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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 
 
 

 
 
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 Alice Louisa Rae.
 
 THE WORKS 
 
 OP 
 
 MISS THACKEEAY
 
 MISS THACKERAY'S WORKS. 
 
 Uniform Edition ; each Volume Illustrated with a Vigaette 
 Title-page. 
 
 Large crown 8vo. 6s. each. 
 
 I. OLD KENSINGTON. 
 
 a. THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF. 
 
 3. FIVE OLD FRIENDS AND A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 4. TO ESTHER ; and other Sketches. 
 
 5. BLUEBEARD'S KEYS ; and other Stories. 
 
 6. THE STORY OF ELIZABETH. TWO HOURS; FROM 
 
 AN ISLAND. 
 
 7. TOILERS AND SPINSTERS ; and other Essays 
 
 8. MISS ANGEL; FULHAM LAWN. 
 
 9. MISS WILLIAMSON'S DIVAGATIONS. 
 10. MRS. DYMOND. 
 
 A BOOK OF SIBYLS : Mrs. Barbauld— Miss Edgeworth— Mrs. 
 Opie, Miss Austen. By Miss Thackeray (Mrs. Richmond 
 Ritchie). Essays reprinted from the Comliill Magazine. 
 Large crown 8vo. ^s. id. 
 
 London: SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place.
 
 THE WOEKS 
 
 OF 
 
 MISS THACKEEAY 
 
 VOJjUME III. 
 
 FIVE OLD FRIENDS and A YOUNG PRINCE 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1890
 
 FIVE OLD FEIENDS 
 
 Si'c.
 
 FIVE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 AND 
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE 
 
 BY 
 
 MISS THACKERAY 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1890 
 
 [All ri(7hts reserved ]
 
 
 FrVE OLD FRIENDS 
 
 DEDtCATED TO 
 
 FIVE YOUNG PRENCESSES 
 
 A. C. R. j M. T. S. 
 A. ti. ' A. M. 
 
 JW A. B. 
 
 pC^±...
 
 (^.ONTENTS. 
 
 FIVE OLD FRIENDS— 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The SiEEyiN© Bea-oty ik tme Wood 1 
 
 CiNDEREiLA .29 
 
 •■ BeAUT-J AN2i> 'SHE BeAST 79 
 
 LiTTlE ReX» ElElNG BoOR lo7 
 
 Jack the GiAHX-KniEB 235 
 
 A YOUNG FRINCE 391
 
 susajBSfmmm
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 
 IN THE WOOD 
 
 B
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY 
 IN THE WOOD. 
 
 A KIND enchantress one day pnt into my hand a mvstic 
 volume prettily lettered and bound in green, saying, ' I 
 am so fond of this book. It has all the dear old fairy 
 tales in it ; one never tires of them. Do take it.' 
 
 I carried the little book away with me, and spent a 
 very pleasant quiet evening at home by the fire, with H. 
 at the opposite corner, and other old friends, whom I felt 
 I had somewhat neglected of late. Jack and the Bean- 
 stalk, Puss in Boots, the gallant and quixotic Giantkiller, 
 and dearest Cinderella, whom we every one of us must 
 have loved, I should think, ever since we first knew her in 
 her little brown pinafore : I wondered, as I shut them all 
 up for the night between their green boards, what it was 
 that made these stories so fresh and so vivid. Why did 
 not they fall to pieces, vanish, explode, disappear, like so 
 many of their contemporaries and descendants ? And yet 
 
 £ 'I
 
 4 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 far from being forgotten and passing away, it would seem 
 as if each generation in turn as it came into the world 
 looks to be delighted stili by the brilliant pageant, and 
 never tires or wearies of it. And on their side the princes 
 and princesses never seem to grow any older ; the castles 
 and the lovely gardens tUtiirish without need of repair 
 or whitewash, or plumbers or glaziers. The princesses' 
 gowns, too — sun, moon, and star-colour, — do not wear 
 out or pass out of fashion or require altering. Even the 
 seven-leagued boots do not appear to be the worse for 
 wear. Numbers of realistic stories fur children have 
 passed away. Little Henry and his Bearer, and Poor 
 I{arry and Lucy, have very nearly given up tlieir little 
 artless ghosts and prattle, and ceased making their own 
 beds for the instruction of less excellently brought-up 
 little boys and girls, and notwithstanding a very inte- 
 resting article in the Saturday Revieiv, it must be owned 
 that Harry Sandford and Tommy Merton are not familiar 
 playfellows in our nurseries and schoolrooms, and have 
 passed somewhat out of date. But not so all these 
 centenarians — Prince Eiquet, Carabas, Little Red Riding- 
 hood, Bluebeard and others. They seem as if they would 
 never grow old. They play with the children, they amuse 
 the elders, there seems no end to their fund of spirits and 
 perennial youth. 
 
 H., to whom I made this remark, said from the oppo- 
 site chimney-corner, ' No wonder ; the stories are only
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 5 
 
 histories of real li\dng persons turned into fairy princes 
 and princesses. Fairy stories are everywhere and every- 
 day. We are all princes and princesses in disguise, or 
 oofres or wicked dwarfs. All these histories are the 
 histories of human nature, which does not seem to change 
 very much in a thousand years or so, and we don't get 
 tired of the fairies because they are so true to it.' 
 
 After this little speech of H.'s, we spent an unprofit- 
 able half-hour reviewing our acquaintance, and classing 
 them under their real characters and qualities. We had 
 dined with Lord Carabas only the day before and met 
 Puss in Boots — Beauty and the Beast were also there ; 
 we uncharitably counted up, I am ashamed to say, no less 
 than six Bluebeards. Jack and the Beanstalk we had 
 m»t just starting on his climb. A Ked Eiding-hood ; a 
 girl with toads dropping from her mouth : we knew 
 three or four of each. Cinderellas — alas ! who does not 
 know more than one dear, poor, pretty Cinderella ? and , 
 as for sleeping Princesses in the Woods, how many one 
 can reckon up! Young, old, ugly, pretty, awakening, 
 sleeping still. 
 
 ' Do you remember Cecilia Lulworth,' said H., ' and 
 Dorlicote ? Poor Cecilia ! ' Some lives are couleur de 
 rose, people say ; others seem to be, if not couleur de rose 
 all through, yet full of bright, beautiful tints, blues, 
 pinks, little bits of harmonious cheerfulness. Other 
 lives, if not so brilliant, and seeming more or less grey a
 
 6 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 times, are very sweet and gentle in tone, with faint gleams 
 of gold or lilac to brighten them. And then again others 
 are black and hopeless from the beginning. Besides all 
 these, there are some which have always appeared to me 
 as if they were of a dark, dull hue ; a dingy, heavy brown, 
 which no happiness, or interest, or bright colour could 
 ever enliven. Blues turn sickly, roses seem faded, and 
 yellow lilacs look red and ugly upon these heavy back- 
 grounds. ' Poor Cecilia,' as H. called her, — hers had 
 always seemed to me one of these latter existences, 
 unutterably dull, commonplace, respectable, stinted, ugly, 
 and useless. 
 
 Lulworth Hall, with the great dark park bounded by 
 limestone walls, with iron gates here and there, looked 
 like a blot upon the bright and lovely landscape. The 
 place from a distance, compared with the surrounding 
 country, was a blur and a blemish, as it were, sad, silent, 
 solitary. 
 
 Travellers passing by sometimes asked if the place 
 was uninhabited, and were told, ' No, shure — the fam'ly 
 lives thear all the yeavuT round.' Some charitable souls 
 might wonder what life coidd be like behind those dull 
 gates. One day a young fellow riding by saw rather a 
 sweet woman's face gazing for an instant through the 
 bars, and he went on his way with a momentary thrill of 
 pity. Need I say that it was poor Cecilia who looked out 
 vacantly to see who was passing along the high-road.
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 7 
 
 Shs was surrounded by hideous moreen, oil-clotb, punctu- 
 ality, narrow-mindedness, horsehair, and mahogany. 
 Loud bells rang at intervals, regular, monotonous. Surly 
 but devoted attendants waited upon her. She was rarely 
 alone ; her mother did not think it right that a girl in 
 Cecilia's position should ' race ' about the grounds unat- 
 tended ; as for going outside the walls it was not to be 
 thought of. When Cecilia went out, with her gloves on, 
 and her goloshes, her mother's companion, Miss Bowley, 
 walked beside her up and down the dark laurel walk at 
 the back of the house, — up and down, down and up, up 
 and down. ' I think I am getting tired, Maria,' Miss 
 Lulworth would say at last. ' If so, we had better return 
 to the hall,' Maria would reply, ' although it is before our 
 time.' And then they would walk home in silence, 
 between the iron railings and laurel-bushes. 
 
 As Cecilia walked erectly by Miss Bowley's side, the 
 rooks went whirling over their heads, the slugs crept 
 sleepily along the path under the shadow of the grass and 
 the weeds ; they lieard no sounds except the cawing of the 
 birds, and the distant monotonous hacking noise of the 
 gardener and his boy digging in the kitchen-garden. 
 
 Cecilia, peeping into the long drab drawing-room on 
 her return, might perhaps .see her mother, erect and 
 dignified, at her open desk, composing, writing, crossing, 
 re-writing, an endless letter to an indifferent cousin in 
 Ireland, with a single candle and a small piece of blotting-
 
 8 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 paper, and a pen-wiper made of ravellings, all spread out 
 before her. 
 
 ' You have come home early, Cecil,' says the lady, 
 without looking- up. ' You had better make the most of 
 your time, and practise till the dressing-bell rings. 
 Maria will kindly take up your things.' 
 
 And then in the chill twilight Cecilia sits down to the 
 jangling instrument with the worn silk flutings. A faded 
 rack it is upon which her fingers have been distended 
 ever since she can remember. A great many people 
 think there is nothing in the world so good for children 
 as scoldings, whippings, dark cupboards, and dry bread 
 and water, upon which they expect them to grow up into 
 tall, fat, cheerful, amiable men and women ; and a great 
 many people think that for grown-up young people the 
 silence, the chillness, the monotony, and sadness of their 
 own fading twilight days is all that is required. ]Mrs. 
 Lulworth and Maria Bowley her companion, Cecilia's late 
 governess, were quite of this opinion. They themselves, 
 when they were little girls, had been slapped, snubbed, 
 locked up in closets, thrust into bed at all sorts of hours, 
 flattened out on backboards, set on high stools to play the 
 piano for days together, made to hem frills five or six 
 weeks long, and to learn immense pieces of poetry, so 
 that they had to stop at home all the afternoon. And 
 though Mrs. Lulworth had grown up stupid, suspicious, 
 narrow-minded, soured, and overbearing, and had married
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 9 
 
 for aft establishment, and Miss Bowley, her governess's 
 daughter, had turned out nervous, undecided, melan- 
 choly, and anxious, and had never married at all, yet they 
 determined to bring up Cecilia as they themselves had 
 been brought up, and sincerely thought they could not 
 do better. 
 
 When Mrs. Lulworth married, she said to Maria, 
 ' You must come and live with me, and help to educate 
 my children some day, Maria. For the present I shall 
 not have a home of my own ; we are going to reside 
 with my husband's aunt, JNIrs. Dormer. She is a very 
 wealthy person, far advanced in years. She is greatly 
 annoyed with Mr. and Mrs. John Lulworth's vagaries, and 
 she has asked me and my husband to take their places at 
 Dorlicote Hall.' At the end of ten years Mrs. Lulworth 
 wrote again : — ' We are now permanently established in 
 our aunt's house. I hear you are in want of a situation ; 
 pray come and superintend the education of my only 
 child Cecilia (she is named after her godmother, Mrs. 
 Dormer). She is now nearly three years old, and I feel 
 that slie begins to require some discipline.' 
 
 This letter had been written at that same desk twenty- 
 two years before Cecilia began her practising this autumn 
 evening. She was twenty-five years old now, but like a 
 child in experience, in ignorance, in placidity ; a foi'tu- 
 nate stolidity and slowness of temperament had saved her 
 from being crushed and nipped in the bud, as it were.
 
 lo THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 She was not bored because she had never known any other 
 life. It seemed to her only natural that all days should 
 be alike, run^ in and out by the jangling breakfast, lunch, 
 dinner, and prayer bells. Mr. Dormer — a little chip of a 
 man — read prayers suitable for every day in the week ; 
 the servants filed in, maids first, then tlie men. Once 
 Cecilia saw one of the maids blush and look down smiling 
 as she marched out after the others. Miss Dormer won- 
 dered a little, and thought she would ask Susan why she 
 looked so strangely ; but Susan married the groom soon 
 after, and went away, and Cecilia never had an oppor- 
 tunity of speaking to her. 
 
 Night after night INIr. Dormer replaced his spectacles 
 with a click, and pulled up his shirt-collar when the ser- 
 vice was ended. Night after night old Mrs. Dormer 
 coughed a little moaning cough. If she spoke,. it was 
 generally to make some little bitter remark. Every night 
 she shook hands with her nephew and niece, kissed 
 Cecilia's blooming cheek, and patted out of the room. 
 She was a little woman with starling eyes. She had 
 never got over her husband's death. She did not always 
 know when she moaned. She dressed in black, and lived 
 alone in her turret, w^here she had various old-fashioned 
 occupations — tatting, camphor-boxes to sort, a real old 
 spinning-wheel and distaff among otlier things, at which 
 Cecilia, when she was a child, had pricked her fingers 
 trying to make it whirr as her aunt did. Spinning-
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. ii 
 
 wheels have quite gone out, but I know of one or two 
 old ladies who still use them. Mrs. Dormer would go no- 
 where, and would see no one. So at least her niece, the 
 master-spirit, declared, and the old lady got to believe it 
 at last. I don't know hosv much the fear of the obnoxious 
 John and his wife and children may have had to do with 
 this arrangement. 
 
 When her great aunt was gone it was Cecilia's turn to 
 gather her work together at a warning sign from her 
 mother, and walk away through the long chilly passages 
 to her slumbers in the great green four-post bed. And so 
 time passed. Cecilia grew up. She had neither friends 
 nor lovers. She was not happy nor unhappy. She could 
 read, but she never cared to open a book. She was quite 
 contented ; for she thought Lulworth Hall the finest place, 
 and its inmates the most important people in tlie world. 
 She worked a great deal, embroidering interminable quilts 
 and braided toilet-covers and fish-napkins. She never 
 thought of anything but the uttermost common-places and 
 platitudes. She considered that being respectable and 
 decorous, and a little pompous and overbearing, was the 
 duty of every well-brought-up lady and gentleman. To- 
 night she banged away very placidly at Ehodes' air, for 
 the twentieth time breaking down in the same passage 
 and making the same mistake, until the dressing-bell 
 rang, and Cecilia, feeling she had done her duty, then 
 extinguished her candle, and went upstairs across the
 
 12 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 ^eat chill hall, up the bare oil-cloth gallery, to her 
 room. 
 
 Most young women have some pleasure, whatever their 
 troubles may be, in dressing, and pretty trinkets, and 
 beads and ribbons and necklaces. An unconscious love of 
 art and intuition leads some of them, even plain ones, to 
 adorn themselves. The colours and ribbon ends brighten 
 bright faces, enliven dull ones, deck what is already love- 
 able, or, at all events, make the most of what materials 
 there are. Even a may-pole, crowned and flowered and 
 tastily ribboned, is a pleasing object. And, indeed, the 
 art of decoration seems to me a charming natural instinct, 
 and one which is not nearly enough encouraged, and a 
 gift which every woman should try to acquire. Some girls, 
 like birds, know how to weave, out of ends of rags, of 
 threads and morsels and straws, a beautiful whole, a work 
 of real genius for their habitation. Frivolities, say some ; 
 waste of time, say others, — expense, vanity. The strong- 
 minded dowagers shake their heads at it all — INIrs.Lulworth 
 among them ; only why had Nature painted Cecilia's 
 cheeks of brightest pink, instead of bilious orange, like 
 poor Maria Bowley's? why was her hair all crisp and 
 curly ? and were her white even teeth, and her clear grey 
 eyes, vanity and fi'ivolity too? Cecilia was rather too 
 stout for her age ; she had not much expression in her 
 face. And no wonder. There was not much to be ex- 
 pressive about in her poor little stinted life. She could
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 13 
 
 nol go into raptures over the mahogany sideboard, the 
 camphine lamp in the drawing-room, the four-post beds 
 indoors, the laurel-bushes without, the Moorish temple 
 with yellow glass windows, or the wigwam summer-house, 
 which 'were the alternate boundaries of her daily walks. 
 
 Cecilia was not allowed a fire to dress herself by : a 
 grim maid, however, attended, and I suppose she was 
 surrounded, as people say, by every comfort. There 
 was a horseliair sofa, with a creaking writing-table before 
 it, a metal inkstand, a pair of plated candlesticks : every- 
 thing was large, solid, brown, as I have said, grim, and in 
 its place. The rooms at Lulworth Hall did not take the 
 impress of their inmate, the inmate was moulded by the 
 room. There were in Cecilia's no young-lady-like trifles 
 lyigjg here and there ; upon the chest of drawers there 
 stood a mahogany workbox, square, with a key, and a 
 faded needle-book and darning-cotton inside, — a little 
 dusty chenille, .1 believe, was to be seen round the clock 
 on the chimney-piece, and a black and white check dress- 
 ing-gown and an ugly little pair of slippers were set out 
 before the toilet-table. On the bed, Cecilia's dinner costume 
 was lying — a sickly green dress, trimmed with black — and 
 a white =flower for her hair. On the toilet-table an old- 
 fashioned jasper serpent-necklace and a set of amethysts 
 were displayed for her to choose from, also mittens and a 
 couple of hair-bracelets. The girl was quite content, and
 
 14 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 she would go dowD gravely to dinner, smoothing out her 
 hideous toggery. 
 
 Mrs. Dormer never came down before dinner. All day 
 long she stayed up in her room, dozing and trying reme- 
 dies, and occasionally looking over old journals and letters 
 until it was time to come downstairs. She liked to see 
 Cecilia's pretty face at one side of the table, while her 
 nephew carved, and Mrs. Lulworth recounted any of the 
 surring events of the day. Mrs. Dormer was used to the 
 life — she was sixty when they came to her, she was long past 
 eighty now — the last twenty years had been like a long 
 sleep, with the dream of what happened when she was 
 alive and in the world continually passing before her. 
 
 When the Lulworths first came to her she had been in 
 a low and nervous state, only stipulated for quiet and 
 peace, and that no one was to come to her house of mourn- 
 ing. The John Lulworths, a cheery couple, broke down 
 at the end of a month or two, and preferred giving up all 
 chance of their aunt's great inheritance to living in such 
 utter silence and seclusion. Upon Charles, the younger 
 brother, and his wife, the habit had grown, until now 
 anything else would have been toil and misery to them. 
 Except the old rector from the village, the doctor now 
 and then, no other human creature ever crossed the 
 threshold. ' For Cecilia's sake,' Miss Bowley once ven- 
 tured to hint, — ' would it not be desirable to see a little 
 more society ?....'
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 15 
 
 ' Cecilia with her expectations has the whole world 
 before her, Maria !' said Mrs. Lulworth, severely; and 
 indeed to this foolish woman it seemed as if money would 
 add more to her daughter's happiness than the delights, 
 the woiaders, the interests, the glamours of youth. Charles 
 Lulworth, shrivelled, selfish, dull, worn-out, did not 
 trouble his head about Cecilia's happiness, and let his 
 wife do as she liked with the girl. 
 
 This especial night when Cecilia came down in her 
 ugly green dress, it seemed to her as if something unusual 
 had been going on. The old lady's eyes looked briglit 
 and glittering, her father seemed more animated than 
 usual, her mother looked mysterious and put out. It 
 might have been fancy, but Cecilia thought they all 
 stopped talking as she came into the room ; but then 
 dinner was announced, and her father offered Mrs. Dormer 
 his arm immediately, and they went into the dining- 
 room. 
 
 It must have been fancy. Everything was as usual. 
 ' They have put up a few hurdles in Dalron's field, I see,' 
 said Mrs. Lulworth. ' Charles, you ought to give orders 
 for repairing the lock of the harness-room.' 
 
 ' Hav-e they seen to the pump-handle ? ' said Mr. 
 Lulworth. 
 
 ' I think not.' And then there was a dead silence. 
 
 ' Potatoes,' said Cecilia to the footman. 'Mamma, 
 we saw ever so many slugs in the laurel walk, Maria and
 
 i6 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 I, — didn't we, Maria? I think there are a great many 
 slugs in our place.' 
 
 Old Mrs. Dormer looked up while Cecilia was speak- 
 ing, and suddenly interrupted her in the middle of her 
 sentence. ' How old are you, child ? ' she said ; ' are you 
 seventeen or eighteen ? ' 
 
 ' Eighteen ! aunt Cecilia. I am five-aud-twenty,' said 
 Cecilia, staring. 
 
 ' Good gracious ! is it possible ? ' said her father, sur- 
 prised. 
 
 * Cecil is a woman now,' said her mother. 
 
 ' Five-and-twenty,' said the old lady, quite crossly. 
 ' I had no idea time went so fast. She ought to have 
 been married long ago ; that is, if she means to marry 
 at all.' 
 
 ' Pray, my dear aunt, do not put such ideas^ Mrs. 
 Lul worth began. 
 
 ' I don't intend to marry,' said Cecilia, peeling an 
 orange, and quite unmoved, and she slowly curled the 
 rind of her orange in the air. ' I think people are very 
 stupid to marry. Look at poor Jane Simmonds — her 
 husband beats her ; Jones saw her.' 
 
 ' So you don't intend to marry ! ' said the old lady, 
 with an odd inflection in her voice. ' Young ladies were 
 not so wisely brought np in my early days,' and she gave 
 a great sigh. ' I was reading an old letter this morning 
 from my brother John, your poor father, Charles — all
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 17 
 
 about? happiness, and love in a cot, and two little curly- 
 headed boys — Jack, you know, and yourself. I should 
 rather like to see Jack again.' 
 
 ' What, my dear aunt, after his unparalleled audacity ? 
 I declare the thought of his impudent letter makes my 
 blood boil,' exclaimed Mrs. Lulworth. 
 
 ' Does it ? ' said the old lady. ' Cecilia, my dear, you 
 must know that your uncle has discovered that the entail 
 was not cut off from a certain property which my father 
 left me, and which I brought to my husband. He has 
 therefore written me a very business-like letter, in 
 whicli he says he wishes for no ulteration at present, but 
 begs that, in the event of my making my will, I should 
 remember this, and not complicate matters by leaving it 
 to yourself, as had been my intention. I see nothing to 
 offend in the request. Your mother thinks differently.' 
 
 Cecilia was so amazed at being told anything that she 
 only stared again, and opening a wide mouth, popped into 
 it such a great piece of orange that she could not speak 
 for some minutes. 
 
 ' Cecilia has certainly attained years of discretion,' said 
 her great-aunt ; ' she does not compromise herself by giving 
 any opinion on matters she does not understand.' Then 
 the old lady got up and slowly led the way back to the 
 drawing-room again, across the great empty hall. 
 
 Notwithstanding her outward imperturbability, Cecilia 
 was a little stirred and interested by this history, and by 
 
 c
 
 1 8 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 the short conversation which had preceded it, and after an 
 hour's silence she ceased working-, and looked up from the 
 embroidered shaving-cloth sha was making. ITer mother 
 was sitting upright in her cliair as usual, nutting with 
 vigorous action. Her large foot outstretched, her stiff 
 bony hands working and jerking monotonously. Her 
 father was dozing in his arm-chair ; old Mrs. Dormer, too, 
 Avas nodding in her corner. The monotonous Maria was 
 stitching in the lampliglit. Gfrey and black shadows 
 loomed all round her. The far end of the room was quite 
 dark ; the great curtains swept from their ancient cor- 
 nices. Cecilia, for the first time in all her life, wondered 
 whether she should live all her life in this spot, — ever go , 
 away ? It seemed impossible, unnatural, that she should 
 ever do so. Silent, dull as it was, she was used to it, and 
 did not know what was amiss. . . . Was anything amiss ? 
 Mrs. Charles Lulworth certainly seemed to think so. 
 She made the tea in frowns and silence, and closed the 
 lid of the teapot with a clink which re-echoed through the 
 room. 
 
 Young Frank Lulworth, tlie lawyer of the family — 
 John Lulworth's eldest son — it was who had found it all out. 
 His father wrote that with ]\Irs. Dormer's permission he pro- 
 posed coming down in a day or two to show her the papers, 
 and to explain to her personally how the matter stood. 
 ' My son and I,' said John Lulwoitli, ' both feel that this 
 would be far more agreeable to our fee lings, and perhaps
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 19 
 
 to yours, than having recourse to the usual professional 
 intervention, for we have no desire to press our claims for 
 the present, and we only wish that in the ultimate disposal 
 of your property you should be aware how the matter 
 really stands. We have always been led to suppose that 
 the estate actually in question has been long destined by 
 you for your grand-niece, Cecilia Lulworth. I hear from 
 our old friend Dr. Hicks, that she is remarkably pretty and 
 very amiable. Perhaps such vague possibilities are best 
 immentioned, but it has occurred to me that in the event 
 of a mutual understanding springing up between the young 
 folks, — my son and your grand-niece, — the connection 
 might be agreeable to us all, and lead to a renewal of that 
 family intercourse which has been, to my great regret, 
 suspended for some time past.' 
 
 Old Mrs. Dormer, in her shaky Italian handwriting, 
 answered her nephew's letter by return of post : — 
 
 ' My dear Nephew, — I must acknowledge the receipt 
 of your epistle of the 13th instant. By all means invite 
 your son to pay us his proposed visit. We can talk over 
 business matters at our leisure, and young Francis can be 
 introduced to his relatives. Althouoh a long time has 
 elapsed since we last met, believe me, my dear nephew, 
 not unmindful of bygone associations, and yours very 
 tiuly always, 
 
 ^J ' C. Dormer.' 
 
 C 2
 
 20 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 The letter was in the postman's bag when old Mrs. Dormer 
 informed Mrs. Charles of what she had done. 
 
 Frank Lulworth thought that in all his life he had 
 never seen anything so dismal, so silent, so neglected, as 
 Dorlicote Park, when he drove np a few days after, through 
 the iron gates and along the black laurel wilderness which 
 led to the house. The laurel branches, all unpruned, 
 untrained, were twisting savagely in and out, wreathing 
 and interlacing one another, clutching tender shootings, 
 Avrestling with the young oak-trees and the limes. 
 He passed by black and sombre avenues leading to mouldy 
 temples, to crumbling summer-houses ; he saw what had 
 once been a tlower-garden, now all run to seed — wild, strag- 
 gling, forlorn ; a broken-down bench, a heap of hurdles 
 lying on the ground, a field-mouse darting across, the road, 
 a desolate autumn sun shining upon all this mouldering 
 ornament and confusion. It seemed more forlorn and 
 melancholy by contrast, somehow, coming as he did out 
 of the loveliest country and natural sweetness into the 
 dark and tangled wilderness within these limestone walls 
 of Dorlicote. 
 
 The parish of Dorlicote-cum-Rockington lookf; prettier 
 in the autumn than at any other time. A hundred crisp 
 tints, jewelled rays — greys, browns, purples, glinting 
 golds, and silvers, rustle and sparkle upon the branches of 
 the Rut-trees, of the bushes and thickets. Soft blue
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 21 
 
 mists and purple tints rest upon the distant hills ; scarlet 
 berries glow among the brown leaves of the hedges ; 
 lovely mists fall and vanish suddenly, revealing bright 
 and sweet autumnal sights ; blackberries, stacks of corn, 
 brown leaves crisping upon the turf, great pears hanging 
 sweetening in the sun over the cottage lintels, cows 
 grazing and whisking their tails, blue smoke curling from 
 the tall farm chimneys: all is peaceful, prosperous, golden. 
 You can see the sea on clear days from certain knolls and 
 hillocks. . . . 
 
 Out of all these pleasant sights young Lulworth came 
 into this dreary splendour. He heard no sounds of life — 
 he saw no one. His coachman had opened the iron gate. 
 ' They doan't keep no one to moind the gate,' said the 
 drit^er ; ' only tradesmen cooms to th'ouse.' Even the 
 gardener and his boy were out of the way ; and when they 
 got sight of the house at last, many of the blinds were 
 down and shutters shut, and only two chimneys were 
 smoking. There was some one living in the place, however, 
 for a watch-dog who was lying asleep in his kennel woke 
 up and gave a heart-rending howl when Frank got out 
 and rang at the bell. 
 
 He had to wait an immense time before anybody 
 answered, although a little page in buttons came and 
 stared at him in blank amazement from one of the base- 
 ment windows, and never moved. Through the same 
 window Frank could see into the kitchen, and he was
 
 22 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 amused when a sleepy fat cook came up behind the little 
 page and languidly boxed his ears, and ordered him off the 
 premises. 
 
 The butler, who at last answered the door, seemed 
 utterly taken aback — nobody had called for months past, 
 and here was a perfect stranger taking out his card, and 
 asking for Mrs. Dormer as if it was the most natural thing 
 in the world. The under-butler was half asleep in his 
 pantry, and had not heard the door-bell. The page — the 
 very same whose ears had been boxed — came wondering 
 to the door, and went to ascertain whether Mrs. Dormer 
 would see the gentleman or not. 
 
 ' What a vault, what a catacomb, wliat an ugly old 
 place ! ' thought Frank, as he waited. He heard steps far, 
 far away : then came a long silence, and then a heavy 
 tread slowly approaching, and the old butler beckoned to 
 liim to follow — through a cobweb-colour room, through a 
 brown room, through a grey room, into a great dim drab 
 drawing-room, where the old lady was sitting alone. She 
 had come down her back stairs to receive him ; it was 
 years since she had left her room before dinner. 
 
 Even old ladies look kindly upon a tall, well-built, 
 good-looking, good-humoured young man. Frank's nose 
 was a little too long, bis mouth a little too straight ; but 
 he was a handsome young fellow with a charming manner. 
 Only as he came up he was somewhat shy and undecided 
 — he did not know exactl\' how to address the old ladv.
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 23 
 
 This was his great-aunt. He knew nothing whatever about 
 her, but she was very rich ; she had invited him to come, 
 and she had a kind face, he thought : should he — ought 
 he to embrace her — perhaps he ought, and he made the 
 slightest possible movement in this direction. Mrs. 
 Dormer, divining his object, pushed him weakly away. 
 ' How do you do ? No embraces, thank you. I don't care 
 for kissing at my age. Sit down — there, in that chair 
 opposite — and now tell me about your father, and all the 
 family, and about this ridiculous discovery of yours. I 
 don't believe a word of it.' 
 
 The interview between them was long and satisfactory 
 on the whole. The unconscious Cecilia and Miss Bowley 
 returned that afternoon from their usual airing, and as it 
 liappened, Cecilia said, ' Oh, Maria ! I left my mittens in 
 the drawing-room last might. I will go and fetch them.' 
 And little thinking of what was awaiting her, she flung 
 open the door and marched in through the ante-room — 
 mushroom hat and brown veil, goloshes and dowdy gown., 
 as usual. ' What is this ? ' thought young IjuI worth ; 
 ' Vk^hy, who would have supposed it was such a pretty girl ? ' 
 for suddenly the figure stopped short, and a lovely fresh 
 face looked up in utter amazement out of the hideous 
 disguise. 
 
 ' There, don't stare, child,' said the old lady. ' This is 
 Francis Lulworth, a very intelligent young man, who lias 
 got liold of your fortune and ruined all your chances, my
 
 24 THE SLEEPIXG BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 clear. He wanted to embrace me just now. Francis, you 
 may as well salute your cousin instead: she is much more 
 of an a^e for such compliments,' said Mrs. Dormer, waving- 
 her hand. 
 
 The impassive Cecilia,perfectly bewildered and not in the 
 least understanding, only turned her great sleepyastonished 
 eyes upon her cousin, and stood perfectly still as if she was 
 one of those beautiful wax dolls one sees stuck up to be stared 
 at. And, indeed, a stronger-minded person than Cecilia 
 might have been taken aback, who had come into the 
 drawing-room to fetch her mittens, to be met in such an as- 
 tounding fashion. If she had been surprised before, utter 
 consternation can scarcely convey her state of mind when 
 young Lulworth stepped forward and o})eyed her aunt's be- 
 hest. Frank, half laughing, half kindly, seeing that Cecilia 
 stood quite still and stared at him, supposed itwas ex- 
 pected, and did as he was told. 
 
 The poor girl gave one gasp of horror, and blushed for 
 the first time, I believe, in the course of her whole exist- 
 ence. Bowley, fixed and open-mouthed from the inner 
 room, suddenly fled with a scream, which recalled Cecilia 
 to a sense of outraged propriety : for, blushing and 
 blinking more deeply, she at last gave three little sobs, 
 and then, horror I burst into tears ! 
 
 ' Highty-tighty ; what a much ado about nothing I ' 
 said the old lady, losing her temper and feeling not a
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 25 
 
 little guilty, and much alarmed as to what her niece Mrs. 
 Lulworth might say were she to come on the scene. 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. I am so very, very sorry,' said 
 the young man, quite confused and puzzled. ' I ought to 
 have known better. I frightened you. I am your cousin, 
 you know, and really — pray, pray excuse my stupidity,' 
 he said, looking anxiously into the fair placid face along 
 which the tears were coursing in two streams, like a 
 child's. 
 
 ' Such a thing never happened in all my life before,' 
 said Cecilia. ' I know it is wrong to cry, but really — 
 really ' 
 
 ' Leave off crying directly, miss,' said her aunt, testily, 
 ' and let us have no more of this nonsense.' The old lady 
 dreaded the mother's arrival every instant. Frank, half 
 laughing, but quite unhappy at the poor girl's distress, 
 had taken up his hat to go that minute, not knowing what 
 else to do. 
 
 ' Ah ! you're going,' says old Mrs. Dormer ; ' no 
 wonder. Cecilia, you have driven your cousin awav b; 
 your rudeness.' 
 
 ' I'm not rude,' sobbed Cecilia. ' I can't help crying, 
 
 ' The girl is a greater idiot than I took her for,' cried 
 the old lady. ' She has been kept here locked up, until 
 she has not a single idea left in her iilly noddle. No man 
 of sense could endure her for five minutes. You wish to 
 leave the place, I see, and no wonder ? '
 
 26 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD 
 
 ' I really think,' said Frank, 'that under the circum- 
 stances it is the best thing I can do. Miss Lulworth, I 
 am sure, would wish me to go.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Cecilia. ' Go away, pray go away. 
 Oh, how silly I am.' 
 
 Here was a catastrophe ! 
 
 The poor old fairy was all puzzled and bewildered: her 
 arts were powerless in this emergency. The princess had 
 awakened, but in tears. Although he had said he was 
 going, the prince still stood by, distressed and concerned, 
 feeling horribly guilty, and yet scarcely able to help 
 laughing; and at this instant, to bring matters to a 
 climax, Mrs. Lidworth's gaunt figure appeared at the 
 drawing-i'oom door. 
 
 ' I wash my hands of the whole concern,' said Mrs. 
 Dormer, limping off to her corner in a great hurry and 
 flutter. ' Your daughter is only a few degrees removed 
 from an idiot, ma'am.' 
 
 Poor Cecilia ! her aunt's reproaches only scared her 
 more and more ; and for the first time in her life she was 
 bewildered, discomposed, forgetfid of hours. It was the 
 hour of calisthenics ; but Miss Lulworth forgot everything 
 that might have been expected from a young lady of her 
 admirable bringing-up. 
 
 ' 0, mamma, I didn't mean to be rude,' repeated Cecilia, 
 crying still, and the sweet, wet, vacant face looked im-
 
 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 27 
 
 ploringiy and despairingly up into Frank's. ' I'm so sorry, 
 please forgive me,' she said. 
 
 He looked so kind, so amused, so gentle and handsome 
 that Cecilia actually felt less afraid of him at this moment 
 than she did of her mother, who, with tight lips and sharp 
 eyes, was surveying the two. 
 
 ' Go and take off your goloshes and your walking- 
 dress, Cecilia,' said Mrs. Lulworth, exactly in her usual 
 voice, 'and do not come down without your apron.' 
 
 In a few minutes, when Cecilia returned, blushing and 
 more lovely than ever, in her great apron and dark stuff 
 dress, it was to find her cousin comfortably installed in a 
 big easy chair, and actually talking above his breath to 
 Miss Bowley. He sprang up and came to meet the girl, 
 and held out his hand, ' In token that you forgive me,' 
 he said. 
 
 ' I thought it was I who had been rude and unkind,' 
 Cecilia falteringly said. ' How good of you not to be 
 vexed.' 
 
 ' Cecilia,' said Mrs. Lulworth and Miss Bowley both at 
 once, in different tones of warning ; but the princess was 
 awake now, and her simplicity and beauty touched the 
 young prince, who never, I think, really intended to go, 
 even when he took up his hat. Fairy tales are never very 
 long, and this one ought to come to an end. 
 
 Certainly the story would not have been worth the
 
 28 THE SLEEPING BEAUTY IN THE WOOD. 
 
 telling if they had not been married soon after, and lived 
 
 happily all the rest of their lives. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 It is not in fairy tales only that things fall out as one 
 could wish, and indeed, as H. and I agreed the other night 
 that fairies, although invisible, have not entirely vanished 
 out of the land. 
 
 It is certainly like a fairy transformation to see Cecilia 
 now-a-days in her own home with her children and 
 husband about her. Bright, merry, full of sympathy and 
 interest, she seems to grow prettier every minute. 
 
 When Frank fell in love with her and proposed, old 
 Mrs. Dormer insisted upon instantly giving up the Dorli- 
 cote Farm for the young people to live in. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Frank Lulworth are obliged to live in London, but they 
 go there every summer with their children ; and for some 
 years after her marriage, Cecilia's godmother, who took the 
 opportunity of the wedding to break through many of her 
 recluse habits, used to come and see her every day in a 
 magnificent yellow chariot.
 
 CINDEEELLA
 
 CINDEEELLA. 
 
 It is, happily, not only in fairy tales that things sometimes 
 fall out as one could wish, that anxieties are allayed, mis- 
 takes explained away, friends reconciled ; that people 
 inherit large fo;tnnes, or are found out in their nefarious 
 schemes ; that long-lost children are discovered disguised 
 in soot, that vessels come safely sailing into port after the 
 storm ; and that young folks who have been faithful to one 
 another are married off at last. Some of these young 
 couples are not only happily married, but they also begin 
 life in pleasant palaces tastefully decorated, and witli all 
 the latest improvements ; with convenient cupboards, 
 bath-rooms, back staircases, speaking tubes, lifts from one 
 storey to another, hot and cold water laid on ; while outside 
 lie well-Jvept parks, and gardens, and flower-beds ; and 
 from the muslin-veiled windows they can see the sheep 
 browsing ; the long shadowy grass, deer starting across 
 the sunny glades, swans floating on the rivers, and sailing 
 through the lilies and tall lithe reeds. There are fruit-
 
 32 CINDERELLA. 
 
 gardens, too, where great purple plums are sunning on the 
 walls, and cucumbers lying asleep among their cool dark 
 leaves. There are glass-houses where heavy dropping 
 bunches of grapes are hanging, so that one need only open 
 one's mouth for them to fall into it all ready cooked and 
 sweetened. Sometimes, in addition to' all these good 
 things, the young couple possess all the gracious gifts of 
 youth, beauty, gay and amia})le dispositions. Some one 
 said, the other day, that it seemed as if Fate scarcely knew 
 what she was doing, when she lavished with such profusion 
 every gift and delight upon one pair of heads, while others 
 were left bald, shorn, unheeded, dishevelled, forgotten, 
 dishonoured. And yet the world would be almost too sad 
 to bear, if one did not sometimes see happiness somewhere. 
 One would scarcely believe in its possible existence, if 
 there was nobody young, fortunate, prosperous, delighted ; 
 nobody to think of with satisfaction, and to envy a little. 
 The sight of great happiness and prosperity is like listen- 
 ing to harmonious music, or looking at beautiful pictures, 
 at certain times cf one's life. It seems to suggest possi- 
 ])ilities, it sets sad folks longing ; but while they are 
 wishing, still, maybe, a little reproachfully, they realise 
 the existence of what perhaps they had doubted before. 
 Fate has been hard to them, but there is compensation 
 even in this life, they tell themselves. Which of us know 
 when his turn may come? Happiness is a fact: it does 
 lie within some people's grasp. To this or that yuung fairy
 
 CINDERELLA. 33 
 
 couple, age, trial, and trouble may be in store ; but no-w at 
 least the present is golden ; the innocent delights and 
 triumphs of youth and nature are theirs. 
 
 I could not help moralising a little in this way, when we 
 were staying with young Lulworth and his wife the other 
 day, coming direct from the struggling dull atmosphere 
 of home to the golden placidity of Lulworth farm. They 
 drove us over to Cliffe Court — another oasis, so it seemed to 
 me, in the arid plains of life. Cliffe Court is a charming, 
 cheerful, Italian-looking house, standing on a hill in the 
 midst of a fiery furnace of geraniums and flower-beds. ' It be- 
 longs to youn g Sir Charles Richardson . He is six-an d-t wenty, 
 and the handsomest man in the county,' said Frank. 
 
 'Oh, no, Frank; you are joking, surely,' said Cecilia; 
 and then she stared, and tlieu blushed in her odd way. 
 She still stared sometimes when she was shy, as she used 
 to do before she married. 
 
 So much of her former habits Cecilia had also retained, 
 that as the clock struck eight every morning a great 
 punctual breakfast-bell used to ring in the outer hall. 
 The dining-room casement was wide open upon the beds 
 of roses, the tea was made, Cecilia in lier crisp white 
 morning dress, and with all her wavy bronze hair curling 
 about her face, was waiting to pour it out, the eggs were 
 boiled, the bacon was frizzling hot upon the plate to a 
 moment ; there was no law allowed, not a minute's grace 
 for anybody, no matter how lazy. They had been married 
 
 D
 
 34 CINDERELLA. 
 
 a little more than two years, and were quite established 
 in their counti-y home. I wish I could perform some 
 incantation like those of my friends the fairies, and con- 
 jure up tlie old farm bodily with a magic wave of my pen, 
 or by drawing a triangle with a circle through it upon the 
 >s. paper — as the enchanters do. The most re- 
 
 /^w>^ markable things about the farm were its 
 curious and beautiful old chimneys — indeed the whole 
 county of Sussex is celebrated for them, and the meanest 
 little cottages have noble-looking stacks all ornamented, 
 carved and weather-beaten. There were gables also, 
 and stony mullioned windows, and ancient steps with 
 rusty rings hanging to them, affixed there to fasten the 
 bridles of horses that would have run away several 
 hundred years ago, if this precaution had not been taken. 
 And then there were storehouses and ricks and barns, 
 all piled with the abundance of the harvest. The farm- 
 yard was alive with young fowls and cocks and hens ; 
 and guinea-hens, those gentle little dowagers, went about 
 glistening in silver and grey, and Cecilia's geese came 
 clamouring to meet her. I can see it all as I think about 
 it. The old walls are all carved and ornamented, some- 
 times by art and work of man's hand, sometimes by time 
 and lovely little natural mosses. House-leeks grow in 
 clumps upon the thatch, a pretty girl is peeping through 
 a lattice window, a door is open while a rush of sweet 
 morning scent comes through the shining oaken passage
 
 CINDERELLA, 35 
 
 from the herb -garden and orchard beliind. Cows with 
 their soft brown eyes and cautious tread are passing on 
 their way to a field across the road. A white horse 
 waiting by his stable-door shakes his head and whinnies. 
 
 Frank and Cecilia took us for a walk after breakfast 
 the first morning we came. We were taken to the stables 
 first and the cow-houses, and then we passed out through 
 a gate into a field, and crossing the field we got into a 
 copse which skirted it, and so by many a lovely little 
 winding path into the woods. Young Lulworth took our 
 delight and admiration as a personal compliment. It was 
 all Lulworth property as far as we could see. I thought 
 it must be strangely delightful to be the possessor of such 
 beautiful hills, mist, sunshine and shadow, violet tones, 
 sopg of birds, and shimmer of foliage ; but Frank, I 
 believe, looked at his future prospects from a material 
 point of view, ' You see it ain't the poetic part of it 
 which pays,' he said. Eut he appreciated it nevertheless, 
 for Cecilia came out of the woods that morning, all decked 
 out with great convolvulus leaves, changed to gold, which 
 Frank had gathered as we went along and given to her. 
 This year all the leaves were tm-ning to such beautiful 
 colours that people remarked upon it, and said they never 
 remembered such a glowing autumn ; even the year when 
 Frank came to Dorlicote was not to compare to it. Browns 
 and russet, and bright amber and gold flecks, berries, red 
 leaves, a lovely blaze and glitter in the woods along the
 
 36 CINDERELLA. 
 
 lanes and beyond the fields and copses. All the hills 
 were melting with lovely colour in the clear warm autumn 
 air, and the little nut-wood paths seemed like Aladdin's 
 wonderful gardens, where precious stones hung to the trees ; 
 there was a twinkle and crisp shimmer, yellow leaves and 
 golden light, yellow light and golden leaves, red hawthorn, 
 convolvulus-berries, holly-berries beginning to glow, and 
 heaped-up clustering purple blackberries. The sloe-berries, 
 or snowy blackthorn fruit, with their soft gloom of colour, 
 were over, and this was the last feast of the year. On the 
 trees the apples hung red and bright, the pears seemed 
 ready to drop from their branches and walls, the wheat 
 was stacked, the sky looked violet behind the yellow ricks. 
 A blackbird was singing like a ripple of water, somebody 
 said. It is hard to refrain from writing of all these lovely 
 things, though it almost is an impertinence to attempt to 
 set them do^sna on paper in long lists, like one of Messrs. 
 Eippon and Burton's circulars. As we were walking along 
 the high-road on our way back to the farm, we passed a 
 long pale melancholy-looking man riding a big horse, with 
 a little sweet-faced creature about sixteen who was cantering 
 beside him. 
 
 He took off his hat, the little girl kissed her hand as 
 they passed, nodding a gay triumphant nod, and then we 
 watched them down the hill, and disappearing at the end 
 of the lane. 
 
 ' I am quite glad to see Ella Ashford out riding with
 
 CINDERELLA. 37 
 
 her father again,' said Lulworth, holding the garden gate 
 open for us to pass in. 
 
 'Mrs. Ashford called here a day or two ago with her 
 daughter,' said Cecilia. ' They're going to stay at the 
 Kavenhill, she told me. I thought Colonel Ashford was 
 gone too. I suppose he is come back.' 
 
 ' Of course he is,' said Frank, ' since we have just seen 
 him with Ella, and of course his wife is away for the same 
 reason.' 
 
 ' The child has grown very thin,' said H. 
 
 'She has a difficult temper,' said Cecilia — who, once 
 she got an idea into her soft, silly head, did not easily get 
 rid of it again. ' She is a great anxiety to poor Mrs. 
 Ashford. She is very different, she tells me, to Julia and 
 Lieette Garnier, her own daughters.' 
 
 ' I knew them when they were children,' said H. ' We 
 used to see a great deal of Mrs. Ashford when she was first 
 a widow, and I went to her second wedding.' 
 
 We were at Paris one year — ten years before the time 
 I am writing of — and Mrs. Garnier lived over us, in a tiny 
 little apartment. She was very poor, and very grandly 
 dressed, and she used to come rustling in to see us. 
 Hustling is hardly the word, she was much too graceful 
 and womanly a person to rustle ; her long silk gowns used 
 to ripple, and wave, and flow away as she came and went ; 
 and her beautiful eyes used to fill with tears as she drank
 
 38 CINDERELLA. 
 
 her tea and confided her troubles to us. H. never liked 
 her ; but I must confess to a very kindly feeling for the 
 poor, gentle, beautiful, forlorn young creature, so passion- 
 ately lamenting the loss she had sustained in Major- 
 General Garnier. He had left her very badly off, although 
 she was well connected, and Lady Jane Peppercorne, her 
 cousin, had offered her and her two little girls a home at 
 Ravenhill, she used to tell us in her eplore manner. I do 
 not know why she never availed herself of the offer. She 
 said once that she would not be doing justice to her 
 precious little ones, to whom she devoted herself with the 
 assistance of an experienced attendant. My impression is, 
 that the little ones used to scrub one another's little ugly 
 faces, and plait one another's little light Chinese-looking 
 tails, while the experienced attendant laced and dressed 
 and adorned, and scented and powdered their mamma. 
 She really was a beautiful young woman, and would have 
 looked quite charming if she had left herself alone for a 
 single instant, but she was always posing. She had dark 
 bright eyes ; she had a lovely little arched mouth ; and 
 hands so white, so soft, so covered with rings, that one 
 felt that it was indeed a privilege when she said, ' Oh, hoio 
 do you do ? ' and extended two or three gentle confiding 
 fingers. At first she went nowhere except to church, and 
 to walk in the retired paths of the Park de Monpeau, 
 although she took in Galignani and used to read the lists 
 of arrivals. But by degrees she began to — chiefly to
 
 CINDERELLA. 39 
 
 ■s, 
 
 please me, she said — go out a little, to m.ike a few 
 acquaintances. One day I was walking with her down the 
 Champs Elysees, when she suddenly started and looked up 
 at a tall, melancholy-looking gentleman who was passing, 
 and who stared at her very hard ; and soon after that it 
 was that she began telling me she had determined to make 
 an effort for her children's sake, and to go a little more 
 into society. She wanted me to take her to Madame de 
 Grirouette's, where she heard I was going one evening, and 
 where she believed she should meet an old friend of hers, 
 whom she particularly wished to see again. Would I 
 help her ? Would I be so very good ? Of course I 
 was ready to do anything I could. She came punctual to 
 her time, all grey moire and black lace ; a remise was sent 
 for^ and we set off, jogging along the crowded streets, with 
 our two lamps lighted, and a surly man, in a red waistcoat 
 and an oilskin hat, to drive us to the Rue de Lille. All 
 the way there, Mrs. Garnier was strange, silent, nervous, 
 excited. Her eyes were like two shining craters, I thought, 
 when we arrived, and as we climbed up the interminable 
 flights of stairs. I guessed which was the old friend in a 
 minute : a tall, well-looking, sick-looking man with a grey 
 moustache, standing by himself in a corner. 
 
 I spent a curious evening, distracted between Madame 
 de Girouette's small talk, to which I was supposed to be 
 listening, and Mrs. Garnier's murmured conversation with
 
 40 CINDERELLA. 
 
 lier old friend in the corner, to which I was vainly en- 
 deavouring not to attend. 
 
 'My dear, imagine a bouillon, surmounted with little 
 tiny flutings all round the bottom, and then three ruches, 
 alternating with three little volants, with great choux at 
 regular intervals ; over this a tunic, caugjit up at the side 
 by a jardiniere, a ceinture a la Behe.'' 
 
 ' When you left us I was a child, weak, foolish, easily 
 frightened and influenced. It nearly broke my heart. 
 Look me in the face, if you can, and tell me you do not 
 believe me/ I heard Mrs. Garnier murmuring in a low 
 thrilling whisper. She did not mean me to hear it, but 
 she was too absorbed in what she was saying to think of 
 all the people round about her. 
 
 'Ah, Lydia, what does it matter now ? ' the friend an- 
 swered in a sad voice, which touched me somehow. ' We 
 have both been wrecked in our ventm'es, and life has not 
 much left for either of us now.' 
 
 'It is cut en hiais^ Madame de Girouette went on ; 
 ' the pieces which are taken out at one end are let in at 
 the other : the effect is quite charming, and the economy 
 is immense.' 
 
 ' For you, you married the person you loved,' Lydia 
 Gamier was answering ; ' for me, out of the wreck, I have 
 at least my children, and a remembrance, and a 
 friend — is it so? Ah, Henry, have I not at least a 
 friend ? '
 
 CINDERELLA. 41 
 
 ' Everybody wants one,' said ]Madame de Girouette, 
 concluding her conversation, ' and they cannot be made 
 fast enough to supply the demand. I am promised mine 
 to wear to-morrow at the opening of the salon, but I am 
 afraid that you have no chance. How the poor thing is 
 over-worked — her magazin is crowded — I believe she will 
 leave it all in charge of her premiere demoiselle, and re- 
 tire to her campagne as soon as the season is over.' 
 
 ' And you will come and see me, will you not,' said the 
 widow, as we went away, looking up at her friend. I do 
 not know to this day if she was acting. I believe, to do 
 lier justice, that she was only acting what she really felt, 
 as many of us do at times. 
 
 I took Mrs. Garnier home as I had agreed. I did not 
 ask»-any questions. I met Colonel Ashford on the stairs 
 next day, and I was not surprised when, about a week 
 after, Mrs. Garnier flitted into the drawing-room early one 
 morning, and sinking down at my feet in a careless atti- 
 tude, seized my hand, and said that she had come for 
 counsel, for advice. . . She had had an offer from a 
 person whom she respected, Colonel Ashford, whom I 
 might have remarked that niglit at Madame de Girouette's ; 
 would I-^would I give her my candid opinion ; for her 
 children's sake, did I not think it would be well to tliink 
 seriously ? . . . 
 
 ' And for your own, too, my dear,' said I. ' Colonel 
 Ashford is in Parliament, he is very well off. I believe
 
 42 CINDERELLA. 
 
 you will be making an excellent marriage. Accept him 
 by all means.' 
 
 ' Dear friend, since this is your real heart-felt opinion, 
 I value your judgment too highly not to act by its dictates. 
 Once, years ago, there was thought of this between me 
 and Henry. I will now confide to you, my heart has 
 never failed from its early devotion. A cruel fate sepa- 
 rated us. I married. He married. We are brought 
 together as by a miracle, but our three children will never 
 know the loss of their parents' love,' &c. $zq.. Glance, 
 hand pressure, &c. — tears, &c. Then a long, soft, irri- 
 tating kiss. I felt for the first time in my life inclined to 
 box her ears. 
 
 The little Garniers certainly gained by the bargain, 
 and the colonel sat down to write home to his little 
 daugliter, and tell her the news. 
 
 Poor little Ella, I wonder what sort of anxieties Mrs. 
 Ashford had caused to her before she had been Ella's 
 father's wife a year. Miss Ashford made the best of it. 
 She was a cheery, happy little creature, looking at every- 
 thing from the sunny side, adoring her father, running 
 wild out of doors, but with an odd turn for hovise-keeping, 
 and order and method at home. Indeed, for the last two 
 years, ever since she was twelve years old, she had kepi 
 her father's house. Languid, gentle, easily impressed, 
 Colonel Ashford was quite curiously influenced by this
 
 \ CINDERELLA. 43 
 
 little daughter. She could make him come and go, and 
 like and dislike. I think it was Ella who sent him into 
 Parliament : she could not bear Sir Eainham Eichardson, 
 their next neighbour, co be an M.P., and an oracle, while 
 her father was only a retired colonel. Her ways and her 
 sayings were a strange and pretty mixture of childishness 
 and precociousness. She would be ordering dinner, seeing 
 that the fires were alight in the study and dining-room, 
 writing notes to save her father trouble (Colonel Ashford 
 hated trouble), in her cramped, crooked, girlish hand ; 
 the next minute she was perhaps flying, agile-footed, round 
 and round the old hail, skipping up and down the oak 
 stairs, laughing out like a child as she played with her 
 puppy, and dangled a little ball of string under his black 
 noser Putf, with a youthful bark, would seize the ball 
 and go scuttling down the corridors with his prize, while 
 Ella pursued him with her quick flying feet. She could 
 sing charmingly, with a clear, true, piping voice, like a 
 bird's, and she used to dance to her own singing in the 
 prettiest way imaginable. Her dancing was really remark- 
 able : she had the most beautiful feet and hands, and as 
 she seesawed in time, still singing and moving in rliythra, 
 anyone seeing her could not fail to have been struck by 
 the weird-like little accomplishment. Some girls have a 
 passion for dancing — boys have a hundred other ways and 
 means of giving vent to their activity and exercising 
 their youthful limbs, and putting out their eager young
 
 44 CINDERELLA. 
 
 strength ; but girls have no such chances ; they are con- 
 demned to walk through life for the most part quietly, 
 soberly, putting a curb on the life and vitality which is in 
 them. They long to throw it out, they would like to have 
 wings to fly like a bird, and so they dattce sometimes with 
 all their hearts, and might, and energy. People rarely 
 talk of the poetry of dancing, but there is something in 
 it of the real inspiration of art. The music plays, the 
 heart beats time, the movements flow as naturally as the 
 branches of a tree go waving in the wind. . . . 
 
 One day a naughty boy, who had run away, for a lark, 
 from his tutor and his schoolroom at Cliffe, hard by, and 
 who was hiding in a ditch, happened to see Ella alone in 
 a field. She was looking up at the sky and down at the 
 pretty scarlet and white pimpernels, and listening to the 
 birds ; suddenly she felt so strong and so light, and as if she 
 ')nust jump about a little, she was so happy ; and so she 
 did, shaking her pretty golden mane, waving her poppies 
 high over head, and singing higher and higher, like one 
 of the larks that were floating in mid air. The naughty 
 boy was much frightened, and firmly believed that he had 
 seen a fairy. 
 
 ' She was all in white,' he said afterwards, in an 
 aggrieved tone of \oice. ' She'd no hat, or anything ; 
 she bounded six foot into the air. You never saw any- 
 thing like it. 
 
 Master Kichardson's guilty conscience had something
 
 CINDERELLA. 45 
 
 to do with his alarm. When his friend made a few face- 
 tious enquiries he answered quite sulkily,—' Black pud- 
 den ? she offered me no pudden or anything else. I only 
 wish you had been there, that's all, then you'd believe 
 a fellow when he says a thing, instead of always chaffing.' 
 
 Ella gave up her dancing after the new wife came to 
 Ash Place. It was all so different ; she was not allowed 
 any more to run out into the fields alone. She supposed 
 it was very nice having two young companions like 
 Lisette and Julia, and at first, in her kindly way, the 
 child did the honours of her own home, showed them the 
 way which led to her rabbits, her most secret bird's nest, 
 the old ivy-grown smugglers' hole in the hollow. Lisette 
 and Julia went trotting about in their frill trowsers and 
 Chinese tails of hair, examining everything, making their 
 calculations, saying nothing, taking it all in (poor little 
 Ella was rather puzzled, and could not make them out). 
 Meantime her new mother was gracefully wandering over 
 tlie house on her husband's arm, and standing in attitudes, 
 admiring the view from the windows, and asking gentle 
 little indifferent questions, to all of which Colonel Ashford 
 replied unsuspectingly enough. 
 
 ' And so you give the child an allowance ? Is she not 
 very young for one? And is this Ella's room? how 
 prettily it is furnished.' 
 
 'She did it all herself,' said her father, smiling.
 
 46 CINDERELLA. 
 
 ' Look at her rocking-horse, and her dolls' house, and her 
 tidy little arrangements.' 
 
 The house-keeping books were in a little pile on the 
 table : a very suspicious-looking doll was lying on the 
 bed, so were a pile of towels, half marked, but neatly 
 folded ; there was a bird singing in a cage, a squirrel, a 
 little aged dog — PufiTs grandmother — asleep on a cushion, 
 some sea-anemones in a glass, gaping with their horrid 
 mouths, strings of birds' eggs were suspended, and whips 
 were hanging up on the walls. There was a great bunch 
 of flowers in the window, and a long daisy-chain fastened 
 up in festoons round the glass ; and then on the toilette- 
 table there were one or two valuable trinkets set out in 
 their little cases. 
 
 ' Dear me,' said Mrs. Ashford, ' is it not a pity to 
 leave such temptation in the way of the servants ? Little 
 careless thing — had I not better keep them for her, 
 Henry ? they are very beautiful.' And Mrs. Ashford 
 softly collected Ella's treasiues in her long white hands. 
 
 ' Ella has some very valuable things,' Colonel Ashford 
 said. ' She keeps them locked up in a strong box, I 
 believe ; yes, there it is in the corner.' 
 
 ' It had much better come into my closet,' Mrs. 
 Ashford said. ' Oh, how heavy ! Come here, strong-arm, 
 and help me.' Colonel Ashford obediently took up the 
 box as he was bid. 
 
 'And I think I may as well finish marking the
 
 CINDERELLA. 47 
 
 > 
 
 dusters,' said Mrs. Ashford, looking round the room as 
 she collected them all in her apron. ' The books, of 
 course, are now my duty. I think Ella will not be sorry 
 to be relieved of her cares. Do you know, dear, I think I 
 am glad, for her sake, that you married me, as well as for 
 my own. I think she has had too much put upon her, is 
 a little too decided, too prononcee for one so young. 
 One would not wish to see her grow up before the time. 
 Let them remain young and careless while tliey can, 
 Henry.' 
 
 So when Ella came back to mark the dusters that she 
 had been hemming, because Mrs. Milton was in a hurry 
 for them and the housemaid had hurt her eye, they were 
 gone, and so were her neat little books that she had taken 
 sucB pride in, and had been winding up before she gave them 
 to Mrs. Ashford to keep in future ; so was her pretty 
 coral necklace tliat she wore of an evening ; and her 
 pearls with the diamond clasp ; and her beautiful clear 
 carbuncle brooch that she was so fond of, and her little 
 gold clasp bracelet. Although Eliza and Susan had 
 lived with them all her life long, they had never taken 
 lier things, poor Ella thought, a little bitterly. ' Quite 
 unsuitable, at your age, dearest,' Mrs. Ashford murmured, 
 kissing her fondly. 
 
 And Ella never got them back any more. JNIany and 
 many other things there were she never got back, poor 
 child. Ah me I treasures dearer to her than the pretty
 
 48 CINDERELLA. 
 
 coral necklace and the gold clasp bracelet — liberty, confi- 
 dence — the tender atmosphere of admiring love in which 
 she had always lived, the first place in her father's heart. 
 That should never be hers again some one had determined. 
 
 The only excuse for Mrs. Ashford is that she was very 
 much in love with her husband, and so selfishly attached 
 to him that she grudged the very care and devotion which 
 little Ella had spent upon her father all these years past. 
 Every fresh proof of thought and depth of feeling in such 
 a childish little creature hurt and vexed the other woman. 
 Ella must be taught her place, this lady determined, not in 
 so many words. Alas ! if we could always set our evil 
 thoughts and schemes to words, it would perhaps be well 
 with us, and better far than drifting, unconscious and 
 xmwarned, into nameless evil, unowned to oneself, scarcely 
 recognised. - 
 
 And so the years went by. Julia and Lisette grew up 
 into two great tall fashionable bouncing young ladies ; 
 they pierced their ears, turned up their pigtails, and 
 dressed very elegantly. Lisette used to Avear a coral 
 necklace, Julia was partial to a clear carbuncle brooch 
 her mother gave her. Little Ella, too, grew up like a 
 little green plant springing up through the mild spring 
 rains and the summer sunshine, taller and prettier and 
 sadder every year. And yet perhaps it was as well after 
 all that early in life she had to learn to be content with a 
 very little share of its bounties ; she might have been
 
 *. CINDERELLA, 49 
 
 spoilt and over-indulged if things had gone on as they 
 began, if nothing had ever thwarted her, and if all her 
 life she had had her own way. She was a bright smiling 
 little thing for all her worries, with a sweet little face ; 
 indeed her beauty was so remarkable, and her manner so 
 simple and charming, that Julia and Lisette, who were a 
 year or two her elders, used to complain to their mother 
 nobody ever noticed them when Ella was by. Lady Jane 
 Peppercorne, their own cousin, was always noticing her, 
 and actually gave her a potato off" her own plate the otlier 
 day. 
 
 ' I fear she is a very forward, designing girl. I shall 
 not think of taking her out in London this year,' JVL's. 
 Ashford said, with some asperity ; ' nor shall I allow her 
 to appear at our croquet party next week. She is far too 
 young to be brought out.' 
 
 So Ella was desired to remain in her own room on 
 this occasion. She nearly cried, poor little thing, but 
 what could she do ; lier father was away, and when he 
 came back Mrs. Ashford would be sure to explain every- 
 thing to him. Mrs. Ashford had explained life to him in 
 so strangely ingenious a manner that he had got to see it 
 in a very topsy-turvy fashion. Some things she had 
 explained away altogether, some she had distorted and 
 twisted, poor little Ella had been explained and explained, 
 until there was scarcely anything of her left at all. Poor 
 child, she sometimes used to think she had not a single 
 
 1
 
 so CINDERELLA. 
 
 friend in the world, but she would chide herself for such 
 fancies ; it must be fancy. Her father loved her as much 
 as ever, but he was engrossed by business, and it was not 
 to be expected he should show what he felt before Julia 
 and Lisette, who might be hurt. And^then Ella would 
 put all her drawers in order, or ew a seam, or go out and 
 pull up a bedful of weeds to chase such morbid fancies out 
 of her mind. 
 
 Lady Jane Peppercorne, of whom mention has been 
 already made, had two houses, one in Onslow Square, 
 another at Hampstead. She was very rich, she had never 
 married, and was consequently far more sentimental than 
 ladies of her standing usually are. She was a flighty old 
 lady, and lived sometimes at one house, sometimes at the 
 other, sometimes at hotels here and there, as the fancy 
 seized her. She was very kind as well as flighty, and was 
 constantly doing generous things, and trying to help any- 
 one who seemed to be in trouble or who appeared to wish 
 for anything she had it in her power to grant. 
 
 So when Mrs. Ashford said, — ' Oh, Lady Jane, pity 
 me ! My husband says he cannot afford to taKe me to 
 town this year. I should so like to go, for the dear girls' 
 
 sake of course ' Ltidy Jane gave a little grunt and 
 
 said, — ' I will lend you my house in Onslow Square, if 
 you like — that is, if you keep my room ready for me in 
 case 1 want to come up at any time. But I daresay you 
 won't care for such an unfashionable quarter of the world.'
 
 CINDERELLA. ct 
 
 ' Oh, Lady Jane, how exceedingly kind, how very 
 deliglitful and unexpected I ' cried Mrs. Ashford, who had 
 been hoping for it all the time, and who hastened to com- 
 municate tlie news to Lisette and Julia. 
 
 ' I sliall want a regular outfit, mamma,' said Julia, 
 who was fond of dress. ' Perhaps we shall meet young Mr. 
 Richardson in town.' 
 
 ' I shall be snapped up directly by some one, I expect,' 
 said Lisette, who was very vain, and thought herself 
 irresistible. 
 
 ' Am I to come too ? ' asked Ella, timidly, from the 
 other end of the room, looking up from her sewing. 
 
 ' I do not know,' replied her stepmother, curtly, and 
 
 Ella sighed a little wistfully, and went on stitching. 
 »■ 
 ' At what age shall you let me come out ? ' she presently 
 
 asked, shyly. 
 
 ' When you are fit to be trusted in the world, and have 
 cured your unruly temper,' said ]Mrs. Ashford. Ella's 
 eyes filled with tears, and she blushed up ; but her father 
 came into the room, and she smiled through her tears, 
 and thought to herself that since her temper was so bad, 
 
 she had better begin to rule it that very instant 
 
 When Mrs. Ashford began to explain to her husband, how- 
 ever, how much better it would be for Ella to remain in the 
 country, the child's wistful glance met his, and for once he 
 insisted that she should not be left behind. 
 
 E 2
 
 52 CINDERELLA. 
 
 It is a bright May morning after a night of rain, and 
 although this is London and not the country any more, 
 Onslow Square looks bright and clean. Lady Jane has 
 had the house smartly done up : clean chintz, striped 
 ])linds, a balcony full of mignonette. She has kept two 
 little rooms for herself and her maid, but all the rest of the 
 house is at the Ashfords' disposal Everybody is satisfied, 
 and Ella is enchanted with her little room upstairs. Mrs. 
 Ashford is making lists of visits and dinner-parties and 
 milliners' addresses ; Lisette is looking out of window 
 at some carriages which are passing ; the children and 
 nurses are sitting under the trees in the square ; Julia is 
 looking at herself in the glass and practising her court 
 curtseys ; and Ella is in the back room arranging a 
 great heap of books in a bookcase. ' I should so like to 
 go to the Palace, mamma,' she says, looking up with a 
 smudgy face, for the books were all dirty and covered with 
 dust. ' Do vou think there will be room for me ? ' 
 
 Ella had no proper pride, as it is called, and always 
 used to take it for granted she was wanted, and that some 
 accident prevented her from going with the others. ' I am 
 sorry there is no room for you, Ella,' said Mrs. Ashford, 
 in her deep voice ; ' I have asked Mr, Richardson to come 
 with us, and if he fails, I promised to call for the Countess 
 Bricabrac. Pray, if you do not care for walking in the 
 square this afternoon, see that my maid puts my things 
 properly away in the cupboards, as well as Julia's and
 
 CINDERELLA. 53 
 
 Lisette's, and help her to fold the dresses, because it is 
 impossible for one person to manage these long trains 
 unassisted.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Ella, cheerfully. ' I hope you will 
 have a pleasant day. How nice it must be to be going.' 
 
 ' I wish you would learn not to wish for everything and 
 anything that you happen to hear about, Ella,' said Mrs. 
 Ashford. ' And, by the way, if you find any visitors 
 coming, go away, for I cannot allow you to be seen in this 
 dirty state.' 
 
 ' There's a ring,' said Ella, gathering some of the book? 
 together. ' Good-bye.' 
 
 Youns: Mr. Eichardson, who was announced imme- 
 diately after, passed a pretty maid-servant, carrying a 
 great pile of folios, upon the stairs. She looked so little 
 fitted for the task that he involuntarily stopped and said, 
 ' Can I assist you ? ' The little maid smiled and shook 
 her head, without speaking. ' What a charming little 
 creature !' thought Mr. Richardson. He came to say that 
 he and his friend, Jack Prettyman, were going to ride 
 down together, and would join the ladies at the Palace. 
 
 ' We are to pick Colonel Ashford up at his club,' ]Mrs. 
 Ashford said, ' and Madame de Bricabrac. I shall count 
 upon you then.' And the young ladies waved him gracious 
 mi revoirs from the balcony. 
 
 ' Oh ! don't you like white waistcoats, Julia ? ' said 
 Lisette, as she watched him down the street.
 
 54 CINDERELLA. 
 
 They are gone. Ella went up to help with the dresses, 
 but presently the maid said in her rude way that she must 
 go down to dinner, and she could not have anybody mess- 
 ing the things about while she was away. Carter hated 
 having a 'spy' set over her, as she called Miss Ashford. 
 The poor little spy went back to the drawing-room. 
 She was too melancholy and out of spirits to dress herself 
 and go out. Her face was still smudgy, and she had cried 
 a little over Lisette's pink tarlatane. Her heart sank 
 down, down, down. She did so long for a little fun and 
 delight, and laughter and happiness. She knew her 
 father would say, ' Where is Ella ? ' and her mother 
 would answer, ' Oh, I really cannot account for Ella's 
 fancies. She was sulky this morning again. I cannot 
 manage her strange tempers.' 
 
 The poor child chanced to see her shabby face and 
 frock and tear-stained cheeks in one of the tall glasses 
 over the gilt tables. It was very silly, but the woe-begone 
 little face touched her so ; she was so sorry for it that all 
 of a sudden she burst out sob, sob, sob, crying. ' Oh, how 
 nice it must be to be loved and cherished, and very 
 happy,' she thought. ' Oh, I could be so good if they 
 would only love me.' She could not bear to think more 
 directly of her father's change of feeling. She sat down 
 on the floor, as she had a way of doing, all in a little heap, 
 staring at the empty grate. The fire had burnt out, and 
 no one had thought of relighting it. For a few minutes
 
 CINDERELLA. 55 
 
 lier tears overflowed, and shecried and cried in two rivulets 
 down her black little face. She thought how forlorn she 
 was, what a dull life she led, how alone she lived — such a 
 rush of regret and misery overpowered her, that she hid 
 her face in her hands, unconscious of anything else but 
 her own sadness. . . . 
 
 She did not hear the bell ring, nor a carriage stop, nor 
 Lady Jane's footsteps. That lady came across the room 
 and stood looking at her. ' Why, my dear little creature, 
 what is the matter ^ ' said Lady Jane at last. ' Crying ? 
 don't you know it is very naughty to cry, no matter how 
 bad things are ? Are they all gone — are you all alone ? ' 
 
 Ella jumped up quite startled, blushed, wiped her tears 
 in a smudge. ' I thought nobody would see me cry,' she 
 said, ' for they are all gone to the Crystal Palace.' 
 
 ' And did they leave you behind quite by yourself ? ' 
 the old lady asked. 
 
 ' They were .so sorry they had no room for me,' said 
 good-natured little Ella. She could not bear to hear 
 people blamed. ' They had promised Madame de Brica- 
 brac' 
 
 ' Is that all ? ' said Lady Jane, in her kind imperious 
 way. '.Why, I have driven in from Hampstead on pur- 
 pose to go there too. There's a great flower-show to-day ; 
 and you know 1 am a first-rate gardener. I've brought up 
 a great hamper of things. Put on your bonnet, wash youi- 
 face, and come along directly. I've plenty of room. Who
 
 56 CINDERELLA, 
 
 is that talking in that rude way ? ' for at that instant 
 Carter called out with a sniff from the drawing-room door, 
 without looking in, — • 
 
 ' Now then, Miss Ella, you can come and help me 
 fold them dresses. I'm in a nurry." 
 
 Carter was much discomposed when, "instead of her 
 victim, Lady Jane appeared, irate, dignified. 
 
 ' Go upstairs directly, and do not forget yourself again,' 
 said the old lady. 
 
 ' Oh, I think I ought to go and fold up the dresses,' 
 said Ella, hesitating, flushing, blushing, and looking more 
 than grateful. ' How very very kind of you to think of 
 me. I'm afraid they wouldn't — I'm afraid I've no 
 bonnet. Oh, thank you, I — but ' 
 
 ' Nonsense, child,' said Lady Jane ; ' my maid shall 
 help that woman. Here,' ringing the bell violently, to the 
 footman, ' what have you done with the hamper F brought 
 up ? let me see it unpacked here immediately. Can't 
 trust those people, my dear — always see to everything 
 mysell ' 
 
 All sorts of delicious things, scents, colours, spring- 
 flowers and vegetables came out of the hamper in 
 delightful confusion. It was a hamper full of treasures 
 — sweet, bright, delicious-tasted — asparagus, daffo- 
 dillies, blue-bells, salads, cauliflowers, hot-house flowers, 
 cowslips from the fields, azalias. Ella's natty little fin- 
 gers arranged them all about the room in plates and in
 
 CINDERELLA. $7 
 
 vases so perfectly and so quickly, that old Lady Jane cried 
 out in admiration, — 
 
 ' Why, you would be a iirst-rate girl, if you didn't cry. 
 Here, you John, get some bowls and trays for the vege- 
 tables, green pease, strawberries; and oh, here's a cucum- 
 ber and a nice little early pumpkin. I had it forced, my 
 dear. Your stepmother tells me she is passionately fond 
 of pumpkins. Here, John, take all this down to the 
 cook ; tell her to put it in a cool larder, and order the 
 carriage and horses round directly. Now then,' to Ella, 
 briskly, ' go and put your things on, and come along witli 
 me. ril make matters straight. I always do. There, 
 go directly. I can't liave the horses kept. Eaton, my 
 coachman, is terrible if he is kept waiting — frightens me 
 to death by his driving when he is put out.' 
 
 Ella did not hesitate a moment longer ; she rushed 
 upstairs ; her little feet flew as they used to do formerly. 
 She came down in a minute, panting, rapturous, with 
 shining hair and a briglit face, in her very best Sunday 
 frock, cloak, and hat. Shabby enough they were, but she 
 was too happy, too excited, to think about the deficiencies 
 in her toilet. 
 
 ' Dear me, this will never do, I see,' said the old lady, 
 looking at her disapprovingly ; but she smiled so kindly 
 as she spoke, that Ella was not a bit frightened. 
 
 ' Indeed, I have no other,' she said. 
 
 'John,' cried the old laJy, 'wliere is my maid? Desire
 
 58 CINDERELLA. 
 
 her to come and speak to me directly. Now then, 
 sir!' 
 
 All her servants knew her ways much too well not to 
 fly at her commands. A maid appeared as if by magic. 
 
 ' Now, Batter, be quick ; get that blue and silver 
 bournous of mine from the box upstairs-^it will look very 
 nice ; and a pair of grey kid gloves, Batter ; and let me see, 
 my dear, you wouldn't look well in a brocade. No, that 
 grey satin skirt. Batter ; lier own white bodice will do, and 
 we can buy a bonnet as we go along. Now, quick ; am I 
 to be kept waiting all day ? ' 
 
 Ella in a moment found herself transformed somehow 
 into the most magnificent lady she had seen for many a 
 day. It was like a dream, she could hardly believe it ; she 
 saw herself move majestically, sweeping in silken robes 
 across the very same pier-glass, w-here a few minutes before 
 she had looked at the wretched little melancholy creature, 
 crying with a dirty face, and watched the sad tears 
 flowing. 
 
 ' Now then — now then,' cried Lady Jane, who was 
 always saying ' Now then,' and urging people on — ' where's 
 my page — are the outriders there ? They are all work- 
 house boys, my dear ; they came to me as thin and starved 
 as church mice, and then I fatten them up and get 'em 
 situations. I always go with outriders. One's obliged to 
 keep up a certain dignity in these Chartist days — universal 
 reform — suffrage— vote by ballot. I've no patience with
 
 CINDERELLA. 59 
 
 Mr. Gladstone, and it all rests with us to keep ourselves 
 well aloof. Get in, get in ! Drive to Sydenham, if you 
 please.' 
 
 Lady Jane's manners entirely changed when she spoke 
 to Raton. And it is a fact that coachmen from their tall 
 boxes rule with a very high hand, and most ladies tremble 
 before them. Raton looked very alarming in his wig, with 
 his shoebuckles and great red face. 
 
 What a fairy tale it was ! There was little Ella sitting 
 in this lovely chariot, galloping down the Brompton Road, 
 with all the little boys cheering and hurrahing ; and the 
 little outriders clattering on ahead, and the old lady sitting- 
 bolt upright as pleased as Punch. She really Itad been 
 going to Sydenham ; but I think if she had not, she would 
 have set off instantly, if she thought she would make 
 anybody happy by so doing. They stopped at a shop in 
 the Brompton Road — the wondering shop-woman came 
 out. 
 
 'A white bonnet, if you please,' said Lady Jane. 
 ' That will do very well. Here, child, put it on, and 
 mind you don't crease the strings.' And then away and 
 away they went once more through the town, the squares, 
 over the bridges. They saw the ships and steamers coming 
 down the silver Thames, but the carriage never stopped : 
 the outriders paid the lolls and clattered on ahead. They 
 rolled along pleasant country lanes and fields, villas and 
 country houses, road-side inns, and pedestrians, and
 
 6o CINDERELLA. 
 
 crawling carts and carriages. At the end of three-quarters 
 of an hour, during which it seemed to Ella as if the whole 
 gay cortege had been flying through the air, they suddenly 
 stopped at last, at the great gates of a Crystal Palace 
 blazing in the sun, and standing on a^hill. A crowd was 
 looking on. All sorts of grand people were driving up 
 in their carriages ; splendid ladies were passing in. Two 
 gentlemen in white waistcoats were dismounting from their 
 horses just as Ella and Lady Jane were arriving. They 
 rushed up to the carriage-door, and helped them to the 
 ground. 
 
 ' And pray, sir, who are you ? ' said Lady Jane, as soon 
 as she was safely deposited on her two little flat feet with 
 the funny old-fashioned shoes. 
 
 The young man coloured up and bowed. ' You don't 
 remember me. Lady Jane,' he said. ' Charles Eichardson — 
 I have had the honoiu: of meeting you at Ash Place, and 
 at Cliffe, my uncle's house. This is my friend Mr. 
 Prettyman.' 
 
 'This is Mr. Eichardson, my dear Ella, and that is Mr. 
 Prettyman. Tell them to come back in a couple of hours ' 
 (to the page), ' and desire Eaton to see that the horses 
 have a feed. Now then — yes — give her yoiu* arm, and you 
 are going to take me ? — very well,' to the other white 
 waistcoat ; and so they went into the Palace. 
 
 What are young princes like now-a-days ? Do they 
 wear diamond aigrettes, swords at their sides, topboots,
 
 CINDERELLA. 6i 
 
 -V 
 
 and little short cloaks over one shoulder ? x'he only ap- 
 proach to romance that I can see, is the flower in their 
 button-hole, and the nice little moustaches and curly beards 
 in which they delight. But all the same, besides the 
 flower in the button, there is also, I think, a possible flower 
 of sentiment still growing in the soft hearts of princes in 
 these days, as in the old days long, long ago. 
 
 Charles Eichardson was a short ugly little man, very 
 gentlemanlike, and well dressed. He was the next heir to 
 a baronetcy ; he had a pale face and a snub nose, and such 
 a fine estate in prospect — Cliffe Court its name was — that 
 I do not wonder at Miss Lisette's admiration for him. As 
 for Ella, she though how kind he had been on the stairs 
 that morning ; she thought what a bright genial smile he 
 had. How charming he looked, she said to herself; no, 
 never, never had she dreamt of anyone so nice. She was 
 quite — more than satisfied, no prince in romance would 
 have seemed to her what this one was, there actually walk- 
 ing beside her. As for Eichardson himself, it was a case 
 of love at first sight. He had seen many thousand young- 
 ladies in the last few years, but not one of them to com- 
 pare with this sweet-faced, ingenuous, tender, bright little 
 creature. He offered her his arm, and led her along. 
 
 Ella observed that he said a few words to his friend : 
 she little guessed their purport. 'You go first,' he 
 whispered, ' and if you see the Ashfords get out of the 
 way. I should have to walk with those girls, and my heart
 
 62 CINDERELLA. 
 
 is here transfixed for ever.' . . . ' AVuero have I seen 
 you before ? ' he went on, talking to Ella, as they roamed 
 through the beautiful courts and gardens, anaong fountains 
 and flowers, and rare objects of art. ' Forgive me for 
 asking you, but I must have met you soinewhere long ago, 
 and have never forgotten you. I am haunted by your 
 face.' Ella was too much ashamed to tell him where and 
 how it was they had met that very morning. She re- 
 membered him perfectly, but she thought he would rush 
 away and leave her, if she told him that the untidy little 
 scrub upon the stairs had been herself. And she was so 
 happy: music playing, flowers blooming, the great 
 wonderful fairy Palace flashing overhead ; the kind, clever, 
 delightful young man to escort her ; the gay company, the 
 glitter, the perfume, the statues, the interesting figures of 
 Indians, the dear, dear, kind Lady Jane to look to for 
 pympathy and for good-humoured little nods of encourage- 
 ment. She had never been so happy ; she had never 
 known what a wonder the Palace might be. Her heart 
 was so full. It was all so lovely, so inconceivably beauti- 
 ful and delightful, that she was nearly tipsy with delight ; 
 her head turned for an instant, and she clung to young 
 Richardson's protecting arm. 
 
 ' Are you faint — are you ill ? ' he said anxiously. 
 
 'Oh, no ! ' said Ella, * it's only that everything is so 
 beautiful ; it is almost more than I can bear. I — I am not 
 often so happy ; oh, it is so charming ! I do not think
 
 CINDERELLA. 63 
 
 anything could be so delightful in all the world.' She 
 looked herself so charming and unconscious as she spoke, 
 looking up with her beautiful face out of her white bonnet, 
 that tl^e young fellow felt as if he must propose to her, then 
 and there, off-hand on the very spot ; and at tlie instant 
 he looked up passionately — horror ! — he caught sight of 
 the Ashfords, mother, daughters, Madame de Bricabrac, 
 all in a row, coming right down upon them. 
 
 ' Prettyman, tliis way to the right,' cried little 
 Kichardson, desperately ; and Prettyman, who was a good- 
 natured fellow, said, ' This way, please, Lady Jane ; there's 
 
 some people we want to avoid over there.' 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 ' Fm sure it was,' Lisette said. ' I knew the colour of 
 his waistcoat. Who could he have been walking with, I 
 wonder ? ' 
 
 ' Some lady of rank, evidently,' said Julia. ' I think 
 they went up into the gallery in search of us.' 
 
 ' Let us go into the gallery, dears,' said Mrs. Ashford, 
 
 and away they trudged. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 The young men and their companions had gone into the 
 Tropics, and meanwhile were sitting under a spreading 
 palm-tree, eating pink ices ; while the music played and 
 played more delightfully, and all the air was full of flowers 
 and waltzes, of delight, of sentiment. To young 
 Richardson the whole Palace was Ella in everything, in
 
 64 CINDERELLA. 
 
 every sound, and flower and fountain ; to Ella, young 
 Eichardson seemed an enormous giant, and his kind little 
 twinkling- eyes were shining all round her. 
 
 Poor dear I she was so little used to being happy, her 
 happiness almost overpowered her. ^ • 
 
 ' Are you going to the hall at Guildhall to-morrow ? ' 
 Mr. Richardson was saying to his unknown princess. ' How 
 shall I ever meet you again ? will you not tell me your 
 name ? But ' 
 
 ' I wonder what o'clock it is, and where your mother 
 can be, Ella,' said Lady Jane ; ' it's very odd we have not 
 
 met.' 
 
 « • * * * 
 
 ' I can't imagine where they can have hid themselves,' 
 said Julia, very crossly, from the gallery overhead. 
 
 ' I'm so tired, and I'm ready to drop,' said Miss Lisette. 
 
 •• Oh, let us sit,' groaned Madame de Bricabrac. ' I 
 can walk no more ; what does it matter if we do not find 
 your friends ? ' 
 
 ' If we take our places at the door,' said Lisette, ' we 
 
 shall be sure to catch them as they pass.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 ' Perhaps I may be able to go to the ball,' said the 
 princess, doubtfully. ' I — I don't know.' Lady Jane 
 made believe not to be listening. The voices in the 
 gallery passed on. Lady Jane having finished her ice, 
 pulled out her little watch, and gave a scream of terror.
 
 CINDERELLA. 65: 
 
 ' Heavens ! my time is up,' she said. ' Eaton will frighten 
 me out of my wits, driving home. Come, child, come — 
 come — come. Make haste — thank these gentlemen for their 
 escort,' and she went skurrying along, a funny little active 
 figure, followed by the breathless young people. They 
 got to the door at last, where Raton was waiting, looking 
 very ferocious. ' Oh, good-by,' said Ella. '- Thank you so 
 much,' as Richardson helped her into the chariot. 
 
 ' And you will not forget me ? ' he said in a low voice. 
 ' I shall not need any name to remember you by.' 
 
 'My name is Ella,' she answered, blushing, and driv- 
 ing off; and then Ella flung her arms round Lady Jane, 
 and began to cry again, and said, 'Oh, I have been so 
 happy ! so happy ! How good, good of you to make me so 
 happy ! Oh, thank you, dear Lady Jane ! ' 
 
 The others came back an hour after them, looking ex- 
 tremely cross, and were much surprised to find Lady Jane 
 in the drawing-room. ' I am not going back till Wed- 
 nesday,' said the old lady. ' I've several things to do 
 
 in town Well, have you had a pleasant 
 
 day?' 
 
 'Not at all,' said Mrs. Ashford, plaintively. ' Tlie 
 colonel deserted us ; we didn't find our young men till 
 just as we were coming away. We are all very tired, 
 and want some supper — some of your delicious fruit, Lady 
 Jane.' 
 
 ' Ohj dear, how tired I am I ' said Julia. 
 
 F
 
 66 CINDERELLA. 
 
 ' Poor Eichardson was in very bad spirits,' said 
 Lisette. 
 
 ' What a place it is for losing one another,' said old 
 Lady Jane. ' I took Ella there this afternoon, and though 
 I looked about I couldn't see you anywhere.' 
 
 ' Ella ! ' cried the other girls, astonished ; ' was she 
 there ? ' . . . But they were too much afraid of Lady 
 Jane to object more openly. 
 
 That evening, after the others left the room, as Ella 
 was pouring out the tea, she summoned up courage to ask 
 whether she might go to the ball at Guildhall with 
 the others next evening. ' Pray, pray, please take me,' 
 she implored. Mrs. Ashford looked up amazed at her 
 audacity. 
 
 Poor little Ella ! refused, scorned, snubbed, wounded, 
 pained, and disappointed. She finished pouring out the 
 tea in silence, while a few bitter scalding tears dropped 
 from her eyes into the teacups. Colonel Ashford drank 
 some of them, and asked for more sugar to put into his 
 cup. 
 
 ' There, never mind,' he said, kindly. He felt vexed 
 with his wife, and sorry for the child ; but he was, as 
 usual, too weak to interfere. ' You know you are too 
 young to go into the world, Ella. When your sisters are 
 married, then your turn will come.' 
 
 Alas! would it ever come? The day's delight had 
 given her a longing for more ; and now she felt the beau-
 
 CINDERELLA. 67 
 
 tiful vision was only a vision, and over already : the 
 cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palace ; and the 
 charming prince liimself — was he a vision too ? Ah ! 
 it was too sad to think of. Presently Lisette and Julia 
 came back : they had been upstairs to see about their 
 dresses. ' 
 
 'I shall wear my bird-of-paradise, and my yellow 
 tarlatane,' said Lisette : ' gold and purple is such a lovely 
 contrast.' 
 
 ' Grobert has sent me a lovely thing,' said Julia ; 
 'tri-colour flounces all the way up — she has so much 
 taste.' 
 
 Grood old Lady Jane asked her maid next morning 
 if any dress was being got ready for Miss Ella. Hearing 
 that,she was not going, and that no preparations were 
 being made, she despatched Batter on a secret mission, 
 and ordered her carriage at nine o'clock that evening. 
 She went out herself soon after breakfast in a hired 
 brougham, dispensing with the outriders for once. Ella 
 was hard at work all day for her sisters : her little fingers 
 quilled, fluted, frilled, pleated, pinned, tacked the trim- 
 mings on their dresses more dexterously than any dress- 
 maker or maid-servant could do. She looked so pretty, so 
 kind, and so tired, so wistful, as she came to help them to 
 dress, that Lisette was quite touched, and said, — ' "Well, 
 Ella, I shouldn't wonder if, after I am snapped up, you 
 
 F 2
 
 68 CIXDERELLA. 
 
 were to get hold of a husband some day, I daresay some 
 people might tliink you nice-looking.' 
 
 ' Oh, do you think so really. Lisette ? ' said Ella, quite 
 pleased ; and then faltering, ' Do you think . . . 
 Shall you see Mr. Richardson ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I shall,' said Lisette. ' He was talking 
 great nonsense yesterday after we found him ; saying that 
 he had met with perfection at last — very devoted alto- 
 gether ; scarcely spoke to me at all ; but that is the 
 greatest proof of devotion, you know. I know what he 
 meant very well. I shouldn't be at all surprised if he 
 was to propose to-night. I don't know whether I shall 
 jjave him. I'm always afraid of being thrown away,' said 
 Lisette, looking over her shoulder at her train. 
 
 Ella longed to send a message, a greeting of 
 some sort, to Lisette's adorer. Oh, how she envied 
 her ; what would she not have given to be going 
 too ? . . . 
 
 ' What ! are not you dressing, child ? ' said Lady 
 Jane, coming into the room. ' Are they again obliged to 
 call for Madame de Bricabrac ? I had looked up a 
 pair of shoebuckles for you in case you went ; but 
 keep them all the same, they only want a little rub- 
 bing up.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you ; how pretty they are ; how kind you 
 are to me,' said Ella, sadly. 'I — I am not going.' And 
 she gulped down a great sob.
 
 ^ CINDERELLA. 69 
 
 It was just dreadful not to go ; the poor child had had 
 a great draught of delight the day before, and she was 
 aching and sickening for more, and longing with a pas- 
 sion of longing which is only known to very young people 
 — she looked quite worn and pale, though she was strug- 
 gling with her tears. 
 
 ' Rub up your shoebuckles — that will distract you, 
 said the old lady kindly. ' They are worth a great deal of 
 money, though they are only paste ; and if you peep in 
 my room you will find a little pair of slippers to wear 
 them with. I hope they will fit. I could hardly get any 
 small enough for you.' They were the loveliest little white 
 satin slippers, with satin heels, all embroidered with glass 
 beads ; but small as they were, thev were a little 
 loose, only Ella took care not to say so, as she tried them 
 on. 
 
 We all know what is coming, though little Ella had 
 no idea of it. The ball was at Gruildhall, one of the 
 grandest and gayest that ever was given in the city of 
 London. It was in honour of the beautiful young Prin- 
 cess, who had just landed on our shores. Princes, ambas- 
 sadors, nobles, stars, orders and garters, and decorations, 
 were to be present; all the grandest, gayest, richest, happiest 
 people in the country, all the most beautiful ladies and 
 jewels and flowers, were to be there to do homage to the 
 peerless young bride. The Ashfords had no sooner s+arted, 
 tlian Lady Jane, who had been very mysterious all
 
 70 CINDERELLA. 
 
 day, aud never told anyone that she had been to the city 
 to procure two enormous golden tickets, which were up 
 in her bedroom, now came, smiling very benevolently, into 
 the drawing-room. Little Ella was standing out in the 
 balcony with her pale face, and all her hair tumbling 
 down her back. She had been too busy to put it up, and 
 now she was only thinking of the ball, and picturing the 
 dear little ugly disappointed face of Prince Richardson, 
 when he should look about everywhere for her in vain — 
 while she was standing hopelessly gazing after the receding 
 carriage. 
 
 ' Well, my dear, have you rubbed up the shoe- 
 buckles ? That is right,' said the old lady. ' Now 
 come quick into my room and see some of my con- 
 juring.' 
 
 Conjuring ! It was the most beautiful white net dress, 
 frothed and frothed up to the waist, and looped up with 
 long grasses. The conjuring was her own dear old pearl 
 necklace with the diamond clasp, and a diamond star for 
 her hair. It was a bunch of grasses and delicate white 
 azalias for a headdress, and over all the froth a great veil 
 of flowing W'hite net. The child opened her violet eyes, 
 gasped, screamed, and began dancing about the room like 
 a mad thing, jumping, bounding, clapping her hands, all 
 so softly and gaily, and yet so lightly, in such an ecstasy 
 of delight, that Lady Jane felt she was more than re- 
 warded.
 
 CINDERELLA. 71 
 
 ' Ah ! there she is at last I ' cried Mr. Eichardson, who 
 was turning carefully round and round with the energetic 
 Lisette. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' said Lisette. 
 
 Can you fancy her amazement when she looked round 
 and saw Ella appearing in her snow and sun-light dress, 
 looking so beautiful that everyone turned to wonder at 
 her, and to admire? As for Ella, she saw no one, no- 
 thing ; she was looking up and down, and right and 
 left, for the kind little pale plain face which she wanted. 
 
 ' Excuse me one minute. Miss Lisette,' said Mr. 
 Eichardson, leaving poor Lisette planted in the middle of 
 the room, and rushing forward. 
 
 ' Are you engaged,' Ella heard a breathless voice say- 
 ing^ in her ear, ' for the next three, six, twenty dances ? 
 I am so delighted you have come ! I thought you were 
 never coming.' 
 
 Julia had no partner at all, and was standing close by 
 the entrance with her mother. They were both astounded 
 at the apparition. Mrs. Ashford came forward to make 
 sure that her eyes were not deceiving her. Could it 
 be — ? yes — no, — yes, it was Ella! She flicked her fan 
 indignantly into an alderman's eye, and looked so fierce 
 that the child began to tremble. 
 
 ' Please forgive me, mamma,' said Ella, piteously. 
 
 ' Forgive you ! never,' said Mrs. Ashford, indignant. 
 ' What does all this mean, pray ? ' she continued. ' Lady
 
 72 CINDERELLA. 
 
 Jane, I really must ' and then she stopped, partly 
 
 because she was so angry she could scarcely speak, and 
 partly because she could not afiford to quarrel with Lady 
 Jane until the season was over. 
 
 'You really vtiust forgive me, dear Lydia,' said Lady 
 Jane. ' She wanted to come so much, I could not resist 
 bringing her.' 
 
 Weber's inspiriting Last Waltz was being played ; the 
 people and music went waving to and fro like the waves 
 of the sea, sudden sharp notes of exceeding sweetness 
 sounded, and at the sound the figures all swayed in har- 
 mony. The feet kept unseen measure to the music ; the 
 harmonious rhythm thrilled and controlled them all. The 
 music was like an enchantment, which kept them moving 
 and swaying in circles and in delightful subjection. 
 Lassitude, sadness, disappointment, Ella's alarm, all 
 melted away for the time ; pulses beat, and the dancers 
 seesawed to the measure. 
 
 All that evening young Richardson danced with Ella 
 and with no one else : they scarcely knew how the time 
 went. It was a fairy world : they were flying and swim- 
 ming in melody — the fairy hours went by to music, in 
 light, in delightful companionship. Ella did not care 
 for Mrs. Ash ford's darkening looks, for anything that 
 might happen : she was so happy in the moment, 
 she almost forgot to look for Lady Jane's sympathetic 
 glance.
 
 CINDERELLA. 73 
 
 ' You must meet me in the ladies' cloak-room punc- 
 tually at half-past eleven,' her patroness had whispered to 
 her. 'I cannot keep Raton, with his bad cough, out 
 after twelve o'clock. Mind you are punctual, for I have 
 promised not to keep him waiting.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, dear Lady Jane,' said Ella, and away she 
 danced again to the music. And time went on, and 
 Julia had no partners ; and Colonel Ashford came up to 
 his wife, saying, — ' I'm so glad you arranged for Ella too,' 
 he said. ' How nice she is looking. What is the matter 
 with Julia ; why don't she dance ? ' Tumty, tumty, 
 tumty, went the instruments. And meanwhile Mr. 
 Richardson was saying, — ' Your dancing puts me in mind 
 t»f a fairy I once saw in a field at Cliffe long ago. 
 Nobody would ever believe me, but I did see one.' 
 
 ' A fairy — what was she like ? ' asked Ella. 
 
 ' She was very like you,' said Mr. Richardson, laugh- 
 ing. ' I do believe it was you, and that was the time 
 when I saw you before.' 
 
 ' No, it was not,' said Ella, blushing, and feeling she 
 ought to confess. ' I will tell you,' she said, ' if you will 
 promise to dance one more dance with me, after you 
 know. — Only one.' 
 
 ' Then you, too, remember,' he cried, eagerly. ' One 
 more dance ? — twenty — for ever and ever. Ah, you must 
 know, you must guess the feeling in my heart. . . .' 
 
 ' Listen first,' said Ella, trembling very much and
 
 74 CINDERELLA. 
 
 \valtzing on very slowly. ' It was only the other day — .' 
 The clock struck three-quarters. 
 
 ' Ella, I am going,' said Lady Jane, tapping her on the 
 shoulder. ' Come along, my dear .' 
 
 ' One word I ' cried Eichardson, eagerly. 
 
 ' You can stay with your mother if you like,' the old 
 lady went on, preoccupied — she was thinking of her 
 coachman's ire — ' but I advise you to come with me.' 
 
 ' Oh, pray, pray stay ! ' said young Richardson ; ' where 
 is your mother ? Let me go and ask her ? ' 
 
 ' You had better go yourself, Ella,' said old Lady Jane. 
 ' Will you give me your arm to the door, Mr. Eichardson ? ' 
 
 Ella went up to Mrs. Ashford — she was bold with 
 happiness to-night, and made her request. ' Stay with 
 me ? certainly not, it is quite out of the question. You 
 do me great honour,' said the lady, laughing sarcastically. 
 ' Lady Jane brought you, Lady Jane must take you back,' 
 said the stepmother. 'Follow your chaperone if you 
 please, I have no room for you in my brougham. Go 
 directly, Miss I ' said Mrs. Ashford, so savagely that the 
 poor child was quite frightened, and set off running after 
 the other two. She would have caught them up, but at 
 that instant Lisette — who had at last secured a partner — 
 came waltzing up in such a violent, angry way, that she 
 bumped right up against the little flying maiden and 
 nearly knocked her down. Ella gave a low cry of pain : 
 they had trodden on her foot roughly — they had wounded
 
 CINDERELLA. 75 
 
 her; her little satin slipper had come off. Poor Ella 
 stooped and tried to pull at the slipper, but other couples 
 came surging up, and she was alone, and frightened, and 
 obliged to shuffle a little way out of the crowd before she 
 could get it on. The poor little frightened thing thought 
 she never should get through the crowd. She made the 
 best of her way to the cloak-room : it seemed to her as if 
 she had been hours getting there. At last she reached it, 
 only to see, to her dismay, as she went in at one door the 
 other two going out of another a long way off. She called, 
 but they did not hear her, and at the same moment St. Paul's 
 great clock began slowly to strike twelve. ' My cloak, 
 my cloak, anything, please,' she cried in great agitation 
 and anxiety ; and a stupid, bewildered maid hastily threw 
 a shabby old shawl over her shoulders — it belonged to 
 some assistant in the place. Little Ella, more and more 
 frightened, pulled it up as she hurried along the blocked 
 passages and corridors, all lined with red and thronged 
 with people. They all stared at her in surprise as she 
 flew along. Presently her net tunic caught in a doorway 
 and tore into a long ragged shred which trailed after her. 
 In her agitation her comb fell out of her hair — she looked 
 all scared and frightened — nobody would have recognised 
 the beautiful triumphal princess of half an hour before. 
 She heard the linkmen calling, ' Peppercorne's carriage 
 stops the way I ' and she hurried faster and faster down 
 the endless passages and steps, and at last, just as she got
 
 76 CINDERELLA. 
 
 9 
 
 to the doorway — horror ! she saw the carriage and out> 
 riders going gleaming off in the moonlight, while every 
 thing else looked black, dark, and terrible. 
 
 ' Stop, stop, please stop I ' cried little Ella, rushing out 
 into the street through the amazed footman and linkmen. 
 ' Stop ! stop ! ' she cried, flying past Richardson himself, 
 who could hardly believe his eyes. Raton only whipped 
 his horses, and Ella saw them disappearing into gloom in 
 the distance in a sort of agony of despair. She was excited 
 beyond measure, and exaggerated all her feelings. What 
 was to be done ? Gro back ? — that was impossible ; walk 
 liome ? — she did not know her way. Was it fancy ? — was 
 not somebody following her ? She felt quite desperate in 
 the moonlight and darkness. At that instant it seemed 
 to her like a fairy chariot coming to her rescue, when a 
 cabman, who was slowly passing, stopped and said, ' Cab, 
 mum ?' 
 
 ' Yes I oh, yes ! To Onslow Square,' cried Ella, 
 jumping in and shutting the door in delight and relief. 
 She drove off just as the bewildered little Richardson, who 
 had followed her, reached the spot. He came up in time 
 only to see the cab drive off, and to pick up something 
 which was lying shining on the pavement. It was one of 
 the diamond buckles which had fallen from her shoe as 
 she jumped in. This little diamond buckle might, perhaps, 
 have led to her identification if young Richardson had not
 
 ^ CINDERELLA, 77 
 
 taken the precaution of ascertaining from old Lady Jane 
 Ella's name and address. 
 
 He sent a servant next morning with a little parcel 
 and a note to enquire whether one of the ladies had lost 
 what was enclosed, and whether Colonel Ashford would see 
 him at one o'clock on business. 
 
 ' Dear me, what a pretty little buckle ! ' said Lisette, 
 trying it, on her large flat foot. ' It looks very nice, 
 don't it, Julia ? I think I guess — don't you ? — what he is 
 coming for. I shall say " No." ' 
 
 ' It's too small for you. It would do better for me,' 
 said Julia, contemplating her own long slipper, embellished 
 with the diamonds. ' It is not ours. We must send it 
 back, I suppose.' 
 
 ' A shoebuckle ? ' said Ella, coming in from the kitchen, 
 where she had been superintending preserves in her little 
 brown frock. ' Let me see it. Oh, how glad I am ; it is 
 mine. Look here ! ' and she pulled the fellow out of her 
 pocket. ' Lady Jane gave them to me.' 
 
 And so the prince arrived before luncheon, and was 
 closeted with Colonel Ashford, who gladly gave his consent 
 to what he wanted. And when Mrs. Ashford beffan to 
 explain things to him, as was her way, he did not listen 
 to a single word she said. He was so absorbed wondering 
 when Ella was coming into the room. He thought once 
 he heard a little rustle on the stairs outside, and he 
 jumped up aud rushed to the door. It was Ella, sure
 
 78 CINDERELLA. 
 
 enough, in her shabby little gown. Then he knew where 
 and when he had seen her before. 
 
 ' Ella, why did you run away from me last night ? ' he 
 aid. ' You see I have followed you after all.' 
 
 They were so good, so happy, so devoted to one another 
 that even Lisette and Julia relented. Dear little couple ; 
 good luck go with them, happiness, content and plenty. 
 There was something quite touching in their youth, 
 tenderness, and simplicity ; and as they drove off" in their 
 carriage for the honey-moon. Lady Jane flung the very 
 identical satin slipper after them which Ella should have 
 lost at tlie ball.
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 I. 
 
 Fairy times, gifts, music and dances are said to be over, 
 or, as it has been said, they come to us so disguised and 
 made familiar by habit that they do not seem to us strange. 
 H. and I, on either side of the hearth, these long past 
 winter evenings could sit without fear of fiery dwarfs 
 skipping out of the ashes, of black puddings coming down 
 the chimney to molest us. The clock ticked, the win- 
 dow-pane rattled. It was only the wind. The hearth- 
 brush remained motionless on its hook. Pussy dozing on 
 the hearth, with her claws quietly opening to the warmth 
 of the blaze, purred on and never once startled us out of 
 our usual placidity by addressing us in human tones. 
 The children sleeping peacefully upstairs were not sudden- 
 ly whisked away and changelings deposited in their cribs. 
 If H. or I opened our mouths pearls and diamonds did 
 not drop out of them, but neither did frogs and tadpoles 
 
 G
 
 82 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 fall from between our lips. The looking-glass tranquilly 
 reflecting the comfortable little sitting-room, and the stiff 
 ends of H.'s cap-ribbons, spared us visions of wreathing 
 clouds parting to reveal distant scenes of horror and trea- 
 chery. Poor H. ! I am not sure but tlmt she would have 
 gladly looked in a mirror in which she could have some- 
 times seen the images of those she loved ; but our chim- 
 ney-glass, with its gilt moulding and bright polished 
 surface, reflects only such homely scenes as two old women 
 at work by the fire, some little Indian children at play 
 upon the rug, the door opening and Susan bringing in 
 the tea-things. As for wishing-cloths and little boiling 
 pots, and such like, we have discovered that instead of 
 rubbing lamps, or spreading magic tablecloths upon the 
 floor, we have but to ring an invisible bell (which is even 
 less trouble), and a smiling genius in a white cap and 
 apron brings in anything we happen to fancy. When 
 the clock strikes twelve, H. puts up her work and lights 
 her candle ; she has not yet been transformed into a beau- 
 tiful princess all twinkling with jewels, neither does a 
 scullion ever stand before me in rags ; she does not mm- 
 mur farewell for ever and melt through the key-hole, 
 but ' Good-niglit,' as she closes the door. One night at 
 twelve o'clock, just after she had left me, there was in- 
 deed a loud orthodox ring at the bell, which startled us 
 both a little ; H. came running down again without her 
 cap, Susan appeared in great alarm from the kitchen. ' It
 
 \ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 83 
 
 is the back-door bell, ma'am,' said the girl, who had been 
 sitting up over her new Sunday gown, but who was too 
 frightened to see who was ringing. 
 Ij I may as well explain that our little house is in a street, 
 
 but that our back windows have the advantage of over- 
 looking the grounds of the villa belonging to our good 
 neighbour and friend Mr. Grriffiths in Castle Gardens, and 
 that a door opens out of our little back garden into his 
 big one, of which we are allowed to keep the key. This 
 door had been a postern-gate once upon a time, for a bit 
 of the old wall of the park is still standing, against which 
 our succeeding bricks have been piled. It was a fortunate 
 chance for us when our old ivy-tree died and we found the 
 quaint little doorway behind it. Old Mr. Griinths was 
 alive then, and when I told him of my discovery, he good- 
 naturedly cleared the way on his side, and so the oak 
 turned once more upon its rusty hinges to let the children 
 pass through, and the nursemaid, instead of pages and 
 secret emissaries and men-at-arms ; and about three 
 times a year young Mr. Griffiths stoops under the arch on 
 his way to call upon us. I say young Mr. Griffiths, but 
 I suppose he is over thirty now, for it is more than ten 
 years since his father died. 
 
 When I opened the door, in a burst of wind and wet, 
 I found that it was Guy Griffiths who stood outside bare- 
 headed in the rain, ringing the bell that winter night. 
 ' Are you up ? ' he said. ' For heaven's sake come to my 
 
 G 2
 
 84 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 mother, she's fainted ; her maid is away ; the doctor 
 doesn't come. I thought you might know what to do.' 
 And then he led the way through the dark garden, hurry- 
 ing along before me. 
 
 Poor lady, when I saw her I knew that- it was no faint- 
 ing fit, but a paralytic stroke, from which she might 
 perhaps recover in time ; I could not tell. For the 
 present there was little to be done : the maids were young 
 and frightened ; poor Guy wanted some word of sympathy 
 and encouragement. So far I was able to be of use. We 
 got her to bed and took off her finery ; — she had been out 
 at a dinner-party, and had been stricken on her return 
 home, — Guy had discovered her speechless in the library. 
 The poor fellow, frightened and overcome, waited about, 
 trying to be of help, but he was so nervous that he tumbled 
 over us all, and knocked over the chairs and bottles in his 
 anxiety, and was of worse than no use. His kind old 
 shaggy face looked pale, and his brown eyes ringed with 
 anxiousness. I was touched by the young fellow's concern, 
 for Mrs. Griffiths had not been a tender mother to him. 
 How she had snapped and laughed at him, and frightened 
 him with her quick sarcastic tongue and hard unmotherlike 
 ways. I wondered if she thought of this as she lay there 
 cold, rigid, watching us with glassy senseless eyes. 
 
 The payments and debts and returns of affection are 
 at all times hard to reckon. Some people pay a whole 
 treasury of love in return for a stone, others deal out their
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 85 
 
 affection at interest, others again take everything, to the 
 uttermost farthing, and cast it into the ditch and go their 
 way and leave their benefactor penniless and a beggar. 
 Gruy himself, hard-headed as he was, and keen over his 
 ledgers in Moorgate Street, could not have calculated such 
 sums as these. All that she had had to give, all the best 
 part of her shallow store, poor Julia Grriffiths had paid to her 
 husband, who did not love her : to her second son, whose 
 whole life was a sorrow to his parents. When he died she 
 could never forgive poor Guy for living still, for being his 
 father's friend and right hand, and sole successor. She had 
 been a real mother to Hugh, who was gone ; to Gruy, who 
 was alive still and patiently waiting to do her bidding, she 
 had shown herself only a stepdame ; and yet I am sure no 
 life-devoted parent could have been more anxiously watched 
 and tended by her son. Perhaps — how shall I say what I 
 mean ? — if he had loved her more and been more entirely 
 one with her now, his dismay would have been less, his 
 power greater to bear her pain, to look on at her strug- 
 gling agony of impotence. Even pain does not come 
 between the love of people who really love. 
 
 The doctor came and went, leaving some comfort 
 behind him. Gruy sat up all that night burning logs on 
 the fire in the dressing room, out of the bedroom in which 
 Mrs. Griffiths was lying. Every now and then I went in 
 to him and found him sitting over the hearth shaking his 
 great shaggy head, as he had a way of doing, and biting
 
 86 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 his fingers, and muttering, ' Poor soul, poor mother.' 
 Sometimes he would come in creaking on tiptoe ; but his 
 presence seemed to agitate the poor woman, and I was 
 obliged to motion him back again. Once when I went in 
 and sat down for a few minutes in an arm-chair beside him, 
 he suddenly began to tell me that there had been trouble 
 between them that morning. ' It made it \ery hard to 
 bear,' he said. I asked him what the trouble had been. 
 ' I told her I thought I should like to marry,' Guy con- 
 fessed with a rueful face. (Even then I could hardly 
 help smiling.) 'Selfish beast that I am. I upset her, 
 poor soul. I behaved like a brute.' His distress was so 
 great that it was almost impossible to console him, and it 
 was in vain to assure him that the attack had been 
 produced by physical causes. ' Do you want to marry any 
 one in particular ? ' I asked at last, to divert his thoughts, 
 if I could, from the present. ' No,' said he ; 'at least — 
 of course she is out of the question — only I thought per- 
 haps some day I should have liked to have a wife and 
 children and a home of my own. Why, the counting- 
 house is not CO dreary as this place sometimes seems to 
 me.' And then, though it was indeed no time for love- 
 confidences, I could not help asking him who it was that 
 was out of the question. 
 
 Guy Griffiths shrugged his great round shoulders im- 
 patiently, and giive something between a groan and sigh
 
 \ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 87 
 
 and smile — (dark and sulky as he looked at times, a smile 
 brightened up his grim face very pleasantly). 
 
 ' She don't even know my name,' he said. ' I saw her 
 one night at the play, and then in a lane in the country a 
 little time after. — I found out who she was. She's a 
 daughter of old Barly the stockbroker. Belinda they call 
 her — Miss Belinda. It's rather a silly name, isn't it ? ' 
 (This, of course, I politely denied.) ' I'm sure I don't 
 know what there is about her,' he went on in a gentle 
 voice ; ' all the fellows down there were head over ears in 
 love with her. I asked — in fact I went down to Farm- 
 borough in hopes of meeting her again. I never saw such 
 a sweet yovmg creature — never. I never spoke to her in 
 my life.' ' But you know her father ? ' I asked. ' Old 
 Barly ? — Yes,' said Gruy. ' His wife was my father's 
 cousin, and he and I are each other's trustees for some 
 money which was divided between me and Mrs. Barly. 
 My parents never kept up with them much, but I was 
 named trustee in my father's place when he died. I 
 didn't like to refuse. I had never seen Belinda then. 
 Do you like sweet sleepy eyes that wake up now and 
 then ? Was that my mother calling ? ' For a minute 
 he had forgotten the dreary present. It all came rushing 
 back again. The bed creaked, the patient moved a little 
 on her pillow, and there was a gleam of some intelligence 
 in her pinched face. The clock struck fom* in quick 
 tinkling tones ; the rain seemed to have ceased, and the
 
 88 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 clouds to be parting; the rooms turned suddenly chill 
 though the fires were burning. 
 
 When I went home, about five o'clock, all the stars 
 had come out and were shooting brilliantly overhead. 
 The garden seemed full of a sudden , freshness and of 
 secret life stirring in the darkness; the sick woman's 
 light was burning faintly, and in my own window the 
 little bright lamp was flickering which II.'s kind fingers 
 had trimmed and put there ready for me when I should 
 return. NMien we reached the little gate, Guy opened it 
 and let me pass under some dripping green creeper which 
 had been blown loose from the wall. He took my old 
 hand in both his big ones, and began to say something 
 that ended in a sort of inarticulate sound as he turned 
 away and trudged back to his post again. I thought of 
 the many meetings and partings at this little postern 
 gate, and last words and protestations. Some may have 
 been more sentimental perhaps than this one, but Guy's 
 grunt of gratitude was more affecting to me than many a 
 long string of words. I felt very sorry for him, poor old 
 fellow, as I barred the door and climbed upstairs to my 
 room. He sat up watching till the morning. But I was 
 tired and soon went to sleep.
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 89 
 
 II. 
 
 Some people do very well for a time. Chances are propi- 
 tious, the way lies straight before them up a gentle 
 inclined plane, with a pleasant prospect on either side. 
 They go rolling straight on, they don't exactly know how, 
 and take it for granted that it is their own prudence and 
 good driving and deserts which have brought them 
 prosperously so far upon their journey. And then one 
 day they come to a turnpike, and destiny pops out of its 
 little box and demands a toll, or prudence trips, or good 
 sense skVe at a scarecrow put up by the wayside, — or 
 nobody knows why, but the whole machine breaks down 
 on the road and can't be set going again. And then 
 other vehicles go past it, hand-trucks, perambulators, 
 cabs, omnibuses, and great prosperous barouches, and the 
 people who were sitting in the broken-down equipage get 
 out and walk away on foot. 
 
 On that celebrated and melancholy Black Monday of 
 which we have all heard, poor John Barly and his three 
 daughters came down the carpeted steps of their comfort- 
 able sociable for the last time, and disappeared at the 
 wicket of a little suburban cottage, — disappeared out
 
 90 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 of the prosperous, pompous, highly respectable circle in 
 which they had gyrated, dragged about by two fat bay 
 horses, in the greatest decorum and respectability ; 
 dining out, receiving their friends, returning their civi- 
 lities. Miss IJarlys had left large cards with their names 
 engraved upon them in return for other large cards upon 
 which were inscribed equally respectable names, and the 
 addresses of other equally commodious family mansions. 
 A mansion — so the house-agents tell us — is a house like 
 another with the addition of a back staircase. The 
 Barlys and all their friends had back staircases to their 
 houses and to their daily life as well. They only wished 
 to contemplate the broad, swept, carpeted drawing-room 
 flights. Indeed to Anna and Fanny Barly this making 
 the best of things, card-leaving and visiting, seemed a 
 business of vital importance. The youngest of the girls, 
 who had l>een christened by the pretty silly name of 
 Belinda, had only lately come home from school, and did 
 not value these splendoiu-s and proprieties so highly as 
 her sisters did. She had no gieat love for the life they 
 led. Sometimes looking over the balusters of their great 
 house in Capidet Square she had yawned out loud from 
 very weariness, and then she would hear the sound echo- 
 ing all the way up to the skylight, and reverberating 
 down from baluster to baluster. If she went into the 
 drawing-room, instead of the yawning echoes the shrill 
 voices of Anna and of P^anny were vibrating monotonously 
 
 i
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 91 
 
 as tbey complimented Lady Ogden upon her new barouche, 
 until Belinda could bear it no longer and would jump up 
 and run away to her bedroom to escape it all. She had a 
 handsoqae bedroom, draped in green damask, becarpeted, 
 four-posted, with an enormous mahogany wardrobe of 
 which poor Belle was dreadfully afraid, for the doors would 
 fly open of their own accord in the dead of night, 
 revealing dark abysses and depths unknown, with black 
 ghosts hovering suspended or motionless and biding their 
 time. There were other horrors : shrouds waving in the 
 blackness, feet stirring, and low creakings of garotters, 
 which she did not dare to dwell upon as she hastily 
 locked the doors and pushed the writing-table against 
 them. 
 
 li must therefore be confessed, that to Belinda the 
 days had been long and oppressive sometimes in this 
 handsomely appointed Tyburnean palace. Anna, the 
 eldest sister, was queen-regnant ; she had both ability and 
 inclination to take the lead. She was short, broad, and 
 dignified, and some years older than either of her sisters. 
 Her father respected her business-like mind, admired her 
 ambition, regretted sometimes secretly that she had never 
 been able to make up her mind to accept any of the 
 eligible young junior partners, the doctor, the curate, who 
 had severally proposed to her. But then of course, as 
 Anna often said, they could not possibly have got on 
 without her at home. She had been in no hurry to leave
 
 92 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 the comfortable kingdom where she reigned in undis- 
 puted authority, ratifying the decisions of the ministry 
 downstairs, appealed to by the butler, respectfully dreaded 
 by both the housemaids, ^^'llo was there to go against 
 her ? Mr. Barly was in town all day and left everything 
 to her ; Fanny, the second sister, was her faithful ally. 
 Fanny was sprightly, twenty-one, with black eyes and a 
 curl that was much admired. She was fond of fashion, 
 Hirting, and finery, inquisitive, talkative, feeble-minded, 
 and entirely devoted to Anna. As for Belle, she had only 
 come back from school the other day. Anna could not 
 quite understand her at times. Fanny was of age and 
 content to do as she was bid ; here was Belle at eighteen 
 asserting herself very strangely. Anna and Fanny 
 seemed to pair off somehow, and Belle always had to hold 
 her own without any assistance, unless, indeed, her father 
 was present. He had a great tenderness and affection for 
 his youngest child, and the happiest hour of the day to 
 Belinda was when she heard him come home and call for 
 her in his cheerful quavering voice. By degrees it seemed 
 to her as she listened, that the cheerfulness seemed to be 
 dying away out of his voice, and only the quaver remained ; 
 but that may have been fancy, and because she had taken 
 a childish dislike to the echoes in the house. 
 
 At dinner-time, Anna used to ask her father how 
 things were going in the City, and whether shirtings had 
 risen any higher, and at what premium the Tre Hosaa
 
 ^ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 93 
 
 shares were held in the market. These were some shares 
 in a Cornish mine company of which Mr. Barly was a 
 director. Anna thought so highly of the whole concern 
 that she had been anxious to invest a portion of her own 
 and her sister Fanny's money in it. They had some 
 small inheritance from their mother, of part of which 
 they had the control when they came of age ; the rest 
 was invested in the Funds in Mr. Griffiths' name, and 
 could not be touched. Poor Belle, being a minor, had to 
 be content with sixty pounds a year for her pin-money, 
 which was all she could get for her two thousand pounds. 
 When Anna talked business, Mr. Barly used to be 
 quite dazzled by her practical clear-headedness, her calm 
 foresight and powers of rapid calculation. Fanny used to 
 prick up her ears and ask, shaking her curl playfully, how 
 much girls must have to be heiresses, and did Anna think 
 they should ever be heiresses ? Anna would smile and nod 
 her head, in a calm and chastened sort of way, at this 
 childish impatience. 'You should be very thankful, 
 Frances, for all you have to look to, and for your excellent 
 prospects. Emily Ogden, with all her fine airs, would not 
 be sorry to. be in your place.' At which Fanny blushed 
 up bright red, and Belinda jumped impatiently upon her 
 chair, blinking her white eyelids impatiently over her 
 clear grey eyes, as she had a way of doing. ' I can't bear 
 talking about money,' she said ; ' anything is better . . . .' 
 Then she too stopped short and blushed.
 
 94 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 ' Papa,' interrupted Fanny, playfully, ' when will you 
 escort us to the pautorairae again ? The Ogdens are all 
 going next Tuesday, and you have been most naughty and 
 not taken us anywhere for such a long time.' 
 
 Mr. Barly, who rarely refused ailything anvbody 
 asked him, pushed his chair away from the table and 
 answered, with strange impatience for him, — ' My dear, I 
 have had no time lately for plays and amusements of any 
 sort. After working from morning to night for you all I 
 am tired, and want a little peace of an evening. I have 
 neither spirits nor ' 
 
 * Dear papa,' said Btlinda eagerly, ' come up into the 
 drawing-room and sit in tlie easy-chair, and let me play 
 you to sleep.' As she spoke, Belinda smiled a delightful 
 fresh, sweet, tender smile, like sunshine falling on a fair 
 landscape. No wonder the little stockbroker was fond of 
 his youngest daughter. Frances was pouting, Anna 
 frowned slightly as she locked up the wine, and turned 
 over in her mind whether she might not write to the 
 Ogdens and ask them to let Frances join their party ; as 
 for Belinda, playing Mozart to her father in the dim 
 drawing-room upstairs, she was struck by the worn and 
 harassed look in his face as he slept, snoring gently in 
 accompaniment to her music. It was the last time Belle 
 ever played upon the old piano. Three or four days after, 
 the crash came. The great Tre Rosas Mining Company
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 95 
 
 (Limited) had failed, and the old-established house of 
 Barly and Co. unexpectedly stopped payment. 
 
 If poor Mr. Barly had done it on purpose, his ruin 
 could not have been more complete and ingenious. When 
 his affairs came to be looked into, and his liabilities had 
 been met, it was found that an immense fortune had been 
 muddled away, and that scarcely anything would be left 
 but a small furnished cottage, which had been given for 
 lier life to an old aunt just deceased, and which reverted 
 to Fanny, her godchild, and the small sum which still 
 remained in the Three per Cents., of which mention has 
 been made, and which could not be touched until Belle, 
 the youngest of three daughters, should come of age. 
 
 After two or three miserable days of confusion — during 
 which the macliine which had been set going with so much 
 trouble still revolved once or twice with the force of its 
 own impetus, the butler answering the bell, the footman 
 bringing up the coals, the cook sending up the dinner as 
 usual — suddenly everything collapsed, and the great mass 
 of furniture, servants, human creatures, animals, carriages, 
 business and pleasure engagements, seemed overthrown 
 together in a great struggling mass, panting and be- 
 wildered and trying to get free from the confusion of 
 particles that no longer belonged to one another. 
 
 First, the cook packed up her things and some nice 
 damask table-cloths and napkins, a pair of sheets, and 
 Miss Barly's umbrella, which happened to be hanging in
 
 96 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 the hall ; then the three ladies drove off with their father 
 to the cottage, where it was decided they should go to be 
 out of the way of any unpleasantness. He had no heart 
 to begin again, and was determined to give up the battle. 
 Belle sat with her father on the back seat bf the carriage, 
 looking up into his haggard face a little wistfully, and 
 trving to be as miserable as the others. She could not 
 help it, — a cottage in the country, ruin, roses, novelty, 
 clean chintzes instead of damask, a little room with migno- 
 nette, cocks crowing, had a wicked, morbid attraction for 
 her which slie could not overcome. She had longed for 
 such a life when she had gone down to stay with the 
 Ocfdens at Farmborough last month, and had seen several 
 haystacks and lovely little thatched cottages, where she had 
 felt she would have liked to spend the rest of her days ; one 
 in particular had taken her fancy, with dear little latticed 
 windows and a pigeon-cote and two rosy little babies with 
 a kitten toddling out from the ivy porch ; but a great 
 rough-looking man had come up in a slouched wide-awake 
 and frightened Emily Ogden so much that she had pulled 
 Belinda away in a huiTv .... but here a sob from Fanny 
 brought Belle back to her place in the barouche. 
 
 Anna felt she must bear up, and nerved herself to the 
 effort. Upon her the blow fell more heavily than upon 
 any of the others. Indignant, injured, angry with her 
 father, furious with the managers, the directors, the share- 
 holders, the secretary, the imfortunate company, with the
 
 ^ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 97 
 
 Bankruptcy Court, the Ogdens, the laws of fate, the world 
 in general, with Fanny for sobbing, and with Belle for 
 looking placid, she sat blankly staring out of window as 
 they drove past the houses where they had visited, and 
 where she had been entertained an honoured guest ; and 
 now — she put the hateful thought away — bankrupt, 
 disgraced ! Her bonnet was crushed in, she did not say a 
 word, but her face looked quite fierce and old, and 
 frightened Fanny into fresh lamentations. These hysterics 
 had been first brought on by the sight of Emily Ogden 
 driving by in the new barouche. This was quite too much 
 for her poor friend's fortitude. ' Emily will drop us, I 
 know she will,' sobbed Fanny. ' Oh, Anna ! will they ever 
 come and ask us to their Thursday luncheon-parties any 
 more ? ' 
 
 ' My children,' said Mr. Barly, with a placid groan, 
 pulling up the window, ' we are disgraced ; we can only 
 hide our heads away from the world. Do not expect that 
 anyone will ever come near us again.' At which announce- 
 ment Fanny went ofi" into new tears and bewailings. As 
 for the kind, bewildered, weak-headed, soft-hearted little 
 man, he had been so utterly worn out, harassed, worried, 
 and wearied of late, that it was almost a relief to him to 
 think that this was indeed the case. He sat holding 
 Belle's hand in his, stroking and patting it, and wondering 
 that people so near London did not keep the roads iu 
 
 H
 
 98 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 better repair. ' We must be getting near our new abode,' 
 said he at last almost cheerfully. 
 
 ' You speak as if you were glad of our shame, papa,' 
 said Anna suddenly, turning round upon him. 
 
 ' Oh, hush ! ' cried Belle, indignantly. Fortunately 
 the coachman stopped at this moment on a spot a very 
 long way off from Cupulet Square ; and leaning from 
 his box, asked if it was that there little box across the 
 common. 
 
 ' Oh, what a sweet little place I ' cried Belinda. But 
 her heart rather sank as she told this dreadful story. 
 
 Myrtle Cottage was a melancholy little tumbledown 
 place, looking over Dumbleton Common, which they had 
 been crossing all this time. It was covered with stucco, 
 cracked and stained and mouldy. There was a stained- 
 glass window, which was broken. The verandah wanted 
 painting. From outside it was evident that the white 
 rauslin curtains were not so fresh as they might have been. 
 There was a little garden in front, planted with durable 
 materials. Even out of doors, in the gardens in the 
 suburbs, the box-edges, the laurel-bushes, and the fusty 
 old jessamines are apt to look shabby in time, if they are 
 never renewed. A certain amount of time and money 
 might, perhaps, have made Myrtle Cottage into a pleasant 
 1 ittle habitation ; but (judging from appearances) its last 
 inhabitants seemed to have been in some want of both 
 these commodities. Its helpless new occupants were not
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 99 
 
 likely to have much of either to spare. A little dining- 
 room, with glass drop candlesticks and a rickety table, 
 and a print of a church and a Dissenting minister on the 
 wall. A little drawing-room, with a great horsehair sofa, 
 a huge round table in the middle of the room, and more 
 glass drop candlesticks, also a small work-table of glass 
 over faded worsted embroidery. Four little bedrooms, 
 mousey, musty, snuffy, with four-posts as terrific as any 
 they had left behind, and a small black dungeon for a 
 maid-servant. This was the little paradise which Belle 
 had been pictming to herself all along the road, and at 
 which she looked round half sighing, half dismayed. Their 
 bundles, baskets, blankets, were handed in, and a cart full 
 of boxes had arrived. Fanny's parrot was shrieking at the 
 top of its voice on the narrow landing. 
 
 ' What fun ! ' cried Belinda sturdily, instantly setting 
 to work to get things into some order, while Fanny lay 
 exhausted upon the horsehair sofa ; and Anna, in her 
 haughtiest tones, desired the coachman to drive home, and 
 stood watching the receding carriage until it had dwindled 
 away into the distance — coachman, hammer-cloth, bay 
 horses, respectability, and all. When she re-entered the 
 house, the parrot was screeching still, and Martha, the 
 under-housemaid — now transformed into a sort of extract 
 of butler, footman, ladies'-maid, and cook — was frying 
 some sausages, of which the vulgar smell pervaded the 
 place. 
 
 H 2
 
 loo BEAUTY AND THE BEAST, 
 
 III. 
 
 Belle exclaimed, but it required all her coiu-age and 
 natural brightness of spirit to go on looking at the bright 
 side of things, praising the cottage, working in the garden, 
 giving secret assistance to the two bewildered maids who 
 waited on the reduced little family, cheering her father, 
 smiling, and putting the best face on things, as her sisters 
 used to do at home. If it had been all front stairs in 
 Capulet Square, it was all back staircase at the cottage. 
 Rural roses, calm sunsets, long shadows across the common 
 are all very well ; but when puffs of smoke come out of the 
 chimney and fill the little place ; when, if the window is 
 opened, a rush of wind and dust — worse almost than the 
 smoke — comes eddying into the room, and careers roimd 
 the four narrow walls ; when poor little Fanny coughs and 
 shudders, and wraps her shawl more closely round her with 
 a groan ; when the smell of the kitchen frying-pan per- 
 fumes the house, and a mouse scampers out of the 
 cupboard, and blackbeetles lie struggling in the milk-jugs, 
 and the pump runs dry, and spiders crawl out of the tea- 
 caddy, and so forth ; then, indeed, Belle deserves some
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. loi 
 
 > 
 
 credit for being cheerful under difficulties. She could not 
 pretend to very high spirits, but she was brisk and willing, 
 and ready to smile at her father's little occasional puns 
 and feeble attempts at jocularity. Anna, who had been so 
 admirable as a general, broke down under the fatigue of 
 the actual labour in the trenches which belonged to their 
 new life. A great many people can order others about 
 very brilliantly and satisfactorily, who fail when they have 
 to do the work themselves. 
 
 Some of the neighbours called upon them, but the 
 Ogdens never appeared. Poor little Fanny used to take 
 her lace work and sit stitching and looping her thread at 
 the window which overlooked the common with its broad 
 roads, crossing and recrossing the plain; carriages came 
 rollmg by, people came walking, children ran past the 
 windows of the little cottage, but the Ogdens never. Once 
 Fanny thought she recognised the barouche — Lady Ogdeii 
 and Emily sitting in front, Matthew Ogden on the back 
 seat; surely, yes, surely it was him. But the carriage 
 rolled off in a cloud of dust, and disappeared behind the 
 wall of the neighbouring park ; and Frances finished the 
 loop, and passed her needle in and out of the muslin, 
 feeling as if it wa? through her poor little heart that she 
 was piercing and sticking ; she pidled out a long thread, 
 and it seemed to her as if the sunset stained it red like 
 blood. 
 
 In the meanwhile Belle's voice had been singing away
 
 I02 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 overhead, and Fanny, going upstairs presently, found hef, 
 with one of the maids, clearing out one of the upper 
 rooms. The window was open, the furniture was piled up 
 in the middle. Belle, with her sleeves tucked up and her 
 dress carefully pinned out of the dust, was. standing on a 
 cliair, hammer in hand, and fixing up some dimity curtains 
 against the window. Table-cloths, brooms, pails, and 
 l)rushes were lying about, and everything looked in perfect 
 confusion. As Fanny stood looking and exclaiming, Anna 
 also came to the door from her own room, where she had 
 been taking a melancholy nap. 
 
 * What a mess you are making here ! ' cried the elder 
 sister, very angrily. ' How can you take up Martha's time, 
 Belinda ? And oh ! how can you forget yourself to this 
 degree ? You seem to exult in your father's disgrace.' 
 Belinda flushed up. 
 
 ' Really, Anna, I do not know what you mean,' said she, 
 turning round, vexed for a minute, and clasping a long 
 curtain in both arms. ' I could not bear to see my father's 
 room looking so shabby and neglected ; there is no disgrace 
 in attending to his comfort. See, we have taken down 
 those dusty ciu-tains, and we are going to put up some 
 others,' said the girl, springing down from the chair and 
 exhibiting her treasures. 
 
 ' And pray where is the money to come from,' said 
 Anna, ' to pay for these wonderful changes ? ' 
 
 ' They cost no money,' said Belinda, laughing. ' I made
 
 i BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 103 
 
 them myself with my own two hands. Don't you re- 
 member my old white dress that you never liked, Anna? 
 Look how I have pricked my finger. Now, go down,' 
 said the girl, in her pretty imperative way, 'and don't 
 come up again till I call you.' 
 
 Go down at Belle's bidding. . . . 
 
 Anna went off fuming, and immediately set to work 
 also, but in a different fashion. She unfortunately found 
 that her father had returned, and was sitting in the little 
 sitting-room down below by himself, with a limp paper of 
 the day before open upon his knees. He was not reading. 
 He seemed out of spirits, and was gazing in a melancholy 
 way at the smouldering fire, and rubbing his bald head in 
 a perplexed and troubled manner. Seeing this, the silly 
 wom^n, by way of cheering and comforting the poor old 
 man, began to exclaim at Belinda's behaviour, to irritate 
 him, and overwhelm him with allusions and reproaches. 
 
 ' Scrubbing and slaving with her own hands,' said 
 Anna. ' Forgetting herself ; bringing us down lower 
 indeed than we are already sunk. Papa, she will not 
 listen to me. You should tell her that you forbid her to 
 put us all to shame by her behaviour.' 
 
 When Belle, panting, weary, triumphant, and with a 
 blackened nose and rosy cheek, opened the door of the 
 room presently and called her father exultingly, she did 
 not notice, as she ran upstairs before him, how wearily he 
 followed her. A flood of light came from the dreary little
 
 I04 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 room overhead. It had been transformed into a bower of 
 white dimity, bright windows, clean muslin blinds. The 
 fusty old carpet was gone, and a clean crumb-cloth had 
 been put down, with a comfortable nig before the fire- 
 place. A nosegay of jessamine stood on the chimney, 
 and at each comer of the fom--post bed the absurd young 
 decorator had stuck a smart bow, made out of some of her 
 own blue ribbons, in place of the terrible plumes and tassels 
 which had waved there in dust and darkness before. One of 
 the two armchairs which blocked up the wall of the dining- 
 room had been also covered out of some of Belinda's stores, 
 and stood comfortably near the open window. The sun was 
 setting over the great common outside, behind the mill 
 and the distant fringe of elm-trees. Martha, standing all 
 illuminated by the sunshine, with her mop in her hand, 
 was grinning from ear to ear, and Belle turned and rushed 
 into her father's arms. But Mr. Barly was quite overcome. 
 ' My child,' he said, ' why do you trouble yom'self so much 
 for me ? Your sister has told me all. I don't deserve it. 
 I cannot bear that you should be brought to this. My 
 Belle working and slaving with her own hands through my 
 fault — through my fault.' The old man sat down on the 
 side of the bed by which he had been standing, and laid 
 his face in his hands, in a perfect agony of remorse and 
 regret. Belinda was dismayed by the result of her 
 labours. In vain she tried to cheer him and comfort him. 
 The sweeter she seemed in bis eyes, the more miserable
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 105 
 
 the poor father grew at the condition to which he had 
 brought her. 
 
 For many days after he went about in a sort of despair, 
 thinking what he could do to retrieve his ruined fortunes ; 
 and if Belinda still rose betimes to see to his comfort and 
 the better ordering of the confused little household, 
 she took care not to let it be known. Anna came down 
 at nine, Fanny at ten. Anna would then spend several 
 hours regretting her former dignities, reading the news- 
 paper and the fashionable intelligence, while the dismal 
 strains of Fanny's piano (there was a jangling piano in the 
 little drawing-room,) streamed across the common. To a 
 stormy spring, with wind flying and dust dashing against 
 the window-panes, and grey clouds swiftly bearing across 
 the wide open coimtry, had succeeded a warm and bril- 
 liant summer, with sunshine flooding and spreading over 
 the country. Anna and Fanny were able to get out a 
 little now, but they were soon tired, and would sit down 
 under a tree and remark to one anotlier how greatly 
 they missed their accustomed drives. Belinda, who had 
 sometimes at first disappeared now and then to cry mys- 
 teriously a little bit by herself over her troubles, now dis- 
 covered that at eighteen, with good health and plenty to 
 do, happiness is possible, even without a carriage. 
 
 One day Mr. Barly, who still went into the City from 
 habit, came home with some news which had greatly
 
 io6 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 excited him. Wheal Tre Rosas, of which he still held a 
 great man}'^ shares which he had never been able to dis- 
 pose of, had been giving some signs of life. A fresh call 
 was to be made ; some capitalist, with more money than 
 he evidently knew what to do with, had been buying up 
 a great deal of the stock. The works were to be resumed. 
 Mr. Early had always been satisfied that the concern was 
 a good one. He would give everything he had, he told 
 Anna that evening, to be able to raise enough money now 
 to buy up more of the shares. His fortune was made if 
 he could do so ; his children replaced in their proper 
 position, and his name restored. Anna was in a state of 
 greater flutter, if possible, than her father himself. Belle 
 sighed ; she could not help feeling doubtful, but she did 
 not like to say much on the subject. 
 
 ' Papa, this Wheal has proved a very treacherous 
 wheel of fortune to us,' she hazarded, blushing and 
 bending over her sewing ; ' we are very, very happy as we 
 are.' 
 
 ' Happy ? ' said Anna with a sneer. 
 
 ' Really, Belinda, you are too romantic,' said Fanny 
 with a titter ; while Mr. Barly cried out, in an excited 
 way, ' that she should be happier yet, and all her goodness 
 and dutifulness should be rewarded in time.' A sort of 
 presentiment of evil came over Belinda, and her eyes 
 tilled up with tears ; but she stitched them away and 
 said no more.
 
 \ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 107 
 
 Unfortunately the only money Mr. Barly could think 
 of to lay his hands upon was that sum in the Three per 
 Cents, upon which they were now living ; and even if he 
 chose he could not touch any of it until Belinda came of 
 age ; unless, indeed, young Mr. GrrifEths would give him 
 permission to do so. 
 
 ' Go to him, papa,' cried Anna enthusiastically. ' Go 
 to him ; entreat, insist upon it, if necessary.' 
 
 All that evening Anna and Frances talked over their 
 brilliant prospects. 'I should like to see the Ogdens 
 again,' said poor little Fanny. ' Perhaps we shall if we 
 go back to Capulet Square.' ' Certainly, certainly,' said 
 Anna. ' I have heard that this Mr. Griffiths is a most 
 uncouth and uncivilised person to deal with,' continued 
 Miss Barly, with her finger on her chin. 'Papa, wouldn't 
 it be better for me to go to Mr. Griffiths instead of you ? ' 
 This, however, Mr. Barly would not consent to. 
 
 Anna could hardly contain her vexation and spite 
 when he came back next day dispirited, crestfallen, and 
 utterly wretched and disappointed. Mr. Griffiths would 
 have nothing to say to it. 
 
 ' What's the good of a trustee,' said he to Mr. Barly, 
 ' if he were to let you invest your money in such a 
 speculative chance as that ? Take my advice, and sell out 
 your shares now if you can for anything you can get.' 
 
 ' A surly, disagreeable fellow,' said poor old Mr.
 
 lo8 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 Early. ' I heartily wish he had nothing to do with our 
 alfairs.' 
 
 Anna fairly stamped with rage. ' What insolence, 
 when it is our own. Papa, you have no spirit to allow 
 such interference.' 
 
 Mr. Early looked at her gravely, and said he should 
 not allow it. Anna did not know what he meant. 
 
 Belinda was not easy about her fatfigr all this time. 
 He came and went in an odd excited sort of way, stopping 
 short sometimes as he was walking across the room, and 
 standing absorbed in thought ! One day he went into the 
 City unexpectedly about the middle of the day, and came 
 back looking quite odd, pale, with curious eyes ; some- 
 thing was wrong, she could not tell what. In the mean- 
 time Wheal Tre Eosas seemed, spite of Mr. Griffiths' 
 prophecies, to be steadily rising in the world. More 
 business had been done, the shares were a trifle higher. 
 A meeting of directors was convened, and actually a small 
 dividend was declared at Midsummer. It really seemed 
 as if there was some chance after all that Anna should be 
 reinstated in the barouche, in Capulet Square, and her 
 place in society. She and Fanny were half wild with 
 delight. ' WTien we leave ' — was the beginning of every 
 sentence they uttered. Fanny wrote the good news to 
 her friend Miss Ogden, and, under these circumstances, 
 to Fanny's unfeigned delight, Emily Ogden thought her- 
 self justified in driving over to the village one fine after-
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 109 
 
 noon and affably partaking of a cracked cupful of five 
 o'clock tea. It was slightly smoked, and tlie milk was 
 turned. Belinda had gone out for a walk and was not 
 there to see to it all ; I am afraid she did not quite for- 
 give Emily the part she had played, and could not make 
 up her miud to meet her. 
 
 One morning Anna was miich excited by the arrival 
 of a letter directed to Mr. Barly in great round hand- 
 writing, and with a huge seal, all over bears and griflSns. 
 Her father was for ever expecting news of his beloved Tre 
 Kosas, and he broke the seal with some curiosity. But 
 this was only an invitation to dine and sleep at Castle 
 Gardens from Mr. Griffiths, who said he had an offer to 
 make Mr. Barly, and concluded by saying that he hoped 
 Mr. Barly forgave him for the ungracious part he had 
 been obliged to play the other day, and tliat, in like cir- 
 cumttances, he would do the same by him. 
 
 * I shan't go,' said Mr. Barly, a little doggedly, putting 
 the letter down. 
 
 ' Not go, papa ? Why, you may be able to talk him 
 over if you get hiin quietly to yourself. Certainly you 
 must go, papa,' said Anna. ' Oh ! I'm sure he means to 
 relent — how nice!' said Fanny. Even lUlinda tliought 
 it was a pity he should not accept the invitation, and Mr. 
 Barly gave way as usual. He asked them if tliey liad any 
 commands for him in town. 
 
 'Oil, tliank you, i):iiia,' said Frances. 'If you are
 
 no BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 going shopping, I wish you would bring me back a bhie 
 alpaca, and a white grenadine, and a pink sou-poult, and 
 a ' 
 
 ' My dear Fanny, that will be quite sufficient for the 
 short time you remain here,' interrupted Anna, who went 
 on to give her father several commissions of her own — 
 some writing-paper stamped with Early Lodge and their 
 crest in one corner ; a jacket with buttons for the knife- 
 boy they had lately engaged upon the strength of their 
 coming good fortune ; a new umbrella, a house-agent's 
 list of mansions in the neighbourhood of Capulet Square, 
 the Journal des Modes, and the Neiu Court Guide. 
 ' Let me see, there was something else,' said Anna, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 ' Belle,' said Mr. Early, ' how comes it you ask for 
 nothing ? What can I bring you, my child ? ' 
 
 Eelle looked up with one of her bright melancholy 
 smiles and replied, ' If you should see any roses, papa, I 
 think I should like a bunch of roses. We have none in 
 the garden.' 
 
 ' Eoses ! ' cried Fanny, laughing. ' I didn't know you 
 cared for anything but what was useful. Belle.' 
 
 ' I quite expected you would ask for a saucepan or a 
 mustard-pot,' said Anna, with a sneer. 
 
 Belle sighed again, and then the three went and stood 
 at the garden-gate to see their father off. It made a 
 pretty little group for the geese on the common to con-
 
 > BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. in 
 
 template, — the two young sisters at the wicket, the elder 
 under the shade of the verandah, Belle upright, smiling, 
 waving her slim hand ; she was above the middle height, 
 she had fair hair and dark eyebrows and grey eyes, over 
 Avhich she had a peculiar way of blinking her smooth 
 white eyelids ; — and all about, the birds, the soft winds, 
 the great green common with its gorgeous furze-blossom 
 blazing against the low bank of clouds in the horizon. 
 Close at hand a white pony was tranquilly cropping the 
 grass, and two little village children were standing out- 
 side the railings, gazing up open-mouthed at the pretty 
 ladies who lived at the cottage.
 
 112 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 The clouds which had been gathering all the afteraoon 
 broke shortly before Mr. Barly reached his entertainer's 
 house. He had tried to get there through Kensington 
 Gardens, but could not make out the way, and went wan- 
 dering round and round in some perplexity under the 
 gi'eat trees with their creaking branches. The storm did 
 not last long and the clouds dispersed at sunset. When 
 Mr. Barly rang at the gate of the villa in Castle Gardens 
 at last that evening, he was weary, wet through, and far 
 less triumphant than he had been when he left home in 
 the morning. The butler who let him in gave the bag 
 which he had been carrying to the footman, and showed 
 him the way upstairs immediately to the comfortable room 
 which had been made ready for him. Upholsterers had 
 done the work on the whole better than Belle with all 
 her loving labour. The chairs were softer than her print- 
 covered horsehair cushions. The wax-lights were burn- 
 ing although it was broad dayliglit. Mr. Barly went to 
 the bay-window. The garden outside was a sight to see : 
 smooth lawns, arches, roses in profusion and abundance,
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 113 
 
 hanging and climbing and clustering everywhere, a distant 
 gleam of a fountain, of a golden sky, a chirruping and 
 rustling in the bushes and trellises after the storm. The 
 sunset which was lighting up the fern on the rain- 
 sprinkled common was twinkling through the rose-petals 
 here, bringing out odours and aromas and whiffs of deli- 
 cious scent. Mr. Barly thought of Belle, and how he should 
 like to see her flitting about in the garden and picking roses 
 to her heart's content. As he stood there he thought, too, 
 with a pang, of his wife whom he had lost, and sighed in 
 a sort of despair at the troubles which had fallen upon 
 him of late ; what would he not give to undo the work of 
 the last few months, he thought — nay, of the last few 
 days ? He had once come to this very house with his 
 wife in their early days of marriage. He remembered 
 it now, although he had not thought of it before. 
 
 Sometimes it happens to us all that things which hap- 
 pened ever so long ago seem to make a start out of their 
 proper places in the course of time, and come after us, 
 until they catch us up, as it were, and surround us, so that 
 one can hear the voices, and see the faces and colours, and 
 feel the old sensations and thrills as keenly as at the time 
 they occurred — all so curiously and strangely vivid that 
 one can scarcely conceive it possible that years and years 
 perhaps have passed since it all happened, and that the 
 present shock proceeds from an ancient and almost for- 
 gotten impulse. And so as Mr. Barly looked and remem- 
 
 I
 
 114 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 bered and thought of the past, a sudden remorse and 
 shame came over him. He seemed to see his wife stand- 
 ing in the garden, holding the roses up over her head, 
 looking like Belle ; like, yet unlike. Why it should have 
 been so, at the thought of his wife among the flowers, I 
 cannot tell ; but as he remembered her he began to think 
 of what he had done — that he was there in the house of 
 the man' he had defrauded, — he began to ask himself how 
 could he face him ? how could he sit down beside him at 
 table, and break his bread ? The poor old fellow fell back 
 with a groan in one of the comfortable arm-chairs. Should 
 lie confess ? Oh, no — no, that would be the most terrible 
 of all ! 
 
 What he had done is simply told. When Guy Grif- 
 fiths refused to let Mr. Barly lay hands on any of the money 
 which he had in trust for his daughters, the foolish and 
 angry old man had sold out a portion of the sum belonging 
 to Mr. GrifiSths which still remained in his own name. It 
 had not seemed like dishonesty at the time, but now he 
 would have gladly — oh, how gladly ! awakened to find it 
 all a dream. He dressed mechanically, turning over every 
 possible chance in his own mind. Let Wheal Tre Eosas 
 go on and prosper, the first money should go to repay his 
 loan, and no one would be the wiser. He went down into 
 the library again when he was ready. It was empty still, 
 and, to his relief, the master of the house had not yet come 
 back. He waited a very long time, looking at the clock,
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 115 
 
 at the reviews on the table, at tlae picture of Mrs. Grif- 
 fiths, whom he could remember in her youth, upon the 
 wall. The butler came in again to say that his master had 
 not yet returned. Some message had come by a boy, 
 which was not very intelligible, — he had been detained in 
 the City. Mrs. Grriffiths was not well enough to leave her 
 room, but she hoped Mr. Barly would order dinner, — any- 
 thing he required, — and that her son would shortly return. 
 
 It was very late. There was nothing else to be done. 
 Mr. Barly found a fire lighted in the great dining-room, 
 dinner laid, one plate and one knife and fork, at the end 
 of the long table. The dinner was excellent, so was the 
 wine. The butler uncorked a bottle of champagne, the 
 cook sent up chickens and all sorts of good things. Mr. 
 Barly almost felt as if he, by some strange metempsychosis, 
 had been converted into the owner of this handsome 
 dwelling and all that belonged to it. At twelve o'clock 
 Mr. Griffiths had not yet returned, and his guest, after 
 a somewhat perplexed and solitary meal, retired to rest. 
 
 Mr. Barly breakfasted by himself again next morning. 
 Mr. Griffiths had not returned all nii>ht. In his secret 
 heart Mr. Griffiths' guest was almost relieved by the ab- 
 sence of his entertainer : it seemed like a respite. Per- 
 haps, after all, everything would go well, and the confes- 
 sion which he had contemplated with such terror the 
 night before need never be made. For the present it was 
 clearly no use to wait any longer at the house. Mr. Bariy
 
 Ii6 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 asked for a cab to take him to the station, left his compli- 
 ments and regrets, and a small sum of money behind him, 
 and then, as the cab delayed, strolled out into the front 
 garden to wait for it. 
 
 Even in the front court the roses were " all abloom ; a 
 great snow cluster was growing over the doorway, a pretty 
 tea-rose was hanging its head over the scraper ; against 
 the outer railing which separated the house from the 
 road, rose-trees had been planted. The beautiful pink 
 fragrant heads were pushing through the iron railings, and 
 a delicious little rose-wind came blowing in the poor old 
 fellow's face. He began to think again — no wonder — of 
 Belle and her fancy for roses, and mechanically, without 
 much reflecting upon what he was about, he stopped and 
 inhaled the ravishing sweet smell of the great dewy flowers, 
 and then put out his hand and gathered a spray from 
 which three roses were hanging ; ... as he gathered it, 
 a sharp thorn ran into his finger, and a heavy grasp was 
 laid upon his arm. . . . 
 
 ' So it is you, is it, who sneak in and steal my roses ? ' 
 said an angry voice. ' Now that I know who it is, I shall 
 give you in charge.' 
 
 Mr. Early looked round greatly startled. He met the 
 fierce glare of two dark brown eyes under shaggy brows, that 
 were frowning very fiercely. A broad, thick-set, round- 
 shouldered young man of forbidding aspect had laid hold of
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 117 
 
 him. The young man let go his grasp when he saw the 
 mistake he had made, but did not cease frowning. 
 
 ' Oh ! it is you, Mr. Early,' he said. 
 
 ' I was just going,' said the stockbroker, meekly. ' I 
 am glad you have returned in time for me to see you, Mr. 
 Griffiths. I am sorry I took your rose. My youngest 
 is fond of them, and I thought I might, out of all this 
 garden-full, you would not — she had asked ' 
 
 There was something so stern and unforgiving in Mr. 
 Griffiths' face that the merchant stumbled in his word? 
 and stopped short surprised, in the midst of his expla- 
 nations. 
 
 ' The roses were not yours, not if there were ten gar- 
 dens full. I won't have my roses broken off,' said Grif- 
 iiths ; ' thev should be cut with a knife. Come back with 
 me ; I want to have a little talk with you, Mr. Early.' 
 
 Somehow the old fellow's heart began to beat, and he 
 felt himself turn rather sick. 
 
 ' I was detained last night by some trouble in my office. 
 One of my clerks, in whom I thought I could have trusted, 
 absconded yesterday afternoon. I have been all the way 
 to Liverpool in pursuit of him. What do you think should 
 be done with him ? ' And Mr. Griffiths, from under his 
 thick eyebrows, gave a quick glance at his present victim, 
 and seemed to expect some sort of answer 
 
 ' You prosperous men cannot realise what it is to be 
 greatly tempted,' said Mr. Early, with a faint smile.
 
 Ii8 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 ' Do you know that Wheal Tre Eosas has come to grief 
 a second time ? ' said young ]Mr. Griffiths abruptly, holding 
 out the morning's Times, as they walked along. ' I am 
 not a prosperous man ; I had a great many shares in that 
 unlucky concern.' "" ■ 
 
 Poor Barly stopped short and turned quite pale, and 
 began to shake so that he had to put his hand out and 
 lean against the wall. 
 
 ' Failed ! Was he doomed to misfortune ? Then there 
 was never any chance for him — never. No hope ! No 
 hope of paying back the debt which weighed upon his 
 conscience. He could not realise it. Failed ! The rose 
 had fallen to the ground ; — the poor unlucky man stood 
 still, staring blankly in the other's grim, unrelenting 
 face. 
 
 ' I am ruined,' he said. 
 
 ' You are ruined ! Is that the worst you have to tell 
 me?' said Mr. Griffiths, still looking piercingly at him. 
 Then the other felt that he knew all. 
 
 'I have been very unfortunate — and very much to 
 blame,' said Mr. Barly, still trembling ; — ' terribly to 
 blame, — Mr. Griffiths. I can only throw myself upon 
 your clemency.' 
 
 ' My clemency ! my mercy ! I am no philanthropist,' 
 said Guy, savagely. ' I am a man of business, and you 
 have defrauded me ! ' 
 
 ' Sir,' said the stockbroker, finding some odd comfort
 
 ^ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 119 
 
 in braving the worst, ' you refused to let me take what 
 was my own ; — I have sold out some of your money to 
 invest in this fatal concern. Heaven knows it was not 
 for myself, but for the sake of — of — others ; and I thought 
 to repay you ere long. You can repay yourself now. You 
 need not reproach me any more. You can send me to 
 prison if you like. I — I — don't much care what happens. 
 My Belle, my poor Belle, — my poor girls ! ' 
 
 All this time Gruy said never a word. He motioned 
 Mr. Barly to follow him into the library. Mr. Barly 
 obeyed, and stood meekly waiting for the coming onslaught. 
 He stood in the full glare of the morning sun, which was 
 pom'ing through the unblinded window. His poor old 
 scanty head was bent, and his hair stood on end in the 
 sunshine. 
 
 His eyes, avoiding the glare, went vacantly travelling 
 along the scroll-work on the fender, and so to the coal- 
 scuttle and to the skirting on the wall, and back again. 
 Dishonoured, — yes. Bankrupt, — yes. Threescore years 
 had brought him to this, — to shame, to trouble. It was a 
 hard world for unlucky people, but Mr. Barly was too 
 much broken, too weary and indifferent, to feel very 
 bitterly even against the world. Meanwhile Guy was 
 going on with his reflections, and like those amongst us 
 who are still young and strong, he could put more life and 
 energy into his condemnation and judgment of actions 
 done, than the unlucky perpetrators had to give to the
 
 I20 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 very deeds themselves. Some folks do wrong as well as 
 right, with scarcely more than half a mind to it. 
 
 ' How could you do such a thing ? ' cried the young 
 man indignantly, beginning to rush up and down the 
 room in his hasty, clumsy way, knockiftg against tables 
 and chairs as he went along. ' How could you do it ? ' he 
 repeated. ' I learnt it yesterday by chance. What can I 
 say to you that your own conscience should not have told 
 you already ? How could you do it ? ' Guy had reached 
 the great end window, and stamped with vexation and a 
 mixture of anger and sorrow. For all his fierceness and 
 gruffuess, he was sorry for the poor feeble old man whose 
 fate he held in his hand. There was the garden outside, 
 and its treasure and glory of roses ; there was the rose- 
 spray, lyLng on the ground, that old Barly had taken. 
 It was lying broken and shining upon the gravel — one rose 
 out of the hundreds that were bursting, and blooming, 
 and fainting and falling on their spreading stems. It was 
 like the wrong old Barly had done his kinsman — one little 
 wrong Guy thought, one little handful out of all his 
 abundance. He looked back, and by chance caught sight 
 of their two figures reflected in the glass at the other end 
 of the room, — his own image, the strong, round-backed, 
 broad-shouldered young man, with gleaming white teeth and 
 black bristling hair ; the feeble and uncertain culprit, with 
 his broken wandering looks, waiting his sentence. It was 
 not Guy who delivered it. It came — no very terrible one
 
 I BEAUTY AND fHE BEAST. 121 
 
 after all— prompted by some unaccountable secret voice 
 and impulse. Have we not all of us sometimes suddenly 
 felt ashamed in our lives in the face of misfortune and 
 sorrow ? Are we Pharisees, standing in the market-place, 
 with our phylacteries displayed to the world ? we ask 
 ourselves, in dismay, — does this man go home justified 
 rather than we ? Guy was not the less worthy of his 
 Belinda, poor fellow, because a thought of her crossed his 
 mind, and because he blushed up, and a gentle look came 
 into his eyes, and a shame into his heart — a shame of his 
 strength and prosperousness, of his probity and high honour. 
 When had he been tempted? AVliat was it but a chance 
 that he had been born what he was ? And yet old Early, 
 in all his troubles, had a treasure in his possession for 
 which' Guy felt he would give all his good fortune and 
 good repute, his roses — red, white, and golden — his best 
 heart's devotion, which he secretly felt to be worth all the 
 rest. Now was the time, the young man thought, to 
 make that proposition which he had in kis mind. 
 
 ' Look here,' said Guy, hanging his great shaggy head, 
 and speaking quickly and thickly, as if he was the culprit 
 instead of the accuser. ' You imply it was for your 
 daughter's sake that you cheated me. I cannot consent 
 to act as you would have me do, and take your daughter's 
 money to pay myself back. But if one of them, — Miss 
 Belinda, since she likes roses, — chooses to come here and 
 work the debt off, she can do so. My mother is in bad
 
 122 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 Dealth and wants a companion ; she will engage her at — 
 let me see, a hundred gaiineas a- year, and in this way, by 
 degrees, the debt will be cleared off.' 
 
 ' In twenty years,' said Mr. Early, bewildered, relieved, 
 astonislied. -^ . 
 
 ' Yes, in twenty years,' said Guy, as if that was the most 
 natural tiling in the world. ' Go home and consult her, 
 and come back and give me the answer.' 
 
 And as he spoke, the butler came in to say that the 
 hansom was at the door. 
 
 Poor old J^arly bent his worn meek head and went out. 
 He was shaken and utterly puzzled. If Guy had told him 
 to climb up the chimney he would have obeyed. He 
 could only do as he was bid. As it was, he clambered 
 with difficulty into the hansom, told the man to go to the 
 station for Dumbleton, and he was driving off gladly when 
 someone called after the cab. The old man peered out 
 anxiously. Had Griffiths changed his mind ? Was his 
 heart hardened like Pharaoh's at the eleventh hour ? 
 
 It was certainly Guy who came hastily after the cab, 
 looking more awkward and sulky than ever. ' Hoy ! Stop! 
 You have forgotten the roses for your daughter,' said he, 
 thrusting in a great bunch of sweet foam and freshness. As 
 the cab drove along, people passing by looked up and env-ied 
 the man who was carrying such loveliness through the 
 black and dreary London streets. Could they have seen 
 the face looking out behind the roses they might have 
 ceased to envy.
 
 ; BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 123 
 
 Belle was on the watch for her father at the garden- 
 gate, and exclaimed with delight, as she saw him toiling 
 up the hill from the station with his huge bunch of flowers. 
 She came running to meet him with fluttering skirts and 
 ' outstretched hands, and sweet smiles gladdening her face. 
 ' Oh, papa, how lovely ! Have you had a pleasant time ? ' 
 Her father hardly responded. ' Take the roses. Belle,' he 
 said. ' I have paid for them dearly enough.' He went into 
 the house wearily, and sat down in the shabby arm-chair. 
 And then he turned and called Belinda to him wistfully 
 and put his trembling arm round about her. Poor old 
 Barly was no mighty Jephthah ; but his feeble old head 
 bent with some such pathetic longing and remorse over 
 his Belle as he drew her to him, and told her, in a few 
 simple' broken words, all the story of what had befallen 
 him in those few hours since he went away. He could not 
 part from her. ' I can't, I can't,' he said, as the girl put 
 her tender arms round his neck. 
 
 Gruy came to see me a few days after his interview with 
 old Mr. Barly, and told me that his mother had surprised 
 him by her willing acquiescence in the scheme. I could 
 have explained matters to him a little, but I thought it 
 best to say nothing. Mrs. Griffiths had overheard, and 
 imderstood a word or two of what he had said to me that 
 night, when she was taken ill. Was it some sudden re- 
 morse for the past ? was it a new-born mother's tenderness 
 stirring in her cold heart, which made her question and
 
 124 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 cross-question me the next time that I was alone with her ? 
 There had often been a talk of some companion or better 
 sort of attendant. After the news came of poor old 
 Barly's failure, it was ]\Irs. Griffiths herself who first 
 vaguely alluded again to this scheme. " - 
 
 ' I might engage one of those girls — the — the Belinda, 
 I think you called her ? ' 
 
 I was touched and took her cold hand and kissed it. 
 
 ' I am sure she would be an immense comfort to you,' 
 I said. ' You would never regret your kindness.' 
 
 The sick woman sighed and turned away impatiently, 
 and the result was the invitation to dinner, which turned 
 out so disastrously.
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 125 
 
 V. 
 
 When Mr. Early came down to breakfast the morningf 
 after his return, he found another of those great square 
 official-looking letters upon the table. There was a cheque 
 in it for 100/. 'You will have to meet heavy expenses,' 
 the young man wrote, ' I am not sorry to have an oppor- 
 tunity of proving to you that it was not the money which 
 you have taken from me I grudged, but the manner in 
 which you took it. The only reparation you can make me 
 is by keeping the enclosed for your present necessity.' 
 
 In truth the family prospects were not very brilliant. 
 Myrtle Cottage was resplendent with clean windows and 
 well-scrubbed door-steps, but the furniture wanted repair- 
 ing, the larder refilling. Belle could not darn up the 
 broken flap of the dining-room table, nor conjure legs of 
 mutton out of bare bones, though she got up ever so early ; 
 sweeping would not mend the hole in the carpet, nor 
 could she dust the mildew-stains off the walls, the cracks 
 out of the looking-glass. 
 
 Anna was morose, helpless, and jealous of the younger 
 girl's influence over her father. Fanny was delicate ; one
 
 126 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 gleam of happiness, however, streaked her horizon : Emily 
 Ogden had written to invite her to spend a few days there. 
 When Mr. Barly and his daughter had talked over Mr- 
 GrrifiQths' proposition, Belle's own good sense told her that it 
 would be folly to throw away this good chance. Let Mrs. 
 Griffiths be ever so trying and difficult to deal with, and 
 her son a thousand times sterner and ruder than he had 
 already shown himself, she was determined to bear it all. 
 Belinda knew her own powers, and felt as if she could 
 endure anything, and that she shoidd never forget the 
 generosity and forbearance he had shown her poor father. 
 Anna was delighted that her sister should go ; she threw 
 off the shawl in which she had muffled herself up ever 
 since their reverses, brightened up wonderfully, talked mys- 
 teriously of Fanny's prospects as she helped both the girls 
 to pack, made believe to shed a few tears as Belinda set off 
 with her father, and bustled back into the house with re- 
 newed importance. Belinda looked back and waved her 
 hand, but Anna's back was already tiurned upon her, and 
 she was giving directions to the page. 
 
 Poor Belinda ! For all her courage and cheerfulness 
 her heart sank a little as they reached the great bronze 
 gates in Castle G-ardens. She would have been more un- 
 happy still if she had not had to keep up her father's 
 spirits. It was almost dinner-time, and Mrs. Griffiths 
 maid came down with a message. Her mistress was tired, 
 and just going to bed, and would see her in the morning ;
 
 \ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 127 
 
 Mr. Griffiths was dining in town ; Miss Williamson would 
 call upon Miss Barly that evening. 
 
 Dinner had been laid as usual in the great dining- 
 room, with its marble columns and draperies, and Dutch 
 pictures of game and of birds and flowers. Three servants 
 were in waiting, a great silver chandelier lighted the 
 dismal meal, huge dish-covers were upheaved, decanters of 
 wine were handed round, all the entrees and delicacies 
 came over again. Belle tried to eat to keep her father in 
 company. She even made little jokes, and whispered to 
 him that they evidently meant to fatten her up. The 
 poor old fellow cheered up by degrees ; the good claret 
 warmed his feeble pulse, the good fare comforted and 
 strengthened him. ' I wish Martha would make us ice- 
 puddings,' said Belle, helping him to a glittering mass of 
 pale-coloured cream, with nutmeg and vanilla, and all 
 sorts of delicious spices. He had just finished the last 
 mouthful when the butler started and rushed out of the 
 room, a door banged, a bell rang violently, a loud scraping 
 was heard in the hall, and an echoing voice said, ' Are 
 they come ? Are they in the dining-room ? ' And the 
 crimson curtain was lifted up, and the master of the house 
 entered the room carrying a bag and a great-coat over his 
 arm. As he passed the sideboard the button of the coat 
 caught in the fringe of a cloth which was spread upon it, 
 and in a minute the cloth and all the glasses and plates 
 which had been left there came to the ground with a wild
 
 128 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 crash, which would have made Belle laugh, if she had not 
 been too nervous even to smile. 
 
 Guy merely told the servants to pick it all up, and put 
 down the things he was carrying and walked straight 
 across the room to the two frightened people at the far 
 end of the table. Poor fellow ! After shaking hands with 
 old Barly and giving Belle an abrupt little nod, all he 
 could find to say was, — 
 
 ' I hope you came of your own free will, Miss Barly ? ' 
 and as he spoke he gave a shy scowl and eyed her all 
 over. 
 
 * Yes,' Belle answered, blinking her soft eyes to see 
 him more clearly. 
 
 ' Then I'm very much obliged to you,' said Guy. 
 This was such an astonishingly civil answer that 
 Belinda's courage rose. 
 
 Poor Belinda's heart failed her again, however, when 
 Griffiths, still in an agony of shjuess, then turned to her 
 father, and in his roughest voice said, — 
 
 ' You leave early in the morning, but I hope we shall 
 keep your daughter for a very long time.' 
 
 Poor fellow ! he meant no harm and only intended this 
 by way of conversation. Belle in her secret heart said to 
 herself that he was a cruel brute ; and poor Guy, having 
 made this impression, broken a dozen wine-glasses, and 
 gone through untold struggles of shyness, now wished 
 them both good-night.
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 129 
 
 * Grood-night, Mr. Early ; good-night, Miss Belle,' 
 said he. Something in his voice caused Belle to relent a 
 little. 
 
 ' Grood-night, Mr. Griffiths/ said the girl, standing up, 
 a slight graceful figure, simple and nymph-like, amidst all 
 this pomp of circumstance. As Griffiths shuffled out of 
 the room he saw her still ; all night he saw her in his 
 dreams. That bright winsome young creature, dressed in 
 white soft folds, with all the gorgeous gildings and dra- 
 peries, and the lights burning, and the pictures and gold 
 cups glimmering round about her. They were his, and 
 as many more of them as he chose : the inanimate, costly, 
 sickening pomps and possessions ; but a pure spirit like 
 that, to Jdb a bright living companion for him ? Ah, no ! 
 that was not to be — not for him, not for such as him. 
 Guy, for the first time in his life, as he went upstairs 
 that evening, stopped and looked at himself attentively in 
 the great glass on the staircase. He saw a great loutish, 
 roundbacked fellow, with a shaggy head and brown glitter- 
 ing eyes, and little strong white teeth like a dog's ; he 
 gave an uncouth sudden caper of rage and regret at his 
 own appearance. ' To think that happiness and life itself 
 and love eternal depend upon tailors and hair-oil,' groaned 
 poor Guy, as he went into his room to write letters. 
 
 Mrs. Griffiths did not see Belle that evening ; she was 
 always nervously averse to seeing strangers, but she had 
 sent for me to speak to her, and as I was leaving she had 
 
 K
 
 I30 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 asked me to go down and speak to Miss Early before I 
 went. Belinda was already in her room, bnt I ventured 
 to knock at the door. She came to meet me with a 
 bright puzzled face and all her pretty hair falling loose 
 about her face. She had not a notion' who I was, but 
 begged me to come in. When I had explained things 
 a little, she pulled out a chair for me to sit down. 
 
 ' This house seems to me so mysterious and unlike 
 anything else I have ever known,' said she, 'that I'm very 
 grateful to anyone who will tell me what I'm to do here — 
 please sit down a little while.' 
 
 I told her that she would have to write notes, to add 
 up bills, to read to Mrs. Grriffiths, and to come to me 
 whenever she wanted any help or comfort. ' You were 
 quite right to come,' said I. ' They are excellent people. 
 Gruy is the kindest, best fellow in the whole world, and I 
 have long heard of you, Miss Barly, and I'm sure such a 
 good daughter as you have been will be rewarded some 
 day.' 
 
 Belle looked puzzled, grateful, a little proud, and very 
 charming. She told me afterwards that it had been a 
 great comfort to her father to hear of my little visit to 
 her, and that she had succeeded in getting him away with- 
 out any very painful scene. 
 
 Poor Belle I I wonder how many tears she shed that 
 day after her father was gone ? While she was waiting 
 to be admitted to Mrs. Griffiths she amused herself by
 
 ** BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 131 
 
 wandering about the house, dropping a little tear here 
 and there as she went along, and trying to think that it 
 amused her to see so many yards of damask and stair-car- 
 peting, all exactly alike, so many acres of chintz of the 
 same pattern. 
 
 ' Mr. GrifiEiths desired me to say that this tower room 
 was to be made ready for you to sit in, ma'am,' said the 
 respectful butler, meeting her and opening a door. ' It 
 has not been used before,' And he gave her the key, to 
 which a label was affixed, with 'Miss Barly's Koom,' 
 written upon it, in the housekeeper's scrawling hand- 
 writing. 
 
 Belle gave a little shriek of admiration. It was a 
 square room, with four windows, overlooking the gardens, 
 the distant park, and the broad cheerful road which ran past 
 the house. An ivy screen had been trained over one of 
 the windows, roses were clustering in garlands round the 
 deep sill casements. There was an Indian carpet, and 
 pretty silk curtains, and comfortable chintz chairs and 
 sofas, upon which beautiful birds were flying and lilies 
 wreathing. There was an old-fashioned-looking piano, 
 too, and a , great book-case filled with books and music. 
 ' They certainly treat me in the most magnificent way,' 
 thought Belle, sinking down upon the sofa in the window 
 which overlooked the rose-garden, and inhaling a delicious 
 breath of fragrant air. 'They can't mean to be very un- 
 kind.' Belle, who was a little curious, it must be confessed.
 
 132 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 looked at everything, made secret notes in her mind, 
 read the titles of the books, examined the china, discovered 
 a balcony to her turret. There was a little writing-table, 
 too, with paper and pens and inks of various colours, which 
 especially pleased her. A glass cup ofcut roses had been 
 placed upon it, and two dear little green books, in one of 
 which some one had left a paper-cutter. 
 
 The first was a book of fairy tales, from which I hope 
 the good fairy editress will forgive me for stealing a sen- 
 tence or two. 
 
 The other little green book was called the ' Golden 
 
 Treasury ; ' and when Belle took it up, it opened where 
 
 the paper-cutter had been left, at the seventh page, and 
 
 someone had scored the sonnet there. Belle read it, 
 
 and somehow, as she read, the tears in her eyes started 
 
 afresh. 
 
 Being your slave, what should I do but tend 
 Upon the hours and times of your desire ? 
 
 it began. ' To ' had been scrawled underneath ; and 
 
 then the letter following the ' To' erased. Belle blinked 
 her eyes over it, but could make nothing out. A little 
 further on she found another scoring — 
 
 0, my love's like a red, red rose 
 
 That's newly sprung in June ! 
 0, my love's like the melody 
 
 That's sweetly played in tune! 
 
 and this was signed with a Gr.
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 133 
 
 * Love ! That is not for me ; but I wish I had a 
 slave,' thought poor Belle, hanging her head over the 
 book as it lay open in her lap, ' and that he was clever 
 enough to tell me what my father is doing at this minute.' 
 She could imagine it for herself, alas ! without any magic 
 interference. She could see the dreary little cottage, her 
 poor old father wearily returning alone. She nearly broke 
 down at the thought, but someone knocked at the door at 
 that instant, and she forced herself to be calm as one of 
 the servants came in with a telegram. Belinda tore open 
 her telegram in some alarm and trembling terror of bad 
 news from home ; and then smiled a sweet loving smile 
 of relief. The telegram came from Gruy. It was dated 
 from his office. ' Your father desires me to send word that 
 he is' safe home. He sends his love. I have been to D. 
 on business, and travelled down with him.' 
 
 Belinda could not help saying to herself that Mr. 
 Griffiths was very kind to have thought of her. His kind- 
 ness gave her courage to meet his mother. 
 
 It was not very much that Belle had to do for Mrs. 
 Grriffiths ; but whatever it was she accomplished well and 
 thoroughly, as was her way. Whatever the girl put her 
 hand to, she put her whole heart to at the same time. Her 
 energy, sweetness, and good spirits cheered the sick woman 
 and did her infinite good. Mrs. Griffiths took a great 
 fancy to her, and liked to have her about her. Belle 
 lunched with her the first day. She had better dine down
 
 134 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 below, Mrs. Griffiths said ; and when dinner-time came 
 the girl dressed herself, smoothed her yellow curls, and 
 went shyly down the great staircase into the dining-room. 
 It must be confessed that she glanced a little curiously at 
 the table, wondering whether she was to- dine alone or in 
 company. This problem was soon solved ; a side-door 
 burst open, and Guy made his appearance, looking shy 
 and ashamed of it as he came up and shook hands with 
 her. 
 
 ' Miss Belinda,' said he, ' will you allow me to dine with 
 you?' 
 
 ' You must do as you like,' said Belinda, quickly, 
 starting back. 
 
 ' Not at all,' said Mr. Griffiths. ' It is entirely as you 
 shall decide. If you don't like my company, you need 
 only say so. I shall not be offended. Well, shall we dine 
 together?' 
 
 ' Oh, certainly,' laughed Belinda, confused in her 
 turn. 
 
 So the two sat down to dine together. For the first 
 time in his life Guy thought the great room light enough 
 and bright and comfortable. The gold and silver plate 
 didn't seem to crush him, nor the draperies to suffocate, 
 nor the great columns ready to fall upon him. There was 
 Belinda picking her grapes and playing with the sugar- 
 plums. He could hardly believe it possible. His poor old 
 heart gave great wistful thumps (if such a thing is possible)
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 135 
 
 at the sound of her voice. She had lost much of her shy- 
 ness, and they were talking of anything that came into 
 their heads. She had been telling him about Myrtle 
 Cottage, and the spiders there, and looking up, laughing, 
 she was surprised to see him staring at her very sadly and 
 kindly. He turned away abruptly, and began to help him- 
 self to all sorts of things out of the silver dishes. 
 
 'It's very good of you,' Gruy said, looking away, 'to come 
 and brighten this dismal house, and to stay with a poor 
 suffering woman and a great uncouth fellow like myself.' 
 
 ' But you are both so very kind,' said Belinda, simply. 
 ' I shall never forget ' 
 
 ' Kind ! ' cried Guy, very roughly. ' I behaved like a 
 brute to you and your father yesterday. I am not used to 
 ladies' society. I am stupid and shy and awkward.' 
 
 ' If you were very stupid,' said Belle, smiling, ' you 
 would not have said that, Mr. Griffiths. Stupid people 
 always think themselves charming.' 
 
 When Guy said good-night immediately after dinner 
 as usual, he sighed, and looked at her again with such 
 kind and melancholy eyes that Belle felt an odd affection 
 and compassion for him. ' I never should have thought it 
 possible to like him so much,' thought the girl, as she 
 slowly went along the passage to Mrs. Griffiths' door. 
 
 It was an odd life this young creature led in the great 
 silent stifling house, with uncouth Guy for her playfellow, 
 the sick woman's complaints and fancies for her duty in
 
 136 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 life. The silence of it all, its very comfort and splendid- 
 ness, oppressed Belinda more at times than a simpler and 
 more busy life. But the garden was an endless pleasure 
 and refreshment, and she used to stroll about, skim over 
 the terraces and walks, smell the roses, feed the birds and 
 the gold fishes. Sometimes I have stood at my window 
 watching the active figure flitting by in and out under the 
 trellis, fifteen times round the pond, thirty-two times along 
 the terrace walk. Belle was obliged to set herself tasks, 
 or she would have got tired sometimes of wandering about 
 by herself. All this time she never thought of Guy except 
 as a curious sort of companion ; any thought of sentiment 
 had never once occurred to her
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 137 
 
 VI. 
 
 One day that Belle had been in the garden longer than 
 usual, she remembered a note for Mrs. GrrifEths that she 
 had forgotten to write, and springing up the steps into the 
 hall, on the way, with some roses in her apron, she 
 suddenly almost ran up against Guy, who had come home 
 earlier than usual. The girl stood blushing and looking 
 more charming than ever. The young fellow stood quite 
 stilt too, looking with such expressive and admiring glances 
 that Belinda blushed deeper still, and made haste to escape 
 to her room. Presently the gong sounded, and there was 
 no help for it, and she had to go down again. Guy was 
 in the dining-room as polite and as shy as usual, and 
 Belinda gradually forgot the passing impression. The 
 butler put the dessert on the table and left them, and 
 when she had finished her fruit Belinda got up to say 
 good-by. As she was leaving the room she heard Guy's 
 footsteps following. She stopped short. He came up to 
 her. He looked very pale, and said suddenly in a quick, 
 husky voice, ' Belle, will you marry me ? ' Poor Belinda 
 opened her grey eyes full in his face. She could hardly
 
 138 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 believe she had heard aright. She was startled, taken 
 aback, but she followed her impulse of the moment, and 
 answered gravely, 'No, Gruy.' 
 
 He wasn't angry or surprised. He had known it all 
 along, poor fellow, and expected nothing: else. He only 
 sighed, looked at her once again, and then went away out 
 of the room. 
 
 Poor Belle ! she stood there where he had left her, — 
 the lights burnt, the great table glittered, the curtains 
 waved. It was like a strange dream. She clasped her 
 hands together, and then suddenly ran and fled away up 
 to her own room, — frightened, utterly puzzled, bewildered, 
 not knowing what to do or to whom to speak. It was a 
 comfort to be summoned as usual to read to Mrs. Griffiths. 
 She longed to pour out her story to the poor lady, but she 
 dreaded agitating her. She read as she was bid. Once 
 she stopped short, but her mistress impatiently motioned 
 her to go on. She obeyed, stumbling and tumbling over 
 the words before her, until there came a knock at the door, 
 and, contrary to his custom, Gruy entered the room. He 
 looked very pale, poor fellow, and sad and subdued. ' I 
 wanted to see you. Miss Belinda,' he said aloud, ' and to 
 tell you that I hope this will make no difference, and that 
 you will remain with us as if nothing had happened. You 
 warned me, mamma, but I could not help myself. It's my 
 own fault. Good-night. That is all I had to say.' 
 
 Belle turned wistfully to Mrs. Griffiths. The thin hand
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 139 
 
 was impatiently twisting the coverlet. ' Of course — Who 
 would have anything to say to him ?— Foolish fellow,' she 
 muttered in her indistinct way. ' Go on, Miss Barly.' 
 
 ' Oh, but tell me first, ought I remain here ? ' Belle 
 asked, imploringly. 
 
 ' Certainly, unless you are unhappy with us,' the sick 
 woman answered, peevishly. Mrs. Griffiths never made 
 any other allusion to what had happened. I think the 
 truth was that she did not care very much for anything 
 outside the doors of her sick-room. Perhaps she thought 
 her son had been over hasty, and that in time Belinda 
 might change her mind. To people lying on their last 
 sick beds, the terrors, anxieties, longings of life seem very 
 curious and strange. They seem to forget that they were 
 once anxious, hopeful, eager themselves, as they lie gazing 
 at the awful veil which will soon be withdrawn from 
 before their fading eyes. 
 
 A sort of constraint came between Guy and Belinda at 
 first, but it wore away by degrees. He often alluded to 
 his proposal, but in so hopeless and gentle a way that she 
 could not be angry ; still she was disquieted and unhappy. 
 She felt that it was a false and awkward position. She could 
 not bear to see him looking ill and sad, as he did at times, 
 with great black rings under his dark eyes. It was worse 
 still when she saw him brighten up with happiness at some 
 chance word she let fall now and then — speaking inad- 
 vertently of his house as ' home,' or of the roses next year.
 
 I40 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 He must not mistake her. She could not bear to pain him 
 by hard words, and yet sometimes she felt it was her 
 duty to speak them. One day she met him in the street, 
 on her way back to the house. The roll of the passing 
 carriage-wheels gave Guy confidence, and,vv^alking by her 
 side, he began to say, *Now I never know what delightful 
 surprise may not be waiting for me at every street comer. 
 Ah, Miss Belle, my whole life might be one long dream of 
 wonder and happiness, if . . . .' ' Don't speak like this 
 ever again, or I shall have to go away,' said Belle, inter- 
 rupting, and crossing the road, in her agitation, under the 
 very noses of two omnibus horses. ' I wish I could like 
 you enough to marry you. I shall always love you 
 enough to be your friend ; please don't talk of anything 
 else.' Belle said this in a bright brisk imploring decided 
 tone, and hoped to have put an end to the matter. That 
 day she came to me and told her little story. There were 
 almost as many reasons for her staying as for her leaving, 
 the poor child thought. I could not advise her to go, for 
 the assistance that she was able to send home was very 
 valuable. (Gruy laughed, and utterly refused to accept a 
 sixpence of her salary.) Mrs. Griffiths evidently wanted 
 her ; Guy, poor fellow, would have given all he had to keep 
 her, as we all knew too well. 
 
 Circumstance orders events sometimes, and people 
 themselves, with all their powers and knowledge of good 
 and of evil, are but passive instruments in the hands of fate.
 
 ^ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 141 
 
 News came that Mr. Barly was ill; and little Belinda, 
 with anxious face, and a note in her trembling hand, came 
 into Mrs. Grriffiths' room one day to say she must go to him 
 directly. ' Your father is ill,' wrote Anna. ' Les conve- 
 nances demand your immediate return to him.' Guy hap- 
 pened to be present, and when Belle left the room he fol- 
 lowed her out into the passage. 
 
 ' You are going?' he said. 
 
 ' I don't know what Anna means by " les convenances," 
 but papa is ill, and wants me,' said Belinda — almost cry- 
 ing. 
 
 ' And I want you,' said Guy ; ' but that don't matter, 
 of course. Go — go, since you wish it.' 
 
 After all, perhaps it was well she was going, thought 
 Belle, as she went to pack up her boxes. Poor Guy's sad 
 face haunted her. She seemed to carry it away in her 
 box with her other possessions. 
 
 It would be difficult to describe what he felt, poor fel- 
 low, when he came upon the luggage standing ready corded 
 in the hall, and he found that Belle had taken him at 
 his word. He was so silent a man, so self-contained, so 
 diffident of his own strength to win her love in time, so 
 unused to the ways of the world and of women, that he 
 could be judged by no ordinary rule. His utter despair and 
 liewilderment would have been laughable almost, if they 
 had not been so genuine. He paced about the garden 
 with hasty uncertain footsteps, muttering to himself as he
 
 142 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 went along, and angrily cutting at the rose-hedges. ' Of 
 course she must go, since she wished it ; — of course she 
 must — of course, of course. What would the house be like 
 when she was gone ? ' For an instant a vision of a great 
 dull vault without warmth, or light, or colour, or possible 
 comfort anywhere, rose before him. He tried to imagine 
 what his life would be if she never came back into it ; 
 but as he stood still trying to seize the picture, it seemed 
 to him that it was a thing not to be imagined or thought 
 of. \Mierever he looked he saw her, everywhere and in 
 everything. He had imagined himself unhappy ; now he 
 discovered that for the lasi few weeks, since little Belinda 
 had come, he had basked in the summer she had brought, 
 and found new life in the sunshine of her presence. Of 
 an evening he had come home eagerly from his daily toil 
 looking to find her. When he left early in the morning 
 he would look up with kind eyes at her windows as he 
 drove away. Once, early one morning, he had passed her 
 near the lodge-gate, standing in the shadow of tlie great 
 aspen-tree, and making way for the horses to go by. 
 Belle was holding back the clean stiff folds of her pink 
 muslin dress ; she looked up with that peculiar blink of 
 her grey eyes, smiled, and nodded her bright head, and 
 shrunk away from the hordes. Every morning Guy used 
 to look under the tree after that to see if she were there 
 by chance, even if he had parted from her but a minute 
 before. Good stupid old fellow I he used to smile to
 
 > BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 143 
 
 himself at his own foolishness. One of his fancies ahout 
 her was that Belinda was a bird who would fly away some 
 day, and perch up in the branches of one of the great 
 trees, far, far beyond his reach. And now was this fancy 
 coming true ? was she going — leaving him — flying away 
 where he could not follow her ? He gave an inarticulate 
 sound of mingled anger and sorrow and tenderness, which 
 relieved his heart, but which puzzled Belle herself, who 
 was coming down the garden walk to meet him. 
 
 'I was looking for you, Mr. Griffiths,' said Belle. 
 ' Your mother wants to speak to you. I, too, wanted to 
 ask you something,' the girl went on, blushing. ' She is 
 kind enough to wish me to come back. . . But ' 
 
 Belle stopped short, blushed up, and began pulling at 
 the leaves sprouting on either side of the narrow alley. 
 When she looked up after a minute, with one of her quick 
 short sighted glances, she found that Gruy's two little 
 brown eyes were fixed upon her steadily. 
 
 'Don't be afraid that I shall trouble you,' he said, 
 reddening. ' If you knew — if you had the smallest con- 
 ception what your presence is to me, you would come 
 back. I think you would.' 
 
 Miss Barly didn't answer, but blushed up again and 
 walked on in silence, hanging her head to conceal the two 
 bright tears which had come into her eyes. She was so 
 sorry, so very sorry. But what could she do ? Guy had 
 walked on to the end of the rose-garden, and Belle had
 
 144 BEAUTY AND THE BEA$T. 
 
 followed. Now, instead of turning towards the house, he 
 had come out into the bright-looking kitchen-garden, 
 with its red brick walls hung with their various draperies 
 of lichen and mosses, and garlands of clambering fruit. 
 Four little paths led up to the turf carpet which had been 
 laid down in the centre of the garden : here a fountain 
 plashed with a tranquil fall of waters upon water ; all sorts 
 of sweet kitchen-herbs, mint and thyme and parsley, were 
 growing along the straight-cut beds. Birds were pecking 
 at the nets along the walls ; one little sparrow that had 
 been drinking at the fountain flew away as they approached. 
 The few bright-coloured straggling flowers caught the 
 sunlight and reflected it in sparks like the water. 
 
 The master of this pleasant place put out his great 
 clumsy hand, and took hold of Belle's soft reluctant 
 fingers. ' Ah, Belle,' he said, ' is there no hope for me ? 
 Will there never be any chance ? ' 
 
 *I wish with all my heart there was a chance,' said 
 poor Belle, pulling away her hand impatiently. ' Why do 
 you wound and pain me by speaking again and again of 
 what is far best forgotten ? Dear Mr. Griffiths, I will 
 marry you to-morrow, if you desire it,' said the girl, with 
 a sudden impulse, turning pale and remembering all that 
 she owed to his forbearance and gentleness ; ' but please, 
 please don't ask it.' She looked so frightened and des- 
 perate that poor Guy felt that this was worse than 
 anything, and sadly skook his head.
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 145 
 
 ' Don't be afraid,' he said. ' I don't want to marrv 
 you against your will, or keep you here. Yes, you shall 
 go home, and I will stop here alone, and cut my throat if 
 1 find I cannot bear the place without you. I am only 
 joking. I daresay I shall do very well,' said Grriffiths 
 with a sigh ; and lie turned away and began stamping off 
 in his clumsy way. Then he suddenly stopped and looked 
 back. Belle was standing in the sunshine with her face 
 hidden in her hands. She was so puzzled, and sorry, and 
 hopeless, and mournful. The only thing she could do was 
 to cry, poor child ! — and by some instinct GrrifBths guessed 
 that she was crying ; he knew it, — his heart melted with 
 pity. The poor fellow came back trembling. ' My 
 dearest,' he said, ' don't cry. What a brute I am to make 
 you cry. Tell me anything in the whole world I can do 
 to make you happy.' 
 
 ' If I could only do anything for you," said Belle, ' that 
 would make me happier.' 
 
 ' Then come back, my dear,' said Guy, ' and don't fly 
 away yet for ever, as you threatened just now. Come 
 back and cheer up my mother, and make tea and a little 
 sunshine for me, until — until some confounded fellow 
 comes and carries you off,' said poor Griffiths. 
 
 ' Oh, that will never be. Yes ; I'll come,' said Belle, 
 earnestly. ' I'll go home for a week and come back ; 
 indeed I will.' 
 
 *Only let me know,' said Mr. Grifiiths^ 'and my 
 
 L
 
 146 
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 mother will send the carriage for you. Shall we say a 
 week ? ' he added, anxious to drive a hard bargain, 
 
 ' Yes,' said Belinda, smiling ; ' I'll write and tell you 
 the day.' 
 
 Nothing would induce Griffiths to o1*der the carriage 
 until after dinner, and it was quite late at night when 
 Belle got home.
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 147 
 
 ■\j 
 
 m. 
 
 Poor little Myrtle Cottage looked very small and shabby 
 as she drove up in the darkness to the door. A brilliant 
 illumination streamed from all the windows. Martha 
 rubbed her elbows at the sight of the gorgeous equipage. 
 Fanny came to the door sm-prised, laughing, giggling, 
 mysterious. Everything looked much as usual, except 
 thai; a large and pompous-looking gentleman was sitting 
 on the drawing-room sofa, and beside him Anna, with a 
 huge ring on her fourth finger, attempting to blush as 
 Belle came into the room. Belle saw that she was not 
 wanted, and ran upstairs to her father, who was better, 
 and sitting in the arm-chair by his bedside. The poor 
 old man nearly cried with delight and surprise, held out 
 both his shaking hands to her, and clung tenderly to the 
 bright yotmg daughter. Belle sat beside him, holding 
 his hand, asking him a hundred questions, kissing his 
 wrinkled face and cheeks, and telling him all that had 
 happened. Mr. Barly, too, had news to give. The fat 
 gentleman downstairs, he told Belle, was no other than 
 Anna's old admirer, the doctor, of whom mention has 
 
 I. 2
 
 148 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 been made. He had re-proposed the day before, and wag 
 now sitting on the sofa on probation. Fanny's prospects, 
 too, seemed satisfactory. ' She assures me,' said Mr. Early, 
 'that young Ogden is on the point of ^coming forward. 
 An old man like me, my dear, is naturally anxious to see 
 his children settled in life and comfortably provided for. 
 I don't know who would be good enough for my Belinda. 
 Kot that awkward lout of a Griffiths. No, no ; we must 
 look out for better than that.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa, if you knew how good and how kind he is I' 
 said Belle, with a sudden revulsion of feeling; but she 
 broke off abruptly, and spoke of something else. 
 
 The other maid, who had already gone to bed the 
 night before when Belle arrived at the cottage, gave a 
 loud shriek when she went into the room nest morning 
 and found some one asleep in the bed. Belle awoke, 
 laughed and explained, and asked her to bring up her 
 things. 
 
 ' Bring 'em hup ? ' said the girl. ' What, all them 
 'ampers that's come by the cart ? Xo, miss, that's more 
 than me and Martha have the strength for. I should 
 crick my back \1 I were to attempt for to do such a 
 thing.' 
 
 ' Hampers — what hampers ? ' Belle asked ; but when 
 she went down she found the little passage piled with 
 cases, flowers and game and preserves, and some fine old 
 port for Mr. Barly, and some roses for Belle. As Belinda
 
 ** BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 149 
 
 came downstairs, in her fresh morning dress, Anna, who 
 had been poking about and examining the various packages, 
 looked up with offended dignity. 
 
 ' I think, considering that I am mistress here,' said 
 she, 'these hampers should have been directed to me, 
 instead of to you, Belinda. Mr. Grriffiths strangely 
 forgets. Indeed, I fear that you too are wanting in any 
 great sense of ladylike propriety.' 
 
 'Prunes, prism, propriety,' said Belle, gaily. 'Never 
 mind, dear Anna ; he's sent the things for all of us. 
 Mr. Griffiths certainly never meant me to drink two 
 dozen bottles of port wine in a week.' 
 
 ' You are evading the question,' said Anna. ' I have 
 been wishing to talk to you for some time past, — come 
 into the dining-room, if you please.' 
 
 It seems almost impossible to believe, and yet I cannot 
 help fearing that out of sheer spite and envy Anna Early 
 had even then determined that if she could prevent it, 
 Belinda should never go back to Castle Gardens again, 
 but remain in the cottage. The sight of the pretty 
 things which had been given her there, all the evidences 
 which told of the esteem and love in which she was held, 
 maddened the foolish woman. I can give no other reason 
 for the way in which she opposed Belinda's return to 
 Mrs. Griffiths. ' Her duty is at home,' said Anna. ' I 
 myself shall be greatly engaged with Thomas' — so she had
 
 I50 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 already learnt to call Dr. Robinson. ' Fanny also is pre- 
 occupied ; Belinda must remain.' 
 
 "VMien Belle demurred and said that for the next few 
 weekg she would like to return as she had promised, and 
 stay until Mrs. Griffiths was suited wi<th another com- 
 panion, Anna's indignation rose and overpowered her 
 dignity. Was it her sister who was so oblivious of the 
 laws of society, propriety, modesty ? Anna feared that 
 Belinda had not reflected upon the strange appearance her 
 conduct must have to others, to the Ogdens, to them all. 
 What was the secret attraction which took her back ? 
 Anna said she had rather not enquire, and went on with 
 her oration. Unmaidenly, — not to be thought of, — the 
 advice of those whose experience might be trusted ' — does 
 one not know the rigmarole by heart ? When even the 
 father, who had been previously talked to, sided with his 
 eldest daughter ; when Thomas, who was also called into 
 the family conclave, nodded his head in an ominous 
 manner, poor little Belinda, frightened, shaken, undecided, 
 almost promised that she would do as they desired ; and 
 as she promised, the thought of poor Guy's grief and 
 wistful haggard face came before her, and her poor little 
 heart ached and sank at the thought. But not even 
 Belinda, with all her courage, could resist the decision of 
 so much experience, or Anna's hints and innuendoes, or, 
 more insurmountable than all the rest, a sudden shyness
 
 ^ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 151 
 
 and consciousness which had come over the poor little 
 maiden, who turned crimson with shame and annoyance. 
 
 Belinda had decided as she was told — had done as her 
 conscience bid her, — and yet there was but little satisfaction 
 in this duty accomplished. For about half an hour she 
 went about feeling like a heroine, and then, without any 
 reason or occasion, it seemed to her that the mask had 
 come off her face, that she had discovered herself to be a 
 traitoress, that she had betrayed and abandoned her 
 kindest friends ; she called herself a seliish, ungrateful 
 wretch, she wondered what Guy would think of her ; she 
 was out of temper, out of spirits, out of patience with 
 herself, and the click of the blind swinging in the draft 
 was unendurable. The complacent expression of Anna's 
 handsome face put her teetli on edge. When Fanny 
 tumbled over the footstool with a playfiJ shriek, to every- 
 body's sm-prise Belinda burst out crying. 
 
 Those few days were endless, slow, dull, unbearable — 
 every second brought its pang of regret and discomfort 
 and remorse. It seemed to Belinda that her ears listened, 
 her mouth talked, her eyes looked at the four walls of the 
 Cottage, at the furze on the common, at the faces of her 
 sisters, with a sort of mechanical effort. As if she were 
 acting her daily life, not living it naturally and without 
 effort. Only when she was with her father did she feel 
 unconstrained : but even then there was an unexpressed 
 reproach in her heart like a dull pain that she could not
 
 152 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 quiet. And so the long days lagged. Although Dr. 
 Robinson enlivened them with his presence, and the 
 Ogdens drove up to carry Fanny off to the happy regions 
 of Capulet Square (E. for Elysium Anna I think would 
 have docketed the district), to Belinda tbose days seemed 
 slow, and dark and dim, and almost hopeless at times. 
 
 On the day on which Belinda was to have returned, 
 there came a letter to me tolling her story plainly enough : — 
 ' I must not come back, my dearest Miss Williamson,' she 
 wrote. ' I am going to write to Mrs. Griffiths and dear 
 kind Mr. Guy to-morrow to tell them so. Anna does not 
 think it is right. Papa clings to me and wants me, now 
 that both my sisters are going to leave him. How often 
 I shall think of you all — of all your goodness to me, of 
 tlie beautiful roses, and my dear little room! Do you 
 think Mr. Guy would let me take one or two books as a 
 remembrance — Hume's History of England, Porteous's 
 Sermons, and Essays on Refoi'm ? I should like to have 
 something to remind me of you all, and to look at some- 
 times, since they say I am not to see you all again. 
 Good-by, and thank you and Mrs. H. a thousand thousand 
 times. — Your ever, ever affectionate Belinda. P.S. — 
 Might I also ask for that little green volume of the Golden 
 Treasuinj which is up in the tower-room ? ' 
 
 This was what Guy had feared all along. Once she 
 was gone, he knew by instinct she would never come back. 
 I hardly know how it fared with the poor fellow all this
 
 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 153 
 
 time. He kept out of our way, and would try to escape 
 me, but once by chance I met him, and I was shocked by 
 the change which had come over him. I had my own 
 opiniyn, as we all have at times. H. and I had talked it 
 over, — for old women are good for something after all, and 
 can sometimes play a sentimental part in life as well as 
 young ones. It seemed to us impossible that Belinda 
 should not relent to so much goodness and unselfishness, 
 and come back again some day never to go any more. 
 We knew enough of Anna Early to guess the part she had 
 played, nor did we despair of seeing Belinda among us 
 once more. But someone must help her, she could not 
 reach us unassisted : and so I told Mrs. Grriffiths, who had 
 remarked upon her son's distress and altered looks. 
 
 'If you will lend us the carriage,' I said, 'either H. 
 or I will go over to Dumbleton to-morrow, and I doubt 
 not that we shall bring her.' H. went. She told me 
 about it afterwards. Anna was fortunately absent. 
 Mr. Barly was do^vnstairs, and H. was able to talk to him 
 a little bit before Belinda came down. The poor old man 
 always thought as he was told to think, and since his ill- 
 ness he was more uncertain and broken than ever. He 
 was dismayed when H, told him in her decided way that 
 he was probably sacrificing two people's happiness for life 
 by his ill-timed interference. When at last Belinda came 
 down, she looked almost as ill as Grriffiths himself. She 
 rushed into H.'s arms with a scream of delight, and
 
 154 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 eagerly asked a hundred questions. ' How were they all — 
 what were they all doing ? ' 
 
 H. was very decided. Everybody was very ill and 
 wanted Belinda back. ' Your father says he can spare 
 you very well,' said she. 'Why not com^'back with me 
 this afternoon, if only for a time ? It is your duty,' H. 
 continued, in her dry way. ' You should not leave them 
 in this uncertainty.' ' Go, my child — pray go,' urged 
 Mr. Barly. And at last Belinda consented shyly, nothing 
 loth. 
 
 H. began to question her when she had got her safe in 
 the carriage. Belinda said she had not been well. She 
 could not sleep, she said. She had had bad dreams. She 
 blushed, and confessed that she had dreamt of Guy lying 
 dead in the kitchen-garden. She had gone about the 
 house trying, indeed she had tried to be cheerful and busy 
 as usual, but she felt unhappy, ungrateful, ' Oh, what a 
 foolish girl I am,' she said. All the lights were burning 
 in the little town, the west was glowing and reflected in 
 the river, the boats trembled and shot through the shiny 
 waters, and the people were out upon the banks, as they 
 crossed the bridge again on their way from Dumbleton. 
 Belle was happier, certainly, but crying from agitation. 
 
 ' Have I made him miserable, poor fellow ? Oh, I 
 think I shall blame myself all my life,' said she, covering 
 her face with her hands. ' Oh, H. ! H. ! what shall I do ?' 
 
 H. dryly replied that she must be guided by circum-
 
 \ BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 15; 
 
 > 
 
 stances, aud when they reached Castle Gardens, kissed her 
 
 and set her down at the great gate, while she herself went 
 
 home in the carriage. 
 
 It was all twilight by this time among the roses. 
 Belinda met the gate-keeper, who touched his hat and 
 told her his master was in the garden ; and so instead of 
 going into the house she flitted away towards the garden, 
 crossed the lawns, and went in and out among the bowers 
 and trellises looking for him — frightened by her own 
 temerity at first, gaining courage by degrees. It was so 
 still, so sweet, so dark ; the stars were coming out in the 
 evening sky, a meteor went flashing from east to west, a 
 bat flew across her path ; all the scent hung heavy in the 
 air. Twice Belinda called out timidly, ' Mr. Griffitlis, 
 Mr. Griffiths ! ' but no one answered. Then she remem- 
 bered her dream in sudden terror, and hurried into the 
 kitchen-garden to the fountain where they had parted. 
 
 What had happened ? Someone was lying on the 
 grass. Was this her dream ? was it Guy ? was he dead ? 
 had she killed him ? Belinda ran up to him, seized his 
 hand, and called him Guy — dear Guy ; and Guy, who had 
 fallen asleep from very weariness and sadness of heart, 
 opened his eyes to hear himself called by the voice he 
 loved best in the world ; while the sweetest eyes, full of 
 tender tears, were gazing anxiously into his ugly face. 
 Ugly ? Fairy tales have told us this at least, that 
 ugliness and dulness do not exist for those who truly love.
 
 156 BEAUTY AND THE BEAST. 
 
 Had she ever thought him rough uncouth, unlovable ? 
 Ah ! she had been blind in those days ; she knew better 
 now. As they walked back through the twilight garden 
 that night, Guy said, humbly, — 'I shan't do you any 
 credit, Belinda ; I can only love you.' 
 
 ' Only ! ' said Belinda. 
 
 She didn't finish her sentence ; but he understood ver)' 
 well what she meant. 
 
 I
 
 LITTLE EED BIDING HOOD
 
 LITTLE BED EIDING HOOD. 
 
 I. 
 
 There is something sad in most pretty stories, in most 
 lovely strains, in the tenderest affections and friendships ; 
 but tragedy is a different thing from the indefinable 
 feeling which lifts us beyond to-day into that dear and 
 happy region where our dearest loves, and plays, and 
 dreams, are to be found even in childish times. Poor 
 little Eed Eiding Hood, with bright eyes glancing from 
 her scarlet caplet, has been mourned by generations of 
 children ; but though they pity her, and lament her sad 
 fate, she is no familiar playmate and companion. That 
 terrible wolf with the fiery eyes, glaring through the 
 brushwood, haunts them from the very beginning of the 
 story ; — it is too sad, too horrible, and they hastily turn 
 the leaves and fly to other and better loved companions, 
 with whose troubles they sympathise, for they are but 
 passing woes, and they know that brighter times are in
 
 i6o LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 store. For the poor little maiden at the well, for dear 
 Cinderella, for Eoe-brotlier and little sister, wandering 
 through the glades of the forest, and Snowwhite and her 
 sylvan court of kindly woodland dwarfs. All these belong 
 to the sweet and gentle region where beautiful calm suns 
 shine after the storm, amid fair landscapes, and gardens, 
 and palaces. Even we elders sympathise with the children 
 in this feeling, althougli we are more or less hardened by 
 time, and have ourselves, wandering in the midway of life, 
 met with wolves roving through the forest ; wolves fiom 
 whose cruel claws, alas ! no father's or mother's love caa 
 protect us, and against whose wiles all warnings except 
 those of our own experience are vain. And these wolves 
 devour little boys as well as little girls and pats of butter. 
 
 This is no place to write of some stories, so sad and so 
 hopeless that they can scarcely be spoken ; although good 
 old Perrault, in his simple way, to some poor Red Eiding 
 Hoods straying from the path, utters a word of warning 
 rhyme at the end of the old French edition : — some stories 
 are too sad, others too trifling. The sketch which I have 
 in my mind is no terrible tragedy, but a silly little tale, 
 so foolish and trivial that if it were not that it comes in 
 its place with the others, I should scarcely attempt to 
 repeat it. I met all the personages by chance at Fon- 
 tainebleau only the other day. 
 
 The wolf was playing the fiddle under Little Red 
 Riding Hood's window. Little Red Riding Hood was
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOCD. x6i 
 
 peeping from behind her cotton curtains. Eemy (that 
 was the wolf's Christian name) could see the little balls 
 bobbing, and guessed that she was ther^. He played on 
 louder than ever, dragging his bow with long sobbing 
 chords across his fiddle-strings, and as he played, a fairy 
 palace arose at his bidding, more beautiful than the real 
 old palace across the Place that we had come to see. The 
 fairy palace arose story upon story, lovely to look upon, 
 enchanted ; a palace of art, with galleries, and terraces, 
 and belvederes, and orange-flowers scenting the air, and 
 fragrant blossoms falling in snow-showers, and fountains 
 of life murmuring and turning marble to gold as they 
 flowed. Eed Riding Hood from behind her cotton 
 curtains, and Eemy, her cousin, outside in the courtyard, 
 were' the only two inhabitants of this wonderful bviilding. 
 They were alone in it together, far away in that world of 
 which I have been speaking, at a long long distance from 
 the everyday all round about them, though the cook of 
 the hotel was standing at his kitchen-door, and the stable- 
 boy was grinning at Eemy's elbow, and H. and I, who had 
 arrived only that evening, were sitting resting on the 
 bench in front of the hotel, among the autumnal pro- 
 fusion of nasturtiums and marigolds with which the court- 
 yard was planted. H. and I had come to see the palace, 
 and to walk about in the stately old gardens, and to 
 breathe a little quiet and silence after the noise of the 
 machines thundering all day in the Great Exhibition of 
 
 M
 
 102 LITTLE RED RIDLYG HOOD. 
 
 the Cliamp de Mars, the din of the cannons firing, of the 
 carriages and multitudes rolling along the streets. 
 
 The Maynards, Red Riding Hood's parents, were not 
 passers-by like ourselves, they were comfortably installed 
 at the hotel for a month at a time, and came over once a 
 year to see ]Mrs. Maynard's mother, an old lady who had 
 lived at Fontainebleau as long as her two daughters 
 could remember. This old lady's name was Madame 
 Capuchon ; but her first husband had been an Englishman, 
 like Mr. Maynard, her son-in-law, who was also her 
 nephew by this first marriage. Both Madame Capuchon's 
 daughters were married, — Marthe, the eldest, to Henry 
 i\Iaynard, an English country gentleman ; P'elicie, the 
 youngest, to the Baron de la Louvi^re, who resided at 
 Poictiers, and who was sous-prefet there. 
 
 It i^ now nearly forty years since Madame Capuchon 
 first went to live at Fontainebleau, in the old house at the 
 corner of the Rue de la Lampe. It has long been doomed 
 to destruction, with its picturesque high roof, its narrow 
 windows and balconies, and sunny old brick passages and 
 staircases, with the round ivy oeil-de-boeuf windows. 
 Staircases were piled up of brick in the time of the Lewises, 
 broad and wide, and easy to climb, and not of polished 
 wood, like the slippery flights of to-day. However, the 
 old house is in the way of a row of shops and a projected 
 cafe and newspaper-office, so are the ivy-grown garden- 
 walls, the acacia-trees, the san-dial, and the old stone
 
 •^csaca^ 
 
 '* LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 163 
 
 seat. It is a pity that newer buildings cannot sometim(^s 
 be selected for destruction ; they might be rebuilt and 
 re-destroyed again and again, and people who care for 
 such things might be left in peace a little longer to hold 
 the dear old homes and traditions of their youth. 
 
 Madame Capuchon, however, is a kind and despotic 
 old lady ; she has great influence and authority in the 
 town, and during her life the old house is safe. It is now, 
 as I have said, forty years since she first came to live 
 there, — a young widow for the second time, with two little 
 daughters and a faithful old maid to be her only com- 
 panions in her flight from the world, where she had known 
 great troubles and changes. Madame Capuchon and her 
 children inhabited the two upper stories of the old house. 
 The rez de chaussee was partly a porter's lodge, partly a 
 warehouse, and partly a little apartment which the pro- 
 prietor reserved for his use. He died twice during 
 Madame Capuchon's tenancy ; once he ventured to propose 
 to her — but this was the former owner of the place, not 
 the present proprietor, an old bachelor who preferred his 
 Paris cafe and his boulevard to the stately silence and 
 basking life of Fontainebleau. 
 
 This life suited Madame Capuchon, who from sorrow 
 at first, and then from habit, continued the same silent 
 cloistered existence for years — years which went by and 
 separated her quietly but completely from her old habits 
 and friends and connections and long-past troubles, while 
 
 M 2
 
 i64 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 the little girls grew up and the mother's beauty changed, 
 faded quietly away in the twilight life she was leading. 
 
 The proprietor who had ventured to propose to the 
 widow, and who had been refused with so much grace and 
 decision that his admiration remained unaltered, was no 
 more ; but shortly before his death he had a second time 
 accosted her with negotiations of marriage : not for himself 
 this time, but for a nephew of his, the Baron de la 
 Louviere, who had seen the young ladies by chance, heard 
 much good of them from his uncle and their attached 
 attendant Simonne, and learnt that their dot was ample 
 and their connections respectable. ]Marthe, the eldest 
 daughter, was the least good-looking of the two, but to 
 most people's mind far more charming than Felicie, the 
 second. M. de la Louviere had at first a slight preference 
 for Marthe, but learning through his uncle that an alliance 
 was contemplated between her and an English connection 
 of her mother's, he announced himself equally anxious to 
 obtain the hand of Felicie, the younger sister. After 
 some hesitation, much addition of figures, subtraction, 
 division, rule of three worked out, consultations and talk 
 between Simonne and her mistress, and long discussions 
 with Henry Maynard himself, who was staying with a 
 friend at Fontainebleau at the time, this favour was 
 accorded to the baron. 
 
 The young baroness went off nothing loth : she was 
 bored at home, she did not like the habit of severity and
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 165 
 
 silence into which her mother had fallen. She was a 
 slim, active, decided person, of calm affections, but pas- 
 sionately fond of her own way, as indeed was INIadame 
 Capvichon herself, for all her regrets for that past in which 
 it must be confessed she had always done exactly as she 
 liked, and completely ruled her two husbands. For all 
 Madame Capuchon's blacks and drabs and seclusion, and 
 shut shutters, and confessors, and shakes of the head, she 
 had greatly cheered up by this time : she had discovered 
 in her health a delightful source of interest and amuse- 
 ment ; Felicie's marriage was as good as a play, as the 
 saying goes ; and then came a catastrophe, still more 
 exciting than Felicie's brilliant prospects, which occupied 
 all 1?he spare moments of the two years which succeeded 
 the youngest girl's departure from home. 
 
 Madame Capuchon's nephew, Henry Maynard, was, as 
 I have said, staying at Fontainebleau with a friend, who 
 was unfortunately a very good-looking young man of very 
 good family, who had come to Fontainebleau to be out of 
 harm's way, and to read French for some diplomatic 
 appointment. Maynard used to talk to him about his 
 devotion for his pretty cousin Marthe with the soft trill 
 in her voice and the sweet quick eyes. Young Lord John, 
 alas, was easily converted to this creed, — he also took a 
 desperate fancy to the pretty young lady ; and Madame 
 Capuchon, whose repeated losses had not destroyed a cer- 
 tain ambition which had always been in her nature, greatly
 
 i66 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 encouraged the young man. And so one day poor May- 
 nard was told that he must resign himself to his hard 
 fate. He had never hoped much, for he knew well enough 
 that his cousin, as he called her, did not care for him ; 
 Marthe had always discouraged him, although her mother 
 would have scouted the notion that one of her daughters 
 should resist any decree she might lay down, or venture to 
 think for herself on such matters. 
 
 When Lord John proposed in the English fashion to 
 Marthe one evening in the deep embrasure of the drawing- 
 room window, INIadame Capuchon was enchanted, although 
 disapproving of the irregularity of the proceeding. She 
 announced her intention of settling upon her eldest 
 daughter a sum so large and so much out of the propor- 
 tion to the dot which she had accorded to Madame de la 
 Louviere, that the baron hearing of it by chance through 
 Monsieur Micotton, the family solicitor, was furious, and 
 an angry correspondence then commenced between him 
 and his mother-in-law, wliich lasted many years, and in 
 which Madame Capuchon found another fresh interest to 
 attach her to life, and an unfailing vent for much of her 
 spare energy and excitement. 
 
 Henry Maynard went back to his father's house at 
 Littleton on Thames, to console himself as best he could 
 among the punts and the water-lilies. Lord John went 
 back to England to pass his examination, and to gain his 
 family's consent, without which he said he could not
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 167 
 
 marry ; and Marthe waited in the old house with Simonne 
 and her mother, and that was the end of her story. 
 
 Lord John didn't pass his examination ; but interest 
 was made for him, and he was given another chance, and 
 he got the diplomatic appointment all the same, and he 
 went to Russia and was heard of no more at Fontainebleau. 
 Madame Capuchon was naturally surprised at his silence ; 
 while Marthe wondered and wearied, but spoke no word 
 of the pain which consumed her. Her mother sat down 
 and wrote to the duke, presented her compliments, begged 
 to remind him of his son's engagement, and requested 
 information of the young man's whereabouts and inten- 
 tions. In the course of a week she received a few polite 
 lines from the duchess, regretting that she could give 
 Madame Capuchon no information as to Lord John's 
 whereabouts or intentions, informing her that she had 
 made some mistake as to his engagement, and begging to 
 decline any further correspondence on the subject, on 
 paper so thick that Simonne had to pay double postage 
 for the epistle, and it would scarcely burn when Madame 
 Capuchon flung it into the fire. The widow stamped her 
 little foot, flashed her eyes, bit her lips, darted off her 
 compliments to the duchess a second time, and begged to 
 inform her that her son was a coward and a false gentle- 
 man, and that it was the Capuchon family that now 
 begged to decline any further communication with people 
 who lield their word so clieaply. Naturally enough, no
 
 i68 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 answer came to this, although ]\Iadame Capuchon expected 
 one, and fumed and flashed and scolded for weeks after, 
 during which poor Marthe still wondered and knew 
 nothing. 
 
 ' Don't let us tell her anything about if,' Simonne had 
 said when the first letter came. ' Let her forget " tout 
 doucement ; " ' and Madame Capuchon agreed. 
 
 And so Marthe waited and forgot ' tout doucement ' as 
 Simonne proposed, for fifteen years, and the swans came 
 sailing past her when she took her daily walk, and the 
 leaves fell and grew again, and every night the shadow of 
 the old lamp swinging in the street outside cast its quaint 
 lines and glimmer across her dark leaf-shaded room, and 
 the trees rustled when the wind blew, and her dreams were 
 quieter and less vivid. 
 
 Once Henry Maynard wrote soon after Lord John's 
 desertion, renewing his proposals, to Marthe herself and 
 not to his aunt ; but the letter came too soon. And, 
 indeed, it was by Henry JNIaynard's letter that Marthe 
 first realised for certain what had happened. 
 
 But it came too soon. She could not yet bear to hear 
 her faithless lover blamed. Lord John was a villain and 
 unworthy of a regret, Henry said. Would she not consent 
 to accept an honest man instead of a false one ? 
 
 ' No, no, no, — a hundred times no ! ' cried Marthe to 
 herself, with something of her mother's spirit, and she 
 nervously wrote her answer and slid out by herself and
 
 > LITTLE RED RIDLWG HOOD. 169 
 
 posted it. She never dared tell Madame Capuchon what 
 she had done. 
 
 As time went on, one or two other ^ offers ' were made 
 to her ; but Marthe was so reluctant that, as they were 
 not very good ones, Madame Capuchon let them go by ; 
 and then Marthe had a long illness, and then more time 
 passed by. 
 
 ' What have we been about ? ' said Madame Capuchon 
 to her confidante one day as her daughter left the room. 
 ' Here she is an old maid, and it is all her own obstinacy.' 
 
 At thirty-three INIarthe was still unmarried: a gracious, 
 faded woman, who had caught the trick of being sad ; 
 although she had no real trouble, and had almost for- 
 gotten Lord John. But she had caught the trick of being 
 sad, as I say, of flitting aimlessly across the rooms, of 
 remembering and remembering instead of living for to- 
 day. 
 
 Madame Capuchon was quite cheerful by this time ; 
 besides her health, her angry correspondence, her confessor, 
 her game of dominoes, and her talks with Simonne, she 
 bad many little interests to fill up spare gaps and distract 
 her when M. de la Louviere's demands were too much for 
 her temper. There was her comfortable hot and well- 
 served little dinner to look forward to, her paper to read 
 of a night, her chocolate in bed every morning, on a nice 
 little tray with a pat of fresh butter anH her nice little 
 new roll from the English baker's. Madame was friande,
 
 I70 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 and Simonne's delight was to cater for her. But none of 
 these distractions quite sufficed to give an interest to poor 
 Marthe's sad life. She was too old for the fun and excite- 
 ment of youth, and too young for the little comforts, the 
 resignations and satisfactions of age. Simonne, the good 
 old fat woman, used to think of her as a little girl, and 
 try to devise new treats for lier as she had done when 
 Felicie and Marthe were children. ]Marthe would kiss 
 her old nurse gratefully, and think, with a regretful sigh, 
 how it was that she could no longer be made happy by a 
 bunch of flowers, a hot buttered cake, a new trimming to 
 her apron : she would give the little cake away to the 
 porter's grandchildren, put the flowers into water and 
 leave them, fold up the apron, and, to Simonne, most 
 terrible sign of all, forget it in the drawer. It was not 
 natural, something must be done, thought the old woman. 
 The old woman thought and thought, and poked 
 about, and one day, with her spectacles on her nose, de- 
 ciphered a letter which was lying on jMadame Capuchon's 
 table ; it was signed Henry Maynard, and announced the 
 writer's arrival at Paris. Next day, when Simonne was 
 frizzling her mistress's white curls (they had come out of 
 their seclusion for some years past), she suddenly asked 
 what had become of Monsieur Maynard, Madame's English 
 nephew, who used to come so often before Mademoiselle 
 Felicie was married.
 
 ^ LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD 171 
 
 * What is that to you ? ' said the old lady. ' He is at 
 Paris. I heard from him yesterday.' 
 
 ' And why don't you ask him to come down and see 
 you?' said Simonne, frizzling away at the crisp silver 
 locks. ' It would cheer up Mademoiselle to have some 
 one to talk to. TTe don't want anyone ; we have had 
 our day, you and I ; but Mademoiselle, I confess I don't 
 like to see her going on as she does.' 
 
 ' Nor I ! ' said the old lady, sharply. ' She is no 
 credit to me. One would almost think that she reproaches 
 me for her existence, after all the sacrifices I have made.' 
 Simonne went on frizzling, without stopping to enquire 
 what these sacrifices might be. ' I will order a fricandeau 
 for »-to-morrow,' she said ; ' Madame had better invite 
 Monsieur to spend the day.' 
 
 ' Simonne, you are an old fool ! ' said her mistress. ' I 
 have already written to my nephew to invite him to my 
 house.' 
 
 Maynard came and partook of the fricandeau, and went 
 for a little walk with Marthe, and he had a long talk with 
 his aunt and old Simonne in the evening, and went away 
 quite late — past ten o'clock it was. Maynard did not go 
 back to Paris that night, but slept at the hotel, and early 
 next morning there came a note addressed to Marthe, 
 in which the writer stated that he was still of the same 
 mind in which he had been fifteen years before, and if she
 
 172 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 was of a differerit way of thinking, would she consent to 
 accept him as her husband ? 
 
 And so it came about tliat long after the first best 
 hopes of her youth were over, Marthe consented to leave 
 lier own silent home for her husband's, a melancholy 
 middle-aged bride, sad and frightened at the thought of 
 the tempestuous world into which she was being cast 
 adrift, and less able, at tliirly-three tlian at twenty, to 
 hold her own against the kindly domineering old mother, 
 who was much taken with the idea of this marriage, and 
 vowed that Alarthe should go, and that no daughter of 
 hers should die an old maid if she could help it. She 
 had been married twice herself; once at least, if possible, 
 she was determined that both her daughters should follow 
 her example. Felicie's choice was not all that Madame 
 Capuchon could have wished, as far as liberality and amia- 
 V)ility of character were concerned ; but Felicie herself 
 was happy, and indeed — so Madame Capuchon had much 
 reason to suspect — abetted her husband in his gi-asping 
 and extortionate demands. ' And now Marthe's turn had 
 come,' said Madame Capuchon, complacently, sitting up 
 among her pillows, sipping her chocolate ; ' she was the 
 eldest, she should have married first; she had been a good 
 and devoted daughter, she would make an excellent wife,' 
 cried the valiant old lady. 
 
 \Mien INIarthe demurred, ' Go, my <;hild, go in peace — 
 only go, go, go ! Simonne is quite able to take care of
 
 '' LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 173 
 
 me : do you think I want the sacrifice of your life ? For 
 what should I keep you ? Can you curl me, can you play 
 at dominoes ? You are much more necessary to your 
 cousin than you are to me. He will be here directly — 
 what a figure you have made of yourself. Simonne, come 
 here, give a coup de peigne to Mademoiselle. There, I 
 hear the bell, Henry will be waiting.' 
 
 'He does not mind waiting, mamma,' said Marthe, 
 smiling sadly. ' He has waited fifteen years already.' 
 
 ' So much the worse for you both,' cried the old lady, 
 angrily. ' If I had only had my health, if my spirits had 
 not been completely crushed in those days, I never would 
 have given in to such ridiculous ideas.' 
 
 •Ridiculous ideas ! This was all the epitaph that was 
 uttered by anyone of them over the grave where poor 
 Marthe had buried with much pain and many tears the 
 trouble of her early life. She herself had no other text 
 for the wasted love of her youth. How angry she had 
 been with her cousin Henry when he warned her once, 
 how she had hated him when he asked her to marry him 
 before, tacitly forcing upon her the fact of his friend's in- 
 fidelity, and now it was to Maynard after all that she was 
 going to be married. After all that had passed, all the 
 varying fates, and loves, and hopes, and expectations of 
 her life. A sudden alarm came over the poor woman — 
 was she to leave it, this still life, and the old house, and 
 the tranquil shade and silence — and for what? Ah, she
 
 174 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 could not go, she could not — she would stay where she 
 was. Ah I why would they not leave her alone ? 
 
 Marthe went up to her room and cried, and bathed her 
 eyes and cried again, and dabbed more water to dry her 
 tears ; then she came quietly down the old brick stairs. 
 She passed along the tiled gallery, her sHm figure re- 
 flecting in the dim old looking-glass in the alcove at the 
 end, with the cupids engraved upon its mouldy surface. 
 Slie hesitated a moment, and then took courage and 
 opened the dining-room door. There was nobody there. 
 It was all empty, dim-panelled, orderly, with its narrow 
 tall windows reflecting the green without, and the gables 
 and chimney-stacks piling under the blue. He was in the 
 drawing-room, then ; she had hoped to find him here. 
 Marthe sighed and then walked on across the polished 
 floor, and so into the drawing-room. It was dimmer, 
 more chill than the room in which their meals were served. 
 Someone was standing waiting for her in one of the 
 windows. Marthe remembered at that instant that it was 
 Lord John's window, but she had little time for such 
 reminiscences. A burly figure turned at her entrance, 
 and Henry Maynard came to meet her, with one big hand 
 out, and his broad good-natured face beaming. 
 
 ' "Well, Minnie,' said Henry Maynard, calling her by 
 his old name for her, ' you see I am here again already.' 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered, standing before him, and then
 
 -» LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 175 
 
 they were both silent ; these two middle-aged people 
 waiting for the other to speak. 
 
 ' How is your mother ? ' Maynard asked. ' I thought 
 her very little changed, but you are not looking over well. 
 However, time touches us all.' 
 
 Marthe drew herself up, with her eyes gleaming in her 
 pale face, and then there was another silence. At last 
 Marthe faltered out, gaining courage as she went on : 
 
 'I have been agitated, and a little disturbed. My 
 mother is quite well, cousin Henry,' she said, and as she 
 spoke her sad looks encountered Maynard's good-natured 
 twinkling glance. She blushed suddenly like a girl of 
 fifteen. ' You seem amused,' she said, with some annoyance. 
 
 ' Yes, dear,' spoke Maynard, in his kind manly tones. 
 ' I am amused that you and I, at our time of life, should 
 be shilly-shallying and sentimentalising, like a couple of 
 chits who have all their life before them, and don't care 
 whether they know or not what is coming next. I want 
 to know very much — for I have little time to lose — what 
 do you and your mother think of my letter this morning?' 
 
 This was coming to the point very abruptly. Made- 
 moiselle Caipuchon thought. 
 
 ' I am so taken by surprise,' Marthe faltered, retreating 
 a step or two, and nervously twisting her apron round 
 about her fingers. 'She wishes it. I — I liardly know. 
 I have had so little time to .... ' 
 
 ' My dear Marthe,' said Maynard, impatiently, ' I am
 
 176 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 not a romantic youno^ man. I can make no professions 
 and speeches. You must take me as I am, if I suit you. 
 I won't say that after you sent me away I have never 
 thought of anybody but you during these past fifteen years. 
 But we might have been very happy together all this long 
 time, and yesterday, when I saw how hipped you were 
 looking, I determined to try and bring you away with me 
 from this dismal place into the fresh air of Littleton ; that 
 is, if you liked to come with me of your own free will, 
 and not only because my aunt desires it.' And Henry 
 Maynard drew a long breath, and put his hands in his 
 pockets. 
 
 This honest little speech was like a revelation to 
 Marthe. She had come down feeling like a victim, 
 meaning graciously perhaps, in the end, to reward May- 
 nard's constancy, taking it for granted that all this time 
 he had never ceased being in love. She found that it was 
 from old friendship and kindness alone that he had come 
 to her again, not from sentiment ; and yet this kindness 
 and protection touched her more than any protestations 
 of romantic affection. 
 
 ' But — but — should you really like it ? ' she stammered, 
 forgetting all her dreams, and coming to life, as it were, 
 at that instant. 
 
 ' Like it ! ' he said, with a smile. * You don't know how 
 fond I mean to be of you, if you will come with me, dear 
 Marthe. You shall make me as happy as you like, and
 
 ^ LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 177 
 
 yourself into the bargaiu. I don't think you will be sorry 
 for it, and indeed you don't seem to have been doing- 
 much good here, all by yourself. Well, is it to be Yes or 
 No ? ' And oQce more Maynard held out the broad brown 
 hand. 
 
 And Marthe said, ' Yes,' quite cheerfully, and put her 
 hand into his. 
 
 Marthe got to know her future husband better in these 
 five minutes than in all the thirty years which had gone 
 before. 
 
 The Maynards are an old Catholic family, so there 
 were no difficulties on the score of religion. The little 
 chapel in the big church was lighted up, the confessor per- 
 formed the service. Madame Capuchon did not go, but 
 Simonne was there, in robes of splendour, and so were the 
 De la Louvieres. The baron and his mother-in-law had 
 agreed to a temporary truce on this auspicious occasion. 
 After the ceremony the new-married pair went back to a 
 refection which the English baker and Simonne had con- 
 cocted between them. The baron and baroness had brought 
 their little son Eemy, to whom they were devoted, and he 
 presented Marthe with a wedding present — a large poree- 
 lain vase, upon which was a painting of his mother's per- 
 formance — in both his parents' name. Madame Capuchon 
 brought out a lovely pearl and emerald necklace, which 
 Felicie had coveted for years past. 
 
 ' I must get it done ujd,' the old lady said ; ' you won't 
 
 N
 
 178 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 want it immediately, Marthe, you shall have it the first 
 time you come to see me. Do not delay too long,' added 
 Madame Capuchon, with a confidential shake of her head, 
 to her son-in-law Maynard, as Marthe went away to change 
 her dress. * You see my health is miserable. I am a per- 
 fect martyr. My doctor tells me my case is serious : not 
 in so many words, but he assures me that he cannot find 
 out what ails me ; and when doctors say that, we all know 
 what it means.' 
 
 Henry Maynard attempted to reassure Madame Capu- 
 chon, and to induce her to take a more hopeful view of 
 her state ; but she grew quite angry, and snapped him up 
 so short with her immediate prospect of dissolution, that 
 he desisted in his well-meant endeavours, and the old lady 
 continued more complacently, — 
 
 ' Do not be uneasy ; if anything happens to me, Si- 
 monne will write directly to your address. Do not forget 
 to leave it with her. And now go and fetch your wife, 
 and let me have the pleasure of seeing her in her travel- 
 ling dress.' 
 
 It was a kind old lady, but there was a want in her 
 love — so it seemed to her son-in-law as he obeyed her 
 behest. 
 
 Marthe had never quite known what real love was, he 
 thought. Sentiment, yes, and too much of it, but not 
 that best home-love — familiar, tender, unchanging. Her 
 mother had not got it in lier to give. Felicie de la Lou-
 
 '^ LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 179 
 
 viere was a hard and ciear-headed woman ; all her affection 
 was for Eemy, her little boy. Maynard disliked her and 
 the baron too, but they were all apparently very good 
 friends. 
 
 Marthe came back to the salle to say good-by, looking 
 like herself again, Maynard thought, as his bride, in her 
 rippling trailing grey silks, entered, the room, with 
 Simonne's big bouquet of roses in her hand, and a pretty 
 pink glow in her cheeks. 
 
 She was duly embraced by Felicie and her husband, 
 and then she knelt down to ask for her mother's blessing. 
 ' Bless you ! bless you ! ' cried Madame Capuchon, affec- 
 tionately pushing her away. ' There, you will disarrange 
 yourseM"; take care, take care.' Simonne sprang to the 
 rescue, and Marthe foimd herself all at once embraced, 
 stuck with pins, shaken out, tucked in, flattened, folded, 
 embraced again ; the handkerchief with which she had 
 ventured to wipe her tears was torn out of her hand, 
 folded, smoothed, and replaced. ' Voila ! ' said Simonne, 
 with two last loud kisses, ' bon voyage ; good luck go with 
 you.' And Maynard following after, somewhat to his con- 
 fusion, received a couple of like salutations. 
 
 Simonne's benediction followed Mrs. Maynard to 
 England, where she went and took possession of her new 
 home. The neighbours called ; the drawing-room chintzes 
 were renewed ; Marthe Capuchon existed no longer ; no 
 one would have recognised the listless ghost flitting here 
 
 N 2
 
 i8o LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 and there, and gazing from the windows of the old house 
 in the Rue de la Lampe, in the busy and practical mistress 
 of Henry Maynard's home. She had gained in composure 
 and spirits and happiness since she came to England. 
 Her house was admirably administerea ; she wore hand- 
 some shining silk dresses and old lace ; and she rustled 
 and commanded as efficiently as if she had been married 
 for years. Simonne threw up her hands with delight at 
 the transformation, the first time she saw Marthe after her 
 marriage. ' But you are a hundred times better-looking 
 than Madame la Baronne,' said the old woman. ' This is 
 how I like to see you.'
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. i8i 
 
 II. 
 
 More years went by, and Simonne's benediction did not 
 lose its virtue. 
 
 The chief new blessing and happiness of all those 
 blessings and happinesses which Simonne had wished to 
 Marthe Maynard was a blessing called Marthe Maynard, 
 too ; a little girl adored by her mother. Martha is con- 
 sidered a pretty name in French, and Maynard loved it 
 for his wife's sake, and as time went on for her daughter's 
 as well. He called her Patty, however, to distinguish the 
 two. Far more than the happiness some people find in 
 the early spring, in the voices of birds, the delight of the 
 morning hours, the presence of this little thing brought 
 to her mother, this bright, honest black and brown and 
 white and coral maiden, with her sweet and wilful ways 
 and gay shrill warble. Every year the gay voice became 
 more clear and decided, the ways more pretty and more 
 wilful. Mrs. Maynard used to devise pretty fanciful 
 dresses for her Patty, and to tie bright ribbons in the 
 child's crisp brown locks, and watch over her and pray for 
 her from morning to night. Squire Maynard, who was a
 
 i82 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 seusible man, used to be afraid lest so much affection 
 should be bad for his little girl : he tried to be stern now 
 and then, and certainly succeeded in frightening Patty on 
 such occasions. The truth was he loved his wife tenderly, 
 and thought that Patty made a slave '*"crf her mother at 
 times. It was a happy bondage for them both. Marthe 
 dreamt no more dreams now, and only entered that serene 
 country of her youth by proxy, as it were, and to make 
 plans for her Patty. The child grew up as the years went 
 by, but if Marthe made plans for her they were very 
 distant ones, and to the mother as impossible still as when 
 Patty had been a little baby tumbling in her cradle. 
 Even then Marthe had settled that Patty was not to wait 
 for years as she had waited. What hero there was in the 
 big world worthy of her darling, Mrs. Maynard did not 
 know. The mother's heart sickened the first time she ever 
 thought seriously of a vague possibility, of which the very 
 notion filled her with alarm. She had a presentiment the 
 first time that she ever saw him. 
 
 She was sitting alone in her bedroom, drowsily stitch- 
 ing in the sunlight of the pleasant bow-window, listening 
 to the sound of the clippers at work upon the ivy-hedge 
 close by, and to the distant chime from the clock-tower of 
 the town across the river. Just below her window spread 
 the lawn where her husband's beloved flower-beds were 
 flushing — scarlet and twinkling violet, white and brilliant 
 amber. In the field beyond the sloping lawn some
 
 ^ LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 183 
 
 children were pulling at the sweet wild summer garlands 
 hanging in the hedges, and the Alderneys were crunching 
 through the long damp grasses. Two pretty creatures had 
 straggled downhill to the water-side, and were looking at 
 their own brown eyes reflected in a chance clear pool in 
 the margin of the river. For the carpet of green and 
 meadow verdure was falling over and lapping and drag- 
 gling in the water in a fringe of glistening leaves and 
 insects and weeds. There were white creamy meadow- 
 sweets, great beds of purple flowers, bronzed water docks 
 arching and crisping their stately heads, weeds up- 
 springing, golden slimy water-lilies floating upon their 
 shining leaves. A water-rat was starting out of his hole, 
 a dragon-fly floating along the bank. All this was at the 
 foot of the sloping mead down by the bridge. It crossed 
 the river to the little town of spires and red brick gables 
 which had been built about two centuries ago, and all 
 round about spread hills and lawns and summer corn-fields. 
 Marthe Maynard had seen the corn-fields ripen year after 
 year : she loved the place for its own sake and for the sake 
 of those who were very dear to her then ; but to-day, as 
 she looked, she suddenly realised, poor soul, that a time 
 might come when the heart and the sweetest life of this 
 little home -Eden might go from it. And as she looked 
 through her window, something like a chill came over her : 
 she dropped her work into her lap, and sat watching two 
 figures climbing up the field side by side ; coming through
 
 i84 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 the buttercups, disappearing behind the hedge, reappearing 
 at the bottom of the lawn, and then one figure darted for- 
 wards, while the other lingered a little among the flower- 
 beds ; and Mrs. Maynard got up resolutely, with a pain 
 and odd apprehension in her heart, and .went down to 
 meet her daughter. The steeples of the little town which 
 strike the hours, half-liours, and the very minutes as they 
 pass, were striking foiu- quarters, and then five again, as 
 Mrs. Maynard came out upon her lawn, and at each stroke 
 the poor mother's heart sank, and she tm'ned a little sick 
 at the possibility which had first occurred to her just now 
 in her own room. It seemed to thrust itself again upon 
 her as she stood waiting for the two young people — her 
 own Patty and the strange young man coming through 
 the flower-beds. 
 
 There was a certain likeness to herself, odd, touching, 
 bewildering, in the utter stranger, which said more plainly 
 than any words, I belong to and yoiu-s ; I am no stranger, 
 though strange to you. Patty had no need to explain, all 
 breathless and excited and blushing. ' Mamma, do you 
 know who this is ? This is Kemy de la LouN-iere. Papa 
 and I found him at the hotel ; ' for the poor mother had 
 already guessed that this was her sister's son. 
 
 She could not help it. Her greeting was so stiff, her 
 grasp so timid and fluttering, her words so guarded, that 
 M. Remy, who was used to be cordially welcomed and 
 made much of, was surprised and disappointed, though lie
 
 LITTLE RED RIDhVG HOOD 185 
 
 said nothing to show it. His manner froze, his moustaches 
 seemed to curl more stiffly. He had expected to like his 
 aunt from her letters and from what he had seen of her 
 daughter, and here she was just the same as anybody else 
 after all ! 
 
 Eemy introduced himself all the same. He had come 
 to make acquaintance with his English relations, he told 
 Mrs. Maynard. His mother 'sent her love, and would 
 they be kind to him? ' and Marthe, for all her presenti- 
 ments, could not but relent towards the handsome young 
 fellow; she did not, however, ask him to stay, but this 
 precaution was needless, for her husband had done so 
 already. 'We heard him asking for us at the inn,' 
 explained Patty. ' Mamma, was not it fortunate ? Papa 
 was talking about the old brown mare, and I was just 
 walking with Don in the courtyard, and then I heard my 
 cousin saying, ' Where is Sunnymede ? ' and I said, ' Oh, 
 how delightful ! ' 
 
 ' Hush, darling,' said her mother. ' Go and tell them 
 to bring us some tea on the la\vn.' 
 
 There was a shady corner not too far from the gera- 
 niums, where the table was set, and Eemy liked his aunt 
 a little better, as she attended to his wants, making a gen- 
 tle clatter among the white cups, and serving out cream 
 strawberries with liberal hand, unlike anything he was 
 used to at home. Mr. Maynard came in, hot, grizzled, and 
 tired, and sank into a garden-chair ; his wife's face bright-
 
 i86 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 ened as he nodded to her ; the distant river was flashing 
 and dazzling. I^f'my, with his long nose and bright eyes, 
 eat watching the little home scene, and envying them 
 somewhat the harmony and plenty. There was love in his 
 home, it is true, and food too, but niggardly dealt out and 
 only produced on occasions. If this was Eny;lish life, 
 Remy thought it was very pleasant, and as he thouglit so 
 he saw the bright and splendid little figure of his cousin 
 Patty advancing radiant across the hnm. For once Mrs. 
 Maynard was almost angry with her daughter for looking 
 so lovely ; her shrill sweet voice clamoured for attention ; 
 her bright head went bobbing over the cake and the straw- 
 berries ; her bright cheeks were glowing ; her eyes seemed 
 to dance, shine, speak, go to sleep, and wake again with a 
 flash. ]Mrs. ^laynard had tied a bright ribbon in her 
 daughter's hair that morning. She wore a white dress 
 like her mother, but all fancifully and prettily cut. As 
 he looked at her, the young man thought at first — un- 
 worthy simile — of coff"ee and cream and strawberries, in a 
 dazzle of sunlight ; then he thought of a gipsy, and then 
 of a nymph, shining, transfigured : a wood-nymph escaped 
 from her tree in the forest, for a time consorting with 
 mortals, and eating and joining in their sports, befoie she 
 fled back to the ivy-grown trunk, which was her home 
 perhaps. 
 
 Eemy had not lived all these years in the narrow home 
 school in which he had been bred without learning some-
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 187 
 
 thing of the lesson which was taught there : taught in the 
 wliole manner and being of the household, of its incomings 
 and outgoings, of its interests and selfish preoccupations. 
 We ^re all sensible, coming from outside into strange 
 homes, of the different spirit or lares penates pervading 
 each household. As surely as every tree in the forest has 
 its sylph, so every house in the city must own its domestic 
 deity — different in aspect and character, but ruling with 
 irresistible decision — orderly and decorous, disorderly ; 
 patient, impatient ; some stint and mean in contrivances 
 and economies, others profuse and neglectful ; others, 
 again, poor, plain of necessity, but kindly and liberal. 
 Some spirits keep the doors of their homes wide open, 
 others ajar, others under lock and key, bolted, barred, 
 with a little cautious peephole to reconnoitre from. 
 As a rule, the very wide open door often invites you to an 
 indifferent entertainment going on within ; and people 
 who are particular generally prefer those houses where the 
 door is left, let us say, on the latch. 
 
 The household god that Eemy had been brought up to 
 worship was a mean, self-seeking, cautious, and economi- 
 cal spirit. Madame de la Louviere's object and ambition 
 in life had been to bring her servants down to the well- 
 known straw a day; to persuade her husband (no difficult 
 matter) to grasp at every chance and shadow of advantage 
 along his path ; to educate her son to believe in the creed 
 which she professed. Eemy must make a good marriage ;
 
 1 88 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 must, keep up with desirable acquaintances ; must not neg- 
 lect his well-to-do uncle, the La Louviere in Burgundy ; 
 must occasionally visit his grandmother, Madame Capu- 
 chon, whose savings ought to be something considerable 
 by this time. Madame de la Louviere had^no idea how 
 considerable these savings were until one day about a week 
 before Remy made his appearance at Littleton, when the 
 family lawyer, Monsieur Micotton, had come over to see 
 her on business. This grasping clear-headed woman exer- 
 cised a strange authority and fascination over the stupid 
 little attorney, — he did her business cheaper than for any 
 other client ; he told her all sorts of secrets he had no 
 riuht to communicate, — and now he let out to her that 
 her mother had been making her will, and had left every- 
 thing that she had laid by, in trust for little Marthe 
 Maynard, her elder daughter's only child. 
 
 Madame de la Louviere's face pinched and wrinkled 
 up into a sort of struggling knot of horror, severity, and 
 indignation. 
 
 'My good Monsieur Micotton, what news you give 
 me I What a culpable partiality ! What an injustice ! 
 what a horror! Ah, that little intriguing English girl ! 
 Did you not remonstrate witli, implore, my unfortunate 
 mother ? But it must not be allowed. We must 
 interfere.' 
 
 'Madame,' said Micotton, respectfully, 'your mother 
 is, as you well know, a person of singidar decision and
 
 > LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 189 
 
 promptness of character. She explained to me that when 
 your sister married, her husband (who apparently is rich) 
 refused to accept more than a portion of the dot which 
 came by right to madame your sister. M. de la Louviere 
 unfortunately at that moment requested some advance, 
 which apparently vexed madame your mother, and ' 
 
 ' Ah, I understand. It was a plot ; it was a con- 
 spiracy. I see it all,' hissed the angry lady, 'Ah, 
 Monsieur Micotton, what a life of anxiety is that of a 
 mother, devoted as I have been, wounded cruelly to the 
 heart ; to every hour insulted, trampled on ! ' 
 
 Madame de la Louviere was getting quite wild in her 
 retrospect; and M. Micotton, fearing a nervous attack, 
 hastily gathered his papers together, stuffed them into his 
 shabby bag, and making a great many little parting bows, 
 that were intended to soothe and calm down his angry 
 client, retreated towards the door. As he left he ran up 
 against a tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking young man, 
 with a long nose, quick dark eyes, and a close-cropped 
 dark beard, thick and soft and bright. Eemy had a look 
 of his mother, who was a tall, straight, well-built woman ; 
 but his forehead was broader, his face softer, and his smile 
 was charming. It was like the smile of his unknown aunt, 
 far away in England, the enemy who had, according to his 
 mother's account, defrauded and robbed him of his rights. 
 
 'My son, my poor child!' said the baroness, excitedly, 
 ' be calm, come and help me to unravel this plot.'
 
 190 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 'What is the matter?' Reray asked, in a cheerful 
 voice. He, however, shrugged his shoulders rather dole- 
 fully when he heard the news, for to tell the truth he was 
 in debt, and had been counting upon his gi-and mother's 
 legacy to help him out. * Hadn't we better make sure of 
 her intentions before we remonstrate ? ' he suggested, and 
 the baron was accordingly sent for and desired to copy out 
 another of those long letters of his wife's devising, which 
 he sigfned with a flourish at the end. 
 
 Madame Capuchon appealed to, refused to give any 
 information as to the final disposition of her property. 
 She should leave it to anybody she liked. She thought, 
 considering her state of healtli, that the baron might have 
 waited in patience until she was gone, to satisfy his 
 curiosity. She sent her love to her grandson, but was 
 much displeased with both his parents. 
 
 This was a terrible climax. ]\radame de la Louviere 
 lay awake all one night. Next morning she sent for Remy 
 and unfolded her plans to him. 
 
 * You must go over to England and marry your 
 cousin,' she said decisively ; ' that is the only thing to be 
 done.' 
 
 When Micotton came next day for further orders, 
 Madame de la Louviere told him that Remy was already 
 gone. 
 
 All his life long Remy remembered this evening upon
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 191 
 
 the river, sweeter, more balray and wonderful than almost 
 any evening he had ever spent in his life before. He had 
 come with a set piu'pose, this wolf in sheep's clothing, to 
 perform his part in a bargain, without thought of anything 
 but his own advantage. The idea of any objection being 
 made never occurred to him. He was used to be 
 made much of, as I have said ; he could please where he 
 chose. This project accorded so entirely with his French 
 ideas, and seemed so natural and simple an arrangement, 
 that he never thought of doubting its success. For the 
 first time now a possibility occurred to him of something 
 higher, wiser, holier, than money getting and grasping, in 
 his schemes for the future and for his married life. He 
 scarcely owned it to himself, but now that he had seen his 
 cousin, he unconsciously realised that if he had not already 
 come with the set purpose of marrying her, he should un- 
 doubtedly have lost his heart to this winsome and brilliant 
 little creatm'e. All that evening, as they slid through the 
 water, paddling between the twilight fields, pushing 
 through the beds of water-lilies, sometimes spurting 
 swiftly through the rustling reeds, with the gorgeous 
 banks on Either side, and the sunset beyond the hills, and 
 the figures strolling tranquilly along the meadows, De la 
 Louviere only felt himself drifting and drifting into a 
 new and wonderful world. This time-wise young fellow 
 felt as if he was being washed white and happy and peace 
 ful in the lovely purple river. Everything was at once
 
 192 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 twilit, moonlit, and sunlit. The water flowed deep and 
 clear. Patty, with a bulrush wand, sat at the stern, bend- 
 ing forward and talking happily ; the people on the shore 
 heard her sweet chatter. 
 
 Once Patty uttered a cry of alarm. ' Don ! Where 
 was Don ? ' He had been very contentedly following them, 
 trotting along the bank ; but now in the twilight they 
 could not make him out. Patty called and her father 
 halloed, and Remy pulled out a little silver whistle he 
 happened to have in his pocket and whistled shrilly. Old 
 Don, who had been a little ahead, hearing all this hulla- 
 l)aloo, quietly splashed from the banks into the water, 
 and came swimming up to the side of the boat, with his 
 honest old nose in the air, and his ears floating on the 
 little ripples. Having satisfied them of his safety, and 
 tried to wag his tail in the water, he swam back to shore 
 again, and the boat sped on its way home through the 
 twilight. 
 
 ' What a nice little whistle ! ' said Patty. 
 
 ' Do take it,' said Eemy. ' It is what I call my dogs 
 at home with. Please take it. It will give me pleasure 
 to think that anything of mine is used by you.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you,' said Patty, as she put out her soft 
 warm hand through the cool twilight, and took it from 
 him. Majnard was looking out for the lock and paying 
 no attention. Remy felt as glad as if some great good- 
 fortune had happened to him.
 
 t LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. ^93 
 
 The light was burning in the drawing-room when they 
 got back. Mrs. Maynard had ordered some coffee to be 
 ready for them, and was waiting with a somewhat anxious 
 face for their return. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, it has been so heavenly ! ' said Patty, 
 once more sinking into her own corner by the window. 
 
 And then the moon came brightly hanging in the sky, 
 and a nightingale began to sing. Eemy had never been 
 so bappy in his life befoie. He had forgotten all about 
 bis speculation, and was only thinking that his English 
 cousin was more charming than all his grandmother's 
 money-bags piled in a heap. For that night he forgot 
 his part of ' wolf ' altogether. 
 
 In the morning, Patty took her cousin to the green- 
 house, to the stable to see her pony ; she did the honours 
 of Sunnymede with so much gaiety and frankness that 
 her mother had not the heart to put conscious thoughts 
 into the child's head, and let her go her own way. The 
 two came back late to the early dinner ; Mr, Maynard 
 frowned, he disliked unpunctuality. Eemy was too happy 
 to see darkness anywhere, or frowns in anybody's face ; but 
 then his eyes were dazzled. It was too good to last, he 
 thought, and in truth a storm was rising even then. 
 
 During dinner the post came in. Mrs. Maynard 
 glanced at her correspondence, and then at her husband, 
 as she put it into her pocket. ' It is from my mother,' 
 she said. Eemy looked a little interested, but asked no 
 
 o
 
 194 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 questions, and went on talking and laughing with his 
 cousin ; and after dinner, when ]\Irs, Maynard took her 
 letter away to read in the study, the two young people 
 went and sat upon the little terrace in front of the house. 
 
 The letter was from jNIadame Capuchon, and Mrs. 
 Maynard having read it, put it into her husband's hands 
 with a little exclamation of bewildered dismay. 
 
 ' What is the matter, my dear ? ' said ^Maynard, look- 
 ing up from his paper, which had come by the same after- 
 noon post. 
 
 'Only read this,' she said ; 'you will know best what 
 to do. Oh, Henry, he must go ; he should never have 
 come.' 
 
 My heroine's mother was never very remarkable for 
 spirit : her nearest approach to it was this first obstinate 
 adherence to anything which Henry might decree. Like 
 other weak people she knew that if she once changed her 
 mind she was lost, and accordingly she clung to it in the 
 smallest decisions of life with an imploring persistence : 
 poor Martlie, her decision was a straw in a great sea of 
 unknown possibilities. ^Madame Capuchon was a strong- 
 minded woman, and not afraid to change her mind. 
 
 ' I have heard from Felicie," the old lady wrote ; ' but 
 she says nothing of a certain fine scheme which I hasten 
 to acquaint you with. I learnt it by chance the other day 
 when Micotton was with me consulting on the subject of 
 my will which it seems has given great offence to the
 
 ■, LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 195 
 
 De la Louvieres. Considering the precarious state of my 
 health, they might surely have taken patience : but I am 
 now determined that they shall not benefit by one farthing 
 that I possess. Micotton, at my desire, confessed that 
 Remy has gone over to England for the express purpose of 
 making advances to Marthe, your daughter, in hopes of 
 eventually benefiting through me. He is a young man 
 of indifferent character, and he inherits, no doubt, the 
 covetous and grasping spirit of his father.' Mr. Maynard 
 read no farther : he flushed up, and began to hiss out 
 certain harmless oaths between his teeth. ' Does that 
 confounded young puppy think my Patty is to be disposed 
 of like a bundle of hay ? Does he come here scheming 
 after that poor old woman's money ? Be hanged to the 
 fellow ! he must be told to go about his business, Marthe, 
 or the child may be taking a fancy to him. Confound the 
 impertinent jackanapes ! ' 
 
 'But who is to tell him? ' poor Marthe faltered, with 
 one more dismal presentiment. 
 
 ' You, to be sure,' said Maynard, clapping on his felt 
 hat and marching right away off the premises. 
 
 In the meantime Remy and his cousin had been very 
 busy making Don jump backwards and forwards over the 
 low parapet. They had a little disjointed conversation 
 between the jumping. 
 
 ' What is your home like ? ' Patty asked once. 
 
 ' I wish it was more like yours,' said Remy, with some 
 
 o 2
 
 196 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 expression ; ' it would make me very happy to think that, 
 some day, it might become more so.' 
 
 The girl seemed almost to understand his meaning, 
 for she blushed and laughed, and tossed her gloves up in 
 the air, and caught them again. ' I love toy home dearly,' 
 said she. 
 
 At that moment the garden door opened, and Mr. 
 Maynard appeared ; but instead of coming towards them, 
 he no sooner saw the two young folks than he began 
 walking straight away in the direction of the outer gate, 
 never tinning his head or paying any attention to his 
 daughter's call. 
 
 ' Papa, papa I ' cried Patty, springing up ; but her 
 father walked on, never heeding, and yet she was sure he 
 must have heard. What could it mean ? She looked at 
 Remy, who was quite unconscious, twirling his moustache, 
 and stirring up Don with the toe of his boot ; from Remy 
 she looked round to the library window, which was open 
 wide, and where her motlier was standing. 
 
 ' Do you want me ? ' Patty cried, running up. 
 
 ' Ask your cousin to come and speak to me,' said Mrs. 
 Maynard, very gravely — ' here, in papa's room.' 
 
 Patty was certain that something was wrong. She 
 gave Remy her mother's message with a wistful glance to 
 see whether he did not suspect any trouble. The young 
 man started up obediently, and Patty waited outside in 
 the sun, listening to the voices droning away within,
 
 \ LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 197 
 
 watching the sparkle of the distant river, lazily following- 
 the flight of a big bumble-bee, — wondering when their 
 talk would be over and Eemy would come out to her 
 again. From where she sat Patty could see the reflection 
 of the two talkers in the big sloping looking-glass over 
 the library table. Her mother was standing very dignified 
 and stately, the young man had drawn himself straight 
 up — so straight, so grim and fierce-looking, that Patty, as 
 she looked, was surer and more sure that all was not right ; 
 and she saw her mother give him a letter, and he seemed 
 to push it away. And then it was not Eemy but Mrs. 
 Maynard who came out, looking very pale, and who said, 
 ' Patty, darling, I have been very much pained. Your 
 cousin has behaved so strangely and unkindly to you and 
 me dtod to your father, that we can never forget or forgive 
 it. Your father says so.' 
 
 Mrs. Maynard had tried to perform her task as gently 
 as she could. She told Remy that English people had 
 different views on many subjects from the French ; that 
 she had learned his intentions from her mother, and 
 thought it best to tell him plainly at once that she and 
 Mr. Maynard could never consent to any such arrangement; 
 and under the circumstances — that — that — that 
 
 'You can never consent,' repeated the young man, 
 stepping forward and looking through her and round 
 about her, seeing all her doubts, all her presentiments, 
 reading the letter, overhearing her conversation with her
 
 198 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 husband all in one instant — so it seemed to poor Marthe. 
 ' And why not, pray ? ' 
 
 'We cannot argue the question,' his aunt said, with 
 some dignity. ' You must not attempt to see my daughter 
 any more.' ^ 
 
 'You mean to say that you are turning me, your 
 sister's son, out of your house,' the indignant Remy said. 
 ' I own to all that you accuse me of. I hoped to marry 
 your daughter. I still hope it ; and I shall do so still,' 
 cried the young man. 
 
 Eemy's real genuine admiration for Patty stood him 
 in little stead ; he was angry and lost his temper in his 
 great disappointment and surprise. He behaved badly 
 and foolishly. 
 
 ' I had not meant to turn you out of my house,' said 
 his aunt, gravely ; ' but for the present I think you had 
 certainly better go. I cannot expose my daughter to any 
 agitation.' 
 
 ' You have said more than enough,' said Eemy. ' I am 
 going this instant.' And as he spoke he went striding out 
 of the room. 
 
 And so Remy came back no more to sit with Patty 
 under the ash-tree ; but her mother, with her grave face, 
 stood before her, and began telling her this impossible, 
 unbelievable fact ; — that he was young, that he had been 
 to blame.
 
 * LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 199 
 
 > 
 
 ' He unkind ! he to blame ! Oh, mamma ! ' the girl 
 said, in a voice of reproach. 
 
 ' He has been unkind and scheming, and he was rude 
 to me, darling. I am sorry, but it is a fact.' And Marthe 
 as she spoke glanced a little anxiously at Patty, who had 
 changed colour, and then at De la Louviere himself, who 
 was marching up, fierce still and pale, with bristling 
 hair — his nose looking hooked and his lips parting in a 
 sort of scornful way. He was carrying his cloak on 
 his arm. 
 
 ' I have come to wish you good-by, and to thank you 
 for your English hospitality, madame,' said he, with a 
 grand sweeping bow. 'My cousin, have you not got a 
 word for me ? ' 
 
 But Mrs. Maynard's eyes were upon her ; and Patty, 
 with a sudden shy stiffness for which she hated herself 
 then and for many and many a day and night after, said 
 good-by, looking down with a sinking heart, and Eemy 
 marched away with rage and scorn in his. ' They are all 
 alike ; not one bit better than myself. That little girl 
 has neither kindness, nor feeling, nor fidelity in her. The 
 money : they want to keep it for themselves — that is the 
 meaning of all these fine speeches. I should like to get 
 hold of her all the same, little stony-hearted flirt, just to 
 spite them ; yes, and throw her over at the last moment, 
 money and all — impertinent, ill-bred folks.' And it hap- 
 pened that just at this minute Mr. Maynard was coming
 
 200 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 back thoughtfully the way he had gone, and the two men 
 stopped face to face, one red, the other pale. Mrs. May- 
 nard, seeing the meeting, came hastily up. 
 
 ' You will be glad to hear that I am going,' said Remy, 
 defiantly looking at his uncle as he had done at his aunt. 
 
 ' I am very glad to hear it,' said Mr. Maynard. ' I 
 have no words to express the indignation which iills me 
 at the thought of your making a speculation of my daugh- 
 ter's affections ;— and the sooner you are gone the better.' 
 
 ' Hush, dear,' said Mrs. Maynard, laying her hand on 
 her husband's arm, and looking at Patty, who had followed 
 her at a little distance. She liad had her own say, and 
 was beginning to think poor Remy bardly dealt with. 
 
 ' Let him say wliat he likes, madame, I don't care.' 
 De la Louvi^re said. ' I am certainly going. You have 
 failed, both of you, in kindness and hospitality ; as for my 
 
 cousin ; ' but looking at Patty, he saw that her eyes 
 
 were full of tears, and he stopped short. ' I am all that 
 you think,' Remy went on. ' I am in debt, I have lost 
 money at gambling, I am a good-for-nothing fellow. You 
 might have made something of me, all of you, but you are 
 a sordid nation and don't understand the feelings of a 
 French gentleman.' 
 
 With this bravado Remy finally stalked off. 
 
 ' I think, perhaps, we were a little hasty,' said the 
 injudicious Marthe, while Patty suddenly burst out crying 
 and ran away.
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 201 
 
 > 
 
 Poor little Patty came down to tea that evening look- 
 ing very pale, with pouting red lips, prettier than ever, 
 her mother thought, as she silently gave the child her 
 cupful of tea and cut her bread-and-butter, and put 
 liberal helpings of jam and fruit before her, dainties that 
 were served in the old cut-glass dishes that had sparkled 
 on Maynard's grandmother's tea-table before. The old 
 Queen Anne teapot, too, was an heirloom, and the urn and 
 the pretty straight spoons, and the hideous old china tea- 
 set with the red and yellow flowers. There were other heir- 
 looms in the family, and even Patty's bright eyes had been 
 her great-grandmother's a century ago, as anybody might 
 see who looked at the picture on the wall. Mr. Maynard 
 was silent ; he had been angry with his wife for her gentle 
 remonstrance, furious with the young man for the high 
 hand in which he had carried matters, displeased with 
 Patty for crying, and with himself for not having foreseen 
 the turn things were taking : and he now sat sulkily stir- 
 ring his tea — sulky but relenting — and not indisposed for 
 peace. After all he had had his own way, and that is a 
 wonderful calming process. Eemy was gone ; nothing left 
 of him but a silver whistle that Patty had put away in her 
 work-table drawer. He was gone ; the echo of his last 
 angry words were dinning in Maynard's ears, while 
 a psalm of relief was sounding in the mother's heart. 
 Patty sulked like her father, and ate her bread and 
 jam without speaking a word. There was no great
 
 202 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 harm done, Mrs. Maynard thought, as she kept her 
 daughter supplied. She herself had been so disturbed 
 and overcome by the stormy events of the day that she 
 could not eat. She made the mistake that many elders 
 hav^ made before her : they mistake phy^cal for mental 
 dist'irbance ; poor well-hacked bodies that have been jolt- 
 ed, shaken, patched and mended, and strained in half-a- 
 dozen places, are easily affected by the passing jars of the 
 moment : they suffer and lose their appetite, and get 
 aches directly which take away much sense of the mental 
 inquietude which brought the disturbance about. Young 
 healthy creatures like Patty can eat a good dinner and feel 
 a keen pang and hide it, and chatter on scarcely conscious 
 of their own heroism. 
 
 But as the days went by Mrs. Maynard suspected that 
 all was not well with the child ; there seemed to be a 
 little effort and strain in the life which had seemed so 
 easy and smooth before. More than once, Mrs. Maynard 
 noticed her daughter's eyes fixed upon her curiously and 
 wistfull}. One day the mother asked her why she looked 
 at her so. Patty blushed but did not answer. The truth 
 was, it was the likeness to her cousin which she was 
 studying. These blushes and silence made Marthe May- 
 nard a little uneasy. 
 
 But more days passed, and the mother's anxious heart 
 was relieved. Patty had brightened up again, and 
 looked like herself, coming and going in her Undine-like
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 203 
 
 way, bringing home long wreaths of i\y, birds' eggs, 
 sylvan treasures. She was out in all weathers. Her 
 locks only curled the crisper for the falling rain, and her 
 cheeks only brightened when the damp rose up from the 
 river. The time came for their annual visit to Madame 
 de Capuchon. Patty, out in her woods and meadows, 
 wondered and wondered what might come of it; but 
 Poictiers is a long way from Fontainebleau, ' fortunately,' 
 ' alas I ' thought the mother — in her room, packing Patty's 
 treasures — and the daughter out in the open field in the 
 ^ame breath. They were so used to one another these two, 
 that some sort of magnetic current passed between them 
 at times, and certainly Marthe never thought of Remy de 
 la Louvi^re that Patty did not think of him too.
 
 204 LITTLE RED RWII^G HOOD. 
 
 III. 
 
 Old Madame de Capuchon was delighted with her grand- 
 daughter, and the improvement she found in her since 
 the year before. She made more of her than she had 
 ever done of oSIarthe her daughter. All manner of relics 
 were produced out of the old lady's ancient stores to adorn 
 Miss Patty's crisp locks and little round white throat and 
 wrists ; small medallions were hung round her neck, 
 brooches and laces pinned on, ribbons tied and muslins 
 measured, while Simonne tried her hand once again at 
 cake-making. Patty, in return, brought a great rush of 
 youth, and liberty, and sunshine into the old closed house, 
 where she was spoiled, worshipped, petted, to her heart's 
 content. Her mother's tender speechless love seemed 
 dimmed and put out by this chorus of compliments and 
 admiration. ' Take care of your complexion ; whatever 
 you do, take care of your complexion,' her grandmother 
 was always saying. Madame Capuchon actually sent for 
 the first modiste in the town, explained what she wanted, 
 and ordered a scarlet ' capeline ' — such as ladies wear by 
 the sea-side — a pretty frilled, quilted, laced, and braided
 
 "* LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 205 
 
 scarlet hood, close round the cheeks and tied up to the 
 chin, to protect her granddaughter's youthful bloom from 
 the scorching rays of the sun. She need not have been so 
 anxious. Patty's roses were of a damask that does 
 not fade in the sun's rays. 
 
 Squire Maynard, who was a sensible man, did not 
 approve of all this to-do, and thought it was all very bad 
 for Miss Patty, ' whose little head was quite full enough 
 of nonsense already,' he said. One day Patty came home 
 with the celebrated pearls round her neck that Madame 
 de la Louviere had tried so hard to get. Madame 
 Capuchon forgot that she had already given them to her 
 eldest daughter, but Mrs. Maynard herself was the last to 
 have'remembered this, and it was her husband who said 
 to her, with a shrug of the shoulders. — 
 
 'It is all very well, but they are yours, my dear, 
 and your mother has no more right to them than 
 Patty has.' 
 
 Patty pouted, flashed, tossed her little head, flung her 
 arms round her mother's neck, all in an instant. She was 
 a tender-hearted little person, heedless, impulsive, both 
 for the best and the worst, as her poor mother knew to 
 her cost. The squire thought his wife spoiled her daughter, 
 and occasionally tried a course of judicious severity, and, 
 as I have already said, he had only succeeded in frighten- 
 ing the child more than he had any idea of. 
 
 * Take them, dear mamma,' said Patty, pulling off her
 
 2o6 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 necklace. ' I didn't know anything about them. Grand- 
 mamma tied them on.' 
 
 * Darling,' said her mother, ' you are my jewel. I don't 
 want these pearls : and if they are mine, I give them 
 to you.' 
 
 Two pearl drops were in Mrs. Maynard's eyes as she 
 spoke. She was thinking of her long lonely days, and of 
 the treasures which were now bers. Looking at this 
 brigbt face in its scarlet hood — this gay, youthful presence 
 standing before them all undimmed, in the splendour of 
 its confidence and brightness — it seemed to Mrs. Maynard 
 as if now, in her old age, now that she had even forgotten 
 her longings for them, all the good things were granted 
 to her, the want of which had made her early life so sad. 
 It was like a miracle, that at fifty all this should come to 
 her. Her meek glad eyes sought her husband's. He was 
 frowning, and eyeing his little girl uneasily. 
 
 ' I don't like that red bonnet of yours,' said he. ' It 
 is too conspicuous. You can't walk about Paris in that.' 
 
 ' Paris ! ' shrieked Patty. ' Am I going to Paris, 
 papa ? ' 
 
 ' You must take great care of your father, Patty,' said 
 her mother. ' I shall stay here with my mother until you 
 come back.' 
 
 I am not going to describe Patty's delights and 
 surprise. Everybody has seen through her eyes, at one 
 time or another, and knows what it is to be sixteen, and
 
 > LITTLE RED RIDLNG HOOD. 207 
 
 transported into a dazzling ringing world of sounds, and 
 sights, and tastes, and revelations. The good father took 
 his daughter to dine off delicious little dishes with sauces, 
 with white bread and butter to eat between the courses ; 
 he hired little carriages, in which they sped through the 
 blazing streets, and were set down at the doors of museums 
 and palaces, and the gates of cool gardens where fountains 
 murmured and music played ; he had some friends in 
 Paris — a good-natured old couple, who volunteered to 
 take charge of his girl ; but for that whole, happy, un- 
 speakable week he rarely left her. One night he took 
 her to the play — a grand fairy piece — where a fustian 
 peasant maiden was turned into a satin princess in a flash 
 of music and electric light. Patty took her father's arm, 
 and came away with the crowd, with the vision of those 
 waving halos of bliss opening and shining with golden 
 rain and silver-garbed nymphs, and shrieks of music and 
 admiration, all singing and turning before her. The satin 
 princess was already re-transformed, but that was no affair 
 of Patty's. Some one in the crowd, better used to plays 
 and fairy pieces, coming along behind the father and 
 daughter, thought that by far the prettiest sight he had 
 seen that night was this lovely eager little face before 
 him, and that those two dark eyes — now flashing, now 
 silent — were the most beautiful illuminations he had wit- 
 nessed for maoy a day. The bright eyes never discovered 
 who it was behind her. Need I say that it was Remy ?
 
 2o8 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 who, after looking for them for a couple of days in all the 
 most likely places, took a ticket for FontaineLleau on the 
 third evening after he had seen them. What fascination 
 was it that attracted him ? He was liurt and angry with 
 her, he loved and he longed to see her. And then again 
 \ague thoughts of revenge crossed his mind ; he would 
 see her and win her affections, and then turn away and 
 leave her, and pay back the affront which had been put 
 upon him. M. Remy, curling his moustaches in the 
 railway-carriage, and meditating this admirable scheme, 
 was no very pleasant object to contemplate. 
 
 ' That gentleman in the corner looks ready to eat us 
 all up,' whispered a little bride to her husband. 
 
 JNleanwhile Patty had been going on her Avay very 
 placidly all these three days, running hither and thither, 
 driving in the forest, dining with her grandmother, 
 coming home at night under the stars. The little red 
 hood was well known in the place. Sometimes escorted 
 by Betty, an English maid who had come over with the 
 family ; oftener Mr. Maynard himself walked with his 
 daughter. Fontainebleau was not Littleton, and he did 
 uot like her going about alone, although Patty used to 
 pout and rebel at these precautions. Mrs. Maynard 
 herself rarely walked ; slie used to drive over to her 
 mother's of an afternoon, and her husband and daughter 
 would follow her later ; and Simonne, radiant, would then 
 sui3erintend the preparation of fricandeaus and galettes.
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 209 
 
 such as slie loved to set before them, and cream tarts and 
 chicken and vol au vent. There was no end to her 
 resources. And yet to hear Madame Capuchon one 
 would think that she led the life of an invalid ascetic 
 starving on a desert island. ' These railways carry away 
 everything,' the old lady would say; 'they leave one 
 nothing. When I say that I have dined, it is for the sake 
 of saying so. You know I am not particular, but they 
 leave us nothing, absolutely nothing, to eat.' On this 
 especial occasion the old lady was in a state of pathetic 
 indignation over M. Bougu, her butterman, who had been 
 taken up for false practices. Simonne joined in, — ' I went 
 in for the tray,' she said. ' Oh, I saw at once, by the ex- 
 pression of madame's face, that there was something wrong. 
 It was lard that he had mixed with his butter. As it is, 
 I do not know where to go to find her anything fit to eat. 
 They keep cows at the hotel,' she added, turning to Marthe 
 as she set down a great dish full of cream-cakes upon the 
 table. 'Perhaps they would supply us, if you asked 
 them.' 
 
 Mrs. Maynard undertook the negotiation; and next 
 day she called Patty to her into the little drawing-room, 
 and gave the child a piece of honeycomb and a little pat 
 in a vine-leaf, to take to Madame Capuchon, as a sample. 
 ' Give her my love, and tell her she can have as much 
 more as she likes ; and call Betty to go with you,' said 
 Mrs. Maynard. ' Betty, Betty, Betty, Betty, come 
 
 p
 
 210 LITTLE RED RIDLXG HOOD. 
 
 directly,' cried Patty, outside the door, dancinj^ off 
 delighted with her commission. Betty came directly ; 
 but there are two roads to Madame Capuchon's, one by 
 the street and one by the park. Patty certainly waited 
 for three minutes at the park-gate, buf Betty was trudg- 
 ing down the town, and gaping into all the shops as she 
 went along, while her young mistress, who had soon lost 
 patience, was hurrying along the avenues, delighted to be 
 free — hurrying and then stopping, as the fancy took her. 
 The sun shone, the golden water quivered, the swans came 
 sailing by. It was all Patty could do not to sing right 
 out and dance to her o\vn singing. By degrees her spirits 
 
 quieted do^vn a little. . . . 
 
 * * * • « 
 
 Patty was standing leaning over the stone parapet at 
 the end of the terrace, and looking deep down into the 
 water which laps against it. A shoal of carp was passing 
 through the clear cool depths. Solemn patriarchs, bald, 
 dim with age, bleared and faded and overgrown with 
 strange mosses and lichens, terrible with their chill life 
 of centuries, solemnly sliding, followed by their coiut 
 through the clear cool waters where they had floated for 
 ages past. Unconscious, living, indifferent while the 
 generations were succeeding one another, and angry 
 multitudes surging and yelling while kingdoms clianged 
 hands ; while the gay court ladies, scattering crumbs with 
 their dainty fingers, were hooted by the hags and furies
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 211 
 
 of the Eevolution, shrieking for blood, and for bread for 
 their children : — the carps may have dived for safety into 
 the cool depths of the basins while these awful ghosts of 
 want and madness clamoured round the doors of the 
 palace, — ghosts that have not passed away for ever, alas ! 
 with the powders and patches, and the stately well-bred 
 follies of the court of Dives. After these times a new 
 order of things was established, and the carps may have 
 seen a new race of spirits in the quaint garb and odd af- 
 fectation of a bygone age, of senates and consuls and a 
 dead Roman people ; and then an Emperor, broken- 
 hearted, signed away an empire, and a Waterloo was 
 fought ; and to-day began to dawn, and the sun shone for 
 a while upon the kingly dignity of Orleans ; and then 
 upon a Second Empire, with flags and many eagles and 
 bees to decorate the whole, and trumpets blowing, and 
 looms at work, and a temple raised to the new goddess of 
 industry. 
 
 What did it all matter to the old grey carp ? They 
 had been fed by kings and by emperors ; and now they 
 were snatching as eagerly at the crumbs which Patty 
 Maynard was dropping one by one into the water, and 
 which floated pleasantly into their great open maws. The 
 little bits of bread tasted much alike from wherever they 
 came. If Patty had been used to put such vague specula- 
 tions into words, she might have wondered sometimes 
 whether we human carps, snatching at the crumbs which 
 
 p 2
 
 212 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 fall upon the waters of life, are not also greedy and un- 
 conscious of the wonders and changes that may be going 
 on close at hand in another element to which we do not 
 belong, but at which we guess now and then. 
 
 A crumb fell to little Patty herself, just then gazing 
 down deep into the water. The sun began to shine hot 
 and yet more hot, and the child put up her big white 
 umbrella, for her hood did not shade her eyes. A great 
 magnificent stream of light illumined the grand old place, 
 and the waving tree-tops, and the still currentless lake. 
 The fish floated on basking, the birds in the trees seemed 
 suddenly silenced by the intense beautiful radiance, the 
 old palace coiurts gleamed bravely, the shadows shrank and 
 blackened, hot, sweet, and silent the light streamed upon 
 the great green arches and courts and colonnades of the 
 palace of garden without, upon the arches and courts and 
 colonnades of the palace of marble within, with its quaint 
 eaves and mullions, its lilies of France and D's and H's still 
 entwined, though D and H had been parted for three cen- 
 turies or more. It was so sweet and so serene, that Patty 
 began to think of her cousin. She could not have told you 
 why fine days put her in mind of him, and of that happy hour 
 in the boat. She pulled the little silver whistle out of her 
 pocket, and to-day she could not help it, instead of push- 
 ing the thought of Remy away, as she had done valiantly 
 of late, the silly child turned the whistle in her hands 
 round and round again. It gleamed in the sun like a
 
 
 » LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 213 
 
 whistle of fire ; and then slowly she put it to her lips. 
 Should she frighten the carp ? Patty wondered ; and as she 
 blew a very sweet long note upon the slirill gleaming toy, it 
 echoed oddly in the stillness, and across the water. The 
 carp did not seem to hear it ; but Patty stopped short, 
 frightened, ashamed, with burning blushes, for, looking up 
 at the sound of a footstep striking across the stone terrace, 
 she saw her cousin coming towards her. 
 
 To people who are in love each meeting is a new 
 miracle. This was an odd chance certainly, a quaint 
 freak of fortune. The child thought it was some incanta- 
 tion that she had unconsciously performed ; she sprang 
 back, her dark eyes flashed, the silver whistle fell to the 
 ground and went rolling and rolling and bobbing across the 
 stones to the young man's feet. 
 
 He picked it up and came forward with an amused 
 and lover-like smile, holding it out in his hand. ' I have 
 only just heard you were here,' he said ; ' I came to see my 
 grandmother last night, from Paris. My dear cousin, 
 what a delightful chance ! Are not you a little bit glad 
 to see me ? ' said the young man, romantically. It was a 
 shame to play off his airs and graces upon such a simple 
 downright soul as Marthe Maynard. Someone should 
 have boxed his ears as he stood there, smiling, handsome, 
 irresistible, trying to make a sentimental scene out of a 
 chance meeting. Poor little Patty, with all her courage 
 and simpleness, was no match for him at first ; she looked
 
 214 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 up at his face wistfully and then turned away, for one 
 burning blush succeeded another, and then she took 
 courage again. ' Of course I am glad to see you, cousin Remy,' 
 said she, brightly, and she held out her little brown hand 
 and put it frankly into his. ' It is tli^'greatest pleasure 
 and delight to me, above all now when I had given up all 
 hopes for ever ; but it's no use,' said Patty, with a sigh, 
 * for I know I musn't talk to you, they wouldn't like it. 
 I must never whistle again upon the little whistle, for 
 fear you should appear,' she said, with a sigh. 
 
 This was no cold-hearted maiden. Kemy forgot his 
 vague schemes of revenge and desertion, the moment he 
 heard the sound of her dear little voice. ' They wouldn't 
 like it,' said Remy, reddening, ' and I have been long- 
 ing and wearying to see you again, Patty. What do 
 you suppose I have come here for ? — Patty, Patty, confess 
 that you were thinking of me when you whistled,' and as 
 he said this, the wolfs whole heart melted. 'Do you 
 know how oft«n I have thought of you since I was cruelly 
 driven away from your house ? ' 
 
 Two great, ashamed, vexed, sorrowful tears started into 
 Marthe's eyes as she turned away her head and pulled away 
 her hand. 
 
 ' Oh, Remy, indeed, indeed there must have been some 
 reason, some mistake : dear papa, if you knew how he 
 loves me and mamma ; and, oh, how miserable it made me.' 
 
 ' I daresay there was some mistake, since you say so,'
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 215 
 
 said the wily wolf. ' Patty, only eay you love me a little, 
 and I will forgive everything and anything.' 
 
 ' I musn't let anyone talk about forgiving them^ said 
 the girl. ' I would love you a great deal, if I might,' she 
 added, with another sigh. ' I do love you, only I try not 
 to, and I think — I am sure I shall get over it in time, if I 
 can only be brave.' 
 
 This was such an astounding confession that De la Lou- 
 viere hardly knew how to take it ; touched and amused and 
 amazed, he stood there, looking at the honest little sweet 
 face. Patty's confession was a very honest one. The girl 
 knew that it was not to be ; she was loyal to her father, 
 and, above all, to that tender, wistful mother. Filiul 
 devotion seemed, like the bright eyes and silver tea-pot, 
 to be an inheritance in her family. She did not deceive 
 herself; she knew that she loved her cousin with something 
 more than cousinly affection, but she also believed that it 
 was a fancy which could be conquered. And she set hf^r 
 teeth and looked quite fierce at. Eemy ; and then she 
 melted again, and said in her childish way, ' You never 
 told me you would come if I blew upon the whistle.' 
 
 Do her harm — wound her — punish her parents by stab 
 bing her tender little heart ! Eemy said to himself that he 
 had rather cut off his moustaches. 
 
 There was something loyal, honest, and tender in the 
 little thing, that touched him inexpressibly. He suddenly 
 began to tell himself that he agreed with his uncle that
 
 2l6 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 to try to marry Patty for money's sake had been a shame 
 and a sin. He had been a fool and a madman, and blind 
 and deaf. Eemy de la Louvi^re was only half a wolf after 
 all — a sheep in wolf's clothing. He had worn the skin so 
 long that he had begun to think it was his very own, and 
 he was perfectly amazed and surprised to find such a soft, 
 tender place beneath it. 
 
 It was with quite a different look and tone from the 
 romantic, impassioned, corsair manner in which he had 
 begun, that he said very gently, ' Dear Patty, don't try too 
 hard not to like me. I cannot help hoping that all will 
 be will. You will hope too, will you not ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, I will,' said Patty ; ' and now, Remy, you 
 must go : I have talked to you long enough. See, this is 
 the back gate and the way to the Rue de la Lampe.' For 
 they had been walking on all this time and following the 
 course of the avenue. One or two people passing by 
 looked kindly at the handsome young couple strolling in 
 tlie sunshine ; a man in a blouse, wheeling a hand-truck, 
 looked over his shoulder a second time as he turned down 
 the turning to the Rue de la Lampe. Patty did not see him, 
 she was absorbed in one great resolution. She must go 
 now, and say good-by to her cousin. 
 
 ' Come a little way farther with me,' said Remy, 'just 
 a little way under the trees. Patty, I have a confession 
 to make to you. You will hate me, perhaps, and yet I 
 cannot help telling you.'
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 217 
 
 ' Oh, indeed I must not come now,' Patty said. ' Good- 
 by, good-by.' 
 
 ' You won't listen to me, then ? ' said the young man ; 
 so sadly, that she had not the courage to leave him, and 
 she turned at last, and walked a few steps. 
 
 ' Will you let me carry your basket ? ' said her cousin. 
 * "Who are you taking tliis to ? ' 
 
 'It is for my grandmother,' said the girl, resisting. 
 ' Kemy, have you really anything to say ? ' 
 
 They had come to the end of the park, where its gates 
 lead into the forest ; one road led to the Kue de la Lampe, 
 the other into the great waving world of trees. It was a 
 lovely summer's afternoon. There was a host in the air, 
 delighting and basking in the golden comfort ; butterflies, 
 midges, flights of birds from the forest were passing. It 
 was pleasant to exist in such a place and hour, to walk by 
 Eemy on the soft springing turf, and to listen to the sound 
 of his voice under the shade of the overarching boughs. 
 
 'Patty, do you know I did want to marry you for 
 your money ? ' Eemy said at last. ' I love you truly ; but 
 I have not loved you always as I ought to have done — as 
 I do now. You scorn me, you cannot forgive me ? ' he 
 added, as the girl stopped short. ' You will never trust 
 me again.' 
 
 ' Oh, Eemy, how could you. . . Oh, yes, indeed, 
 indeed I do forgive you. I do trust you,' she added 
 quickly, saying anything to comfort and cheer him when
 
 2i8 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 he looked so unhappy. Every moment took them farther 
 and fartlier on. The little person with the pretty red 
 hood and bright eyes and the little basket had almost for- 
 gotten her commission, her conscience, her grandmother, 
 and all the other duties of life. Remy, 1k>o, had forgotten 
 everything but the bright sweet little face, the red hood, 
 and the little hand holding the basket, when they 
 came to a dark, enclosed halting-place at the end of the 
 avenue, from whence a few rocky steps led out upon 
 a sudden hillside, which looked out into the open 
 world. It was a lovely surprising sight, a burst of open 
 country, a great purple amphitheatre of rocks shining and 
 hills spreading to meet the skies, clefts and sudden gleams, 
 and a wide distant horizon of waving forest fringing the 
 valley. Clouds were drifting and tints changing, the 
 heather springing between the rocks at their feet, and the 
 thousands of tree-tops swaying like a ripple on a sea. 
 
 Something in the great wide freshness of the place 
 brought Patty to herself again. 
 
 * How lovely it is,' she said. ' Oh, Remy, why did you 
 let me come ? Oh, I oughtn't to have come.' 
 
 Eemy tried to comfort her. ' We have not been very 
 long,' he said. ' We will take the short cut thi-ough the 
 trees, and you shall tell your mother all about it. There's 
 no more reason why we shouldn't walk together now than 
 when we were at Littleton.' 
 
 As he was speaking he was leading the way through
 
 ^ LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 219 
 
 the brushwood, and they got into a cross avenue leading 
 back to the carriage- road. 
 
 'I shall come to Madame Capuchon's, too, since you 
 are going,' said Kemy, making a grand resolution. ' I 
 think perhaps she will help us. She is bound to, since 
 she did all the mischief ; ' and then he went on a few 
 steps, holding back the trees that grew in Patty's way. A 
 little field-mouse peeped at them and ran away, a light- 
 ning sheet of light flashed through the green and chang- 
 ing leaves, little blue flowers were twinkling on the mosses 
 under the trees, dried blossoms were falling, and cones and 
 dead leaves and aromatic twigs and shoots. 
 
 ' Is this the way ? ' said Patty, suddenly stopping short 
 and looking about her. ' Eemy, look at those arrows cut 
 in the trees ; they are not pointing to the road we have 
 come. Oh, Eemy, do not lose the way,' cried Patty, in a 
 sudden fright. 
 
 ' Don't be afraid,' Eemy answered, laughing, and 
 hurrying on before her ; and then he stopped short, and 
 began to pull at his moustache, looking first in one direc- 
 tion, and then in another. ' Do you think they would be 
 anxious if you were a little late ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Anxious ! ' cried Patty. ' Mamma would die ; she coiild 
 not bear it. Oh, Eemy, Eemy, what shall I do ? ' She 
 flushed up, and almost began to cry. ' Oh, find the way, 
 please. Do you see any more arrows ? Here is one ; come, 
 come.'
 
 220 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 Patty turned, and began to retrace her steps, hurrying 
 along in a fever of terror and remorse. The wood-pigeons 
 cooed overhead, the long lines of distant trees were ming- 
 ling and twisting in a sort of dance, as she flew along. 
 
 ' Wait for me, Patty,' cried Eemy. * Here is someone 
 to ask.' And as lie spoke he pointed to an old woman 
 coming along one of the narrow cross pathways, carrying 
 a tray of sweetmeats and a great jar of lemonade. 
 
 ' Fontainebleau, my little gentleman ? ' said the old 
 woman. ' You are turning your back upon it. The arrows 
 point away from Fontainebleau, and not towards the 
 town. Do you know the big cross near the gate ? Well, 
 it is just at the end of that long avenue. Wait, wait, my 
 little gentleman. Won't you buy a sweet sugarstick for 
 the pretty little lady in the red hood ? Believe me, she 
 is fond of sugarsticks. It is not the first time that she has 
 bought some of mine.' 
 
 But Remy knew that Patty was in no mood for barley- 
 sugar, and he went off to cheer up his cousin with the 
 good news. The old woman hobbled off grumbling. 
 
 It was getting later by this time. The shadows were 
 changing, and a western light was beginning to glow upon 
 the many stems and quivering branches of the great waving 
 forest. Everything glowed in unwearied change and 
 beauty, but they had admired enough. A bird was sing- 
 ing high above over their heads, they walked on quickly 
 in silence for half an hour — a long interminable half hour,
 
 > LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 221 
 
 and at the end of the avenue, as the old woman had told 
 them, they found a wide stony ascending road, with the 
 dark murmuring fringe of the woods on either side, and a 
 great cross at the summit of the ascent. Here Patty sank 
 down for a minute, almost falling upon the step, and 
 feeling safe. This gate was close to the Eue de la Lampe. 
 
 ' Now go,' she said to her cousin. ' Go on first, and I 
 will follow, dear Eemy. I don't want to be seen with you 
 any more. People know me and my red hood.' 
 
 De la Louviere could only hope that Patty had not 
 already been recognised. 
 
 All the same he refused utterly to leave her until they 
 reached the gates of the forest ; then he took the short way 
 ^a the Rue de la Lampe, and Patty followed slowly. She 
 had had a shock, she wanted to be calm before she saw her 
 grandmother. Her heart was beating still, she was tired 
 and sorry. Patty's conscience was not easy — she felt she 
 had done wrong, and yet — and yet — with the world of love 
 in her heart it seemed as if nothing could be wrong and 
 nobody angry or anxious. 
 
 Mrs. Maynard herself had felt something of the sort 
 that afternoon after the little girl had left her. The 
 mother watched her across the court-yard, and then sat 
 down as usual to her work. Her eyes filled up with grate- 
 ful tears as she bent over her sewing ; they often did when 
 Henry spoke a kind word or Patty looked specially happy.
 
 222 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 Yes, it was a miracle that at fifty all this should come to 
 her, thought Marthe Maynard — brilliant beauty and cour- 
 age and happiness, and the delight of youth and of early 
 hopes unrepressed. It was like a miracle that all this had 
 come to her in a dearer and happier forna than if it had 
 been given to herself. Marthe wondered whether all her 
 share had been reserved for her darling in some mysterious 
 fashion, and so she went on stitching her thoughts to her 
 canvas as people do ; peaceful, tranquil, happy thoughts 
 they were, as she sat waiting for her husband's return. An 
 hour or two went by, people came and went in the court- 
 yard below, the little diligence rattled off to the railway ; 
 at last, thinking she heard Henry's voice, Marthe leant 
 out of the window and saw him speaking to an old woman 
 with a basket of sweetmeats, and then slie heard the 
 sitting-room door open, and she looked round to see who 
 it was coming in. It was Simonne, who came bustling 
 in with a troubled look, like ripples in a placid smooth 
 pool. The good old creature had put on a shawl and 
 gloves and a clean cap with huge frills, and stood silent, 
 umbrella in hand, and staring at the calm-looking lady at 
 her work-table. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' said Marthe, looking up. ' Simonne, is 
 my mother unwell ? ' 
 
 ' Madame is quite well ; do not be uneasy,' said 
 Simonne, with a quick, uncertain glance in Mrs. Maynard's 
 face
 
 ^ LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 223 
 
 * Have you brought me back Patty ? ' said Mrs. May- 
 nard. ' Has Betty come with you ? ' 
 
 ' Betty ? I don't know where she is,' said Simonne. 
 * She is a craze-pated girl, and you should not allow her to 
 take charge of Patty.' 
 
 Mrs. Maynard smiled. She knew Simonne's ways of 
 old. All cooks, housekeepers, ladies'-maids, &c. under 
 fifty were crazy-pated girls with Simonne, whose sym- 
 pathies certainly did not rest among her own class. Mrs. 
 Maynard's smile, however, changed away when she looked 
 at Simonne a second time. 
 
 'I am sure something is the matter,' Marthe cried, 
 starting up. ' Where's Patty ? ' The poor mother sud- 
 denly conjecturing evil had turned quite pale, and all the 
 soft contentment and calm were gone in one instant. She 
 seized Simonne's arm with an imploring nervous clutch, as 
 if praying that it might be nothing dreadful. 
 
 ' Don't be uneasy, madame,' said Simonne. ' Girls are 
 girls, and that Betty is too scatterbrained to be trusted 
 another time : she missed Patty and came alone to our 
 house. Oh, I sent her off quickly enough to meet 
 Mademoiselle. But you see, Madame,' Simonne was 
 hurrying on nervously over her words, ' our Patty is so 
 young, she thinks of no harm, she runs here and there 
 iust as fancy takes her; but a young girl must not be 
 talked of, and — and it does not do for her to be seen alune
 
 224 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 in company with anybody but Ler mother or father. 
 There's no harm done, but ' 
 
 'What are you talking of — why do you frighten me 
 for nothing, Simonne?' said Mrs. Maynard, recovering 
 crossly with a faint gasp of relief, and thinking all was 
 well. She had expected a broken limb at the least in her 
 sudden alarm. 
 
 ' There, Marthe,' said Simonne, taking her hand, ' you 
 must not be angry with me. It was the concierge de chez 
 nous, who made a remark which displeased me, and I 
 thought I had best come straight to you.' 
 
 ' ^ly Patty, my Patty ! What have you been doing, 
 Simonne ? How dare you talk of my child to common 
 people ! ' said the anxious mother. 
 
 ' I was anxious, Madame,' said poor Simonne, humbly. 
 ' I looked for her up the street and along the great avenue, 
 and our concierge met me and said, " Don't trouble your- 
 self. I met your young lady going towards the forest in 
 company with a young man." She is a naughty child, 
 and I was vexed, Madame, that is all,' said Simonne. 
 
 But Mrs. Maynard hardly heard her to the end, — she 
 put up her two hands with a little cry of anxious horror. 
 ' And is she not back ? What have you been doing ? why 
 did you not come before ? My Patty, my Patty ! what 
 absurd mistake is this ? Oh, where is my husband ? Papa, 
 papa ! ' cried poor Mrs. Maynard, distracted, running out 
 upon the landing. Mr. Maynard was coming upstairs
 
 > LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 225 
 
 at that instant, followed by the blowsy and breathless 
 Betty. 
 
 Mr. Maynard had evidently heard the whole story : he 
 looked black and white, as people do who are terribly dis- 
 turbed and annoyed. Had they been at home in England, 
 Patty's disappearance would have seemed nothing to 
 them ; there were half-a-dozen young cousins and neigh- 
 bours to whose care she might have been trusted, but 
 here, where they knew no one, it was inexplicable, and no 
 wonder they were disquieted and shocked. Mr. Maynard 
 tried to reassure his wife, and vented his anxiety in wrath 
 upon the luckless Betty. 
 
 Marthe sickened as she listened to Betty's sobs and 
 excuses. ' I can't help it,' said the stupid girl, with a 
 scared face. 'Miss Patty didn't wait for me. The old 
 woman says she saw a red hood in the forest, going along 
 with a young man, — master heard her. . .' 
 
 ' The concierge says he thinks it is missis's nephew ! ' 
 ' Ah ! ' screamed poor Mrs. Maynard ; ' I see it all.' 
 ' Hold your tongue, you fool. How dare you all come 
 to me with such lies I ' shouted Maynard to the maid. 
 He was now thoroughly frightened. After all, it might 
 be a plot; who could tell what villany that young man 
 might be capable of — carrying her off, marrying her ; all 
 for the sake of her money. And, full of this new alarm 
 he rushed down into the court again. The old woman 
 
 Q
 
 226 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 was gone, but a carriage was standing there waiting to be 
 engaged. 
 
 ' We may as well go and fetch Patty at your mother's,' 
 Maynard called out to his wife, with some appearance of 
 calmness. ' I daresay she is there by this time.' Mrs. 
 Maynard ran downstairs and got in, Simonne bundled in 
 too, and sat with her back to the horses. But that ten 
 minutes' drive was so horrible that not one of them ever 
 spoke of it again. 
 
 They need not have been so miserable, poor people, if 
 they had only known Patty had safely reached her grand- 
 mother's door by that time. When the concierge, who 
 was sitting on his barrow at the door, let her in and 
 looked at her with an odd expression in his face, 
 * Simonne was in a great anxiety about you, mademoiselle,' 
 said he ; ' she is not yet come in. Your grandmamma is 
 upstairs as usual. Have you had a pleasant walk ? ' 
 
 Patty made no answer ; she ran upstairs quickly. ' I 
 must not stay long,' she said to herself. ' I wonder if 
 Remy is there.' The front door was open, and she went 
 in, and then along the passage, and with a beating heart 
 she stopped and knocked at her grandmother's door. 
 ' Come in, child,' the old lady called out from the inside ; 
 and as Patty nervously fumbled at the handle, the voice 
 inside added, ' Lift up the latch, and the hasp will fall. 
 Come in,' and Patty went in as she was told.
 
 > LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. Z7.j 
 
 It was getting to be a little dark indoors by this 
 time, and the room seemed to Patty full of an odd dazzle 
 of light — perhaps because the glass door of the dressing 
 closet, in which many of Madame Capuchon's stores were 
 kept, was open. 
 
 ' Come here, child,' said her grandmother, hoarsely, 
 ' and let me look at you.' 
 
 ' How hoarsely you speak,' said Patty ; ' I'm afraid 
 your cold is very bad, grandmamma.' 
 
 The old lady grunted and shook her head. ' My 
 health is miserable at all times,' she said. ' What is 
 that you have got in your basket ? butter, is it not, by the 
 smell ? ' 
 
 ,'What a good nose you have, grandmamma,' said 
 Patty, laughing faintly, and opening her basket. ' I have 
 brought you a little pat of butter and some honeycomb, 
 with mamma's love,' said Patty. ' They will supply you 
 from the hotel, if you like, at the same price you pay 
 now.' 
 
 ' Thank you, child,' said Madame Capuchon. ' Come 
 a little closer, and let me look at you. Why, what is the 
 matter ? You are all sorts of colours, — blue, green, red. 
 What have you been doing, Miss ? See if you can find 
 my spectacles on that table.' 
 
 ' What do you want them for, grandmamma ? ' Patty 
 asked, fumbling about among all the various little odds 
 and ends. 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 ' The better to see you, my dear, and anybody else 
 who may call upon me,' said the grandmamma, in her 
 odd broken English. Patty was nervous still and con- 
 fused, longing to ask whether Remy had made his appear- 
 ance, and not daring to speak his name first. ' Come 
 down here,' said her grandmother, deliberately putting on 
 her spectacles. * What is this I hear from your cousin, 
 mademoiselle ? Do you know that no well-bred young 
 woman gives her heart without permission ; and so I told 
 him, and sent him about his business,' said the old lady, 
 looking fixedly through her glasses. ' Ah, little girls 
 like you are fortunate to have grannies to sever them from 
 importunate admirers, and to keep such histories from 
 their parents' ear.' 
 
 ' "What do you mean, grandmamma ? I don't want to 
 hide anything^ cried Patty, clasping her hands piteously, 
 and bursting into tears. ' Only I do care for him dearly, 
 dearly, dearly, grandmamma,' and turning passionately, 
 in her confusion she knocked over a little odd-shaped box 
 that was upon the table, and it opened, and something fell 
 out. 
 
 ' Be careful, child ! What have you done ? ' said the 
 old lady, sharply. ' Here, give the things to me.' 
 
 ' It's — it's something made of ivory, grandmamma,' 
 said stupid Patty, looking up bewildered. ' What is it 
 for ? ' 
 
 ' Take care ; take care. Those are my teeth, child. I
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 229 
 
 cannot eat comfortably without them,' said the old lady, 
 pettishly. ' Here, give them to me,' and as Patty put out 
 her hand the old woman seized it in her own withered old 
 fingers, and holding the child by a firm grip, said again, 
 * And so you love him ? ' 
 
 ' What is the use — who cares ? ' answered poor Patty, 
 desperately, ' when you all want to send him away from 
 me.' 
 
 ' We know better,' Madame Capuchon was begin- 
 ning, or going to begin, when there was a sudden 
 crack at the door of the glass cupboard. It seemed to 
 Patty as if her grandmother, changing her mind, cried 
 out passionately, ' No, they shall not send me away.' 
 In a moment a figure coming, Patty knew not from 
 whence, had sprung upon her, and caught the little 
 thing in two strong arms, and held her close to a heart 
 that was beating wildly. ' You are my wife — you 
 shall not escape me,' cried Eemy, who had been silent all 
 this while, but who could keep silence no longer, while 
 Patty, blushing deeper and more deeply, then pale, then 
 trembling, angry and frowning all at once, tried in vain 
 to escape. 
 
 Madame Capuchon, against all historical facts, began 
 to scream and ring her bell, and at that instant, as it 
 happened, came voices in the passage, a confusion outside, 
 the door of the room burst open, and Mrs. Maynard rush-
 
 230 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 ing in, burst into a flood of tears, tore Patty away from 
 Remy, and clasped her to her heart. 
 
 ' I tell yoii she is here, monsieur,' Simonne was saying 
 to Maynard himself, who was following his wife. As soon 
 as he saw her there, with Patty in her arms, ' Now, Marthe,' 
 he said, 'you will at last believe what a goose you are at 
 times ; ' and he began to laugh in a superior sort of fashion, 
 and then he choked oddly and sat down with his face 
 hidden in his hands. He had not even seen Eemy as yet, 
 who thought it best to leave them all to themselves for 
 awhile, and went away through the glass cupboard to the 
 dining-room again. 
 
 * But what is it all about ? ' asked JNIadame Capuchon 
 from her bed. 
 
 * My child, I thought your cousin had robbed us of 
 you,' her mother sobbed. 
 
 It was all over now, and Patty, also in penitent tears, 
 was confessing what had detained her. They could not 
 be angry at such a time, they could only clasp her in their 
 loving arms. All the little miniatures were looking on 
 from their hooks on the wall, the old grandmother was 
 shaking her frills in excitement, and nodding and blinking 
 encouragement from her alcove. 
 
 ' Look here, Henry,' said she to her son-in-law ; ' I 
 have seen the young man, and I think he is a very 
 fine young fellow. In fact, he is now waiting in the 
 dining-room, for I sent him away when I heard la
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 231 
 
 petite coming. I wanted te talk to her alone. Felicie 
 has written to me on the subject of their union ; he 
 wishes it, I wish it, Patty wishes it ; oh, I can read little 
 girls' faces : he has been called to the bar ; my property 
 will remain undivided ; why do you oppose their marriage ? 
 I cannot conceive what objection you can ever have had 
 to it.' 
 
 ' What objection I ' said the squire, astounded. 
 'Why, you yourself warned me. Felicie writes as 
 usual with an eye to her own interest— a grasping, 
 covetous ' 
 
 ' Hush, hush, dear ; since Remy has brought Patty 
 safe back we have no reason to be angry,' interceded 
 Mrs. Maynard, gently pushing her husband towards the 
 door. 
 
 The remembrance of her own youth had come back 
 to her here in the place where she had suffered so long. 
 Ah ! she had acted a hard mother s part when she ever 
 forgot it ; and was not Patty her own child ? and could 
 she condemn her to a like trial ? The old lady's hands 
 and frills were trembling more and more by this time ; 
 she was not used to being thwarted; the squire also was 
 accustomed to have his own way. 
 
 ' My Felicie, my poor child, I cannot suffer her to be 
 spoken of in this way,' cried Madame Capuchon, who at 
 another time would have been the first to complain. 
 
 ' Patty is only sixteen,' hazarded Mrs. Maynard.
 
 232 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 
 
 ' I was sixteen when I married,' said ]\Iadame 
 Capuchon. 
 
 ' Patty shall wait till she is sixty-six before I give her 
 to a penniless adventurer,' cried the squire, in great wrath. 
 
 ' Very well,' said the old lady, spitefully, ' Now I 
 will tell you what I have told him. As I tell you, lie 
 came to see me just now, and is at this moment, I believe, 
 devouring the remains of the pie Simonne prepared for 
 your luncheon. I have told him that he shall be my heir 
 whether you give him Patty or not. I am not joking, 
 Henry, I mean it. I like the young man exceedingly. 
 He is an extremely well-bred young fellow, and will do 
 us all credit, and a girl does not want money like a man.' 
 
 Maynard shrugged his shoulders and looked at his 
 wife. 
 
 ' But, child, do you really care for him ? ' Patty's 
 mother said, reproachfully. 'What can you know of 
 him ? ' and she took both the little hands in hers. 
 
 Little Patty hung her head for a minute. 'Oh, 
 mamma, he has told me everything : he told me he did 
 think of the money at first, but only before he knew me. 
 Dear papa, if you talked to him you would believe him, 
 indeed you would — indeed, indeed you would.' Patty's 
 imploring wistful glance touched the squire, and, as she 
 said, Maynard could not help believing in Remy when he 
 came to talk things over quietly with him, and without 
 losing his temper.
 
 LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD. 233 
 
 He found him in the dining-room, with a bottle of 
 wine and the empty pie-dish before him ; the young man 
 had finished off everything but the bones and the cork 
 and the bottle. 'I had no breakfast, sir,' said Remy, 
 starting up, half laughing, half ashamed. 'My grand- 
 mother told me to look in the cupboard, but hearing your 
 daughter's voice I could not help going back just now.' 
 
 ' Such a good appetite should imply a good con- 
 science,' Maynard thought ; and at last he relented, and 
 eventually grew to be very fond of his son-in-law. 
 
 Patty and Remy were married on her seventeenth 
 birthday. I first saw them in the court-yard of the 
 hotel, but afterwards at Sunnymede, where they spent 
 last summer. 
 
 Madame Capuchon is not yet satisfied with the 
 butter. It is a very difficult thing to get anywhere 
 good. Simonne is as devoted as ever, and tries hard to 
 satisfy her mistress.
 
 >»
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLEB
 
 -^»-.
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLEE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ON MONSTERS, ETC. 
 
 Most of us have read at one time or another in our lives 
 the article entitled Gigantes, which is to be found in a 
 certain well-known dictionary. It tells of that terrible 
 warfare in which gods and giants, fighting in fury, hurled 
 burning woods and rocks through the air, piled mountains 
 upon mountains, brought seas from their boundaries, 
 thundering, to overwhelm their adversaries ; — it tells how 
 the gods fled in their terror into Egypt, and hid them- 
 selves in the shapes of animals, until Hercules, the giant- 
 killer of those strange times, sprang up to rescue and de- 
 liver the world from the dire storm and confusion into 
 which it had fallen. Hercules laid about him with his 
 club. Others since then, our Jack among the rest, have 
 fought with gallant courage and devotion, and given their 
 might and their strength and their lives to the battle. 
 That battle which has no end, alas ! and which rages from
 
 238 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 sunrise to sundown, — although hero after hero comes for- 
 ward, full of hope, of courage, of divine fire and indigna- 
 tion. 
 
 Who shall gainsay us, if now-a-days some of us may 
 perhaps be tempted to think that the tides of victory flow, 
 not with the heroes, but with the giants ; that the gods 
 of our own land are hiding in strange disguises ; tliat the 
 heroes battling against such unequal odds are weary and 
 sad at heart; while the giants, unconquered still, go 
 roaming about the country, oppressing the poor, devour- 
 ing the children, laying homes bare and desolate ? 
 
 Here is * The Times ' of to-day," full of a strange 
 medley and record of the things which are in the world 
 together — Jacks and giants, and champion-belts and testi- 
 monials; kings and queens, kniglits and castles and 
 ladies, screams of horror, and shouts of laughter, and of 
 encouragement or anger. Feelings and prejudices and 
 events, — all vibrating, urging, retarding, influencing one 
 another. 
 
 And we read that some emperors are feasting in com- 
 pany at their splendid revels, while another is torn from 
 his throne and carried away by a furious and angry foe, 
 by a giant of the race which has filled the world with 
 such terror in its time. Of late a young giant of that 
 very tribe has marched through our own streets ; a giant 
 at play, it is true, and feeding his morbid appetite witli 
 
 ' May, 1867.
 
 t 
 
 '* JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 239 
 
 purses, chains and watches, and iron park-railings ; but 
 who shall say that he may not perhaps grow impatient as 
 time goes on, and cry for other food. 
 
 And meanwhile people are lying dying in hospitals, 
 victims of one or more of the cruel monsters, whose ill 
 deeds we all have witnessed. In St. Bartholomew's wards, 
 for instance, are recorded twenty-three cases of victims 
 dying from what doctors call delirium tremens. Which 
 Jack is there among us strong enough to overcome this 
 giant with his cruel fierce fangs, and force him to abandon 
 his prey ? Here is the history of two men suffocated in a 
 vat at Bristol by the deadly gas from spent hops. One of 
 them, Ambrose, is hurrying to the other one's help, and 
 gives up his life for his companion. It seems hard that 
 such men should be sent unarmed into the clutch of such 
 pitiable monsters as this ; and one grudges these two 
 lives, and the tears of the widows and children. I might 
 go on for many pages fitting the parable to the com- 
 monest facts of life. The great parochial Blunderbore 
 still holds his own; some of his castles have been seized, 
 but others are impregnable ; their doors are kept closed, 
 their se6rets are undiscovered. 
 
 Other giants, of the race of Cormoran, that ' dwell in 
 gloomy caverns, and wade over to the mainland to steal 
 cattle,' are at this instant beginning to creep from their 
 foul dens, by sewers and stagnant waters, spreading death 
 and dismay along their patli. In the autumn their raids
 
 240 7^^CK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 are widest and most deadly. Last spring I heard two 
 women telling one another of a giant of the tribe of Cor- 
 moran camping down at Dorking in Surrey. A giant 
 with a poisoned breath and hungry jaws, attacking not 
 only cattle, but the harmless country people all about ; 
 children, and men, and women, wliom he seized with his 
 deadly gripe, and choked and devoured. Giant Blunder- 
 bore, it must be confessed, has had many a hard blow 
 dealt him of late from one Jack and another. There is 
 one gallant giant-killer at P'ulham liard by, waging war 
 with many monsters, the great blind giant Ignorance 
 among the rest. Some valiant women, too, tliere are who 
 have armed themselves, and gone forth with weak hands 
 and tender strong hearts to do their best. I liave seen 
 some lately who are living in the very midst of the 
 dreary labyrinth where one of the great ]\Iinotaurs of the 
 city is lurking. Tliey stand at the dark mouth of the 
 poisonous caverns, warning and entreating those who, in 
 their blindness and infatuation, are rushing thither, to 
 beware. 
 
 ' I took a house and came,' said one of them simply 
 
 to my friend Mrs. K , when she asked her how it 
 
 happened that she was established there in the black 
 heart of the city. All round her feet a little ragged tribe 
 was squatting on the floor, and chirping, and spelling and 
 learning a lesson which, pray heaven, will last them their 
 lives ; and across the road, with pretty little criunpled
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 241 
 
 mob-caps all awry on their brown heads, other children 
 were sewing and at work under the quiet rule of their 
 good teachers. The great business of the city was going 
 on outside. Tlie swarming docks were piled with bales 
 and crowded with workmen ; the main thoroughfares 
 streaming and teeming witli a struggling life ; the side 
 streets silent, deserted, and strangely still. A bleak, 
 north-east wind was blowing down some of these grey 
 streets. I have a vision before me now of one of them ; 
 a black deserted alley or passage, hung with some of 
 those rags that seem to be like the banners of this reign 
 of sorrow and sin. The wind swooped up over the stones, 
 the rags waved and fell, and a colourless iigure passing 
 up ^the middle of the dirty gutter pulled at its grimy 
 shawl and crouched as it slid along. 
 
 We may well say, we Londoners, see how far the east is 
 from the west. I myself, coming home at night to the 
 crowded cheerful station, and travelling back to the light 
 of love, of warmth, of comfort, find myself dimly wonder- 
 ing whether those are not indeed our sins out yonder set 
 away from us, in that dreary East of London district ; 
 our sins alive and standing along the roadside in rags, 
 and crying out to us as we pass. 
 
 Here in our country cottage the long summer is com- 
 ing to an end, in falling leaves and setting suns, and gold 
 and russet, where green shoots were twinkling a little
 
 -42 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 time ago. The banks of the river liave shifted their 
 colours, and the water, too, has changed. Tlie song of 
 the birds is over ; but there are great fliglits in the air, 
 rapid, mysterious. For weeks past we have been living 
 in a gracious glamour and dazzle of light and warmth ; 
 and now, as we see it go, H. and I make plans, not 
 unwillingly, fur a winter to be passed between the comfort- 
 able walls of our winter home. The cliildren, hearing our 
 talk, begin to prattle of the treasures they will find in 
 tlie nursery at London, as they call it. Dolly's liead, 
 which was unfortunately forgotten when we came away, 
 and the panniers off the wooden donkey's back, and little 
 neighbour Joan, who will come to tea again, in the doll's 
 tea-things. Yesterday, when I came home from the 
 railway-station across the bridge, little Anne, who had 
 never in her short life seen the l-amps of the distant town 
 aliglit, came toddling up, chattering about ' de pooty 
 tandles,' and pulling my dress to make me tiu^n and see 
 them too. 
 
 To-niglit other lights have been blazing. The west 
 has been shining along the hills with a gorgeous autumnal 
 fire. From our terrace we have watched the lights and 
 the mists as they succeed one another, streaming mysteri- 
 ously before yonder great high altar. It has been blazing 
 as if for a solemn ceremonial and bm-nt sacrifice. As 
 we watch it, otlier people look on in the fields, on the 
 hills, and from the windows of the town. Evening
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 243 
 
 incense rises from the valley, and mounts up through the 
 stillness. The waters catch the light, and repeat it ; the 
 illumination falls upon us, too, as we look and see how 
 liigh the heavens are in comparison with the earth ; and 
 suddenly, as we are waiting still, and looking and admir- 
 ing, it is over — the glory has changed into peaceful 
 twilight. 
 
 And so we come away, closing shutters and doors and 
 curtains, and settling down to our common occupations 
 and thoughts again ; but outside, another high service is 
 beginning, and the lights of the great northern altar are 
 burning faintly in their turn.
 
 :44 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 CORMORAN. 
 
 In the same way that fancy worlds and dreams do not 
 seem meant for the dreary stone streets and smoky high- 
 ways of life, neither do they belong to summer and holi- 
 day time, when reality is so vivid, so sweet, and so near. 
 It is but a waste to dream of fairies dancing in rings, 
 or peeping from the woods, when the singing and shining 
 is in all the air, and the living sunshiny children are run- 
 ning on the lawn, and pulling at the flowers with their 
 determined little fingers ; and when there are butterflies 
 and cuckoos and flowing streams, and the soimds of flocks 
 and the vibrations of summer everywhere. Little Anne 
 comes trotting up with a rose-head tight crushed in her 
 hand ; little ^Margery has got a fern-leaf stuck into her 
 hat ; Puck, Peasblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustard-seed, 
 themselves, are all in\dsible in this great day-shine. The 
 gracious fancy kingdom vanishes at cock-crow, we know. 
 It is not among realities so wonderful and beautiful that 
 wo. can scarce realise them that we must look for it. Its 
 greatest triumphs are where no other light shines to
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 245 
 
 brighten — by weary sick beds ; when distance and loneli- 
 ness oppress. Who cannot remember days and Lours 
 when a foolish conceit has come now and again, like a 
 'flower growing on the edge of a precipice,' to distract 
 the dizzy thoughts from the dark depths below ? 
 
 Certainly it was through no fancy world that poor 
 John Trevithic's path led him wandering in life, but 
 amid realities so stern and so pitiful at times that even 
 his courage failed him now and then. He was no celebrated 
 hero, though I have ventured to christen him after the 
 great type of our childhood ; he was an honest, outspoken 
 young fellow, with a stubborn temper and a tender heart, 
 impressionable to outer things, although from within it 
 was not often that anything seemed to affect his even 
 moods and cheerful temper. He was a bright-laced, 
 broad-set young fellow, about six-and-twenty, with thick 
 light hair, and eagleish eyes, and lips and white teeth like 
 a girl. His hands were like himself, broad and strong, 
 with wide competent fingers, that could fight and hold 
 fast, if need be ; and yet they were so clever and gentle 
 withal, that children felt safe in his grasp and did not 
 think of crying, and people in trouble would clutch at 
 them when he put them out. Perhaps Jack did not al- 
 ways understand the extent of the griefs for which his 
 cheerful sympathy was better medicine after all than any 
 mere morbid investigations into their depths could have 
 proved to most of us.
 
 246 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 The first time I ever heard of the Kev. John Trevithic 
 was at Sandsea one morning, when my maid brouglit in 
 two cards, upon wliieh were inscribed the respective 
 names of Miss Moineaux and Miss Triquett. I had 
 taken a small furnished house at the Seaside (for H. was 
 ailing in those days, and had been ordered salt air by tlie 
 doctors); we knew nobody and nothing of tlie people of 
 the place, so that I was at first a little bewildered by the 
 visit ; but I gathered from a few indescribable indications 
 that the small fluttering lady who came in sideways was 
 Miss Moineaux, and the b(jny, curly, scanty personage 
 with tlie big hook-nose who acc(»mpanied her, Miss 
 Triquett. They both sat down very politely, as people do 
 who are utter strangers to you and about to ask you for 
 money. Miss Moineaux fixed a little pair of clear meek 
 imploring eyes upon me. Miss Triquett took in the 
 apartment with a qiuck imcomfortable swoop or ball-like 
 glance. Then she closed her eyes for an instant as she 
 cleared her throat. 
 
 She need not have been at any great pains in her in- 
 vestigations ; the story told itself. Two middle-aged 
 women, with their desks and work-baskets open before 
 them, and The Times and some Indian letters just come 
 in, on the table, the lodging-house mats, screens, Windsor 
 chairs, and druggets, a fire burning for H.'s benefit, an 
 open window for mine, the pleasant morning wash and 
 rush of the sea against the terrace upon which the win-
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 247 
 
 dows opened, and the voices of H.'s grandchildren playing 
 outside. I can see all the cheerful glitter now as I write. 
 I loved the little place tliat strikes me so quaintly and 
 kindly as I think of it. The sun shone all the time we 
 were tliere ; day by day I saw health and strength coming 
 into my H.'s pale face. The house was comfortable, the 
 walks were pleasant, good news came to us of those we 
 loved. In short, I was happy tliere, and one cannot 
 always give a reason for being happy. In (he meantime. 
 Miss Triquett had made her observations with her wan- 
 dering ball eyes. 
 
 ' We called,' she said, in a melancholy clerical voice, 
 ' thinking that you ladies might possibly be glad to avail 
 yourselves of an opportunity for subscribing to a testi- 
 monial whicli we are about to present to our friend and 
 pastor, the Keverend John Trevithic, ]M.A., and for which 
 my friend Miss Moineaux and myself are fully prepared 
 to receive subscriptions. You are perhaps noc aware that 
 we lose him on Tuesday week ? ' 
 
 'No, indeed,' said I, and I am afraid my capstrings 
 began to rustle, as they have a way of doing when I am 
 annoyed. 
 
 ' I'm sure I'm afraid you must think it a great liberty 
 of us to call,' burst in little Miss Moineaux, flurriedly, in 
 short disconnected sentences. ' I trust you will pardon 
 us. They say it is quite certain he is going. We have 
 had a suspicion — perhaps . . . .' Poor Miss Moineaiu
 
 248 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 stopped short, and turned veiy red, for Triquett's eye was 
 upon her. She continued, falteringly, 'Miss Triquett 
 kindly suggested collecting a teapot and strainer, if pos- 
 giljle — it depends, of course, upon friends and admirers. 
 You know how one longs to show onels gratitude; and 
 I'm sure in our hopeless state of apatliy .... we had 
 so neglected the commonest precautions ' 
 
 Here Miss Triquett interposed. ' The authorities were 
 greatly to blame. jNIr. Trevithic did his part, no more ; 
 but it is peculiarly as a pastor and teacher that we shall 
 miss him. It is a pity that you have not been aware 
 of his ministry.' (A roll of the eyes.) A little rustle and 
 chirrup from Miss Moineaux. 
 
 ' If the ladies had only heard him last Sunday after- 
 noon — no, I mean the morning before.' 
 
 ' The evening appeal was still more impressive,' said 
 Miss Triquett. ' I am looking forward anxiously to his 
 farewell next Sunday.' 
 
 It was really too bad. "Were these two strange 
 women Vho had come to take forcible possession of our 
 morning room about to discuss at any length the various 
 merits of Mr. Trevithic's last sermon but two, but three, 
 next but one, taking up my time, my room, asking for 
 my money ? I was fairly out of temper when, to my 
 horror, H., in her flute voice from the sofa, where she 
 had been lying under her soft silk quilt, said, — ' Mary, 
 will you give these ladies a sovereign for me towards the
 
 \ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 249 
 
 teapot. Mr. Trevithic was at school with my Frank, 
 and this is not, I thiak, the first sovereign he has had 
 from me.' 
 
 Miss Triquett's eyes roved over to the sofa. It must 
 have seemed almost sacrilege to her to speak of Mr. 
 Trevithic as a schpolboy, or even to have known him in 
 jackets. ' It is as a tribute to the pastor that these 
 subscriptions are collected,' said she, with some dignity, 
 * not on any lower ' 
 
 But it was too late, for little Miss Moineaux had 
 already sprung forward with a grateful 'Oh, thank you!' 
 and clasped H.'s thin hand. 
 
 And so at last we got rid of the poor little women. 
 They fluttered off with their prize, their thin silk dresses 
 catching the wind as they skimmed along the sands, their 
 little faded mants and veils and curls and petticoats 
 flapping feebly after them, their poor little well-worn feet 
 patting off in search of fresh tribute to Trevithic. 
 
 ' I declare they were both in love with him, ridiculous 
 old gooses,' said I. ' How could you give them that 
 sovereign ? ' 
 
 ' He, was a delightful boy,' said H. (She melts to all 
 schoolboys still, though her own are grown men and out 
 in the world.) ' I used to be very angry with him ; he 
 and Frank were always getting into scrapes together,' 
 said H., with a smiling sigh, for Major Frank was on his 
 way home from India, and the poor mother could trust
 
 250 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 herself to speak of him in her happiness. ' I hope it is 
 the right man,' H. went on, laugliing. ' You must go and 
 hear the farewell oration, Mary, and tell me how many 
 of these little ladies are carried out of church.' 
 
 They behaved like heroines. They«uever faltered or 
 fainted, they gave no outward sign (except, indeed, a 
 stifled sob here and there). I think the prospect of the 
 teapot buoyed them up ; for after the service two or three 
 of them assembled in the churchyard, and eagerly dis- 
 cussed some measure of extreme emphasis. They were 
 joined by the gentleman who had held the plate at the 
 door, and then their voices died away into whispers, as 
 the rector and ]Mr. Trevithic himself came out of the 
 little side door, where Miss Bellingham, the rector's 
 daughter, had been standing waiting. The rector was a 
 smug old gentleman in a nice Sunday tie. He gave his 
 arm to his daughter, and trotted along, saying, ' How do ? 
 how do ? ' to the various personages he passed. 
 
 The curate followed : a straight and active young 
 fellow, with a bright face, a face tliat looked right and 
 left as he came along. He didn't seem embarrassed by 
 the notice he excited. The four little girls from Coote 
 Court (so somebody called them) rushed forward to meet 
 him, saying, ' Good- by, dear ]\Ir. Trevitliic, good-by.' 
 Mrs. Myles herself, sliding off to her pony carriage, 
 carrying her satin train all over her arms, stopped to 
 smile, and to put out a slender hand, letting the satin
 
 \ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 251 
 
 stuff fall into the dust. Young Lord and Lady Wargrave 
 were hurrying away with their various guests, but they 
 turned and came back to say a friendly word to this 
 popul9,r young curate ; and Colonel Hambledon, Lord 
 Wargrave's brother, gave him a friendly nod, and said, 
 * I shall look in one day before you go.' I happened to 
 know the names of all these people, because I had sat in 
 Mrs. Myles's pew at cbm'ch, and I had seen the War- 
 graves in London. 
 
 The subscribers to the teapot were invited to visit 
 it at Mr. Philips's in Cockspur Street, to whom the de- 
 sign had been intrusted. It was a very handsome teapot, 
 as ugly as other teapots of the florid order, and the cliiel 
 peculiarity was that a snake grasped by a clenched hand 
 formed the handle, and a figure with bandages on its head 
 was sittino: on the melon on the lid. This was intended 
 to represent an invalid recovering from illness. Upon 
 one side was the following inscription : — 
 
 TO 
 
 THE EEV. JOHN TEEVITHIC, M.A. 
 
 FiiOM HIS PARISHIONERS AT SANDSEA, 
 
 IN GBATBFUL EKJIEMBRANCE OF HIS EXERTIONS DURING 
 
 THE CHOLERA SEASON OF 18 — , 
 
 AND HIS SUCCESSFUL AND ENTERPRISING EFFORTS FOR THE IMPROVED 
 
 DRAINAGE OF HIGH STREET AND THE NEIGHBOURING ALLEYS, 
 
 ESPECIALLY THOSE 
 
 KNOWN AS ' ST. Michael's buildings.' 
 Upon the other, — 
 
 TO THE REV, JOHN TEEVITHIC, M.A.
 
 252 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 Both these inscriptions were composed by Major Coote, 
 of Coote Court, a J.P. for the county. Several other magis- 
 trates had subscribed, and the presentation paper was 
 signed by most of tlie ladies of the town. I recognised 
 the bold autograph of Louisa Triquett,»ajid the lady-like 
 quill of Sarah Moineaux, among the rest. H. figured as 
 ' Anon.' down at the bottom. 
 
 Jack had honestly earned his teapot, the pride of his 
 mother's old heart. He had worked hard during that 
 unfortunate outbreak of cholera, and when the summer 
 came round again, the young man had written quires, 
 ridden miles, talked himself hoarse, about this neglected 
 sewer in St. Michael's Buildings. The Town Council, 
 finding that the whole of High Street would have to be 
 taken up, and what a very serious undertaking it was 
 likely to be, were anxious to compromise matters, and 
 they might have succeeded in doing so if it had not been 
 for the young man's determination. Old Mr. Bellingham, 
 who had survived some seventy cholera seasons, was not 
 likely to be very active in the matter. Everybody was 
 away, as it happened, at that time, except Major Coote, 
 who was easily talked over by anybody ; and Jobsen, the 
 mayor, had got hold of him, and Trevithic had to fight 
 the battle alone. One person sympathised with him from 
 the beginning, and talked to her father and insisted, very 
 persistently, that he should see the necessity of the mea- 
 sure. This was Anne Bellingham who, with her soft pink
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 253 
 
 eyes fixed on Trevithic's face, listened to every word lie 
 said with interest — an interest which quite touched and 
 gratified the young man, breathless and weary of per- 
 suading fishmongers, of trying to influence the sleek ob- 
 stinate butcher, and the careworn baker with his ten 
 dusty children, and the stolid oil and colourman, who 
 happened to be the mayor that year. It seemed, indeed 
 a hopeless case to induce these worthy people to increase 
 the rates, to dig up the High Street under their very 
 windows, to poison themselves and their families, and 
 drive away custom just as the season was beginning. 
 John confessed humbly that he had been wrong, that he 
 should have pressed the matter more urgently upon them 
 in» the spring, but he had been ill and away, if they re- 
 membered, and others had promised to see to it. It 
 would be all over in a week, before their regular customers 
 arrived. 
 
 Jack's eloquence succeeded in the end. How it came 
 about I can scarcely tell — he himself scarcely knew. 
 He had raised the funds, written to Lord Wargrave, and 
 brought Colonel Hambledon himself down from town ; 
 between them they arranged with the contractors, and it 
 was all settled almost without anybody's leave or au- 
 thority. One morning, Trevithic hearing a distant rum- 
 bling of wheels, jumped up from his breakfast and ran to 
 the window. A file of carts and workmen were passing 
 the end of the street ; men with pickaxes and shovels ;
 
 254 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 carts laden with strange-looking pipes and iron bars. 
 Mr. Moffat, the indignant butcher, found a pit of ten feet 
 deep at his shop-door that evening ; and Smutt, the baker, 
 in a fury, had to send his wife and children to her mother, 
 to be out of the way of the mess. In a week, however, 
 the whole thing was done, the pit was covered over, the 
 foul stream they dreaded was buried down deep in the 
 earth, and then in a little while the tide of opinion began 
 to turn. When all the coast was in a terror and confu- 
 sion, when cholera had broken out in one place and in 
 another, and the lodging-houses were empty, the shop- 
 keepers loud in complaints, — at Sandsea, thanks to these 
 ' well-timed exertions,' as people call di-aining, not a 
 single case was reported, and though the season was not 
 a good one for ordinary times, compared to other neigh- 
 bouring places, Sandsea was triumphant. Smutt was 
 apologetic, Moffat was radiant, and so was Anne Bel- 
 lingham in her quiet way. As for Miss Triquett, that 
 devoted adherent, she nearly jumped for joy, hearing that 
 the mayor of the adjoining watering-place was ill of the 
 prevailing epidemic and not expected to live. 
 
 And then the winter went by, and this time of excite- 
 ment passed over and the spring-time came, and John 
 began to look about and ask questions about other men's 
 doings and ways of life. It did not come upon him all 
 in one day that he wanted a change, but little by little 
 he realised that something was amiss. He himself could
 
 \ 
 
 % 
 
 "* ^ACk' THE GIANT-KiLLER. 255 
 
 hardly tell what it was when Colonel Hambledon asked 
 him one day. For one thing I think his own popularity 
 oppressed him. He was too good-humoured and good-na- 
 tm-ed not to respond to the advances which met him from 
 one side and another, but there were but few of the peo- 
 ple, except Miss Bellingham, with whom he felt any very 
 real sympathy, beyond that of gratitude and good-fellow- 
 ship. Colonel Hambledon was his friend, but he was 
 almost constantly away, and the Wargraves, too, only 
 came down from time to time. Jack would have liked to 
 see more of Mrs. jMyles, the pretty widow, but she was 
 the only person in the place who seemed to avoid him. 
 Colonel Coote was a silly good-natured old man ; Miss 
 Triquett and ]Miss Moineaux were scarcely companions. 
 Talking to these ladies, who agreed with every word he 
 said, was something ^.ike looking at his own face reflected 
 in a spoon. 
 
 Poor Trevithic used to long to fly when they began to 
 quote his own sermons to him ; but his practice was better 
 than his preaching, and, too kindhearted to wound their 
 feelings by any expression of impatience, he woidd wait 
 patiently while jNIiss Moineaux nervously tried to remem- 
 ber what it was that had made svich an impression upon 
 her the last time she heard him ; or jMiss Triquett ex- 
 pressed her view on the management of the poor-kitchen, 
 and read out portions of her correspondence, such as : —
 
 256 7^^^ THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 ' ]\Iy dearest ]Maria, — I have delayed answering your 
 very kind letter until the return of the warmer weather. 
 Deeply as I sympathise with your well-meant efforts for 
 the welfare of your poorer neighbours, I am sorry that I 
 cannot subscribe to the fund you are raising for the bene- 
 fit of your curate.' 
 
 * My a\mt is blunt, very blunt,' said Miss Triquett, 
 explaining away any little awkwardness ; ' but she is very 
 good, Mr. Trevitliic, and you have sometimes said that we 
 must not expect too much from our relations ; I try to 
 remember that.' 
 
 It was impossible to be seriously angry. Jack looked 
 at her oddly as she stood there by the pump in the 
 market-place where she had caught him. How familiar 
 the whole scene was to him ; tlie village street, the gable 
 of the rectory on the bill up above. Miss Triquett's 
 immovable glare ; — a stern vision of her used to rise 
 before him long after, and make him almost laugh, 
 looking back from a different place and world, with 
 strange eyes that had seen so many things that did not 
 exist for him in those dear tiresome old days. 
 
 On this occasion Jack and Miss Triquett were on their 
 way to the souT>-kitchen, where the district meeting was 
 held once a month. Seeing Colonel Hambledon across 
 the street, Trevithic escaped for a minute to speak to 
 him, while Triquett went on. The ladies came dropping
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 257 
 
 in one by one. It was a low room with a bow-windaw on 
 the street, and through an open door came a smell of 
 roast mutton from the kitchen, where a fire was burning" ; 
 and a glimpse of a poultry-yard beyond the kitchen itself. 
 There were little mottoes hung up all about in antique 
 spelling, such as ' Caste thy bredde upon ye watteres,' 
 the fancy and design of Mrs. Vickers, the present mana- 
 ger. She was very languid, and high- church, and opposed 
 to Miss Triquett and her friend Miss Hutch etts, who 
 had reigned there before Mrs. Vickers' accession. This 
 housekeeping was a serious business. It was a labour of 
 love, and of jealousy too: each district lady took the ap- 
 pointment in turn, while the others looked on and ratified 
 her measures. There was a sort of house of commons 
 composed of Miss Simmonds, who enjoyed a certain con- 
 sideration because she was so very fat ; good old Mrs. 
 Fox, with her white hair ; and Mrs. Champion, a sort of 
 lord chancellor in petticoats ; and when everybody made 
 objections the housekeeper sometimes resigned. Mrs. 
 Vickers had held firm for some months, and here she is 
 sorting out little tickets, writing little bills into a book, 
 and comparing notes with the paper lists which the ladiea 
 have brought in. 
 
 Two-and-sixpence a week for her lodging, three 
 children, two deformed ; owes fifteen shillings, deserted 
 wife, can get no relief from the parent,' Miss Moineaux 
 reads out from her slip.
 
 258 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 ' That is a hopeless case,' says Mrs. Champion ; ' let 
 her ofo into the workhouse.' 
 
 ' They have been there for months,' says Miss Moin- 
 eaux, perhaps. 
 
 ' It is no use trying to help such people,' says Miss 
 Triquett, decidedly. 
 
 ' Here is a pretty doctrine,' cried Miss Simmonds ; ' the 
 worse off folks are, the less help they may expect.' 
 
 ' When people are hopelessly lazy, dirty, and diseased,' 
 said Miss Triquett, with some asperity, ' the money is 
 only wasted which might be invaluable to the deserving. 
 As long as I am entrusted with funds from this charity, I 
 sliall take care they are well bestowed.' 
 
 ' I — I have promised Gummers some assistance,' 
 faltered Miss Moineaux. 
 
 Miss Simmonds. ' And she ought to have it, my 
 dear.' 
 
 Miss T. ' I tliiuk you forget that it is for Mr. 
 Trevithic to decide.' 
 
 Miss S. ' I think you are forgetting your duty as a 
 Christian woman.' 
 
 Miss T. ' I choose to overlook this insult. I will 
 appeal to Mr. Trevithic' 
 
 Miss S. ' Pray do not take the trouble to forgive 
 me, Miss Triquett, or to appeal to anyone. Xever since 
 Miss Hutchetts went away '
 
 X 
 
 '^ yACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 259 
 
 Miss T. ' Miss Hutchetts is my friend, and I will 
 not allow her name to be ' 
 
 Exit Miss Moineaux in alarm to call for assistance. 
 Miss Hutchetts, as they all know by experience, is the 
 string of the shower-bath, the war-cry of the Amazons. 
 
 The battle was raging furiously when Miss Moineaux 
 
 came back and flung herself devotedly into the melee. 
 
 Miss Triquett was charging right and left, shells were 
 
 ■ flying, artillery rattling. It was a wonder the ^vindows 
 
 were not broken. 
 
 Mrs. Champion was engaged with a hand-to-hand 
 fight with Miss Simraonds. Mrs. Vickers was laughing, 
 Miss Moineaux was trembling ; out of the window poured 
 such a clamorous mob of words and swell of voices that 
 John and the Colonel stopped to listen instead of going 
 in. A dog and a puppy, attracted by the noise, stood 
 wagging their tails in the sun. 
 
 ' Hutchetts- -Christian dooty — dirty children — sta- 
 tistics — gammon,' that was Miss Simmonds' voice, there 
 was no mistaking. ' Ladies, I beg,' from Mrs. Vickers ; 
 and here the alarm-bell began to ring ten minutes before 
 the children's dinner, and the sun shone, and the heads 
 bobbed at the window, and all of a sudden there was a 
 lull. 
 
 Trevithic, who like a coward had stopped outside 
 while the battle was raging, ran up the low flight of steps 
 to see what had been going on now that the danger was 
 
 s2
 
 26o JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 over, the guns silent, and the field, perhaps, strewed with 
 the dead and the dyinj^. No harm was done, he found, 
 when he walked into the room, only Miss Triquett was 
 hurt, her feelings had been wounded in the engagement, 
 and she was murmuring that her frieii^-Miss Hutchetts' 
 cliaracter as a gentlewoman had been attacked, but no one 
 was listening to her. 3Irs. Vickers was talking to a 
 smiling and pleasant-looking lady, who was standing in 
 the middle of the room. I don't know by what natural 
 art Mary Myles had quieted all the turmoil which had 
 been raging a minute before, but her pretty winsome ways 
 liad an interest and fascination for them all ; for old Miss 
 Triquett herself, who liad not very much that was pleasant 
 or pretty to look at, and who by degrees seemed to be 
 won over, too, to forget Miss Hutchetts, in her interest in 
 what this pretty widow was saving, — it was only some- 
 tliing about a school-treat in her garden. She stopped 
 short and blushed as Trevithic came in. 'Oh, here is 
 jNIr. Trevithic,' she said ; ' I will wait till he has finished 
 his business.' 
 
 Jack would rather not have entered into it in hei 
 presence, but he began as usual, and plodded on me- 
 thodically, and entered into the mysteries of soup meat, 
 and flannelling, and rheumatics, and the various ills and 
 remedies of life, but he could not help feeling a certain 
 scorn for himself, and embarrassment and contempt for 
 the shame he was feeling; and as he caught INIary
 
 "» 
 
 y JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 261 
 
 Myles' bright still eyes curiously fixed upon him, Jack 
 wondered whether anywhere else in the world, away from 
 these curious glances, he might not find work to do more 
 congenial and worthy of the name. It was not Mrs. 
 JNIyles' presence which affected him so greatly, but it 
 seemed like the last grain in the balance against this 
 chirruping tea-drinking life he had been leading so long. 
 It was an impossibility any longer. He was tired of it. 
 There was not one of these old women who was not doing 
 her part more completely than he was, with more heart 
 and good spirit than himself. 
 
 Some one had spoken to him of a workhouse chaplaincy 
 going begging at Hammersley, a great inland town on 
 the borders of Wales. Jack was like a clock which 
 begins to strike as soon as the hands point to the hour. 
 That very night he determined to go over and see the 
 place ; and he wrote to a friend of his at Hammersley to 
 get him permission, and to tell the authorities of the 
 intention with which he came.
 
 262 JACK THE GIAyr-KILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AN OGRESS. 
 
 AVhen John Trevithic, with his radiant, cheerful face, 
 marched for the first time through the wards of St. 
 May;dalene's, the old creatures propped up on their 
 pillows to see liim pass, both the master and mistress 
 went with him, duly impressed with his possible im- 
 portance, and pointed out one person and another ; and 
 as the mighty trio advanced, the poor souls cringed, and 
 sighed, and greeted tliem with strange nods, and gasps, 
 and contortions. John trudged along, saying little, but 
 glancing right and left with his bright eyes. He was 
 very much struck, and somewhat overcome by the sight 
 of so much that was sad, and in orderly rows, and a blue 
 cotton uniform. Was this to be his charge ? all these 
 hundreds of weary years, all these aching limbs and 
 desolate waifs from stranded homes, this afflicted multi- 
 tude of past sufferings ? He said nothing, but walked 
 along with his hands in his pockets, looking in vain to 
 see some face brighten at the master's approach. The 
 faces worked, twitched, woke up eagerly, but not one
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 263 
 
 caught the light which is reflected from the heart. What 
 endless wards, what a labyrinth of woes enclosed in the 
 wliitewashed walls. A few poor prints of royal per- 
 sonages, and of hop-gathering, and Christmas out of the 
 London News, were hanging on them. Whitewash and 
 blue cotton, and weary faces in the women's wards ; white- 
 wash and brown fustian, and sullen, stupid looks in the 
 men's : this was all Trevithic carried away in his brain 
 that first day ; — misery and whitewash, and a dull choking 
 atmosphere, from which he was ashamed almost to 
 escape out into the street, into the square, into the open 
 fields outside the town, across which his way led back to 
 the station. 
 
 Man proposes, and if ever a man honestly proposed 
 and determined to do his duty, it was John Trevithic, 
 stretched out in his railway corner, young and stout of 
 heart and of limb, eager for change and for work. He 
 was not very particular ; troubles did not oppose liim 
 morbidly. He had not been bred up in so refined a 
 school that poverty and suffering frightened him ; but 
 the sight of all this hopelessness, age, failure, all neatly 
 stowed away, and whitewashed over in those stony wards, 
 haunted him all the way home. They haunted him all 
 the way up to the rectory, where he was to dine that 
 evening, and between the intervals of talk, which were 
 pretty frequent after jNIiss Bellingham had left the room 
 and the two gentlemen to their claret. Jack had almost
 
 264 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 made up his mind, and indeed he felt like a traitor as he 
 came into the drawing-room, and he could not help seeing 
 how Anne brightened up as she beckoned him across the 
 room and made him sit down beside her. A great full 
 harvest-moon was shining in at the ►window, a late 
 autumnal bird Avas singing its melancholy song, a little 
 wind blew in and rustled round the room, and Anne, in 
 her muslins and laces, looked like a beautiful pale pensive 
 dream-lady by his side. Perhaps he might not see her 
 again, he thought, rather sentimentally, and that hence- 
 forth their ways would lie asimder. But how kind she 
 had been to him. How pretty she was. What graceful 
 womanly ways she had. How sorry he should be to part 
 from her. He came away and said good-by quite sadly, 
 looking in her face with a sort of apology, as if to beg 
 her pardon for what he was going to do. He had a 
 feeling that she would be sorry that he should leave her — 
 a little sorry, although she was far removed from him. The 
 bird sang to him all the way home along the lane, and 
 Jack slept very sound, and awoke in the morning quite 
 determined in his mind to go. As his landlady brouglit 
 in his breakfast-tray he said to himself that there was 
 nothing more to keep him at Sandsea, and then he sat 
 down and wrote to Mr. Bellingham that instant., and sent 
 up the note by ]Mrs. Bazley's boy. 
 
 A little later in the day, Trevithic went over to the 
 rectory himself. He wanted to get the matter quite
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 265 
 
 settled, for he could not help feeling sorry as he came 
 along and wondering whether he had been right after 
 all. He asked for the rector, and the man showed 
 liim into the study, and in a minute more the door 
 opened, but it was Miss Bellingham, not her father, who 
 came in. 
 
 She looked very strange and pale, and put out two 
 trembling hands, in one of which she was holding John's 
 letter. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Trevithic, what is this ? what does this 
 mean?' she said. 
 
 What indeed ? he need never have written the words, 
 for in another minute, suddenly Miss Bellingham burst 
 into tears. 
 
 ' They were very ill-timed tears as far as her own 
 happiness was concerned, as well as that of poor Johii 
 Trevithic, who stood by full of compassion, of secret 
 terror at his own weakness, of which for the first time he 
 began to suspect the extent. He was touched and 
 greatly affected. He walked away to the fireplace and 
 came back and stood before her, an honest, single-hearted 
 young fellow, with an immense compassion for weak 
 things, such as women and children, and a great con- 
 fidence in himself; and as he stood there he flushed in a 
 struggle of compassion, attraction, revulsion, pity, and 
 cruel disappointment. Those tears coming just then re- 
 lieved Anne Bellingham's heavy heart as they flowed in a
 
 2^6 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 passionate stream, and at the same time they quenched 
 many a youthful fire, destroyed in their track many a 
 dream of battle and victory, of persevering struggle and 
 courageous efforts for the rights of the wronged upon 
 earth. They changed the course of Tre^iihic's life at the 
 time, though in the end, perhaps, who shall say that it 
 was greatly altered by the complainings and foolish fond- 
 ness of this poor soul whom he was now trying to quiet 
 and comfort ? I, for my part, don't beliex'e that people 
 are so much affected by circumstance in the long run as 
 some people would have it. We think it a great matter 
 that we turned to the right or the left ; but both paths 
 go over the hill. Jack, as his friends called him, had de- 
 termined to leave a certain little beaten track of which 
 he was getting weary, and he had come up to say good- 
 by to a friend of his, and to tell her that he was going, 
 and this was the result. 
 
 She went on crying — she could not help herself now. 
 She was a fragile-looking little thing, a year or so younger 
 than Jack, her spiritual ciu-ate and future husband, whom 
 she had now known for two years. 
 
 * You see there is nothing particular for me to do 
 here,' he stammered, blushing. 'A great strong fellow 
 like myself ought to be putting his shoulder to the wheel.' 
 
 *I — I had so hoped that you had been happy here 
 with us,' said Miss Bellingham. 
 
 'Of course I have been happy — happier than I have
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 267 
 
 ever been in my life,' said Jack, with some feeling ; ' and 
 I shall never forget your kindness ; but the fact is, I have 
 been too happy. This is a little haven where some worn- 
 out old veteran might recruit and grow young again in 
 your kind keeping. It's no place for a raw recruit like 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Oh, think — oh, think of it again,' faltered Anne. 
 ' Please change your mind. We would try and make it 
 less — less worldly — more like what you wish.' 
 
 ' No, dear lady,' said Trevithic, half smiling, half 
 sighing. ' You are goodness and kindness itself, but I 
 must be consistent, I'm afraid. Nobody wants me here ; 
 I may be of use elsewhere, and .... Oh ! Miss Belling- 
 ham, don't — don't — pray don't ' 
 
 ' You know — you know you are wanted here,' cried 
 ]Miss Bellingham ; and the momentous tears began to flow 
 again down her cheeks all unchecked, though she put up 
 her fingers to hide them. She was standing by a table, a 
 slim creature, in a white dress. ' Oh, forgive me ! ' she 
 sobbed, and she put out one tear-washed hand to him, and 
 then she pushed him away with her weak violence, and 
 went and flung herself down into her father's big chair, 
 and leant against the old red cushion in an agony of grief, 
 and shame, and despair. Her little dog began barking 
 furiously at John, and her bird began to sing, and all the 
 afternoon sun was streaming and blinding into the room. 
 Oh, don't, don't despise me,' moaned the poor thing,
 
 268 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 pnttino^ up her weary hand to her bead. The action was 
 so helpless, the voice so pathetic, that Trevithic resisted 
 no longer. 
 
 ' Despise you, my poor darling,' said John, utterly 
 melted and overcome, and he stooped ^ver, and took the 
 poor little soul into bis arms. ' I see,' be said, ' that we 
 two must never be parted again, and if I go, you must 
 come with me. . . .' 
 
 It was done. It was over. When Jack dashed back 
 to his lodging it was in a state of excitement so great 
 that be bad hardly time to ask himself whether it was for 
 the best or the worst. The tears of the trembling appeal- 
 ing little quivering figure had so unnerved him, so touched 
 and affected him, that he bad hardly known what be said 
 or what he did not say, his pity and Innate tenderness of 
 heart had carried him away ; it was more like a mother 
 than a lover tliat he took tliis poor little fluttering bird 
 into bis keeping, and vowed and prayed to keep it safe. 
 But everything was vague, and new, and imlifelike as yet. 
 The future seemed floating with shadows and vibrations, 
 and waving and settling into the present. He had left 
 home a free man, with a career before him, without ties 
 to check him or to bold him back (except, indeed, the 
 poor old mother in her little bouse at Barfleet, but that 
 clasp was so slight, so gentle, so unselfish, that it could 
 scarcely be counted one now). And now ' Chained and
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 269 
 
 bound by the ties of our sins,' something kept dinning in 
 his bewildered brain. 
 
 Mrs. Bazley opened the door with her usual grin of 
 welconie, and asked him if he had lunched, or if she 
 should bring up the tray. Trevithic shook his head, and 
 brushed past her up the stairs, leaping three or four at a 
 time, and he dashed into his own room, and banged the 
 door, and went and leant up against the wall, with his 
 hand to his head, in a dizzy, sickened, miserable bewilder- 
 ment, at which he himself was shocked and frightened. 
 What had he done, what would this lead to ? He paced 
 up and down his room until he could bear it no longer, 
 and then he went back to the rectory. Anne had been 
 watching for him, and came out to meet him, and slid her 
 jealous hand in his arm. 
 
 ' Come away,' she whispered. ' There are some people 
 in the house. Mary Myles is there talking to papa. I 
 have not told him yet. I can't believe it enough to tell 
 anyone.' 
 
 John could hardly believe it either, or that this was 
 the Miss Bellingham he had known hitherto. She seemed 
 so dear, so changed, this indolent county beauty, this calm 
 young mistress of the house, now bright, quick, excited, 
 moved to laughter : a hundred sweet tints and colours 
 seemed awakened and brought to light which he had 
 never noticed or suspected before. 
 
 ' I have a reason,' Anne went on. ' I want you to
 
 27C JACK THE GIANT KILLER. 
 
 speak of this to no one but me and papa. I will tell you 
 very soon, perhaps to-morrow. Here, come and sit under 
 the lilac-tree, and then they cannot see us from the draw- 
 ing-room.' 
 
 Anne's reason was this, that the rector of a living in 
 her father's gift was dying, but she was not sure tliat Jack 
 would be content to wait for a dead man's shoes, and she 
 gave him no hint of a scheme she had made. 
 
 The news of John's departure spread very quickly, but 
 that of his engagement was only suspected ; and no allu- 
 sion to his approaching marriage was made when the tea- 
 pot was presented to him in state. 
 
 I liave ventured to christen my hero Jack, after a 
 celebrated champion of that name ; but we all know how 
 the giant-killer liimself fell asleep in the forest soon after 
 he received the badge of honour and distinction to which 
 he was so fairly entitled. Did poor John Trevithic, now 
 the possessor of the teapot of honour, fall asleep thus 
 early on his travels and forget all his hopes and his 
 schemes ? At first, in tlie natural excitement of his 
 engagement, he put off one plan and another, and wrote 
 to delay his application for the chaplaincy of the work- 
 house. He had made a great sacrifice for Anne : for he 
 was not in love ■svith her, as he knew from the very be- 
 ginning : but he soon fell into the habit of caring for her 
 and petting her, and, little by little, her devotion and 
 blind partiality seemed to draw him nearer and nearer to
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 271 
 
 the new ways he had accepted. The engagement gave 
 great satisfaction. Hambledon shook him warmly by the 
 hand, and said something about a better vocation than 
 Biimbledon and workhouses. Jack bit his lips. It was a 
 sore point with him, and he could not bear to think of it. 
 
 How Anne had begged and prayed and insisted, and 
 put up her gentle hands in entreaty, when he had pro- 
 posed to take her to live at Hammersley. 
 
 ' It would kill me,' she said. ' Oh, John, there is 
 something much better, much more useful for you coming 
 in a very little while. I wanted people to hear of our 
 marriage and of our new home together. Poor old Mr. 
 Jorken is dead. Papa is going to give us his Lincolnshire 
 living ; it is his very own. Are you too proud to take 
 anything from me, to whom you have given your life ? ' 
 And her wistful entreaties were not without their effect, 
 as she clung to him with her strange jealous eagerness. 
 The determined young fellow gave in again and again. 
 He had fallen into one of those moods of weakness and 
 irresolution of which one has heard even among the 
 fiercest and boldest of heroes. It was so great a sacrifice 
 to him to give up his dreams that it never occurred to 
 him for a moment that he was deserting his flag. It was 
 a strange transformation which had come over this young 
 fellow, of which the least part was being married. 
 
 I don't know whether the old ladies were disappointed 
 or not that he did not actually go away as soon as was
 
 272 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 expected. The announcement of hi? marriage, however, 
 made up for everything else, and they all attended the 
 ceremony. ^Ir. and Mrs. Trevithic went away for their 
 honeymoon, and to see old Mrs. Trevithic at Barfleet, 
 and then they came back to the rectory until the house in 
 Lincolnshire should be ready to receive them. 
 
 For some time after his marriage, Jack could hardly 
 believe that so great an event had come about so easily. 
 Nothing was much changed ; the port-wine twinkled in 
 the same decanters, the old rector dozed off in his chair 
 after dinner, the sunset streamed into the dining-room 
 from the same gap in the trees which skirted the church- 
 yard. Anne, in the drawing-room in her muslins and 
 lilac ribbons, sewed her worsted work in her corner by 
 the window, or strummed her variations on the pianoforte. 
 Tumty tinkle tumty — no — tinkle turaty tumty, as she 
 corrected herself at the same place in the same song. 
 * Do you know the Songs Without Words ? ' she used to say 
 to him when he first came. Know them ! At the end of 
 six weeks poor Jack could have told you every note of the 
 half-dozen songs which Anne had twittered out so often, 
 only she put neither song nor words to the notes, nor 
 time, nor anything but pedals and fingers. One of these 
 she was specially fond of playing. It begins with a few 
 tramping chords, and climbs on to a solemn blast that 
 might be sounded in a cathedral or at the triumphant 
 funeral of a warrior dying in victory. Anne had taken
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 273 
 
 it into lier head to play this with expression, and to drag 
 out the crisp chords — some of them she thought sounded 
 prettier in a liiglier octave — and then she would look up 
 with an archly affectionate smile as she finished. Jack 
 used to respond with a kind little nod of the head at first, 
 but he could not admire his wife's playing, and he wished 
 she would mind her music and not be thinking of herself 
 and nodding at him all the time. Had he promised to 
 stuff up his ears with cotton wool and to act fibs at the 
 altar ? He didn't know ; he rather thought he had — he — 
 psha ! Where was that number of the North British 
 Review ? and the young man went off into his study to 
 look for it and to escape from himself. 
 
 Poor Jack ! He dimly felt now and then that all his 
 life he should have to listen to tunes such as these, and be 
 expected to beat time to them. Like others before and 
 since, he began to feel that what one expects and what is 
 expected of one, are among the many impossible con- 
 ditions of life. You don't get it and you don't give it, 
 and you never will as long as you live, except, indeed, when 
 Heaven's sacred fire of love comes to inspire and teach 
 you to do unconsciously and gladly what is clearer and 
 nearer and more grateful than the result of hours of 
 straining effort and self-denial. 
 
 But these hours were a long way off as yet, and Jack 
 was still asking himself how much longer it would all last, 
 and how could it be that he was here settled for life and a 
 
 T
 
 274 JACK THE GIAXT-KILLER. 
 
 married man, and that that pale little woman with tlie 
 straight smooth light hair was his wife, and that fat old 
 gentleman fast asleep, who had been his rector a few weeks 
 ago, was his father-in-law now, while all the world went 
 on as usual, and nothing had changed ektept the relations 
 uf these three people to each other ? 
 
 Poor Jack I He had got a treasure of a wife, I sup- 
 pose. Anne Bellingliam had ruled at the rectory for 
 twenty-four years with a calm, despotic sway that old 
 I\Ir. Bellingham never attempted to dispute. Gentle, ob- 
 stinate, ladylike, graceful, with a clear complexion, and one 
 of those thin transparent noses which some people admire, 
 she glided about in her full flitting skirts, feeling herself 
 tlie prop and elegant comforter of lier father's declining 
 years. She used to put rosebuds into his study ; and 
 though old ]Mr. Bellingham didn't care for flowers, and 
 disliked anything upon his table, he never thought of 
 removing tlie slender glass fabric his daughter's white 
 fingers had so carefully ornamented. She took care that 
 clean muslin covers, with neat little bows at each c(jrner, 
 should duly succeed one another over the back of the big 
 study chair. It is true the muslin scratched Mr. Belling- 
 ham's bald head, and he once ventured to remove the 
 objectionable pinafore with his careful, clumsy old fingers ; 
 but next day he found it was firmly and neatly stretched 
 down in its place again, and it was beyond his skill to 
 unpick the threads. Anne also took care that her father's
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 275 
 
 dressing things should be put out for dinner ; and if the 
 poor old gentleman delayed or tried to evade the cere- 
 mony, the startled man who cleaned the plate and waited 
 upon the family was instructed to tell his master that the 
 dressing-bell had rung : housemaids came in to tidy the 
 room ; windows were opened to renew the air : the poor 
 rector could only retire and do as he was bid. How Anne 
 had managed all her life to get her own way in everything 
 is more than I can explain. It was a very calm, per- 
 sistent, commonplace way, but everyone gave in to it. 
 And so it happened that as soon as Jack was her husband, 
 Anne expected that he was to change altogether ; see with 
 her pink, watery eyes ; care for the things she cared for ; 
 and be content henceforth with her mild aspirations after 
 county society in this world, and a good position in the 
 next. Anne imagined, in some vague manner, that these 
 were both good things to be worked out together by 
 punctuality on Sundays, family prayer, a certain amount 
 of attention to the neighbours (varying, of course, with 
 the position of the persons in question), and due regard 
 for the decencies of life. To see her rustling into chm'ch 
 in her long silk dress and French bonnet, with her smooth 
 bands of hair, the slender hands neatly gloved, and the 
 prayer-book, hymn-book, pocket-handkerchief, and smell- 
 ing-bottle, all her little phylacteries in their places, was 
 an example to the neighbourhood. To the vulgar Christians 
 r.traggling in from the lodging-houses and tlie town, and 
 
 T 2
 
 276 JACK THE GIAXT-KILLER. 
 
 displaying their flyaway hats or higlily-pomatumed heads 
 of hair ; to the little charity children, gaping at lier over 
 the wooden gallery ; to St. Mary Magdalene up in the 
 window, with her tangled locks ; to Mrs. Coote herself, 
 who always came in late, with her four little girls tumbling 
 over her dress and shuffling after her ; not to mention 
 Trevithic himself, up in his reading desk, leaning back in 
 his chair. For the last six months, in the excitement of 
 his presence, in the disturbance of her usual etjuable frame 
 of mind, it was scarcely the real Anne Bellingham he had 
 known, or, maybe perhaps, it was the real woman stirred 
 out of her Philistinism by the great tender hand of nature 
 and the wonderfiU inspiration of love. Now, day by day 
 her old ways began to grow upon her. Jack had not been 
 married three weeks before a sort of terror began quietly 
 to overwhelm him, a terror of his wife's genteel infalli- 
 bility. As for Anne, she had got what she wanted ; she 
 had cried for the moon, and it was hers ; and she, too 
 began almost immediately to feel that now she had got it 
 she did not know what to do with it exactly. She wanted 
 it to turn the other way, and it wouldn't go — always to 
 rise at the same hour, and it seemed to change day by day 
 on purpose to vex her. 
 
 And then she cried again, poor woman ; but her tears 
 were of little avail. I suppose Jack was very much to 
 blame, and certainly at this time his popularity declined 
 a little, and people shrugged their shoulders and said he
 
 y JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 277 
 
 was a lucky young fellow to get a pretty girl and a good 
 living and fifteen thousand pounds in one morning, and 
 that he had feathered his nest well. And so he had, poor 
 fellow, only too well, for to be sunk in a moral feather-bed 
 is not the most enviable of fates to an active-minded man 
 of six or seven and twenty. 
 
 The second morning after their return, Anne had 
 dragged him out to her favourite lilac-tree bench upon 
 the height in the garden, from whence you can see all 
 the freshness of the morning brightening from bay to bay, 
 green close at hand, salt wave and more green down below, 
 busy life on land, and a flitting, drifting, white-sailed life 
 upon the water. As Trevithic looked at it all with a 
 momentary admiration, his wife said, — 
 
 ' Isn't it much nicer to be up here with me, John, 
 than down in those horrid lodgings in the town ? ' 
 
 And John laughed, and said, ' Yes, the air was very 
 delicious.' 
 
 ' You needn't have worked so hard at that draining if 
 you had been living up here,' Anne went on, quite uncon- 
 sciously. ' I do believe one might live for ever in this 
 place and never get any harm from those miserable dens. 
 I hear there is small-pox in Mark's Alley. Promise me, 
 dear, that you will not go near them.' 
 
 ' I am afraid I must go if they want me,' said John. 
 
 'No, dearest,' Anne said, gently. ' You have to think
 
 278 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 of me first now. It would be wrong of you to go. Papa 
 and I have never had the small-pox.' 
 
 Trevithic didn't answer. As his wife spoke, something 
 else spoke too. The little boats glittered and scudded on ; 
 the whole sight was as sweet and prosperous as it had been 
 a minute before ; but he was not looking at it any more ; 
 a strange new feeling had seized hold of him, a devil of 
 sudden growth ; and Trevitliic was so little used to self- 
 contemplation and inner experience, that it shocked him 
 and frightened him to find himself standing there calmly 
 talking to his wife, without any quarrel, angry in his heart ; 
 without any separation, parted from her. 'Anne and I 
 could not be farther apart at this instant,' thought John, 
 ' if I were at the other side of that sea, and she standing 
 here all alone.' 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' said poor Anne, affectionately 
 brushing a little thread off his coat. 
 
 ' Can't you understand ? ' said he, drawing away. 
 
 ' Understand ? ' Anne repeated. ' I know that you are 
 naughty, and want to do what you must not think of.' 
 
 * I thought that when I married you, you cared for the 
 tilings that I care about,' cried poor John, exasperated by 
 her plavfvdness, ' and that you understood that a man 
 must do his business in life, and that marriage does not 
 absolve him from every other duty. I thought you cared 
 — you said you did — for the poor people in trouble down
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 279 
 
 there. Then melting — ' Don't make it difficult for me to 
 
 go to them, dear.' 
 
 ' No, dear John. I could not possibly allow it,' seid 
 
 his wife, decidedly. ' You are not a doctor ; it is not yc ur 
 
 business to nurse small-pox patients. Papa never thinks 
 
 of going where there is infection.' 
 
 ' My dear Anne,' said John, fairly out of temper, 
 
 ' nobody ever thought your father had done his duty by 
 
 the place, and you must allow your husband to go his own 
 
 way, and not interfere any more.' 
 
 'It is very, very wrong of you, John, to say such 
 
 things,' said Anne, flushing, and speaking very slowly and 
 
 gently. ' You forget yourself and me too, I think, when 
 you speak so coarsely. You should begin your reforms at 
 home, and learn to control your temper before you go and 
 preach to people with dreadful illnesses. They cannot 
 possibly want you, or be in a fit state to be visited.' 
 
 If Anne had only lost her temper, flared up at him, 
 talked nonsense, he could have borne it better ; but there 
 she stood, quiet, composed, infinitely his superior in her 
 perfect self-possession. Jack left her, all ashamed of him- 
 self, in a fume and a fury, as he strode down into the 
 town. 
 
 The small-pox turned out to be a false alarm, spread 
 by some ingenious parishioners who wished for relief and 
 who greatly disliked the visits of the excellent district 
 ladies, and the matter was compromised. But that after-
 
 28o JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 noon Miss Triquett, meeting John in the street, gave a 
 penetrating and searching ghmce into his face. He looked 
 out of spirits. INIiss Triquett noticed it directly, and her 
 lieart, which had been somewhat hardened against him, 
 melted at once. - 
 
 Jack and his wife made it up. Anne relented, and 
 something of her better self brought her to meet him 
 half-way. Once more the strange accustomed feeling 
 came to him, on Sundays especially. Old Hilly Hunsden 
 came cloppotting into church just as usual. There was 
 the clerk, with his toothless old warble joining in with the 
 chirp of the charity-school children. The three rows of 
 grinning little faces were peering at him from the organ- 
 loft. Tliere was the empty bench at the top, where the 
 mistress sat throned in state ; the marble rolled down in 
 the middle of the second lesson, with all the children 
 looking preternaturally innocent and as if they did not 
 hear the noise ; the old patches of colour were darting 
 upon the pidpit cushion from St. Mary Magdalene's red 
 scarf in the east window. These are all small things, but 
 they have taken possession of my hero, who is preaching 
 away, hardly knowing w^hat he says, but conscious of 
 Anne's wistful gaze from the rectory pew, and of the 
 curious eyes of all the old w^omen in the free seats, who 
 dearly love a timely word, and who have made up their 
 minds to be stirred up that Sunday. It is not a bad 
 sermon, but it is of things neither the preacher nor his 
 congregation care very muoh to hear.
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 281 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 JACK GOES TO SLEEP IN THE WOOD. 
 
 Featiierston Vicaeage was a quaint, dreary, silent old 
 baked block of bricks and stucco, standing on one of 
 those low Lincolnshire hillocks— I do not know the name 
 for them. They are not hills, but mounds ; they have no 
 shape or individuality, but they roll in on every side ; 
 they enclose the horizon ; they stop the currents of fresh 
 air"; they give no feature to the foreground. There was 
 no reason why the vicarage should have been built upon 
 this one, more than upon any other of the monotonous 
 waves of the dry ocean of land which spreads and spreads 
 about Featherston, unchanging in its monotonous line. 
 To look from the upper windows of the vicarage is like 
 looking out at sea, with nothing but the horizon to watch 
 — a dull sand and dust horizon, with monotonous waves 
 and lines that do not even change or blend like the waves 
 of the sea. 
 
 Anne was delighted with the place when she first came. 
 Of course it was not to compare with Sandsea for pleas- 
 antness and freshness, but the society was infinitely
 
 282 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 better. Not all the lodging-liouses at Sandsea could 
 supply such an eligible circle of acquaintances as that 
 which came driving up day after day to the vicarage door. 
 The carriages, after depositing their owners, would go 
 champing up the road to the little taA'feMi of ' The Five 
 Horseshoes,' at the entrance of the village, in search of 
 hay and beer for the horses and men. Anne in one after- 
 noon entertained two honourables, a countess, and two 
 Lady Louisas. Tlie countess was Lady Kidderminster 
 and one of the Lady Louisas was her daughter. The 
 other was a nice old maid, a cousin of Mrs. Myles, and 
 she told Mrs. Trevithic something more of poor Mary 
 Myles' married life than Anne had ever kno^vn before. 
 
 ' It is very distressing,' said Anne, with a lady-like 
 volubility, as she walked across the lawn with her guest 
 to the carriage, ' when married people do not get on com- 
 fortably together. Depend upon it, there are generally 
 faults on both sides. I daresay it is very uncharitable of 
 me, but I generally think the woman is to blame when 
 things go wrong,' said Anne, with a little conscious smirk. 
 ' Of course we must be content to give up some things 
 when we marry. Sandsea was far pleasanter than this as 
 a residence ; but where my husband's interests were 
 concerned. Lady Louisa, I did not hesitate. I hope to 
 get this into some order in time, as soon as I can persuade 
 Mr. Trevithic. . . .' 
 
 ' You are quite right, quite right,' said Lady Louisa
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 283 
 
 looking round approvingly at the grass-grown walks and 
 straggling hedges. ' Although Mary is my own cousin, I 
 always felt that she did not understand poor Tom. Of 
 course he had his little fidgety ways, like the rest of us.' 
 
 (Mary had never described her husband's little fidgety 
 ways to anybody at much length, and if brandy and blows 
 and oaths were among them, these trifles were forgotten 
 now that Tom was respectably interred in the family 
 vault and beyond reproaches.) 
 
 Lady Louisa went away favourably impressed by young 
 Mrs. Trevithic's good sense and high-mindedness. Anne, 
 too, was very much pleased with her afternoon. She went 
 and took a complacent turn in her garden after the old 
 lady's departure. She hardly knew where the little paths 
 led to as yet, nor the look of the fruit-walls and of the 
 twigs against the sky, as people do who have well paced 
 their garden-walks in rain, wind and sunshine, in spirits 
 and disquiet, at odd times and sad times and happy ones. 
 It was all new to Mrs. Trevithic, and she glanced about as 
 she went, planning a rose-tree here, a creeper there, a 
 clearance among the laurels. ' I must let in a peep of the 
 church through that elm-clump, and plant some fuchsias 
 along that bank,' she thought. (Anne was fond of fuchsias.) 
 ' And John must give me a hen-house. The cook can 
 attend to it. The place looks melancholy and neglected 
 without any animals about ; we must certainly buy a pig. 
 What a very delightful person Lady Kidderminster is ; she
 
 284 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 asked me what sort of carriage we meant to keep — I should 
 think with economy we might manage a pair. I shall get 
 John to leave everything of that sort to me. I shall give 
 liim so much for his pocket-money and charities, and do 
 the very best I can with the rest.' An'^^^Anne sincerely 
 meant it when she made this determination, and walked 
 along better pleased than ever, feeling that with her hand 
 to pilot it along the tortuous way their ship could not run 
 aground, but would come straight and swift into the haven 
 of country society, for which they were making, drawn by 
 a couple of prancing horses, and a riding horse possibly for 
 John. And seeing her husband coming through the gate 
 and crossing the sloping lawn, Anne hurried to meet him 
 with glowing pink cheeks and tips to her eyelids and nose, 
 eager to tell him her schemes and adventures. 
 
 Trevithic himself had come home tired and dispirited, 
 and he could scarcely listen to his wife's chirrups with very 
 great sympathy or encouragement. 
 
 ' Lady Kidderminster wishes us to set up a carriage and 
 a pair of horses ! ' poor Trevithic cried out, aghast ; * Why, 
 my dear Anne, you must be — must be. . . . What do you 
 imagine our income to be ? ' 
 
 ' I know very well what it is,' Anne said, with a nod ; 
 ' better than you do, sir. ^^'^ith care and economy a very 
 great deal is to be done. I^eave everything to me, and 
 don't trouble your foolish old head.' 
 
 But, my dear, you must listen for one minute,' Trevi-
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 285 
 
 thic said. ' One thousand a year is not limitless. There 
 are calls and drains upon our incomings ' 
 
 ' That is exactly what I wanted to speak to you about, 
 John,' said his wife gravely. ' For one thing, I have been 
 thinking that your mother has a very comfortable in- 
 come of her own,' Anne said, ' and I am sure she would 
 gladly . . . .' 
 
 ' I have no doubt she would,' Trevithic interrupted, 
 
 looking full in his wife's face ; ' and that is the reason that 
 
 I desire that the subject may never be alluded to again, 
 
 either to her or to me.' He looked so decided and stern, 
 
 and his grey eagle eyes opened wide in a way his wife knew 
 
 that meant no denial. Vexed as she was, she could not 
 
 help a momentary womanly feeling of admiration for the 
 
 undaunted and decided rule of the governor of this small 
 
 kingdom in whicli she was vicegerent ; she felt a certain 
 
 pride in her husband, not in what was best in his temper 
 
 and heart, but in the outward signs that anyone might 
 
 read. His good looks, his manly bearing, his determination 
 
 before which she had to give way again and again, impressed 
 
 her oddly : she followed him with her eyes as he walked 
 
 away into the house, and went on with her calculations as 
 
 she still paced the gravel path, determining to come back 
 
 secretly to the charge, as was her way, from another 
 
 direction, perhaps failing and again only to ponder upon 
 
 a fresh attack. 
 
 And meanwhile Anne was tolerably happy trimming
 
 286 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 her rose-trees, and arranging and rearranging the furniture, 
 visiting at the big houses, and corresponding with her 
 friends, and playing on the piano, and, with her baby, in 
 time, when it came to live with them in the vicarage. 
 Trevithic was tolerably miserable, fumin|;*Tand consuming 
 his days in a restless, impatient search for the treasures 
 which did not exist in the arid fields and lanes round about 
 the vicarage. He certainly discovered a few well-to-do 
 farmers riding about their enclosiu'es on their rough horses, 
 and responding with surly nods to his good-humoured 
 advances ; a few old women selling lollipops in their tidy 
 front kitchens ; with shining pots and pans, and starch caps, 
 the very pictures of respectability ; little tidy children trot- 
 ting to school along the lanes, hand in hand, with all the 
 strings on their pinafores, and hard-working mothers scrub- 
 bing their parlours, or hanging out their linen to dry. 
 The cottages were few and far between, for the farmers 
 farmed immense territories ; the labourers were out in the 
 fields at sunrise, and toiled all day, and staggered home 
 worn-out and stupefied at night ; the little pinafores 
 released from school at midday, would trot along the fur- 
 rows with their fathers' and brothers' dinners tied up in 
 bundles, and drop little frightened curtseys along the 
 hedges when they met the vicar on his rounds. Dreary, 
 dusty rounds they were — illimitable circles. The country- 
 folks did not want his sermons, they were too stupid 
 to imderstand what he said, they were too aimless and
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 287 
 
 dispirited. Jack the Griant- Killer's sleep lasted exactly 
 three years in Trevithic's case, during which the time did 
 not pass, it only ceased to be. Once old Mr. Bellingham 
 paid them a visit, and once Mrs. Trevithic, senior, arrived 
 with her cap-boxes, and then everything again went on as 
 usual, until Dulcie came to live with her father and mother 
 in the old sun-baked, wasp-haunted place. 
 
 Dulcie was a little portable almanac to mark the time 
 for both of them, and the seasons and the hour of the 
 day, something in this fashion : — 
 
 Six months and Dulcie began to crawl across the drug- 
 geted floor of her father's study; nine months to crow 
 and hold out her arms ; a year must have gone by, for 
 Dulcie was making sweet inarticulate chatterings and 
 warblings, which changed into words by degrees — wonder- 
 ful words of love and content and recognition, after her 
 tiny life-long silence. Dulcie's clock marked the time of 
 day something in this fashion : — 
 
 Dulcie's breakfast o'clock. 
 
 Dulcie's walk in the garden o'clock. 
 
 Dulcie's dinner o'clock. 
 
 Dulcie's bedtime o'clock, &c. 
 
 All the tenderness of Jack's heart was Dulcie's. Her 
 little fat fingers would come tapping and scratching at his 
 study-door long before she could walk. She was not in the 
 least afraid of him, as her mother was sometimes. She 
 iid not care for his sad moods, nor sympathise with his
 
 288 JACK TTIE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 ambitions, or understand the pangs he suffered, the re- 
 grets and wounded vanities and aspirations. Was time 
 passing, was he wasting his youth and strength in that 
 forlorn and stagnant Lincolnshire fen ? What was it to 
 lier? Little Dulcie thought that when "he" crossed his legs 
 and danced her on his foot, her papa was fulfilling all the 
 liighest duties of life ; and when she let him kiss her soft 
 cheek, it did not occur to her that every wish of his heart 
 was not gratified. Hard-hearted, unsympathetic, trustful, 
 and appealing little comforter and companion ! Whatever 
 it might be to Anne, not even Lady Kidderminster's 
 society soothed and comforted Jack as Dulcie's did. 
 This small Egyptian was a hard task-mistress, for she 
 gave him bricks to make without any straw, and kept 
 him a prisoner in a land of bondage ; but for her he 
 would have thrown up the work that was so insufl&cient for 
 him, and crossed the Red Sea, and chanced the fortunes 
 of life ; but with Dulcie and her mother hanging to the 
 skirts of his long black clerical coat, how could he go ? 
 Ought he to go? 400/. a year is a large sum to get 
 together, but a small one to provide for three people — 
 so long as a leg of mutton costs seven shillings, and 
 there are but twenty shillings in the pound and 36o days 
 in the year. 
 
 It was a hot, sultry afternoon, the dust was lying thick 
 upon the lanes, on the country roads, that went creeping
 
 JACK THE GIANI-KILLER. 289 
 
 away white in the glare to this and that distant sleepy 
 hollow. The leaves in the hedges were hanging upon 
 their stalks ; the convolvuluses and blackberries drooped 
 their heads beneath the clouds that rose from the wreaths 
 and piles of dust along the way. Four ociock was strik- 
 ing from the steeple, and echoing through the hot still 
 air ; nobody was to be seen, except one distant figure 
 crossing a stubble-field ; the vicarage windows were close 
 shuttered, but the gate was on the latch, and the big dog- 
 had just sauntered lazily through. Anne heard the clock 
 strike from her darkened bedroom, where she was lying 
 upon the sofa resting. Dulcie playing in her nursery 
 counted the strokes. ' Tebben, two, one ; nonner one," 
 that was how she counted. John heard the clock strike 
 as he was crossing the dismal stubble-field ; everything 
 else was silent. Two butterflies went flitting before him 
 in the desolate glare. It was all so still, so dreary, and 
 feverish, that he tried to escape into a shadier field, and 
 to force his way through a gap in the parched hedge, re- 
 gardless of Farmer Bm-r's fences and restrictions. 
 
 On the other side of the hedge there was a smaller 
 field, a hollow with long grasses and nut hedges and a 
 little shade, and a ditch over which Trevithic sprang 
 with some remnant of youthful spirit. He sprang, 
 breaking through the briars and countless twigs and limp 
 wreathed leaves, making a foot-standing for himself 
 among tne lank grasses and dull autumn flowers on the 
 
 u
 
 290 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 iither side, and as he sprang he caught a sight of some- 
 thing lying in the ditch, something with half-open lips 
 and dim glazed eyes, turned upwards under the crossing 
 diamond network of the shadow and light of the briars. 
 
 What was this that was quite still, quite inanimate, 
 lying in the sultry glow of the autumn day ? Jack tui*ned 
 a little sick, and leapt back down among the dead leaves, 
 and stooped over a wan helpless figure lying there motion- 
 less and ghastly, with its head sunk back in the dust and 
 tangled weeds. It was only a worn and miserable-looking 
 old man, whose meek, starved, weary face was upturned to 
 the sky, whose wan lips were drawn apart, and whose thin 
 hands were clutching at the weeds. Jack gently tried to 
 loosen the clutch, and the poor fingers gave way in an 
 instant and fell helplessly among the grasses, frightening 
 a field-mouse back into its hole. But this helpless, loose 
 fall first gave Trevitliic some idea of life in the hopeless 
 figure, for all its wan, rigid lines. He put his hand under 
 the rags which covered the breast. There was no pulse at 
 first, but presently the heart just fluttered, and a little 
 colour came into the pale face, and there was a long sigh, 
 and then the glazed eyes closed. 
 
 John set to work to rub the cold hands and the stiff 
 body. It was all he could do, for people don't walk about 
 with bottles of brandy and blankets in their pockets ; but 
 he rubbed and rubbed, and some of the magnetism of his 
 own vigorous existence seemed to enter into the poor soul
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 291 
 
 at his knees, and another faint flush of life came into the 
 face, and the eyes opened this time naturally and bright, 
 and the figure pointed faintly to its lips. Jack imder- 
 stood, and he nodded ; gave a tug to the man's shoulders, 
 and propped him up a little higher against the bank. 
 Then he tied his handkerchief round the poor old bald 
 head to protect it from the sun, and sprang up the side of 
 the ditch. He had remembered a tm-npike upon the high- 
 way, two or three hundred yards beyond the boundary of 
 the next field. 
 
 Lady Kidderminster, who happened to be driving along 
 that afternoon on her way to the Potlington flower-show, 
 and who was leaning back comfortably under the hood of 
 her great yellow barouche, was surprised to see from under 
 the fringe of her parasol the figure of a man suddenly 
 bursting through a hedge on the roadside, and waving a 
 hat and shouting, red, heated, disordered, frantically sign- 
 ing to the coachman to stop. 
 
 ' It's a Fenian ! ' screamed her ladyship. 
 
 ' I think ; — yes, it's Mr. Trevithic,' said her com- 
 panion. 
 
 The coachman, too, had recognised Jack, and began to 
 draw up ; but the young man, who had now reached the 
 side of the carriage, signed to him to go on. 
 
 ' Will you give me a lift ? ' he said, gasping and 
 springing on to the step. ' How d'ye do, Lady Kidder- 
 minster ? I heard yoirr wheels and made an effort,' and 
 
 u 2
 
 292 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 Jack turned rather pale. ' There is a poor fellow dying 
 in a ditch. I want some brandy for him and some help ; 
 stop at the turnpike,' he shouted to the coachman, and 
 then he turned with very good grace to Lady Kidder- 
 minster, aghast and not over-pleased; ** Pray forgive me,' 
 he said. ' It was such a chance catching you. I never 
 thought I should have done it. I was two fields off. Why, 
 how d'ye do, Mrs. Myles ? ' And still holding on to the 
 yellow barouche by one hand, he put out the other to his 
 old acquaintance, Mary Myles, with the still kind eyes, 
 who was sitting in state by the countess. 
 
 'You will take me back, and the brandy, I know?' 
 said Trevithic. 
 
 ' Is it anybody one knows ? ' said the countess. 
 
 ' Only some tramp,' said Jack : ' but it's a mercy I 
 met you.' And before they reached the turnpike, he had 
 jumped down, and was explaining his wants to the 
 bewildered old chip of a woman who collected the tolls. 
 
 ' Your husband not here ? a pity,' said John. ' Give 
 me his brandy-bottle ; it will be of some good for once.' 
 And he disappeared into the lodge, saying, — 'Would you 
 please have the horses' heads turned. Lady Kidder- 
 minster ? ' In a minute he was out again. ' Here, put 
 this in' (to the powdered footman), and John thrust a 
 blanket off the bed, an old three-legged chair, a wash-jug 
 full of water, and one or two more miscellaneous objects 
 into the man's arms. ' Now back again,' he said, ' as quick
 
 \ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 293 
 
 as you can.' And he jumped in with his brandy ; and the 
 great barouche groaned, and at his command actually sped 
 oflf once more along the road. ' Make haste,' said Tre- 
 vithic ; ' the man is dying for want of a dram.' 
 
 The sun blazed hot in their faces. The footman sat 
 puzzled and disgusted on his perch, clasping the blanket 
 and the water-jug. Lady Kidderminster was not sure 
 that she was not offended by all the orders Mr. Trevithic 
 was giving her servants ; Mrs. Myles held the three-legged 
 chair up on the seat opposite with her slender wrist, and 
 looked kind and sympathetic ; John hardly spoke, — he 
 was thinking what would be best to do next. 
 
 ' I am so sorry,' he said, ' but I am afraid you must 
 wait for us. Lady Kidderminster. I'll bring him up as 
 soon as I can, and we will drop him at the first cottage. 
 You see nobody else may pass for hours.' 
 
 ' We shall be very late for our fl ,' Lady Kidder- 
 minster began, faintly, and then stopped ashamed at the 
 look in Trevithic's honest face which she saw reflected in 
 Mrs. Myles' eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear Lady Kidderminster,' cried Mrs. Myles, 
 bending forward from her nest of white muslins. ' We 
 must wait.' 
 
 ' Of course we will wait,' said Lady Kidderminster, 
 "hastily, as the coachman stopped at the gap through 
 which Jack had first made his appearance. Trevithic 
 was out in an instant.
 
 294 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 ' Bring those things quick,' said Jack to the magnifi- 
 cent powder-and-plush man ; and he set ofif running him- 
 self as hard as he could go, with his brandy-flask in one 
 hand and the water-jug in the other. 
 
 For an instant the man hesitate^ ^and looked at his 
 mistress, but Lady Kidderminster had now caught some- 
 thing of Mr. Trevithic's energy : she imperiously pointed 
 to the three-legged chair, and Tomlins, who was good- 
 natured in the main, seeing Jack's figure rapidly dis- 
 appearing in the distance, began to run too, with his silken 
 leo-s plunging wildly, for pumps and stubble are not 
 the most comfortable of combinations. When Tomlins 
 reached the ditch at last, Jack was pouring old Glossop's 
 treacle-like brandy down the poor gasping tramp's throat, 
 dashing water into his face and gradually bringing him 
 to life again ; the sun was streaming upon the two, 
 the insects buzzing, and the church cluck striking the 
 half-hour. 
 
 There are combinations in life more extraordinary than 
 ptimps and ploughed fields. When Trevithic and Tomlins 
 staggered up to the carriage carrying the poor old ragged, 
 half-lifeless creature on the chair between them, the two 
 be- satined and be-feathered ladies made way and helped 
 them to put poor helpless old David Hopkins with all his 
 rags into the soft-cushioned corner, and drove off with him 
 in triumph to the little public at the entrance of Feather- 
 ston, where they left him.
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 295 
 
 ' You have saved that man's life,' said Jack, as he said 
 good-by to the two ladies. They left him standing, glad 
 and excited, in the middle of the road, with bright eyes 
 and more animation and interest in his face than there 
 had been for many a day. 
 
 ' My dear Jack, what is this I hear ? ' said Anne, when 
 he got home. ' Have you been to the flower-show with 
 Lady Kidderminster ? Who was that in the carriage with 
 her ? What a state you are in.' 
 
 Jack told her his story, but Mrs. Trevithic scarcely 
 listened. ' Oh,' said she, ' I thouglit you had been doing 
 somethiog pleasant. Mrs. Myles was very kind. It seems 
 to me rather a fuss about nothing, but of course you know 
 best.' 
 
 Little Dulcie saw her father looking vexed : she 
 climbed up his leg and got on his knee, and put her round 
 soft cheek agfainst his. * Sail I luboo ? ' said she.
 
 296 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 BLUNDERBORE AND HIS rvvO HEADS. 
 
 WlTEN Jack went to see his jproUge next day, he found 
 the old man sitting up in the bar warming his toes, and 
 finishing ofif a basin of gruel and a tumbler of porter 
 with which the landlady bad supplied him. Mrs. 
 Penfold was a frozen sort of woman, difficult to deal witli, 
 but kind-hearted when the thaw once set in, and though 
 at first she had ail but refused to receive poor old Davy 
 into her house, having relented and opened her door to 
 him she had warmed and comforted liim, and brought 
 him to life in triumph, and now looked upon him with 
 a certain self-contained pride and satisfaction as a favour- 
 able specimen of her art. 
 
 ' He's right eno',' said Mrs. Penfold, with a jerk of the 
 head. ' Ye can go in and see him in the bar.' And Jack 
 went in. 
 
 The bar was a comfortable little oaken refuge and 
 iiaven for Miles and Hodge, where they stretched their 
 stiff legs safe from the scoldings of their wives and the 
 shrill cries of their children. The shadows of the sunny-
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 297 
 
 latticed window struck upon the wooden floor, the fire 
 burnt most part of the year on the stone hearth, where 
 the dry branches and logs were crackling cheerfully, witli 
 a huge- black kettle hissing upon the bars. Someone 
 had christened it ' Tom,' and from its crooked old 
 spout at any hour of the day a hot and sparkling stream 
 went flowing into the smoking grog-glasses, and into 
 Penfold's punch-pots and Mrs. Penfold's tea-cups and soup- 
 pans. 
 
 Davy's story was a common one enough, — a travelling 
 umbrella-mender — hard times — fine weather, no umbrellas 
 to mend, and ' parasols ain't no good ; so cheap they are,' 
 he said, with a shake of the head : ' they ain't worth the 
 mendin'.' Then an illness, and then the workhouse, and 
 that was all his history. 
 
 ' I ain't sorry I come out of the 'ouse ; the ditch was 
 tne best place of the two,' said Davy. ' You picked me 
 out of the ditch ; you'd have left me in the 'ouse, sir, all 
 along with the ruck. I don't blame ye,' Davy said ; ' I 
 see'd ye there for the first time when I was wuss off than 
 I ever hope to be in this life again ; ye looked me full in 
 the face, and talked on with them two after ye — devil 
 take them, and he will.' 
 
 ' I don't remember you,' said John. ' Where was it ? ' 
 
 ' Hammersley workus,' said Davy. ' Don't you remem- 
 ber Hammersley Union ? I was in the bed under the 
 winder, and I says to my pardner (there were two on us),
 
 298 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 says I, — " That chap looks as if he mig-ht do us a turn." 
 " Not he," says my pardner. " They are werry charitable, 
 and come and stare at us ; that's all," says he, and he was 
 ri^ht, you see, sir. He'd been in five years come 
 Christmas, and knew more about it thu» J did then.' 
 
 ' And you have left now ? ' said Trevithic, with a 
 strange expression of pity in his face. 
 
 ' So I 'ave, sir, I'm bound to say,' said Davy, finishing 
 off his porter, 'and I'd rather die in the ditch any day 
 than go back to that d place.' 
 
 ' It looked clean and comfortable enough,' said Trevi- 
 thic. 
 
 * Clean, comfirable ! ' said Davy. ' Do you think / 
 minds a little dirt, sir ? Did you look under the quilts ? 
 Why, the vermin was a-running all over the place like 
 flies, so it were. It come dropping from the ceiling ; and 
 my pardner he were paralytic, and he used to get me to 
 wipe the bugs oflF his face with a piece of paper. Shall I 
 tell ye what it was like ? ' And old Daxy, in his ire, began 
 a history so horrible, so sickening, that Trevithic flushed 
 up as he listened, — an honest flush and fire of shame and 
 indignation. 
 
 ' I tell you fairly I don't believe half you say,' said Jack, 
 at last. ' It is too horrible and unnatural.' 
 
 ' True there,' said Da\y, comforted by his porter and 
 his gruel. ' It ain't no great matter to me if you believes 
 'arf or not, sir. I'm out of that hole, and I ain't agoin'
 
 JACK THF. GIANT-KILLER. 299 
 
 back. Maybe your good lady has an umbrella wants 
 seeing to ; shall I call round and ask this afternoon, sir ? ' 
 Jack nodded and said he might come if he liked, and 
 went home, thinking over the history he had heard. It 
 was one of all the histories daily told in the sunshine, of 
 deeds done in darkness. It was one grain of seed falling 
 into the ground and taking root. Jack felt a dull feeling 
 of shame and sadness ; an uncomfortable pricking as of a 
 conscience which had been benumbed : a sudden pain of 
 remorse, as he walked along the dusty lane which led to 
 the vicarage. He found his wife in the drawing-room, 
 writing little scented notes to some of her new friends, 
 and accepting proffered dinners and teas and county 
 hospitalities. Little Dulcie was lying on her back on a 
 rug, and crooning and chattering ; the shutters were 
 closed ; there was a whiff of roses and scented water. 
 Coming in from the baking lanes, it was a pleasant con- 
 trast, a pretty home picture, all painted in cool whites and 
 greys and shadows, and yet it had by degrees grown in- 
 tolerable to him. Jack looked round, and up and down, 
 and then with a sudden impulse he went up and took his 
 wife's hand, and looked her full in the face. ' Anne,' he 
 said, ' could you give up something for me — something, 
 everything, except what is yours as a right ? Dear, it is 
 all so nice, but I am very unhappy here. May I give up 
 this pretty home, and will you come and live with me 
 where we can be of more use than we are here ? ' He
 
 300 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 looked so kind and so imploring, that for an instant Anne 
 almost gave way and agreed to anything. There was a 
 bright constraining power in Jack's blue eye which had to 
 deal with magnetism, I believe, and which his wife was 
 one of the few people to resist. Sh^ Recovered herself 
 almost immediately. 
 
 ' How ridiculous you are, John,' she said, pettishly, 
 ' Of course I will do anything in reason ; but it seems to 
 me very wrong and unnatural and ungrateful of you,' said 
 Mrs. Trevithic, encouraging herself as she went on, ' not to 
 be happy when you have so much to be thankful for ; and 
 though, of course, 1 should be the last to allude to it, yet 
 I do think when I have persuaded papa to appoint you to 
 this excellent living, considering how young you are and 
 how much you owe to him, it is not graceful, to say the 
 least, on your part . . . .' 
 
 John turned away and caught up little Dulcie, and 
 began tossing her in the air. ' Well,' said he, ' we won't 
 discuss this now. I have made up my mind to take a 
 week's holiday,' he added, with a sort of laugh. ' I am 
 going to stay with Frank Austin till Saturday. Will you tell 
 them to pack up my things ? ' 
 
 ' But, my dear, we are engaged to the Kidd . . . .' 
 
 'You must write and make my excuses,' Jack said 
 wearily. ' I must go. I have some business at Hammers- 
 ley.' And he left the room.
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 301 
 
 Chances turn out so strangely at times that some 
 people — women especially, who live quietly at home and 
 speculate upon small matters — look on from afar and won- 
 der among themselves as they mark the extraordinary 
 chain-work of minute stitches by which the mighty machi- 
 nery of the world works on. Men who are busy and about, 
 here and there in life, are more apt to take things as they 
 find them, and do not stop to speculate how this or that 
 comes to be. It struck Jack oddly when he heard from 
 bis friend Frank Austin that the chaplain who had been 
 elected instead of him at the workhouse was ill and oblised 
 to go away for a time. ' He is trying to find someone to 
 take his place, and to get off for a holiday,' said Mr. 
 Austin. ' He is a poor sort of creature, and I don't think 
 he has got on very well with the guardians.' 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Trevithic, ' whether I could take the 
 thing for a time ? We might exchange, you know ; I am 
 tired of play, heaven knows. There is little enough to do 
 at Featherston, and he might easily look after my flock 
 while I take the work here off his hands.' 
 
 ' I know you always had a hankering after those unsa- 
 voury flesh-pots,' Austin said, with a laugh. ' I should 
 think Skipper woidd jump at your offer, and from all I 
 hear there is plenty to be done here, if it is work you are 
 in want of. Poor little Skipper did his best at one time ; 
 T believe he tried to collect a fimd for some of the poor 
 creatures who couldn't be taken in, but what is one small fish
 
 302 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 like Inm among so many guardians ? ' said Mr. Austin, 
 indulging in one of those clerical jokes to which Mr. Trol- 
 lope has alluded in his delightful Chronicles. 
 
 Jack wrote off to his bishop and to his wife by that 
 day's post. Two different answers reache'3 him ; his wife's 
 came next day, his bishop's three days later. 
 
 Poor Anne was frantic, as well she might be. ' Come to 
 Hammersley for two months in the heat of the summer ; 
 bring little Dulcie ; break up her home I — Never. Throw 
 over Lady Kidderminsters Saturdays ; admit a stranger 
 to the vicarage 1 — Never. Was her husband out of his 
 senses?' She was deeply, deeply hurt. He must come 
 back immediately, or more serious consequences than he 
 imagined might ensue. 
 
 Trevithic's eyes filled up with tears as he crumpled the 
 note up in his hand and flung it across the room. It was 
 for this he had sacrificed the hope of his youth, of his life, 
 — for this. It was too late now to regret, to think of what 
 another fate might have been. Marria^^e had done him 
 this cruel service : — It had taught him what happiness 
 might be, what some love might be, but it had withheld the 
 sweetness of tlie fruit of the tree. If it had indeed dis- 
 closed the knowledge of good, it was through the very bit- 
 terness of the fruit that came to his share, that this un- 
 luippy Adam, outside the gates of the garden, realised 
 what its ripe sweetness might have been. 
 
 Old Mr. Bellingham did not mend matters by writing
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER, 303 
 
 like a treml^ling and long-winded remonstrance. Lad)' 
 Kidderminster, to whom Anne had complained, pronounced 
 Trevithic mad ; she had had some idea of the kind, she said, 
 that day when he behaved in that extraordinary manner in 
 the lane. 
 
 ' It's a benevolent mania,' said Lord Axminster, her 
 eldest son. 
 
 Mrs. Myles shook her head, and began, ' He is not mad, 
 most noble lady. . . .' Mrs. Trevithic, who was present, 
 flushed up with resentment at Mrs. Myles venturing to 
 interpose in Jack's behalf. She did not look over-pleased 
 when Mrs. Myles added that she should meet Mr. Trevi- 
 thic probably when she went from thence to stay at Ham- 
 mersley with her cousin, Mrs. Gamier. 
 
 Jack, who was in a strange determined mood, mean- 
 while wrote back to his wife to say that he felt that it was 
 all very hard upon her ; that he asked it from her good- 
 ness to him and her wifely love ; that he would make her 
 very happy if she would only consent to come, and if not 
 she must go to her father's for a few weeks imtil he had 
 got this work done. ' Indeed it is no sudden freak, dear,' 
 he wrote. ' I had it in my mind before ' — (John hesitated 
 here for a minute and took his pen off the paper) — ' that 
 eventful day when I walked up to the rectory, and saw 
 you and learnt to know you.' So he finished his sentence. 
 But his heart sank as he posted the letter. Ah me ! he 
 had dreamed a different dream.
 
 304 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 If his correspondence with his wife did not prosper as 
 it should have done, poor Trevithic was gieatly cheered 
 by the bishop's letter, which not only gave consent to this 
 present scheme, but offered him, if he wished for more 
 active duty, the incumbency of St. Bigots in the North, 
 which would shortly be vacant in Hammersley, and which, 
 although less valuable than his present living as far as the 
 income was concerned, was much more so as regards the 
 souls to be saved, which were included in the bargain. 
 
 New brooms sweep clean, says the good old adage. 
 After he took up his residence at St. Magdalene's, Jack's 
 broomstick did not begin to sweep for seven whole days. 
 He did not go back to Featherston ; Anne had left for 
 Sandsea ; and Mr. Skipper was in possession of the rectory, 
 and Trevithic was left in that of 500 paupers in various 
 stages of misery and decrepitude, and of a two-headed 
 creature called Bulcox, otherwise termed the master and 
 the matron of the place. Jack waited ; he felt that if he 
 began too soon he might ruin everything, get into trouble, 
 stir up the dust, which had been lying so thickly, and 
 make matters worse than before ; he waited, watched, 
 looked about him, asked endless questions, to not one of 
 which the poor folks dared give a truthful answer. ' Nurse 
 was werry kind, that she was, and most kinsiderate, up any 
 time o' night and day,' gasped poor wretches, whose last 
 pinch of tea had just been violently appropriated by 
 ' nurse ' with the fierce eyebrows sitting over the fire.
 
 . JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 305 
 
 and who would lie for hours in an agony of pain before they 
 dared awaken her from her weary sleep. For nurse, what- 
 ever her hard rapacious heart might be, was only made of 
 the same aching bones and feeble flesh as the rest of them. 
 ' Everybody was kind and good, and the mistress came 
 round reg'lar and ast them what they wanted. The tea 
 was not so nice, perhaps, as it iniglit be, but they was 
 not wishin' to complain.' So they moaned on for the first 
 three days. On the fourth, one or two cleverer and moie 
 truthful than the rest began to whisper that ' nurse ' some- 
 times indulged in a drop too much ; that she had been very 
 unmanageable the night before, had boxed poor Tilly's ears 
 — poor simpleton. They all loved Tilly, and didn't like 
 to see her hurt. See, there was the bruise on her cheek ; 
 and Tilly, a woman of thirty, but a child in her ways, came 
 shyly up in a pinafore, with a doll in one arm and a finger 
 in her mouth. All the old hags sitting on their beds smiled 
 at her as she went along. This poor witless Tilly was the 
 pet of the ward, and they did not like to have her beaten. 
 Trevithic was affected, he brought Tilly some sugar-plums 
 in his pocket, and the old toothless crones brightened up 
 and thanked him, nodding their white night-caps en- 
 couragingly from every bed. 
 
 At the end of two days Jolm sickened ; the sights, 
 the smells, the depression of spirits produced by this vast 
 suffering mass of his unlucky brothers and sisters, was too 
 much for him, and for a couple of days he took to his bed.
 
 3o6 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 The matron came to see him twice ; she took an interest 
 in this cheerful new element, sparkling still with full 
 reflection of the world outside. She glanced admiringly 
 at his neatly appointed dressing-table, the silver top to 
 his shaving-gear, and the ivory brushes.* 
 
 John was feverish and thirsty, and was draining a 
 bottle of mirky-looking water when Mrs. Bulcox came 
 into the room on the second day. 
 
 ' What is that you are drinking there, sir ? ' said she. 
 ' My goodness, it's the water from the tap, — we never 
 touch it ! ril send you some of ours ; the tap-water 
 comes through the cesspool, and is as nasty as nasty can be.' 
 
 * Is it what they habitually drink here ? ' Trevithic 
 asked, languidly. 
 
 ' They're ui^ed to it,' said Mrs. Bulcox ; ' nothing hurts 
 them.' 
 
 Jack turned away with an impatient movement, and 
 ]\Irs. Bulcox went off indignant at his want of courtesy. 
 The fact was, that Jack already knew more of the Bulcox's 
 doings than they had any conception of, poor wretclies, as 
 they lay snoring the comfortable sleep of callousness on 
 their snug pillows. ' I don't 'alf like that chap,' M»". 
 Bulcox had remarked to his wife, and Mrs. Bulcox had 
 heartily echoed the misgiving. ' I go to see him when 
 he is ill,' said she, ' and he cuts me off as sharp as any- 
 thing. What business has he comin' prying and spying 
 about the place ? '
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 307 
 
 What indeed ! The place oppressed poor Jack, tossing 
 on his bed ; it seemed to close in upon him, the atmosphere 
 appeared to be full of horrible moans and suggestions. In 
 his normal condition Jack would have gone to sleep like 
 a top, done his best, troubled his head no more on tlie 
 subject of troubles he could not relieve; but just now 
 he was out of health, out of spirits — although his darling 
 desire was his — and more susceptible to nervous influences 
 and suggestions than he had ever been in his life before. 
 This night especially he was haunted and overpowered 
 by the closeness and stillness of his room. It looked out 
 through bars into a narrow street, and a nervous feeling 
 of imprisonment and helplessness came over him so 
 strongly that, to shake it off, he jumped up at last and 
 partly dressed himself, and began to pace up and down 
 the room. The popular history of Jack the Giant-Killer 
 gives a ghastly account of the abode of Blunderbore ; it 
 describes ' an immense room where lay the limbs of the 
 people lately seized and devoured,' and Blunderbore, 
 ' with a horrid grin,' telling Jack ' that men's hearts 
 eaten with pepper and vinegar were his nicest food. 
 The giant then locked Jack up,' says the history, 'and 
 went to fetch a friend.' 
 
 Poor Trevithic felt something in Jack's position 
 when the gates were closed for the night, and he found 
 himself shut in with his miserable companions. He could 
 
 X 2
 
 3oS JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 from his room hear the bolts and the bars and the grind- 
 ing of the lock, and immediately a longing would seize 
 him to get out. 
 
 To-night, after pacing up and down, he at last took up 
 his liat and a light in his hand, and ojfened his door and 
 walked downstairs to assure himself of his liberty and get 
 rid of this oppressive feeling of confinement. He passed 
 the master's door and heard bis snorefs, and then he came 
 to the lower door opening into the inner court. The keys 
 were in it — it was only locked on the inside. As Jack 
 came out into the court-yard he gave a great breath of 
 relief; the stars were shining thickly overhead, very still, 
 very bright ; the place seemed less God-forgotten than 
 when he was up there in his bedroom : the fresh night-air 
 blew in his face and extinguished his light. He did not 
 care, he put it down in a corner by the door, and went on 
 into the middle of the yard and looked all round about 
 him. Here and there from some of the windows a faint 
 light was burning and painting the bars in gigantic 
 shadows upon the walls ; and at the end of the court, from 
 what seemed like a grating to a cellar, some dim rays were 
 streaming upward. Trevithic was surprised to see a light 
 in such a place, and he walked up to see, and then he 
 turned quickly away, and if like uncle Toby he swore a 
 great oath at the horrible sight he saw, it was but an 
 expression of honest pity and most Christian charity. 
 The grating was a double grating, and looked into two
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 309 
 
 cellars which were used as casual wards when the regular 
 ward was full. The sight Trevithic saw is not one that 1 
 can describe here. People have read of such things as they 
 are and were only a little while ago when the Fall Mall 
 Gazette first published that terrible account which set 
 people talking and asking whether such things should be 
 and could be still. 
 
 Old Davy had told him a great many sad and horrible 
 things, but they were not so sad or so horrible as the truth, 
 as Jack now saw it. Truth, naked, alas ! covered with 
 dirt and vermin, shuddering with cold, moaning with 
 disease, and heaped and tossed in miserable uneasy sleep 
 at the bottom of her foul well. Every now and then a 
 voice broke the darkness, or a cough or a moan reached 
 him from the sleepers above. Jack did not improve his 
 night's rest by his midnight wandering. 
 
 Trevithic got well, however, next day, dressed himself, 
 and went down into the little office which had been 
 assigned to him. His bedroom was over the gateway 
 of the workhouse and looked into the street. From his 
 office he had only a sight of the men's court, the wooden 
 bench, the stone steps, the grating. Inside was a stove 
 and green drugget, a little library of books covered with 
 greasy brown paper for the use of those who could read. 
 There was not much to comfort or cheer him, and as he 
 sat there he began to think a little disconsolately of his 
 pleasant home, with its clean comfortable appointments.
 
 3IO JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 the flowers round the window, the fresh chintzes, and, 
 above all, the dear little round face upturned to meet him 
 at every coming home. 
 
 It would not do to think of such things, and Jack put 
 them away, but he wished that Anne*" had consented to 
 come to him. It seemed hard to be there alone — him a 
 father and a husband, with belongings of his own. Trevi- 
 thic, who was still weak and out of sorts, found himself 
 making a little languid castle in the air, of crooked places 
 made straight, of whited sepulchres made clean, of Dulcie, 
 grown tall and sensible, coming tapping at his door to 
 cheer him when he was sad, and encourage him when he 
 was weary. 
 
 Had the fever come back, and could it be that he was 
 wandering ? It seemed to him that all the heads of the 
 old men he could see through the grating were turning, 
 and that an apparition was passing by — an apparition, 
 gracious, smiling, looking in through the bars of his win- 
 dow, and coming gently knocking at his door ; and then it 
 opened, and a low voice said, — ' It's me, Mr. Trevithic — 
 INIrs. Myles ; may I come in ? ' and a cool grey phantom 
 stepped into the dark little room. 
 
 Jack gladly welcomed his visitor, and brought out his 
 shabby old leather chair for her ; but Mrs. Myles would 
 not sit down, she had only come for a minute. 
 
 ' How ill you are looking,' Mary said, compassionately. 
 ' I came to ask you to come back and dine with us ; I am
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 311 
 
 only here for a day or two with my cousin Fanny Gamier. 
 She visits this place, and brought me, and I thought of 
 asking for you ; and do come, Mr. Trevithic. These — 
 these persons showed me the way to your study.' And she 
 looked back at the grinning old heads that were peeping 
 in at the door. Mary Myles looked like the lady in 
 Comus — so sweet, and pure, and fair, with the grotesque 
 faces peering and whispering all about her. They van- 
 ished when Trevithic turned, and stood behind the door 
 watching and chattering like apes, for the pretty lady 
 to come out again. ' I cannot tell you how glad we 
 are that you have come here, Mr. Trevithic,' said Mrs. 
 Myles. ' Poor Fanny has half broken her heart over 
 
 the place, and Mr. Skipper was so hopeless that it was 
 
 »• 
 no use urging him to appeal. You will do more good 
 
 in a week than he has done in a year. I must not wait 
 
 now,' Mrs. Myles added. ' You will come, won't you ? — 
 
 at seven ; we have so much to say to you. Here is the 
 
 address.' 
 
 As soon as Jack had promised to come, she left him, 
 disappearing with her strange little court hobbling after 
 her to the very gate of the dreary place. 
 
 Jack was destined to have more than one visitor that 
 afternoon. As he still sat writing busily at his desk in 
 the little office, a tap came at the door. It was a differ- 
 ent apparition this time, for an old woman's head peeped 
 in, and an old nutcracker-looking body, in her charity-
 
 312 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 girl's livery, staggered feebly into his ofiSce and stood 
 grinning slyly at him. ' She came to borrow a book,' she 
 said. ' She couldn't read, not she, but, law bless him, that 
 was no matter.' Then she hesitated. ' He had been 
 speaking to Mike Eogers that morning.^ ^You wouldn't go 
 and get us into trouble,' said the old crone, with a wistful, 
 doubtful scanning interrogation of the eyes ; ' but I am 
 his good lady, and 'ave been these thirty years, and it do 
 seem hard upon the gals, and if you could speak the word, 
 sir, and get them out ' 
 
 ' Out ? ' said Jack. 
 
 ' From the black kitchen — so they name it,' said the 
 old crone, mysteriously : ' the cellar under the master's 
 stairs. Kate Hill has been in and out a week come 
 yesterday. I knowed her grandmother, poor soul. She 
 shouldn't have spoke tighty to the missis ; but she is 
 young and don't know no better, and my good man and 
 me was thinking if maybe you could say a word, sir — as 
 if from yourself. Maybe you heard her as you went 
 upstairs, sir ; for we know our cries is 'eard.' 
 
 So this was it. The moans in the air were not fancy, 
 the complainings had been the real complaints of some 
 one in suffering and pain. 
 
 ' Here is the book,' said Jack, suddenly ; ' and I'm 
 afraid you can have no more snuff, ma'am.' And ^vith a 
 start poor old Betty Rogers nearly stumbled over the 
 matron, who was standing at his door.
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 313 
 
 > 
 
 ' Well, wliat is it you're wanting now ? ' said Mrs. 
 Bulcox. 'You mustn't allow tliem to come troubling 
 you, Mr. Trevithic' 
 
 ' I 51m not here for long, Mrs. Bulcox,' said Jack, 
 shrugging his shoulders. ' While I stay I may as well do 
 all I can for these poor creatures.' 
 
 A gleam of satisfaction came into Mrs. Bulcox's face 
 at the notion of his approaching departure. He had been 
 writing all the morning, covering sheets and sheets of 
 paper. He had been doing no harm, and she felt she 
 could go out for an hour with her Bulcox, with an easy 
 mind. 
 
 As Mr. and Mrs. Bulcox came home together. Jack, 
 who was looking from his bedroom window, saw them 
 walking up the street. He had put up his sheets of paper 
 in an envelope, and stamped it, and addressed it. He 
 had not wasted his time during their absence, and he had 
 visited a part of the workhouse unknown to him before, 
 having bribed one pauper and frightened another into 
 showing him the way. Mr. Bulcox coming under the 
 window heard Jack calling to him affably. ' Would you 
 be so kind as to post this packet for me ? ' cried Jack. 
 The post-box was next door to the workhouse. ' Thank 
 von,' he said, as Mr. Bulcox picked up the thick letter 
 which came falling to the ground at his feet. It was 
 addressed to Colonel the Hon. Charles Hambledon, 
 Lowndes Square, London. ' Keeps very 'igh company,'
 
 314 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 said Bulcox to his wife, and he felt quite pleased to post 
 a letter addressed to so distinguished a personage. 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Jack again, looking very savagely 
 pleased and amused ; ' it was of importance.' He did not 
 add that it was a letter to the editor 0%. ^he Jupiter^ who 
 was a friend of his friend's. Trevithic liked the notion of 
 having got Bulcox to fix the noose round his own neck. 
 He felt ashamed of the part he was playing, but he did 
 not hurry himself for that. It was necessary to know all, 
 in order to sweep clean once he began. Poor Kate Hill 
 still in durance received a mysterious and encouraging 
 message, and one or two comforts were smuggled in to her 
 by her gaoler. On the Wednesday morning his letter 
 would appear in the Jupiter — nothing more could be 
 done until then. Next day was Tuesday : he would go 
 over to Sandsea and talk Anne into reason, and get back 
 in time for the board ; and in the meantime Jack dressed 
 himself and went to dine with the widows.
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 315 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 THE PARC^ CUT A THREAD OF MRS. TREVITHIC'S KNITTING. 
 
 Mrs. Myles' cousin, Mrs. Gamier, lived in a quaint, com- 
 fortable-looking low house on the Chester high road, with 
 one or two bow-windows and gables standing out for no 
 apparent reason, and a gallery upstairs, with four or five 
 windows, which led to the drawing-room. 
 
 The two widows were very fond of one another and 
 often together ; there was a similarity in tastes and age 
 and circumstance. The chief difference in their fate had 
 been this — that Fanny Gamier had loved her husband, 
 although she could not agree with him — for loving and 
 agreeing do not go together always — and Mary Myles' 
 married life had been at best a struggle for indifference 
 and forgiveness ; she was not a very easily moulded woman ; 
 she could do no more than forgive and repent her own ill- 
 doing in marrying as she did. 
 
 The trace of their two lives was set upon the cousins. 
 A certain coldness and self-reliance, a power of living for 
 to-day and forgetting, was the chief gift that had come 
 to Mary Myles out of the past experience of her life.
 
 31 6 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 Fanny Gamier was softer, more impressionable, more 
 easily touched and assimilated by the people with whom 
 she came in contact ; she was less crisp and bright than 
 ]\Iary, and older, though she was the same age. She had 
 loved more and sorrowed more, and people remember their 
 sorrows in after-years when their angers are forgotten and 
 have left only a blank in their minds. 
 
 George Gamier, Fanny Garnier's husband, had be- 
 longed to that sect of people who have an odd fancy in 
 their world for making themselves and other folks as 
 miserable as they possibly can — for worrying and wearying 
 and torturing, for doubting and trembling, for believing 
 far more eagerly in justice (or retribution, which is their 
 idea of justice) than in mercy. Terror has a strange mor- 
 bid attraction for these folks — mistmst, for all they say, 
 seems to be the motive power of their lives : they gladly 
 offer pain and tears and penitence as a ghastly propitiation. 
 They are of all religions and creeds ; they are found with 
 black skins and woolly heads, building up their altars and 
 offering: their human sacrifices in the unknown African 
 deserts ; they are chipping and chopping themselves be- 
 fore their emerald-nosed idols, who sit squatting in un- 
 clean temples ; they are living in the streets and houses 
 all round about us, in George Garnier's pleasant old 
 cottage outside the great Hammersley city, or at number 
 five, and six, and seven in om* street, as the case may be ; 
 in the convent at Bayswater, in the manses and presby-
 
 
 > yACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 317 
 
 teries. You or I may belong to the fraternity, so did 
 many a better man, as the children say. St. Simon 
 Stylites, Athanasius, John Calvin, Milton, Ignatius 
 Loyola, Savonarola, not to speak of Saints A, B, C, D, 
 and E. 
 
 Mary poured Jack out a big cup of strong tea, and 
 brought it across the lamp-lit room to him with her own 
 white hands. Mrs. Garnier shivered as she heard his 
 story. The tea smoked, the lamps burnt among the 
 flower-stands, the wood-fire blazed cheerfully, for Mrs. 
 Grarnier was a chilly and weak-minded person, and lit her 
 fire all the year round, more or less. Trevithic, comfort- 
 ably sunk back in a big arm-chair, felt a grateful sense of 
 ease and rest and consolation. The atmosphere of the 
 little house was so congenial and fragrant, the two women 
 were such sympathising listeners ; Mary Myles' bright eyes 
 lighted with such kindly interest; while Mrs. Grarnier, 
 silent, available, sat with her knitting under the shade of 
 the lamp. The poor fellow was not insensible to these 
 soothing influences. As he talked on, it seemed to him 
 that for the first time in his life he had realised what 
 companionship and sympathy might mean. Something 
 invisible, harmonious, delicate, seemed to drive away from 
 him all thought of sin or misery and turmoil when in 
 company with these two kind women. This was what a 
 home might have been — a warm, flower scented, lamp- 
 twinkling haven, with sweet still eyes to respond and
 
 3i8 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 brighten at his success and to cheer his failing efforts. 
 This was what it never, never would be. and Trevithic put 
 the thought away. It was dangerous ground for the poor 
 heart-weary fellow, longing for peace and home, comfort 
 and love ; wliereas Anne, to whom he~ Vfts bound to look 
 for these good things, was at Sandsea, fulfilling every duty 
 of civilised life, and not greatly troubled for her husband, 
 but miserable on her own account, hard and vexed and 
 deeply offended. 
 
 Mrs. Trevithic was tripping along the south cliff on 
 the afternoon of the next day, when the sound of footsteps 
 behind her made her stop and look round. As she saw 
 that it was her husband coming towards her, her pale face 
 tamed a shade more pale. 
 
 ' Oh, how d'ye do ? ' Anne said. ' I did not expect you. 
 Have you come for long ? ' And she scarcely waited 
 for him to come up to her, but began to walk on imme- 
 diately. 
 
 Poor John ; what a coming home ! He arrived with 
 his various interests, his reforms, his forthcoming letter in 
 the Jupiter ; there was the offer of the bishop's in his 
 pocket — the momentary gladness and elation of return — 
 and this was all he had come back to ! 
 
 ' Have you come on business ? ' Mrs. Trevithic 
 asked. 
 
 ' I wanted to see you and Dulcie,' John answered ;
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 319 
 
 * that was my business. Time seems very long without 
 you both. All this long time I have only had Mrs. Myles 
 to befriend me. I wish — I wish you would try to like 
 the place, too, Anne. Those two ladies seem very happy 
 there.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Myles, I have no doubt,' said Anne bitterly. 
 ' No,' she cried, ' you need not talk so to me. I know too 
 much, too much, too much,' she said, with something like 
 real pathos in her voice. 
 
 ' My dearest Anne, what do you mean ? ' Trevithic said, 
 kindly, hurrying after her, for she was walking very fast. 
 
 ' It is too late. I cannot forgive you. I am not one 
 of those people who can forget easily and forgive. Do you 
 think I do not know that your love is not mine — never 
 was — never will be mine ? Do you think gossip nerer 
 reaches me here, far away, though I strive to live in peace 
 and away from it all ? And you dare mention Mary 
 Myles' name to me — you dare — you dare ! ' cried Anne, in 
 her quick fierce manner. 
 
 ' Of course I dare,' said Trevithic. ' Enough of this, 
 Anne,' and lie looked as hard as Anne herself for a minute ; 
 then he melted. ' Dear Anne, if something has failed in 
 our home hitherto, let us forgive one another and make a 
 new start in life. Listen,' and he pulled out the bishop's 
 letter, with the offer of St. Bigots, and read it to her, ' I 
 need not tell you how much I wish for this.' 
 
 His wife did not answer. At first he thought she was
 
 320 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 relenting. Slie went a little way do\vn the side of the 
 cliff and waited for him, aud then suddenly turned 
 upon him. The wash of the sea seemed to flow in time 
 with her words. 
 
 ' You are cruel — yes, cruel I ' said A»ae, trembling very 
 much, and moved for once out of her calm. ' You think I 
 can bear anything — I cannot bear your insults any longer ! 
 I must go — leave you. Yes, listen to me, I will go, I tell 
 you ! My father will keep me here, me and little Dulcie, 
 and you can have your own way, John, and go where you 
 like. You love your o\vn way better than anything else in 
 the world, and it will make up to you for the home which, 
 as you say, has been a fiiilure on the whole.' And 
 Mrs. Trevithic tried to choke down a gulp of bitter angry 
 tears. 
 
 As she spoke John remembered a time not so very long 
 ago, when Anne had first sobbed out she loved him, and 
 when the tears which she should have gulped away had 
 been allowed to overflow into those bitter waters of strife — 
 alas ! neither of them could have imagined possible until 
 now. 
 
 They had been walking side by side along the beach, 
 the parson trudging angrily a little a-head, with his long 
 blackcoat flapping and swinging against his legs; Anne 
 skimming along skilfully after him, with her quick slender 
 footsteps ; but as she went along she blamed him in her 
 heart for every roughness and inequality of the shore, and
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 321 
 
 once when she struck her foot against a stone her ire rose 
 sore against him. Little Dalcie from the rectory garden 
 spied them out afar off, and pointed and capered to attract 
 their attention ; but the father and mother were too much 
 absorbed in their own troubles to heed her, even if they 
 could have descried her small person among the grasses 
 and trees. 
 
 * You mean to say,' said Jack, stopping short suddenly, 
 and turning round and speaking with a faint discordant 
 jar in his voice, ' that you want to leave me, Anne ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Anne, quite calm and composed, with two 
 glowing clieeks that alone showed that a fire of some sort 
 was smouldering within. ' Yes, John, I mean it. I have 
 not been happy. I have not succeeded in making you 
 happy. I think we should both be better people apart 
 than together. I never, never felt so — so ashamed of 
 myself in all my life as since I have been married to you. 
 I will stay here with papa. You have given up your 
 living ; you can now go and fulfil those duties which are 
 more to you than wife or children or home.' Anne — who 
 was herself again by this time — calmly rolled up her 
 parasol as she spoke, and stood waiting for an answer. I 
 think she expected a tender burst of remonstrance from 
 her husband, a pathetic appeal, an abandonment possibly 
 of the mad scheme which filled her with such unspeakable 
 indignation. She had not counted on his silence. John 
 stopped short a second time, and stood staring at the sea. 
 
 Y
 
 322 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 He was cut to the heart ; cruelly stunned and sliocked 
 and wounded by the pain, so that he had almost forgotten 
 his wife's presence, or what he should say, or anything but 
 the actual suffering that he was enduring. It seemed 
 like a revelation of a horrible secret^tt) which he had been 
 blind all along. It was like a curse falling upon his 
 home — undreamt of for a time, and suddenly realised. A 
 great swift hatred flamed up in his heart against the calm 
 and passive creature who had wrought it — who was there 
 before him waiting for his assent to her excellent arrange- 
 ments ; a hatred, indeed, of which she was unworthy and 
 unconscious ; for Anne was a woman of slow perception. 
 It took a long time for her to realise ihe effect of her 
 words, or to understand wliat was passing in other people's 
 minds. She was not more annoyed now with Trevithic 
 than she had been for a long time past. She had no con- 
 ception of the furies of scorn and hatred which were 
 battling and tearing at the poor fellow's kind heart ; 
 she had not herself begun to respond even to her own 
 emotions ; and so she stood quite quietly, expecting, like 
 some stupid bird by the water's edge, waiting for the wave 
 to overwhelm her. ' Do you not agree with me ? ' she 
 said at last. Trevithic was roused by his wife's question, 
 and answered it. ' Yes ; just as you wish,' he said, in an 
 odd, cracked voice, with a melancholy jar in it. 'Just 
 as you like, Anne.' And without looking at her again, he 
 began once more to tramp along the shingle, crushing the
 
 * JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 323 
 
 pebLles under his feet as he went. The little stones 
 started and rolled away under his impatient tread. Anne 
 from habit followed him, without much thinkings where 
 she was going, or what aim she had in so doing ; but she 
 could not keep up with his strong progress — the distance 
 widened and widened between them. John walked 
 farther away, while Mrs. Trevithic following after, trying 
 in vain to hasten her lagging steps, grew sad and fright- 
 ened all at once as she saw him disappearing in the dis- 
 tance. And then it was her turn to realise what slie had 
 done. Seeing her husband go, this poor woman began to 
 understand at last that her foolish longing was granted. 
 
 Her feet failed, her heart sank, her courage died away 
 all suddenly. Like a flame blown out, all the fire of her 
 vexation and impatience was gone, and only a dreary 
 nothing remained. And more hard to bear even than the 
 troubles, the pains, the aches, the longings of life, are its 
 blanks and its wants. Outer darkness, with the torment- 
 ing fires and the companion devils, is not the outer dark- 
 ness that has overwhelmed most hearts with terror and 
 apprehension. No words, no response, silence, abandon- 
 ment — to us weak, loving, longing human creatm-es, that 
 is the worst fate of all. 
 
 Anne became very tired, struggling after Trevithic 
 Little by little she began to realise that she had sent him 
 away, and he was going. A gull flapped across her path 
 and frightened her. She could see him still ; he had not 
 
 T 2
 
 324 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 yet turned up the steps from the cliff to the rectory 
 garden, but he was gone as certainly as if she could no 
 longer see him. And then she began to learn in a void 
 of incredulous amaze, poor sluggish soul, that life was 
 hard, very hard, and terribly remorseless ; that when you 
 strike, the blow falls ; that what you wish is not always 
 what you want ; that it is easy to call people to you once 
 perhaps, and to send them away once, but that when they 
 come they stay, and when they go they are gone and all is 
 over. ^Vhy was he so headstrong, so ungrateful, so un- 
 reasonable ? Was she not right to blame him ? and had 
 he not owned liimself to be in the wrong ? Ah, poor wife, 
 poor wife ! Something choking and blinding seemed to 
 smite the unhappy woman in her turn. She reached the 
 steps at last that led up the cliff to the rectory garden 
 where little Dulcie had been playing when her mother 
 left her. Anne longed to find her there — to clutch her in 
 her poor aching arms, and cover her sweet little rosy face 
 with kisses. ' Dulcie,' she called, ' Dulcie, Dulcie ! ' her 
 voice echoing so sadly that it struck herself, but Dulcie's 
 cheery little scream of gladness did not answer, and Anne 
 — who took this silence as a bad omen — felt her heart 
 sink lower. In a vague way she thought that if she could 
 have met Dulcie all would have been well. 
 
 She was calling still, when someone answered ; figures 
 came to the hall-door, half-a-dozen officious hands were 
 outstretched, and friendly greetings met her. There was
 
 V 
 
 ■ % 
 
 *» JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 325 
 
 Miss Triquett who was calling with ]\Iiss ^Nloineaux, and 
 Miss Simmonds who had driven up in her basket-carriage, 
 and old Mr. Bellingliam trying in a helpless way to enter- 
 tain his visitresses, and to make himself agreeable to them 
 all. The old gentleman, much relieved at the sight of 
 his daughter, called her to him with a cheerful, 'Ah, my 
 dear, here you are. I shall now leave these ladies in better 
 hands than mine. I am sorry to say I have a sermon to 
 write.' And Mr. Bellingham immediately and benevo- 
 lently trotted away. 
 
 With the curious courage of women, and long habi- 
 tude, JNlrs. Trevithic took off her hat and smoothed her 
 straight hair, and sat down, and mechanically began to make 
 conversation for the three old ladies who established them- 
 selves comfortably in the pleasant bow-windowed drawing- 
 room and prepared for a good chat. Miss Simmonds took 
 the sofa as her right (as I have said before, size has a 
 certain precedence of its own). Miss Triquett, as usual, 
 rapidly glanced round the apartment, took in the impor- 
 tation of work-boxes, baskets, toy-boxes, &c., which Anne's 
 arrival had scattered about, the trimming on Mrs. Trevi- 
 thic's dress, the worn lines under her eyes. Mrs. Trevithic 
 took her knitting from one of the baskets, and rang the 
 bell and desired the man to find Miss Dulcieand send her ; 
 and meanwhile the stream of conversation flowed on unin- 
 terruptedly. Mr. Trevithic was well. Only come for a 
 day ! And the little girl ? Thanks — yes. Little Dulcie's
 
 326 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 cold had been severe — linseed-poultices, squills, ipecacu- 
 anha wine ; — thanks, yes. Mrs. Trevithic was already 
 aware of tlieir valuable medicinal properties. ^Ir. Pelli- 
 grew, the present curate, had spraii^ed his thumb in the 
 pulpit door — wet bandages, &c. &c. Here Miss Simmonds, 
 whose eyes had been fixed upon this window all the time, 
 suddenly exclaimed, — 
 
 ' How fond your husband is of that dear child Dulcie, 
 Mrs. Trevithic I There she is with her papa in the 
 garden.' 
 
 ' Dear me ! ' said Triquett, stretching her long neck and 
 lighting up with excitement. ' ]Mr. Trevithic must be 
 ^oing away ; you never told us. He is carrying a carpet- 
 bag.' 
 
 As she spoke, Anne, who had been sitting with her 
 back to the window, started up, and her knitting fell off her 
 lap. She was irresolute for an instant. He could not be 
 going — going like that, without a word. No, she would 
 not follow him. 
 
 ' dear me I ' said Miss Simmonds, who had been try- 
 ing to hook up the little rolling ball of worsted with the 
 end of her parasol, 'just see what I have done.' And she 
 held the parasol up spindle-fashion with the long entangled 
 
 thread twisted round it. 
 
 ' I think I can undo it,' said Miss Moineaux. 
 
 'I beg your pardon, I — I want to speak to my hus-
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 327 
 
 band,' said INIrs. Trevithic, all of a sudden starting up and 
 running to the door. 
 
 ' He is going,' said Miss Triquett to the others, look- 
 ing once more out through the big pleasant window, as 
 Anne left the room. ' Dear Miss Moineaux, into what a 
 mess you have got that knitting ; here are some scissors — 
 let me cut the thread.' 
 
 ' Poor thing ! she is too late,' said Miss Moineaux, 
 letting the two ends of the thread fall to the ground.
 
 328 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER, 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 IN blunderbore's castle. 
 
 When Jack first made the acquaintance of the board on 
 the Wednesday after he first came to the workhouse, the 
 seven or eight gentlemen sitting round the green table 
 greeted him quite as one of themselves as he came into the 
 room. This was a dull September morning ; the mist 
 seemed to have oozed in tlirougli the higli window and 
 continually-opening dooi". When Jack passed through the 
 outer or entrance room, he saw a heap of wistful faces and 
 rags already waiting for admittance, some women and some 
 children, a man with an arm in a sling, one or two work- 
 house liahitues-'OxQTQ, was no mistaking the hard coarse 
 faces. Two old paupers were keeping watch at the door, 
 and officiously flung it open for him to pass in. The guar- 
 dians had greeted liim very afli'ably on the previous occa- 
 sion, — a man of the world, a prosperous but eccentric vicar, 
 was not to be treated like an everyday curate and chap- 
 lain. ' All, how-d'ye-do, Mr. Trevithic ? ' said the half-pay 
 Captain, the chairman. The gas-titter cleared his throat 
 and made a sort of an attempt at a bow. The wholesale
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 329 
 
 grocer rubbed his two hands together, — Pitchleyhis name 
 was, I think — for some reason or other, he exercised great 
 influence over the rest. But on this second Wednesday 
 morning the Jupiter had come out with an astounding 
 letter — about themselves, their workhouse, their master, 
 their private paupers. It was a day they never forgot, and 
 the natural indignation of the board overflowed. 
 
 Perhaps Jack would have done better had he first repre- 
 sented matters to them, but he knew that at least two of 
 the guardians were implicated. He was afraid of being 
 silenced and of having the affair hushed up. He cared not 
 for the vials of their wrath being emptied upon him so lung 
 as they cleansed the horrible place in their outpour. He 
 walked in quite brisk and placid to meet the storm. The 
 guardians had not all seen the Jupiter as they came drop- 
 ping in. Oker, the gasman, was late, and so was Pitchley 
 as it happened, and when they arrived Jack was already 
 standing in his pillory and facing the indignant chair- 
 man. 
 
 * My friend Colonel Hambledon wrote the letter from 
 notes which I gave him,' said Jack. ' I considered 
 publicity best ; — under the circumstances, I could not be 
 courteous,' he said, ' if I hoped to get through this dis- 
 agreeable business at all effectually. I could not have se- 
 lected any one of you gentlemen as confidants in common 
 fairness to the others. I wished the enc[uiry to be
 
 330 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 complete and searching. I was obliged to brave the con- 
 sequences.' 
 
 * Upon my word I think you have acted right,' said one 
 of tlie guardians, a doctor, a blufif old fellow who liked 
 frank speaking. But an indignant miiynur expressed the 
 dissent of the other members of the board. 
 
 ' I have been here a fortnight,' said Jack. ' I had not 
 intended speaking so soon of what I now wish to bring be- 
 fore your notice, but the circumstances seem to me so 
 urgent and so undoubted that I can see no necessity for 
 deferring my complaint any longer.' 
 
 * Dear me, sir,' said the gas-fitter, coming in, * I 'ope 
 there's nothink wrong ? ' 
 
 ' Everything, more or less,' said Trevithic, quietly. ' In 
 the first place, I wish to bring before you several cases of 
 great neglect on the part of 3Ir. and Mrs. Bulcox.' 
 
 Here the chairman coloured up. ' I think, Mr. Trevi- 
 thic, we had better have the master present if you have 
 any complaint to lodge against him.' 
 
 'By all means,' said Trevithic, impassively; and he 
 turned over his notes while one of the trembling old mes- 
 sengers went off for the master. 
 
 The master arrived and the matron too. ' How-d'ye-do, 
 Bulcox ? ' said the chairman. Mrs. Bulcox dropped a re- 
 spectful sort of curtsey, and Trevithic immediately began 
 without gi^^ng time for the others to speak. He turned 
 upon the master.
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 331 
 
 ' I have a complaint to lodge against you and Mrs. Bul- 
 cox, and at the chairman's suggestion I waited for you to be 
 present.' 
 
 ' Against me, sir ? ' said Bulcox, indignantly. 
 
 ' Against me and Mr. Bulcox ? ' said the woman, with 
 a bewildered, injured, saint-like sort of swoop. 
 
 'Yes,' Jack answered, curtly. 
 
 ' Have you seen the letter in the Jujpiter ? ' said the 
 chairman gravely to Mr. Bulcox. 
 
 ' Mr. Bulcox was good enough to post the letter him- 
 self,' Jack interposed, briskly. ' It was to state, what I 
 honestly believe to be the fact, that I consider that you, 
 Mr. Bulcox, are totally unfit for your present situation as 
 master. I am aware that you have good friends among 
 these gentlemen, and that, as far as they can tell, your 
 conduct has always been a model of deference and exem- 
 plariness. Now,' said Jack, ' with the board's permission 
 I will lodge my complaints against you in form.' And 
 here Trevithic pulled out his little book, and read out as 
 follows : — 
 
 ' 1. That the management and economy of this work- 
 house are altogether disgraceful. 
 
 ' 2. That you have been guilty of cruelty to two or 
 three of the inmates. 
 
 * 3. That you have embezzled or misapplied certain 
 sums of money allowed to you for the relief of the sick 
 paupers under your care.'
 
 332 7^CA' THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 But here the chairman, guardians, master and mis- 
 tress, would hear no more; all interrupted Trevithic at 
 once. 
 
 ' Eeally, sir, you must substantiate such charges as 
 these. Leave the room ' (to the messengers at the door). 
 
 ' I cannot listen to such imputations,' from the master. 
 
 *\Vhat have we done to you that you should say 
 such cruel, false things ? ' from the mistress. ' Oh, sir,' 
 (to the cliairman,) ' turn him away ; say you don't believe 
 him.' 
 
 ' If you will come with me now,' Jack continued, ad- 
 dressing the guardians, ' I think I can prove some of my 
 statements. Do you know that the little children here 
 are crying with hunger ? Do you know that the wine al- 
 lowed for the use of the sick has been regularly appropri- 
 ated by these two wretches?' cried Trevithic, in an honest 
 fury. ' Do you know that people here are lying in their 
 beds in misery, at this instant, who have not been moved 
 or touched for weeks and weeks ; that the nurses follow 
 the example of those who are put over them, and drink, 
 and ill-use tlieir patients ; that the food is stinted, the tea 
 is undrinkable, the meat is bad and scarcely to be 
 touched ; tliat the very water flows from a foid cesspool ; 
 that at this instant, in a cellar in the house, there are three 
 girls shut up, without beds or any conceivable comfort, — 
 one has been there four days and nights, another has been 
 shut up twice in one week in darkness and unspeakable
 
 \ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 333 
 
 misery ? Shall I tell you the crime of this culprit ? She 
 spoke saucily to the matron, and this is her punishment. 
 Will you come with me now, and see whether or not I have 
 been speaking the truth ? ' 
 
 There was not one word he could not substantiate. He 
 had not been idle all this time, he had been collecting his 
 proofs, — ghastly proofs they were. 
 
 The sight of the three girls brought blinded and 
 staggering out of the cellar had more effect than all the 
 statements and assertions which Mr. Trevithic had been 
 at such great pains to get together. The Bulcoxes were 
 doomed ; of this there could be no doubt. They felt it 
 themselves as they plodded across the yard with the little 
 mob of excited and curious guardians. Oker, the gas-fitter, 
 took their part, indeed, so did the grocer. The old doctor 
 nearly fell upon the culprits then and there. The rest of 
 the guardians seemed to be divided in their indignation 
 against Jack for telling, against Bulcox for being found 
 out, against the paupers for being ill-used, for being pau- 
 pers ; against the reporter for publishing such atrocious 
 libels. It was no bed of roses that Trevithic had made for 
 himself. 
 
 A special meeting was convened for the end of the 
 week.
 
 334 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 CHAPTER Vril. 
 
 MARY. 
 
 As years go by, and we see more of life and of our 
 fellow-creatures, the by-play of existence is curiously 
 unfolded to us, and we may, if we choose, watch its threads 
 twisting and untwisting, flying apart, and coming together. 
 People rise from their sick-beds, come driving up in 
 carriages, come walking along the street into each other's 
 lives. As A. trips along by the garden-wall, Z. at the other 
 end of the world, perhaps, is thinking that he is tired of 
 this solitary bushman's life ; he was meant for something 
 better than sheep-shearing and driving convicts, and he 
 says to himself that he will throw it all up and go back 
 to England, and see if there is not bread enough left in 
 the old coimtry to support one more of her sons. Here, 
 perhaps, A. stoops to pick a rose, and places it in her 
 girdle, and wonders whether that is C. on the rough pony 
 riding along the road from market. As for Z., A. has 
 never even conceived the possibility of his existence. But 
 by this time Z. at the other end of the world has made 
 up his mind, being a man of quick and determined action.
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 335 
 
 and poor C.'s last chance is over, and pretty A., with the 
 rose in her girdle, will never be his. Or it may be that 
 Z., after due reflection, likes the looks of his tallows, X. 
 and Y. come to the station, which had hitherto only been 
 visited by certain very wild-looking letters of the alphabet, 
 with feathers in their heads, and faces streaked with white 
 paint, and A. gives her rose to C, who puts it in his button- 
 hole with awkward country gallantry, quite unconscious 
 of the chance they have both run that morning, and that 
 their fate has been settled for them at the other end of 
 the world. 
 
 When my poor A. burst into tears at the beginning 
 of this story, another woman, who should have been 
 Trevithic's wife, as far as one can judge speaking of such 
 matters, a person who could have sympathised with his 
 ambitions and understood the direction of his impulses, 
 a woman with enough enthusiasm and vigour in her 
 nature to carry her bravely through the tangles and dif- 
 ficulties which only choked and scratched and tired out 
 poor Anne — this person, who was not very far off at the 
 time, and no other than Mary Myles, said to someone 
 who was with her— and she gave a pretty sad smile and 
 quick shake of the head as she spoke, — 
 
 ' No, it is no use. I have nothing but friendliness, a 
 horrible, universal feeling of friendliness, left for any 
 of my fellow- creatures. 1 will confess honestly ' (and 
 here she lost her colour a little) ' I did wrong once. I
 
 336 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 married my husband for a home — most people know how 
 I was punished, and what a miserable home it was. I 
 don't mind telling you, Colonel Hambledon, for you well 
 understand how it is that I must make the best of my life 
 iu this arid and lonely waste to which*-my own fault has 
 brought me.' 
 
 ]Mrs. Myles' voice faltered as she spoke, and she h ung 
 her head to hide the tears which had come into her eyes. 
 And Colonel Hambledon took this as an answer to a ques- 
 tion he had almost asked her, and went away. ' If ever 
 you should change your mind,' he said, 'you would find me 
 the same a dozen years hence.' And Mary only sighed 
 and shook her head. 
 
 But all this was years ago — three years nearly by the 
 Dulcie almanac — and if Mary i\Iyles sometimes thought 
 she had done foolishly when she sent Charles Hambledon 
 away, there was no one to whom she could own it — not 
 even to her cousin Fanny, who had no thoughts of marry- 
 ing or giving in marriage, or wishes for happiness beyond 
 the ordering her garden-beds and the welfare of her poor 
 people. 
 
 Fanny one day asked her cousin what had become of 
 her old friend the colonel. Mary blushed up brightly, 
 and said she did not know ; she believed he was in Ham- 
 mersley. Fanny, who was cutting out little flannel vests 
 for her school-children, was immediately lost in the in- 
 tricacies of a gore, and did not notice the blush or the
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 337 
 
 bright amused glance in the quiet grey eyes that were 
 watching her at her benevolent toil. Snip, snip, sni-i- 
 i-i-i-i-ip went the scissors with that triumphant screech- 
 ing sound which all good housewives love to hear. Mary 
 was leaning back in her chair, perfectly lazy and mioc- 
 cupied, with her little white hands crossed upon her 
 knees, and her pretty head resting against the chair. 
 She would not have been sorry to have talked a little 
 more upon a subject that was not uninteresting to her, and 
 she tried to make Fanny speak. 
 
 ' What do you think of him ? Have you heard that 
 he has come ? ' she asked, a little shyly. 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know. No, I have not seen any of them 
 for a long time,' said Fanny, absently. ' Mary, are you 
 not ashamed of being so lazy? Come and hold these 
 strips.' 
 
 Mary did as she was bid, and held out grey flannel 
 strips at arms' length, and watching the scissors flashing, 
 the pins twinkling, and the neat little heaps rising all 
 about on the floor and the chairs and the tables. Then 
 INIrs. Myles tried again. 'Mr. Trevithic tells me that 
 Colonel Hambledon is coming down to help him with this 
 workhouse business. You will have to ask them both to 
 dinner, Fanny.' 
 
 Fanny did not answer for a minute. She hesitately 
 looked Mary full in the face, and then said very thought- 
 fully, ' Don't you think unbleached calico will be best to 
 
 z
 
 338 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 line the jackets with ? It will keep the children warm, poor 
 little things.' The children's little backs might be 
 warmed by this heap of snips and linings ; but Mary 
 suddenly felt as if all the wraps and flannels and calicos 
 were piled upon her head, and choking and oppressing 
 her, while all the while her heart was cold and shivering, 
 poor thing I There are no flannel-jackets that I know of 
 to warm sad hearts such as hers. 
 
 Fanny Gamier was folding up the last of her jackets ; 
 INIary, after getting through more work in lialf-an-hour 
 than Fanny the methodical could manage in two, had re- 
 turned to her big arm-chair, and was leaning back in tlie 
 old listless attitude, dreaming dreams of her own, as her 
 eyes wandered to the window and followed the line of the 
 trees showing against the sky — when the door opened, and 
 a stupid country man-servant suddenly introduced Jack, 
 and the Colonel of Mrs. ^Nlyles' visionary recollections in 
 actual person, walking into the very midst of thesnippings 
 and parings which were scattered about on the floor. 
 Fanny was in nowise disconcerted. She rather gloried 
 in her occupation. I cannot say so much for Mary, who 
 nervously hated any show or affectation of philanthropy, 
 and who now jumped up hastily, with an exclamation, 
 an outstretched hand, and a blush. 
 
 * There seems to be something going on,' the Colonel 
 said, standing over a heap of straggling 'backs' and 
 ' arms.' 
 
 I
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER, 339 
 
 ' Do come upstairs out of this labyrinth of good in- 
 tentions,' cried Mary, hastily. ' Fanny, please put down 
 your scissors, and let us go up.' 
 
 ' I'll follow,' said Fanny, placidly, and Mary had to 
 lead the way alone to the long low bow-window drawing- 
 room which Trevithic knew so well. She had regained 
 her composure and spirits by the time they reached the 
 landing at the top of the low flight of oak steps ; and, 
 indeed, both Hambledon and Mrs. Myles were far too much 
 used to the world and its ways to betray to each other the 
 smallest indication of the real state of their minds. Three 
 years had passed since they parted. If Mary's courage 
 had failed then, it was the Colonel's now that was wanting ; 
 and so it happens with people late in life — the fatal gift 
 of experience is theirs. They mistrust, they hesitate, they 
 bargain to the uttermost farthing ; the jewel is there, but 
 it is locked up so securely in strong boxes and wrappers, 
 that it is beyond the power of the possessors to reach it. 
 Their youth and simplicity is as much a part of them 
 still as their placid middle age ; but it is hidden away 
 ' under the years which are heaped upon the past, and its 
 glory is not shining as of old upon their brows. Mrs. 
 Myles and the Colonel each were acting a part, and per- 
 fectly at ease as they discussed all manner of things that 
 had been since they met, and might be before they met 
 again. Fanny, having folded away the last of her flannels, 
 came up placid and smiling too ; and after half-an-hour 
 
 8 2
 
 340 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 the two gentlemen went away. Fanny for^j^ot to ask them 
 to dinner, and wondered why her cousin was so cross all 
 the rcBt of tlie afternoon. 
 
 No, Mary would not go out. No, she had no headache, 
 thank you. As soon as she had got TricT" of Fanny and her 
 questionings, Mary Myles ran up to her room and pulled 
 out some old, old papers and diaries, and read the old tear- 
 stained records till new tears fell to wash away the old ones. 
 Ah, yes, she had done rightly when she sent Hambledon 
 away. Three years ago — it had seemed to her then that a 
 lifetime of expiation woidd not be too long to repent of 
 the wrong she had done when she married — loveless, thrift- 
 ful, longing (and that, poor soul, had been her one excuse,) 
 for the possible love that had never come to her. Life is 
 so long, the time is so slow that passes wearily ; she had 
 been married three years, she had worn sackcloth three 
 years : and now, — now if it were not too late, how gladly, 
 how gratefully, she would grasp a hope of some life more 
 complete than the sad one she had led ever since she 
 could remember almost. AVould it not be a si<i:n that 
 she had been forgiven if the happiness she had so longed 
 for came to her at last ? Mary wondered that her 
 troubles had left no deeper lines upon her face ; wondered 
 that she looked so young still, so fair and smiling, while 
 her heart felt so old ; and smiled sadly at her own face in 
 the glass. 
 
 And then, as people do to whom a faint dawn of rising
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 341 
 
 > 
 
 hope shows the darkness in which they have been living, 
 
 Mrs. Myles began to think of some of her duties that she 
 
 had neglected of late, and of others still in darkness for 
 
 whom no dawn was nigh ; and all the while, still feeling 
 
 as people feel whose hearts are full, she was longing for 
 
 someone to speak to, someone wiser than herself to whom 
 
 she could say, What is an expiation ? can it, does it exist ? 
 
 is it the same as repentance ? are we called upon to crush 
 
 our hearts, to put away our natural emotions ? Fanny 
 
 would say Yes, and would scorn her for her weakness, and 
 
 cry out with horror at a second marriage. ' And so would I 
 
 have done,' poor Mary thought, ' if— if poor Tom had only 
 
 been fond of me.' And then the thought of Trevithic 
 
 came to her as a person to speak to, a helper and adviser. 
 
 He would speak the truth ; he would not be afraid, ]Mary 
 
 thought ; and the secret remembrance that he was Ham- 
 
 bledon's friend did not make her feel less confidence in his 
 
 decisions. 
 
 Mrs. Myles had been away some little time from her 
 
 house at Sandsea, and from the self-imposed duties which 
 
 were waiting undone until her return. Before Fanny 
 
 came home that evening, she sat down and wrote to her 
 
 old friend. Miss Triquett, begging her to be so good as to 
 
 go to Mrs. Gummers, and one or two more whose names, 
 
 ages, troubles, and families were down upon her list, and 
 
 distribute a small sum of money enclosed. ' I am not 
 
 afraid of troubling you, dear Miss Triquett,' wrote Mary
 
 3+2 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 ]\Iyles, in her big, picturesque handwriting. ' I know your 
 kind heart, and that you never grudge time nor fatigue 
 when you can help anyone out of the smallest trouble or 
 the greatest. I have been seeing a good deal lately of 
 jSIr. Trevithic, who is of your way o^ thinking, and who 
 lias been giving himself an infinity of pains about some 
 abuses in the workhouse here. He is, I do believe, one of 
 the few people who could have come to the help of the 
 poor creatures. He has so much courage and temper, such 
 a bright and generous way of sympathising and entering 
 into other people's troubles, that I do not despair of his ac- 
 complishing this good work. My cousin and I feel very 
 much with and for him. He looked ill and worn one day 
 when I called upon him ; but I am glad to think that 
 coming to us has been some little cliange and comfort to 
 him. He is quite alone, and we want him to look upon 
 this place as his home while he is here. Your old acquaint- 
 ance, Colonel Hambledon, has come down about this busi- 
 ness. It is most horrifying. Can you imagine the poor 
 sick people left with tipsy nurses, and more dreadful still, 
 girls locked up in cellars by the cruel matron for days at 
 a time ? but this fact has only just been made public. 
 
 * Groodness and enthusiasm like ]Mr. Trevithic's seem 
 all the more beautiful when one hears such terrible histories 
 of wickedness and neglect : one needs an example like his 
 in this life to raise one from the unprofitable and miser- 
 able concerns of every day, and to teach one to believe in
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 343 
 
 no})ler efforts than one's own selfish and aimless wanderings 
 could ever lead to unassisted. 
 
 ' Pray remember me very kindly to Miss Moineaux 
 and to Mrs. Trevithic, and Lelieve me, dear Miss Triquett, 
 
 ' Very sincerely yours, 
 
 ' Mary Myles.' 
 
 ' Is ]\Irs. Trevithic again suffering from neuralgia ? 
 Why is not she able to be with her husband ? ' 
 
 ' Why, indeed ? ' said Miss Moineaux, hearing this 
 last sentence read out by Miss Triquett. This excellent 
 spinster gave no answer. She read this letter twice 
 through delibei ately ; then she tied her bonnet securely 
 on and trotted off to Grummers and Co. Then, having 
 dispensed the bounties and accepted the thanks of the 
 poor creatures, she determined to run the chance of find- 
 ing Mrs. Trevithic at home. ' It is my painful dooty,' 
 said Triquett to herself, shaking her head — 'my painful 
 dooty. Anne Trevithic should go to her husband ; and I 
 will tell her so. If I were Mr. Trevitliic's wife, should 
 I leave him to toil alone ? No, I should not. Should I 
 permit him to seek sympathy and consolation with another, 
 more fascinating, perhaps ? No, certainly not. And deeply 
 grateful should I have felt to her who warned me on my 
 fatal career ; and surely my young friend Anne will ])e 
 grateful to her old friend whose finger arrests her on the 
 very edge of the dark precipice.' Miys Triquett's reflec-
 
 344 JACK THE GI A XT-KILLER. 
 
 tions Lad risen to eloquence by the time she reached the 
 rectory door. A vision of Anne clinging to her in tears, 
 imploring her advice, of John shaking her warmly by the 
 hand and iiiurmuring that to Miss Triquett they owed 
 the renewed happiness of their home, beguiled the way. 
 ' Where is Mrs. Trevithic ? ' she asked the butler, in her 
 deepest voice. Leave us,' said Miss Triquett to the be- 
 wildered menial, as he opened the drawing-room door 
 and she marched into the room ; and then encountering 
 Mrs. Trevitliic, she suddenly clasped her iu her well- 
 meaning old arms. 
 
 ' I have that to say to you,' said jNIiss Triquett, in 
 answer to Anne's amazed exclamation, 'which I fear will 
 give you pain ; l>ut were I in your place, I should wish 
 to hear the truth.' Tlie good old soul was in earnest ; 
 her voice trembled, and her little black curls shook with 
 agitation. 
 
 * Pray do not hesitate to mention anything,' said Mrs. 
 Trevithic, surprised but calm, and sitting down and pre- 
 paring to listen attentively. 'I am sure anytliing you 
 would like to have attended to ' 
 
 Miss Triquett, at the invocation, pulled out the 
 letter from her pocket. 'Remember, only remember 
 this,' she said, 'this comes from a young and attractive 
 woman.' And then in a clear and ringing voice she read 
 out poor Mary's letter, with occasional unspeakable and 
 penetrating looks at Anne's calm features.
 
 \ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 345 
 
 Poor little letter ! It liad been written in the sin- 
 cerity and innocence of Mary's heart. Anyone more 
 deeply read in such things might have wondered why 
 Colonel Hambledon's name should have been brought 
 into it ; but as it was, it caused one poor jealous heart 
 to beat with a force, a secret throb of sudden jealousy, 
 that nearly choked Anne for an instant as she listened, 
 and a faint pink tinge came rising up and colouring her 
 face. 
 
 ' Kemember, she is very attractive,' Miss Triquett 
 re-echoed, folding up the page. ' Ah ! be warned, my 
 dear young friend. Go to him ; throw yourself into his 
 arms ; say, " Dearest, darling husband, your little wife 
 is by your side once more ; 7 will be your comforter ! " 
 Do not hesitate.' Poor old Triquett, completely carried 
 away by the excitement of the moment, had started from 
 her seat, and with extended arms had clasped an imaginary 
 ligure in the air. It was ludicrous, it was pathetic to see 
 this poor old silly meddlesome creatm-e quivering, as her 
 heart beat and bled for the fate of others. She had no 
 tear or emotions of her own. It was absurd — was it not ? 
 — that she should care so deeply for things which could 
 not affect her in the least degree. There was Anne, with 
 her usual self-possession, calmly subdmng her irritation. 
 She did not smile ; she did not frown ; she did not seem 
 to notice this momentary ebullition. To me it seems that, 
 of the two, my sympathy is with Miss Triquett. Let us
 
 346 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 be absurd, by all means, if that is the price which must 
 be paid for something which is well worth its price. 
 
 Miss Triquett's eyes were full of tears. ' I am im- 
 petuous, Mrs. Trevithic,' she said. ' My aunt has often 
 found fault with me for it. Pray excuse me if I have 
 interfered unwarrantably.' 
 
 ' Interference between married people rarely does any 
 good, Miss Triquett,' said Anne, standing up with an icy 
 platitude, and unmistakably showing that she considered 
 the visit at an end. 
 
 * Good-by,' said poor Miss Triquett, wistfully. 'Re- 
 member me most kindly to your papa.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Mrs. Trevithic. ' I am afraid you 
 will have a disagreeable walk back in the rain. Miss 
 Triquett. Good-evening. Pray give my compliments to 
 Miss ]Moineaux.' 
 
 The old maid trudged off alone into the mud and the 
 rain, with a mortified sense of having behaved absurdly, 
 disappointed and tired, and vaguely ashamed and crest- 
 fallen. The sound of tlie dinner-bell ringing at the 
 rectory as she trudged down the hill in the dark and dirt, 
 did not add to her cheerfulness. 
 
 Anne, with flushed red cheeks and trembling hands, as 
 Triquett left the room, sank down into her chair for a 
 moment, and then suddenly starting up, busied herself 
 exactly as usual with her daily task of putting the draw- 
 ing-room in order before she went up to dress. Miss
 
 'JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 347 
 
 Triquett's seat she pushed right away out of sight. She 
 collected her father's writing materials and news- 
 papers, and put them straight. She then re-read her 
 husband's last few lines. There was nothing to be gleaned 
 from them. She replenished the flower-stands, and sud- 
 denly remembering that it was Mrs. Myles who liad given 
 them to her, she seized one tall glass fabric and all but 
 flung it angrily on the ground. But reflecting that if it 
 were broken it would spoil the pair, sha put it back again 
 into its corner, and contented herself with stuffing in all 
 the ugliest scraps of twigs, dead leaves and flowers from 
 the refuse of her basket. 
 
 The rector and his daughter dined at five; it was a 
 whim of the old man's. Anne clutched Didcie in her 
 arms before she went down after dressing. The child had 
 never seen her mamma so excited, and never remembered 
 being kissed like that before by her. ' D'oo lub me vely 
 mush to-day, mamma ? ' said Dulcie, pathetically. ' Is it 
 toz I 'ave my new fock ? ' 
 
 Old Mr. Bellingham came in at the sound of the 
 second bell, smiling as usual, and rubbing his comfortable 
 little fat hands together ; he did not remark that any- 
 thing was amiss with his daughter, though he observed 
 that there was not enough cayenne in the gravy of tlie 
 veal cutlets, and that the cook had forgotten the necessary 
 teaspoonful of sugar in the soup. For the first time since 
 he could remember, Anne failed to sympathise with his
 
 348 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 natural vexation, and seemed scarcely as annoyed as usual 
 at the neglect which had been shown. ^Ir. liellinghaia 
 was vexed with her for her indifference : he always left 
 the scolding to her ; he liked everything to go smooth and 
 comfortable, and he did not like to ^e called up(3n per- 
 sonally to lose his temper. ' For what we have received ' 
 — and the Initler retires with the crumbs and the cloths, 
 and the little old gentleman— who has had a fire lighted, 
 for the evenings are getting cliilly — draws comfortably in 
 to his chimney-corner ; wliile Anne, getting up from her 
 place at the head of tlie table, says abruptly that she 
 must go upstairs and see what Dulcie is about. A restless 
 mood had come over her ; something unlike anytliing she 
 liad ever felt before. Little Triquett's eloquence, which 
 had not even seemed to disturb Anne at the time, liad 
 had full time to sink into this somewhat torpid apprehen- 
 sion, and excite I\Irs. Trevithic's indignation. It was not 
 the less fierce because it had smouldered so long. 
 
 ' Insolent creature I ' Anne said to herself, working 
 herself up into a passion ; ' how dare she interfere ? In- 
 solent ridiculous creature ! " Remember that that woman 
 
 is attractive" How dare she speak so to me ? Oh, 
 
 they are all in league — in league against me ! ' cried poor 
 Anne, with a moan, wringing her liands with all the 
 twinkle of stones upon her slim white fingers. ' John does 
 not love me, he never loved me I He will not do as I 
 wish, though he promised and swore at the altar he would.
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 349 
 
 And she — she is spreading her wicked toils round him, 
 and keeping him there, while I am here alone — all alone ; 
 and he leaves me exposed to the insolence of those horri- 
 ble old maids. Papa eats his dinner and only tliinks of 
 the flavour of the dishes, and Dulcie chatters to her doll 
 and don't care — and no one comes when I ring,' sobbed 
 Mrs. Trevithic in a burst of tears, violently tugging at 
 the bell-rope. ' Oh, it is a shame, a shame ! ' 
 
 Only as she wiped away the tears a gleam of determi- 
 nation came into Mrs. Trevithic's blue eyes, and the flush 
 on her pale cheeks deepened. She had taken a resolution. 
 This is what she would do — this was her resolution : she 
 would go and confront him there on the spot and remind 
 him of his duty — he who was preaching to others. It 
 was her right ; and then — and then she would leave him 
 for ever, and never return to Sandsea to be scofied at and 
 jeered at by those horrible women, said Anne vaguely to 
 herself as the door opened and the maid appeared. ' Bring 
 me a Bradshaw, Jiidson,' said Mrs. Trevithic, very much 
 in her usual tone of voice, and with a great effort re- 
 covering her equanimity. The storm had passed over, 
 stirring the waters of this overgrown pool, breaking away 
 the weeds which were growing so thickly on the stagnant 
 surface, and rippling the slow shallows underneath. It 
 seems a contradiction to write of this dull unimpression- 
 able woman now and then waking and experiencing some 
 vague emotion and realisation of experiences which had
 
 350 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 been slowly gathering, and apparently unnoticed, for a 
 long time before : but who does not count more than one 
 contradiction among their experiences ? It was not 
 Anne's fault that she could not understand, feel quickly 
 and keenly, respond to the calls whictt "stronger and more 
 generous natiues might make upon her ; her tears flowed 
 dull and slow long after the cause, unlike the quick 
 bright drops that would spring to ]Mary ^Nlyles' clear eyes 
 — Mary whom the other woman hated with a natural, 
 stupid, persistent hatred that nothing ever could change. 
 Judson, tlie maid, who was not deeply read in human 
 nature, and who respected her mistress immensely as a 
 model of decision, precision, deliberate determination, was 
 intensely amazed to hear that she was to pack up that 
 night, and that Mrs. Trevithic would go to London that 
 evening by the nine-o'clock train. 
 
 * Send for a fly directly, Judson, and dress Miss 
 Dulcie.' 
 
 * Dress Miss Dulcie ? ' Judson asked, bewildered. 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Dulcie will come too,' said Anne, in a way 
 that left no remonstrance. 
 
 She did not own it to herself ; but by a strange and 
 wayward turn of hiunan nature, this woman — who was 
 going to reproach her husband, to leave him for ever, to 
 cast herself adrift from him — took Dulcie with her ; Dul- 
 cie, a secret defence, a bond and strong link between them, 
 that she knew no storm or tempest would ever break.
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 351 
 
 iSIr. Bellingham was too much astounded to make a 
 single objection. He thought his daughter had taken 
 leave of her senses when she came in and said good-by. 
 
 Poor thing, she, too, felt at moments as if her senses 
 were deserting her, the storm raging in her heart was a 
 lierce one. Grusts of passion and jealousy were straining 
 and beating and tearing ; ' sails ripped, seams opening 
 wide, and compass lost.' Poor Anne, whose emotions were 
 all the more ungovernable when they occasionally broke 
 from the habitual restraint in which she held them, sat 
 in her corner of the carriage, torturing herself, and pictur- 
 ing to herself Trevithic enslaved, enchanted. If she 
 could have seen the poor fellow adding up long lists of 
 figures in his dreary little office, by the light of a smoky 
 lamp, I think her jealousy might have been appeased. 
 
 All the way to town Anne sat silent in her corner ; but 
 if she deserved punishment, poor thing, she inflicted it 
 then upon herself, and with an art and an unrelenting 
 determination for which no other executioner would have 
 found the corn-age. 
 
 They reached the station at last, with its lights and 
 transient life and bustle. A porter called a cab. Dulcie, 
 and the maid, and Mrs. Trevithic got in. They were to 
 sleep at the house of an old lady, a sister of Mr. Belling- 
 ham's, who was away, as Anne knew, but whose house- 
 keeper would admit them. 
 
 And then the journey began once more across dark cuts,
 
 352 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 winding thoroughfares, interminable in their lights and 
 darknesses, across dark places that may have been squares. 
 The darkness changed and lengthened the endless road : 
 they had left Oxford Street, with its blazing shops ; they 
 had crossed tlie Park's blackness ; thS *to11 of the wheels 
 was like the tune of some dismal night-march. The maid 
 sat with Dulcie asleep in her arms, but presently Dulcie 
 w^oke up with a shrill piteous outcry. ' I'se so ti'ed,' she 
 sobbed in the darkness, the coldness, the dull drip of the 
 rain, the monotonous sound of the horse's feet striking on 
 the mud. ' I wan' my tea ; I'se so ti'ed, wan' my little 
 bed ' — this was her piteous litany. 
 
 Anne was very gentle and decided with her, only once 
 she burst out, ' Oh, don't, don't, I cannot bear it, Dulcie.'
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 353 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 HASTY PUDDING AND BLOWS FKOM A CLUB. 
 
 OuK lives often seem to answer strangely to our wishes. 
 Is there some hidden power by which our spirits work upon 
 the substance of which our fate is built ? Jack wished to 
 fight. Assault him now, dire spirit of ill-will, of despon- 
 dency, and that most cruel spirit of all called calumny. 
 This tribe of giants are like the bottle-monsters of the 
 Arabian Nights, intangible, fierce, sly, remorseless, spring- 
 ing up suddenly, mighty shadows coming in the night and 
 striking their deadly blows. They raise their clubs (and 
 these clubs are not trees torn from the forest, but are 
 made from the forms of human beings massed together), 
 and the clubs fall upon the victim and he is crushed. 
 
 There was a brandy-and-water weekly meeting at 
 Hammersley, called ' Ours,' every Thursday evening, to 
 which many of the tradespeople were in the habit of re- 
 sorting and there discussing the politics of the place. Mr. 
 Bulcox had long been a member, so was Pitchley the 
 grocer, and Oker himself did not disdain to join the party ; 
 and as John was not there to contradict them, you may 
 
 A A
 
 354 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 be sure these people told their own story. How it 
 spread I cannot tell, but it is easy to imagine : one rumour 
 after another to the hurt and disadvantage of poor Tre- 
 vithic began to get al)Out. Reformers are necessarily un- 
 popular among a certain class. The-yifnd and the maimed 
 and the halt worshipped the ground Trevithic stood upon 
 at first. ' He was a man as would see to their rights,' they 
 said ; ' and if he had his way, would let them have their 
 snufF and a drop of something comfortable. He had his 
 cranks. These open windows gave 'em the rheumatics, 
 and this sloppin' and washin' was all along of it, and for 
 all the talk there were some things but what they wouldn't 
 deny was more snug in Bulcox's time than now : but he 
 were a good creature for all that, Mr. Trevithic, and 
 meant well he did,' &c. &c. Only when the snuff and 
 the comfortable drop did not come as they expected, 
 and the horrors of the past dynasty began to be a little 
 forgotten — at the end of a month or so of whitewashing 
 and cleansing and reforming, the old folks began to 
 grumble again much as usual. Trevithic coiUd not take 
 away their years and their aches and pains and weari- 
 nesses, and make the workhouse into a bower of roses 
 and the old people into lovely young lasses and gallant 
 lads again. 
 
 He had done his best, but he could not work miracles. 
 
 It happened that a Lincolnshire doctor writing from 
 Downham to the Jupiter not long after, eloquently
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER, 355 
 
 describing the symptoms, the treatment, the means of 
 prevention for this new sort of cholera, spoke of the 
 devotion of some and the curious indifference of others. 
 'Will it' be believed,' he said, 'that in some places the 
 clergyman has been known to abandon his flock at the 
 first threat of danger — a threat which in one especial 
 case at F., not far from here, was not fulfilled, although 
 the writer can testify from his own experience to the 
 truth of the above statement ? ' 
 
 As far as poor Jack's interests were concerned, it 
 would have been better for him if the cholera had broken 
 out at Featherston ; it would have brought him back 
 to his own home. But Penfold recovered, Mrs. Hodge — 
 the only other patient — died, Hodge married again im- 
 mediately, and that was the end of it. ' Ours ' took in 
 the Jupiter \ somebody remembered that Downham and 
 Featherston were both in the same neighbourhood ; some 
 one else applied the story, and Bulcox and the gas-fitter 
 bcLween them concocted a paragraph for the Anvil, the 
 great Hammersley organ ; and so ill will and rumour did 
 their work, while Jack went his rounds in the wards of 
 St. Magdalene's, looking sadder than the first day he had 
 come, although the place was cleaner, the food warmer 
 and better, the sick people better tended than ever 
 before ; for the guardians had been persuaded to let in 
 certain deaconesses of the town — good women, who 
 nursed for love and did not steal the tea. But in the 
 
 A A 2
 
 3S6 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 meantime this odd cabal which had set in had risen and 
 grown, and from every side Jack began to meet with cold 
 looks and rebuffs. He had ill-used his wife, deserted 
 her, they said ; abandoned his parish from fear of in- 
 fection. • He had forged, he had been expelled from his 
 living. There was nothing that poor Jack was not ac- 
 cused of by one person or another. One day when his 
 friend Austin came in with the last number of the Anvil, 
 and showed him a very spiteful paragraph about himself. 
 Jack only shrugged his shoulders. ' We understand that 
 the gentleman whose extraordinary revelations respecting 
 the management of our workhouse have been met by 
 some with more credence than might have been expected, 
 considering the short time which had passed since he first 
 came among us, is the rector alluded to in a recent letter 
 to the Jupiter from a medical man, who deserted his 
 parish at the first alarm of cholera.' ' Can this be true ? ' 
 said Austin, gravely. 
 
 'Mrs. Hodge certainly died of the cholera,' Jack an- 
 swered, ' and Penfold was taken ill and recovered. Those 
 are the only two cases in my parish.' 
 
 ' I am afraid that Skipper did not behave very well ; 
 in fact, I had to write to him to go back.' 
 
 A little later in the day, as the two young men were 
 walking along the street, they met Mr. Oker puffing 
 along the pavement. He stopped as usual to rub his 
 hands when he saw Trevithic. 
 
 ^
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 357 
 
 ' 'As your attention been called, sir,' he said, ' to a 
 paragraft in the Hanvil, that your friends should con- 
 tradict, if possible, sir ? It's mos' distressin' when such 
 things gets into the papers. They say at the club that 
 some of the guardians is about to ask for an account of 
 the sick-fund money, sir, which, I believe, Mr. Skipper 
 put into your 'ands, sir. For the present this paragraft 
 should be contradicted, if possible, sir.' 
 
 Oker was an odious creature, insolent and civil ; and 
 as he spoke he gave a sly, spiteful glance into Jack's face. 
 Trevithic was perfectly unmoved, and burst out laughing. 
 ' My good Mr. Oker,' he said, ' you will be sorry to hear 
 that there is no foundation whatever in the paragraph. 
 It is some silly tittle-tattling tale, which does not affect 
 me in the least. If anyone is to blame, it is Mr. Skipper, 
 the workhouse chaplain, who was at Featherston in my 
 place. You can tell your friends at the club that they 
 have hit the wrong man. Good-day.' And the young 
 fellow marched on his way with ]Mr. Austin, leaving Oker 
 to recover as best he could. 
 
 'I'm afraid they will give you trouble yet,' Austin 
 s?id ; ' King Stork though you are.' 
 
 When Jack appeared before the board on the next 
 Wednesday, after the vote had been passed for dismissing 
 the Bulcoxes, it seemed to him that one-half of the room 
 greeted his entrance with a scowl of ill will and disgust, 
 the other half with alarm and suspicion. No wonder.
 
 3S8 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 It was Jack's belief that some of the guardians were 
 seriously implicated in the charges which had been 
 brought against Bulcox; others were certainly so far 
 concerned that the Jupiter had accused them of unac- 
 countable neglect ; and nobody like^ to be shown up in 
 a leader even for merely neglecting his duties. 
 
 All this while the workhouse had been in a com- 
 motion ; the master and mistress were only temporarily 
 fulfilling their duties imtil a new couple should have 
 been appointed. The board, chiefly at the instance of 
 Oker the gas-fitter, and Pitchley the retail grocer, did 
 not press the charges brought against Mr. Bulcox ; but 
 they contented themselves with dismissing him and his 
 wife. It was not over-pleasant for Trevithic to meet 
 them about the place, as he could not help doing occa- 
 sionally ; but there was no help for it, and he bore the 
 disagreeables of the place as best he could, imtil ]Mr. and 
 ]Mrs. Evans, the newly appointed master and matron, 
 made their appearance. The board was very civil, but 
 it was anything but cordial to Trevithic. Jack, among 
 other things, suspected that Pitchley himself supplied 
 the bad tea and groceries which had been so much 
 complained of, and had exchanged various bottles of port 
 from the infirmary for others of a better quality, which 
 were served at the master's own table. So the paupers 
 told him. 
 
 Meanwhile the opposition had not been idle. It was
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 359 
 
 Bulcox himself, I think, who had discovered that Jack, in 
 administering the very limited funds at his disposal, had 
 greatly neglected the precaution of tickets. One or two 
 ill-conditioned people, whom Trevithic had refused to 
 assist, had applied to the late master, and assured him that 
 Trevithic was not properly dispensing the money at his 
 command. One tipsy old woman in particular was very 
 indignant ; and, judging by her own experience, did not 
 hesitate to accuse the chaplain of keeping what was not 
 his own. 
 
 This credible witness in rags and battered wires stood 
 before the chairman when Jack came in. It seems impos- 
 sible that anybody should have seriously listened to a 
 complaint so absurd and unlikely. But it must be remem- 
 bered that many of the people present were already ill 
 disposed, that some of them were weak, and others stupid, 
 and they would not have been sorry to get out of their 
 scrape by discovering Jack to be of their own flesh and 
 blood. 
 
 Trevithic heard them without a word, mechanically 
 buttoning up his coat, as he had a trick of doing, and then 
 in a sudden indignation he tore it open, and from his 
 breast-pocket drew the small book in which he had made 
 all his notes. ' Here,' said he, ' are my accounts. They 
 were made hastily at the time, but they are accurate, and 
 you will see that I have paid every farthing away that was 
 lianded over to me by Mr. Skipper, and about twice the
 
 36o JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 amount besides, out of my own pocket. You can send for 
 the people to whom I have paid the money, if you like.' The 
 little book went travelling about from one hand to another, 
 while the remorseless Trevithic continued, ' I now in my 
 turn demand that the ledgers of thes§ gentlemen ' — blaz- 
 ing round upon the retail grocer and Oker the gas- 
 titter, 'be produced here immediately upon the spot, 
 without any previous inspection, and that I, too, may have 
 the satisfaction of clearing up my doubts as to their con- 
 duct.' ' That is fair enough,' said one or two of the people 
 present. ' It's quite impossible, unheard of,' said some of 
 the others ; but the majority of the guardians present were 
 honest men, who were roused at last, and the ledgers were 
 actually sent for. 
 
 I have no time here to explain the long course of fraud 
 which these books disclosed. The grocer was found to 
 have been supplying the house at an enormous percentage, 
 with quantities differing in his book and in that of the 
 master, who must again have levied a profit. The gas- 
 fitter, too, turned out to be the contractor from a branch 
 establishment, and to have also helped himself. This 
 giant of peculation certainly fell dead upon the floor when 
 he laid open his accounts before the board, for Hammersley 
 workhouse is now one of the best managed in the whole 
 kingdom.
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 361 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 JACK HELPS TO DISEKCHANT THE BEAUTIFUL LADY. 
 
 Fanny Gaenier bustled home one afternoon, brimming 
 over, good soul, with rheumatisms, chicken-poxes, and 
 other horrors that were not horrors to her, or interjections, 
 or lamentations ; but new reasons for exertions which 
 were almost beyond her strength at times — as now, when 
 she said wearily, ' that she must go back to her ward ; some 
 one was waiting for things that she had promised.' She 
 was tired, and Mary, half ashamed, could not help offering 
 to go in her cousin's place. It seemed foolish to refrain 
 from what she would have done yesterday in all simplicity, 
 because there was a chance that Hambledon was there to- 
 day, or Trevithic, who was Hambledon's friend, if not 
 quite Hambledon himself, who talked to him and knew his 
 mind, and could repeat his talk. 
 
 When Mary reached the infirm ward, where she was 
 taking her jellies, and bird's-eye, and liquorice, her heart 
 gave a little flutter, for she saw that two figures were 
 standing by one of the beds. One was Jack, who turned
 
 '.62 
 
 JACK THE GIAiXT-KILLER. 
 
 round to greet her as she came up witli her basket on her 
 arm. The other was Hambledou, who looked at her and 
 then turned away. As for all the old women in their 
 starched nightcaps, it was a moment of all-absorbing ex- 
 citement to them, — sitting bolt upright on their beds, and 
 In^wing affably, as was the fashion in the infirm ward. It 
 was quite worth while to be civil to the gentry, let alone 
 manners ; you never knew but wliat they might have a 
 quarter-of-a-pound of tea, or a screw of snuff in their 
 pockets. ' Law bh-s? yoii, it was not such as them as de- 
 nies themselves anythink they may fancy.' Such was the 
 Hamraersley creed. 
 
 As she came up, Mary made an effort, and in her most 
 self-possessed and woman-of-the-worldest manner, put out 
 her hand again and laughed, and exclaimed at this meeting. 
 Her shyness, and the very effort she made to conceal it, 
 gave her an artificial manner that chilled and repelled 
 poor Hambledon as no shyness or hesitation would have 
 done. * She's no heart,' said the poor Colonel to himself. 
 ' She don't remember. She would only laugh at me.' He 
 forgot that Mary was not a child, not even a very young 
 woman ; that this armour of expediency had grown up 
 naturally with years and with the strain of a solitary life. 
 It is a sort of defence to which the poor little hedgehogs of 
 women, such as Mary ^lyles, resort sometimes. It meant 
 very little, but it frightened the Colonel away. jNIrs. 
 Myles heard him go as she bent over poor old Mrs.
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 363 
 
 > 
 
 Crosspoint, and her heart gave a little ache, which was 
 not entirely of sympathy for the poor old thing's troubles. 
 
 However, Mary had a little talk with Trevithic in the 
 dark as she crossed the courts and passages, and he 
 walked besidp her, which did her good, though she said 
 nothing that anyone who did not know would have con- 
 strued into more than it seemed to mean. 
 
 She told him a little about her past life. She did not 
 tell him that Colonel Hambledon had once asked her to 
 come into his life ; but Trevithic knew all that she 
 wanted to say as he listened to the voice speaking in the 
 dark, — the sweet low voice with the music in it, — a revela- 
 tion came to him there in the archway of that narrow 
 workhouse stone passage. 
 
 A revelation came to him, and that instant, as was his 
 way, he acted upon it. 'I think some people — ' he be- 
 gan, and then he stopped. ' I think you should secure a 
 friend,' he said quickly, in an odd voice. ' You should 
 marry,' and he faltered, as he made way for two poor 
 women who limped past on their way to their corners in 
 the great pigeon-holes case of human suffering. That 
 little shake in his voice frightened Trevithic. What was 
 it to him ? How did Mary Myles' fate concern him ? He 
 let her out at the great gate. He did not offer to walk 
 back with her. The great iron bars closed with a clang, 
 as she went away out into the dim world that was surging 
 round about these prison walls. He would go back to
 
 364 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 Anne, Trevitbic said to himself; even while the last 
 grateful words were uttering in his ears, and the sweet 
 quick eyes still lighting up for him the dulness of the 
 stony place. Mary IMyles went back alone ; and all that 
 niglit Jack lay awake thinking, turni»<* some things in his 
 mind and avoiding others, wondering what be should say 
 to Hambledon, what he should leave unsaid ; for some 
 nameless power had taught him to understand now, as he 
 never had understood before, what was passing in other 
 minds and hearts. A power too mighty for my poor Jack 
 to encounter or hope to overcome in fight, a giant from 
 whom the bravest can only turn away — so gentle is he, so 
 beautiful, so humble in his irresistible might, that though 
 many miglit conquer him if they would, they will not, and 
 that is the battle. 
 
 And I think this giant must have been that nameless 
 one we read of in the story whom Jack did not care to 
 fight, but he locked him up and barred liim in the castle, 
 and bolted gates and kept him safe behind them : the 
 giant who in return for this strange treatment gave Jack 
 the sword of sharpness and the cap of knowledge. The 
 sword pricked fiercely enough, the cap of knowledge 
 weighed, ah, too heavily, but Jack, as we know, did not 
 shrink from pain. 
 
 The imprisoned giant touched some kindly chord in 
 Jack's kind heart. Was he not Hambledon's friend ? was 
 he not a link between two people, very near and yet very
 
 > yACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 365 
 
 far apart ? Had Mary Myles' kindness been quite disin- 
 terested? he asked himself, a little bitterly, before he 
 spoke ; — spoke a few words which niade Charles Hamble- 
 don flush up and begin to tug at his moustache, and which 
 decided Mary Myles' fate as much as Anne Bellingham's 
 tears had decided Jack's three years ago. 
 
 ' Why don't you try again ? ' Trevithic said. 'I think 
 there might be a chance for you.' 
 
 The Colonel did not answer, but went on pulling at his 
 moustache. Trevithic was silent, too, and sighed. ' I 
 never saw anyone like her,' he said at last. ' I think she 
 carries a blessing wherever she goes. I, who am an old 
 married man, may say so much, mayn't I ? I have seen 
 some men go on their knees for gratitude for what others 
 are scarcely willing to put out their hands to take.' 
 
 Poor Jack ! The cap of knowledge was heavy on his 
 brow as he spoke. He did not look to see the effect of his 
 words. What would he not have said to serve her ? He 
 walked away to the desk where he kept his notes and 
 account-books, and took pen and paper, and began to 
 write. 
 
 ' It is a lucky thing for me that you are a married 
 man,' the Colonel said, with an uneasy laugh. ' It's one's 
 fate. They won't like the connection at home. She don't 
 care about it one way or another, for all you say ; and yet 
 I find myself here again and again. I have a great mind 
 to go this very evening.'
 
 366 JACK THE GIAyT-KILLER. 
 
 ' I am writing to her now,' Trevithic answered, rather 
 incoherently, after a minute. ' The ladies have promised 
 to come with me to-morrow to see the rectory-house at 
 St. Bigots. I shall call for them about twelve o'clock ; 
 and it will take us a quarter of an hoftfto walk there.' 
 
 It was a bright autumn moraing, glittering and bril- 
 liant. Jack stood waiting for Mrs. jNIyles and her cousin 
 in the little wood at the foot of the garden slope, just be- 
 hind the lodge. A bird, with outstretched wings, flut- 
 tered from the ivy bed at his feet, and went and perched 
 upon the branch of a tree. All the noises of life came 
 to him from the town, glistening between the gleam of the 
 trees : the fall of the hammer from the woodyard where the 
 men were at work, and the call of the church-bell to 
 prayer, and the distant crow of the farmyard upon the far- 
 ofifhill, and the whistle of the engine, starting and speed- 
 ing through the quiet country valley to the junction in the 
 town, where the great world's gangAvays met and diverged. 
 
 All this daily life was going on, and John Trevithic 
 struck with his stick at a dead branch of a tree. Why 
 was work, so simple and straightforward a business to some 
 honest folks, so tangled and troubled and unsatisfactory 
 to others ? In daily life hand labour is simple enough. 
 Old Peascud, down below in tlie kitchen-garden, turns 
 over mother earth, throbbing with life and all its mys- 
 teries, with what he calls a ' purty shovel,' and pats it 
 down, and complacently thinks it is his own doing that the
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 367 
 
 ivy slips cut off the branch which he has stuck into the 
 ground are growing and striking out fresh roots. 
 
 Peascud is only a sort of shovel himself, destined to 
 keep this one small acre out of the square acres which 
 cover the surface of the earth, in tolerable order, and he 
 does it with a certain amount of spurring and pushing, 
 and when his day's work is over hangs up comfortably on 
 a nail and rests with an easy mind ; but Jack, who feels 
 himself a shovel too, has no laws to guide him. Some of 
 the grain he has sown has come up above the ground, it is 
 true, but it is unsatisfactory after all ; he does not know 
 whether or not his slips are taking root — one or two of 
 them he has pulled up, like the children do, to see 
 whether they are growing. 
 
 As Jack i^tauds moralising, crow cocks, ring bells, 
 strike hammers. It was a fitting chorus, distant and 
 cheerful, and suggestive to the sweet and brilliant life of 
 the lady for whom he waits. Not silence, but the plea- 
 sant echoes of life should accompany her steps, the cheer- 
 ful strains of summer, and the bright colours of spring. 
 Trevethic saw everything brightened and lighted up by 
 her presence, and thought that it was so in fact, poor fel- 
 low. Sometimes in a foul ward, when the dull sights and 
 sounds oppressed him almost beyond bearing, with a sud- 
 den breath of relief and happiness tlie image of this 
 charming and beautiful woman would pass before him, 
 sweet and pure, and lovely and un soiled amidst lovely
 
 368 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 things, far away from these ghastly precincts. What had 
 such as she to do with such as these ? Heaven forbid 
 that so fair a bird, with its tender song and glancing white 
 plumage, should come to be choked and soiled and caged 
 in the foul dungeons to which he felt called. John Tre- 
 vithic, like many others, exaggerated, I think, to himself 
 the beauty and the ugliness of the things he looked upon 
 as they appeared to others, not that things are not ten 
 thousand times more beautiful and more hideous too, per- 
 haps, than we have eyes to see or hearts to realise, but they 
 are not so as far as the eyes with which others see them 
 are concerned. To this sweet and beautiful and graceful 
 woman the world was not so fair a place as to this care- 
 worn man with his haggard eyes and sad knowledge of 
 life. He thought Mrs. Myles so far above him and beyond 
 him in all things, that he imagined that the pains of 
 others must pain her and strike her soft heart more cruelly 
 even than himself, that the loveliness of life was 
 more necessary to her a thousand times than it could be 
 to him. 
 
 Meanwhile all the little dried pine-twigs were rustling 
 and rippling, for she was coming down the little steep 
 path, holding up her muslin skirts as she came, and step- 
 ping with her rapid slender footsteps, stooping and then 
 looking up to smile. Mrs. Myles was always well dressed 
 — there was a certain completeness and perfection of dainty 
 smoothness and freshness about all her ways which be-
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 369 
 
 longed to her dress and her life and her very loves and dis- 
 likes. The soft flutter of her ribbons belongs to her as 
 completely as the pointed ends of old Peascud's Sunday 
 shirt-collars and the broad stiff tapes of his best waistcoat 
 do to him, or as John Trevithic's fancies as he stands in 
 the fir-wood. Another minute and she is there beside 
 him, holding out her hand and smiling with her sweet still 
 eyes, and the bird flutters away from its branch. ' Fanny 
 cannot come,' she said. ' We must go without her, Mr. 
 Trevithic' 
 
 A something — I cannot tell you what — told Jack as 
 she spoke that this was the last walk they would ever take 
 together. It was one of those feelings we all know and all 
 believe in at the bottom of our hearts. This something- 
 coming I know not from whence, going I know not where, 
 suddenly began to speak in the silent and empty chambers 
 of poor Trevithic's heart, echoing mournfully, but with a 
 warning in its echoes that he had never understood before. 
 This something seemed to say, No, No, No. It was like a 
 bell tolling as they walked along the road. Jack led the 
 way, and they turned off the high-road across a waste, 
 through sudden streets springing up around them, across 
 a bridge over a branch of the railway, into a broad black 
 thoroughfare, which opened into the quiet street leading 
 into Bolton Fields. The fields had long since turned to 
 stones and iron railings enclosing a churchyard, in the 
 midst of which a church had been built. The houses all 
 
 B B
 
 370 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 round the square were quaint red brick dwellings, with 
 here and there a carved lintel to a doorway, and old 
 stone steps whitened and scrubbed by three or four gene- 
 rations of patient housemaids. The trees were bare be- 
 hind the iron railing ; there was ^silence, though the 
 streets beyond Bolton Fields were busy like London 
 streets. Trevithic stopped at the door of one of the 
 largest of these dwellings. It had straight windows like 
 the others, and broken stone steps upon which the sun was 
 !>hining, and tall iron railings casting slant shadows on the 
 pavement. It looked quaint and narrow, with its high 
 rooms and blackened bricks, but it stood in sunshine. A 
 child was peeping from one of the many-paned windows, 
 and some birds were fluttering under the deep eaves of 
 the roof. 
 
 Jack led the way into the dark-panelled entrance, and 
 opened doors and windows, and ran upstairs. Mrs. Myles 
 flitted here and there, suggested, approved of the quaint 
 old house, with the sunny landings for Dulcie to play on, 
 and the convenient cupboards for her elders, and quaint 
 recesses, and the pleasant hints of an old world, more 
 prosy and delil)erate and less prosaic than to-day. There 
 was a pretty little niche on the stairs, where Jack fancied 
 Dulcie perching, and a window looking into the garden 
 down below ; there was a little wooden dining-room, and 
 a study with faded wire book-cases let into the walls. It 
 was all in good order, for Trevithic had had it cleaned
 
 > JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 371 
 
 and scrubbed. The house was more cheerful than the 
 ;(arden at the back, where stone and weeds seemed to be 
 iijiuishing unmolested. 
 
 ' It is almost time to go,' Mrs. Myles said at last, see- 
 ing Trevithic looking at liis watch. 
 
 ' Not yet, — you have not half seen the garden,' an- 
 swered Trevithic hastily. ' Come this way.' And Mary 
 followed, wrapping her v elvet cloak more closely round her 
 slender shoulders. 
 
 They were standing in the little deserted garden of 
 the house, for the garden was all damp, as gardens are 
 which are rarely visited. The back of the house, less 
 cheerful than the front, was close shuttered, except for the 
 winjiows Trevithic had opened. Some dreary aloe trees 
 were sprouting their melancholy spikes, a clump of fir- 
 trees and laurel-bushes was shuddering in one corner ; a 
 long grass-grown lawn, with rank weeds and shabby flower- 
 beds, reached from the black windows to the stony paths, 
 in which, in some unaccountable manner, as is usual in 
 deserted places, the sand and gravel had grown into stones 
 and lumps of earth and clay. Jack was strangely silent 
 and distracted, and paced round and round the place in 
 an unmeaning way. 
 
 'This is very dreary,' said Mrs. Myles, pulling her 
 cloak still closer round her. ' I like the house, but no one 
 could be happy walking in this garden.' 
 
 B B 2
 
 372 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 Trevithic smiled a little sadly. ' I don't know,' he 
 said. ' I don't think happiness depends upon lo- 
 cality.' 
 
 Poor fellow, his outward circiunstances were so pros- 
 perous, his inner life so sad and untoward. No wonder 
 that he undervalued external matters, and counted all lost 
 that was not from within. 
 
 Mary Myles blushed, as she had a way of blushing 
 when she was moved, and her voice failed into a low mea- 
 sured music of its own. ' I envy you,' she said. ' You do 
 not care like me for small things, and are above the influ- 
 ences of comfort and discomfort, of mere personal gratifi- 
 cations. It has been the curse of my life that I have 
 never risen above anything, but have fallen shamefully 
 before such easy temptations that I am ashamed even to 
 recall them. I wonder what it is like,' she said, with her 
 bright, half-laugliing, half-admiring smile, ' to be, as you 
 are, above small distractions, and able to fight real and 
 great battles — and win them too ? ' she added, kindly and 
 heartily. 
 
 A very faint mist came before Trevithic's eyes as 
 Mary spoke, unconsciously encouraging him, unknow- 
 ingly cheering him with words and appreciation — how 
 precious she did not know, nor did he dare to tell 
 himself. 
 
 ' I am afraid what you describe is a sensation very few 
 people know,' said Trevithic. ' "We are all, I suspect, try-
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 373 
 
 ing to make the best of our defeats ; triumphant, if we are 
 not utterly routed.' 
 
 ' And have you been routed at Featherston ? ' Mrs. 
 Myles asked. 
 
 ' Completely,' said Trevithic. ' Anne will retreat with 
 flying colours, but I am ignobly defeated, and only too 
 thankful to run away and come and live here — in this very 
 house perhaps — if she will consent to it.' 
 
 ' Anne is a happy woman to have anyone to want her,' 
 said Mrs. Myles, coming back to her own thoughts with a 
 sigh ; ' people love me, but nobody wants me.' 
 
 ' Here is a friend of yours, I think,' said Jack, very 
 quickly, in an odd sort of voice ; for as he spoke he saw 
 Hambledon coming in from the passage-door. Mrs. Myles 
 saw him too, and guessed in an instant why Trevithic had 
 detained her. Now, in her turn, she tried to hold him 
 back. 
 
 ' Do you believe in expiations, Mr. Trevithic ? ' said 
 Mary, still strangely excited and beginning to tremble. 
 
 ' I believe in a grateful heart, and in love and humility, 
 and in happiness when it comes across our way,' said Jack, 
 with kind sad eyes, looking admiringly at the sweet and 
 appealing face. 
 
 Mary was transformed. She had laid aside all her 
 gentle pride and self-contained sadness : she looked as 
 she must have looked long ago, when she was a girl, 
 humble, imploring, confused ; and though her looks
 
 374 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 seemed to pray him to remain, Trevitliic turned away 
 abruptly, and he went to meet Hambledon, who was com- 
 ing shyly along the weedy path, a tall and prosperous- 
 looking figure in the sunshine and desolation. ' You are 
 late,' Trevithic said, with a kind, odd sipile ; ' I had given 
 you up.' And then he left them and went into the house. 
 As Jack waited, talking to the housekeeper mean- 
 while, he had no great courage to ask himself many ques- 
 tions ; to look behind ; to realise very plainly what had 
 happened ; to picture to himself what might have been 
 had fate willed it otherwise. He prayed an honest prayer. 
 ' Heaven bless them,' he said in his heart, as he turned 
 his steps away and left them together. He waited now 
 patiently, walking in and out of the bare rooms, where 
 people had once lived and waited too, who were gone with 
 their anxious hearts, and their hopes, and their hopeless 
 loves, and their defeats, to live in other houses and man- 
 sions which are built elsewhere. Was it all defeat for 
 him ? — not all. Had he not unconsciously wronged poor 
 Anne, and given her just cause for resentment ; and was 
 anything too late while hope and life remained ? If he 
 could not give to his wife a heart's best love and devotion 
 — if she herself had forbidden this — he could give her 
 friendship, and in time the gentle ties of long use and 
 common interest, and Dulcie's dear little arms might 
 draw them closer together — so Jack thougfht in this 
 softened mood.
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 375 
 
 John had waited a long time pacing up and down the 
 empty rooms with the faded wire bookcases for furniture, 
 and the melancholy pegs and hooks and wooden slabs 
 which people leave behind tliem in the houses they 
 abandon : nearly an hour had passed and the two there 
 out in the garden were talking still by the laurel-bushes. 
 What was he waiting for ? he asked himself presently. 
 Had they not forgotten his very existence? There was 
 work to be done — he had better go. What had he waited 
 for so long ? What indeed, poor fellow ! He had been 
 longing for a word ; one sign. He only wanted to be 
 remembered: with that strange selfish longing which 
 pities the poor familiar self, he longed for some word of 
 kindness and sign of recognition from the two who had 
 forgotten that anywhere besides in all the world there 
 were hearts that loved or longed or forgot. John trudged 
 away patiently as soon as he had suddenly made clear to 
 himself that it was time to go. He knew the road well 
 enough by this time, and cut off side turnings and came 
 into the town — black and faded — even in this brilliant 
 sunshine that was calling the people out of their houses, 
 opening wide windows, drying the rags of clothes, bright- 
 ening the weary faces. The children clustered round the 
 lamp-posts chattering and playing. One or two people 
 said good-morning to him as he passed, who would have 
 stared sulkily in a fog ; the horses in the road seemed to 
 prick their ears, and the fly from the station, instead of
 
 376 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 crawling wearily along, actually passed him at a trot. 
 Jack turned to look after it : a foolish likeness had struck 
 him. It was but for an instant, and he forgot it as he 
 reached the heavy door of the workhouse. 
 
 The porter was out, and the old pauper who let Jack 
 in began some story to which he scarcely listened. He 
 was full of the thought of those two there in the garden 
 — happy ! ah, how happy in each other's companionship ; 
 wliile he, deserted, lonely, discontented, might scarcely 
 own to himself, without sin, that his home was a desolate 
 one ; that his wife was no wife, as he felt it ; that life 
 liad no such prospects of love, solace, and sympathy for 
 liim, as for some of the most forlorn of the creatures 
 imder his care. It was an ill frame of mind coming so 
 quickly after a good one — good work done and peace- 
 making, and a good fight won ; but the very giant he had 
 conquered with pain and struggle had given him the cap 
 of knowledge, and it pressed and ached upon his brow, 
 and set its mark there. Trevithic put up his hand to his 
 forehead wearily, as he walked along the dull paved courts, 
 and passed through one barred iron door after another. 
 Most of the old folks were sunning themselves upon the 
 benches, and the women were standing gossiping in the 
 galleries of the house. There are stone galleries at Ham- 
 mersley, from which the clothes are hung. So he came 
 in, opening one last iron gate to his office on the ground- 
 tioor, at the farther extremity of the great building. It
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. yj-] 
 
 -> 
 
 was not very far from the children's wards, and on these 
 fine mornings the little creatures, with their quaint mob- 
 caps and straight bonnets, came scrambling down the 
 flight of steps into the yards. The very young ones would 
 play about a little bo-peep behind an iron grating, or 
 clinging to the skirts of one of the limp figures that were 
 wearily lagging about the place. But the children did 
 not very long keep up their little baby frolics. Sad-faced 
 little paupers in stripe blue dresses would sometimes 
 stand staring at Trevithic — with dark eyes gleaming in 
 such world-weighed little faces, that his kind heart ached 
 for them. His favourite dream for them was a children's 
 holiday. It would almost seem that they had guessed his 
 good intentions towards them to-day ; a little stream was 
 setting in in the direction of his office, a small group 
 stood watching not far off. It made way before him and 
 disappeared, and then as he came near he saw that the 
 door was open. A little baby pauper was sitting on the 
 flags and staring in, two other little children had crept 
 up to the very threshold, a third had slipped its fingers 
 into the hinge and was peeping through the chink, and 
 then at the sound of his tired footsteps falling wearily on 
 the pavement, there came a little cry of ' Daddy, daddy ! ' 
 The sweet little voice he loved best in the whole world 
 seemed to fill the room, and Dulcie, his own little Dulcie, 
 came to the door in the sunlight, and clasped him round 
 the knees.
 
 378 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 Trevitliic, with these little arms to hold him safe, felt 
 as if his complaints had been almost impious. In one 
 minute- indeed, he had forgotten them altogether, and 
 life still had something for him to love and to cling to. 
 The nurse explained matters a little to the bewildered 
 chaplain. Nothing had happened that she knew of. INIrs. 
 Trevithic was gone to look for him. She had driven to 
 Mrs. Myles' straight in the fly from the railway. She 
 had left Miss Dulcie and her there to wait. She had left 
 no message. ]Mrs. Trevithic had seemed pvit out like, 
 said the nurse, and had made up her mind all of a sudden. 
 They had slept in London at missis's aunt's. Trevithic 
 was utterly bewildered. 
 
 In the meantime it was clear that something must be 
 done for Dulcie, who v*'as getting hungry now that her 
 first little rapture was over (for raptures are hungry 
 work). After some little demur, Trevithic told the girl 
 to put on Miss Dulcie's cloak again. 
 
 While John is talking to Dulcie in his little office, 
 Anne had driven up to ]Mrs. Garnier's door, and been 
 directed from thence to the rectory in Bolton Fields. It 
 was thus she first crossed the threshold of her husband's 
 house. ' I want to speak to the lady and gentleman,' she 
 said to the woman who let her in. And the housekeeper 
 pointed to the garden and told her she would find them 
 there. Anne, the stupid commonplace woman, was 
 shivering with passion and emotion as she passed through
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 379 
 
 the empty rooms ; a few letters were lying on the chimney 
 that John had torn open ; the window-shutter was flapping, 
 the wood creaked under her fierce angry footsteps. There, 
 at the end of the path, under a little holly tree, stood 
 Mary Myles, and suddenly Anne, hurrying along in her 
 passion, clutched her arm with an angry fevered hand, and 
 with a fierce flushed face confronted her. ' Where is my 
 husband ? ' hissed Anne. ' You did not think that I should 
 come. . . . How dare you take him from me ? ' 
 
 Colonel Hambledon, who had only gone away for a 
 step or two, came back, hearing a voice, with Maiy's glove, 
 which she had left on the broken seat where they had been 
 sitting. ' What is it ? ' said he. 
 
 ' Where is he ? ' cried the foolish, stupid woman, burst- 
 ing into tears. ' I knew I should find him here with her. 
 Where is my husband ? ' 
 
 ' He has been gone some time, poor fellow,' said the 
 Colonel, with a look of repugnance and dislike that Anne 
 saw and never forgot. ' Mrs. Trevithic, why do you think 
 such bad thoughts ? ' 
 
 While Mary Myles, indignant in her turn, cried, ' Oh, 
 for shame, for shame, Anne Trevithic ! You are cold- 
 hearted yourself, and do you dare to be jealous of others ? 
 You, who have the best and kindest husband any woman 
 ever had in all the world.' Mary, as she spoke, clung with 
 both hands to Hambledon's arm, trembling too, and 
 almost crying. The Colonel, in his happiness, could
 
 38o JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 hardly understand that anyone else should be unhappy on 
 such a day. Wliile he was comforting Mary, and en- 
 treating her not to mind what that woman had said, 
 Anne, overpowered with shame, conscience-smitten, fled 
 away down the path and through th^ j^iouse — ' deadly pale, 
 like a ghost,' said the housekeeper afterwards — and drove 
 straight to the workhouse, where she had left her child. 
 As she came to the great door, it opened with a dull sound, 
 even before the driver had pulled at the big bell. 
 
 Anne, who had got out of the carriage, stood in a 
 bewildered sort of dream, stupidly staring at a little 
 procession that was coming under tlie archway, — a couple 
 of paupers, the nurse-maid, and, last of all, her husband, 
 carrying little Dulcie in his arms, who were all advancing 
 towards her. 
 
 * Oh John ! I have been looking for you everywhere,' 
 she said, with a little cry, as with a revulsion of feel'ng 
 she ran up to him, with outstretched hands. ' Where 
 have you been ? Mrs. Myles did not know, and I came 
 back for Dulcie. We shall miss the train. Oh, where am 
 I to go ? ' 
 
 ]\Irs. Trevithic, nervous, fluttered, bewildered, for 
 perhaps the second time in her life, seemed scarcely to 
 know what she was saying — she held up her cheek to be 
 kissed : she looked about quite scared, and shrank away 
 again. ' It's no use, you will be too angiy to forgive me,' 
 she said : ' but about these trains . . .'
 
 ^ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 381 
 
 ' What do you mean by the trains, Anne ? ' her 
 husband said. ' Dulcie wants something to eat. Gret 
 into the carriage again.' 
 
 It is difficult to believe — Trevithic himself could not 
 understand it — Anne obeyed without a word. He asked 
 no questions when she burst out with an incoherent, ' Oh, 
 John, they were so strange and unkind ! ' and then began 
 to cry and cry and tremble from head to foot. 
 
 It was not till they got to the hotel that Mrs. 
 Trevithic regained her usual composure, and ordered 
 some rooms and lunch off the carte for the whole party, 
 Trevithic never asked what had happened, though he 
 guessed well enough, and when Hambledon told him 
 afterwards that Mrs. Trevithic had burst in upon them in 
 the garden, it was no news to poor John. 
 
 They had finished their dinner on the ground-floor 
 room of the quiet old inn. Little Dulcie was perched at 
 the window watching the people as they crossed and re- 
 crossed the wire-blind. A distant church clock struck 
 some quarters, the sound came down the street, and 
 Trevithic smiled, saying, ' T think you will be too late 
 for your train, Anne, to-day.' Anne's heart gave a throb 
 as he spoke. She always thought people in earnest, and 
 she looked up wistfully and tried to speak ; but the words 
 somehow stuck in her throat. Meanwhile Trevithic 
 looked at his watch, and jumped up in a sudden fluster. 
 It was later than he imagined. He had his afternoon
 
 382 7-4 CA' THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 serrice at the workhouse to attend to. It was Friday, 
 and he must go. He had not a moment to lose, so he 
 told his wife in a word as he seized his hat, and set off as 
 hard as he could. He liad not even a moment to respond 
 to little Dulcie's signals of affect ion,*aiid waves and capers 
 behind the wire-blind. 
 
 Anne, who had been in a curious maze all this time, 
 sitting in her place at the table and watching him, and 
 scarcely realising the relief of his presence as he busied 
 himself in the old way for her comfort and Dulcie's, carv- 
 ing the chicken and waiting on them both, understood all 
 at once how great the comfort of his presence had been. 
 In her dull, sleepy way, she had been basking in sunshine 
 for the last two hours, after the storm of the day before. 
 She had untied her bonnet, and thrown it down upon a 
 chair, and forgotten to smooth her sleek hair ; her collar 
 and ribbons were awry : her very face had lost its usual 
 placidity, — it was altered and disturbed, and yet Jack 
 thought he had never liked her looks so well, though he 
 had never seen her so ruffled and self-forgetfid in all the 
 course of his married life. 
 
 For the moment Mrs. Trevithic was strangely happy in 
 this odd reunion. She had almost forgotten at the instant 
 the morning's jealousy and mad expedition — Colonel 
 Hambledon's look of scorn and Mary Myles' words — in 
 this new unknown happiness. It seemed to her that she 
 had never in her life before realised what the comfort
 
 * JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 383 
 
 > 
 
 might be of someone to love, to hold, to live for. She 
 watched the qiuck clever hands dispensing the food for 
 which, to tell the truth, she had no very great appetite, 
 though^ she took all that her husband gave her. Had some 
 scales fallen from her pale wondering eyes ? As he left 
 the room, she asked herself in her stupid way, what he had 
 meant. Was this one little glimpse of home the last that 
 she would ever know ? was it all over, all over ? Anne 
 tied her bonnet on again, and telling the maid to take 
 care of little Dulcie, went out into the street again and 
 walked off in the direction of the chapel. She had a 
 vague wish to be there. She did not know that they 
 would admit her ; but no difficulties were made, and she 
 passed for the second time under the big arch. Some 
 one 'pointed out the way, and she pushed open a green- 
 baize door and went in ; and so Anne knelt in the bare 
 little temple where the paupers' prayers were offered up — 
 humble prayers and whitewash, that answer their purpose 
 as well perhaps as Gothic, and iron castings, and flamboy- 
 ant windows, as the beautiful clear notes of the choristers 
 answering each other and bursting into triumphal utter- 
 ance. The paupers were praying for their daily bread, 
 hard, and dry, and butterless ; for forgiveness for tres- 
 passes grosser and blacker perhaps than ours ; for deliver- 
 ance from evil of which Anne and others perhaps have 
 never realised ! and ending with words of praise and ado- 
 ration which we all use in truth, but which mean far, far
 
 384 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 more when uttered from that darkness upon which the 
 divine light beams most splendidly. Anne for the first 
 time in her life was kneeling a pauper in spirit, ashamed 
 and touched, and repentant. 
 
 There was no sermon, and Mrs. Trevithic got up from 
 her knees and came away with her fellow-petitioners and 
 waited in the courtyard for John. The afternoon suu of 
 this long eventful day was shining on the stones and cast- 
 ing the shadows of the bars and bolts, and brightening sad 
 faces of the old men and women, and the happy faces of 
 two people who had also attended the service, and who 
 now advanced arm-in-arm to where Anne was standing. 
 She started back as she first saw them ; thev had been be- 
 hind her in the chapel, and she had not known that they 
 were there. 
 
 The sight of the two had brought back with it all the 
 old feeling of hatred, and shame, and mistrust ; all the 
 good that was in her seemed to shrink and shrivel away 
 for an instant at their approach, and at the same time 
 came a pang of envious longing. They seemed so happy 
 together ; so 0)ie, as, with a glance at one another, they 
 both came forward. Was she all alone when others were 
 happy ? had she not of her own doing put her husband 
 away from her, and only come to him to reproach and leave 
 him again ? For a woman of such obstinacy and limited per- 
 ception as Mrs. Trevithic to have settled that a thing was 
 to be, was reason enough for it to happen ; only a longing,
 
 -► JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 385 
 
 passionate longing, came, that it might be otherwise than 
 she had settled; that she might be allowed to stay — 
 and a rush of the better feelings that had overcome her 
 of late kfept her there waiting to speak to these two 
 Avho had scorned her. It was they who made the first 
 advance. 
 
 ' I want to ask you to forgive me,' said Mary, blushing, 
 ' anything I may have said. Your husband has done us 
 both such service, that I can't help asking you for his sake 
 to forget my hastiness.' 
 
 ' You see we were taken aback,' said the Colonel, not 
 unkindly. ' Shake hands, please, Mrs. Trevithic, in token 
 that you forgive us, and wish us joy. I assure you we are 
 heartily sorry if we pained you.' Anne flushed and 
 flushed and didn't speak, but put out her hand, — not with- 
 out an effort. ' Are you going back directly, or are you 
 going to stay with your husband?' said the Colonel, 
 shaking her heartily by the hand. 
 
 Poor Anne looked up, scared, and shrank back once 
 more, — she could not bear to tell them that she did not 
 know. She turned away all hurt and frightened, looking 
 about for some means of escape, and then at that mo- 
 ■ ment she saw that John was coming up to them across 
 the yard from the office where he had gone to leave his 
 surplice. 
 
 ' Oh, John,' she said, still bewildered, and going to 
 
 c c
 
 386 JACK THE GIAAT-KILLER. 
 
 meet him, and with a piteous face, ' here are Colonel 
 Plambledon and Mary.' 
 
 ' We have come to ask for yom- congratulations,' the 
 Colonel said, laughing and looking very happy ; ' and to 
 tell you that your matchmaking has-been successful.' 
 
 Mary Myles did not speak, but put out her hand to 
 Trevithic. 
 
 Mrs. Trevithic meanwhile stood waiting her sentence. 
 How new the old accustomed situations seem as they oc- 
 cur again and again in the course of our lives. Waters of 
 sorrow overwhelm in their depths, as do the clear streams 
 of tranquil happiness, both rising from distant sources, 
 and flowing on either side of our paths. As I have said, 
 the sight of these two, in their confidence and sympathy, 
 tilled poor Anne's heart with a longing that she had 
 never known before. Mary Myles, I think, guessed what 
 was passing in the other's mind — women feel one 
 another's passing emotions — but the good Colonel was 
 utterly unconscious. 
 
 ' We have been asking your wife if she remains with 
 you, or if she is going back directly,' said he. ' I thought 
 perhaps you would both come to dine with us before we go.' 
 
 There was a mist before Anne's eyes, an unspeakable 
 peace in her heart, as Jack drew her hand through his arm, 
 and said, in his kind voice, ' Of course she stays ; I am not 
 going to let my belongings go away again, now that I have 
 got them here.'
 
 JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 387 
 
 As they were walking Lack to the inn together, Anne 
 told her husband of her morning's work, and John sighed 
 as he listened. 
 
 ' We have both something to forgive,' he said once 
 more, looking at her with his kind speaking eyes. 
 
 Anne winced and looked away, and then her heart 
 turned again, and she spoke and said, with real sensi- 
 bility,— 
 
 ' I have nothing to forgive, John. I thought you were 
 in the wrong, but it was I from the beginning.' 
 
 After a little time Trevithic and Anne and Dulcie went 
 to live together in the old house in Bolton Fields. The 
 woman was humbled, and did her best to make her hus- 
 band's' home happy, and John too remembered the past, 
 and loved his wife, with all her faults, and did not ask too 
 much of her, and kept clear, as best he could, of possible 
 struggles and difficulties. His life was hard, but blows 
 and fatigue he did not grudge, so long as he could help to 
 deliver the land. Foul caverns were cleansed, ignorant 
 monsters were routed, dark things were made light. He 
 was not content in his parish to drive away evil ; he tried 
 his best and strove to change it, and make it into good. 
 These tangible dragons and giants were hard to fight, but 
 once attacked they generally succumbed in the end, and 
 lost perhaps one head, or a claw in each successive en- 
 counter, and then other champions rose up, and by degrees 
 
 c c 2
 
 388 7ACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 
 
 the monster began to fall and dwindle away. But poor 
 Trevithic's work is not over. Another giant is coming to 
 meet him through the darkness. He is no hideous mon- 
 ster of evil like the rest ; his face is pitiless, but his eyes 
 are clear and calm. His still voic^says, ' Hold,' and then 
 it swells by degrees, and deafens all other sound. ' I am a 
 spirit of truth, men call me evil because I come out of the 
 darkness,' the giant cries ; ' but see my works are good as 
 well as bad I See what bigotry, what narrow prejudice, 
 what cruelty and wickedness and intolerance I have 
 attacked and put to rout I ' In the story-book it is Jack 
 who is the conqueror ; he saws through the bridge by 
 which the giant approaches, and the giant falls into the 
 moat and is drowned. But, as far as I can see, the 
 Jacks of this day would rather make a way for him 
 than shut him out ; some of the heroes who have tried 
 to saw away the bridge have fallen into the moat with 
 their enemy, and others are making but a ^veak defence, and 
 in their hearts would be glad to admit him into the palace 
 of the King. 
 
 Mrs. Trevithic rarely goes into the garden at the back 
 of her house. The other day, being vexed with her hus- 
 band about some trifling matter, she followed him out to 
 remonstrate. He was standing with Dulcie by the prickly 
 holly-tree that she remembered so well, and seeing her 
 coming he put out his hand with a smile. The words 
 of reproach died away on Anne's lips, and two bright
 
 \ JACK THE GIANT-KILLER. 389 
 
 spots came into her cheeks, as with a very rare display of 
 feeling she suddenly stooped and kissed the hand that held 
 hers. 
 
 As I finish the story of Jack Trevithic, which, from 
 the play in which it began, has turned to earnest, H. looks 
 up from her knitting, and says that it is very unsatisfac- 
 tory, and that she is getting tired of calling everything 
 by different names ; and she thinks she would like to go 
 back to the realities of life again. In my dream-world 
 they have been forgotten, for the fire is nearly out and the 
 grey mist is spreading along the streets. It is too dark 
 to write any more — an organ is playing a dismal tune, a 
 carriage is rolling over the stones ; so I ring the bell for 
 the lS,mp and the coals, and Susan comes in to shut the 
 shutters.
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE 
 
 DEDICATED TO 
 L. M. C. 
 
 AN OLD FRIEND
 
 ^♦.
 
 A YOUNG PEINCE. 
 
 This little introduction is to open the door of a home that 
 was once, in a house in a pleasant green square in London 
 — a comfortable family house, with airy and light and snug 
 corners, and writing-tables, and with pictures hanging 
 from the walls of the drawing-room, where the tall win- 
 dows looked out upon the trees, and of the study upstairs 
 where the father sat at his work. 
 
 Here were books and china pots and silver inkstands, 
 and a hundred familiar things all about the house, which 
 the young people had been used to for so long that they 
 had by degrees come to live for them with that individual 
 life with which inanimate things live for the young. 
 Sometimes in the comfortable flicker of the twilight fire the 
 place would seem all astir in the dance of the bright fires 
 which burned in that hearth — fires which then seemed 
 to be, perhaps, only charred coal and wood and ashes, but 
 whose rays still warm and cheer those who were gathered 
 round the home hearth so many years ago.
 
 394 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 On one side of the fireplace hung a picture which had 
 been painted by Miss Edgar, and which represented a 
 pretty pale lady, with her head on one side. The artist 
 had christened her Laura. On the chimney-piece, behind 
 the old red pots, the little Dresden ^hina figures, the 
 gilt and loudly ticking clock, stood the picture of a kind 
 old family friend, with a friendly, yet troubled expression 
 in his countenance : and then, against a panel, hung a 
 little water-colour painted by Hunt, and representing 
 the sweet little heroine of this short history. Opposite to 
 her for a while, was a vacant space, until one summer, in 
 Italy, the father happened to buy the portrait of a little 
 Dauphin or Neapolitan Prince, with a broad ribbon and 
 order, and soft fair hair ; and when the little Prince had 
 come back from Italy and from a visit to ^Messrs. Col- 
 naghi's, he was nailed up in his beautiful new frame on the 
 opposite panel to the little peasant girl. There had been 
 some discussion as to where he was to be placed, and one 
 night he was carried up into the study, where he was 
 measured with another little partner, but the little 
 peasant girl matched him best : although the other was a 
 charming and high-bom little girl. Only a short time 
 before ]\Iessrs. Colnaghi had sent her home, in a gilt and 
 reeded frame, a lovely little print of one of Sir Joshua's 
 pictures. She lived above in the study, and was chris- 
 tened Lady Marjory by the young people, who did not 
 know the little lady's real name. And it happened that, one
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE. 395 
 
 night in this long ago of which I am writing, one of these 
 }"Oiing folks, sitting basking in the comfortable warmth of 
 the fire, dreamt out a little history of the pictures, that were 
 lighting up in the firelight, and nodding and smiling at 
 her as pictures do. It was a revelation which she wrote 
 down at the time, and which she firmly believed in when 
 she wrote it. Perhaps this short explanation will be 
 enough to make the little history intelligible as it was 
 written, without any other change. 
 
 There was once a funny little peasant maiden in a big 
 Normandy cap and blue stockings, and a bright-coloured 
 kerchief, who sat upon a bank, painted all over with hea- 
 ther and flowers, with her basket at her feet, and who 
 l(5oked out at the world with two blue eyes and a sweet 
 artless little smile which touched and softened quite gruff 
 old ladies and gentlemen who happened to see her hang- 
 ing up against the parlour wall. 
 
 Opposite to the little peasant maiden was a lady of 
 much greater pretensions. No other than Petrarch's 
 Laura, indeed, in a pea-green gown, with a lackadaisical 
 expression and her head on one side. But it was in vain 
 she languished and gave herself airs ; — everybody went up 
 first to the grinning little peasant maid and cried, ' Oh, 
 what a dear little girl ! ' 
 
 At first the child, who, you know, was a little French 
 child, did not understand what they were saying, and
 
 396 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 would beg Mrs. Laura to translate their remarts. This 
 lady had brought up a large family (so she explained to 
 the old gentleman over the chimney-piece), and did not 
 think it right to turn little girls' heads with silly flattery ; 
 and so, instead of translating rightly^sjie would tell the 
 little maiden that they were laughing at her big cap or 
 blue stockings. 
 
 ' Let them laugh,' says the little maid, stui'dily ; ' I am 
 sure they look very good-natured, and don't mean any 
 harm,' and so she smiled in their faces as sweetly as 
 ever. And quite soon she learnt enough to understand for 
 
 herself. 
 
 Although Laura was so sentimental she was not utterly 
 
 heartless, and she rather liked the child ; and sometimes 
 
 when she was in a good temper would tell her great long 
 
 stories about her youth, and the south, and the gentlemen 
 
 who were in love with her — and that one in particular who 
 
 wrote such heaps and heaps of poetry ; and go on about 
 
 troubadours and the belle passion, while the little girl 
 
 wondered and listened, and respected Laura more and 
 
 more every day. 
 
 ' How can you talk such nonsense to the child ? ' said 
 the old gentleman over the chimney. 
 
 ' Ah ! that is a man's speech,' said the lady in green, 
 plaintively. ' Xonsense ! — yes, silent devotion. Yes, 
 a heart bleeding inwardly — breaking without one outward 
 sign ; that is, indeed, the nonsense of a faithful woman's
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE. 397 
 
 love ! There are some things no man can understand — no 
 man ! ' 
 
 ' I am sm-prised to hear you saj so,' said the old gentle- 
 man, politely. 
 
 ' Are you alluding to that creature Petrarch ? ' cried 
 Laura. ' He became quite a nuisance at last. Always 
 groaning and sighing, and sending me scrawls of sonnets 
 to decipher, and causing dissension between me and my 
 dear husband. The man disgraced himself in the end by 
 taking up with some low, vulgar minx or other. That is 
 what you will find,' she continued, addressing the little 
 girl, — ' men are false ; the truth is not in them. It is our 
 sad privilege to be faithful — to die breathing the name 
 beloved ; heighho ! ' and though she spoke to the little 
 ^rl, she looked at the old gentleman over the chimney- 
 piece. 
 
 ' I hear every day of a new arrival expected among us,' 
 said he, feeling uncomfortable, and wishing to change the 
 subject ; ' a little Prince in a blue coat all covered over 
 with diamonds.' 
 
 ' A Prince ! ' cried Laura, brightening up, — ' delightful ! 
 You are, perhaps, aware that I have been accustomed to 
 such society before this ? ' 
 
 ' This one is but a child,' said the old gentleman ; ' but 
 they say he is a very pretty little fellow.' 
 
 'Oh, I wonder— I wonder if he is the little Prince I
 
 398 A YOUXG PRINCE. 
 
 dreamt of,' thought the little girl. ' Oh, how they are all 
 talking about him.' 
 
 ' Of course they will put him in here,' said Laura. " I 
 want to have news of the dear court.' 
 
 ' They were talking of it,' said the olfl^entleman. ' And 
 the other night in the study they said he would make a 
 nice pendant for our little friend here.' 
 
 When the little peasant maiden heard this, her heart 
 heiran to beat, so that the room seemed to swim round 
 and round, and if she had not held on by the purple 
 bank she would certainly have slipped down on to the 
 carpet. 
 
 ' I have never been into the study,' said Laura, frac- 
 tiously ; ' pray, who did you meet there when they carried 
 you up the other night to examine the marks on your 
 back?' 
 
 ' A very delightful circle,' said the old gentleman ; 
 ' several old friends, and some very distinguished people : 
 — Mr. Washington, Dr. Johnson, the Duke, Sir Joshua, 
 and a most charming little lady, a friend of his, and all 
 his E. A.'s in a group. Our host's great-grandfather is also 
 there, and ]\Iajor Andre, in whom I am sure all gentle 
 ladies must take an interest.' 
 
 ' I never heard of one of them,' said Laura, tossing her 
 head. ' And the little girl, pray who is she ? ' 
 
 ' A very charming little person, with round eyes, and
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE. 399 
 
 a mnff, and a big bonnet. Our dear young friend here 
 would make her a nice little maid.' 
 
 The little peasant child's heart died within her. ' A 
 maid ! Yes, yes ; that is my station. Ah, what a little 
 simpleton I am. Who am I that the Prince should look 
 at me ? What was I thinking about ? Ah, what a silly 
 child I am.' 
 
 And so, when night came, she went to sleep very sad, 
 and very much ashamed of herself, upon her purple bank. 
 All night long she dreamed wild dreams. She saw the 
 little Prince coming and going in his blue velvet coat 
 and his long fair hair, and sometimes he looked at her 
 scornfully. 
 
 'You low-born, wretched little peasant child,' said 
 ke, ' do you expect that I, a Prince, am going to notice 
 you?' 
 
 But sometimes he looked kind, and once he held out 
 his hand ; and 'the little girl fell down on her knees, in her 
 dreams, and was just going to clasp it, when there came a 
 tremendous clap of thunder and a great flash of lightning, 
 and waking up with a start, she heard the door bang as 
 someone left the room with a candle, and a clock struck 
 eleven, and some voices seemed dying away, and then all 
 was quite dai'k and quiet again. 
 
 But when morning came, and the little girl opened 
 her eyes, what was, do you think, the first thing she saw 
 leaning up against the back of the chair ? Anybody who
 
 400 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 has ever been in love, or ever read a novel, will guess that 
 it was the little Prince, in his blue coat, with all his 
 beautiful orders on, and his long fair hair, and his 
 blue eyes already wide open and fixed upon the little 
 maid. ^* .. 
 
 ' Ah, madam,' said he, in French, ' at last we meet. I 
 have known you for years past. When I was in the old 
 palace in Italy, I used to dream of you night after night. 
 There was a marble terrace outside the mndow with 
 statues standing in the sun, and orange-trees blooming 
 year by year. There was a painted ceiling to the room, 
 with flying figures flitting round a circle. There was a 
 great blue sky without, and deep shadows came striking 
 across the marble floor day after day at noon. And 
 I was so weary, oh ! so weary, until one niglit I saw you in 
 my dreams, and you seemed to say, " Courage, little Prince, 
 courage. I, too, am waiting for you. Courage, dear 
 little Prince." And now, at last we meet, madam,' he 
 cried, clasping his hands. ' Ah ! do not condemn me to 
 despair.' 
 
 The little peasant maiden felt as if she could die of 
 liappiness. 
 
 ' Oh, Prince, Prince,' she sobbed, ' oh, what shall I 
 say ? Oh, I am not worthy of you. Oh, you are too good 
 and great for such a little wretch as I. There is a young 
 lady upstairs who will suit you a thousand times better ;
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE. 401 
 
 and I will be your little maid, and brush your beautiful 
 coat.' 
 
 But the Prince laughed away her scruples and terrors, 
 and vowed she was fit to be a princess any day in all the 
 year ; and, indeed, the little girl, though she thought so 
 humbly of herself, could not but see how well he thought 
 of her. And so, all that long happy day, the children 
 talked and chattered from morning to night, rather to the 
 disgust of Laura, who would have preferred holding forth 
 herself. But the old gentleman over the chimney looked 
 on with a gentle smile in his kind red face, and nodded 
 his head encouragingly at them every now and then. 
 
 All that day the little peasant maiden was perfectly 
 happy, and, when evening fell, went to sleep as usual 
 upon her flowery bank, looking so sweet and so innocent 
 that the little Prince vowed and swore to himself that all 
 his life should be devoted to her, for he had never seen 
 her like, and that she should have a beautiful crown and a 
 velvet gown, and he happy for ever and ever. 
 
 Poor little maiden 1 When the next morning came, 
 and she opened her sweet blue eyes, alas ! it was in vain, 
 in vain — in vain to this poor little loving heart. There 
 stood the arm-chair, but the Prince was gone. The shut- 
 ters were open, the sunshine was streaming in with the 
 fresh morning air ; but the room was dark and dreary and 
 empty to her. The little Prince was no longer there, and 
 if she thought she could die of happiness the day before 
 
 D D
 
 402 A YOUNG PRIXCE. 
 
 to-day it seemed as if she must live for ever, her grief 
 was so keen, the pang so cruel, that it could never end. 
 
 Quite cold and shivering, she turned to Laura, to ask 
 if she knew anything; but Laura could only inform her 
 that she had always said so— men were false — silent devo- 
 tion, hearts breaking without one sign, were a woman's 
 privilege, &c. But, indeed, the little peasant girl hardly 
 heard what she was saying. 
 
 'The housemaid carried him off into the study, my 
 dear,' said the old gentleman, very kindly, ' this morning 
 before you were awake. But never mind, for she sneezed 
 three times before she left the room.' 
 
 ' Oh, what is that to me ? ' moaned the little peasant 
 maiden. 
 
 ' Don't you know ? ' said tlie old gentleman, mysteri- 
 ously. ' Three sneezes on a Friday break the enchant- 
 ment which keeps us all here, and to-night at twelve 
 o'clock we will go and pay your little Prince a visit.' 
 
 The clock was striking twelve when the little peasant 
 girl, waking from an uneasy dream, felt herself tapped on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 * Come, my dear, jump,' said the old gentleman, 
 holding out his hand, and leaving the indignant Laura to 
 scramble down by herself as best she could. 
 
 This she did, showing two long thin legs, cased in 
 blue silk stockings, and reached the ground at last, natu-
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE. 403 
 
 rally very sulky, and greatly offended by this want of 
 attention. 
 
 ' Is this the way I am to be treated ? said she, 
 shaking out her train, and brushing jiast them into the 
 passage. 
 
 There she met several ladies and gentlemen hurrying 
 up from the dining-room, and the little Prince, in the 
 blue coat, rushing towards the drawing-room door. 
 
 ' You will find your love quite taken up with the gen- 
 tleman from the chimney-piece,' said Laura, stopping him 
 spitefully. ' Don't you see them coming hand-in-hand ? 
 He seems quite to have consoled her for your absence.' 
 
 And alas ! at that instant the poor little maiden, in 
 an impulse of gratitude, had flung her arms round her 
 kiiid old protector. ' Will you really take me to him ? ' 
 she cried ; ' oh, how good, how noble you are.' 
 
 ' Didn't I tell you so ? ' said Laura, with a laugh. 
 
 The fiery little Prince flashed up with rage and jeal- 
 ousy. He dashed his hand to his forehead, and then 
 when the little peasant maid came up suddenly, all trem- 
 bling with shy happiness, he made her a very low and sar- 
 castic bow and turned upon his heel. 
 
 Ah, me ! Here was a tragedy. The poor little girl 
 sank down in a heap on the stairs all insensible. The 
 little Prince, never looking once behind, walked up very 
 stately straight into the study again, where he began to 
 
 D D 2
 
 404 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 make love to Sir Joshua's little lady with the big bonnet 
 and the big round eyes. 
 
 There was quite a hum of conversation going on in 
 the room. Figures coming and going and saluting one 
 another in a courtly old-fashioned way. Sir Joshua, with 
 his trumpet, was walking up and down arm-in-arm with 
 Dr. Johnson; the doctor scowling every now and then 
 over his shoulder at Mr. Washington's bust, who took not 
 the slightest notice. ' Ha ! ten minutes past midnight, ' 
 observed the General, looking at the clock. *It is, I 
 believe, well ascertained that there exists some consider 
 able difference between the hour here and in America. 
 I know not exactly what that difference is. If I did I 
 could calculate the time at home.' 
 
 ' Sir,' said Doctor Johnson, ' any fool could do as 
 much.' 
 
 The bust met this sally with a blank and haughty 
 stare, and went on talking to the French lady who was 
 leaning against the cabinet. 
 
 In the meantime the members of the Royal Academy 
 had all come clambering down from their places, leaving 
 the model alone in the lamp-lighted hall where they had 
 been assembled. He remained to put on his clothes and 
 to extinguish the lights which had now been burning for 
 some hundred years. At night, when we are all lying 
 stretched out on our beds, how rarely we think of the 
 companies gathering and awakening in om- darkened
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE. 405 
 
 rooms below. Mr. H. C. Andersen was one of the first 
 to note these midnight assemblies, and to call our atten- 
 tion to them. In a very wise and interesting book called 
 The Nutcracker of Nuremberg (written by some learned 
 German many years ago) there is a curious account of 
 one of these meetings, witnessed by a little wakeful girl. 
 On this night, alas ! no one was waking ; the house was 
 dim with silence and obscurity, and the sad story of my 
 little peasant maiden told on with no lucky interruption. 
 Poor, poor little maiden ! There she lay a little soft 
 round heap upon the stairs. The people coming and 
 going scarcely noticed her, so busy were they making the 
 most of their brief hour of life and liberty. The kind 
 old gentleman from over the chimney-piece stood rubbing 
 her little cold hands in his, and supporting her drooping 
 head upon his knee. Through the window the black 
 night trees shivered and the moon rose in the drifting 
 sky. The church steeple struck the half hour, and the 
 people hurried faster and faster. 
 
 ' Tira, lira, lira,' sung a strange little figure dressed in 
 motley clothes, suddenly stopping on its way. ' What have 
 we here ? What have we here ? A little peasant maid 
 fainting in the moonlight — an old gentleman trying to 
 bring her too ! Is she your daughter, friend ? Is she 
 dead, or sick, or shamming? Why do you waste your precious 
 moments ? Chuck her out of window, Toby. Throw the 
 babby out of window. I am Mr. Punch off the inkstand ; '
 
 4o6 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 and with another horrible chuckle the little figure seemed 
 to be skipping away. 
 
 ' Stop, sir,' said the old gentleman, very sternly. 
 ' Listen to what I have to tell you. If you see a little 
 Prince upstairs in a blue velvet coai lell him from me 
 that he is a villain and a false heart ; and if this young 
 lady dies of grief it is he who has killed her ; she was 
 seeking him wlien he spurned her. Tell him this, 
 if you please, and ask him when and where he will 
 be pleased to meet me, and what weapons he will 
 choose.' 
 
 ' I'll tell him,' said INIr. Punch, and he was off in a 
 minute. Presently he came back (somewhat to the old 
 gentleman's sui-prise). ' I have seen your little Prince,' 
 said he, ' and given him your message ; but I did not wait 
 for an answer. 'Twere a pity to kill him, you cruel- 
 hearted old gentleman. ^^^lat would the little girl say 
 when she came to life ? ' And Punchinello, who was 
 really kind-hearted, although flighty at first and odd in 
 manner, knelt down and took the little pale girl into his 
 arms. Her head fell heavily on his shoulder. ' Oh, dear ! 
 Wliat is to be done with her ? ' sighed the old gentleman, 
 helplessly -wi'inging his hands and looking at her with 
 pitiful eyes ; and all the while the moon streamed full 
 upon the fantastic little group. 
 
 Meantime the little Prince upstairs had been strutting
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE. 407 
 
 up and down band in hand with the Eng-lish beauty, little 
 Lady Marjory, of the round brown eyes. To be siu-e he 
 was wondering and longing after his little peasant maiden 
 all the while, and wistfully glancing at the door. But not 
 the less did he talk and make gallant speeches to her little 
 ladyship, who only smiled and took it all as a matter of 
 course, for she was a young lady of the world and 
 accustomed to such attentions from gentlemen. It 
 naturally followed, however, that the Prince, who was 
 thinking of other things, did not shine as usual in conver- 
 sation. 
 
 Laura had made friends with the great-grandfather, 
 who was an elegant scholar and could speak the most 
 perfect Italian. * See what a pretty little pair,' said he ; 
 ' how well matched they are.' 
 
 ' A couple of silly little chits,' said she, ' what can 
 they know of love and passion ? ' and she cast up a great 
 quavering glance with her weak blue eyes. ' Ah ! believe 
 me, sir,' said she, ' it is only at a later age that women 
 learn to feel that agonising emotion, that they fade and 
 pine away in silence. Ah- ha ! What a tale would it be 
 to tell, that untold story of woman's wrongs and un — un- 
 requited love ! ' 
 
 ' Ookedookedoo, there's a treat in store for you, young 
 man,' said Mr. Punch, skipping by. ' Will you have my 
 ruffles to dry your tears ? Gro it, old girl.' And away he 
 went, leaving Laura speechless from indignation. He went
 
 4o8 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 on to where the Prince was standing, and tapped him on 
 the shoulder. 
 
 ' Where do you come from, you strange little man ? ' 
 said Lady Marjory. 
 
 ' There are many strange things la be seen to-night,' 
 said Punch, mysteriously hissing out his words. ' There's 
 a little peasant girl fainting and dying in the moonlight ; 
 she was coming to find her love, and he spumed her ; and 
 there is an old gentleman trying to bring her to life. Her 
 heart is breaking, and he wants blood to anoint it, he 
 says, — princely blood — shed in the moonlight, drop by 
 drop from a false heart, and it is for you to choose the 
 time and the place. Tliis lady will have to find another 
 cavalier, and will she like him. Prince, with fool's cap 
 and bells, and a hump before and behind ? In that case,' 
 says INIr. Punch, with a caper, ' I am her very humble 
 servant.' 
 
 Lady ^larjory did not answer, but looked veiy haughty, 
 as fashionable young ladies do, and ]Mr. Punch vanished in 
 an instant. 
 
 ' I hope I shall never see that person again,' said she. 
 ' The forwardness of common people is really unbearable. 
 Of course he was talking nonsense. Little Prince, would 
 you kindly hold my muff while I tie my bonnet-strings 
 more securely?' 
 
 The Prince took the muff without speaking, and then 
 dropped it on the floor unconsciously. Now at last he
 
 ^ A YOUNG PRINCE. 409 
 
 saw clearly, in an instant it was all plain to him ; he was 
 half distracted with shame and remorse. There was a 
 vision before his eyes of his little peasant maiden — loved 
 so fondly, and, alas ! wantonly abandoned and cruelly de- 
 serted — cold and pale and dying down below in the moon- 
 light. He could not bear the thought ; he caught Lady 
 Marjory by the hand. 
 
 ' Come,' said he, ' oh, come. I am a wretch, a wretch . 
 Oh, I thought she had deceived me. Oh, come, come ! Oh, 
 my little peasant maiden. Oh, how I loved her ! ' 
 
 Lady Marjory drew herself up. ' You may go. Prince, 
 wherever you may wish,' she said, looking at him with her 
 great round eyes, ' but pray go alone ; I do not choose to 
 meet that man again. I will wait for you here, and you 
 can tell me your story when you come back.' Lady Marjory, 
 generous and kind-hearted as she was, coidd not but be 
 hurt at the way in which, as it seemed, she too had been 
 deceived, nor was she used to being thrown over for 
 little peasant maidens. 
 
 The little Prince with a scared face looked round the 
 room for someone with whom to leave her, but no one 
 showed at that instant, and so, half-bewildered still and 
 dreaming, he rushed away. 
 
 Only a minute before the old gentleman had said to 
 Punchinello, ' Let us carry the little girl out upon the bal- 
 cony, the fresh air may revive her.' And so it happened 
 that the little Prince came to the very landing where they
 
 4FO A YOUNG PRIXCE. 
 
 had waited so long, and found no signs of those for whom 
 he was looking. 
 
 He ran about desperately, everywhere asking for news, 
 but no one had any to give him. Who ever has ? He 
 passed the window a dozen times Mtliout thinking of 
 looking out. Blind, deaf, insensible, are we not all to 
 our dearest friend outside a door? to the familiar voice 
 which is calling for us across a street ? to the kind heart 
 wliich is longing for us behind a plaster wall maybe. 
 Blind, insensible indeed, and alone ; oh, how alone ! He 
 first asked two ladies who came tottering upstairs, help- 
 lessly on little feet, with large open parasols, thougli it 
 was in the middle of the night. One of them was smell- 
 ing at a great flower with a straight stalk, the other 
 fanning herself with a dried lotus-leaf; but they shook 
 their heads idiotically, and answered something in their 
 own language — one of those sentences on the tea-caddies, 
 most likely. These were Chinese ladies from the great 
 jar in the drawing-room. Then he met a beautiful little 
 group of Dresden china children, pelting each other with 
 flowers off the chintz chairs and sofas, but they laughed 
 and danced on, and did not even stop to answer his ques- 
 tions. Then came a long procession of persons all dressed 
 in black and white, walking sedately, running, sliding up 
 the banisters, riding donkeys, on horses, in carriages, 
 pony-chaises, omnibuses, bathing-machines ; old ladies 
 with bundles, huge umbrellas, and band-boxes; old
 
 ^ A YOUNG PRINCE. 411 
 
 gentlemen with big waistcoats ; red-nosed gentlemen ; 
 bald gentlemen, muddled, puzzled, bewildered, perplexed, 
 indignant. Young ladies, dark-eyed, smiling, tripping 
 and dancing in hats and feathers, curls blowing in the 
 wind, in ball-dresses, in pretty morning costumes ; school- 
 boys with apple cheeks ; little girls, babies, pretty servant- 
 maids ; gigantic footmen (marching in a corps) ; pages 
 walking on their heads after their mistresses, chasing 
 Scotch terriers, smashing, crashing, larking, covered with 
 buttons. 
 
 'What is this crowd of phantoms, the ghosts of 
 yesterday, and last week ? ' 
 
 ' "We are all the people out of Mr. Leech's picture- 
 books,' says an old gentleman in a plaid shooting- 
 costume ; ' my own name is Briggs, sir ; I am sorry I can 
 give you no further information.' 
 
 Any other time, and the little Prince must have been 
 amused to see them go by, but to-night he rushes on des- 
 pairingly ; he only sees the little girl's pale face and dying 
 eyes gleaming through the darkness. More Dresden, more 
 Chinese ; strange birds whirr past, a partridge scrambles 
 by with her little ones. Grilt figures climb about the 
 cornices and furniture ; the bookcases are swarming with 
 busy little people ; the little gold cupid comes down off 
 the clock, and looks at himself in the looking-glass. A 
 hundred minor personages pass by, dancing, whirling in 
 bewildering circles. On the walls the papering turns into
 
 412 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 a fragi-ant bower of creeping flowers ; all the water-colour 
 landscapes come to life. Rain beats, showers fall, clouds 
 drift, light warms and streams, water deepens, wavelets 
 swell and plash tranquilly on the shores. Ships begin to 
 sail, sails fill, and away they go gliding across the lake- 
 like waters so beautifully that I cannot help describing 
 it, though all this, I know, is of quite common occurrence 
 and has been often written about before. The little 
 Prince, indeed, paid no attention to all that was going 
 on, but went and threw himself down before the purple 
 bank, and vowed with despair in his heart he would 
 wait there until his little peasant maiden should come 
 
 again. 
 
 There Laura saw him sitting on a stool, with his fair 
 hair all dishevelled, and his arms hanging wearily. She had 
 come back to look for one of her pearl earrings, and when 
 she had discovered it, thought it would be but friendly to 
 cheer the Prince up a bit, and, accordingly, tapped him 
 facetiously on the shoulder, and declared she should tell 
 Lady Marjory of him. 'Waiting there for the little 
 peasant child ; oh, you naughty fickle creature ! ' said she, 
 playfully. 
 
 ' You have made mischief enough for one night. Go ! ' 
 said the Prince, looking her full in the face with his wan 
 wild eyes, so that Laura shrank away a little abashed, 
 and then he turned his back upon her, and hid his face in 
 his hands.
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE 413 
 
 So the sprightly Lam-a, finding that there was no one 
 to talk to her, frisked up into the study again, and des- 
 crying Lady Marjory standing all by herself, instantly 
 joined her. 
 
 This is certainly a lachrymose history. Here was 
 Lady Marjory sobbing and crying too ! Her great brown 
 eyes were glistening with tears, and the drops were 
 falling — pat — pat upon her muff, and the big bonnet had 
 tumbled off on her shoulders, and the poor little lady 
 looked the picture of grief and melancholy. 
 
 ' Well, I never I ' said Mrs. De Sade. * More tears. 
 What a set of silly children you are ! Here is your 
 ladyship, there his little highness, not to mention that 
 absurd peasant child, who is coming upstairs and looking 
 as^ white as a sheet, and who fainted away again when I 
 told her that the Prince's intended was here, but not the 
 Prince. As for her — I never had any pa . . .' 
 
 ' His highness ? The Prince do you mean, — is he safe, 
 then ? ' said Lady Marjory, suddenly stopping short in her 
 sobs. ' Tell me immediately when, where, how, did you 
 see him ? ' 
 
 'The naughty creature, I gave him warning,' said 
 Laura, holding up one finger, 'and so I may tell your 
 ladyship without any compunction. Heigho, I feel for 
 your ladyship. I can remember past times ; — woman is 
 doomed, doomed to lonely memories ; Men are false, the 
 truth is not 
 
 ■ • •
 
 414 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 'Has he fought a duel,— is he wounded? Oh, why 
 did I let him go ! ' cried Lady Marjory, impetuously. 
 
 ' He is wounded,' said Laura, looking very knowing ; 
 'but men recover from such injuries. It is us poor 
 women who die of them without a g-g-groan.' Here 
 she looked up to see if the bust of General Washington 
 was listening. 
 
 Lady Marjory seized her arm with an impatient little 
 grip. ' Why don't you speak out instead of standing there 
 maundering ! ' she cried. 
 
 ' Hi-i-i,' squeaked the green woman. ' Well, then, he 
 likes the peasant girl better than your ladyship, and it is his 
 h-heart which is wounded. It would be a very undesirable 
 match,' she continued confidentially, recovering her tem- 
 per. ' As a friend of the family, I feel it my duty to do 
 everything in my power to prevent it. Indeed, it was I 
 who broke the affair off in the first instance. Painful but 
 necessary. Who cares for a little shrimp of a peasant— at 
 least — I am rather sorry for the child. But it can't be 
 helped, and nobody will miss her if she does die of 
 grief.' 
 
 * Die of grief ! ' said Lady Marjory, wonderingly. 
 
 * La, my dear, it's the commonest thing in the world,' 
 remarked Laura. 
 
 *Die of grief,' repeated Lady Marjory ; and just as she 
 was speaking, in came through the door, slowly, silently 
 stopping every now and then to rest, and then advancing
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE. 415 
 
 once again, the old gentleman, and Puncliinello, bearing 
 between them the lifeless form of the little peasant maiden. 
 They came straight on to where Lady Marjory was 
 standing : they laid the child gently down upon the 
 ground. 
 
 'We brought her here,' said the old gentleman, 
 gloomily, ' to see if the Prince, who has killed her, could 
 not bring her to life again.' 
 
 ' dear, dear,' sighed Punchinello, almost cry- 
 ing. 
 
 ' Poor little thing, dear little thing.' This was from 
 Lady Marjory, suddenly falling on her knees beside her, 
 rubbing her hands, kissing her pale face, sprinkling her 
 with the contents of her smelling-bottle. ' She can't, and 
 shan't, and mustn't die, if the Prince or if I can save her. 
 He is heart-broken. You, madam,' she cried, turning to 
 Laura, ' go down, do you hear, and bring him instantly ! 
 Do you understand me, or you will repent it all your life.' 
 And her eyes flashed at her so that Laura, looking quite 
 limp somehow, went away followed by Punchinello. In a 
 minute the Prince came rushing in and fell on his knees 
 beside Lady Marjory. 
 
 And so it happened that the little peasant maiden 
 lying insensible in Lady Marjory's arms, opened her sad 
 eyes, as the Prince seized her hand. His presence had 
 done more for her than all the tender care of the two old 
 fellows. For one instant her face lighted up with life and
 
 4i6 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 happiness, but then looking up into Lady Marjory's face, 
 she sank back with a piteous, shuddering sigh. 
 
 The old gentleman was furious. ' Have you come 
 to insult her ? ' he said to the Prince. ' To parade your 
 base infidelity, to wound and to sti^ke this poor little 
 thing whom you have already stricken so sorely ? You 
 shall answer for this with your blood, sir, and on the spot 
 I say.' 
 
 ' Hold your stupid old tongue, you silly old gentleman,' 
 said Mr. Punch. ' See how pale the little Prince looks, 
 and how his eyes are dimly flashiog. He has not come 
 hither to triumph, but to weep and sing dirges. Is it not 
 so, little Prince ? ' 
 
 * Weep, yes, and sing dirges for his own funeral,' cried 
 the old gentleman, more and more excited. ' Draw, sir, 
 and defend yourself, if you are a gentleman.' 
 
 But Lady Marjory, tm-niug from one to the other, ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 'Prince, dear Prince, you will not fight this good 
 gentleman, who has taken such tender care of your little 
 peasant maiden. Sir,' to the old gentleman, ' it would 
 be you who would break her heart, were you to do him 
 harm.' 
 
 ' And why should you want to do him harm ? ' said the 
 little peasant, rousing herself and looking up with a very 
 sweet imploring look in her blue eyes, and clasping her 
 hands. ' He has done me none. It is the pride and
 
 ^ A YOUNG PRINCE. 417 
 
 happiness of my life to think that he should ever have 
 deigned to notice me. It would not have been fit, indeed, 
 that he, a Prince, should have married a little low-born 
 peasant like myself.' 
 
 The Prince, scarce knowing what he did, beat his fore- 
 head, dashed hot burning tears from his eyes. 
 
 ' Sir,' said he to the old gentlemam, ' kill me on the 
 spot ; it is the only fate I deserve, it will be well to rid 
 the earth of such a monster. Farewell, little maiden ; 
 farewell, Lady Marjory. You will comfort her when I am 
 gone. And do not regret me ; remember only that I was 
 unworthy of your love or of hers.' And he tore open his 
 blue velvet coat, and presented his breast for the old 
 gentleman to pierce through and through. 
 
 Now Lady Marjory began to smile, instead of looking 
 as frightened and melancholy as everybody else. 
 
 'Button up your coat, dear little Prince,' said she. 
 ' You will have to wait long for that sword-thrust you ask 
 for. Meantime you must console the little peasant girl, 
 not I ; for it is I who bid you farewell.' 
 
 ' Ah, gracious lady,' cried the poor little monster, 
 covering her hand with kisses, ' it is too late, too late ; a 
 man who has broken her heart, who has trifled with yours 
 so basely, deserves only to die — only to die.' 
 
 ' Let me make a confession,' said Lady Marjory, speaking 
 with a tender sprightliness, while a soft gleam shone in 
 her eyes. ' Our English hearts are cold, dear Prince, and 
 
 E E
 
 41 8 A YOUNG PRINCE. 
 
 slow to kindle. It is only now I learn what people feel 
 when they are in love ; and my heart is whole,' she added, 
 with a blush. 
 
 Such kind words and smiles could not but do good work. 
 The little Prince almost left off sobbiji^> and began to dry 
 his eyes. Meanwhile, Lady Marjory turned to the little 
 peasant maiden. 
 
 ' You must not listen to him when he talks such non- 
 sense, and is so tragic and sentimental,' she said. ' He 
 thought you had deceived him, and cared for someone 
 else. He sobbed it in my ear when he went away to find 
 you.' 
 
 ' Hey-de-dy-diddle,' cried Punchinello, capering about, 
 for joy ; ' and I know who told him — the woman in green, 
 to be sure. I heard her. Oh the languishing creature ! 
 Oh the pining wild cat ! Oh what tender hearts have 
 women ? Oh what feelings — what gushing sentiment ! ' 
 
 ' You hold your tongue, you stupid Mr. Punch,' said 
 the old gentleman, who had put up his sword, and quite 
 forgiven the little Prince. 
 
 ' And so good-by, dear friends,' said Lady Marjory, 
 sadly indeed, but with a face still beaming and smiling. 
 ' See the moon is setting ; our hour is ended. Farewell, 
 farewell,' and she seemed to glide away. 
 
 ' Ah, farewell ; ' echoed the others, stretching out their 
 hands. 
 
 The last rays were streaming from behind the house-
 
 A YOUNG PRINCE. 419 
 
 tops. With them the charm was ending. The Prince and 
 the peasant girl stood hand in hand in the last lingering 
 beams. 
 
 SGrood-night,' said Punchinello, skipping away. 
 
 ' Farewell,' said the old gentleman. 
 
 ' Goodness ! make haste,' said Laura, rushing down- 
 stairs, two steps at a time 
 
 It seemed like a dream to the little peasant child, still 
 standing bewildered. One by one the phantoms melted 
 away, the moon set, and darkness fell. She still seemed to 
 feel tlie clasp of the little Prince's hand in hers, she still 
 lieard the tones of his voice ringing in her ears, when she 
 found herself once more on her bank of wild-flowers, and 
 alone 
 
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