my
father after searching the house from top to bottom. My father
hurried in one way and I in another ; but when I returned late,
we discovered that Dora had been found by a policeman, in the
night, shaking the gates of the Botanical Gardens, to find her
friend, the emploije, and, after a pretty stifi' interview, had given
her name and address, and had been brought home.
She could not manage Miss Lee, however, because Miss Lee
allowed Dora to fancy that she was managing her. In a week
Miss Lee had perfectly conquered Dora, by persistent kindness
and lack of all visible authority, and also by quickly appealing to
Dora's ambition, and showing her, very calmly, and without
offence, how very much she was behind all other young ladies in
the way of education.
Miss Lee did all she could in the way of improving the liouse-
hold management, but it was utterly hopeless, the muddle was
too great, and she had not the power to give an order. The
servants defied her, and she in a short time had to give in. She
deteriorated with the rest of us very soon. Tlie demon of
muddle was too strong for her, as it liad been for us, and she
began to come down late for breakfast, to come into church after
the Psalms, and to get somewhat weedy in her dress, though this
latter circumstance may liave come from the fact that nearly the
whole of her salary was spent on her sister's schooling, and that
what little she had my brother Dick generally borrowed of her to
take us for a treat to the Uegent's Park, to have curds-and-wliey
and ginger-beer. However, we must leave Miss Ijee for the
present, and pass on to other matters.
It became absolutely necessary that my father should take
pupils. Now i)iq)ils are very easily got by three sorts of men.
i'irstly, by professional and experienced bear-leaders, which trailo
THE HARVEYS. 2G7
is a trade in itself, different from all others in creation ; and llie
men who ply it cam tlieir money ; they have to wash the Etliio-
pian wliite, and thoy do it, tlioni^h the whitcwiisli very often comes
oft' again in the first rub with tlie world ; and it must be said of
these men that they earn their money hardly, and generally
honestly. Secondly, by professional crammers, who certainly
earn their money, whatever the benefit of cram may ultimately bo
to the State. Third, and lastly, by moo of high learning and
noble position in every way, wlio set the seal of their own noble
souls on such lads as are lucky enough to get the chance of tiieir
instruction. Now my father came under none of these three
categories. He was certainly a man of high and noble soul, but
his learning was deficient ; he had sacrificed it for art, or a ghost
of art. He was no crammer — for he had little or no diligence.
And, again, he was no bear-leader, for his idea of hell begun on
this earth was that of a vicious boy. We had only one vicious
boy in the house, and my brother Dick discovered him, thrashed
him till he was sore, and then told my father, who sent him
home the next day, and gave Dick a watcli.
So it will be perceived that it was not veiy easy to get pupils,
however much my father might want them.
Still, friends helped him, for every one who had ever knoTMi my
father loved him. The pupils he had were generally loutish and
backward lads ; we shall see nothing or next to nothing of them ;
they are only mentioned because out of the money which my
father made of them, he managed to keep Dick, and to send me
to school. I don't think that they added much to the muddle of
the house generally, they had a private muddle in their own
rooms, which often smelt of tobacco.
I knew very little about them, but I should say tliat my father
did his duty by them in his own way, for he worked diligently and
kindly with them ten hours a day. The only one I remember
with any distinct individuality was an Irish lad of eighteen, who
w^anted to marry Biddy, and take her to the United States. I
heard of this young man lately in the Sydney mounted police, as
a lieutenant, receiving the thanks of the Corporation of Tintinabar-
lah for the dashing way in which he broke up a gang of bushrangers.
Hawkins declares that the young man who did the Brentford
forgeries was a pupil of my fiitlier ; but Hawkins can no more
help laughing than he can help walking, and if you knew him you
would forgive him.
To put matters straight, however, the famous James Jackson,
of the Brentford forgeries, was not a pupil of my fatlier at all,
but a watchmaker's apprentice, in no way connected with him,
208 THE HAEVEYS.
CHAPTER III.
MY AUNT EDITH.
It was lato one summer, when my father and I had a rather close
and particuhir conversation.
I had heen workmg very hard with him at the classics, among
the pupils, and I had done very well. I was then, at fifteen, in
Euripides and Virgil, and I found that I could hold my own with
the hest of my father's pupils. One evening my father and I
went away to his room together to paint, and as soon as we were
alone together he told me that I must daub no more, but that I
must go to school.
I w^ent down on my knees to him, and I prayed him not to send
me to school. I said I could not bear it, and indeed I doubt not,
talked a great deal of wild nonsense. (I beg Mr. Jack Yerney to
notice that I am not the first artist who talked nonsense.) I saw,
in short, that unless I was allowed to be an artist, and marry
Mary Dickson, I would sooner be dead.
My father passed over the entire question of Mary Dickson.
(As a matter of detail, though it has nothing on earth to do with
the story, and is no business of yours, I am married to her now :
I gave her her freedom, but she said she would rather marry mo
with one arm than any one else with two, and as she brought a
pretty penny of money, I let her do it.) My father, I say, passed
over Mary Dickson entirely, and informed me that he intended
me to go to school, to the university, and into the Church. That
the idea of my being an artist was wildly absurd, as I had no
talent. He very seldom, too seldom, asserted his will, he said,
but now he must assert it, and could allow no farther discussion
on the subject.
I obeyed, though I was perfectly determined to make my own
fortune and his as an artist. We changed the subject, though we
went on painting. I say that we went on painting : my father
painted — I drew in chalks at that time, as far as I remember,
from Jullien's " I'ltudes aux deux crayons," which Jack Verni'y
says are all humbug, but sonu; of which, copied from such men as
Horace Vernet, have brought me in a pound or so, by the habit
they gave me of bc)ld, swift, French drawing. Jack Verney may
say what he likes about my Frencliism, l)iit lie never could draw
like a third-class Erenchman.
''Do you know," asked my father, "that your aunt, Lady
Edith, is coming to live with us?"
THE HAHVEYS. S69
As this was nearly the third tinio I bad ever heard of her, I
confessed that I was quite unaware of the fact. This is tlie place
to say that my father and my aunt, Lady Edith, were the two
most secretive beings wlioni I ever saw ; from neither of them you
would ever get a hint of what was going to happen until it was a
fait accompli. It may seem odd that two people, in no way related
to one another, should have had the same habit, which might
otherwise be supposed to be a family habit, but I draw them
simply from life, and such was the case. This is perfectly true.
I was always as far in the confidence of my father as any one,
and I do not know to this day what his income was at that time.
As for my aunt. Lady Edith Harvey, she was a mystery even to
herself. How otherwise could her treatment of me in the Metz
business be excused — to leave me there, at Luxembourg ? "Well,
my father told me that she was coming the next evening. And I
prepared Dora, Miss Lee, and Dick for it.
Dora said, " I know she is a nasty, twopenny old trot."
" Dora," said Miss Lee, " you must not talk like that."
'' Must not. Shall if I choose. Now, then ! "
Miss Lee rose and left the room, and then Dora began to cry.
"Dick," I said, "go and fetch Miss Lee back." And Dick
went and fetched her back, though she was some time in coming.
Miss Lee would do most things for Dick, though I never knew
him do anything for Miss Lee, except borrow my pocket money to
give her presents. However, he brought her back ; but Dora had
nailed her colours to the mast, and insisted that she was certain
that my aunt would encourage the servants in drinking. Then
she kissed Miss Lee, and kissed Dick, refusing to kiss me,
because I had been bought over to my aunt's side. I pointed
out to her that she was talking the most unutterable nonsense,
and after a time she kissed me. Then it was time to go to bed,
and Dick wanted to kiss Miss Lee, but seeing that he was of the
same age, and about half a head taller than she w^as, she very
politely boxed his cars, and w^nt off with Dora ; after which I
went upstairs to our bedroom with Dick, got him his pipe, and
made him lie on his bed in his shirt, with one naked foot dropping
towards the floor. When I had finished this, I wrote under it
" St. Just plotting the glorious atiair of the 10th Thennidor,"
and went to bed. A nice mess I made of it with this sketch,
among others, on a subsequent occasion.
Dick, however, would not have the candle out, would not leave
ofi" smoking, and would not get into bed ; he had been sleeping
half the dav, and now he wanted to talk and smoke. Refusincr
anything wliich my brother Dick asked for was what I never could
270 1:he hakveys.
do, but on this occasion my task was pretty easy. Dick only
wanted to hear about my aunt, and I could not tell him anything.
" Come, Charley," he said, " let's talk, my old boy. I've been
to the play to-night ; I've been to the opera, in the gallery, with
Will Dickson. Oh ! so you fancy you are in love \fith Mary
Dickson."
I was a mere child, little over fifteen ; but I was flattered, and
liked his nonsense, and laughed.
*' Ah ! you should have seen the girl I saw to-night ; she had
to sing a little song, and very badly she sang it, but she was a
beautiful young gipsy."
*' What was her name ? "
*' She is a married woman, young as she is ; W^ill Dickson
knows all about her ; she is Comtesse D 'Estrada ; the people
hissed her, the idiots, because she couldn't sing. She didn't take
the name of D'Estrada, however ; Will Dickson knows about her
from the (yawn) solicitor of the (yawn) Opera — good-night! "
The next day my aunt came. I cannot well describe my Aunt
Edith ; she was very tall and very handsome ; she was dressed
in black and blue, which I thought a very singular combination
of colours, but she was entirely right ; she had dressed up to her
jewels, which were nearly priceless sapphires, and which, oddly
enough, she wore before us after she had taken her bonnet oft',
and came down to tea, where we were all ready to receive her.
Dora was transccndently good, which was a mercy.
But Dora, like the rest of us, was terribly afraid of her. The
gloom was gathering, and our candles were not lit ; we knew that
she had come, but none of us had dared look at her as she came
out of her cab. All at once a tall, dark figure glided in amongst
us and sat down by the fire without saying one word.
If she had said anything, why, then (as Dora said afterwards),
somebody else might have said something else, but not one solitary
word did my aunt speak for half an hour, at the end of which time
Miss Lee offered her tea, to which she said " No."
Dora said, in a whisper, to me, " That woman will make mo
hang myself." And then my aunt said, '' Children, do not
whisper."
I never saw such a conquest in my life. I have never seen
anything in my life like the etl'cct of that exasperating and ti'rrify-
ing silence. I told her of it afterwards. " My dear," she said,
'* it was the only way with you riotous young tomfools."
Niglit came on, and there sat this awful woman, dark as niglit
itself, without speaking one word. IMiss Lee's nerves could not
stand it, she began to cry. " Leave the room, woman, you are
THE HARVEY S. 271
a fool," said my auut ; " you will many in liasto aud repent at
t'lsuiv. Cio.
A long time elapsed before she spoke again, and then she said,
" Where is the girl, Dora?"
** I am here, aunt," said Dora.
"Where's your father? "
" Doing the Friday service," said Dora, quite subdued.
" Stay here till he comes home," said my aunt ; ** your spell
is cast ; your doom is fixed."
I made a wild effort to break the spell of this awful woman,
sitting there in tiic dark, blacker than the darkness itself. I said,
"Aunt, will you have candles ? "
" No," said my aunt ; " who spoke ? "
" Charles," I replied.
" What, the boy who is going to die by violence. No, I won't
have candles."
How I laugh at all this now. How my Aunt Edith has laughed
and cried over it, for so much of her nonsense came true. How-
ever, her sole object w^as to get us into subjection, and she most
certainly did that.
AVlien the candles were brought, she ordered off the whole
family except myself, and then she looked steadily at me for a
long time ; at last she said, " Boy, come here." And I went.
-'; ;;; ;]; :j- ;;;
I cannot now humiliate myself so far as to write down what
passed between us. I was only a fool and a boy. For the first
time in my life I was initiated into a superstition more false, more
godless, aud more hideous than those of the Roman Catholics —
ifar, far more so. My Aunt Edith believed in these things, and
was a conscientious woman. She made me believe in them also
for a time, and left me wdth the idea that I w^as a liar and a hum-
bug. As, indeed, I was. Take, for example, the conclusion of
our interview.
" You are a true and brave medium, my boy. Shall I go round
the room again for you ? "
" If you like it, aunt."
My aunt then, the candles being blow^n out, was floated up to
the ceiling. At least, she told me so, and I perfectly believed it.
You laugh at a child for telling you that he was mad enough to
think that this took place : is the child a worse ass than Lord
A or Lord L ? and is not this thing going on still ? It
matters little, only we should like to see the thing actually done.
I believed in it, and my aunt's power was supreme over me for
some years.
212 THE HAKVEYS.
CHAPTER IV.
I GO TO SCHOOL.
Nothing, however, not even my aunt's fortune-telling proclivities,
and her dominion over the house, could prevent my b'^ing most
inexorably sent to school. I was to go two days after my aunt's
arrival, and I remember how very nervous I was when I awoke
that dull autumn morning. I was to go to the North-West
London Grammar School, in connection with King's College, the
school where Mr. Hawkins was second master, and I had only
one friend there. Will Dickson, to whose sister I was attached,
and who admired Dora.
It was not as I wished it at all. I hated it. The Bohemianism
of my father's house had taken root in my soul, and I rebelled
utterly against school. It was fortunate for me that my Bo-
hemianism took the form of an intense love for art, or I might
have been a pirate for aught I knov;. I had been accustomed to
come and go as I chose, and to do exactly what I liked. Now I
was to be bound do'wn to set seasons and times. It was, to me,
unbearable, and I only bore it for the sake of my father, whom I
loved then, and love now in a way greater than that I have ever
loved any man in the world. I do not back up all my father's
sermons ; I think, for example, the one on the vision of Ezekiel,
the one which began his ruin, grossly indiscreet, but I think that
there is no one in the world like my father. He is abused ; but
why ? Because he spoke at the wrong time. He asked me to go
to school, and I went.
I was nervous because I am very sensitive, and I hate '' chaff."
I knew that I should have a great deal of this, and also that I
was not physically strong enough .to fight it down. The most
miserable morning I ever passed was the morning on which I
went to school. I had made the acquaintance of a young art-
student, who was at Broston's, in Frith Street, and I had been
there with him. Ah me ! that was a very different school to that
to which I was to be condennied ; they worked there, and worked
hard; they '^ chaffed," but no one minded it; it was Bohemian
utterly, and so, in my eyes, good. Conceive an artist who is not
to some extent Bohemian : will you have the goodness ? You
may conceive one, but you won't find one. I, however, was not
destined for Bohemia, but for Kentisli Town, and I hated it.
I was so nervous that I started an hour too soon to tlie school,
and consequently arrived an hour too soon. I fancied that I had
THE HARVEYS. 273
becjan my school career by bcinf» late, and so I ran*:,' the bell. An
olil, rod-fuced porter, in a bhic uniform, came out and asked nie
what I wanted. I said that I wanted to come to school.
" Ah ! " he said, " you're a new boy. You're no good. You
have begun by coming an hour too soon, and you'll end by coming
an hour too late." After which he went in, and to this day I have
the most profound faith in his sagacity, for his words came exactly
true, and my father was written to on the subject ; but my aunt.
Lady Edith, always destroyed the letters without his seeing them,
on the grounds that my destiny must be allowed to work itself
out.
While I am waiting this hour before the other boys come, let
me tell you all that I know about the North -West London Pro-
prietary Grammar School, in connection with King's College.
First, what uas the history of the mysterious connection between
this ill-governed school and King's College ? On that point my
informant was my brother Dick, who W'as at King's College School
as long as they would keep him (a very short time, after which he
was dismissed, as Mr. Swiveller was by Mr. Brass, and recom-
mended to turn his attention to the army, or the navy, or some-
thing very superior in the licensed-victualling line). My brother
Dick says that there was no connection at all, but that the little
school traded on the reputation of the great one. Dick said that
if you wanted your head broke by a delectus you had better say
you had been at one of the smaller schools first ; but this is only
what Dick said. The only community which I could find out
between my school and King's College was that of school books
and prayers ; to go further, I should say that our communion was
confined to the fact that we used Major's Grammar instead of
Valpy's, and that we were entitled to compete for some scholar-
ships at King's College, which none of us ever went near getting.
Yet this school had started, with a perfect fanfaronade of
trumpets in 1832, and, with its programme of educating the
Middle Classes, very cheaply, for the university, the bar, the
civil service, and the medical profession, was thought to be a very
fine property. Two branches only of the progrannne came to
anything, the School and the Medical School.
The Medical School did not come to much. It lasted two
years, and there w^ere twenty -six students in all. At the end of
two years the Hall and College announced that they would not
qualify young men from that Medical School unless the IMuseum
was made equal to the exigencies of Science. The proprietors,
who had been hopeful of gain from the Medical School, had a
fancy bazaar in aid of the Museum, but it all came to nothing,
19
274 THE HARVEYS.
and what money was netted was handed over to the boys' school
to found two scholarships of 5Z. each, tenable for three years, to
enable boys to proceed to Oxford or Cambridge without expense.
I got one of these, the junior one. Dick had four pounds of it,
and I spent nearly a pound in treating Miss Lee and the children.
I also gave half-a-crown to the policeman, on what grounds I
decline to state. The Medical School came to an end, and
left nothing behind it but a strong smell of " subject," and a
legend. The smell of subject is in my nose at this moment,
and the legend was this : — The last student secreted himself
in the school when every one was gone, in order that he might
surreptitiously light the gas and carve away on the last subject.
The last student, as soon as the place was quiet, stole down-
stairs in his guilty pursuit of science to the dissecting-room
door, where the body was lying ; the moon was shining through
the keyhole, and as he stood before the door the keyhole was
darkened. He stood transfixed with horror. The handle was
turned, the door opened, and the last student saw the last
subject standing naked before him, with his hand outstretched.
The last student was found by the porter insensible on the
stairs next morning, and the last subject was r/o)ie from the
dissecthui -table. How many times I have unlocked my room-
door, when coming home on a dark night I have expected to
find the last subject lying naked on my hearthrug, like Frank-
enstein's monster, I cannot say ; but I have a dim belief that
it is somewhere now, and if the door were to open at this
moment, and it were to walk in, I should know what it was at
once. For this frame of mind I am partially indebted to my
Aunt Edith.
So I waited at the school gates ; presently round the corner
came six howling young lunatics running a race ; the foremost
of them, a tall, good-looking young fellow, dashed at me, and
said, ** You young devil, you are a new boy," and at once
caught my cap ofi' my head and threw it down the next area.
" Shame, Jack Clietwynd," said a voice I knew well, that of
Will Dickson, " bullying a new boy the first morning ; he will
have to knock at 28 and get his cap, and will be certainly
reported to the Doctor on his first day. I say it is a shame."
** Knock at 28 and get it yourself, then," said Jack Chi-twynd.
" You are spoony over his sister."
Will grew white with fury, but he had no time to advance. I
dashed at Clietwynd, and struck him fairly on the mouth. Tliero
was one deadly look at me for one instant out of his blue eyes,
which I can remember now. I wonder if he ever really forgot
THE HAllVEYS. 275
tliat blow ? I cannot say ; but I ncvcv saw tlie same dcaclly look
directed at me again from tliat moment until all was over between
us for ever. I have seen it directed against others, but never
against me.
The others cried out that we must figlit after school ; and I,
now that my passion was over, was very soriy that my career was
to begin with a stand-up fight in which I should get a most
terrible thrashing ; but the lad had mentioned my sister, and I
would fight until I was taken to the Gray's Inn lload Hospital if
it were necessary.
Jack Chetw}Tid laughed. " You are one of the right sort," ho
said. ** I like you. I was a blackguard. I am cock of this
school, and so I can take a blow from a youngster like you without
any disgrace. Will Dickson, old fellow, what do you say ? "
" You are acting most generously, and like yourself. Jack,"
said "Will, with that flush in his face which a good deed always
brought into it. " Ah, Jack, if you were always like this I "
" Don't preach ; give me your hand, young 'un."
Here the bell sounded, and they all fled, leaving me capless.
A few nearly belated ones burned past me, and then the gate was
shut, and I was left alone with one boy, who was late also, so
hopelessly late for prayers that he prefeiTed the contemplation of
mv own woes to the wild chance of decreasing his own. He intro-
duced himself.
" My name is Yon Lieber ; I am a Geiman. You have made
a pretty beginning of it. Where is your cap ? "
'* Chetwynd threw it down that area."
** Don't peach ; come, and I will get it for you ; a dozen lines
or so don't much matter to me." And so he took me up to No.
28, and we rang at the bell.
The master of the house, a wizened, little old man, came out,
and he said, " You young vagabonds, as soon as I have had my
breakfast I'll call on the Doctor."
" Don't do that, sir," said Von Lieber, '' this is a new boy, and
they bullied him and threw his cap down your area. I am piling
up no end of lines by staying by him. Do let us have it quick."
*' Piun do^Mi and get it, then," he said to me, and as I came
back with it I heard him say to Yon Lieber, ''You are a good
lad, and I will get you through the scrape with the Doctor."
" Don't do that, sir," said Yon Lieber, eagerly ; "if you do the
young 'un will have to peach on Jack Chetwyud. I'll take my
lines." And so we departed.
I was terribly late, and on the very first morning too. The
porter received me sardonically, and reminded me of his prophecy
276 THE HARVEYS.
that morning, which was encouraging. I was directed to the
head master's door, where I knocked, and was told to come in.
The dreadful Doctor was sitting writing at his tahle ; he
demanded my pleasure.
" I am a new boy, sir."
" Your proposition is impossible, sir," said Dr. M. from behind
his spectacles. " The new boys have all been passed into their
various classes a quarter of an hour ago."
'' My cap, sir, was chucked " I begun.
'' I i3eg of you not to argue with me, sir. A new boy who comes
twenty minutes late inaugurates (I strongly object to the word as
being classically false, but I use it in my indignation) a career
which cannot end well. Boy, you will come to no good."
I was of very much the same opinion myself. Indeed, I never
had a friend except Will Dickson and little Herbert, who did not
tell me so. But I have always faced facts, and on this occasion I
faced them by entirely agreeing with Dr. M., and not saying one
solitary word.
" I know you, sir," said Dr. M., '' and I know all about you.
You are inclined for Art, are you, sir ? Let me catch you at it
here."
I still remained silent, promising myself a great caricature of
the Doctor, with his red face and his hair on' end.
" Don't you know, sir, that excellence in the Fine Arts is the
certain sign that the nation which produces that excellence is in a
state of decadence ? Look at the Greeks, look at the Romans ! "
Finding that I had now something to say, I said, " Hogarth,
Reynolds^ Gainsborough, Constable, Wilkie, — did they appear in
a decadence of national power ? I pass over the time, the best
time of all, when Cromwell was dictator, and Milton was poet
laureate ; but is Germany dead because she has Kaulbach and
Piloty?"
" How long hast thou professed apprehension? " cried he. '' Is
not France dead with her Gerome, and her Horace Vernet ? And
is Munich the soul of Germany ? God save Germany if she rests
on the bruised reed of Bavaria. Boy, what books are you in ?
Boy, you must not argue here ; you are here to submit. If I had
not submitted when I was your age I should not have been here."
It struck me that he might have been much better anywhere
else, and that a good soldier or good statesman had been spoiled
in the schoolmaster, but I never said anything except that I was
in Euripides and Yirgil.
** You had better go straight to Hawkins, I think," he said.
** Do you know anything of iSophocles ? "
THE HAllVEYS. HI
** I know a f^ood hit of the Aiiti^'onc, sir."
He sat for a loiiif tiiuo lost in iliou'^lit, juid I bclicvi' in prayer.
Then he rose and lift the room, and 1 n'niaiiied wonderiii;,'. Wiieu
he came hack he was snhdued, and laid his hand on my shoulder.
"I have hcen," he said, ** to Mr. Netherclift, the master of the
Lower Sixth, to see if he would take yoii, hut his remove is full,
and you must go into the Fifth. Hawkins, of the Fifth, is one of
the hest men that ever walked, hut in this class you will he for
two terms. Will you listen to me ? "
*' Yes, sir."
** In that class you will have the great temptation of your life.
Come nohly through it. I wish that Netherclift would have taken
you, and spared you this temptation, hut he says that you must
go through it."
I don't know why I was affected, hut I was. I suspect that
people like myself are easily affected, and that in the perfectly
governed state of the future we shall all he Draconically put to
death, and leave the virtuous citizens to here one another until
their time comes. Having once compassed the death of an
innocent German I cannot he regarded as a virtuous citizen ; in
fact, I consider the perfectly virtuous citizen as somewhat of a
nuisance. I may state, however, that men like myself have
redeeming qualities, for I conceived on this day a love and confi-
dence for Dr. M. and Mr. Netherclift which I have never lost.
CHAPTER V.
MR. HAWKINS AGAIN.
It was Monday morning, and Mr. Hawkins having seen his
removes made, had gone away to gossip with the other masters,
and had left his hoys to take care of themselves, as was his
universal rule on Monday morning. As I approached the door I
heard a sound, as it were of many waters ; this was made by
Hawkins's boys, who were, as I afterwards discovered, occupied
in a free fight, carried on generally on Mondays, by throwing
hooks at one another. On this occasion, as I afterwards found out,
the fight had been varied by something new ; a dozen of them
had set on Von Lieber, taken his breeches oft', folded them up,
and put them on Mr. Hawkins's table in his private room. I, of
27S THE HARVEYS.
course, knew nothing whatever about this as I turned the handle
and went into the class-room. There was a dead silence as I
entered, because they thought that I was Hawkins himself. I
found them in deep and profound study as I closed the door and
stood amongst the whole fifty of them, wondering where I was to
sit.
They saw me all at once, and the whole fifty came on me like
one boy. I saw one boy open the door behind me and bolt out,
and then I was down on the floor with half a dozen on me and
half a hundred more longing to get at me. They thought I was
Hawkins, and in their fury at the "sell" they said that they
would kill me.
They did not hurt me ; they only pulled me about ; and the
whole thing was so unutterably ridiculous that I could not help
laughing whenever I got breath. I do not believe that English
boys are as a rule brutal to one another. Alphonse Le Roy, who
was in the same class at the very same time, told me that French
boys are far greater bullies than English boys. I was black and
blue afterwards, but I freely confess that in that crowd not one
boy hit me as hard as I had hit Jack Chetwynd that morning.
After a time they left ofi* pulling me about, and I got up, found
my breath and my voice.
" You are a pretty lot," I said when I got on my legs. " You
are a dozen to one, that's what you are. Come on, any one of
you. Will Dickson, you wiU see ftiir play."
" It ain't a fighting job, old man," said Will. " Come and sit
do^n. It's only the way of the class. We thought it was
Hawkins. Come up here and sit with us ; he is one of the right
sort I tell you, boys." And so I went up and sat with them, only
too glad to make friends.
Jack Chetwynd sat next to me, and when I looked at him I
saw that his face was marked with the blow I had given him that
morning. I was terribly sorry : I cannot say how very sorry I
was. I went to him and I said, *' Can you forgive me ? "
"What for?" he asked.
" TJie blow I gave you this morning."
" Oh, it was you who hit me, was it ? " he said, just as if he
had not known. " Yes, I will forgive and forget. Unless, of
course, you would like to fight after school."
I told him that I could not figlit liim, that I was in no way up
to his weiglit.
" Then we won't fight, you mouse-eyed little chick. You shall
be one of us. You must not peach about any shines, you know."
I told him that I thought it the first duty of every schoolboy
THE HARVEYS. 270
to hold his tongue, and he was perfectly satisfied. lie told Will
Dickson in my presence that I was a blazin^^ yf^""n trump, and
Will Dickson said that he was perfectly aware of that long ago ,
then there was a ten-ible and sudden silence.. The class-room
door leading out of the corridor (I beg you to mark this, it was
the door out t)f the corridor, not out of Hawkins's private room)
was thrown open, and in walked Hawkins himself.
The boy Yon Lieber meanwhile had been sitting without his
trousers, having given them up as a bad job, for whenever he tried
to get to Hawkins's private room tor them he had been stopped
by a committee of twenty lunatics. Hawkins did not at first
perceive that Yon Lieber had not got his trousers on, but began
by calling over the names. My name came last, and when I
answered to it he demanded in a lofty tone what I meant by
sitting there instead of at the bottom of the class. As his eye
passed me it lighted on Yon Lieber's bare legs, and he stood like
a statue for one instant. But he was a man of genius and a man
of action ; that boy's bare legs were quite enough lor him, he
would act first and inquire aftei'wards.
" The whole class will stay in until the end of the term. The
whole class will write out fifty lines every day for a week. The
boy Yon Lieber is expelled unless he instantly produces his
breeches and lays them on this desk."
*' They are in youi* private room, sir," said Von Lieber.
" Boy ! boy ! is this mendacity or impudence ? "
" I only know, sir," said Yon Lieber, a veiT dogged boy,
" that the Kentish Town gang took my breeches otl', and put them
in your room, where you will find them."
" Would you have the goodness, sir, to point out to me one,
only one, of the boys who did this ? "
" No, sir ; you can't ask a German gentleman to do that. I
should like my breeches back well enough ; but we don't like
sneaking in this class, we leave that to the Fourth and Lower
Sixth."
" Good boy, good boy," said Hawkins. " Mind you never
sneak on one another. You ought not to have stolen his
breeches ; just think of the position the boy would have been m
in a case of fire. But you should never sneak on one another.
Never do that ; I'll never forgive a boy that. I go out in the
world and see no end of sneaking, and I never care for a man who
does it; keep your sacramentum militare. Boy, go into my
room and get j'our breeches."
Yon Lieber, who had had his shirt between his thighs, rose to
go ; but he was too late — he was anticipated. I mentioned above
280 THE HABVEYS.
tliat, when I was down on the noor, a boy had lot himself out by
the class-room door. That boy was Heath, now an archdeacon,
who bought a great picture of mine the other day, and, what is
more, paid for it with a cheque which allowed Mary and me to go
by Pacific Railway to California, and so by steamer to Melbourne,
where she and I first saw Australia. This boy Heath, however,
was not in luck on this occasion ; far from it.
Heath, when the row which followed on my entrance had begun,
went vaguely out into waste places, and then thouglit that it would
be a fine thing to go into Hawkins's room, put on his cap and
gown, and frighten us all. He did this, and on Hawkins's table
he saw Von Lieber's breeches, which he determined to redeem
for that German Ephebus. Consequently, when Von Lieber
advanced towards Hawkins's private room, the door was suddenly
thrown open, Von Lieber's breeches were thrown in, and Heath,
in Hawkins's cap and gown, appeared at the door, saying, in a
voice almost exactly like Hawkins's, " Fools and idiots, is Bedlam
broke loose ? "
I was seized with a terrible fit of laughing, from which I failed
to recover during the rest of the day. Hawkins, however, darted
suddenly at Heath, and got him by the throat. He hurled him
out of the room and took him to the head master, after which he
returned, sat down at his desk, and said : —
*' We will now read the sixty-seventh Psalm; after which the
boy Harvey will go on at the fifty-second line of the fourth book
of "Homer's 'Iliad.'"
This seemed to me a more transcendent absurdity than the
other, and I abandoned myself to laughing in hopeless despair.
If I had been burnt on the spot I could not have helped it, I
knew he could not kill me, and if he had got me expelled I did
not much care, so I gave mouth to it and distinguished myself.
I do not know what Hawkins threatened me witli at present, or in
future, but I know that I could not help laughing to save my life.
Will Dickson says that I had eighteen hundred lines to write out
by the next morning and to stay in for the rest of my life, but
Hawkins collared me and put me out of the room as utterly hope-
less. I inniiediately walked away to the head master's room, I
burst open the door, and there stood Heath on a stool in the
middle of it.
" What is your pleasure, sir? " said Dr. M.
*' I have been turned out of the room, sir, for laugliing, and I
want to be expelled. I can't stand this, and I want to study
Art."
" Come here," said Dr. M., and I w^nt to him. **My boy,
THE Harvey s. 281
don't be silly," he said ; " you are worthy of better things.
Heath, conu' here with iiie."
80 lie took Hiath and me hand in hand into Hawkins's room,
and when we got there, he said, " Hawkins, I have forgiven these
two boys." Hawkins scorned extremely ghid to hear it, and the rest
of the day passed over pretty evenly. My impression is, that if
the whole number of tasks imposed by Hawkins that afternoon
had been done, a largo number of rising barristers and ecclesiastics
would be there still, though some of tliem would be over forty now.
Hawkins, however, always remitted the tasks, and so it came to
the same thing iu the end.
CHAPTER YI.
HOME.
Among all my schoolfellows, I took to only three very particularly,
or, to be more correct, only took to two. One, however, took
very strongly to me, and that one was Jack Chotwynd. To him
my aunt took a most inveterate dislike ; while my father and my
sister Dora admired him immensely.
Jack Chotwynd helped to make my fortune, I will allow ; but to
a certain extent he was my evil genius. Evei^ etibrt I made for
good was utterly thwarted by him ; every bit of good advice which
I got from Will Dickson and from Yon Lieber was laughed at,
and he was entirely determined that I should be as idle as he
could make me.
He was sixteen and more, I rather younger ; but he was a man
at that age, I only a boy, and I got no good at all from him, for
he was vicious. Yon Lieber and Will Dickson used to warn me
of him, but he completely had me in his power. His influence
over me is past talking of now, but it shaped my life — it shaped
it \ery greatly, indeed. I give you my confidence when I say
that now I believe him to have been capable of any tolerable
amount of evil ; but I did not believe it when I first knew him.
His men hated him with an instinct higher than my own. I do
not hate him now. Lot me also say for the man that he respected.
Will Dickson, that Will Dickson respected him. I suppose that
in his case, as in others, physical power and physical beauty have
their value in this world.
282 THE HAEVEYS.
Von Lieber and Will Dickson were both by far his superiors in
brains and diligence, yet his father was a richer man than either
of their fathers, so Jack Chetwynd fairly held his own with them
by getting tuition at home. Well, I have said all I need about
him when I say that he was physically a splendid creature, and
that he exercised a great influence over me.
Von Lieber was a noble giant of a German lad, with all the wise
persistent stupidity of his race. I remember now that he had an
odd way of breaking out whistling suddenly in class, on which
occasions Hawkins would suddenly descend on him and bang him
with anything between a Buttman's Lcxologus or a Valpy's
Horace. Von Lieber always took his punishment in a stolid
manner, looking Hawkins respectfully in the face. Whereas, an
American boy, on one occasion, kicked Hawkins on the grounds
of the same treatment, and, indeed, was taken all along the
corridor to the head master's room kicking and scolding. I never
more thoroughly trusted any human being than I did Von Lieber ;
but, oh, how I have lain in my bed through those long horrible
hours cursing him. Yet he might arrive here while I am wiiting,
and we, in the Grerman fashion, would be in one another's arms.
" The world goes up, and the world goes do^n,
And then the sunshine follows the rain."
We, however, have not much to do witli Von Lieber at present.
The ruin he brought on me has been forgiven ten times over. He
acted after the way of his nation : a lie is a lie with them.
Will Dickson was in some respects like Von Lieber ; but he
was a youth such as I have never seen out of England. By no
means quick in perception (little Le Roy, the French boy, could
see a mathematical problem quicker than Will Dickson) but always
safe. Will's courage was quite as great as Von Lieber's and
oddly enough Jack Chetwynd was somehow afraid of him. On one
occasion, in the corridor. Jack Chetwynd told Von Lieber and
Will that they were both liars ; that, of course, meant a light,
and they both challenged at once. Jack Chetwynd selected
the German at once, in preference to Will, who was a much
smaller man, to every one's astonishment. Fights then were
carried on in the half-hour from one to half-past one, and this one
lasted for two days, Will Dickson being bottle-holder for the
German. Von Lieber was a bad boxer, and got heavily mauled ;
but it was only stopped at (lie (>nd of tlie se'cond d:\y by Hawkins,
who had heard the account of every round from me, and who
thought that it was going in favour of the German boy, a thing
which his patriotism would not stand. When Jack Chetwynd
THE IIAUVEYS. 283
was all right again, Will solemnly asked liini to figlit, but Jack
ChotwpKl said that lie liad had ligliting enough.
At this time, like ilie idle monkey I was, I got a capital portrait
of Will done in school hours, and went home to my father's study,
and painted it. I had previously got a capital portrait of my
sister Dora, and I painted in Will Dickson, with his ann round
her neck. This gave rise to a most terrible stonn. Dora was
furious. She happened to come into the room and saw the
picture, and she onlcrcd my father to destroy it. lie kept it.
She had never seen him at that time, although she soon after-
wards did so ; for, uncomfortable and untidy as our house was, I
thought that there could be no harm in asking Von Lieber and
him to come to supper, and I got my father's permission, and
very nervously awaited the result, more particularly as my aunt
announced a foreign young lady as her guest — a young lady of
very singular attractions and high family. However, we got
ready and waited for our guests, prepared to give them the best
reception we could.
The plates were grimy. The butter had hairs in it, which Dr.
Letheby, without spectacles or microscope, would pronounce not
to be cow's hair on his oath. The cups were of difierent patterns,
likewise the saucers, but no attempt had been made to bring cups
and saucers of the same pattern together ; probably on the theory
of a recent school ot painters, that, arrange matters how you will,
Nature will bring it all into a great harmonious pictorial whole ;
as, indeed, she will if j-ou will give her atmosphere, which they
won't. No ; the cups and saucers were like somebody's pictures,
too near the eyes not to make you doubt his theoiy. And the
spoons, the silver ones the colour of aluminium, and the lead ones
the colour of iron. The pewter teapot had got its nose knocked
on one side. The tea was weak and washy. The pupils were
rude and shy ; and the atmosphere was of that faint, sickly kind,
which is only to be smelt at a cheap private tutor's, I hope — an
atmosphere smelling of bread and butter, brown sugar, weak tea, and
frowsy boys. But in the middle ot it, imperially beautiful, sat my
aunt. Lady Edith, calm, clean, quiet, complaisant, wdth her face
set — no, not set, she never had the strength to set her face, let us
say fixed, into an expression of quiet, good-natured calmness.
And beside her was Dora, watching her intently, and setting up
her large pica into diamond, copying her in kitcat, making the
quaintest little imitation of my aunt, that you can conceive.
My father was uncommonly well up in the Peerage ; whether
because his brother had married an earl's daughter, or from
natural inclination, I cannot say. But I have yet to learn that
284 THE HABVEYS.
there is any harm in that kind of knowledge, or that it necessarily
makes a man a toad-eater. I only know that I never knew a man
less of a toady than my father. He erred considerably on the
other side.
My aunt and he, however, talked to one another about who
was who to their heart's content, and I saw Dora listening. I
had never heard that kind of talk before, and it struck me as
being tiresome. But I had Mary's hand in mine under the table,
and could watch Dora at the same time. I saw how she was
drinking it all in, and I said to myself, '' We shall have all this
rechauffe to-morrow."
*' To-morrow ! " Dolt that I was, I did not give full credit to
that eager, hard, hungering brain of Dora's. To-morrow ! We
had it to-night. That child had got up the whole grammar of the
thing in an hour. A certain professor said to me once, *' I learnt
Spanish last night." And he had done so. But Dora beat him.
He had been up all night, and had found out the variations
between Latin and Spanish, and wanted nothing more than a
Spanish dictionary, time, and inclination, to accomplish Spanish.
Dora had gotten herself the slang in an hour over her tea, and
only waited for facts to be supplied to her. Meanwhile, as an
experiment, she used up those she had.
Miss Lee took the children to bed. I w'as ready to find her
shoes for her, for I liked Miss Lee ; but her shoes did not come
off this time, as they usually did at meal times, for she had on a
very tolerably well-fitting pair of Dora's. But the moment she
was out of the room my aunt began talking about her to my
father.
'' I like that girl, George," she said. " Who is she ? "
** She is nobody," said my father.
Was she not, indeed ? You had not heard Dora yet, you see.
'* My dear," said Dora, to her aunt, in a fiddle-fiiddle voice,
kept well within her teeth, as near the right thing as anything I
have heard lately. " My dear, her mother was a Kekewich ; one
of those ZHnumerable Devonshire Kekewiches, you know ; and her
mother was a Duller, one of those equally i;/numcrable Devonshire
Bullers, you know. And this mother of hers, the Kekewich girl,
before slie knew what she was about, went oft* with this young Lee.
That is all I know of the matter, except that they were as poor as
rats."
" But who was this Lee child ? Was he one of the
D_ll_ns?"
" My dear creature," said Dora, " he was a Devonshire parson,
curate, something of that kind, without a rap. And her people
THE HARVEYS. 285
never forgave them ; did not recognise them for a long time ;
indeed, never nally took them up, for his fatlicr had heen in
trade, or somethini^^ or another. And that is all / know ahout it,
and all I icunt to know, for the girl seems to me respectable
enough."
After an hour and a half s experience of a particular kind of
talk, this was the way in which Dora informed my aunt of the
simple fact that Miss Lee's mother had married a poor clergyman.
Would she have made one of the greatest actresses in Europe ?
I was strongly inclined to think so. The first tragedy gentleman
of Dickens, who blacked himself all over whenever he played
Othello, never could have more heartily thrown himself into a part
than my sister Dora.
CHAPTER VII.
MADAME d'eSTEADA, AND ONE OTHER GUEST.
Our first arrival was Madame D'Estrada, who was ushered in by
Biddy, the girl, as Mrs. Straddle. I had expected to see a veiy
tall, Spanish woman ; on the contrary, I saw only a very prettily-
dressed girl, almost child, of about sixteen as I guessed, yet she
was Madame even now. May I take your confidence, and say,
*' Bother the woman " '? I was totally at a loss to conceive what
connection my aunt had with her ; but my aunt always kept her
own counsel. I cannot at this moment say whether or not I should
have committed assault and batteiy on her there and then, and
damaged her beauty, had I known the trick she was going to play
us. I think not. We shall have enough of her before we have
done, and so just now I will only say that she was a very beautiful,
gipsy-like girl, who, as Dora said, made eyes. I remarked, even
then, one little circumstance which revealed much to me afterwards.
She went to the piano and opened it ; whereupon my aunt. Lady
Edith, drew her away, shut down the piano with a slam, and said,
" You fool ! " Madame D'Estrada submitted, and said that she
wanted porter. That was procurable in our establishment, and
Madame D'Estrada had it. I poured her out a tumblerful, and
she gave a little scream, and made me fill her out some into a
wineglass, and that wineglassful was all that she took to drink
that night.
When she had drimk it she looked through and through me
286 THE HAEVEYS.
with those pestilent eyes of hers, and, waving the glass over, sang,
with such notes as I have never heard since —
" Drink, drink, the blood-red wine ! "
''Madame," said my aunt, suddenly, "I forbid you to sing in
the Teutonic languages." And then she was quite quiet. I was
wondering why my aunt should have inflicted an amiable, beautiful
lunatic on us, when I saw that she was sitting with her chin on her
hand, and bringing her eyes on me. Happening to be in love at
that time I took not the least notice of her. Then I heard my
aunt say to her, "The first is Norma," and then the door was
opened, and Dora sailed into the room, with her head in the air,
with Miss Lee and my brother Richard in her wake.
Dora bowed to Madame D 'Estrada on being introduced, and then
I believed that we were all in Bedlam together, for Madame
D'Estrada went out of the room, shut the door, and came in just
as Dora did. There was a difference, but I did not see it. My
aunt seemed cross, and said to Madame D'Estrada, "Not at all,
nothing like it."
Dora seemed very puzzled. Miss Lee did not seem to bo so in
the least degree. She believed entirely in my aunt, and concluded
that it was all right. She sat next my brother Dick, now a very
handsome young man, and Madame D'Estrada glowered at both
of them. It seemed to mo that this proceeding gave immense
pleasure to my aunt, for I heard her say to Madame D'Estrada,
" That is very good, that is very good, indeed."
Will Dickson came next, with Von Lieber. Mary Dickson was
there also, and I sat with her the whole evening, as happy as a
king, remarking very little of what went on. I saw certainly tliat
Von Lieber sat entirely with Madame D'Estrada, and that the pair
talked in German. I also noticed that Dora sat with my aunt, and
refused to go near Will Dickson. I remembered my foolish portrait
of the pair, and wished that I had never painted it. I told Mary
the whole story in a corner, and she told me that I liad been very
foolish. After which we kissed one another in the passage. The
reader need not trouble himself about Iter ; slie has nothing to do
with us at all, unless one chose to remark that, if we had all been
as she was and is, there would be no materials for such a story as
this.
My father made himself agreeable, as he always did, and when
we thouglit tlie last of our guests was gone, and returned to tlio
room, we found that we were mistaken. Von Lieber liad lingered.
My father's instinctive idea of hospitality was aroused at once.
"My dear boy," he said, " stay with us to-night."
THE HARVEYS. 287
"I should like to, sir," lie said, " Init you have no room."
" You can sleep with Charlie," said my lather, " but then, where
is Dick to sleep?"
•' I'll sleep on the sofa," said Dick, who was, of all the people
I ever met with in tliis wicked world, the most kind-hearted.
"But," urged my father, " Charlie could sleep on the sofa just
as well."
" You let them sleep together," said Dick. "It is the last
time they will ever do so. I have heard news, eh ? Von Lieber.
Shall I salute you as cornet? "
"It is true, sir," said Von Lieber. " I have only my examina-
tion to pass, and I am a soldier for the rest of my life."
" I wish that I had been as my brother was," said my father.
"I go to Germany at once, sir," said Von Lieber. "Let me
be with Charles this one night. Germany's troubles arc getting
too hard to be borne, and I shall be in the cold earth some day."
So it was arranged, and my brother Dick went on to the sofa
by our side, while Von Lieber and I lay down together.
" I should have liked to see that D'Estrada woman again," said
Von Lieber, as he was falling asleep. " I can't forget her at all.
I wish you could get me her portrait. Are you asleep, butter? "
to my brother.
The buffer was quite wddeawake by a singular coincidence, and
remarkably talkative. He said, " Hang the woman ! " which was
a long speech for him.
" I am going to sleep, Charlie," said Von Lieber to me.
" Shake hands, for I am off to-morrow. Good-night, and dream
of Mary."
I put my right hand gently into his, for I was very sleepy ; his
was locked in mine for a time, and then fell away. I sometimes
think now that if both our right hands had been cut off then it
would have been far better. What did Cain think about when he
went out from among the presence of men ? When I did I thought
about Von Lieber. However, Von Lieber, for the present, dis-
appears.
CHAPTER VIII.
HOME AGAIN.
Lieber was gone, and I was left now entirely between two stools,
Will Dickson and Jack Clietwynd : had I known it, between Art
288 THE HARVEYS.
and Common Life. Few people could have been weaker than I
was at that time, and, in addition, I had no guidance. Jack
Chetwynd insisted on coming to see me at home, and I could not
refuse. I had been quite a long time at school, and I had never
once asked him to our dingy house. One afternoon he insisted on
coming home with me, and I submitted. I hated the fact of his
seeing our house, for he was a dandy, whereas Will and Von Lieber
were not. He came, and on going upstairs we found Dora at the
little piano, playing.
It was a common little piano, the same one from which Madame
D'Estrada had been ordered by my aunt. But to Dora it was a
grand piano, the room was a concert-room, and she was singing
before a large and delighted audience. The dream came to an end
suddenly, as I said, "Dora, my dear, here is Chetwynd, of whom
you have often heard me speak."
She turned, and looked at him. I may wish now that she had
never seen him, but I remember with intense pride, even now, the
flash of admiration which went over his face when she turned ; face
to face were two of the most beautiful creatures I had ever seen,
and in their four eyes I saw at once mutual admiration.
"How nice of you to bring your friend home," said Dora.
" We are rather dull here, Mr. Chetwynd, for our pupils are
always dunces ; if they were not, Pa would have no pupils at
all, poor dear. I have really no society except that of my
brothers. Dick is stupid and handsome, and Charles is clever
and ugly. I hope we shall be good friends. Do you sing ? "
" I sing in the streets, and also at church, but I sing very
badly," said Chetwynd.
" I sing very badly, too," said Dora ; " but then I make believe
to myself that I sing very well, and so it all comes to the same
thing in the end. I was making believe when you came in. You
have to make believe a good deal in this house to get on at all, as
you will find if you come here often. Oh, here you are, Miss Lee ;
this is Mr. Chetwynd, my brother Charles's friend ; I think you
know. Why, here is Aunt, Lady Edith. My Lady, this is Mr.
Chetwynd, a fellow pupil of Charles's."
" Yorkshire? " said my aunt, graciously.
"We are the Cadets of the great family, madame," said Cliot-
wynd, gracefully; "but like some great Scotch houses, we have
gone into trade, and have not done badly."
" I am sure I wisli that some of our family would go into trade,"
said my aunt. "The old Venetian families did, and there were
few people more respectable. The Poli made a great family in
trade, and so have the llothschilds. It is far better for the honour
THE HARVEYS. 289
of a house to mind l)usiness tliiin to swindle foolisli tradesmen."
In wliicli sentiment I ii<;!,\\'v witli my aunt.
" Miss Lee," said my aunt, " 1 want my tea. Like a good-
natured soul as you are, a real Devonshire woman, let us have
tea."
Miss Lee looked at her witli a rather scared expression.
'* I see," said my aunt, ** tiie seiTants in rehellion, I suppose.
Rini,' the bell."
Miss Lee rang it, and then went and sat on tlie music stool,
nervously playing the piano. I believe that if there liad been an
umbrella in the room she would have put it up. Dora ranged
alongside of my aunt, much as the 42nd Highlanders might form
alongside of the Grenadier Guards in case of an expected battle.
From a glance which Dora threw back at me, I understood that I
was considered to be in the reseiTO force, and that I was not to
open fire without orders, but was then to pound away until she
blew '* Cease firinij;." I knew that there was some domestic row
in our ill-ordered household, and I wished Jack Chetwjnd was at
the bottom of the sea.
The bell not being answered to Miss Lee's pull, Dora, with a
glance at my aunt, took the place of sacristan, and began to toll
steadily without leaving ofl'. After about five minutes Biddy
appeared, very much flushed, and wished to know if her Lady-
ship had been ringun ?
Biddy looked towards Miss Lee ; Miss Lee looked at Biddy, and
Biddy shook her head at Miss Lee. I knew there was something
wrong, because those two hunted in couples.
"Is it the tay your Ladyship was spaking of? " said Biddy.
" Yes, I want my tea," said Aunt Edith.
" Shure, her Ladyship's tay," said Biddy. "I've been out,
my Lady, down to "Wapping, to see me brother's cousin oft' to New
York, and the ship was in the strame, my Lady, and the boats was
taking all the immigrants aboard, and the water w^as veiT rough,
my Lady, and Mick Reilly (he's a AVhiteboy), says to me that it
was the wicked English Government tiTing to drown um. And I
says, Mick, says I, surely they are only practising their sea-sick-
ness. Was it tay that your Ladyship was spaking of? "
"Yes," said my aunt.
" Then it's divil a drop your Ladyship's likely to get," said
Biddy, "unless you or I put a stone in our stocking's end, and
fight for it. The cook and the housemaid say that there was one
Irishwoman in the house before you came, meaning me : by the
second Irishwoman they mean your Ladyship."
I gave an angiy snarl, and came forward. To be disgraced like
20
290 THE HARVEYS,
this before Jack Chetwynd ! In an instant, my aunt and Dora
Avere upon me, and pushed me back. My aunt said quietly, " Go
down, my dear Biddy, -and send those two women up to me" ; and
Biddy departed.
The women did not come, but the tea did, brouj^ht up by Biddy.
At the hitter end of the meal, when we were all comfortable, I
noticed that my aunt had on her bonnet and shawl. She only said
that she was going to step out for a short time ; and, in fact, she,
knowing what slie was about, did her work very quickly. We were
getting more and more sociable — Dora had relaxed, and was telling
Jack Chetwynd a very long story about the appearance of the devil
in Camden Town in broad daylight ; my brother Dick was sleepily
listening ; Miss Lee had an attitude of attention, for which I could
not account— when we heard the street-door open with a latch-key,
and Miss Lee and Dora bounced up, and, running into the hall,
put themselves in front of the stairs which ran down into the
kitchen.
My aunt entered the room with a tall gentleman in blue, closely
shaven. Bhe said to me at once, "Go to Miss Lee and your
sister." I went, and Jack Chetwynd went with me, while my
aunt, the gentleman in blue, and a hitherto concealed policeman,
went upstairs. Dora and Miss Lee took us down into the kitchen,
where were the cook and housemaid drinking beer and eating bread
and cheese.
Dora looked at me as we went in ; and I once more felt that I
was as a reserve corps in a great fight. I was not brought to the
front, — it was not necessary. Cook began.
" We don't want any of you young people here," she said ;
" this is mij kitchen."
Dora grew deadly pale. She could not speak. What she
would have said had she spoken I cannot tell. Miss Lee spoke.
" On what grounds do vou call this noiir kitchen ? "
" Highty-tighty ! " said cook.
" That does not happen to mean anything," said Miss Lee,
"and is no answer to my question." I kissed INIiss Lee on the
spot. As I was my brother Dick's brother she did not box my ears.
"Highty-tighty! is no answer to us," said Dora. " Fow/'
kitchen, indeed ! "
" Dora, be quiet," said Miss Lee, gently.
" I sha'n't," said Dora. " That woman is a thief. What have
you got in your boxes u})stairs ? "
Cook, as I saw, at once changed licr toiic, not to a very great
extent, but somewhat. Before, she liad lu'en coolly contemptuous ;
now she grew an<'ri]v indi<Miant.
THE HARVEY S. 291
" I wisli I had never come into this bcf^'garly house," she said ;
«' I wish 1 liiid bei'U dead before I entered it. Jiut I'll have my
revenge on some of you. You, Miss Lee, you like nic to tell ail
I know."
I looked in Miss Lee's face, as cook said this, and I sawnothin;^
there but honesty, purity, and good humour. From that moment
I knew that Miss Lee, with all her fantastic untidiness, was as
true as gold.
" You may say anything you like about me, cook," she said.
*' Whether anybody will believe you or not is quite another matter."
"And Miss Dora ha% called me a thief," bawled cook. " Let
us go up and look at my boxes, then, — I'll start first."
" I am afraid that you will be too late," said Dora. " My
aunt, Lady Edith, has stepped round to Mr. Clarkson's, and has
got a search-warrant. The inspector of police and my aunt are at
your boxes now."
I never saw a woman brought to bay before. This woman knew
that her game was up, and that my Aunt Edith, assisted by Miss
Lee and Dora, had checkmated her. She was coarse, stupid,
ignorant, and, to a certain extent, vicious. She knew that a long
term of penal servitude was before her inexorably. She had stolen
from my aunt's room some lace, a pair of paste buckles, sundry
trinkets, and, terrible to relate, that awful jewel the Larko San-
darga, which she hardly thought worth the taking. Her object
was to get turned out of our house for insolence, for she had
secured another place. She could have done that perfectly well,
had she not robbed my aunt, a w^oman quite as cunning as she was.
Cook's move was to refuse to send up our tea, and get into a row with
us in that way ; but Miss Lee and Dora had been watching her in
my aunt's bedroom, and were prepared. I was, as a matter of
course, told nothing, and I selected this very day of all days to bring
Jack Chetwynd to my father's house. I asked Chetwynd not to
say a word about our iiic'na//e at school, and Jack Chetwynd said
that the affairs of Dora's brother were a sacred matter to him.
Here was a new misfortune on our most unhappy house. Jack
Chet^^7nd had fallen m love with my sister. I remember that I
used to say my prayers at that time, and I remember that I prayed
most earnestly that Dora should not fall in love with Jack Chet-
>v}'nd. Let us tell the truth, that prayer was to a certain extent
answered.
But to return to the cook. My aunt, who would have com-
pounded any felony under the sun, got back her Larko Sandarga,
and declined to prosecute. The lace and whole heaps of other
plunder went, both inspector and magistrate were excessively
292 THE HAKVEYS.
angry, but as there is no public prosecutor in England, cook got
clear oft'. My aunt had an idea that she could be " bound down."
I am not at all sure what she meant : but she thought it necessary
to go and live for a week in seclusion with Countess Spezzia, just
opposite the Zoological Gardens.
As a matter of detail, the Countess Spezzia is one of the main-
stays of the Zoological Society. That she has given four elephants,
I do not believe, because I have never seen four elephants tliere.
Still Jann-ack says that she is his best customer, and she certainly
presented a Choiropotamus. However, this has nothing to do with
the story. My aunt retired to the CountesS Spezzia's, and sent us
all one morning an invitation to come at half-past seven, to go
through the Gardens, and to go to breakfast with her aftenvards.
This invitation extended to Jack Chetwynd and to any of my boy
friends I chose to bring. I naturally thought of Will Dickson and
Little Herbert.
CHAPTER IX.
THE LION.
It was a most pleasant sunmier morning when we knocked at the
door of the Countess Spezzia. There were Dora, Miss Lee, Jack
Chetwynd, Will Dickson, Little Herbert, and myself. Aunt Edith
came out at once and escorted us. I remember that Dora was petu-
lant because the Countess did not come. She told her aunt that a
real live foreign Countess was better worth seeing than all the beasts,
but my aunt explained to her that the Countess was very old and
infirm, having been frightened into ill healtli during the French
Revolution, and only saved by the downfall of Robespierre. l)ora,
on my aunt's promising that she should see this lady at breakfast,
became good.
It was a very odd thing to see the way in which that child, for
she was really little more, ruled us. The instant that we were
inside the turnstile, she demanded to see the cockatoos and zebras,
u-hi/ she could not have told you herself : she simply wanted to
have her own way, and she got it. We went at once to the parrot-
house, and ]>ora detained us here for a long time because there
was Ji cockatoo who hung on upside down and swore, a bird which
Beemed to nuiet her views entirely.
Poor Dora. She; has little coquetry left now ; slii' liad some
THE HARVEYS. 293
then. Slio scarcely spoko to Jjuk CMictwynd, l)ut put all Ik r
questions to Will Dickson; and wv. liml imt lircii liait" an hour in
those Garilcns hctorc I saw what I had always wished to see. Will
Dickson was in love with my sister. Ihit did she care for Chet-
^vynd, or Dickson, or any one ? At present she chose to take up
with the very otl'ensive hoy whose head I had })ainted ai^'ainst her own.
" I like this Mr. Dickson," she said, in her odd way, *' and ho
shall take me to see the zebras. You people can look at the other
thinj^'s."
As it would not have been of the least use to remonstrate,
Dickson and Dora departed alone to see the zebras, and wo went
the usual round of the Gardens. We had seen nearly everything,
and my aunt had said that Noah must have had a fine time of it,
when we noticed a man running very fast from the direction of the
great caniivora. My aunt drew our attention to the fact that the
lion Nero was the finest lion in Europe, and that he was in the
third cage on the right hand side ; we at once went to have a look
at Nero, but when we got there the gate was open, and the cage
was empty.
" The poor beast is dead," said my aunt. '* They never last
many years. I am sorry we have missed him, for he was a fine
creature."
At this moment the head-keeper came up to my aunt, looking
very pale but very determined. "Madame," he said, "remove
your party at once. The great lion is loose, and we cannot find
him. I have sent round to Albany Street for a firing party of the
Second Life Guards, but even with them the matter looks awkward.
The lion ain't a tame one ; he killed two Kaftres before he was
took ; pray, clear, madame."
At this moment little Herbert, a handsome little dwarf, a school-
fellow of ours, came out in a singular manner. " Which is the
way to the zebras? " he demanded, emphatically.
The man pointed out the way.
" Charlie," he said to me, " follow me," and while the rest of
the party were in a state of panic, we went away together.
" Don't you see," he said, "Dora and Will are gone after the
zebras, we must go after them and tell them."
I thanked him for his pluck and readiness ; and, while I was
doing so, I heard a foot on the turf behind me, and, looking round,
I saw Miss Lee.
" You had better save yourself. Miss Lee," I said, " we do not
know where the lion is."
" I am coming with you," she said ; " and as for the lion, there
he is before you."
294 THE HAEVEYS.
She was right. We had come sharp round the corner upon
him. There was a great circuhir bed of lobelias, calceolarias,
and geraniums, now coming into full blossom. In tlie centre of
the bed, crushing the flowers, lay the lion, with his back towards
us, flicking his tail angrily to and fro ; on the other side of the
flower-bed, fiicing the lion, were Will Dickson and Dora bending
down and looking straight into his eyes. It was inconceivably
horrible — one moment's mdiscretion would be death for one or
both.
" Keep your eye on his, Will," said Dora ; " that is the only
game now. Don't lose his eye. Stop, I know something which
I read in a book : give me your walking-stick."
I cried out, '' Dora ! Dora ! "
Will Dickson gave her his walking-stick, which was a black-
thorn, with the handle at right angles with the stick. Dora held
the crook towards the lion, and began to advance.
"You shall not go, my darling," said Will Dickson; and at
that moment I saw the two heads together, just as I had painted
them before.
*' You may come, too," she said, smiling, and I saw them
come on. Dora held the crook of the stick right towards the
lion's face, and the lion, instead of crouching to spring, sat up,
and growled and roared horribly, trying to get right and left away
from Dora, but apparently unable to do so : the brute's whole
attention was fixed on Dora, with Will Dickson's walking-stick.
At this moment, when I was in an agony of terror. Miss Lee
pushed me on one side, and something went flying past my ear.
A lariat cast by an old hand fell round the lion's neck, and was
tightened witli a jerk. Some one cried out, "All hands on
here," and the struggling lion was dragged nearly insensibU'
from among the flowers, and hoisted into his den like so much
meat.
The young man who had thrown the lasso spoke to me, and
asked me wlio was the young lady who had kept the lion (piot
with the walking-stick.
I said that she was my sister.
" You come of a good-plucked family, sir," he said. " Your
sister, sir, has found out tliat we have no chance with real wild
animals, except with the hot iron. Your sister knew that lact,
and beat that lion witli it; tlie lion tliought that the stick was red
hot. I never see such pluck in my days."
" What are you ?" I asked.
" I don't exactly know what I am," he said. "I am working
with Wombwell now, licking tigers into shape for him. I have
THE HATIVEYS. 295
been mniilcd throe times, l»iit always by panthers and pumas. Is
your sister rich ? "
** Slic is not poor," I said.
*' I wisli slio would come into our trade," said the yount^' man ;
" she would make two thousand a year. Who was that youn.t,'
gontlonum who stuck hy her so well ? "
" Mr. Dickson."
*' I wish he would come into our profession," said the younq
man. " Why, I'd teach he to box a tiger's ears in a week —
leastwise, if your sister was looking on. They are not going to
be married ? "
I replied indignantly, " Xo."
" Ah, we marry early in our profession," ho said. *' I am
only twenty-two, and my wife ain't twenty. She came out as
lion-tamer at Valparaiso the week after we were married. Put
her head in the lion's mouth, she did. You gentlefolks are too
fine. I don't see my way to being a gentleman myself."
Did I see the way to being a gentleman ? Would it not bo
better to let the whole tradition of the family go, and start in the
world as am/thin//. Only to find what one w^as worth in the
world, and live up to that. Why, this young lion-tamer was a
better man than I was.
It seemed to mo evident that Dora would take to Will Dickson
now, and I laid out tlie future both for Dora and myself. The
worst of it was that I lett out the small fact that Dora had a will
of her own.
CHAPTER X.
SHADOWS OF THE FUTURE.
Singularly enough as it seemed to me, Dora treated Dickson no
better than before ; and as time went on I got very much pained
about it. That unhappy picture, painted so long ago, now had
done the mischief as I thought, and I was miserable about it for
some time, until all at once I missed it from my room.
My sleepy brother Dick missed it from our room, and asked
me about it ; I said only that it was gone, but I knew that Dora
had taken it, and, as I believed, destroyed it. Not one word ever
passed between us on the subject ; but the next time I met her I
looked at her, and she looked at me and nodded. I felt some-
296 THE HAKVEYS.
wiiat relieved that it was gone, and hoped that she would treat
Will better now, but such was by no means the case. The
extraordinary shifts and dodges to which she resorted to avoid
seeing him filled me with amazement. It seemed her leading
idea ; and at last her anxiety on this point grew so painful to me
that I willingly gave her a promise that I would keep them apart.
" I have never seen your sister for three months," said Will to
me, one day.
*' She is so shy," I answered, promptly.
''Is she ?" said Will. "It appears, however, that she can
talk freely to Pounder and Lawson. I should say she was not
shy."
" Well, old fellow, you can't help a girl's fancies. Perhaps I
have praised you somewhat too much to her, and put her against
you. But you have never been to our house more tiuan six times
in the term. If you came as often as the others you would see
her."
Here I did not speak the truth, and Will seemed to have a
suspicion of it ; but he only said —
'* I would sooner you come to me ; much rather."
He paused an instant, and then turned on me with his brightest
look, and said —
*' Come, Charlie, don't let you and I fence with one another.
We shall never be true friends if we do. Let us make an absolute
compact that we tell all the truth to one another. For instance,
your sister does not like me.'
'' She does not."
'' Why ? "
''Because I painted a picture, more fool I, of you, with your
arm round her neck."
" Well, I should like to care for everything that belongs to you.
I wish I could see more of your father, for he is one of the finest
fellows I ever met ; but I will keep away from your house until
this whim of your sister's is passed over. Meanwhile," he went
on, laugliing, " it will be more easy to me, because the eti'ect that
Son Altesse Royale, your aunt, w'ith her exasperating placid
inanity, has upon mc; is to make me long to shy the footstool at
her. But what would be tlu; good of that ; she'd smile on just
the same. She is the first lady of rank I have ever seen. Do
they all sit like that, and fit tlieir fellow -creatures for lunatic
asylums ? "
" That I am sure; I don't know," I answered ; " she is the only
one of them / ever saw eitlicr."
Any one who has read tlius far, will say that tlie story of my
THE HARVEYS. 207
life lias been hitherto merely jocular, and as lif^ht as air. Think
again.
What liave you liad l)nt this? A laic (tf our of tlu* hest and
kindest of nien, left a widower in tin- lu yday of youtli, with his
hopes in life blighted, and his faitli undenained with scjualid
poverty for his every-day lot, and a family of hel[»less, untidy
children, whom he had no means of educating decently, and
whose future was far more daik, uncertain, and unpromising than
that of the young brood of the commonest boiler-hannnerer in the
land. Next of a high-bora woman, sinking without an effort into
the habits of those among wliom she was thrown, penniless, and
hopelessly superstitious, only using her recollections of a higher
life to turn the head of a beautiful, passionate, clever, ambitious
child. A tale, in short, of decadence and deterioration, settling
down darker and darker upon a devoted family. Was there ever
a sadder tale told yet ?
" And yet," you urge with truth, *' you have been using all
your powers to make us laugh and giggle through it." I allow
it ; the tale would have been too sad to read if I had not. The
time is coming when we shall perforce have to leave oft' laughing,
but I propose that we shall laugh as long as possible. This
chapter is in reality the saddest as yet, but we will try to laugh on
even now, and touch as lightly as possible. If we begin to get
tragical so soon our tragedy would become stale long before we
had finished.
The inevitable time came on, as the midsummer holidays came
to a close. Will Dickson's father and mother, kind, gentle,
refined people (he was a stockbroker, in a good way of business),
had asked me down for a week to the Isle of Wight. And I,
having got (I forget by what particular fiction) my paint-box from
old Broston, my drawing-master, spent a week in heaven at Alum
Bay, bathing aud painting. Otherwise, my holidays had been
passed in energetic art-work w4th old Broston, and in equally
energetic neglect of my classical studies. At last summer came
to an end ; new posters appeared from the theatres ; and the
water in the Holborn Baths grew colder and colder, until the
dressing-rooms began to be lumbered up with boards, and we
found it was to be boarded over (water let oft' first, we hope) and
converted into a house of dancing, videlicet, a casino.
It was time to go to school, and I went to the old familiar iron
gates on the first morning in a state of desperate, defiant care-
lessness. I had made my election ; I had chosen to be an artist,
and had announced my choice to my father. Strange as it
seemed to me, he had decisively refused my request point blank.
298 THE HARVEYS.
I had thought tliat his own love of art would have made the
granting of my request an en,9,y matter to him ; but no. My
success on first going to school had turned his head ; and though
I pointed out to him the cause of it plainly enough — shown him
that it was only in consequence of my being put into work I knew
by heart — yet he Avas inexorable. His old reverence for Uni-
versity success, which he reverenced the more from not having
attained to it himself, made him angrily obstinate. He said
that Dick was a fool ; that the only hope of retrieving the family
lay in me, and that he would not have his cleverest son turn
Arab, and become an artist. I turned on him, and quoted so
many random w^ords of his own about the nobleness of art and
artists, and reminded him so strongly that he had as good as
given his assent before, that he lost his temper. Nothing, he
said, stood between me and a bishopric but my own folly. I
shall give no more details of the argument. We mutually lost
temper, and quarrelled heavily. I left my father in tears, and
went oil' to school with a full determination in my mind.
The old lot were there. Complacent Pounder, Laughing Law-
son, Tom Thumb Herbert, Will Dickson, and Jack Chetwynd, a
ferocious, handsome dandy, who appeared in a short coat called a
Chesterfield, and a once -round tie — a style of dress supposed by
the most advanced school bucks to be hitherto confined to otticers
in the Guards. None of us were surprised when he told us, in an
off-hand way, that this was his last term, and that he was going
into the 140th Dragoons.
So Will and I went dowii into the class-room, and took our
seats side by side at the monitor's desk for the last time. IVIi*.
Hawkins was absent, of course, with the head master. No man
minded his class less ; but still no man did more towards driving
the head master mad by an ostentatious attention to business.
Tlie class was in furious rebellion and disorder. Three windows
were broken in twenty minutes. Valpy's Horaces were tlying
about in all directions. Dickson and Harvey, the obnoxiously
strict monitors, were to be moved, and King Riot should have his
own again. Meanwhile, we took down no names ; we hadn't the
heart to do it.
There were three new boys, and I watched them as curiosities.
At first they were dazed l)y the furious riot, but after a little time
I saw that one of them got infected, and desirc>d to join in the
Carmagnohi ; Ix'gan to fi'i-l lUsrserk ; to desire to strip liiiuself
ludvc'd, like tlie fourtcu-ntli-century Slu'ovetide munnners, of whom
Mr. Wright has told us lately. He didn't do that, but lie did
something equally odd. He looked at the boy next him three
THE HARVEYS. 200
times, and tlie tliird timo he scizcil liim liy the throat, and johhcd
him in tlic ril)s with u i^'raninuir. Now, sttin^' flint lie liad n«v<'r
seen this boy htloie in liis hl'o, and tliat tliu boy liud done nothing
whatever to him or any one else, I bc^rjan to repjard this young
gentleman with singular interest, as displaying force and decision
of character.
Poor old Hawkins ! After a very long time the head master
managed to get rid of him, and he came rampaging in, as if ho
had just arrived from the country, with his cap on the back of his
head, demanding, as usual, whether Bedlam was broken loose.
Interpreting tlic universal silence as a negative, he read ]>rayers
in a rapid and severe tone, with his eye fixed on Lawson, who had
begun to giggle at something little Herbert said, and couldn't
leave off, in spite of the fear of having the morning's devotions
personally hurled at his head. At last Mr. Hawkins finished,
somewhat in this manner we will say, for the sake of decency —
" In sccula scculornm — the boy Lawson will stand in the middle
of the room — what boy spoke ? — for the remainder of the day,
stay in for the rest of the term, and ^\Tite out, with accents, from
the lesser Buttmann, from :, ,) to ctiva to the word ' uncertain,' go
down ten places, and lose his remove. It is better that he should
be punished in this world than the next. There are three windows
broken. Whole class 100 lines. Six boys to go up. Stand out,
Dickson, Harvey, Chetwynd, Herbert," &c.
He was a soft-hearted fellow, this Hawkins. He had the love
(and I fear contempt) of every boy who passed under his hands.
He made afterwards a noble parish priest, but he was thrown away
as a schoolmaster. Boys demand so inexorably as a master a man
they can respect and fear ; whereas, you knew where to have this
man. We knew how to manage liim, and that is fatal to the power
of any schoolmaster. Boys require a PJiadamanthus. To require
a boy to love the man whose duty it is to thwart him on all occa-
sions is requiring too much. Respect and fear is all that ninety-
nine out of every hundred of schoolmasters have any right to hope
for.
If they can win a boy's love as well (as Arnold did), let them.
I only say this because I had got very fond of old Hawkins, and
he nearly turned me from my desperate purposes by a few words
he said.
"Boys," he said, "I am very sony to lose you. You merely
represent to me a batch of young, half-developed souls, just about
to pass out of the sphere of my inihience (such as it is, we are
but weak mortals) for ever. I have been here ten years, and I
have got used to losing boys just as I have got fond of them, but I
300 THE HAEVEYS.
never sent into the Sixth a batch of boys I regretted so much as the
present one. I single out two in particuhir, the monitors. They
are the best and most faithful monitors I have ever had ; they
have restored a degree of order in this class to which, for some utterly
inscrutable reason, it has long been a stranger. Of Dickson — I
observe that the boy Lawson is affected to tears : he may retire to
the desk — of Dickson I have nothing to say, save that his conduct
should be a tradition in this class, and that a glorious future
appears to be before him. To the boy Harvey I should say,
persevere in the course you have so nobly begun. Let me hear
of you in the great future that is before you. Your conduct here
has been nearly perfect ; nay, with the exception of a careless
accentuation, and a certain strange imperception of quantit}^
arising more, I should say, from want of diligence than from want
of care, but which strikes me as strange in a boy of your poetic
elements, it has been blameless. Persevere, dear boy, persevere.
Care in the accents and the habit of learning by heart, say only
one ode of Horace a week, -will make you safe for a glorious
career. Good-bye. The class will begin the 'Enr' iirl B,)Sag to-
morrow. The boy Lawson has his impositions removed, and will
go up with the rest. I am not one who would confound folly
with vice : the one may be prayed for, the other must be
punished."
I suppose there is no disgrace in saying that I was crying when
I left the room ; nay, more, that when I got out into the corridor
to cross into the Lower Sixth room I was crying so much, that I
waited behind, and let all the others go in before me. All except
Jack Chetwynd, who stayed behind with me, and was very kind.
"Come, old fellow," he said, ''don't cry at that old fool's
speechifying. He didn't mean it, you know, only he wouldn't have
his health if he didn't talk that sort of rot. You and I will be
well out of this by the end of this half."
" You may be," I said, " but I am doomed to drag on here for
I don't know how long."
" Why don't you show your pluck and get out of it ? I would,
I know."
"How?"
" Get expelled."
I had never dreamt of going so far as that, and I was a little
bit frightened. Still, my kind friend and wise adviser had shown
a loi)phole by which I might escape from the drudgery, which
seemed only tlu; more hideous as it came nearer. Jack Chetwynd
saw that he had sown the seed, and said no more.
THE ITAIlVEYS. 301
ClIAPTKK XL
mx. nktherclift's decision.
My disasters now fairly bcj^aii : I will be short over tliem.
If the clnulgery of returiiiiij:^ to classical work seemed dis«^usting
in anticipation, it was worse in reality a tliousandfold. The cui
bono ? of classical drudgery must yery often present itself to the
minds of those schoolboys who have no chance of being prize-
winners ; it is a wonder so' many of them stick to work through a
mere blind sense of duty, for the work is, as a fact, thoroughly
disgusting to them ; two-thirds of ever}- class grind steadily on the
old mill without hope of kudos, and without dread of disgrace. In
a class of sixty the ten best are actuated by ambition, and the ten
worst by fear of birch ; the rest, as a general rule, Ayork from a
sense of duty, and at ^vork, too, which to them is thoroughly
mechanical, not to say disgusting. Tom Brown gives us a beau-
tiful little story of a boy bursting into tears over Hector and
Andromache, but he allows that he was the only boy in the class
who appreciated what he was reading. A boy of fourteen is in-
capable of understanding the beauties of those books for the most
part, even if they were not made the mechanical means of learning
a language which he never had heard, and never could possibly
hear, spoken. A dead tongue, a tongue without sound, which has
to come to his brain through the eye only, and not through the ear,
the main portal of intelligence shut to it for ever ; the sound of it
lost and gone, it would seem, for there seems more diflference
between the sound of Scotch and French Latin compared with
English, than the diflerence between any form of Latin and
Italian. To an English boy, would " The Song of the Bell," or
to a German Boy, would Milton's " Christmas Hymn," or Long-
fellow's " Sandalphon," stand the hannnering and pounding to
which ^schylus and Horace are subjected, without becoming a
mere arrangement of words ? The system is a good one, no
doubt ; but could not boys be broken in with inferior books ?
Couldn't something be done with the corpus vile Seneca ; or with
an author of astounding stupidity, who wrote in irreproachable
Latin ?
This is all written with the feeble purpose of excusing my own
obstinacy, I fear. For me, who had tasted the wild delights of
Broston's, the drawing-master, and who knew fellows not nnieteeu,
who were making their 100?. a year, and giving an account of
themselves to no one ; not to the very parents who brought them
302 THE HARVEYS.
into the world ; and, I fear in most cases, not to the God who
made them, or the Saviour who died for them ; to me, the return
to this drudgeiT, ai'ter the glimpse of freedom I had seen, was
loathsome to a degree- It w<xs aggravated in many ways, and I
began to beat desperately against my prison bars, and grew stronger
and stronger in my selfish determination to be free at all risks.
At the risk among others, for I knew it, of amply annoying my
father, and leaving him to sink still lower into the mire of careless
hopelessness in which he was floundering. May God forgive me !
And Jack Chetwynd, always defiantly idle now, always close to
my ear, sneering at the rest of our set, who were making noble
eflbrts ; and painting, with all his arts, the glorious wild free world
beyond the bars.
At this time the Devil had thorough possession of me. The
other day, after everything was over, I came across a portfolio of
my drawings which I had done at this time. I have burnt them.
I found that the deep, black selfishness of my heart at this time
was so truly mirrored in them, that they were horrible to me as I
am now. You would not see it, it may be ; but I did. I burnt
them ; but they again are burnt into my heart. I cannot forget
what I once was. May be, it is best that I should not.
And could anything have added to my irritation and disgust
more than the change of books — for a boy in this temper to pass
suddenly into Juvenal, with his " absolute " slang terms, requiring
a continual effort of mechanical memory ; and the quaint new
exasperating Latin of Terence ? I knocked under, and sat sulky
at the bottom of the class, a marked boy, with accunmlating
impositions.
I took to coming late, with lessons unlearnt. I must have
appeared to Netherclift — keen-eyed master, true man, I know
him, now he is in his grave — what I was, a graceless, sulky
young dog.
But in those day-schools, masters have little chance, little time
for confidence with their boys. They must take them as they find
them. Had Netherclift been able to have more confidence with
me, he might have altered matters ; as it was, I was left alone
with my own heart to God's guidance.
Other guidance I had none : for what could wild boys of my
own age do for me '? My friends, the boys among whom I had
been accidentally thrust, had but one creed — that of succeeding
at school. Tiiey were as kind to me as ever ; but tlu'y had a-
feeling that I was a disgrace to the old lot. Lawson and Pounder
drew away from me. Little Herbert, Will Dickson, and Jack.
Chetwynd stuck to me througli it all.
THE HAUVEYS. 303
I liiid got into terrible troiiblt; one (lay, an accurnnlation of
imposition, all luulone. Netherclil't lost his ti-mper about me : I
W41S too bad to be borne. I was the worst-conditioned boy be bad
ever been thrown a^'ainst in his whole career. I was moody and
defiant, and cared naught for him, or for any man. I should be
at Brostou's, in Paradise, that niglit. 1 could work there, with
my soul in the work, and every nerve in my body tense witli
anxiety to succeed. What cared I for a bully like him ? Let
him do his worst. Jack Chetwynd's advice came to my mind.
" Get expelled." I determined to do so.
The room was cleared at one o'clock ; but Xetherclift said,
''Harvey will remain in." A new piece of tyranny; not one
short lialf-ii(^ur to cool my throbbing head before I came into
school, and he began magging and driving at me again. I laid
my head down on the desk again, and the Devil, knowing, I
suppose, what was to come, was exceedingly busy and plausible.
At last there was no one left in the room but Xetherclift and
myself. He sat still at his desk, and I wondered when the
brute was going to lunch ; my head throbbed wildly, but my
eyes were dry.
** He said, *' Harvey, come here." I had a good mind to defy
him, and sulk ; but — Avell, I did not dare. The old habit of
obedience was too strong in me, desperate as I was. I rose and
went towards him.
That long face, with large black w^hiskers falling over his gown;
that deadly pale complexion ; those big, steady, calm eyes ; those
white teeth just showing ; that settled look of calm expectation ;
what did these things mean ? Meant that he was dying of con-
sumption, but was too proud to show it. No boy knew it, until
he went home early one day, and died within the week. No boy
shouted in the corridors tliat day, I warrant you.
I went up to him ; and the Devil, after a few parting instruc-
tions, w'hich I promised to follow, went back and sat on my desk,
waiting for the issue.
" My dear boy," said Netherclift, " these are not school hours,
and we are only as friend to friend ; will you tell me what is the
matter, and what I can do to remedy it ? You came up here to
me, with a character among a thousand boys. Mr. Hawkins — a
man who never told a falsehood, though I disapprove of his way
of working his class, and you may say so — sends you here as a
boy among boys. I know from personal observation that you and
Dickson, in a way, reformed the Fifth ; and I know also that you
initiated that reformation. I looked forward to having you in my
class. Your name stood highest in the school. I said to myself,
304 THE HARVEYS.
This fellow is a fellow of genius and determination. I will drill
and utilise this fellow, and bring a higher tone into the class ; and
I said also that this felloAv's works shall live after him. The
good work of this boy, whom Hawkins has not succeeded in
spoiling, shall remain in my class. He will raise the tone of my
class, as Arnold raised the tone of Rugby, though in an inferior
degree ; and when he has moved up, and gone into the world, his
work, as I said before, shall live after him."
I groaned aloud. I had thrown all this to the four winds.
" And now, when this boy, or as I should more correctly say,
this young man, comes, what do I find him ? — morose, sullen,
defiant beyond any boy I ever saw. Idle in the extreme, insolent,
and riotous. Now, my dear boy, what is the reason of all this ?
Do tell me, in the strictest confidence, of course, what is the
matter ? ' '
He had beat me, and I yielded. I told him everything, from
beginning to end, and left him in deep thought.
He was very kind to me that afternoon, and I tried my best,
though affairs had got too hopeless.
The next day, on my arrival home, my father begged me to
come into his study, and I followed carelessly in.
"My dear Charles," he began, "there has been an estrange-
ment between us for some time ; and I humbly confess that I
cannot bear it any longer. My life is a burthen to me while it
continues. Read this letter."
It was from Netherclift.
" Dear Sir, — I had a confidential tete-a-tete with your sou
to-day, to see if I could find any clue to his recent extraordinary
behaviour.
" After bearing the highest character, he suddenly abandoned
himself to a dead, obstinate torpor, from which no punishment
seemed able to arouse him. I have very seldom failed to get to a
boy's heart, and his was very easily reached.
" The boy seems to be so utterly devoted, heart and soul, to
Art, that I fear very much that we shall do nothing with him in
any other way. I have asked a boy, Chetwynd, who attends the
same class Avitli him, some questions. He tells me that his
talents are of first-rate order, and that it is impossible for your
boy to attend to school-work, as his whole time is absorbed in
these Art studies. Under these circumstances, I would take him
away, and let his wishes have clh'ct. You may say that Art is
precarious ; but it would not be so precarious as his staying
here.
THE HARVEYS. 305
" In conclusion, d(>ar sir, I must ti'll you this in all (lliristian
candour — either he must relorni, or 1 siuill expel him."
** Now, Charles, will you reform ? "
*'I cannot now," I said; "I have lost all position, and the
place is a hell upon earth to me. I am beliindhand in everj'thing,
and cannot pick up. I have ruined myself then' for ever."
" Will you work at Brostou's ? "
I don't know what incoherence I committed. I was on my
knees to him in a moment, begging him to save me from my
miserable life. I would work, I said, as man never worked before
(and indeed I tried to keep my promise).
"I can struggle no longer," resumed my father ; '* have your
own way, and let us return to our old relations to one another.
God will provide for us somehow. You are an artist hence-
forward."
I threw myself into his arms, and sobbed out how wicked,
wicked I had been, and so ended our first and last quarrel.
CHAPTER XII.
FREEDOM.
So my uttermost hopes were fulfilled ; I was free, with actually no
account of myself to render anywhere. I was as free as any
young American, and as ready as any good young American to go
flustering up and down the world until I found a master, of my
ovsu choosing, which master I would allow to get on my back, and
ride me where he would.
I had not found him yet. But in the waking hour at night
I found that two new watchers were at my pillow. Terror and
Regret.
Terror and dark Dread sat brooding at my bed's head night
after night. I had done a nameless and frantic thing. I had
deserted all the traditions of respectability as they had been
beaten into my head by that poor old mill-horse of a father of
mine ; had cast myself on the world of chance ; had determined
to put nothing but my own talents between myself and the work-
house ; had given up the comparative certainty of a school and
college career for mv own wild whim — that frightened me ; but
21
30G THE HARVEYS.
what was more terrible was this, it was purely the result of my
own irill. At times there was something in this reflection which
was very terrible. I was utterly unprepared for having all that I
wislied so suddenly and so completely, and being launched on the
world without a master and without guidance. And poor Haydon,
too, the gossip of the studios, how has Jw died ? I felt sometimes
as though God had said, "Take thine own way, poor fool; take
thine own way."
Regret, too — for there she sat night after night upon my bod,
while the gas-lamp made weird shadows upon the wall, and Dick
lay sleeping peacefully. She said, " Boy, you have defied your
father and have won. He never asked you to do but one thing,
and you have refused to do that. Do you think that he does not
feel it? I was on his bed just now, and he was weeping for you.
You say that you love him — why could you not have done as he
asked you ? He knows now that you care only for yourself and
for your own way ; and so he believes that his love is wasted on
you, because you love yourself better than you do him." So
Regret said to me, as she sat upon my bed ; and sometimes I
would creep in beside Dick, and wake him for sheer company.
He would wonder why I cried, and plan expeditions for Sunday to
comfort me.
I began now to go very frequently to the Dicksons' house, and
there I used to meet little Herbert (who never grew any bigger
after he was sixteen, and who used to sit up to dinner with us in
a high child's chair). We had very pleasant family evenings
there for a very long time ; for his father and mother were as good
as Will Dickson was, which is saying a very great deal.
As time went on he named Dora less and less ; and, for aught
I knew, the boy-fancy had died away. He had left school, and
was entered at the Middle Temple, and set reading witli a con-
veyancer before long. I saw more and more of him now, and
used, when it was too dark to work, to saunter towards his otheo
in Chancery Lane, and walk about with him. Sometimes we had
Chetwynd (now a terrible dandy hussar) at the studio ; and very
often he would go and sit with my father, and have one o'clock
dinner with the children, who were inmiensely fond of him. I
asked my aunt once if she thought that he was attaclud to Dora,
and she tiow said that she did not think so, but that it would be
an excellent thing if he wi're, to which opinion of hers I raised the
most violent objections, wliile she laughed, and told me tliat lie
had once kissed ]\Iiss Lee, and tliat slie had boxid his ears. That
is all which I could get out of my aunt, wlio, liowever, j)romised
to cast their nativity, by some process only known to herself. She
THE HARVF.YS. 807
afterwards informed me that Dora, boiii^' l)om wlion the sun was
in Libra, Avould marry a trad(!sman, and 1 tliiuk that she believed
it. I asked old liroston what ho thou;^'ht of my aunt's nonsense
once, and he j^'ot very ^rave, and said that lujr ladysliip not only
was a veiy clever astrologer, but that she was possessed of the most
splendid talisman in the world, and could use it to the highest
powers. I wished tliat she could have brought some money into
the house with it, but she never did ; and so I left old Broston
and her to talk their own balderdash togetlier, and worked away
at my art, taking my meals when I could get them, and submitting
to all the muddle and confusion at home with (I am glad now to
remember) the most perfect good humour.
I worked a good deal at home, as well as at Broston's, now.
My brother Dick, who had tried Oxford with lamentable unsuccess,
had got a ticket-clerkship in a railway office, where he gave the
profoundest dissatisfaction ; but he was a splendid model ; for as
soon as I got him to dress for me, he would lie by the hour smoking.
I painted him as the Prodigal Son, with hardly a rag on him ; but
he looked so very unrepentant that I altered the title of the picture,
and called it, " Maltese Beggar reposing." I asked him if he
minded the change in the title, and he said that it was no odds
whatever to him. I sold the picture for 35^., and got a fresh
commission from the man who bought it, old Mr. Chetwynd ; but
my father and Broston both stepped in most emphatically, and
insisted that I should not fritter away my talents on small matters.
I did it, however, unknown to them both ; and I think that by the
time my father came to me with a razor, which he had bought for
a shilling, and begged me to shave oft' my budding beard, I was
secretly earning about 60/. or 70/. a year, a matter of which no
one but myself and my aunt were conscious, for I had been paint-
ing in the bedroom of my brother and myself (it was there I had
done the ''Prodigal Son," or "Maltese Beggar reposing") ; and
when I heard my father coming, I used to hide my work away
before I unlocked the door. I kept little of this money for myself,
only enough for clothes and tobacco. All the rest I made was
given to my aunt for housekeeping, and to Dick for other things.
Dick had need for money, for he always counted the change wrong
when there was any hurry — sometimes for himself, sometimes
against himself. When he counted the change wrong to his own
advantage, he was objurgated by the infuriated passenger, and had
to make it right with that passenger. When he counted the change
wrong to his own disadvantage (which was quite as often) he had
(or I might say I had) to make it right with the collector at the
end of the month.
308 THE HARVEYS.
On one occasion an eminent nobleman left a 61. note on the pay-
place, in a hurry to catch a train. Dick kept it for five days,
until the collector had been round, and then spent it, mostly in
buying things for Miss Lee and Dora, considering that 5/. note as
the reward of unappreciated virtue. The nobleman, however,
returned for his note in about ten days, and, being a man of
business, had the number of it ; so nothing saved Dick but his
coming to me and getting the note replaced. When this inexorable
nobleman looked at nn/ note, he shook his head at Dick, and told
him to take monstrous good care what he was about, or he would
come to no good, in which opinion I most entirely concurred with
his lordship.
Such is the account of my youth, and that of my friends. I
have no more to say of my surroundings until we come to my
adolescence.
CHAPTER XIII.
DORA A LADY.
1 BELIEVE most heartily that faith of some kind or another is
absolutely necessary to by far the largest number of passionate
and artistic minds. For example, Shelley's sublime Pantheistic
faith in the ancient gods has given us his best works. I believe
that while he wrote he believed all that he wrote. However, that
is not to the point of this story. At this time in my life I deserted
all the old formulas of the faith in which I had been brought up,
and cast about for a new one. I was exceedingly unfortunate in
my quest. There are good men at Jerusalem and good men at
Jericlio ; but, in trying to go from one place to another, I most
distinctly fell among thieves : I got in among tlie Mesmerists half-
way, to my aunt's most intense delight. Wlien I look back now,
I am utterly at a loss to think how I could have been sucli an
outrageous fool ; but I was. I simply believed everything which
was told me about spiritual manifestations, without evidence on
which one would iiang a mouse. I am sorry to say so much about
myself; but I cannot explain this story without nu'ntioning this
circumstance;. On my word, I wondi'r when I think of tlie extreme
violcjiice of sonu! of my friends (most excellent i)eo])le) on the occasion
of my declaring that Spiritualism was u humbug from beginning
THE HARVEYS. 309
to end, and that I coulil not swoar to ever liavin*,' seen anytliin*^
siipt'niatural in my lite — on renieniborin^' tlnir violence, I suy I
am utterly puz/led at their folly, now I know how entirely idiotic
it was and is. However, I was very young at tliis tinir, and in
consequence of leaving respectable traditions and taking up with
the nonsense of Broston and my aunt, I got, not into scepticism
(for we wallowed in a slough of the most ridiculous superstition),
but into a state of mind lower than that represent<;d by the belief
in Romish miracles. This gave my aunt a new and great power
over me. Enough of this at present ; we will speak more of
natural and more pleasant themes, and as little of this one. What
is unpleasant for me to write down must, I argue, be unpleasant
to read, however interesting or even alarming.
Dora and I are together in my studio, and Dora is in one of her
veiy best moods. We are sitting together, I painting, she sitting
at my elbow and making believe to sew. I am painting Dick as
usual (he was tliree pounds wrong in his change last week, and so
is submissive), I am painting him as a Red Indian in council with
the Great Father (President of the United States). We have had
great trouble with the eagle's feathers in his hair, but Miss Lee
managed it at last ; she understands his hair. We have
unanimously elected my father (artistic) President, because he
looks amiable and intelligent. Miss Lee and Dora are to be
squaws in attendance on my brother Dick, while my Aunt Edith
is to be the lady of the White House, and present Dora and Miss
Lee with wampum. Miss Lee says that she can buy wampum in
Wardour Street, and I ask her what it is : she has not the least
idea, but says that it is perfectly easy to ask for it ; in fact, we
are quite merry and comfortable, when in comes my father, with
the newly -arrived Record under his arm.
" What is wampum, father ? "
" I have not the wildest idea," said my father ; " but what Dick
has got round his neck most certainly is not."
"Lor', no," I said, "that is a cavalry headstall, covered with
cowrie shells, of the 140th, which I borrowed from Chetwynd,
because it came up to my idea of wampum."
" If you don't pay more attention to your accessories, my lad,
you will have the Satunhnj Beview down on you. Is my eldest
son to be bridled like an ass before he can be painted as a Red
Indian ? Dick, old man, don't let him paint you as a Red Indian :
you are far too good-looking."
'* / don't mind what he does," grunted Dick. "He is too good
a brother for me to mind anything."
My father was greatly delighted. " Let us, at all events, with
310 THE HARVEYS.
a Red Indian in the family, smoke the calumet. Charles, have
you any cigars? "
I laughed at my father, and nodded to Dora, who fetched a box
from a corner.
"You rascal," said my father tome, as Dora brought him a
light for one and kissed him, *'you have been seUing another
picture."
I only laughed in return, while my father smoked his cigar, and
opened the liecord.
" Hum ! ha ! " he began. *' Clerical appointments and vacancies.
There's a vacancy here for a curate if any one would find me the
money to pay for one. Jackson to the Deanery of Crediton ; I
knew him so well, a splendid man, he deserves better than that ;
but he has trusted the Tories throughout, and now they are in
they have their hands so full that they can, I suppose, do nothing
more. Hullo ! here's old Georgy Trumbull got a living at last ;
six hundred a year ; he will marry Old Martha now, I suppose ;
that is fine. Cobby Jones, Minor Canonry at Salisbury. Bravo
Cobby ! I am as glad as if I had got it myself. Long Norton to
Broughton-cum-Scopton ; what a shame ! why that man is worth
ten of me, and has been working in the Black Country these fourteen
years. I refused that living five-and-twcnty years ago ; I suppose
the poor old fellow has gone there to die in his native moors."
To me there was something very beautiful in hearing my father
read out without one grain of envy, but with absolute pleasure, the
various promotions of his old acquaintances. He never thought of
himself. I looked at Dora, and her eyes were like sparks ; she
knew what I meant.
*' Dr. Blather," went on my father, *' to the living of Bally-
brogue, County Tipperary, on the presentation of the Duke of
Tipperary ; Protestant population, 40 ; net income, 1,500/.
There will be a row about these Irish livings some day, but not
in our time. Hallo ! Charlie, here is something for you.
Listen to this. Tiie Reverend James Hawkins, late Master at
the North-West London Grammar Scliool, to tlie Rectory of
Frogmarsh, in Essex. Dora, get me the Clergy List."
So it was, and the living was worth a thousand a year. Haw-
kins had so ingratiated himself with the patron of that living, of
which he had been active curate, that wliiK' he was leaving all us
young lunatics to howl about the corridors, he had laid the founda-
tions of his own fortunes. I confess that my father was for a moment
annoyed at tliis, and said, "If I had neglected my duty to my
pupils as he did, I should have been a beggar. This is a little
too much." But he was all riglit again in a minute, and said
THE IIAUVEYS. 311
that Hawkins was a {ijood fellow wlun all was said and dono, and
that he had no doiiht that Hawkins would make an adniirahlc!
parish priest, which tiiin;^' Hawkins did, as I have mentioned
before.
But Ix'forc we had done wonderin*,' at this wonderful ^'ood lurk
of Hawkins there came a letter to me from the man himself, witli
a seal in which was a coronet over a lo/en;;e, and a bear's head
above. The coronet and the lozenge puzzled me very much, but
the letter explained it.
" J)kaii Harvey, — You have doubtless heard that I have
married the Dowager Lady Frogmarsh, aunt of my present
patron, and that I am about to undertake the duties of my new
cure of souls."
This was the first I had heard of the Dowager Lady Frog-
marsh, but I understood his management of his class better than
ever.
'* It is my desire to take leave of all my favourite old pupils,
and so I have borrowed the house and grounds of my nephew
Frogmarsh, at Putney, to give a fetCj at which I hope you will
attend, as I watcli your steadily groiving reputation with deep
interest. ''J.S.Hawkins.
" P.S. — My wife. Lady Hawkins Frogmarsh, will call on your
aunt. Lady Edith, at once."
]My aunt made great fun about the lozenge and the coronet,
opining that Lady Frogmarsh must be mad. The title of Hawkins
Frogmarsh seemed uncommonly wild also ; but we discovered after-
wards that it was only an invention of Hawkins's own, as were the
lozenge and coronet, which he had done on his own responsibility,
and which were at once called in by Lady Frogmarsh, who kept
her own name without the atlix of Hawkins.
This lady called on my aunt in a very few days in great state,
to the profound admiration of our square, which had never seen
anything in any way approaching to her ladyship's carriage and
footmen. My aunt, Dora, and I were in the room when she
came, and I watched Dora, who watched every motion she made.
I saw also for myself that Lady Frognuirsh glanced at my aunt
with a look of eager and intense curiosity for one instant only,
and then round the mean room which had been my aunt's entounnfe
for so many years now. She could not help saying, in spite of all
312 THE HAKVEYS.
her good breeding, " My dear Lady Edith, how long Jiair you
been living here ? "
** Too many hapj^y years to remember in a moment, Lady
Frogmarsh. All my darlings have been growing up around me
so fast, that I have forgotten time. How old are you, Dora ? "
" Seventeen," said Dora, coming forward into the light quietly.
Lady Frogmarsh gave a start of surprise, and said abruptly,
" My dear, do you know how beautiful you are ? "
"No, Lady Frogmarsh," said Dora, quietly; "I leave that
for other people to find out," but she bluslied, too, I thought;
and a conversation began between my aunt and Lady Frogmarsh,
the like of which I had never heard before, though I have often
heard it since. It was all about great people, and it pleased my
aunt mightily, I thought, while it seemed to be meat and drink
to Lady Frogmarsh. No interruption took place in it until the
entrance of Miss Lee, who, poor girl, had made herself as tidy as
she could, to see the real live countess ; but her success had not
been equal to her deserts : the poor young lady was always romp-
ing with the children, and could not keep tidy. She was painfully
conscious of it now, as I saw in her face as she looked at me, and
I was veiy soiTy for her. She only opened the door, and stood in
the darkness, but my aunt stopped Lady Frogmarsh in an account
of the marriage of Lady Alice Meredith, the beauty of the day, by
saying, in a low voice, **I want you to see this;" and then
louder, "Miss Lee, come here."
Poor Miss Lee ! I do not think I ever saw any one look more
beautiful than she did at this moment. Ill-fitting and shabby as
her clothes were, they could not hide the extraordinary grace and
majesty of the shape within them. (Miss Lee's clothes were
beautiful in my eyes, and I could sooner have painted her in them
than in silks and diamonds, for did she not keep her sister at
school ?) She came towards Lady Frogmarsh blushing, and
looking so lovely, that the good-natured woman exclaimed,
" Good h(>avens ! who is this young lady ? "
" Tiiis is tlie governess," said my aunt, looking proudly on her.
" Have you any more imprisoned beauties in this wonderful
castle of yours, you enchantress ? " said Lady Frogmarsh to my
aunt. "You have been at your old incantations, I fear, Lady
Ivlith, and have discovered a spell for making all young people
beautiful. Confess."
" I know no spell, except constant inculcation of good liumour."
" Well, you have certainly got some spell for keeping people
young," said Ijady Froguiiirsli, laugliing ; " for you are as hand-
some as you were twenty years ago, wlien we were pretty nearly
THE HARVEYS. 813
equal in that respect, and look at me now. Now Dora, my dear,
^0 upstairs, })iit on your bonnet, and come for a drive witli me in
the Park."
Dora was l)ef,'innin,L,% "I am afniid Lady Frof^miarsh ,"
when my aunt said, " Come upstairs witli me, Dora," and Dora
went quite quietly.
"You are the rising young artist, sir, arc you not?" said
Lady Frogmarsh to me.
I bowed.
" Will you take a commission from me to paint my husband's
portrait ? I want to give liini one on his birthday, and I know
that it will please his kind heart to know that it was painted by
one of his old pupils."
I bowed and blushed, and began to conceive a very great liking
for this simple unaffected woman. After a little while, she was
talking kindly to Miss Lee, Dora came back.
Surely my aunt must be an enchantress. I did not know Dora ;
she had left the room a quietly-dressed young lady, and she came
back a splendidly- dressed young woman ; that bonnet was my
aunt's, those yellow gloves must have come from my aunt's
drawer, and that inimitable lace shawl which fell over Dora's
figure was certainly my aunt's, for she had often told us that
there was scarcely another like it in England, and that if the
worst came to the worst, she could sell it, and keep us three
months on it. I cast an uneasy glance towards Dora's feet (for
boots and shoes were a difficult item in our family), and Dora,
meeting my eye, just advanced her tiny little foot, and showed me
a beautiful bronze boot ; in fact, Dora, from top to toe, was a very
fine lady indeed.
" Now, sir," said Lady Frogmarsh, " are you ready ? "
I was utterly taken aback. I murmured something about my
singular dress, but she answered, laughing, " Dress, indeed, you
dandy artist, don't be affected ; with that velvet coat, that scarlet
tie, not to mention that very nice-looking, budding beard and
moustache of yours, you will be taken for a foreigner of distinc-
tion ; get your hat and come at once, sir." In fact, in my way,
like most young artists, I turned out a tremendous dandy every
Sunday, and, of course, had on my finest clothes to-day. I ran
upstairs to get my best hat, and my only pair of gloves, which
were brand new, and of the best quality, and when I came down-
stairs again I was, in my way, as fine as Dora.
** Now," said Lady Frogmarsh, in conclusion, "you are all to
come to my party, you young people, and we will make you as
happy as we can. We will have a good long afternoon, and if it
314 THE HARVEYS.
is wet we will dance in the house. Next Tuesday, at three,
mind, Edith. I will make you dance with my bridegroom ; now,
come away, you two."
I never exactly saw any one more astonished than the footman
was when he saw two such figures as Dora and myself come from
such a wretched house as ours, the very shabbiest in a rather
shabby square. However, Dora got into the carnage as if she
had been drawn in one all her life, and I followed her example,
taking the position I had seen men take in the Park, and leaning
forAvard when I spoke to Lady Frogmarsh or Dora, and so away
we went on our journey, through a city we knew well, but which
was an enchanted city now.
" Do you like driving in a carriage, my dear ? " said her
ladyship.
"I never was in one before," said Dora, simply ; "I think it
delightful."
'' How veiy nice," said Lady Frogmarsh. *' Do you like ices,
my love ? "
'* I never tasted any," said Dora.
'' Tell him to drive to Berkeley Square," Lady Frogmarsli said
to me ; and to Gunter's we went, and had ices sitting in the
carriage under the trees opposite.
*' Now we will go into the Park, and see the fine folks," said
our patroness, " and we are quite as fine as any of them. I am
quite proud of my two young friends. You have a wonderfully
good air, Dora ; it is a good thing to live with women like your
aunt. John," to the footman, " pay for these ices, and get a
pint jar of turtle soup ; and when the carriage goes round to the
mews, James," to the coachman, " take it to the wife of that
helper that broke his leg, and tell her that he is to have a tea-
cupful every two hours."
Tlie coachman touched his hat, as if he perfectly understood
her ladyship, and I began to notice about the lady's whole
establishment an amount of comfortable gracefulness which I
had never seen before. The footman, coachman, carriage and
horses, were all extremely handsome and elegant ; we drove
faster than anybody else. AVhen I came on old Hawkins in the
Park soon afterwards, he was riding beside an archbishop famed
for his excellent cobs, but Hawkins's cob was the best, and
Hawkins himself looked as if he had only to take to knee-shorts,
gaiters, and an apron to be a bishop himself. As it was, ho
looked like a wry suj)erior kind of archdeacon. I^ady Frogmarsli
was exceedingly ])roud of him, as she waved her liand to him and
bowed to the archbishop. Hawkins rode up to the carriage, and,
THE HARVEY S. Sir,
noddinjij at me, said to liis wife, ** Tiiis is exactly like you, trjinj:;
to iiialcc young pcojile lia])i)y. Harvey, you will know I^ady Frog-
marsh better soon," and tlien he looked at J)()ra, and at his wife,
for he was not much in society yet, and thought that Dora must
be some very line lady indeed, for Dora sat under her aunt's best
pink parasol as if she had been used to this sort of thing all her
life.
" This," said Lady Frogmarsh, " is Mr. Harvey's sister."
Hawkins was so utterly taken aback (for, as I have said before,
I w^as a shabby boy at school), that he fell back on so much of
fiishionable tittle-tattle as he knew, which was not much, and,
raising his hat, asked her if this was her first season.
** I am not out yet," she quietly replied, reefing her (aunt's)
parasol. " I am still in the schoolroom. I am coming to Lady
Frogmarsh's garden party certainly, but I am coming in charge
of my governess. Miss Lee."
The puzzled Hawkins raised his hat and retreated to his
archbishop, while we drove slowly on.
"Should I do in the fine world. Lady Frogmarsh?" asked
Dora.
" Most admirably, my dear, of course you would, with your
bringing up with your aunt, the necro 1 mean, that your aunt
is one of the most perfectly formed women in the world, and she
has formed you. See, here is the Queen : you raise your hat,
you, sir ; it is old-fashioned manners, but it is good manners."
I was looking at the near-side outrider, and thinking how he
would paint for Antinous, when I saw the Queen looking steadily
at Dora. We all made our reverences as she went slowly past,
which were returned ; then the Queen turned again, still looking
straight at Dora, evidently with great interest, and I saw Dora
flush up ; then the carriage was stopped in the crush, and I
became aware that a horse's head was against my leg, and, look-
ing up, I saw a resplendent dandy, who was no other than Jack
Chetwynd, who, it seemed, knew Lady Frogmarsh, as everybody
knows every one else in general society. He took ofl' his hat to
her, and spoke to me, without showing the least surprise.
** Well, Charley, my dear, how are the governor and Lady
Edith ? Miss Harvey, I beg a thousand pardons ; I only saw
your brother in the crush ; I did not see that it was you at all.
Are you going to Lady Polacre's to-night ? "
" No," said Dora, laughing naturally and heartily ; "I am not
asked, and not likely to be, as you well know. Who is Lady
Polacre ? Are you coming to dinner witli the children to-morrow
at one? There is cold scrag-end of mutton, I believe."
316 THE HAKVEYS.
Jack made the appointment, and rode away, looking rather
sheepish. Lady Froj^'marsh applauded Dora most highly — " My
dear," she said, '* never he a snob. You set do\vn that young
snob most admirably, by behaving like a lady, and being simple
and truthful. Mind, you must not talk cold scrag- end of mutton
to eveiy one ; you can simply say that you are poor. But in his
case you were right : the cold mutton choked the vulgar young
feUow."
*' Is he vulgar. Lady Frogmarsh ? "
'' Insufferably so. I wonder that he has got on so long in such
a regiment as the 140th ; no one likes him ; but he is a splendid
young officer, there is no doubt about that. I am only speaking
socially, you know — and — and — all confirm the fact. He dances
better than almost any one, and talks well; but he comes of
roiurier blood, and it crops out. He is a prig, and talks about
great families as if he knew them personally. Look at what he
said to you just now about your going to Lady Polacre's. He
knew that you were about as likely to go there as you were to
Jerusalem."
A pause.
'' Can you dance, Dora ? "
" Yes, I can dance very well, I think. I have danced very
much at Mr. Petly's academy with the other girls who came there,
and I often dance with my brothers."
'' Does she dance well, sir ? " said Lady Frogmarsh to me.
** She dances like a fairy," said I ; and, indeed, like most
young artists — then, at all events — I was a pretty good judge,
because, although t was an innocent youngster, I had danced
a good deal at places where I had much better not have been.
" You shall go to Lady Polacre's," said the resolute lady.
"James, stop for Mr. Harvey to get out. Good-bye, sir. Tell
Lady Edith that I have taken Dora on to Lady Polacre's ball,
do you hear ? " And after I was out I heard her say, " Drive to
Jane Clark's, in Regent Street, as fast as you can." And so I
saw Dora whirled away ten miles an hour, and I was left by the
Serpentine alone among the dandies, feeling like; a gold-fish wliose
globe has been upset, and who is struggling ibr life on the floor.
My dress, for that period odd, and my slight beard, at that
time unique, attracted some atlvntion, which I did not like at
first, until I heard one man say 'to another, in a low voice, " That
is the brotlier of tliat Ix'autifiil girl tliat T^ady Frogmarsh is going
to bring out. Her family is as poor as Job, but as old as Mt'lhu-
saleh ; that young fellow is a rising artist. Chetwynd, of the
140tb, told me all about it."
THE HARVEYS. 317
I strolled over to tho Row and looked al)Oiit me, with the vague
idea that something was wroiiL,', and tliat Dora and I wttre hum-
bugs — daws in other hirds' leatlk-rs; hut I got over all this when
I saw Jack Chetwynd's hand held up to me from among a party
of horsemen, and when we had had a little talk togetlier at tho
rails —
" How spleiulid Dora looked," he whispered. " I knew how it
would he the instant she chose to show herself. I5ut why in the
name of confusion did not Lady Edith let her come out hefore ? "
"Jack, you know our circumstances."
''Fudge!" he replied. "If your dear aunt was not an
obstinate lunatic, her family would be glad to have her back,
and she might have brought out Dora instead of leaving it to
Lady Frograarsh."
" Who is Lady Frogmarsh ? " I asked.
" She is a very jolly soul, a widow of the late Frogmarsh, aunt
of the present one. Her husband settled every penny he could on
her, some nine thousand a year, and she has manied old Hawkins,
who deserves her fortune, for he never interfered with jne. She
has got her nephew to give Hawkins one of the family livings,
which makes their income nearly up to ten."
"What is she like?"
" Well, she is thirty-nine years of age, and her principal aim
in life is to make every one comfortable about her ; has the doctor
in for the groom's chilblains, and treats eveiy one well. Hawkins
has fallen on his feet, and young Frogmarsh is perfectly sub-
missive. I daresay that she wants to catch Dora for him."
" Dora has a will of her o^vti," I said.
" Well, I know that as well as you do. But, I say, old fellow,
come and have some dinner at the Club, before I go to dress for
Lady Polacre's."
I agreed, laughing at the thought of the young person he was
going to meet there. I went and dined with him, and I drank a
great deal of wine to clear my brains, for I was rather in a daze.
After he had gone to dress, I sauntered home, by no means drunk
(I never was that in my life), but with all my sense of right and
wrong topsy-turvy. On going into my father's room, I found him
hammering away at his sermon, the subject of which was the
apparent cruelty of the old Jewish wars — a pretty subject for
a Philistine congregation like ours. When he asked me how
I was, I said that I was half- tipsy, I believed, but that he most
emphatically denied. He gave up his sermon, and we went up to
my studio, where we were joined by my Aunt Edith and Miss
Lee. My father and I smoked, while I related the wonderful
318 THE HARVEYS.
events of the clay, encliug by telling them the fact of Dora's having
been taken away to Lady Polacre's ball, and my having dined at
a club, and taken quite as much wine as was good for me. It
was necessary to sit up for Dora ; and so Miss Lee and Aunt
Mary dozed, while my father and I fell into argument. He began
on his sermon, and I told him that it was indiscreet. My father
argued that it was not, and told me that he was going further
every Sunday on the same line. I hinted to him about theological
jiains and penalties attaching to some remarks about the fall of
Jericho ; but he was perfectly obdurate, and he expressed some
opinions so entirely at variance with those of the Church of
England, that I foresaw plainly that if they were expressed in
public, he must leave the old communion. I told him so, and he
allowed his entire willingness. His present life, he said, was too
hard to be borne any longer.
And, lo ! Dora all of a sudden, at three in the morning, brought
in by my aunt, in a splendid ball-dress, with flowers in her hair
and flowers in her hand, who said to him, '* Kiss me, dear father ;
I have been so happy ; — kiss me, and love me, dearest. If they
make me fine, I will be fine with the best of them ; but my home
is always with you and Charley and Aunt Edith."
CHAPTER XIV.
MY AUNT EDITH SURPRISES US.
Dora and Miss Lee asked me at breakfiist next morning whether
they could come into my studio for an hour. My father and Aunt
Edith said that they would come also, at which Dora and Miss
Lee exchanged glances. When they were all in I began diligently
setting up my palette, which I knew would put them at their
ease.
"It is perfectly obvious," said my aunt, beginning, " that
Dora cannot go in my clothes, for I want them myself. / am
going, and I have a particular reason for going. The clotlu's
which Lady Frogmarsh gave her yesterday are of no earthly use
as morning clothes, and she must have others."
My fatlicr groaned. Tliere was a time when he would have
been horrified at his daughter's receiving clothes from a mere
stranger, but that time was far gone by ; he only groaned.
THE HARVEYS. 319
" It was perfectly convct lor Doni to accept them," contiiiiK'tl
my aunt. ** The thing is clone in the world every day. It" JJora
does no worse than accept a ball- dress and an introduction from
a steady-going woman like Lady Frogmarsh, she won't come to
much harm. If she chooses to take u\) Dora, knowing how poor
we are, she is bound to find her clotlies, and so you need not
groan, brother. This state of tilings must end. Dora and
Charles must go into society, now that the door is open, and
mak«' all our fortunes."
" You know tlie world better tiian I do, sister," said my father,
humbly ; '' but I have not got any money, and shall soon have
less."
"I suppose," said my aunt, quietly, as if there was nothing
the matter, ** that they will not suspend you under a year. You
can't last over that time, you know. Then you will be free, and
we shall have nothing at all to live on. I did not want to come
on the public if I could help it, and shall have to go abroad.
Meanwhile, the question is as to Dora's clothes. I will provide
those clothes. I have a good store of money in hand, though I
wanted to keep it for a rainy day. We must draw on that."
" My dear," said my father, " I thought you were so poor."
" Every farthing of my own money, brother," she added, " has
been put most honestly into the housekeeping ; my earnings I
have saved."
" Your earnings ! " cried my father, aghast.
" Yes. I go my own way to work. I love nothing better than
a secret. I will draw out of my little wages-fund money enough
for Dora's dress and Miss Lee's dress."
" Why for me, dear madam ? " said Miss Lee, humbly.
" Because you are more beautiful even than Dora, and because
you could dress yourself perfectly well on your salaiy if you did
not spend it all on your sister's schooling, now that your mother
is dead. Y'^ou must go, and go fine. I want you married, my
girl, and married well."
Here my aunt, looking at Miss Lee, relapsed into a stony
silence, from which she emerged by saying, '' You fool."
"Dick must go, of course," she said, ''and his clothes will
cost about ten pounds or so. I make out that this affair, in-
cluding the hire of the carriage, will cost me about live-and-tliirty
pounds, first and last, but if we are going it's as well to go fine.
I must work a little harder, that is all. Now, come away, all of
you, and leave Charles and his father to themselves."
When they were gone my father and I looked at one another in
blank amazement.
320 THE HARVEYS.
*' Do you know what this means, father? " said I.
** I was going to ask you that," he replied. " You go into the
world more than I do."
'' I know nothing at all," I replied.
" Nor I," said he. " I have heen always nnder the impression
that she was the idlest person in the family."
" Yet she is out a good part of the day, too," I said.
'* How on earth can she earn money? " said my father.
** Do you think that she is one of those mesmerists ? " I asked.
My father seemed to think it veiy probable ; but the matter
remained quite in obscurity till the day of the great party.
CHAPTER XV.
THE GARDEN PARTY.
I AM not at all likely to forget our first party ; in fact, at the
present day, the smell of a freshly-watered garden, blazing with
flowers, causes me incontinently to think of Miss Lee in cream-
coloured kid gloves, most beautifully dressed, walking sleepily
beside my very sleepy brother Dick, down by the river. The
crowd was very great even when we got there, but it soon grew
larger, until there was scarcely room for us to move about, and
then I began to hear the conversation.
'^ Lady Frogmarsh is a mistress of surprises," said one.
*' Which is the girl she has adopted, Miss Lee or Miss
Harvey? " said another.
"Miss Harvey, I believe," said the other, "but Miss Lee is
the handsomer of the two by far."
" By far," said the other. " Who is this wonderful Miss
Lee?"
" Some say that she is Miss Harvey's governess."
" She is not dressed mucli like a governess ; why, she is one
of the best dressed women here."
" Clietwynd says that Lady Edith Harvey lias dressed her in
order to spite her niece."
"Lady Edith Harvey," said tlio otlier. " Wliich woman is
she ? "
" The woman with the long lace shawl, standing beside Lady
Lothbury."
THE HARVEYS. 821
" 'I hilt,'' said the first man ; "that is Mrs. llorton, the sin^-
in<^ mistress."
"1 be^ your jninloii," said llie iirst man ; " sh«; was introduced
to me hv Lady Froj^inarsh as Lady Editli ilarvcy."
" Well," said the other man, " I ou;^dit to know my own sister's
sin,i,'inj^' mistress. I'll tell you what I will do to j)rove myself
rif^ht : I'll take you up to her and introduce her to you as Mrs.
Morton."
I followed tlie two men very closely. Tlic Iirst man went
coolly up to my aunt, and said —
" Mrs. llorton, may I introduce you to Mr. Dickenson ? "
" I should like to know him very well," said my aunt, ([uietly,
looking at him. " I like young people. Ai*e you fond of music ? "
" Yes, madam," said the puzzled young man.
" You have a singing fiice," said my aunt. " I thought you
were. How is your sister, my pupil, Mr. Hatterleigh ? "
'* She is very well, Mrs. Horton."
" You had better call mc Lady Edith Harvey here," she said ;
*' Mrs. Horton is only my iionime de (jiierre.'' And so she
departed, leaving me in dumb amazement standing on the grass.
I took occasion to stumble slightly against the young man, and
beg his pardon. As he smiled very agi'eeably, and looked very
nice, I remarked that the grounds were rather full.
*' Very," he said, rather obviously wondering who I was, for, as
I mentioned before, my dress was not exactly like other people's,
but slightly more florid. '' I think," he continued, " that you
foreigners must laugh at our English way of enjoymg ourselves."
I astonished him by saying that I was born and bred in
London, and had never been out of it further than Reading.
" That is very strange, now\ I have only been in it since I
joined the 140th."
'' There is an officer there called Chetwynd," I remarked.
" Oh, yes. By the bv, I have seen vou with him, have I
not?" "^
I assented.
"Ah! he will make a fine officer. He is, according to his
small powers, a martinet already. Pray, what is the mysteiy of
Lady Editli Harvey being Mrs. Horton, and vice versa ? "
Hatterleigh looked so frank and honest that I said : " Lady
Edith is the best of women, but she is rather eccentric. She is a
widow, and has for many years prefened living with a veiy poor
brother-in-law to seeing or knowing anything of her family. Up
to this very day she had kept her own secret so well that none of
us knew that she gave music lessons ; at home she never touches
22
322 THE HARVEYS.
the piano at all, and she has left the musical education of my
sister almost entirely to the man who tunes the piano."
" Your sister ! "
** My sister, Miss Harvey, who is her niece."
" Then the beautiful Miss Hai-vey is your sister. Shall I tell
you something unfavourable of her? " he said, laughing.
He was so frank that I laughed in his face.
*' Your sister has no hi.^h musical talent."
" Why," said I astonished, " that is exactly what my aunt is
always telling her."
"I know it," he said, triumphantly. "She will not instruct
any but the very highest talent. Arditi sent her to my cousin
Kate, Sir George Hatterleigh's daughter, and she might have
taught at her own price ; but, after the second or third lesson, she
quietly informed my aunt, Lady Hatterleigh, that she was a very
charming girl, but that no one would ever teach her to sing.
Kate was delighted, for she hates it, but my aunt was very angry.
Your aunt declined to argue, and marched out of the house,
declining to receive the money for the two * wasted ' (that was
your aunt's expression) lessons."
I was immensely eager to hear more.
*' Have you ever heard her sing ? "
He shook his head.
"No," he said, "never. She never allows any one near the
room when she is teaching."
" But Miss Hatterleigh," I said. " She must have heard
her?"
" Only in passages," said he ; " and, although your aunt is
very kind and gentle, I have known her keep my sister so long
over one note or one passage, that the poor girl has cried to me
about it, and I have made her presents and taken her for little
treats to encourage her to continue."
At this moment I felt a hand on my shoulder, and, turning
round, I saw Dora.
"I want you, dear," she said, "to come round and help lind
the old boys. My heart warms towards them very nmch ; please
come."
Hatterleigh's eyes asked so plainly for an introduction, that I
at once gave him one, and he came with us, making himself most
agreeable.
On(! by one we came on them all, and got them to follow us,
little Herbert in the centre of us ; Chetwynd walked next to Dora,
and i)aid her great attention, which she seemed to take as a
nuitter of course ; and as we went along Dora gave Will Dickson
THE HARVEYS. 323
her gloves and haiKlkerchief to hold, wliilc she gathered a small
hoiiqiu't of flowers. Afti'r this we wi-iit \i]) to Hawkins in a hody,
with Dora at our head, and slie, making ;i low courtesy, presented
them to him with a very few words —
" Presented to Mr. Hawkins by five of his naughtiest old pupils,
who promise never to do so any more."
Tlie old fellow was greatly affected, and looked at us as pater-
nally as if he liad hern our most careful and conscientious instruc-
tor, instead of having sown in more than one of us the seeds of
idleness and license just when we wanted discipline and guidance.
However, we loved him none the worse, and he most certainly
loved us the better.
There was dancing, and Dora danced with every one who asked
her quite indiscriminately. She most certainly showed Jack
Chetwyud no particular favour, but as we were going away I had
to look for her. I found her with him in the conservatory, and I
heard her say to him —
*'I shall not be at home to you, John, either to-morrow or the
next day. If you have these ridiculous fits of jealousy and anger,
go your own way in the world and I will go mine."
Whereby I concluded that matters had gone further than I
knew of, and that Dora had made her choice in life before she
had seen it.
CHAPTER XVI.
HAWKINS MAKES A MAN OF ME,
My aunt, almost, if not quite, without forethought, had broken the
spell of all our previous lives, and there was a change in my
father's house which emancipated some of us, but which only left
him in deeper gloom than ever.
Dora did not return home with us on the night of the party ;
she slept at Lady Frogmarsh's. The four who returned to my
father were my aunt, my brother Dick, Miss Lee, and myself.
My father and the two pupils were waiting for us, and as one of
those stupid young men was attached to me, and afterwards did
me good service when I wanted a friend sorely, I will mention his
name — Henderson. They had only stayed up to admire Miss
Lee, and when 3Iiss Lee was asked by my aunt to come upstairs
with us into my studio, those young gentlemen went up to smoke
•and read novels in their bedroom.
S24 THE HARVeYS.
When we were all seated, my aunt began —
" Brother, have I ever said an unkind word in this house ? '*
Here Miss Lee burst into a tempest of tears, and my father,
looking scared, went and kissed my aunt.
"Never," he said; "why ask sucli an idle, foolish question?
You have been the quiet, good genius of the house ever since you
have come into it."
♦' I have tried to be kind, and to make you love me. I might
have done more to keep the house in order, perhaps, but I am as
God made me, a sleepy, dreamy creature, and I have dreamed my
time away here, not unhappily. AVhen I am gone "
My father bowed his head.
" When I am gone you will think of me kindly ; you will know
that I love you still when I am far away."
And here she paused, as if distrusting her own cahnness ; if a
shell had burst in the house I could not have been more utterly
astonished.
"Are you going to leave me, after so many years? " said my
father, raising his head.
" Yes," she said, "it is necessary for the good of us all, and
more especially for your own good. You of all others must rouse
yourself now, and face the world once more by yourself. You
must not stand in your children's light, brother."
"That is very true," said my father, humbly. "First, how-
ever, let me ask where you are going, and if you are going for
ever?"
" I am not going for ever, by any means ; and as you ask me
where I am going, I say that I am going to Italy, on an errand
which will bring us in a great deal of money, my dear, which you
shall share, you may depend on it."
" What is the errand ? " asked my father, who had some dim
suspicions, as he told me afterwards, that it had something to do
with my aimt's favourite craze of " ghostmongery," a word which
he had invented for himself, and applied, not only to the great
jewel itself, but to such common and accepted facts as talking
tables and witclies' broomsticks, in all of which my aunt most
devoutly believed. Indeed, if my aunt had told him tliat she was
going to fly to Italy on a broomstick, giving Lady Frogniarsh a
seat behind, my fatlier would not have been greatly sui'ju'iscd, for
she had often talked nearly as great nonsense by the yard.
" Never mind the errand, brother," said my aunt, smiling ;
" it has notliing whatever to do with the Lorko Sandarga ; it is a
good errand, and a money-making errand, and an errand which is
in every way sanctioned by " — here she was going to talk nonsense,
THE HARVF-YS. 325
but stopped, and said — "by Providonco. I am going to Italy,
and I sns])('('t some oiu; vUc. is going also."
" Dora? " asked my father.
** Dora ! " said my annt, bridlinj:^ and seizing her point with
marvellous dexterity. ''Don't be ridiculous, lirother. Why on
earth should 1 lug Dora to Italy just as she has got the ball to her
foot in England ? To think that I should stand in the girl's way
like that now that Lady Frogmarsh has insisted on her spending
the rest of the season with them, and wants to present her at Court.
Unless I am mistaken, the day Dora marries she will have her five
to ten thousand pounds. Why, they want to adopt her, but I said
you would never stand that. Ila ! ha ! and to take Dora to
Italy."
My fiither acquiesced in dead silence.
"/ think," said my aunt, " that Charles here, with his vast
talents, ought most certainly to have some study at Rome ; just as
I began to think so, there comes an offer to me from a gentleman,
a great admirer of his, to pay his expenses tlu-re for a year ; could
anything have happened more fortunately ? I was going to ask
Charles to see me and the young lady who goes with me across
the Alps. I could have paid for that, but he would have had to
return at once without any study ; now he is to have a year in
Rome."
I gasped with utter amazement and delight. Rome ! and for
me ! I turned to my father to see him share my delight, but he
had his head buried in his hands. I put my arm round his neck,
and he turned up his face to mine ; he had been crying ; whereupon
Miss Lee began too.
" I am only crying, my boy," he said, " because this good
fortune conies to us so suddenly. You will write to your old,
lonely father, will you not ? "
*' You shall be at Rome as much as I am," I said. "Every
post you shall see Rome through my spectacles. We shall not bo
separated at all; and if I don't irork " I could not put the
emphasis on the word "work " sufficiently hard.
" Ai-e you going to take Miss Lee away? " asked my father,
with a feeble smile.
At this point Miss Lee made very nearly a scene, and broke out
into a rambling speech, with more tears. " She was never going
to leave the kindest and dearest friend she had ever had in the
world. Others might leave him, and she believed that it would be
best in the end, though her old master and she would iind it
very lonely in winter, but she would never leave him ; this house
was her only home, and if her old master turned her into the street
326 THE HARVEYS.
in the snow, she would die on the doorstep. She knew she had
faults, she said ; she was untidy ; she talked to the servants and
to the policeman, and was late for church ; but she would trj^ to
do better. She did not want to be a fine lady, and go to parties ;
half the people at the party yesterday were guys, and she would
sooner live among Christian children than such people. The
children at home, she said, were almost always tidy now, and she
meant that they should be tidier. In short, Miss Lee delivered
herself of a manifesto, the result of which was that she declined
on any terms whatever to leave my father.
'' VVhy, you silly child," said my aunt, quietly, when she had
done, " part of the plan is that you should stay here and take care
of Mr. Harvey and the children. Don't cry ; you are a good
girl, and when Charley and I fit matters right, you shall live with
us till you marry a duke, that is for ever, unless you go of your
own choice."
At this moment my brother Dick, who had taken no visible
notice of the proceedings, said —
"Then I ain't in all this ? "
" What do you mean ? " said my aunt.
*' Nothing coming my way," said Dick, looking handsomer than
ever, and smiling ; ^' not such a thing as an easy post under
Government, or a small trifle of that kind, eh ? "
"Why, Dick," said my aunt, thoughtfully, "I had forgotten
all about you, my dear."
" So I thought," said Dick.
"You are a difiicult customer, you know, Dick," said my aunt.
" You stay here, and be steady, and help Miss Lee to be kind to
your father until better times turn up."
"It's all one to me," said Dick. "So long as I can earn
enough to eat, and drink, and sleep comfortably, I'm content."
" And you will be steady, Dick ? " said my aunt.
For an instant there came a flash of intelligence and brightness
on Dick's face which I had never seen there before ; but he had
his old sleepy look on again as he answered —
" I'll be steady enough ; you may trust me about that. I was
only eighteenpence wrong in my cliangc last month, too ; so that
is an improvement."
" Now," said my aunt, " all go to bed, and we will sleep over
this. Cliarlie, stay here."
As soon as tliey were gone, I attacktMl my aunt. " Aunt," I
said, "can you really stand this fearful extra expense of keeping
me at Rome for a year? "
"i stand it, child? of course I can't."
THE HARVEYS. 327
" Tlien there is really some one else ? " I asked.
" Of course there is ; don't you see that it is old Hawkins ? "
''Hawkins!"
" Why, who else could it be? He came to me yesterday and
asked me about your talents. I, of course, rated them very hij^di.
He opened his mind to me, as most folks do when they know me,
and he said that he was often troubled in his mind about having
neglected his pupils, and that la' would try to nuike amends now
in some way; were you poor? I left him in no doubt on tJiat
point. Would it do you any good to study a year in Rome ? I
left him in no doubt about that either, and mentioned that I was
going to Milan with a young lady myself. Would you accept of
the money necessary for a student ? I replied that you were
neither foolish nor wicked. So the thing was done, and you had
better get your things ready. I wanted to leave Dora all the
jewels, but I shall want them to wear myself, for sham jewels
won't go dowii on the Italian — I mean in Italian society. The
Lorko Sandarga, of course, goes ; but my will is made, and it
comes to you. I have been consulting it, but can get nothing
from it."
" That bodes ill for our expedition, aunt," I said.
"Don't know, my dear," she said. " I have been using my
brains pretty shaqDly these last ten days, since that Frogmarsh
woman came and roused me up, and the spirits of the air hate
that. H'm ! h'm ! that girl will be the making of him vet."
"What girl?"
"Miss Lee."
" Be the making of ? " I suggested.
" Your brother Dick," said my aunt. " He is lazy and he is a
fool ; but he loves that girl with a love worth having, and she
loves him as well as he loves her. Good-night."
CHAPTER XVII.
AT LADY FROGMARSH's.
My father w^as veiy low next morning, but acquiesced in every-
thing, most entirely employing himself in giving a few finishing
touches to the sermon, and to hearing Henderson and his comrade
hammer away at their Virgil. My aunt was away all day, and I
began at once to get my things together, but in a secret manner,
328 THE HARVEYS.
so as not to attract my father's attontion. After a time I put on
my Lest clothes, and stepped round to Droston's to announce my
good fortune, to tell tluni all that I had a rich patron, ^vllO was
going to send me to Rome for a year. I rememher feeling an
instinct that every young num in tlie room hated me, and that I
rather liked it. I did not call on i\Ir. Hawkins that day; hut as
I was determined to thank him by word of mouth, I did not write to
him, hut waited three or four days. On the last of these, when
I came home I found Dora alone with her father, sitting upon his
knee, and doing his hair ; she was very handsomely dressed, and
looked very happy. What she had been saying to him I do not
know ; but Dora had a way of saying what she had been saying
in a way which puzzled third parties, who had heard, not only
what she had said first, but what she said she had been saying
afterwards. She was not at all untruthful ; but the second
edition of her speeches, as given to the world, were something
like those of early century orators, who spoke before the art of
stenography was developed ; they had emendations and annota-
tions which were not in the original. We wickedly suspect that
any man who had the luck to hear Demosthenes deliver " De
Corona" first, and then had the 2)leasure of reading it afterwards,
when it was written down, must have opened his eyes pretty wide :
so I saw a slight raising of my father's eyebrows as Dora went
on —
" I have been telling papa," she said, *' how fortunate it is that
I am left here to see him every day, now that aunt and you are
going so far from him. I shall come every day while we are in
town, and write every day when we go to Scarborough. (This
matter of Scarborough was obviously new to my father.) I have
been telling him that it is much better that we should part for a
time in preparation for a happier meeting ; and that I will marry
no man who does not eu'-a-jfe to ^ivo him a good living. Tliat is
all true, is it not, papa? "
My father said, in the most resigned way, **Yes," almost
comically. And we talked about these startling new aftairs until
I heard a carriage drive up to the door, and looking out, I said,
''Here is Ijady Frognuxrsh's carriage come for yon, Dora; you
had better be going."
''Not at all," said Dora.
" r>ut you will keep the servants waiting," I urged.
" The very thing I want to get them used to," rt'jilied Dora.
" Let them wait ; I'll make them wait before I have done with
them."
" 13ut you may keep Lady Frogmarsli waiting," I said.
THE TTARVEYS. 829
** lift her wait," said Dora. " I am ^'oinp; to have my own
way in iJtat lionso, and tiie sooner ilicy understand it tlio better.
If Lady Fn)«_,Miiarsii does not like it, slie* can send nie lionio
again."
In tact, Dora deliberately kept tbe carriage waiting ; and tben
asked me to drive witb lier. My fatlier was in a state of sucii
intense amusement tliat be sbowed it in bis face, and catcbing
Dora's eye, burst out laugliing ; sbe joined, and tben I took her
downstairs.
" Wbere is Lady Frogmarsb ? " asked Dora, of tbe footman.
'* Her ladysbip is waiting at Mrs. Clark's, in Piegent Street,
miss, for you," replied tbe young man.
'' Tben just drive round by Brook Street, will you, No. 107,
tbe milliner's? " said Dora. And to Brook Street we went, as
fast as two of tbe best horses in London could take us. Dora got
out, and went in for a few minutes, though I most firmly believe
that she did not want anything. I sat in the carriage ; and when
sbe came out sbe paused on the pavement, gathering her dress
together preparatoiy to getting in, and said to the footman —
*' Where did you say Lady Frogmarsb was? "
''At Mrs. Clark's, miss, waiting," said the man, touching bis
hat.
" H'm ! " said Dora, pensively. "Well, you can drive there
now; I don't think I have anything else to do."
"You little humbug and actress," I said, laughing; "Lady
Frogmarsb won't stand this long."
" Let her sit it then," said Dora; "I am not going to play
second in any bouse I enter. But you don't know, for men know
nothing."
On arriving at Regent Street, we found Lady Frogmarsb
comfortably seated in the shop, and patiently abiding Dora's
time.
" Why, my dear," she said, " I began to think that you were
run away from me, carriage and footman and coachman and all."
" I drove round by Brook Street, Lady Frogmarsb," said
Dora.
" Well, go upstairs, and see after those things ; and your
brother wiU give me bis ami as far as the fur shop," which I
did.
As soon as we were out of earshot, Lady Frogmarsb began
laughin«'.
" How delightful she is ! " said Lady Frogmarsb.
I was exceedingly relieved to hear that ; but I expressed my
relief in a moderated form.
330 THE HABVEYS.
** Delightful," she continued ; " she has not been twenty-four
hours in the house, but she has the servants perfectly well in
hand. INIy own maid took up her warm water this morning ; and
she complained that it was not warm enough, and made her go
down and get some more ; after which she said that she hoped it
would not happen again. I dared not have done it. As for
Mr. Hawkins, he is as proud of her as if she were his own
daughter."
" I hope you will not spoil her," said I.
** You will never do that,'' she answered.
'' I mean, I hope you will not over-pet her."
" Who could help doing that? Pretty Sweet. Y'ou may rest
assured that I will pet her as much as I can. And your sister is
right about the servants. Her position is not clear in their eyes ;
and if she shows a bold front to them at once, she will have no
trouble at all with them. If she does not show a bold front to
them," continued this good woman, laughing, " she may ring her
bell as often as I do, without getting it answered. Why, this
very morning, before we came out driving, I rang three times for
my maid ; and at last I was told that she was upstairs, dressing
Miss Harvey."
I did not know which to admire most, Dora's consummate
coolness, or the profound glee with which Lady Frogmarsh told
the story.
'' Besides, you know," she went on, *' servants, like my maid
Ancott, like it in reality. Ancott is a first-rate lady's maid, and
she can't have much pleasure in dressing an old body like me.
With a woman like me, it does not so much matter how my
clothes are put on, so long as they are fine enough, and in good
taste — Mrs. Clark looks after the taste, as her bills sliow.
Whereas, in the case of a really splendid beauty like Dora,
Ancott has an opportunity of sliowing her art ; and you, as an
artist yourself, must sympathise with her. We are going to Lady
Dumbledore's to-night, and I shall be dressed by the still-room
maid, if slie is not busy about something else. IMr. Hawkins has
been out to buy her bouquet himself."
" Speaking of Mr. Hawkins," I said, " do you think that he is
at home now ? "
" Certainly," said Lady Frogmarsh.
*' Do you think that I might go home with you now ; and,
and ''
" To be sure," said Tiady Frogmarsh. ** Why, he will be as
glad of it as if you had given him a hundred jxiuiids. Come
with us. How nice it was of you to think about it, As for the
THE HARVEYS. 331
portrait, you know that order must stand over. It will bo all the
better, eli, liki^ old wine?"
Dora was graciously pleast-d to have been kept waiting by Lady
Frogmarsh when we got back to the carriage, and Lady Frog-
marsh apologised by saying that I had been so agreeable that she
had not seen how time had flown, Dora was graciously pleased to
accept her apologies, and made herself very agreeable as we drove
to Putney.
Lady Frogmarsh told a footman to take mo up to his master's
study, and I followed the young man, but when I got near the
door I gave that young man half a crown, and said that I would
announce myself. This met his views completely ; but I could
not help thinking that he considered me extremely green in the
matter of the half-crown. It would have been a long time before
he had got one out of Dora.
I opened the door. There sat my old master, reading " Pick-
wick " in the muUioned window of a luxurious library, smelling of
Russia leather ; exactly the kind of library into which an un-
fortunate Tractarian or Broad Church curate is shown when it has
become necessary for him to be admonished by his bishop for his
soul's health and comfort. There sat old Hawkins, as like a
bishop as he could make himself.
" I announced myself, sir," I said, for strangely the old school-
boy awe was upon me.
" What, sir ? " said Hawkins, fiercely, in exactly the old way,
as he caught sight of me.
"I announced m3'self, sir," I said, feebly.
** Don't resort to a falsehood, sir," he cried. ''You did
nothing of the kind. A falsehood will not serve your turn,
sir"
I saw his cue. I said, " I meant, sir "
'* Don't prevaricate, sir. Now, that is the boy Harvey," he
said, in his old, curious way, when he had caught a boy at
mischief. ** I was certain that it was the boy Harvey from the
first. That boy will come to no good end, sir."
" Mr. Hawkins, I want to make some eftbrt to thank "
*' The boy Harvey will stay in to the end of term, and write
out the first book of Euclid."
*' But, sir, you must let mc "
" If you say another word on the subject, sir, I shall write to
5'our father."
This, the most terrible of all old school threats, set me laugh-
ing, although I was very near ci-ying. I advanced towards him,
and, taking the hand which had so often boxed mv ears with
332 THE HAKVEYS.
Valpy's Greek Testament (his favourite weapon, whicli he always
kept ready) I kissed that heavy old hand fervently.
*' Good boy, good boy," he said. '' Noisy enough. You were
the noisiest boy I ever had, except poor Tommy Hexter, who was
killed at Sobnion. Sit down. Ah ! you remember those old
times ; what fun it was. The time you threw Will Dickson's
* Euripides ' through the window, ainung at little Herbert. Do
you remember that? "
" It was not found out, sir."
"Why, I was sitting in my private room and saw the book
come flying through the window ; and I heard Will Dickson say,
* Now you have done it, Charles Harvey,' and I couldn't come in
for laughing for a few minutes, and then I set the whole class a
hundred lines, until the boy who had done it was given up."
"But no one told, sir?'"'
" No ! no ! Good boys, honest boys, all of them ; fine fellows.
Not one would say a word, and next day you came to me and gave
yourself up."
" And 3'ou let me off all my impositions in consequence," said I.
" Did I ? Well, I daresay you soon had just as many again, so
it came to the same thing in the end. Ha ! ha ! by the by, that
sister of Will Dickson's is a very nice girl, indeed."
I thought so also.
"Not like your sister, j-ou know, nothing so superior as that,
oh, no. But very like her brother ; nice, modest, retiring girl.
We had her here, but she was frightened, and did not like it. As
for your sister, she is not a bit frightened, and doi's like it. She
rules the roast here, bless her sweet face ; our pleasure is to lie
down and let her walk over us. As for Lady Frogmarsh, she
reminds me of a hen who has hatched one egg late in life, and that
a swan's egg. The swan will go into the water, and Lady Frog-
marsh must wet her feet after her. Ha! ha! l>iit we will take
good care of her."
I thanked him, and he grew serious.
" Do you see anything of Chetwynd now ? " he asked, suddenly.
I said "Yes."
"You understand me when I say that a certain thing must not
be?"
" I quite understand you, sir."
" We have views with regard to your sister, and onr vit>ws are
these : — We w^ish her to see a little of the world and of life before
she chooses. We are far too old to dream of any family of our
own, and long before we came together we talked about adoi)ting
a daughter. My wife was for a boy, but I said most emphatically
TrtK HAT^VeVS. 833
that I lia'l biTii plii^^ii.d with boys for too many years ever to
tolenitc the si;,'ht of aiiotlier, and slic, yichlin;^' to my sui>riior
experience (I think I gave t/ou as a case in point) agreed tliat it
would never do to have a boy (like yon, you know) about the house,
so we determined on a dangliter. We tried Mary Dickson, but
she hated it, and did not even come to our party. Well, I suspect
that you know more about that than I do. All of a sudden, by
the merest accident, my wife falls across this sister of yours. I
saw that the thing was done the moment 1 set eyes on my wife's
face. I like the arrangement quite as much as she does. She
shall sec for herself and choose for herself ; and where she chooses
we will agree to anything in reason. But that young man Chet-
wynd will not do, Harvey. He is a snob and a prig to the maiTOw
of his bones, and he is cruel, as his men know, and as you know.
But she likes him, sir, and unless she sees some one she likes
better she will marry him."
I could only bow my head.
" There's Will Dickson," he continued, '' if she chose to set her
heart on him. I would sooner she had him than a duke. How-
ever, we must wait and hope for the best. This is not business,
though I must give you the cheque for my portrait."
'* But it is not painted, sir," I said.
**I am the gainer by that," he said, "because you will paint
better when you come from Rome than you do now, and I only
give you the price I should have given you before. When do you
go?''
'' I join my aunt at Antwerp in a fortnight, so I will not say
good-bye."
" No ! no ! Well, here is the cheque." And when I got aw\ay
and opened the envelope I found that it was for seventy pounds.
CHAPTER XYIII.
OUR MECHANICAL. SYREN.
Health, freedom, and, in prospect, honour and a grand position !
After all these weary years, what a prospect for me ! As I sat on
the deck of the old Soho, as she was going down, the river, I said
to myself that only one thing was left for me to desire in this world,
B34 ^HE HARVEYS.
and that one thing was personal beauty. Like the young cub
•which I was, I once or twice was sorry that I was not handsome.
What worthless, selfish prigs many boys are. I don't claim to
be worse than the majority of clever boys, but at this very time,
when by a stroke of fortune the world was at my feet, when I was
starting on my first holiday journey to new lands, with every chance
of relieving the man I loved best in the world — my father — from
all future difficulty, I remember that I was jealous of the personal
beauty of a lad of my own age, who was on board. It is painful
to write oneself down a fool, but I fear I must do so on this
occasion.
Before we got to Gravesend I had out my water-colour box, and
had sketched the man at the wheel, I think successfully ; I was
nearly finishing, when a voice in my ear said, " I envy 5'ou."
I turned, and I saw a handsome lad. I replied, " I emy you ;.
for Avhat do you envy me ? "
" Your art," he said. " For what do you envy me ? "
''Your beauty," I said; "sit there and let me paint you.""
And he sat down wearily and quietly.
" Am I, then, so handsome ? " he said.
'' You are very handsome," I replied.
*'It is almost a pity," he said, rather wearily, ''because I am
going to Nice."
" What are you going to do there ? " I asked.
" To die. The English doctors have given me over, and will
not even allow me to die among my own people. I may live three
months more by going to Nice, but I do not care to take the trouble,
I am dying of consumption."
I left my sketching-block and went up to him at once. I put
my arm round his neck, and he said, " Take care of my breath,
it is death. Is your name Harvey ? "
"Yes."
"I thought so. My name is Chetwynd. I am half-brother to
vour friend John Chetwynd. Have you any power over your
sister?"
" No."
" If you had I should say, keep her from him ; but as you have
not, paint me. Hark ! how beautiful that is. When I am dead
I shall be up there and know the mystery of those wonderful
echoes."
For a sudden thunderstorm from the south-west had broken close
to us, and the liglitning and thunder liad come before the rain.
We gathered uj) everything, and went to the cabin, where in »
quiet corner we talked niueh and talked long.
THE rUllVEYS. 335
Tlion on deck again wc sat tof,'etlior, while the river grew broader
and wider, and at last we outsat all tlu; others, talking until —
" Witli stars and sea-winds for h<r riiiinorit,
Nij^'ht sank on the sea."
Then I took him down, and left him to get to Led ; hut I came on
deck again and smoked, walking up and down half the night think-
ing about all that he had told me about Chetwynd, and feeling as
entiii'ly unhappy on my first great holiday as ever I had done in
my life. The sea-winds were in a most disconsolate humour that
night, and seemed to moan of nothing but death.
The approach to the great city of Antwerp is not lively by any
means, and with the exception of Flushing, w^hich is certainly fine
in colour, I thought that Holland was ratiier flat, and in a scenical
point of view a failure. At the same time it was foreign parts,
and so by eleven o'clock, when I had got my things to the Grand
Laboreur (the old Grand Laborcur), had left a message for my
aunt, had declined to breakfast until I returned, and had set off
on foot with my new friend for the cathedral, I felt, indeed, that
I was beginning to see life. I was as free as a swallow or an
eagle, everything was so entirely new to me that I did not know
what to look at first. The music of the carillons, which seemed
hardly to have ceased since I landed, attracted me more than any-
thing, and I was not satisfied until I arrived at the tower from
which they came, and heard them four hundred feet overhead. I
looked up at the soaring ribs of stone above me, and like a child
as I was, I determined that I would climb the tower before any-
thing, and hear them ring aloft. I told my companion so.
"I hope yow will not spoil the romance by getting behind the
scenes," he said, smiling. '* I am a lioman Catholic, you know."
(I did not Imow it.) " And my advice to you is not to get behind
the high altar as you can do here, and take Monscigneur a ter(/o.
I did it once at a wedding here, and saw a sulky-looking young
acolyte mixing oils, as if he were doing a chemical experiment.
Once also I w^ent behind the scenes at the opera ; but I never went
twice. Leave the bells alone, there is nothing up there but dead
metal and barrels like those of street organs. Continue your
illusion that they are played by the angels, and come to High
Mass with me, among the sailors' wives, who are praying for their
husbands at sea; it is much more in your way."
But I climbed the steeple, and put my head to the largest bell
while it was ringing ; and then I got on to the topmost pinnacle
and looked at the great tower of Mechlin forty miles away (where
there are finer chimes than those which were dinning in my ears),
336 THE HAIlVEYS.
.and then I came down again under the impression that I had spent
a very profitaljle morning, and thought that I woukl go and see my
aunt.
When I arrived opposite the hotel, I became aware of a small
crowd under a particular window, and of an extremely magnificent
feminine voice issuing from it, singing in Italian. The crowd grew
greater as I approached, and I did not wonder at it, for more
splendid singing I never heard before or since. Yet it was
interrupted, and frequently one passage was repeated time after
time, which puzzled me rather. I went into the concierge, and
got the commissionaire to show me my aunt's rooms.
'' What is the reason of the crowd outside ? " I asked.
*'Do you not know, monsieur? It is to hear the Comtesse
D'Estrada sing. Monsieur's aunt, the Duchess Harvey, is her
companion, her tutor, her second self. It is said that your aunt,
the good duchess, is a better singer than she is. I remember
madame the duchess singing in Paris, it is now nearly twenty
years ago. Entrez, monsieur."
I thought to myself, as I opened the door, of what my new friend
had said to me ; and that I had better still believe that the music
was that of an angel, and not produced by mechanical means. The
lady who confronted me when I entered, however, seemed by no
means a mechanical lady, inasmuch as she was decidedly in a
most outrageous ill-temper.
"Allez, allez," she said to me, very angrily, and then turning
to my aunt, who was sitting as cool as a cucumber by the piano,
she went on, " Madame, you kiU me with your inexorable temper ;
it is now five times I have sung that passage to you, and each
time worse."
'' Each time worse," said my aunt, coolly.
*' You madden me. Is one eternally to sing to an old
woman ? "
"No," said my aunt, "you have to sing shortly before tbe
audience at La Scala, which is not entirely composed of (>ld
women. Well, here is my nephew, be civil to him."
Madame D'Estrada was extremely civil to me ; more civil than
any lady had ever been before. She was a handsome girl, as
I have said bcdbre, excessively dark and gi])sy-looking, with very
fine eycis, which seemed to wander in a rather v;igue way until they
fixed themselves on something, at whieli tiuu', as 1 noticed now
and afterwards, tliere was a triHe loo much I'xjjression in tliem
either of admiration or anger. l\\ fact, Ibose eyes of nunhnue's
were so extremely remarkable and i^xpressive, that she was some-
times addressed by strangers in tlie street, although a woman of
THE HATIVEYS. 337
heroic and transcendent virtue and carefulness of carriage. On
one occasion also, when a serr/ent de ville had trodden on her toes,
she had looked at him so dreadfully that he had called for assis-
tance, and told his comrades that madamo had looked at him in
such a frightfully cmporlee manner that he trembled for his life.
Nohody ever clearly know anything precise ahout Monsieur
D'Estrada. Some said that he was dead, some said that he was
not dead, and some said that he never lived. All that 1 ever got
out of my aunt on the suhject was that the man was an old niau-
vais sujct, who had treated his young wife in the most shameful
manner, and had driven her on to the stage. My aunt gave the
young lady the best of characters, and, knowing my aunt as
I did, I was certain that she believed entirely in her and her
story. Still my aunt, in some ways, w^as very simple and foolish,
and, after the first glimpse of these eyes on my not very handsome
face, I rather distrusted the young lady.
The history of my aunt's engagement with her had been simply
this : Madame D'Estrada, at this very time only twenty-four
years of age, had been trying to give music lessons. My aunt,
who had been in the same way of business under an assumed
name, had come across her, and had discovered a voice such
as she had never heard before, combined with very low musical
education, and great intellectual stupidity. My aunt had dis-
covered that the poor young lady loved her art, and had kindly
taken her in hand. If we had ever been in the world we should
have kno^^^l that my aunt, under her assumed name, was possibly
the greatest mechanical mistress in Europe. We knew nothing
of it, and my aunt would sit and hear Dora's miserable strumming
hour by hour without one attempt at assistance. My aunt had
always a fear that the fact of her teaching music would be an
injury to my father's position.
But the time came on when my father's position was likely
to be compromised by his doctrines, and then she spoke and
acted in her own quaint way. At the very first opening she saw
she sent Dora into the world. She acted on Lady Frogmarsh
and Mr. Hawkins, with what result our ri>aders have seen. But
she still wanted money, and a great deal of it, for my father's case
would soon be that of a broken man. Him she was determined
never to desert.
She had made two attempts previously with poor young ]\Iadame
D'Estrada. Some old theatre-goers remember the awful failure
which a certain Miss Boyce made at the Surrey Theatre under
Mr. Bunn. That young lady was no other than Madame
D'Estrada. She forgot her part, and began crving. It was
23
338 THE HAEVEYS.
pitiable. The andience were veiy kind, and she got through
somehow, but her engagement came to an end at a price which
kept her for six months ; after which time my aunt Icept her until
a certain great impn'sario began to talk about her as a magnificent
failure, and my aunt watched her time and studied with her.
The time came. The three daj's' disappearance of a great
actress may be remembered. It was an odd and mysterious
affair, with which we have nothing to do. ]\Iy aunt went to the
manager, and said, "Have my Adalgisa for one night; .s7u,' will
be back by Thursday." The manager said that he must do so
at all hazards. When the audience saw a total stranger come
on to answer to the name still in the playbill, there was a slight
disturbance, upon which the manager came forward and explained
the unhappy position in w^hich he was suddenly placed. The part
did not suit the girl, and she was obviously scared, but her appear-
ance was three-quarters of a great success. After the first act
Madame D'Estrada lost her timidity, and sang with great verce
and splendour, but at times with great incorrectness. She would
not do 3'et, as my aunt told her as she put her shawl on. She
must have another year's study.
So ended the two attempts with Madame D'Estrada. At the
time of the break-up, for so I may call it, of our old house, the
extra year's study was finished, and my aunt would not be beholden
to any impresario in the world. She executed an agreement with
Madame D'Estrada to receive one-third of her earnings for five
years. My aunt had nearly kept that lady for above a year, and
had devoted the principal part of her time to her. Moreover, the
expenses of travel were to be borne by my aunt, and so ]\Iadame
D'Estrada had made an excellent bargain for herself. My aunt
had taken the most excellent care to advertise in a way which is
only possible by those who have lived in the great world. Enor-
mous posters have their use, or what would become of the bill-
stickers ? But a dozen letters to old friends in the best society,
from a beautiful earl's daughter, who had romantically retired
from the world after a romantic marriage, did more for Madame
D'Estrada than all the posters in the world. The fact is, that
my aunt's position was rather romantic, and many leaders of
society remembered my aunt singing in old times, while the men
remembered not only her singing but her beauty. In sliort, my
aunt did what all the mysterious posters in the world could not
do, fihe (jot her protegcfi talked about. Now, if you can get any
painter, novelist, or ]ioet talked about in certain quarters, he or
she nmst be an absoluii! fool unless they make their mark. To
give instances would be; p(!rsonal, and niiglit bring us under the
THE HARVRYS. 339
law of libel ; but my aunt f^ot ^[adamc D'Estrada talked about
so wi'll just as the Euj^disli wt-rc }:?oinj^' aljroad, tluit slio was spoken
higlily of, and expcctid in Paris l»y people who, to use a vulj^'arisni,
bad never beard a noise out of ber bead. My aunt told nic one
day at Coblentz tbat Tiady Frogmarsli liad set tlie wliole Evan-
gelical party talking about lier for old friendslii}>'s sake. I told
Lady Frogniarsb the bonest trutb, tbat tlie woman was a Roman
Catbolic, but Lady Frogmarsb's friendship is stronger tiian her
fanaticism. She had the D'Estrada to ber bouse, and made ber
sing Beethoven.
I found also tbat my aunt liad advertised her piotrf/cc a little
for herself. Slic was nobody at all ; the hotel bills were made
out in tlie name of the Comtesse D'Estrada ; the comtesse was
not to be disturbed on any account whatever ; the comtesse's
carriage was to be round at such-and-such an hour ; telegrams
from the opera at Paris were to be brought to Miladi HaiTey,
so tbat the comtesse was not to be disturbed. My aunt knew
what she was about, and I think that I have put you fairly in
possession of the state of aflairs between them at the period of
my first interview.
I certainly thought about what my friend the younger Cbetwynd
bad said to me about the mechanical work of the bells after I had
been in tbe room a minute.
*' Now, Flore, come here once more. We must have that
passage again. You have an audience now. Stand there,
Charles. Now Flore, sing to Charles. He is ugly, but quite
good enough to sing to."
So she sang to me, and as sbe sang sbe saw my admiration in
my eyes. She sang better and better, and with more and more
carefully mechanical precision. Had she known that I was as
ignorant as an owl about music she might possibly have made
another tailure. But sbe sang as though she were appealing
from my aunt to me, and gave perfect satisfaction ; after which
we went to lunch.
In the evening mv aunt ordered me to take Madame D'Estrada
tq the theatre, and an extremely agreeable evening we had. Our
box was nearly invisible, save from the stage, and before the end ol
tbe last piece! felt tbat I bad known Madame D'Estrada for years.
When I was in bed my aunt, coming coolly in, sat on tbe foot
of it, and said —
" Has sbe been making love to you ? "
''No."
'' Sbe will to-morrow," said my aunt, yawning. " Sbe means
no harm, but sbe can't help it. Good-night."
340 THE HARVEYS.
CHAPTER XIX.
FOLLOWERS.
Madame D'Estrada most certainly was more polite to me than
any lady had ever been before, and on my mentioning to her that
I was engaged to be married, she grew more and more confiden-
tial. She talked to me continually about Mary Dickson, and
I liked it very much. "We became the veiy best of friends. Flirt
she would with any man who was in the least way agreeable, but
she seemed to me an honest and painstaking young lady, and
I only knew her as a genial and pleasant companion, never
dreaming for an instant how my life and hers were bound up
together.
To me she was immensely amusing. Seeing that flirtation was
out of the question with me, and seeing also that as I was not
likely (to use a vulgarism which may pass) to get in tow with her,
and to fetch and carry for her, she treated me simply as a friend
and brother artist, and unbosomed herself in the most simple
manner. "If you will let me consider myself as your sister,"
she said, at Bonn, before going to bed, "you will give what
I have never had before — a brother. Lovers I have had, but
never a brother. Say, shall it be a pact with us ? "
I said, " Yes ; but that I should behave as a brother, and
request her to do as much for me as I did for her."
"As how, then?"
" Why," I said, "you sent me out to buy gloves for you this
morning, and I paid for them. Now, I will show you how to
clean my palette to-morrow morning, and I shall expect you to
do it."
" You are what the English call a bully," she said, witli a
laugh ; " but he whom I sliall marry is a bully, too. Well, I
will clean your palette, jackanapes ; but you must admire me."
"I do admire you," I said; " but I should admire you more
if you did not seek for admiration so much. You had a flirtation
with a gentleman at the table (Vhotc to-day."
" How can I help myself if the Comte D'Estrelle chose to
admire me ? "
" You are going," I said, "to take a great ])lace in the profes-
sional world of Europe : you must be very can-fiil. Do you know,
for example, who tlie (^omtc D'l'iStrelle is ? "
" He is a French noblcnuui of largi^ property."
" He is Toul Jackson, the steeplechase rider : a most iiotorioiig
THE HARVEYS. 341
card shaq)cr. There is not a yoiinfr artist in Newman Street who
does not know him. I went up to the billiard-room to-night, and
found him among the German students. He knew me, and
wanted to be quarrelsome. He was very impertinent to me, and
we had an argument, at the end of which he oftered to fight me
(in English). I said that I would give him an answer to-morrow
moniing. I left him to his o^^•n devices, and talked with Von
Lieber, of the Brandenburg Hussars. We watched him, and
caught him cheating young Yon Hildesheim at kar(e. I then
exposed him, and told his real name. He was turned out of tiie
room, and has orders to leave the to\\-n by the police ; for, thank
Heaven, we are in a land of law."
" He seemed gentlemanly," she said.
" Yes, but you must take greater care," I answered. " I am
the only man of the party, and your indiscretions endanger my
life. If the question had been between Yon Lieber or Yon
Hildesheim, and not with a brokeu-do^Mi steeplechase rider, I
must have fought. Do be more careful. Why, that man, Tom
Jackson, started in life as a common groom, and has merely
gained advancement by his personal beauty and his nearly mathe-
matical brain in gambling."
'' You are jealous of him, because you are ugly," was her
woman's argument.
'* I suppose that is the state of the case," I replied, coolly and
good-humourcdly ; " but the next time you flirt, don't let the
object of your tendresse be a common card-sharper."
*' You are a young devil," she said ; from which remark it may
be readily gathered that Madame D'Estrada and I had managed
to get on rather familiar terms during our journey from Antwerp
to Bonn.
My aunt never told us day after day to which point she was
going to make, and so, knowing her habits of secrecy, I was not
in the least degree suii)rised at finding that she took us up the
Moselle to Treves. Nor was I at all surprised at her saying that
she was going to stay a few days there, as there was no huiTy at
all about getting to Italy.
I now became so entirely absorbed in my art studies that, with
the exception of writing to my father and Mr. Hawkins, I left all
English aft'airs to take their own course. The amount of paint
which I used at Treves alone was so great that my British stock
was exhausted, and I had to come on local resources. My aunt
calculated that at this rate we should require a special train before
we got to Rome for my canvases alone.
I replied to her that if the followers of Madame D'Estrada
342 THE HARVEYS.
increased at their present rate, we should most certainly require
a special train for them, and so my canvases might go into it
without extra charge.
" What do you mean ? " she said.
''I suppose you know that Von Lieber and Yon Hildesheim
are both here on furlough, having followed us."
*'No," said my aunt, vexed.
" I suppose also that you know that Jack Chetwynd's half-
brother is here."
" Hum," said my aunt, " have you heard from Dora ? "
"Not a word."
'^ I don't know what to do," said she. '' Those young Prussian
monkeys can't cross into France on furlough, I suppose? "
I asked, and found they could not leave Prussia ; and so we
resumed the conversation.
" Let us go to Luxemburg, my dear, and we shall be rid of
them. Have you much more work to do here ? "
I said three days' work, or about that.
" It is paramount that your mind should be expanded. It is
absolutely paramount. I can at present manage with regard to
money, but the whole burden of keeping the family \\ill ultimately
fall on your shoulders. I am by no means sure of Dora's future ;
and if Lady Frogmarsh did provide for her, we could not live on
her money ; and Dora is a very tiresome girl, with a will of her
OAVii. Suppose she was to marry Jack Chetwynd, slie would
break with Hawkins and Lady Frogmarsh ; and I don't like
Chetwynd."
"Nor do I."
" The fact is," said my aunt, " tliat although I am here, I wish
I was at home again. This girl, D'Estrada, is very difficult and
tiresome, though slio is very good, and I like her very much.
She win flirt. I wish I could tlirow young Chetwynd against her
at the zenith of her ftime, and get him away from Dora."
" Is her fame so certain, aunt? "
" She is one of the greatest singers who ever lived," said my
aunt, quietly.
" ]3ut, aunt, the officers in tlie cafe talk about lu'r. Tliey
speak of her in a way in which I would never allow Dora to be
spoken of."
" "Slvn always talk so of public singers. They cannot say any
hiirni of lier, or she would not be under my protection an hour."
" They say no exact harm of her, but they do not s})eak of her
as I would }iial:<' them speak of yourst'lf or lU)ra."
" The gill has sold herself to the public, and she must take the
\
THE HAIIVEYS. 343
consequences," replied my aunt, with perfect stoicism. ** I, in
old times, in the world, have seen girls of the lii^dicst f;imily and
the most correct beliaviour who were habitually talked about and
toasted at taverns ; those girls are now mothcsrs of the best
families in the land. Why, / was what tliey called a reij^niing
toast for more than a year under the name of ' The Irish Fawn.'
The Prince Kei^ent and Brummel used to break tlieir glasses
when they drank my health. Tliose manners have died out in
England with duelling and much more, but they remain in a military
nation like Prussia. There is nothing in it all but a somewhat
barbarous admiration of woman."
All this sounded like pure common sense until I got to bed,
and there it sounded like utter nonsense. Why the truth about
aft'airs should only come to one in the dark, and when one is in a
horizontal position, I am unable to determine. I only know that
it is so in my case.
I lay awake that night upon my back, and came to the conclu-
sion that the D'Estrada would bring us no good. I threw the
feather mattress off me, and I was cold. I put it on again, and I
was hot. I cursed Gennan beds, and lost my temper. I rose in
my shirt, and looked out of the window at the Porta Nigra,
frowning horribly it the street's end. Below were two of the
awful black watchmen, which I believe are no longer inflicted on
the nerves of any population, save that of Treves — horrible, black,
dark, dim, mysterious, like silent devils. I at this moment
wished, I hardly knew why, that the two watchmen had the
D'Estrada between them, and were about to conduct her into the
Porta Nigra, shut the door on her, and lock her up all night.
I put on my trousers, and went to my aunt's bedroom, which
was next to mine. I knocked at the door, and she opened it
almost at once, not saying one word.
'* Aunt," I said, " come away."
" Now ?" she said.
"No, to-morrow morning. Come away to Luxemburg."
"Why?"
" To get rid of these men. There will be a quarrel, and
bloodshed."
" You have not been making an ass of yourself? " she said,
quietly.
" 7 / No ; but we are attracting too many followers. We had
best go."
" Perhaps we had," said my aunt. And so I went to bed.
344 THE HAKVEYS
CHAPTER XX.
THE FIRST VICTIM.
Only, however, to be hamited once more by a new form of terror.
The last time I saw Treves was immediately after the battle of
Forbach, before the womided had been brought back, at which
time it may be described as in a kind of solemn holiday. But
the joyous solemnity of the great blue host, passing on towards
assured victory, never made the place cheerful to me. I remem-
bered the old night of horrors too well ; and I must do Treves
the credit to say that it is the most ghostly place I ever was in.
A deserted Luxemburg is by no means lively, when you are
smoking on the fortifications at midnight on a moonlight night.
Sedan, three days after the battle, with the night wind moving
the dead men's clothes, was far from cheerful. As for poor little
innocent Longwy, during the blockade, the state of that pretty
place w^ould have moved the heart of Herod. I have seen all
those places in their sharpest hour ; but if I wanted (as I do not)
to make myself thoroughly miserable, I should take a house at
Treves during a time of public rejoicing.
Foreign nations say that we English can make ourselves more
miserable for nothing than any foreign nation. I accept that as
a compliment most gladly — the more gladly that we get so very
few international compliments nowadays. But I do say that if it
were possible to get up an international misery show at Treves, I
would desert my country, and back the Germans ; and I find that
I am confirmed, for a German officer, immediately after an over-
whelming victory against the national enemy, is an article which,
for stoicism, we cannot compete with in these islands. I rather
digress in recounting my memories of this most solemn and
Teutonic of towns.
Perhaps that may be forgiven when I state that 1 was met at
my bedroom door, after leaving my aunt, by young Chetwynd, in
a galloping consumption, and dressed only in liis shirt and
trousers, with a candle held before his ghastly face, who
requested to come into my room and talk to me.
'' I will sit on your bed," he said. *' I heard your room-door
open, and I watched you to your aunt's room. I bt'g you to be
careful of my brcatli. The doctor says that it is very deadly. I
don't think that I shall live to get to Nice, and so I want to
speak to yo«. I want to talk to you very much. Your life's
happiness may depend on what I am going to tell you."
THE HARVEYS. 345
" Will you obey orders ? " I said.
"Yes."'
" Get into ray bed, and I will lio on the sofa. Put this rail-
way-rug over you at once, and drink this wine."
'* What wine?"
"This tumbler-full of Walportshcimer."
He took it oft', and thanked nie with his eyes.
*' If you off"er to move out of tliat bed to-night," I said, "I
will knock you down and tread on you."
" Yes, I will be good ; but give me tobacco, and more wine, —
more wine. I take none, for I can get none without brandy in it,
and that makes me cough. I could live on this wine. Where
did you get it?"
*' Yon Hildesheim told me of it. It is probably the best wine
in the world."
" Von Hildesheim. Yes. Give me that pipe of Varinas, and
some more of your wine, and I shall be a man. Oh, God ! that
I should have come do\Mi to this ! "
I waited until he chose to speak again. It was not long.
" Y^ou know that woman, D'Estrada, by now."
" I know her perfectly well."
*' What made your aunt take up with her ? "
" Oh, a variety of reasons."
" She had much better have nothing to do with her."
" Of that I am aware ; but I cannot enter into particulars.
'' Are you in love with her ? "
" No," I replied ; "I happen to be in love with some one else."
" Von Hildesheim is."
" So I should suppose."
" My half-brother, Jack Chetwynd, is also."
" He has never seen her."
" They are engaged to be married. She has letters from him
which would compromise a rich man like him ten times over to
the tune of ten thousand pounds. He writes to me, though he
hates me, and he tells me that he intends to marry your sister
Dora."
" That he shall never do," I replied.
" How will you prevent it ? "
"By letting him know that he will marry a buggar," I
answered. "If I know your brother, that will put an end to
the matter."
"It would if he believed it ; but I know a great deal. Y\)ur
sister has got a hold on Mr. Hawkins and Lady Frogmarsh which
will never be shaken. I am fully aware that they disapprove of
346 THE HARVEYS.
the match, if match it ever will be ; but wheu all is said and done,
I am absolutely certain that if my brother were to marry your
sister to-morrow, it would make no material difference. My
brother is very handsome and very rich. He is a most excellent
match. They could scarcely do better with a young lady like
your sister ; for having a very strong will of her own, she will
never marry any one she does not like, and I suspect that she is
stronL{ly attached to Jack."
Really and truly, when I came to think of it, here, so fiir away,
without Jack Chetwynd's exasperating beauty before me, I began
dimly to think that Dora might do a great deal worse.
''After all said," I replied, "I cannot really discuss family
matters with so great a stranger as yourself ; and if there is any
trouble with Madame D'Estrada, I can only say that I could give
an account of her indiscretions which would take the wind out of
her sails."
"Of what indiscretions?" said the dying man. "Name
one."
I was perfectly finished at once. I could not name one.
" Indiscretions ! " he said, with a laugh ; " she never com-
mitted any with me."
"With you?"
"A year ago," he said, " I was one of the handsomest lads in
London ; and I fell in love with her when I saw her play Adalgisa.
She maddened me with those gipsy eyes of hers. I got an intro-
duction to her through my brother, who, from his cold, cruel,
martinet character, has the entree, as a safe man, to all the green-
rooms in England. That woman D'Estrada is more cold, more
cruel, and more calculating than he is ; and she encouraged me,
while she knew that my health was bad ; but when she found that
I was poor, she threw me overboard, and the eyes were transferred
to my brother. She is cleverer than he is, and she got letters
from him, — letters which she showed me at Coblentz."
"Why?"
" Because she had heard of vour sister."
"Uut," I said, " it is not difficult to get rid of her, if Chet-
wynd chooses."
" You speak very coldly, ajid, I lliink, very meanly," said
Chetwynd. "Your sister's happiness must be something to yoii,
surely*? "
"It is a great deal ; but I do not like discussing such matters
with strangers."
"Well," said he, " I can only tell you, for the first aii.l last
time, that this woman, D'Estrada, is in love with niv brother.
THE IIAUVEYS. 347
She never cared for ;i man lulore ; but she cares for him, and woo
betide your sister if she conies between her and my brother."
I slept on the sofa, and morning' came. I arose from my sofa
very silently, k'avini,' Jack Chetwynd's brotlier in my bed, quite
quiet. I bustled about at packing until it was nearly nine o'clock,
and congratulated myself at the soundness of his sleeping. ])ut
at nine I went to wake him to say good-bye.
I went to wake him as I used to wake my brother Dick when
he slept too long, I passed my hands through his hair ; but with-
out effect. I slipped out of the room, and went down to that of
an English doctor, whom I had met the night before. He came
up at once, and rolled the dead man's heavy head over towards
me : livid, with the white teeth showing, but perfectly quiet and
perfectly beautiful.
"Poor fellow," said the doctor; "he has been dead some
hours. Did you feel him move in the night ? "
" I was not sleeping with him. I lay on the sofa."
*' Came to you in distress, in the night, eh ? " said the doctor.
"He told me that he should not live to reach Nice," I said ;
"but he did not complain."
"Nervous shock of some kind, I fancy," said the doctor.
"Did he over-talk himself?"
" Yes, and on a delicate matter," I replied.
"Ladv in the case? "
"Yes.""
" I need not ask whom ; she will make some more victims with
those eyes of hers. Poor fellow ! He came to me at Bertrick,
and I told him that one lung was utterly gone, and that he must
avoid all nervous excitement. It is a comfort to think that noth-
ing could have saved him for a month ; I found that he was
taking cod-liver oil, and I declined my fee. I suppose he w\as
following her ; the worst thing he could have done. Well, I will
go to the mayor and fetch another doctor or so. Y'^ou are an old
friend of his, of course."
"I am an old friend of his half-brother," I replied, "but I
hardly knew- of his existence a fortnight ago."
"Well, telegraph to his brother to come at once. You must
stay here, of course, until he comes. I will put everything in
train for you."
SiS THE HARVEYS.
CHAPTER XXI.
DICK IN A NEW LIGHT.
I WENT at once to the post-office, and sent a telegram to Jack
Chet^vynd, telling him the mouiiiful news, and begging him to
come at once. I then inquired for letters, of which I found more
than one for myself: one for my aunt, and a considerable number
in masculine hands for Madame D 'Estrada, whom I began to
wish at the bottom of the Moselle.
First letter from my father : —
" My Dear Boy, — I will begin by the very best of good news
which your aunt's most secret communication before she started —
viz., that she was going by Treves, Thionville, and Metz, instead
of Paris — enables me to send you, at once.
*' Your brother Dick is entirely provided for. Mr. Hawkins's
kindness is simply unbounded. Mr. Hawkins came here the other
morning, and asked after Dick ; finding that he was not at home,
he asked for me, and having apologised for not having asked for
me at first, said that his visit was not to me at all, but to Dick.
* I shall renew my visit to yo2(, sir, in two days, if you think it
would be convenient for me to see you and your son together.' I
replied that it would do me much pleasure, and he was going
away when he turned and said, in his quaint way, ' Mind, sir,
neither I nor Lady Frogmarsh can possibly assist you in the legal
jDroceedings which must follow on your sermon of last Sunday.
Our principles do not admit of it. In any other way, sir, you can
command us to any extent.' I told him that I entirely trusted to
my sister-in-law and my son, and hoped that he would not think
me disgraced, but remember me as an honest man. He shook
my hand warmly, and departed.
*' In two days he came again, and Dick was at home. Dick had
made a rather good month of it, being only 18s. 4d. -wTong with
his money. I was so cheerful about this, that I received Mr.
Hawkins with a, for me, quite enthusiastic welcome. * Dear sir,'
he said, * I liave come to 8i)e!ik to you about your sou.'
*' Dick, who was lying down, got into a sitting posture, and
Mr. Hawkins went on, speaking to Dick, —
'* * 1 want to ask you, sir, if you think that for a salary of 100/.
a year, paid quarterly, you could contrive to lie on your back in a
bunk on board ship, and occasionally when in })ort take stock of
boxes and barrels, and things of that kiiul. You liave only, do
THE IIARVEYS. 349
you sec,' said Mr. Hawkins, eagerly, * to see tlu'iii ljo on boanl
and to sec them come out again, kee])ing of course a reckoning in
your books. You tliink you could do that ? '
" Dick turned to me. * Tell him about the money, lather,' ho
said.
" I explained that my son was one of the honestest lads and
best sons who ever stepped, when Mr. Hawkins internipted me.
* My dear sir,' he said, ' you need not tell me that a son of yours
is honest ; it goes in the blood ; and deeply as I regret your
sermon of last week, and still more deeply as I regret its conse-
quences, I am absolutely certain that no child of the man who
braved everything to preach that sermon would ever connnit an
act which would disgrace such a noble, though mistaken, father.'
*' I explained as well as I could that Dick never could count
change if it was given to him in a hurry : that once he had com-
mitted the mistake of being five pounds to the good, but that ever
since then he was generally about a pound in the month to the
bad.
** * But this is not a question of counting money,' said Mr.
Hawkins. ' I can't count money if I am in a huny. Do you
know that on one occasion there was a fight in my class (in my
absence, which I fear was very frequent), in which ten squares of
glass were broken, and for w^hich I fined the class 2/. 14s. 6d.
What did I do with that money, sir ? I forgot all about it, and
embezzled it, sir. By the by, I found out afterwards that the
mischief was all done by your son Charles, Dickson, Chet^v}^ld,
and Herbert, throwing at one another the little Leipzig Herodotus,
four of which were found to have gone through the window by the
porter, and a fifth, with the name of Heath in it, through the dis-
secting-room skylight, although the boy Heath stoutly declared to
the last that at that very moment he had been set on the stove in
the middle of the room by Mr. Fearnley, for howling in the
conidor. But I digress. This is only a question of keeping an
account of bales and boxes and such things. Do you think you
could do that, Mr. Dick ? '
" Dick said that he would either do it or jump overboard ; and
so Mr. Hawkins informed him that he was appointed supercargo
of the Lion, which ship was commanded by his own brother.
Captain Hawkins, of the Naval Reserve.
" Captain Hawkins seems as kind as his brother. I asked him
to dinner, and he came from the ship with Dick. The moment
that the wune was put on, he ordered Dick off again to his duty,
and sat alone with me and Miss Lee.
♦* ' That's a fine chap, that son of yours, sir,' he said. ' What
350 THE HARYEYS.
a pity lie didn't come to me five years ago ; but I'll be the making
of him yet.'
" ' What will you make of him ? ' I asked.
" 'A fine sailor, old as he is,' said Captain Hawkins. * It's
late in life ; but a man with the courage of a lion and the activity
of a panther wiU make a sailor any day. Did he ever show any
turn for the sea ? '
" Miss Lee said, without looking up from her plate, yes, that
he had often talked to her of tiying the sea, more particularly
lately. He had also talked of enlisting as a soldier.
'' ' My brother,' said Captain Hawkins, ' says that he is a fool.
How do you find that, miss ? '
" ' He is no fool at aU,' said Miss Lee, looking straight at the
captain. ' No one knows him but myself. Give him physical
action, excitement, and the chance of a career away from this
miserable prison of bricks and mortar in which his life has been
sacrificed, and he wiU be as fine a man as any of you.' After
saying which. Miss Lee rose and left the room.
" ' She's touched,' whispered Captain Hawkins. ' What a
beautiful couple they will make.'
" I said she was a good girl, but that there was not much chance
of their coming together. After which Captain Hawkins launched
out into praises of Dick which utterly surprised me. I went
secretly down to the docks myself the next day, and watched the
deck of the ship for a long time. I was perfectly astounded.
Your brother Dick was a transformed being. A large consignment
had come in, and there he was in his shirt-sleeves with his book,
bawling, ordering every one here and there ; assisting with impos-
sible burdens, and making them possible by strength and dexterity.
The riggers had left the ship, and only a few of the crew were on
board. A block jammed while lifting a heavy case on board ; in
one minute Dick was aloft, creeping along the yardarm until it
made me giddy to look at him. He set the block free, and gave
his orders from aloft as if he had been there all his life, after
which he swung himself down from one rope to another like Leo-
tard. I was utterly surprised. All at once he saw me, and came
on shore. The men passed the word that I was his father, and I
found myself an object of the greatest admiration and respect.
Dick made me have wine in the cabin, and I promised that I
would go down with them to Gravesend, which I did a day or two
after.
** I was more completely surprised at Dick's position than ever.
Captain Hawkins took liiin away from me, and went down into tht»
hold witli him, to consuU him, as he told me afterwards, about the
THE ITARVEYS. 351
slii])'s triiniiiin^'. As for mc, I wiis in;ulo a perfect idol of, aiul for
the first time in my lift' I was entirely proud of l)iek. ' It ain't
too late yet, sir,' said Captain Hawkins to me, with a chuckle.
* What a sailor he will make. Twenty-two is old, hut it's never
too late for such as he. Wliy, lUake was a matter of forty hefore
ever he saw the sea, so to speak. You will excuse my lan^^uaf^e,
but I was hroutfht up rou«^di-and-tund)le, and speak ))lain. My
brother he got the education, and has married a tine lady, more
power to her elbow^ ; but they'll never make a fine f^entleman of
mc, kind as they are. I tell you, sir, that that son of yours ou<^ht
to have had the tar on his breeches (he specified the place, but I
spare you) six years agone. He is a fine fellow.'
" I was to go on shore at Gravesend, and Dick took me aside
and said, ' Father, believe in me through everything. Believe me
to be a fool, but believe me to be no worse. I have been a great
and awful fool, father, and at this last moment I would tell you,
only that I am afraid of your telling Lady Frogmarsh. I will
make a career, and then she can say nothing. You must trust
me. I am not very clear-witted in business, but I am certain that
I had best say no more.'
" I replied, ' I can tmst you, and be proud in you, my boy ;
take my blessing. Have you any message for home ? '
" ' I have ^vl'itten to Dora,' he answered.
** ' Have you no message to Miss Lee ? ' I asked.
" ' Miss Lee ; I do not know such a person,' he said, laughing.
' If you mean the governess, you can tell her to see if she can't get
manied before I come home, or if I make my fortune, I will many
her myself.'
" I went into the boat at the side, and Dick followed me ; when
he kissed me at last, before swinging himself up by a rope, there
was a light in his eyes, for which I am at a loss to account.
" Your ever-loving father,
"Charles Harvey."
Ah ! fiither ! father ! That light in Dick's eyes ! Was it not
in your o"smi as you sat alone with my dead mother, and she spoke
to you, just six months before Dick was bom ?
352 THE HARVEYS.
CHAPTER XXII.
MOKE LETTERS.
" Dearest Lad, — It is all over, or nearly so. My last sermon on
the Church of Thvatira has brought the bishop down on me, and
I am forbidden to preach in his diocese, I went to him to see if
I could do anything at all, and I can only say that I left him with
a love and reverence which I never felt for him before. I told him
boldly (that I should use such a word towards such a gentle man)
that I would not accept the Revelations as canonical. He pointed
out to me that my ordination vows forced me to do so. I then
announced my secession from the Church of England, but he would
not accept my resignation under any circumstances.
" He said, ' Bring your religious difficulties to me in six months,
and then I will decide ; but, in the meantime,' he said, laughing,
' preach you sha'n't in my diocese, nor, if I can help it, in any other.'
" I urged that the question of the Church of Thvatira vitiated
the canonical value of the whole Revelations ; he declined to argue
the matter, saying that he was put there to defend canons, not to
fight for them. I had taken vows to preach the authenticity of
Scripture, and if I attacked their authenticity, I must do the best
work I could out of the pale of the Church of England. I was to
have half a year to consider my position, which was surely not
hard measure. I said no, but that his lordship must consider
that, supposing my convictions to remain the same, I should bo
taking money for parochial work from the Church while I was
holding doctrines different from hers.
" He said, ' So long as I can stop you preaching, I do not care
— if you preached badly I would not care ; but since you have
pronounced these opinions, you have been preaching splendidly,
and your church is getting fuller every Sunday. I shall put a stop
to it. As for the money, as for the wretched pittance you take from
the Church, that is fairly earned by your splendid parish work. Go
on for six months, dear Harvey. Is your mind troubled about the
Liturgy ? '
''^Atha '
" ' Nasian creed,' said his lordship. ' Well, my dear Harvey,
that only conies twice in the next six months, and my chaplain
shall give you a holiday on tliose days. I sujjposc you will go, but
there are six months to think about it. IMeanwliile, I thank God
that you arc not going to Rome, at all events. Do you really
tliink, after all, that you will leave us ? '
THE HARVEYS. 353
** I rt'])litHl tlmt thoro was litth* doubt of it, and tiiat my
prosont clioicc lay l)i'twe('ii i\w Society of Friends, the ^loraviaiis,
and the Priniitivi' ^Methodists. ' This,' said the bishop, ' is abso-
lute moonshine ; those three pure sects are as deeply connnitted
to the l^ible as it stands as we are. Besides, all three are, in
reality. Socialist.'
** I replied that possessing nothing on earth myself, I was
naturally a Socialist, and (you know my way) that the first and
greatest preacher of Socialism was our Saviour.
" I then (with my usual discretion) proceeded to remark that I
believed in the second coming of Christ, and that he would never
come until the world had returned to the oiiginal gospel which ho
preached and died for, — that of pure Socialism. The bishop was
not in the least degree frightened ; he scratched his head a good
deal, and laid his two hands on my shoulders when I went. But
it comes to the same thing in the end. The Church of England
and I part company at the end of six months.
" I am looking at the bread and butter, not for myself, but for
the childreu.
" Your dear father,
"Charles H.\rvey."
Dora to Charles.
''Pear Charles, — I think that you would scarcely know your
pretty sister now, for she is pretty no longer, at least in her own
eyes. My dear, I hate it. If you saw me now you would only
see my clothes. I am a great deal too fine. I thought that I
should like it, but I don't.
" As for news, we are here at Brighton, but we are going abroad.
We are going up the Moselle, and then are to travel in Lorraine,
and ultimately meet your party, and go on to Rome with you.
" I am terribly perplexed about myself. John Chetwynd has
oftered to me, and I have refused him, but I do not want to talk
about myself just now. I want to talk to you about Dick and Miss
Lee. Dick has been set on his legs by Mr. Hawkins, and is a
made man. Miss Lee has told me that they are to be married
after his first voyage, but she seems very much distressed, as
though she distrusted him. I am sure Dick is good, and I told
her so, but she cried very much. She is afraid that he will be
drowned, I think.
" Pa is susptiuled by that tiresome old bishop for saying that
Jericho was not the other side of Jordan, but this side, or some-
24
354 THE HARVF.YS.
thing of that sort. I should think that Pa knew quite as well as
he did. I sat next the bishop at dinner at the palace at Chichester
the other day, and I asked liini whether Jericlio was hi<^her than
Jerusalem. He said he did not know. I said that the IJible said
that a certain man went iloini from Jenisalem to Jericho, and that
therefore Jerusalem nmst he higher than Jericho. He then re-
membered that Jerusalem was. I said that I felt a personal
interest in the question, as Pa seemed to have fallen among
thieves. He said that he was afraid Pa had. He was very nice
and agreeable, and in the morning gave me his blessing, at which
I was very glad. The Crown Prince of Prussia was there, and
talked like the clicking of a clock, so that I longed to contradict
him every moment, but did not dare. Jack Chet\\ynd is after
me ever}^vhere, but what can I do ? The man is in society, and
I cannot avoid him. I rather think that I like him, but I am not
sure,
" Dora.'
CHAPTER XXIII.
I AM EXAMINED ON A CHARCrE OF MURDER.
The removal from Treves of my aunt and Madame D'Estrada was
not delayed by the unfortunate death of poor young C'lu'twTud.
My aunt hurried away to Luxemburg at once, but it was impos-
sible for me to go for many reasons. The young man had left
his own bed, and had died in mine, and, to my immense astcuiish-
ment, I was considered to be under suspicion. At the inquiry
some rather strange questions were put to me by the magistrate,
which I answered with a rather insular dexterity.
*' Have you any belief that the deceased man committed sui-
cide ? "
"No."
** Why not?"
" Because he died of consumption, and wlien I first nu't liim in
TiOiidon, he told nui he was going to Nice to die."
" Had you any object in liis deatli V "
'' How could i have?"
" Tliat is no answer. AVas lie not following Mailauie
D'Estrada?"
"Yes."
THE HAHVEYS. 355
" Wliicli is also your case."
"In wliat sense?"
** You are a<^ain prevaricating^ ; be very careful. Are you not
an admirer of Miulanie D'Estrada? "
" Most emphatically, no."
** You show a <^'reat want of good taste, but this is scarcely
satisfactory. The name of your sister is, I believe, Dora."
I stood perfectly dumb with amazement.
** You are greatly suqirised, and lo()k very guilty. Frankness
and not prevarication will be the best role you can play here.
Chetwyiid, the brother of the dead man, is an admirer of your
sister Dora."
"Curse that Walportsheimer," I thought, "and yet I never
have been drank." Then I answered aloud, " Yes, but she has
rejected his suit."
"Do you approve or disapprove of Mr. Chetwynd's marrying
your sister? Be very careful, and answer more frankly than
you have done hitherto."
I thought that the trath was the best thing in this wonderful
complication, and I said, "I disapprove."
" Exactly," said the magistrate. " Now I have to ask you, did
you ever hear that the living Chetwynd was enamoured of Madame
D'Estrada?"
" I cannot deny "
" Y^'es or no, and be careful/*
"Yes, then."
" Would you prefer a man-iage between your sister and the
living ChetwTud, or a marriage between him and Madame
D'Estrada?"'
" Before God " I began.
" Avoid the use of expletives. They will do you no good.
Answer the last question."
" I would do anything to prevent a man-iage between my sister
and Chetw}iid."
" Exactly," said the magistrate. " Well, you are suspected at
present of removing the younger Chet^NTud in order to get him out
of the way of Madame D'Estrada, and pave the way for his brother
to come into the full light of Madame D 'Estrada's attractions.
This telegram is yours, I believe ? "
" Yes."
" Calling the live brother to come and see after the funeral of
the dead one, on the veiT spot where ^Madame D'Estrada was
only yesterday moniing. This letter of yours is only a copy ; it
was opened at the post-office and copied. You see that you urge
356 THE HARVEYS.
ChetwjTid to come at once, and go on to lAixoniLurg to join your
aunt and Madame D 'Estrada. I am sorry to say it to one so
young and so greatly under suspicion, but if our susi)icions are
in any way true, this is a. very heartless case. We find also that
you have allowed your mind to revel in very unhealthy subjects,
some of them now disagreeably suggestive. Your sketches have
been examined in your absence, and are found many of them to
be of a sanguinary and horrible character. I am right, I think,
in believing that the sketch of the murder of Lord Edward Fitz-
gerald in his bedroom is by 3'our hand."
I had breath enough to gasp out, " Certainly."
"And that the figure of the dying Lord Edward, lying half
naked, is that of your own brother Richard."
I fairly burst out laughing.
" Your levity is ill-timed, sir. This animated sketch also is
signed by your name, and represents the Duke of Clarence
sleeping naked, with the murderers entering his cell. Is the
Duke of Clarence again your brother ? ' '
Alas, it was dear Dick, without a rag on his handsome body.
He had come home the worse for liquor one night, and I had gone
so fai' towards getting him to bed as to strip him as bare as he
was born, but when I oftered to put on his night- shirt, he kicked
me violently in the stomach, and so I drew him as the Duke of
Clarence, and afterwards put in Jack Chetwynd and Will Dickson
as the murderers.
I answered that the nude figure was certainly my own brother.
"Your aftection for your brother nmst be a singular one, sir,
and your mind must be a very strange one, if you can only draw
scenes of murder and horror. Again, I think that the dead
figure marked ' Liberty ' in this sketch is your brother's corpse."
I allowed that it was.
"And the figure dancing on it, and labelled 'Junker,' is an
excellent portrait of myself."
(I had taken him otl' at the cafe in some unlucky moment, and
being at that time very democratic, liad handed the sketch about
among some students and some officers. I was utterly shent )
"I am sorry to say, sir, that you must go to prison, ])ending
the inquiries of the doctors ; " and to i>rison I wt-nt under sns})i-
cion of murder, so entirely dumbfoundered that I liad not one word
to say for myself.
k
THE HAKVEYS. 3.57
CHAPTER XXIV.
PlilSON.
I WAS imnionsoly amused at hcin(* shut up in prison on a suspicion
of murdor, though at times I was very honestly and lairly sad
about the death of the poor young fellow, of whom I had known
so veiy little. It was a small whitewashed cell at the end
of a long passage, in which I was incarcerated, and there was
another prisoner with me, who seemed amazingly rejoiced to see
me. We fraternised at once, though he might have been there
for murder for aught I cared. He, however, was not there for
murder. He (a young shoemaker) had taken more to drink than
suited his constitution, and, coming into the street in broad day-
light, had taken the first young lady he met round the waist, and
by force and violence had waltzed all down the street with her,
then kissed her, and handed her over to a Hauptmann of
Carbineers for the next dance. The young lady being the eldest
daughter of the Biirghmeister, this young man had been sent to
prison for a month to reconsider himself; and so I had the benefit
of his company and conversation, and a capital young fellow he was.
I was in a very in-itated and whimsical frame of mind, and, like
most of old schoolboys, and, indeed, like most English young men,
cast about to see what mischief I could do, and how I could make
myself disagreeable. The means were at hand. There was a
stove full of half-burnt sticks which my young friend the shoe-
maker pointed out as having tempted him in the way of uniting
personal libels on people in authority, but he said he was afraid.
I, however, was not. Before we had our dinner pushed into us,
I had done a scandalous caricature of the King of Pnissia, drunk,
with a dozen champagne bottles round him (those were the days
of King Cliquot, the present king is a very difi'erent man). I
then drew a picture of the Hauptmann and the young lady with
whom my friend had waltzed ; and, in short, drew on the walls in
my best style, everything which I thought would be most disagree-
able to the Prussians.
Yon Lindenau, the governor of the prison, came to see me once
a day, and I used to see his beautiful bro^^^l eyes twinkle when he
looked at these caricatures of mine, although he was never
supposed to see them. I may ^Tite his name do^^'n, for he is
dead now, and I may write it down as that of a pure, noble, worthy
Genuan gentleman. It is no disgrace to France to be beaten by
such men.
358 THE HARVEYS.
I asked him almost at the first, " When are they going to let
me out ? ' '
** Some of your friends," he said, " do not seem very anxious
about you."
''Which friends?"
*' Chetwpid is here, and has buried his brother. He is denied
access to you."
' ' On what grounds ? ' '
" I cannot say. I am but a soldier and a gaoler. Is he your
friend?"
" I should think so."
" It seems strange, then. He might have blo\Mi all this idle
babble of our ridiculous Biirghmeister to the winds by now. The
doctors have jiroved the cause of death and your humanity ; but
Chet^^^^ld has asked for further inquiry, or something of that kind
— I know not what. He says that your character must be utterly
cleared up ; that you are his dearest friend ; that he will make an
international matter of it. In fact, he is leading your consul a
devil of a life. All of which is most exemplary," said Yon
Lindenau, "but it is the last thing he should do if he wants to
get you away from here at once. I could have let you go to your
hotel to-day if he had not made such a noise about the affair. If
you are out of this place under a month, you are lucky. Our
people dislike being bullied, and ChetA\7nd is bullying about
you. Had he taken another tone, there would have been no
difhculty."
I was extremely thoughtful after this, and did not draw any
more caricatures for a day or so ; but my young fellow-prisoner
was so kind and cheerful that I let things go, and worked away
at colloquial German with him. I never sec the moonliglit
stealing into my room now but what I think of the bed which was
opposite mine in those times under the whitewashed wall, with
Hans in it. If eitlier of us thought that the other was awake,
there would be a subdued ''Psh! Psli ! " (so that the sentry
might not hear), and then we would sit up in bed, liglit pipes,
and talk not only politics, but things in general. Hans, like most
shoenuikers, being a Radical and a Freethinker, and I excessively
liiberal in my opinions, we arrived at the most singular results.
AVe started at twelve o'clock one night on the admitted major
that the unit of a State was not tlie agglomerated State, but tljo
individual ; by luilf-past two we had agreed tliat the whole world
was but one State, and that therefore the individual wlio was not
conscious of universal Limity was an unwortliy citizen. After
which, we went to sleep ; but when the gaoler came in tlie next
THE HARVEYS. 350
moniin*^ with our coffee, he found us sittiii;^ on o|»|)o.site hetls, in
our sliirts, iUj^Miin^ as to whctlier pure Ki-puhHciin i)rincii)k'S would
be hkely to ohtain in otlu'r phmets thiin our own. Hans, while
scratt'hin<f his knees, ar^'uin<^' that truth prevailed throu^^di all
space : that ])eniocraey was truth, and that therefore Democracy
was the j^overnin*^ principle in tlu; douhle nehuhe. The ^'aoler
heinj^ appealed to, asked if it was the custom in the do\d)le
nehuhe to get drunk and kiss huri^'omasters' daughters ; which
brought us to earth again, aiul high time, too.
Von Liiulenau came in a few days aftca' (he cann; every day,
but only formally), and told nu; that there was a great deal ol
trouble about my case,— Chetwynd had complicated it by his ill-
tinuxl anxiety for me. He had written a violent letter to the
Prussian and)assa(h)r in Tjondon, which had given great oftence.
The English, said Yon Lindenau, were not popular on the Khine,
and were sometimes very insolent (here he glanced at my carica-
tures on the wall). It was a pity that the English should fancy
that all the world belonged to them. They should behave like
other people. The Prussians were not all innkeepers, who would
take English insults for English gold. The Prussians were vei-y
proud. Chetwynd had insulted every one.
Hans spoke out, — *' This Englishman will insult no one. Ho
has a true international heart." Yon Lindenau laughed, and
looked at my caricatures ; and, with all my London impudence, I
had nothing to say.
''Chetwynd has left here," said Yon Lindenau, " and has left
such a mess behind him that I doubt if you will leave this place
before your new friend the shoemaker. By the by, my friend
the shoemaker, the surgeon and the adjutant of the lOOtli
regiment will wait on you here to-morrow morning, your class is
called out."
" I am to go to the army, then ? "
" Why, you were due last year, but you were passed over, as
supporting your mother. You must go now. We cannot con-
tinue these irregularities."
" I will see after your mother," I said.
"There is no need," said Hans; "she will get my pay. I
wonder if there is any army in the planet Saturn? "
" The principle of Dem — "
" For heaven's sake, stop that nonsense," said Yon Lindenau,
laughing ; " any of our tailors or shoemakers will talk that by the
yard. Here, you Hans, granted that there was an anny in
Saturn, in what metal should it be paid ? "
" In gold," said the incautious Hans. He ought to have said
S6d ^HE HAKVEYg.
in the individual consciousness of the universal lamity ; but he
didn't — he was thinking of his mother.
" But Saturn is lighter than cork ; therefore, how could you
pay an army in gold, with a specific gravity of 20 ? "
I suggested, " Paper thalers."
'* Not a bad suggestion," said Yon Lindenau. *' However,
neither of you are going to Saturn. You must, I fear, stay here
over this monstrously ridiculous business, and Hans must go to
Wasserbilig. Say, Hans, you can go now."
I watched him, and as I did so, I fear there was something more
in my eyes than tobacco-smoke. The young man only glanced
quickly from Yon Lindenau to me, and shook his head. Yon
Lindenau nodded, and left the cell.
Oh, you brutal, barbaric Germans, you hordes of Attila, over-
running the sacred soil of pure and unstained France, what mea-
sure shall be meted to you for your innumerable sins ? Ask the
starving and ruined peasants of Lorraine, among whom we saw
you after Gravelotte, and St. Privat, moving about like noble,
beneficent gods among a people who were still their enoniies, but
with whom the Germans were sharing their last ration. When a
man has seen what I and Mr. Watson, the Quaker, saw of the
behaviour of the Germans in Lorraine, after the great battles,
one's mind is filled with a profound contempt for the French press,
which nothing will ever wipe away. Wliat hope is there for a
nation which lives on lies, like the French ? but we can look
nearer home, and be shamed. False as the French press was
during the war, the Irish national press is far worse. Hans would
not go — he would stay in prison with me.
CHAPTER XXV.
OFFICIOUS FRIENDS.
My good friend Jack Chetwynd, in his ferocious friendship, had
succeeded in making me rather a notorious character. Granby
Dickson, kindest of littk; men, and most indiscreet of friends,
happened to have fallen out with the Foreign Minister on some
subject, and hurled me at his liead (so to speak) in the House,
as the original Civis Ilonianus, in comparison with wliich all
others were fraudulent imitations and uiitradesman-like false-
THE HAllVEYS. 3(;i
hoods. The Forei<^'n Minister h;i(l to (Irfciifl himself against
Gninhy Dickson, and in doing so, he lonnd it necessary to
l)]at'kt'n njy cliaracter in a terri])h' way. (iranhy Diekson
described nie as a young artist ol" great ])eisonal attractions,
whose name was known wherever the word Art was known.
He said tliat I was pining in a foreign gaol, a comnion felon's
gaol, and tiiat the Consul at Treves had been refused admittance
to me, although he was perfectly aware that I was in a cell with a
young man Avho had been convicted of felony. Granby Dickson
wanted to know whether the Foreign Secretarv called tliis carrvini^
on the business of his oftice, and protecting British citizens
abroad.
1 never read such a flattering account of myself as Granby
Dickson (who had never seen me, and had only known my name
for twenty- four hours) gave of me in the House of Connnons. The
account of the Foreign Minister was altogether ditierent.
The Foreign ]\Iinister Avas extremely famous for ministerial
rejilies ; I have heard some very queer ministerial replies lately ;
but 1 franldy confess that as lar as my knowledge goes, no minister
ever turned white into black as that old diplomatist did in my case.
I got the account of the w^holc debate from tbc Cohxjne Gazette
which Yon Lindenau brought me, and when I read the reply of
our Foreign Minister, I said to Von Lindenau " yr^^t o-fauroi'."
The Foreign Minister said : —
" The protection of the British Government would of course be
extended to any British subject, however unworthy, in any part of
the Avorld, however remote (cheers). He need hardly say that ;
tl.'c blockade of Athens was doubtless fresh in the mind of the
House. Every means should be taken to see that the dark asper-
sion cast on the young man in question should be cleared up.
But, at the same time, he would beg to call the attention of his
honourable friend (Granby Dickson) to a few facts. The case of
the Pnissian Government against Mr. Charles Harvey was un-
doubtedly strong ; and were a young Prussian or Frenchman in
prison in England on such an accusation, and should the extradi-
tion of that young Prussian or Frenchman be demanded by either
nation, he for one would resist it at the risk of war (enthusiastic
cheering). It might be said that we were unfit to go to wiir. (No !
no !) We might be or might not be, he w^as not there to discuss
the matter ; but if we were to go to war, and the progrannne of
his honourable friend (Granby Dickson) meant war or nothing,
let it be for a worthy object. War with Prussia would cost at least
70,000,000 of money, and in case of an alliance between Prussia
and Kussia, the loss of the overland route to India. He was per-
362 THE HARVEYS.
fectly satisfied to sacrifice all to save a worthy citizen : was this
young man Harvey a worthy ci^jzen ? He feared that he must
answer, No. His honourable friend had described him as an artist
whose works were kno^\'n wherever art was known. Now, he (the
Foreign Minister) had spent three times the sum he had ever re-
ceived from the State in the wav of salaiy in a long, and he tnisted
not altogether useless career (tremendous cheering) in buying
modern pictures and in encouraging young artists, yet he had
never seen one solitary production of this young man Harvey, nor
had ever heard of one. My honourable friend (Granby Dickson)
speaks of this young man's personal attractions ; of course there
is no disputing about tastes, saving that there is such a thing as
good taste and bad taste ; and as a matter of detail, I met this
very young man at a party at Lady Frogmarsh's a month or so
ago, and that he was described to me as a most ridiculous and
bumptious young snob."
" I rise to order," from Granby Dickson.
'* I am using another's words, and although I may be put down
by clamour, I may have time to say that I saw the young man
long enough to make me endorse my friend's opinions of the young
man. His character is far from good : he was expelled from
school, and was being sent to Rome by the charity of Lady Frog-
marsh, when this charge of foul play comes upon him, and my
honourable friend takes up his case, not in the most polite way in
the world. As for his pining in a Prussian gaol, that is simply
nonsense — he is perfectly well cared for, and shares his room with
a most respectable young man, who is accused of, of — let me see —
of waltzing on Sunday."
" That is no sin in Germany," growled Granby Dickson.
*' Ah ! but, like you, he waltzed to the wrong tune."
The House thought this a splendid piece of wit, and laughed
like a French National Assembly over it.
The deliberative sides having ceased to ache, the Foreign
Minister concluded by saying that in the present stage of the
question he should do notliing at all.
Granby Dickson made notliing by his motion, except getting our
country laughed at, and getting me detained by tlie Prussians,
without a soul allowed to see me.
N.B.— If you get into any small trouble in Germany, dou't
come the Civis Romanus dodge, as my dear frii'ud »]iu-k Chetwynd
did for me.
Conceive the transcendent absurdity of a Prussian or an Ameri-
can doing it here. Remember that we, on sentimental i)ohtifal
grounds, habitually receive the men who are bound to bathe Kurope
THE HARVEYS. 3«J3
in Mood for tlicir oiuls. I saw (i;iri])iil(li como up Parliaiiicnt
Stivt't in till' Duke ot" Sutlicrlaud's cania;^'*'— a j^ross political
insult to 12(),(X)0,()()0 of men. I have stood at IJradlau^'h's elbow
(he (juite unconscious) when he has denounced every iorin of ])re-
scut society. Manning' j,'ives us over to the devil periodically, ]»ut
no one interferes with him in any way ; yet we ruh on with veiy
little friction. I take it, that the (ieniians are the people who ^'et
on with the least friction. Yon Liudeiiau was a Catholic, and he
saw my great cartoon of the Pope bein«( fried in a fryin^^-pan, but
he did not care, he only su^'^'i'sted that I was the }»ro]»er man to he
in the fryhi^'-pau. Yon Adler came to me with my dismissal, and
he said —
'* You are a Democrat, I also ; but obedience is the first duty
of democracy."
However, Chetwynd had got his will of me, and it was six weeks
before I and Hans parted at the door of the prison — he to AVasser-
bilig, I to Luxembiug and Metz.
CHAPTEPt XXYI.
THE GLACIS.
I HAVE seen Metz under rather painful circumstances — that is to
say, with the Archduke Charles tearing on night and day past it
towards the dark night and fury of Sedan. It looked very' beautiful
with the old, glorious cathedral soaring above the sea of cannon -
smoke and the burning villages. German friends told me that
Metz was doomed, but I did not believe them. I could not believe
that the queen of the Moselle was doomed. I had got to like Metz
so many years before, in my first dream of life and freedom, that
I could think that no evil could befall her, peerless among fortresses.
"\Yhen I first saw Metz I was an idle and foolish boy, and I fell in
love with the town at once, though I approached it in the most
dismal weather. You see that I had been sutiering a long course
of imprisonment, and so even Luxend)urg, under Prussian Govern-
ment, was cheerful compared to Treves.
I got letters at Luxemburg. My father had walked into the
desert, refusing the tents of Kdom. There was evidently no money
in that quarter, and so I sent some of my own. Miss Lee was
364 THE HARVEYS.
extremely ill, always " on lier back," as my father said, and it was
absolutely necessary that Dr. Dash should see her every day for a
long time. I thought whether or no Miss Lee would be ill for a
twelvemonth, and calculated her expense at 365/. a year. I rather
wished that my brother Dick had married her, and taken her to
sea as a stewardess.
Will Dickson wrote to me, and told me a deal of old gossip,
quite worthless to me now, about the old boys and about every
one. He told me to be very careful about Jack Chetwynd, and I
promised myself to be so.
There was a letter from Chet^vynd also, a very odd letter, He
told me that they were all at Metz, and by all I found he meant
my aunt, Madame D'Estrada, Von Lieber, and also, to my pro-
found astonishment, Mr. Hawkins, Lady Frogmarsh, and Dora.
I suppose that I was utterly dazed with my long confinement, but
I turned the matter over and over again. How could they have
got together ? Yet it was very simple. Lady Frogmarsh had
told my aunt of her intention of going by Metz, and my aunt had
waited for her there on her way to Rome, in order that they might
all go together, and that the D'Estrada might travel with tlie great
Lady Frogmarsh. / was completely, as it seemed, left out in the
cold. I really was in no hurry to push on to Metz ; but I inquired
about the trains pastTliionville, and found that there was one in the
morning which would suit, after which I sauntered out to look at
this terrible land Gibraltar, called Luxemburg, probably the most
tremendous fortress in the Avorld. After having found the hour of
the table d'hote at the Hotel do Cologne, I walked out to look
round me. Luxemburg is a very pretty and charming place, but
I am not at all sure that its attractions are increased by finding
yourself under a state of suspicion. I discovered very soon in
Luxemburg that I was a ^vatched man. The uniform of a Luxem-
burg policeman is very pretty, perh<i]is the prettiest known, but
one would like to see botli the fortifications and the lt)wer town
without a mow/ianl dogging one's heels. I could not.
I was several days at Luxend)urg, and I made friends. I
generally do. One evening, at tlie Hotel de Cologne, Louis,
the landlord's son, tohl me tliat 1 was watched.
I replied that I was perfectly aware of the fact. But as what,
for example '?
Louis could not say. We were all French there, he believed.
I, being a violent (Jei-iiian, said "Yes."
Monsieur, then, was not only watched by the Prussians, whom
the devil confound, but by one of his own countrvmcn, a detective,
who had come to tlir Hotel de Trovence two liours ago. Monsieur
THE HARVEYS. 3G5
was a good man in cvcit way, but it was tlio duty of Louis to toll
Monsit'ur that I was watclud l»y an Kn<,'lislinian.
" Wliat, then, should I do, kind Louis ? " I asked.
"For the general nothing, for the particular go out on to the
enccintr and see if he follows you. You can then trust me."
I then went out on to the glacis, through tiie trees ; I went out
on to tlio open towards the cafe, blazing with light, and when I
got near the cafe I saw a solitaiy figure stealing across the glacis
towards me.
My mind was made up. I went into the cafe and ordered beer
amonn' the Piiissian soldiers, but I liad my eve on the door. I
threw a Napoleon to the waiter, and said that I would be back for
change at once. I saw the figure approaching over the glacis,
and I ran' to meet it. I met it. I said, '' Sir, you are watching
me." And he said, " Charlie Haiwey, IJiave been watching you."
The next instant I was shaking hands with dear old Will Dickson.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A DUEL.
I NEVER was SO much surprised in my life. Will Dickson was the
veiy last man I should have expected to see. I asked him what
he did there in the name of confusion, and he added to my
confusion by telling me that he had been watching me.
" But, dear old fellow," I said, " why did you not come to me
at once ? "
" Because you are watched by others."
" How extremely ridiculous, dear Will. No one can have any
anger against me."
" Well, you will see in time. I did not wish to meet you for
these reasons. I am perfectly certain that you are watched by
others than myself, and that a duel will be fastened on you sooner
or later about that D'Estrada woman. Now, if you had let me
alone and not recognised me, I should have taken the simple old
plan of denouncing that duel to the police. Since you have dis-
covered me, I can do nothing of the kind. I can only go as your
second."
" Good heavens, my dear Will, what do you mean ? "
** I heard about you at the students' cafe at Treves. You have
366 THE HARVEYS.
received the most marked attention frcvm Madame D'Estrada,
and one man, at least, is deteimined to maim you. One Yon
Hildeslieim."
*' I simply have fought the woman as I never fought a woman
in my whole life. I dislike her, and am I not engaged to your
OAMi sister ? ' '
Will Dickson laughed. '' Do you suppose," he said, *' that I
or J\Iary distrust you for one instant ? By no means ; we know
your worth, innocence, and truth ; but did you never distrust any
one ? Did you never distnist Chetwsiid ? "
'* I cannot believe it," I said.
'* You will have a bullet into you if you do not. He has gone
away after Madame D'Estrada, to announce that it is all over
between them, or to enjoy her society a little longer. At Metz
he will meet your sister Dora, much to his astonishment. I will
not bring her name into the discussion ; that is a matter which
must take care of itself. There may or may not be a scene and
an esclandre^ but one thing is absolutely certain, he will take most
excellent care that you are not present. You are in a perfect
cobweb of plots, and I followed you stealthily to watch you and to
seiTe you, for I love your sister and I love you. I love your sister
without hope, but I love you with the hope that you may requite
my love."
"Will," I said, "is it not requited already? Are you not
Maiy's brother "
"Well, never mind the sentimental part, old boy," he inter-
mpted. "It is quite enough that each of us knows that he would
go to the deuce after one another. What are you going to do ? "
" Start for Metz to-morrow morning."
" I would advise to-night," said Will.
" The last train to Beltemburg is gone, and we should have to
post. I will go if you like, but I would sooner wait and pack."
Dick told me aftcnvards that he had a foreboding that 1 should
never get there at all. I, on the other hand, was extremely
anxious and nervous. I could scarcely believe in the villainy of
Jack Chet^vynd, so far as to think that he would plant assassins
in my path, still I thought more and more of my late incarcera-
tion, and the more I thought of it the less I liked it.
There are few more melancholy places than the glacis of
Luxemburg on a dark, rainless, moonless niglit. It is bad
enough on a bright summer's day, wlien one is lying witli one's
ear to the ground, listening for tlie concussion of distant cannon,
so that one may guess their direction, and clatter away over tho
rough stones to get as near the carnage as possible ; but it is
THE HAKVEYS. 867
worse at iiiL,'lit, when the wind IVoni the down moves the fjrass
like a dead man's hair, and makt's tlie trees talk secrets to one
another ahont tlie old wiekcd slau^'htors which took place there
before thev were j)lant('d. JiOnj^'wy, with all its amazing' hcanty,
is not particularly lively when one is waitin^^ for the horrible
rattle of the (rennan i^nns to arouse the wolf and the boar from
their lair ; but i'or unutterable melancholy, I would <^'ive the palm
to bald do\Mis which surround the vir^'in Luxemburg. That ni^lit,
as we returned to the town, even thou^di I had Will Dickson's ann
in mine, I *jjot on me a stranj^e superstitious fit, such as I had
never had before. As we approached the Sitch between the scarp
and the counterscarp, I asked Will to come back with me, and
sleep at the little cnfr by the rose garden.
" I don't think that that would be any good, old boy. If they
wanted you they would find you there or anywhere. Face it out !
You have done nothing for which any man can challenge you ;
you have only got to keep your temper, and the devil himself
can't hurt us. You are low in your mind : come do^vn to the
Cafe de TEurope, and we will have grogs. Don't be superstitious.
I will cheer you up. I was here last year, and I know all kinds
of good fellows at the Cafe de I'Europe. Did you ever speak to
a Minister of State ? "
'* Never," I said, laughing.
" Then you shall. Tlie Minister of the Interior ot Luxemburg
will be there, and very likely the Minister of Education and
of Finance. Come along, and spend a cheerful evening."
I agreed, and uttered rather a round oath against cut-throats
and villains. As we reached the drawbridge the Prussian sentry
called to us to be quick, and just after we had rattled over the
drawbridge, click — up it came, and I wa ^. shut into Luxemburg,
as I said, like a rat in a trap.
I then became very jocose, and possibly a trifle wild, for I was
determined to forget everything for this one night, and I had the
brother of the woman I loved best in the world with me, which
was the next best thing to having her. Inside the second gate,
there was a young lady, who sat under an umbrella, with a lantern,
and sold grapes. I bought grapes of her, and overpaid her very
much ; after which I kissed her, and, with her fullest consent,
waltzed down the street among the Prussian soldiers with her, in
imitation of my prison friend, while Will Dickson took charge of
the umbrella and lantern. This was considered a very brilliant
idea for an Englishman, and my example was followed by many
Pnissian soldiers. There were plenty of young wonu'n, I believe
all perfectly respectable, who had no objection to a dance, and one
368 THE HARVEYS.
brilliant sergeant, having fetched a tipsy Savoyard out of a cafe^
made him grind his organ, and we had a perfect ball ; — Will
Dickson all the time keeping my young lady's stall, and selling
her goods at most outrageous prices. I changed my partner three
times, and when the cavahy patrol came round, a militaiy evolution
took place never dreamt of by Von Moltke. All the couples waltzed
in amongst and around every horse, including that of the Haupt-
mann and Lieutenant, while they were going at a foot-pace.
Every man in that section of cavalry enjoyed the fun ; still they
all went on like so many undertakers at a funeral, but grinning
at us all the time. When the Herr Hauptmann got to the gate,
he wheeled his men at a walk, and turned back again with a
clashing of sabres, surrounded by a cloud of dancers. When
shall we in Great Britain know the meaning of the French word
" bonhomie "i?
We could have drunk to any amount entirely without cost ; but
we tasted not one drop of any kind of liquor. When I came back
to the grape-stall, I found my first partner installed once more,
nearly all her stock gone, and a considerable pile of Dutch and
German money by her. She asked Will Dickson to marry her,
for he was such a good hand at shopkeeping ; he got three times
the price she could. Will could not give her a definite answer at
that moment, he said ; she must give him time to consult his
parents. So we laughed, and separated, in the highest of good
humour, just as innocent as so many children.
The Cafe de I'Europe, at Luxemburg, in those days of the
Prussian garrison, was a very different place to what it is now.
The green Dutch uniforms were rather in the shade, and the dark
blue predominated. Now Herr Commandant comes in, with his
sword on, clashing it as loud as you please. Li those days Herr
Commandant was nobody, and used to leave his sword at home,
and come in with his swivels hooked together. Herr Com-
mandant, however, now is a very great and important man, un-
troubled by the blue uniforms. I saw him the other day at the
Cafe de I'Europe, with the cares of State on his brow, 500,000
Germans were hunting 300,000 French past his frontier, at Eshe,
and he had felt it necessary to send forty young men to see that
the neutrality of Luxemburg was not violated. But at this time
the INIinister of the Interior was a very modest man indeed. On
introduction, he received me most ati'ably, and we sat down at
a table together. We had not long been sitting here, when three
Prussian olliccrs came in.
This was extremely unusual at this cafe — it was almost entirely
used by Ijuxcmburg people. I saw at once that one of the ottioi'rs
THE IIAUVEYS. 869
was Yon Licbor, ami I t'oivLodcd no iijood. I advanced, however,
to take the liand ot* niy very jolly old friend, and was very niiicdi
suqirisod to find that he drew himself up to his full height, and
refused to speak to nu\ I only ])<)wed. Oli, tliat deadly moment,
it makes my heart beat so terribly even now, when I think of it,
and of the horrible ruin which followed. Will called to mc that
he was taken ill suddenly, and must be led home. Yon Ijieber
took care that he should not bo baulked of me, and he struck me
heavily on the chest.
I reeled, and I frankly confess that I ^t^rew sick and faint. I
looked at him, and I said, " Yon Lieber, Yon Lieber, after so
many years ! "
" What did you say of me to Chctwynd ? " he asked. *' Liar
and scoundrel, take that! " and he struck me again. It was all
over.
I returned his blow, w^itli sudden madness and ferocity. The
poor, innocent, honest young fellow only replied, " I think that is
enough," and walked away, while Yon Hildesheim followed me to
the table, wdiere Will Dickson sat.
** Gentlemen," he said, very quietly, "I suppose you imder-
stand what is meant Avlien blows are given and returned between a
Prussian officer and an English gentleman in a garrison-to^vn ? "
I replied quite calmly, that, of course, we knew, and that Yon
Lieber and I must meet in the morning. I had no apology to
make, but I wished him to explain to his friend that his mind was
disgracefully abused by some villain about me, and that if the
truth should ever come out, he would as deeply regret our ren-
contre as I did.
Yon Hildesheim said that that little devil, D'Estrada, ought to
be hung, and that it Avas perfectly certain that the whole thing
was a mistake : but he added that no explanation was now
possible, in consequence of the very strong action of his friend.
He had begged his friend Yon Lieber to request an explanation
from me, but he was quite out of his mind when he thought,
rightly or wrongly, that a man like myself, a veiy dear old school-
fellow, who had so entirely engaged his love, and had interchanged
kisses with him, had traduced him in a very shameful manner
behind his back. It was too late for explanations now.
I told Will Dickson at once to oiler )io)ie, and requested him to
act for me in all particulars, only reseiwing my right as regarded
this one. I was the challenged party, and had a right to select
my weapons.
I was utterly and entirely ignorant of sword -practice, and to
make me tight with a sword with a man of the courage and
370 THE HARVEYS.
dexterity of Von Lieber, would Lu a mere murder. I therefore
insisted on pistols.
Von Hildeslieim said that there would be no dithculty made,
and I went home, and, to my own great astonishment, fell fast
asleep at once, and never woke until Will Dickson roused me at
three o'clock in the morning. Even then I was not in the least
degree nervous. I fancy that temperate young men, who take
much physical exercise, very seldom are. I was a good deal
friyhtened when I came to the ditch w'here w^e were to fight, but
not enough to make my hand tremble. We were first on the
ground, and as I had made Will promise not to talk to me, I
amused myself by looking at the weeds which grew in the masonry
of the scarp and counterscai*p, and at the narrow sky above the
walls, over which the beautiful morning was just flushing.
" How like a great grave this is," I said. " I wonder. Will, if
they will let you bury me here. I should like to lie here."
" Don't talk like that. We will dine at the Hotel do I'Europe
to-night. Here are the other party."
Eight officers came round the corner of the ditch, four of whom
came towards us, and shook hands in the most friendly manner.
I was so very much distressed at Avhat was going to happen, that
I swore (in my own mind) eternal friendship to those four officers ;
an oath I have kept towards two of them, but two lie out on the
hillsides of Champagne.
''You being both civilians," said one burly Pomeranian, '* we
came to give our advice and assistance. Have you loaded ? "
Will said yes.
*' I suppose you do not mind going through the form of
changing weapons ? "
'' Not at all ; w'e only want the most perfect fairness."
" This exchange will be perfectly unfair to you," said the
officer. " Your pistol is rifled. Von Lieber' s is not."
" I insist on the exchange," I said.
But they would not have it, and a German cavalry pistol A\as
given to me.
I fired straight at Von Lieber, and at the same instant the end
had come. There was a horrible grinding crash in my right Mrist
among the metacarpal bones. I dropped the pistol, and had I
been among Englishmen, would have cried out ; but I could not
cry out before foreigners, and I stood with my lamed arm beside
me quite still and silent, not yet aware of the horrible ruin wliich
had happened to me. They were round nic at once - poor Von
Lieber cursing himself for a murderer — and they laid me down on
a cloaii. The doctor looked at mv wrist.
Till-: HAUVEVS. 371
" It is a connniiiuted IVactiiio iiniMH^f the iiictiiciJiinil bones.
He will lU'Vcr use his liLjlit hiiiid !i;^Miii in tiiis world. "
*' My Cxod ! " I heard Will Dickson say. *' He is a painter,
and the whole bread ot" his family depends on his exertions."
" He will never paint again," said tlie doctor. And then I
died.
I
CHAPTER XXVlii.
PURGATORY.
Will Dickson, who is now a coroner, and who has seen as many
corpses as another, tells me invariably that I was for fourteen
hours as like a coqDse as any one he had ever seen. At the end
of fourteen hoiu's the Sister of Mercy closed my eyes ; but when
he and she came to me again, my eyes were open, and I was
moaning. I knew him ; but I was uneasy at the black robes of
the Sister, and asked her if I was dead.
"Will told me that I had had a great nervous shock, which had
produced catalepsy, but that I should live.
" Have they cut my hand off ? "
" No ; I will not let them do that."
'* Let me die first, Will. Swear it to me."
" My dear Charlie, the operation would kill you, and so it will
not bo done. You are greatly better. Drink this wine."
I drank it greedily, and then I said —
" I want to see Yon Lieber. I shall die again if I do not see
him."
There was a whisper and a consultation while I dozed, and
when I awoke he was beside me. " Can you forgive me ? " I
said.
*' Can I ever forgive myself? " he said, sobbing, and putting
his ann round me.
" Liars," I said, feebly.
"Dickson has told me all he knows, and that is enough to con-
vict Chetwynd. It was he who made the mischief between us,
none but he."
" Will," I said, " you must not leave me ; and Yon Lieber, I
want a promise from you."
" I will promise anything."
" Promise that you will never go near Chetwynd on this
372 THE HAKVEYS.
business. It is possible that he may marry my sister. If you
kill him you may kiU my brother-in-law."
** I sAvear to you that I will never fight another duel in my
life," said Yon Lieber. How he kept his Avord will be seen in
the sequel.
Ptuined, utterly mined, as I was, I recovered fast with the help
of the German gamson, to whom my most unutterable misfortune
had made me a sacred creature. I never remember to have woke
during the daytime without finding a big German at my bedside
or near it. They found out that I was very fond of cards ; but
here occurred a dilficulty. Not only now was it totally impossible
that I could use both hands, but it was perfectly certain, or nearly
so, that I could never use both hands again.
So Will Dickson sorted my cards for me, and played which I
told him. I would now play for hours together often and often
with my late adversary, I have had ladies, aye, and fine ladies,
in my room playing with me ; and as for flowers, my room was a
flower-garden. Every one pitied the unhappy young English
artist, whose life and hopes had been so utterly and pitilessly
ruined on one fatal morning.
One day I got Will Dickson to bring me a cardboard and some
chalk, and tried to draw with my left hand. I saw instantly that
the thing was utterly and entirely hopeless, and for the first time
burst into a wild passion of tears.
My life was utterly doomed ; and when monseigneur the good
bishop came to me that afternoon, I asked him to tell me about
men who had found solace in the cloister from an unhappy life,
and had so passed quietly away towards another world. Mon-
seigneur was not so eloquent on that point as I expected him to
be. He came again, and I had a newspaper in which there was
an account of a suicide. I asked him did he believe that the
man's soul was lost for ever. He rather sternly said that he had
no doubt whatever about tlic fact.
'' Lead a true life, my son, and do not let the devil put such
thoughts into your head."
What thoughts ? I was in purgatory : not such purgatory as
that of which one reads in the dream of Gerontius, but in a
purgatory where there was no hope at all. I was utterly and
irretrievably ruined.
THE HAliVEYS. 373
CHAPTER XXIX.
CIKT. D ALSACE.
London was veiT dreary, and the more dreaiy when I found
myself utterly deprived of all my hopes as regards my future life.
jMy father received me at our dingy old door with the highest
delight as his heroic hoy. " I always knew your courage, my
dear," he said. " You were always full of pluck. I am afraid
that I am a great pagan for not scolding you ; hut really I cannot."
'* Do you know, lather, that I am returned on your hands as a
hopeless cripple — that I am of no good at all — that hy no possi-
hility can 1 earn a living ? "
*' My dear hoy," said my fjither, '' you are quite mistaken. I
see no reason why we should not be extremely rich. Since I have
got rid of the pupils, and have got that load off my mind — that
religious load, you know — I have been much brighter and cleverer.
You and I must keep an artist's shop, and borrow the money from
old Hawkins. Why, your knowledge of colour and drawing, and
art generally, besides the reputation of your incredible misfortune,
will be sure to bring business. We may die aldermen."
I laughed as I kissed him, and yet there was method in his
madness.
" Where is Miss Lee ? " I asked.
''Miss Lee, who has been more than a daughter to me, is by
no means well. She is upstairs, and has been so disturbed by
your accident, my dear boy, that she went upstairs as soon as she
heard of your arrival."
" What money are you getting, father ? "
**77('rt^w," he said; " abimdance. Three pounds last week —
three pounds, I give you my word, teaching Latin onhj. I shall
have more to do than I can manage soon."
" You can hardly keep house for the children, and keep them at
school for that. Y^ou said they were at school ? "
"To be sure. I have hardly had time to tell you anything.
It was so good of Lord Hainault. I wrote to him a ' My Lord '
letter, asking him for a presentation to Christ's Hospital for
Hany, and he ^vi'ites back, ' Dear old fellow, I will get you a
dozen.' And so Hari-y and Jack are both in leather breeches and
3'ellow stockings, as hapi)y as kings."
"I shall paint that man's portrait for nothing," I said. And
then my hideous affliction flashed across me, and I buried my
head on the table.
374 THE HAKVEYS.
" You must not do that," said my father, humedly. ** Charlie,
I can't bear it." I recovered at once.
"I can teach something, father. I am sorry I gave up the
Classics for the Art which has ruined me ; but I can teach the
younger boys. You were right in our old discussion, and I was
wrong."
"I don't allow it," said my father. '' Now go upstairs to the
old schoolroom and find my new daughter, Miss Lee ; by the
way, there is no news from the flying squadron — I mean yoiu'
aunt and Madame D'Estrada, who, it seems, are now joined by
Chetwynd and the Hawkins-Frogmarsh party. Go up to Miss
Lee, my boy."
I was going upstairs very quietly, when I saw Miss Lee standing
on the landing above me. When I caught sight of her I gave a
low groan, and reeled against the banisters. She had seen my
look and had covered her face with her hands. As she stood
where she was, I saw utter woe. My father might be old and
blind, but I saw in one instant that Miss Lee was with child. I
felt so sick and faint, and my wound was tingling so with neiwous
excitement, that I could scarcely follow her into the room, where
she sank down sobbing. I left her to speak first, for I had
nothing to say.
" Oh ! Charles, how shall we ever break it to our dear fiither?
Oh ! Charles, I am so very sorry, but Dick would have it so, and
I never could refuse him anything. My poor darling on the wild
sea!"
'' It will kiU my father," I said.
" Oh ! I am sure he will forgive me, Charles — I am sure he
will forgive me. I am sure my heart was nearly broken about
you and your duel ; and I am sure you will forgive me now, and
help me."
*' God knows I will forgive you ; but I am fearfully angry with
Dick. You nmst get away to another house until it is all over.
We can keep it secret."
*' ]^ut I haven't got another house to go to," said the poor girl.
*' And I haven't got any money."
*' I can find the money, if we can only hide the matter."
" He would have it so," moaned Miss Lee. " I told him that
it wasn't riglit to deceive Mr. Hawkins, or any one ; but lie said
that Mr. Hawkins would be angry with him, and I said tliat Mr.
Hawkins was a most forgiving man. I told him so before ho
went away to sea a score of times, but lie was very resolute, and
I never knew what was going to liappcn until a very litth' time
before he sailed. And when he heard it, it made a ui'W man of
THE IIARVEYS. 375
him, and made liim so lia|)i\y that I kept my word to liim. I
know tliat 1 was very wroiiL,' to yield to him, hut I promised him
that I would be a good wife to him the morning we were mar-
ried
'* When you wore whut/ " I shouted. (My nephew Charles is
none the worse for that sliout, hut a strong child.)
" When we were married," said ^liss Lee, amazed and puzzled.
" Dick said that if we got nuirried something would turn up ; aiul
so we wen' man'ied, and something has turned up. I go out as a
daily governess now."
" My sweetest sister, I am so happy," I said, kissing her
heartily. " Father must he told at once."
'*Do you dare?"
I left her without a word. "Father," I said, "Mrs. Harvey
has deputed me to tell you of her marriage with your son."
" Dick married ! "
" Married ]\Iiss Lee before he went to sea, and she is going to
be confined before long."
"Oh, indeed!" said my father; "we shall get rich at this
rate ; but we shall be happier for this, Charlie. Bridget, go out
and buy a bottle of the very best port wine. Mrs. Harvey must
have port wine now."
CHAPTER XXX.
THE HEIR.
I WILL not conceal the fact that we were most miserably poor, but
that we were by no means unhappy, unless it was because we
could get no solitary word from Dora or my aunt.
There was an entire cessation of all correspondence. It was
extremely probable, as my f\ither pointed out, that Mr. Hawkins
w'as excessively angry with me in consequence of my ill-starred
duel.
" Evangelical people," my father rather sarcastically remarked,
for he had had an arrow or two out of the evangelical bow in his
downfall, from the Record, " don't hke duels. I am sure they
began on me, before I began on them. I doubt you are in
disgrace there, my lad. I sha'n't fight your "battle in that quarter.
Hawkins has got to lend me four hundred pounds to start that
shop, and do it he shall ; so I will not quarrel with him at aD."
376 THE HARVEYS.
" But my aunt," I pleaded, '' she would have written."
" Did you ever see a letter of hers ? " said my father.
''No."
''Nor any one else," said he, triumphantly. "Lily," that"
was the name we had given Dick's J'oung wife, " did jou ever see
a letter of hers ? "
"I always used to write them," said Lily; "once or twice
Dick did. But I generally wrote them. Father, dear, I want
fifteen shillings to-morrow."
"Bahy linen?" said my father, stroking his chin. "All
right, I can manage that ; there are Biddy's wages due on
Saturday, sweetheart."
" I have eighteen pounds left," I remarked, eagerly.
"Here is a boy for you," said my father, proudly. " Here is
a lad for 3'ou. Comes in at the last moment with a princely
fortune : he will make our fortune yet, in spite of his maimed
hand. I vote that we go do^ii the river w^th his money."
" Let us do so," I said, eagerly, " if the Lily of Devon is able:
let us go to Putney, to the Hawkins's house, and hear what they
have to say."
"Agreed," said Lily; and my father said —
" Although on pleasure he was bent,
He had a frugal mind."
The Lily of Devon being perfectly agreeable, we went up to
Putney, and invaded the Hawkins's property.
There was certainly nothing said there as yet to prevent my
taking the rank as first favourite in it. The butler treated me as
heir to the family, and insisted on our having lunch, and any
number of flowers.
I explained to the butler that the lady with us was the lea-tiful
Miss Lee of their grand party ; that she was married 10 my
brother Richard, whom I described as a man far on his way
towards the post of an admiral (in the Naval Reserve, I put in,
to keep some semblance of veracity). I said that she was far
gone in the family way, and that we expected a certain event very
shortly. This brought the women of the household out, and we
were petted and feasted to that extent that Lily told me privately
that she was afraid of being intoxicated ; and my father having
discovered that the Bishop of London was in his neiglibouring
palace at Fulham, expressed his intention of calling on liis lord-
ship on his way home, to settle a few outstanding points of
doctrine with him. I need not say that I detennined to the
contrary.
THE HARVEYS. 377
But I «,'ot the butler aside, and asked him about the.niovemeiits
of the party.
" Tliey arc all together, Mr. Hai-vey — all together — at Rome.
She was at jNIotz when tlie news of" your dud came to them ; they
all up stick and hooked it straight south to Home. Our groom,
Jack, was sent home, and he has told me eveiything. My lady
is mad against you for fighting the young Cn-rman gent ; and I'll
tell you what it is, sir — you are on your parole."
"'For what ? "
*' For the duel, sir. My lady has used strong language about
you, and has forbidden any one to write to you — Miss Dora in
particular. What I call the Allied Powers have made it up that
you are to have a lesson. Well and good. If Miss Dora will
only keep her temper with the old woman — what was I saying ?
with my lady — everything will go riglit. If, on the other hand.
Miss Dora encourages Mr. Chetw)-nd, all will go A\Tong. You are
what you may call in the comer at present. But you are a good
young gentleman, and Mr. Hawkins will never desert you. Let
me look at your poor hand. Poor dear ; I wish you had put the
bullet in his heart."
** Hicks, don't say that. He is my dearest friend."
" Well, why could you not have punched each other's heads
like gentlemen?" said Hicks. "But I say, dear Mr. Harvey,
don't vrriie to any of thew. Let things be. You are in dis-
grace."
I did not write or take any such liberty, and six months passed.
I got pupils, to whom I taught Latin, and we managed to keep
the old house over our heads, with no servant but that Irish
lunatic, Biddy, who on one occasion loudly lamented that she had
not got married to her young man i\Iick ]\Ioriarity (who had been
sent to Canada with the 999th Highlanders in a kilt the year
before, with the tread of the native Scotch mountaineer, which he
had learnt in the slums in Dublin), because, if she had married
then, she would have been in a position to act as wet nurse to our
baby. But we got on very well. Nothing could have been
kinder than the behaviour of Mrs. Gamp. She made her stoiy
good against Mr. Dickens perfectly well, botli to me and to my
father. She was never sober, I allow ; but then, she never was
dnink.
378 THE HARVEYS.
CHAPTER XXXI.
THE NEW LIFE, WITH GLEAMS OF THE OLD.
All this six months Will Dickson was away, and I missed him
very much. He was in the Mediterranean on business. He
wrote to me. I was in hopes that he would come back some day.
Not one word would any of the grand party, who were still to-
gether, -vNTite to us about their movements. My father and I
drudged on teaching classes, and making about five pounds a
week between us. On one occasion, just before Dick came
home, I had to receive ten pounds for teaching. The gentle-
man who had to pay it to me gave me a stamped receipt to sign.
I tried to sign it with my rinlit hand, and I only succeeded in
making an illegible smudge on the paper.
He looked on, deeply moved. "Mr. Haiwey," he said, "you
will continue your duty here, I hope."
I said, " If he pleased."
"Will you consider your honorarium doubled, if you please?
You are a young man whom God has smitten ; and my boys love
you so dearly, and you have done them such good, that I must
insist."
Though Will Dickson was gone. Will Dickson's sister was not.
I want to say nothing of my own sentimental affairs, but when I
told that girl that I was a ruined, penniless beggar, and that she
must try to forget me, she
Well, never mind what she did. Don't kiss and teU. She
was always with us now.
You see we were not in debt, and if a person is not in debt, it
is wonderful how happy they may be on a little. We were fear-
fully poor, but my father and I read the Times every moniing for
all that ; and one morning we read in the column devoted to
Italian affairs —
" A small sensation has taken place at Milan. A certain
Madame D'Estrada, who has previously failed tmce on the stage,
has taken La Scala by storm in the part of Adalgisa. Elvira
(Madame Buonarrotti) was suddenly taken ill, and the rnle of
Elvira was played by an English lady of rank, li.idy Edith
Harvey (not a l^ristol Hervey, but a Ballykilglass). The D'Es-
trada was extremely grand, and was called to the front at once \
but the liouse was emphatic in demanding Lady Edith, who has
made no concealment of her name at all. I have never seen
THE HARVEYS. 370
anytliing like her acting' or her siii<,nng ; only, I slioiild like to
be in possession of tlic salary wliicii siie will liave for tliu next
three years."
Soon after we road in another paper —
''Fatal Duel. — A veiy sad event has taken place, ending' in
the death of a yonnjjj officer of the 140th Dragoons. Tliere was
a lady in the case, as there always is, and the lady in this case
was Madame D'Estrada, now one of the first singers in Europe.
It appears that Captain von Lieher, of the ]>randt'nhurf( Hussars,
claimed the lady's hand f(U- a dance, while our countryman,
Captain ChetAV}Tid, claimed it also. I deeply regret to infonn
you that very strong language was used by both parties, in the
presence of ladies. Mr. Chetwynd told Captain von Lieher that
he was a beggarly Gennan, who was aspiring to the hand of Miss
Dora HaiTey. The German captain then turned on him and told
him that he had lied at Metz a year ago, and driven him into a
duel with that young lady's brother at Luxemburg, in which that
young gentleman, who w^as an artist of promise, was maimed for
life. A fellow-countr}inan of ours, a IMr. Dickson, just returned
from the Levant, tried hard to make the peace, but it was per-
fectly useless. Mr. Dickson refused to go out as Mr. Chetw^nd's
second, having (strangely enough) been Mr. Harvey's second in
the other duel at Luxemburg. I can say nothing of the present
duel, save that Yon Lieher has shot Chetwynd dead."
" Do you think he was guilty of youi' maiming ? " said my father.
'' I have not a solitary word to say," I answered. '' If he was
I entirely forgive him." And so we jogged on, and talked no more
about him, though we thought the more. We w'ere poor no longer
now. Brighter days were rapidly daAMiing on the old house ; we
were but three in family now, and my father and I earned quite a
little fortune by teaching, while Dick's wife, whilom IMiss Lee, kept
house, with our faithful old Biddy for a servant. My brother Dick's
wife gave her whole soul up to the household management, and
right nobly and well she succeeded in it. There was not a cleaner
or brighter house than ours in the square. No more miserable
bears of resident pupils now, no more dirt, no more untidiness,
only peaceful, gentle happiness from mom till night. The fathers
and mothers of our day pupils came to see us, and we returned
their visits. They made very much of us ; my father's position,
from having left the church, was a verv' interesting one, and gained
him much respect. In fiict, some of his old admirers w'ould have
380 THE HARVEYS.
put him in a cliai)el, but that he steadily refused, after a consulta-
tion with his good friend the bishop. My position was interesting
in the highest degree. I was such an artist, they said, as this
century would not see again ; but I had had my painting hand
smashed in a duel, and was ruined. The romantic marriage of
Miss Lee to my brother, and her amazing beauty, got us many
friends. We were very popular and very happy, and we three
made a new world for ourselves far diflferent from the one in which
Dora was moving.
CHAPTER XXXII.
dick's return from the sea.
One wild, windy night my father and I said that we would have a
glass of whisky- and water, and a pipe before we went to bed. We
had particular reasons for doing so, for I had heard something
accidentally from one of my pupils. By this time our baby had
been born some two months, I must say. We ordered my sister-
in-law to bed, and began to smoke and sip comfortably. My father
had to fill my pipe for me, for my right hand was always wrong,
and I was hopelessly helpless. (Biddy always laced my boots.)
As soon as Dick's wife was in bed I took a portfolio from under
my chair, and I said to my father, " I have a new pupil who draws,
and I think that if I could teach him I might make a great deal of
him, and add to our income."
"Hand over," said my father, puffing away. And I handed
him a head of Dante, with Beatrice's head beside his.
" This is very fine," said my father. " Your pupil must go to
Broston. Can he draw the figure ? "
I produced some nude studies of his.
"He can draw," said my father. "But about this Dante and
Beatrice study, from what picture did he copy it ? I thought I
knew every picture in Europe, but I don't know that one. It must
be a fine one."
"I do not suppose that you do know the picture," I replied,
" for the composition is original."
"Good heavens!" said my father. "Your pupil must go to
Broston at once, and you nnist verbally instruct him, while Broston
(loes the mechanical part. Why, Charles, you may live again in
THE HARVEYS. 381
a pupil greater tlum yourself. Those two heads are finer and more
refilled than anvthiiii; you ever did hofore your duel."
1 could keep my secret no longer. 1 knelt at his tV'ot, and put
my forehead on his knees. *' Father," I said, " I can deceive you
no longer, I have deceived you too long ; it is I who have done
those things uit/i tin/ left hand."
The wind roared in the chimney and rattled furiously on the
glass, but we sat there for more than a quarter of an hour, too
happy to speak. Then my father said, suddenly, *' Mind we hless
God for this, my gallant boy. You have humiliated yourself before
Him, and He has forgiven you that wicked duel. Give all the
glory to God, who endued you with this wondrous perseverance
and diligence, and take none to yourself." Whereby I conclude
that, although my father's opinions were not orthodox, he was in
some sort a good Christian : I am not here to judge.
I changed the subject, and insisted on my father having another
mild tumbler, and mixing me one also, on this happy occasion, for
the fact is that I did not want him to go to bed just yet. He
demurred, but submitted. When he began mixing there were only
two people in the room, when he had put the kettle on the fire
there were three ; the sound of the entrance of the third had been
dromied by the wild wind.
A splendid young sailor, one of the most perfectly typical sailors
I have seen in my life. I knew him, and yet I hardly knew him.
He was as handsome as ever, but there was a brightness of eye, a
brilliant brown of complexion, an elasticity of carriage, such as I
had never recognised before in my idle brother Dick. He had
come suddenly out of the wind and rain outside like a stormy
petrel, and the beads of rain were yet upon his cheeks, and hanging
like diamonds on his close-curling Avhiskers and beard. We recog-
nised him together, my father and I, and we had our arms roimd
him together, though he was as wet as an Ai-ctic bear. Then my
father lifted up his voice and wept, and we stood silent, hand in hand.
" Two sons, and such sons, in one day," said my father. '' God
is too good to me." And then he sat down in his chair, and I
whispered to Dick to leave him.
"Where is she?" said Dick.
"Upstairs, in bed," I whispered. "First room on the right,
the old pupil's room. Here is the candle ; don't wake the boy."
" Boy ? " he said, with his eyes brightening.
" Ah ! " I said, " two months old. Christened after me. Such
a young beauty."
382 THE HARVEYS.
Dick sjDi'ang up the stairs, and I saw him close the bedroom
door ; then I heard a ghid, rapturous cry, and as I returned to my
father I -wondered whether or not ex- Miss Lee had not done, on
the whole, much better by sticking to her duty than Dora had in
being fine.
Dick came downstairs in about a quarter of an hour, and Biddy
was iTing up to get him supper. His wife came down in her
dressing- go\Mi, and I promise you that we all had supper to-
gether, and never went to bed until half-past two.
Dick's adventures were easily told by the letters and certificates
which he showed us from his employers. From the first he had
sho^Mi such a talent for seamanship, that his commander had most
strongly recommended him to study navigation. He had applied
himself to it with such diligence that he was now ready to pass as
mate. At the Mauritius the captain and the first mate were down
with fever, but the captain sailed for all that, and then the second
mate broke his leg at sea. Dick then, as supercargo, took charge,
and brought the ship into the Cape through some terrible weather,
saving everything. Noticing the sinking of the mercury, he got
his topgallantmast do^\ii, a very troublesome thing with a merchant
crew. When they came to the Cape they put the first mate on
shore, and the captain, being better, sailed again, but died on the
South Atlantic, and Dick took possession of the ship once more,
with her priceless cargo of tea and silk. Then he lost his fore-
mast, bu'i,, sighting a mail packet, spoke her, and sent to England
the state of aftairs (this is what I heard from my pupil). To make
a long story short, he brought his ship safe to Plymouth, where
she was taken charge of by a captain in the same house, and had
raced up to London with his papers to the o^\Tiers. The OAMiers,
like good men and true, had there and then given him 100/., and
a fine gold chronometer and watch, with his name engraved, and
had urged him to pass his examination as quick as possible, saying
that he should never want a ship while one of theirs was afioat.
I had heard that he was getting on well, but I did not know the
whole truth until he told us. Poor, lazy old Dick had found his
victicr at last, and was a made man.
AVe had to tell him much. Aunt Edith had taken up with a
foreign singer, who had failed twice, but who now was carrying
eveiything before her in Europe, and making both their fortunes,
I liad been patronised most handsomely by Mr. Hawkins, but had
lost his favour entirely by fighting a duel with poor dear Von
Lieber. I had been utterly ruined by Yon Lieber's bullet going
into my right wrist. Von Lieber and I were as good friends as
ever, but he was insanely following Madame D'Estrada all about
THE HAUVEYS. 383
Italy. Yon Liobor liad killed Jack ClictwYiid in a duel, and none
of them ever wrote to us now. It took three j)e{)])le, continually
interru})tinj^ one another, to tell Dick all this, and therefore, when
he remarked, " It's bad enough at sea, but it seems worse ashore,"
I thouf^lit him veiy sensible, and determined to ask him to sit to
me as Aristidcs. He was good-looking cnougli.
*'But what is Dora doing? " he asked.
" That we none of us know," I answered. " Slie is under the
protection of Mr. Hawkins and Lady Frogmarsh still, but she
never communicates with us lately. About this lamentable aliair
of Jack Chetwynd she lias said not one word."
"But she loved him," said Dick, simply.
" I doubt it," I answered. " I think that she encouraged him
more out of spite than anytliing else."
" How did you find that out ? "
" I only guessed it."
" So she never wrote to you on the subject ? Suppose she had
written to me ? "
*'Toyou!"
*' Yes. Look at this which I got at the Cape from her. Does
that explain matters in any way ? "
The letter was certainly iu Dora's handwriting, and it explained
much.
" De.\e Dick, — On my father's death you will be head of the
family — such as it is — and I wish to explain something to you.
You are stupid, but you are not a self-seeking prig like Charles.
I put my character for straightfonvardness in your hands.
*' Chetwynd paid attentions to me, and I encouraged them. The
Hawkins and the Frogmarsh, under whose protection I am, dis-
couraged him extremely, and forced Will Dickson upon me. You
know enough of me to know that this was quite enough to make
me discourage Will Dickson and to encourage Chet^^•}•nd.
*' He followed us here to Rome, and I found that his attentions
were more particularly directed to Madame D 'Estrada than to
myself. From that moment Chetwynd was my enemy.
" I don't want to many any one ; I wish they would leave me
alone. I want you to know the whole truth : that I am very
miserable, and wish I was back with father. I like being fine as
well as another, but I am sick of being hawked about, like a piece
of goods, by Mr. Hawkins and Lady Frogmarsh.
" I wTite to you because I am afraid of Charles. This D'Estrada
sends all men mad. I don't wonder at it, nor would you if you
saw her and heard her. You see Charles has been hit in a duel
B84 THE HARVEYS.
about her with his old friend Von Lieber, I hear that he can
never paint any more. The woman is a fiend in human shape —
that is exactly what she is. You should have seen her in ' Lucia
di Lammermoor ' the other night with a bedgown and dagger (she
makes her own get-up, assisted by Aunt Edith). She is a bedlamite
lunatic, and ought to have a straight-waistcoat on. She is making
mischief now between Chetwynd and Von Lieber."
" Hah ! " said my father, '' this gets interesting.
" The only man," continued Dora, *' over whom she has no
power at all is dear old AVill Dickson, my constant friend — the
only man in this congeries of religious and theatrical idiots to
whom I can say one word. If I wrote this to Charles, he would
want me to marry him. He took a liberty about me and Will
Dickson years ago, Avhich I have never forgiven, and which I
never will. He painted our heads together. Oh ! my poor
Charles, oh ! my dear diaries. They say that his hand is
broken to pieces by Von Lieber' s bullet. He might paint my
head beside Will Dickson's a hundred times, if he could only
paint again. Dick, I do love Charles ; but he is so shrewd
with me.
"Dick, my dear, my very stupid dear, I have written this to
you as a manifesto, because very soon I shall get out of it. I
like being fine as well as another, but I can't stand being fine at
this price. I can't stand Mr. Hawkins and Lady Frogmarsh,
good as they are. I shall fly soon. They mean the very best
towards me ; but they show me oft" as if I was a horse for sale.
I am more beautiful than any of the French or Roman ladies. I
am very proud of that, dear, but I hate myself for being proud.
I shall fly. I have two courses open to me- -either I must go
into a convent, or I must go back to my father. I can't go into
a convent — the whole life is a ghastly humbug to me ; and if I
go home to my father, Charles will be there, and I must face his
horrible precisianism. My Dick, my dear old Dick, I wish I was
on board sliip with you, and out of all this mess. I write to you
on the broad seas, but the letter will reach you somewhere. It is
only my manifesto, dear. God bless you.
"DOKA."
I bowed down my head. I said, "I have hardly deserved
this."
Dick's wife was up in a moment. " Yon have not deserved it
at all, Charles. Most patient, and excellent of men. Has he
deseiwed it, Dick ? "
"Dora is mad," Dick said; "I have seen that ever since I
THE HARVEYS. 385
had the letter. Our Charlie a pri^' ! That is the finest tiling'
I have heard lor a lou^' time. Slic will come here, in my opinion.
You sec that this letter was written before Jack Chetwynd was
killed. I never liked him, and I don't want for coura^^'e, hut I
would not have shot him. I consider tliat no man has tlie riglit
to compass another man's life in a duel ; I tliink it is as bad as
murder. God forgive me ! — what was I saying, witli our own
Charlie sitting before me to shame my words ? "
" I quite agree with you, Dick," I said. *' I fight no more duels,
I promise you. When did you get this letter from Dora ? "
" Three months ago."
*'If 3'ou are coming to bed at all, you had better come now,"
said the Lily of Devon, pulling her sailor by the ear. And,
indeed, I pointed out to my father that it was half-past two, and
that we ought to go to bed ourselves, which we did.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
AN UNEXPECTED MEETING.
There was a week or more of intense pleasure to me, for Dick
and I were down at the dock clearing his ship, he superintending
aU kinds of cases and baiTels, and I drawing sailors, in water-
colours, with renewed activity.
My pestilent right hand was a sad nuisance, but Dick had told
the kind-hearted sailors that I was a great artist, who had had
his painting arm smashed in a duel ; and after that there was not
a man or a boy of them who would not have gone a mile to get
me water or to put me in a good position for drawing. The
sailor admires personal courage for its own sake : God help us
when they cease to do so !
Turning over my portfolio, I found no things so vigorously
quaint as those which I did with my left hand at that time ; ■-'
nothing was too hot or too heavy for me.
A group of East Indian goats on the deck of the old Hereford-
shire — a man aloft barefooted, hanging by the end of a spar — a
naked young man, sliding do\\ii a hawser into the green water,
with half his body covered, setting something right — all these
* The author is speaking from the actual experience of a well-known
artist, a friend of his.
26
386 THE HARVEYS.
were new to me ; I painted everything, from pike to South African
stag's horns.
I need not say that I painted my brother Dick ; I could never
keep my hands off him.
He was on the wharf one day among the packages, and I
painted him as William Penn bargaining with the Indians. I was
Sony to put my owa. brother into the biggest swindle of modem
times, but art knows no political morality. If it did, where would
have been the pictures of Horace Yernet ?
At last, one day when Dick and I were plodding home, we were
confronted at the street corner by Dora, who looked extremely
quiet and sad — "Dick and Charles," she said, quietly, "I have
come quietly home to our father to stay with him always. I've
run away from Mr. Hawkins."
We gave her the wannest of welcomes ; but as we walked, she
asked me to go on in front, teU her father, and to ask him to take
"no notice." I did so, and waited for her to come in with
intense eagerness, as did my father. The door opened, and she
gave a start and a cry, and in the next instant was in Will
Dickson's arms, sobbing.
" My darling," he said, " how could you fly from me ? Promise
that you will never leave me again."
And she said, " Never." She never did so.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE LAST NEWS OF MADAME d'eSTEADA.
There is so little to be told that I almost feel inclined to apolo-
gise for telling it : yet, if I have interested my reader so far, I feel
sure that he wiU read my story to the end.
Dora's flight was, I regret to say, of a somewhat strange nature.
Her language to Lady Frogmarsh, although that of a lady, was
most certainly emphatic — it reduced Lady Frogmarsh to tears ;
and Dora left the house at Rome entirely unprotected, not in any
way knowing her own mind, and with tlie horror of Chctwynd's
death full upon her. The poor child, I believe, told the simple
and plain truth when she said that she did not wish to marry
anybody. She knew her beauty, but the fact of baving it hawked
THE HARVEYS. 387
about by tlicsj two very excellent people, Lady Frogmarsli and
Hawkins, was utterly intolerable to her. She tied to her lather,
and in flying to him, ran into Will Dickson's arms, who had
heard of her flight from Rome, and knowing where she was
going had come to London and preceded her.
Chetw}Tid's death and Dora's flight broke up the Italian expedi-
tion completely. Hawkins pursued her, but he went the wrong
way, and arrived ten days after she had reached her father's
home. She had left Paris ten days before ho arrived there.
The Secretaiy of Legation declares to me that in his anger he
gave the whole of the French officials one hundred lines to write
out, and ordered Lord Cowley to be kept in for an hour after
school the rest of the term. How this may be I know not, but he
arrived at our house in a state of mad distraction, upset Biddy as
soon as she opened the door, and behaved generally like a lunatic.
*'My darling," he said to Dora, "why could you not have
trusted us ? We meant no hanii. We only wanted you to do as
you have done. The boy Dickson will go up seven places, and all
liis impositions are remitted. The boy Haney, on the other hand,
will go down ten places ; we want no duellers here. Let me look
at your poor hand, my boy. Poor dear ; and Von Lieber, too :
it was wicked of Yon Lieber ; he should not have fired at you.
Mr. Harvey, your daughter will have eight thousand pounds on
her marriage-day, and repeat the first fifty lines ot the third book
of the ' Iliad.' They are not to be married till Lady Frogmarsb
comes, you will understand."
Li short, Dora was the adopted daughter of Lady Frogmarsb,
and has no cause to regret the aiTangement in any way. She
was maiTied from our house, and we live there still. My father
will not give it up, but says that he chooses to be happy in the
house where he was once miserable. I live and paint there, and
the whole menage is very slightly altered.
Of my success and my fame I need not speak here. I can paint
with my right hand again now, but not better than with my left.
We are veiT ricJi, and are getting richer every year. My father still
keeps up the fashion of daily teaching, and occasionally goes to
dine with the bishop. He is very happy, and so I find no tault ;
though I wish that he would accept a settled sum from me, and
leave the teaching alone.
My Aunt Edith lives with us once more, and is rather more
devoted to her old superstitions than ever. When Madame
D 'Estrada maiTied Von Lieber, she came home with seven
thousand pounds, and devoted herself to her father. Lord
Ballykilglass left her a large sum of money when he died, and
388 THE HARVEYS.
so we really have rather more than we exactly know what to
do with.
Dick is doing splendidly ; his wife lives with us, and helps Aunt
Edith to keep house.
When the weather is very mild, we generally find that a wasted
worn shadow of a man creeps in to our fireside. No welcome is
too warm for him ; no children's kisses are spared him. He had
a wife once, but his wife shamefully left him before the eyes of
Europe. His dream was over, but he thought that he could die
at Sadowa. Doa\ti went gallant Von Hildesheim, down went a
hundred others, but Von Lieber lived — with a bullet through his
lungs — and creeps to our fireside still.
I saw her the other night singing at the Opera. She was
rather more handsome than ever, and her success was, as usual,
enormous. I stepped round to the stage door, and easily, of
course, got admission. I met her, and she knew me and smiled.
" How did I sing ? " she said.
*' You know that you always sing well," I replied, ''But, do
you know that I think that your husband is dying ? ' '
*' Is that so ? " she answered. " Give my love to your funny
old aunt. Lady Edith."
And that was the last of Madame Von Lieber, once Madame
D'Estrada.
THE END.
UNWIN EKOTHEKS, THE GKESHAM I'KESS, CHlLWuRTH ANU LONUON.
iVarwick Hoiist
Salisbury Square
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George Hare. Crown 8vo, Irish linen gilt, 5s.
"'The Dead Gallant' is a weird and powerfully written
historical tale based on the Babington conspiracy. . . ,
'The King of Hearts' can challenge comparison with some
of the most delightful stories inspired by the romantic career
of the Young Pretender." — The Alorning Post.
"Both stories are well written in faultless English, and
display a knowledge of history, a careful study of character,
and a fine appreciation of a dramatic point, all too rare in
these days of slipshod fiction." — National Observer.
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POPULAR ru REEAN DSIXPEN NY NOVELS J
HENRY HERMAN
His Angel : A Romance of the Far West.
By Henry Herman, Author of "A Leading Lady,"
"The Silver King" (play), etc., and part-Author of
"The Bishops' Bible," "One Traveller Returns," etc.
With Four Full-page Illustrations by George
Hutchinson. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
" Mr. Herman's bright little American story, ' His Angel.'
. . . The book is excellent reading from first to last. . . ."
— Satu}\lay Review.
"* His Angel' is well, even brilliantly, written, very much
after the style of Charles Reade's famous novels of colonial
adventure."— Z.Vt?tr/C- and White.
By the same Author
IVomau, the Mystery : A Tale of Three
Revolutions. With Four Full-page Illustrations
by Geo. Hutchinson. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
"A tale so chock-full of sensation and thrilling episodes
and hairbreadth escapes that the reader's breath is fairly
taken away before the end of W— Manchester Guardian.
THOMAS NELSON PAGE
In Ole Viyginia ; or, " IMarse Chan," and
other Stories. By Thos. Nelson Page. With Intro-
duction by T. p. O'Connor, ALP., and Frontispiece
by George Hutchinson. Crown 8vo, cloth, 3s. 6d.
" Pathos and humour are mingled with singular felicity.
. . . Few will read * Marse Chan' with dry eyes.''— Leeds
Mercury.
By the same Author
The Burial of the Guns, and other
Stories. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
"Very beautiful and touching. ... It is a heroic
book, and also a most pathetic one."— The Giiardia?i.
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12 II R. JOSEPH HOC KING'S WORKS
JOSEPH HOCKING
Isliniael Peilgelly: an Outcast. By
JOSKPH Hocking, Author of "The Story of Andrew
Fairfax," etc. Witli Frontispiece and Vignette by
Walter S. Stagey, Crown Svo, cloth, 3s. 6d.
" The book is to be recommended for the dramatic effect-
iveness of some of the scenes. The wild, half-mad woman
who has been wronged is always picturesque whenever she
appears, and the rare self-repression of her son, because of
the girl whom he loves, is admirably done." — The AtJicncEum.
"The critical point in the book is finely managed, and
the whole story is told with quite unusual power and a large
measure of trained skill. Mr. Hocking has produced a novel
which may unhesitatingly be recommended to all classes of
readers." — The British Weekly.
The Story of Andrew Fairfax. By
Joseph Hocking, Author of " Ishmael Pengelly," etc.
With Frontispiece and Vignette by (fEo. Hutchin-
son. Crown Svo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
" The really excellent part of the book is its accurate
picture of the monotony of rural life. ... A readable,
wholesome, and carefully written story." — IVest/nifister
Gazette.
" The author writes of a country folk whose troubles and
needs he knows, and whose prejudices he can see, and with-
out losing his hope for them. He is full of quiet humour,
too, and the book is pleasant reading throughout." — Literary
World.
The Monk of Mar Saba. By Joseph
Hocking, Author of " Ishmael Pengelly," etc. With
Frontispiece and Vignette by Walter S. Staci:v.
Crown Svo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
"Of great power and enthralling interest. . . The
scenery of the Holy Land has rarely been so vividly de-
scribed as in this charming book of Mr. Hocking's." — The
Star.
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tiOOKS FOR BOYS I J
ARTHUR LEE KNIGHT
7/ic A//(/s of flic ''Rattlesnake'' ; or,
Thrillin^^ Adventures with Ill.inum Pirates. With
Illustrations by W. S. Stacky. Crown 8vo, cloth
gih, 2s. 6d.
"A slirrinc; sea story, with plenty of fun and adventure to
satisfy the most voracious reader. The loss of the Rattle-
snake and her subsequent recapture, with plenty of pirates
and Malays, make up a rci^ular boys' book. The pictures are
good." — The SJicfficld Ijidcpcrulent.
The Rajah of Monkey Island. With
Illustrations by \V. S. Stacev. Crown 8vo, cloth
gilt, 2s. 6d.
"There is plenty of dash and spirit in 'The Rnjah of
Monkey Island,' and the writer may be quite satisfied that
no boy will take up the book without hnishing it with breath-
less interest. . . . All lovers of sailors and the sea will
appreciate this excellent yarn." — Daily Tclca^rapli.
A Sequel to the Above
The Cruise of the *' Cormorant!' With
Illustrations by \V. S. Stagey. Crown 8vo, cloth
gilt, 2s. 6d.
"A rousing tale of adventure by Mr. A. Lee Knight, whose
talent for work of this kind is so well known, and so highly
appreciated. . . . Full of sensation and excitement, and
spiritedly illustrated." — Glasgow Herald.
Dicky Beaumont ; His Perils and Adven-
tures. With Illustrations by W. S. Stacev. Crown
Svo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
''Thoroughly entertaining. . . This is exactly the
book for spirited lads with a taste for salt-water life. —
Yorkshire Post.
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14 BOOKS FOR BOYS
FRANKLIN FOX
Frank Allreddys Fortune ; or, Life on
the Indus. The Story of a Boy's Escape from Ship-
wreck, his Perils, and Adventures in India. Wy Cnpiani
Franklin Fox, Author of " How to Send a Boy to
Sea," etc. With Full-page Illustrations by W. S.
Stagey. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
"A rattling story of life at sea and in India, which we can
cordially recommend. . . . Teems with exciting interest
and hairbreadth escapes." — Review of Reviews.
R. M. FREEMAN
The Heir of Langridge Towers ; or, The
Strange Adventures of Charlie Percival. By R. M.
Freeman. With Illustrations by \V. S. Stagey.
Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
" Handsomely bound and cleverly illustrated, this book
will prove a most acceptable present for young lads fond of
fun and fighting. . . . The scenes and incidents, excit-
ing adventures and rollicking humour, make up a first-class
story." — Neivcastle CJironicle.
HENRY FRITH
The Romance of Navigation and
Maritime Discovery. P^rom the Earliest Periods to the
1 8th Century. With about 120 Engravings. Crown
8vo, cloih extra, full gilt, 3s. 6d.
"A capital boys' book. . . . Bright, entertaining, and
satisfactory Handsomely got up, admirably
printed, and enriched with a multitude of illustrations." —
Aberdee?t Free Press.
The Romance of Engineering : Our
Highways, Subways, Railways and Waterways. With
150 Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 3s. 6d.
The Daiiy Telegi apii says — " Those who desire to com-
bine entertainment with amusement could not do betlerthan
present an intelligent youth with a copy of ' The Romance
of Engineering.' "
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BOOKS FOR GIRLS 15
MARY E. WILKINS
yl Hiuiiblc RoDimicc, and other Stories.
By Mary K. Wii.kins, Autlior of "A New England
Nun," etc. With Frontispiece and Vignette by Geo.
Hutchinson. Crown 8vo, clotli gilt, 2s. 6d.
Miss Wilkins has taken a place quite in the front rank of
writers of short stories. These charming stories arc without
an equal in their way.
By the same Author.— A Book for Children.
The Pot of Gold, and other Stories.
With Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
'•Every one who has read the simple little stories of New
England life, which Miss Wilkins tells with so much skill,
will have perfect confidence in her power to interest children.
Of that power she gives fullest evidence in ' The Pot of
Gold.' She can tell the oddest little romances in the gravest
fashion, always writing understanded of young people. This
is a book they will like." — Yorkshire Post.
CATHERINE J. HAMILTON
Women Writers: their Works and Ways.
First Series. Including Fanny Burney, Madame de
Stael, Jane Austen, Maria Edgeworth, etc. Crown 8vo,
cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
" Entirely delightful. For a young girl with bookish
tastes it will make an ideal present." — Review of Reviews.
Women Writers : their Works and Ways.
Second Scries. Including Mrs. Hemans, Harriet
Martineau, Letitia E. Landon, Mrs. Browning, Charlotte
Bronte, Mrs. Gaskell, " George Eliot,-' etc. With
Portraits. Crown Svo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
"We do not remember having often seen this sort of work
so pithily and pleasantly done." — Literary World.
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16 BOOKS FOR GtRLS
SARAH TYTLER
Author of " Citoyenne Jacqueline," etc.
1 . Days of Yore.
2. A Hero of a Hundred Figlifs
3. Papers for Thoiiglitfitl Girls,
4. The Diainond Rose.
5. Heroines in Obscurity.
6. Girlhood and J/Vomanhood : The
Story of some Fortunes and Misfortunes.
Each with Frontispiece and Vignette by Walter
S. Stagey, Crown 8vo, handsomely bound, cloth gilt,
2s. Gd. each.
" We have over and over again heard parents speak some-
thing in this style : ' We are at no loss for books for our boys ;
there are Mr. Smiles' volumes and others ; but where to look
for a good girl's book, a good companion to a young lady just
leaving school, we know not, and would be glad for any one to
help us.' This complaint need no longer be heard. Miss Tyt-
ler's books are exactly of the kind desiderated, and may with
all confidence be recommended at once for their lofty moral
tone and their real artistic qualities, which combine to make
them equally interesting and ■aWx'A.qXw^.^'' — Nonconformist.
MRS. WHITNEY
Ascutney Street: A Neighbourhood
Story. With Illustrations. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
"The story is told in a charming fashion, and its moral is
one that needs enforcement in our day." — Literary World.
A Golden Gossip : Neighbourhood Story-
Number Two. With Frontispiece and Vignette by
Geo. Hutchinson. Crown 8vo, cloth gilt, 2s. 6d.
" The character sketches contained in it are smart and full
of individuality. . . . The portrayal of the beautiful
character of the 'golden gossip' herself is exceedingly
clever." — Nottins^/uim Guardian.
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