THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 
 
 
 
 for 
 
 
 M<o>winnr, 
 
 A P P L ;
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES, 
 
 CaU for iroutf). 
 
 BY MARY HOWITT, 
 
 ' WOBK AND WAOM." BTC BTC. 
 
 NEW- YORK : 
 D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 
 
 443 & 445 BROADWAY. 
 M.DCCC.LXI.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PART t, 
 
 mtf. fjioi 
 
 1. MAY-FAIR DAY AMD THE GOOD Miss KENDRICKS . 1 
 
 II. THE OSBORNES AND THEIR FAMILY TROUBLES . . 20 
 
 III. THE Two APPRENTICES 38 
 
 IV. JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE . . . . 53 
 V. A SPOKE IN THE WHEKL .... 66 
 
 VI. DEEPER AND DEEPER 79 
 
 VII. THE BUBBLE BURST 97 
 
 PART II. 
 
 I. OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND NEW . . . . 109 
 
 II. A CoNTRE-TEMPS . . . . . .115 
 
 III. AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE . . . 127 
 
 IV. THEY ARK OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED! . . 141 
 V. ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE . . . . 150 
 
 VI. MADEMOISELLE ANBBLA . 164 
 
 622760
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 PART i. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 MAY-FAIR DAY AND THE GOOD MISS KENDRICKS. 
 
 IT was in the merry month of May, and the sixth 
 day of the month ; the sun shone warm and bright, 
 and diffused a spirit of cheerfulness over the leafy 
 woods and the richly pastoral country that surrounded 
 the pleasant little town of Uttoxeter, or Utceter, as it 
 was, for the sake of euphony, commonly called. The 
 cuckoo had been up shouting for hours in the hedge- 
 row trees of the little convenient crofts, full of grass r 
 and enclosed with tall hawthorn hedges, now in full 
 bloom, which environed the town ; and the blackbird, 
 and the throstle were singing with all their might in 
 the abundant gardens, which intersected or lay behind 1 
 almost every house in the town. At six o'clock ia 
 the morning, all that little town was astir, for it was- 
 the morning of May-fair an important day, for 
 Utceter being, as it were, the metropolis of an exten- 
 sive pastoral and farming district, its spring and" 
 autumn fairs were attended from both far and wide. 
 The roads leading to it from all directions had, the 
 preceding day, been filled with herds of cattle and
 
 2 MAY-FAIR DAY AND 
 
 droves of sheep, and long trains of horses. Yellow 
 and green .caravans, containing wild beasts and jug- 
 glers, and fire-eaters, had driven through the neigh- 
 bowing villages, giving to their inhabitants a 
 foreknowledge of some of the wonders and attractions 
 of v.hc Fair. In the market-place of the town itself, 
 all had been stir and bustle for four-and-twenty 
 hours at least, and the inhabitants of the market- 
 place shops declared it to be their opinion, that the 
 people, with their booths, and stalls, and caravans, 
 had been up and busy the livelortg night. And it did 
 look like it; for when, on that morning, they ven- 
 tured their night-capped head's between their window- 
 curtains for a peep, the whole open space was full of 
 booths and stalls ; and here was to be seen the tall 
 sign-post of " Thomas Rigley, licensed dealer in stays, 
 from Whitechapel, London;" and here, " James Ford, 
 cutler, from Sheffield;" there, " Morgan O'Grady, 
 the celebrated worm-doctor ; " and beyond, " Jonas 
 Solem, shoemaker, from Stafford," close by the side 
 of " Aaron Tagg and Son, earthenware dealers, from 
 Lane- Del f, in the Staffordshire Potteries:" whilst 
 behind all these, like a great yellow wall, on which 
 the morning sun shone dazzlingly, rose the four great 
 caravans of " Roarem's Menagerie," flanked, on one 
 hand, by the blue caravan of the Fire-Eater, and on 
 the other, by the red-fronted tenement of the travel- 
 ling theatre. It was the beginning of a gay day quite 
 a fete-day and all looked so busy and wide awake, 
 that the night-capped heads were popped back again, 
 with the uncomfortable sense that they must have over- 
 slept themselves, till a glance at watch or time-piece, 
 or else the sweet chimes of the church clock, told then 
 it was only just six, and there was no reason to hurry,
 
 THE GOOD MISS KENDRICKS. 3 
 
 The cuckoo shouted from the elm-trees, and the 
 blackbirds sang in the pear-tree boughs ; and the sun 
 shone, and the bells began to ring ; and the public- 
 houses began to fill with farmers, clamouring for theii 
 breakfasts ; and the inhabitants of the streets in which 
 the cattle and horse-fairs were held, left their lower 
 window-shutters closed ; and jockeys began to crack 
 off their steeds, and farmers began to handle prime 
 stock, and the Fair was in active operation. The 
 morning went on ; the jockey's business slackened ; 
 the fat stock and the lean stock had found pur- 
 chasers ; and the more vulgar part of the business 
 drew to an end. In the meantime, the booths and 
 the stalls had arranged their wares. Thomas lligley, 
 staymaker, of Whitechapel, hung out his " corsets," 
 in opposition to Stephen Udal, the old accredited 
 stay maker of the town, and laughed in his sleeve at 
 the old-fashioned cut of things which had been made 
 out of London. James Ford, the Sheffield cutler, 
 displayed his knives and razors in shining order ; 
 while Moses Birch, the town-cutler, assured the world 
 around him, in a loud voice, that his wares were made 
 to cut, and not, like some other folk's, only to sell. 
 Morgan O'Grady exhibited horrid things in spirits, 
 and counselled all loving parents, in his little printed 
 papers, which flew about like leaves in autumn, to 
 purchase for their children a pennyworth of his 
 famous worm- gingerbread ; and never since people 
 trod upon soling leather, had been seen such tempting 
 rows of shoes as those of Jonas Solem and the seven 
 shoemakers of the town, who now, for the first time 
 in their lives, agreed all together in the declaration, 
 that if people wanted to buy shoes no better than if 
 made of paper, they must buy them from the Stafford
 
 4 MAY-FAIR DAY ANE 
 
 makers. The booths of toys were aiready thronged 
 with children, who, however, as yet, speculated rather 
 on what they should buy, than actually bought. 
 Farmers' wives were buying cheese-colouring, and 
 new milking-pails and butter- prints; and getting their 
 business all done before dinner, that they and their 
 daughters might in the afternoon have " a bit of time" 
 for amusement. The bells rang on more merrily 
 than ever; the streets, where the horse and cattle- 
 fairs had been held, were now all in progress of being 
 swept and cleaned ; and now the roads and the town- 
 ends were all thronged again with cattle going out, 
 and country people lads and lasses, and mothers and 
 children, and old grandfathers and grandmothers 
 coming in, for the afternoon's fun and merriment. 
 The fuur big men, in beef-eater costume, outside the 
 wild-beast show; blew their trumpets, and the lion 
 within roared from time to time ; the fire-eater's per 
 formances began ; and the red front of the travelling 
 theatre had been removed, and there was now seen an 
 open stage in front of a canvas screen, and gaily 
 attired nymphs, who looked to vulgar eyes as if stars 
 of gold and silver had been showered upon them, 
 walked arm-in-arm, to and fro, attracting the admi- 
 ration of village swains and big boys, who flocked 
 thither in crowds; whilst dashing, bandit-looking 
 men, in cloaks and plumed hats, cast half-gallant, 
 half-ferocious glances, upon the village maidens, and 
 thus excited in them the most charming, romantic 
 terror, which could only be allayed by their going 
 up, and seeing all the wonders of that enchanted 
 world which lay behind the canvas, and of which 
 these beings were the inhabitants. 
 It was now noon, and the public-houses were full
 
 THE 'GOOD MISS KENDRICKS. 5 
 
 of dinners and dinner-eating guests, who did not 
 notice, as those did who were just coming into the 
 fair, how clouds had gathered from the south-west, 
 and threatened rain ; a gusty wind, too, had arisen, 
 and whirled the dust along the roads, and made a 
 strange commotion among the booths and stalls in 
 the market-place. It grew cold and dull ; and then, 
 just when dinner was over, and everybody was in the 
 fair, and wanted to enjoy themselves, it really began 
 to rain, and to rain in good earnest It was no 
 shower ; there was no prospect of its soon being over; 
 the sky was all one sullen mass of smoke-coloured 
 cloud; and down, down, down came the soaking 
 rain. The kennels soon ran over; and the badly- 
 paved market-place was full of puddles, into which 
 people unwittingly stepped, ankle-deep. It really 
 was quite a melancholy thing to hear then the screech 
 of a tin penny-trumpet, or the bark of a woolly dog 
 in a little child's hand, as it stood, sheltering, with its 
 mother, in a crowd of people, under an entry, yet 
 never wondering, dear little soul, as they did, how in 
 the world it was ever to get home. People had not 
 brought umbrellas with them; and it was quite 
 pitiable for anybody, but those who sold ribbons, to 
 see smart girls walking along with pocket-hand- 
 kerchiefs over their bonnets, quite wet through, and 
 which now were all stained with the mingling and 
 dripping dyes of their so lately blushing or verdant 
 honours. People crowded into booths or under stalls 
 not to make purchases, but to find shelter ; and 
 went by throngs into the wild-beast show and the 
 theatre, not so much to be entertained, as to get out 
 of the rain ; and all the time could think of nothing 
 but how wet they were, and wonder how, if it
 
 6 MAY-FAIR DAY AIO> 
 
 kept on raining, they were ever to get home that 
 night. 
 
 At four o'clock, at five o'clock, at six o'clock, it 
 rained just as hard as ever, and seemed as if it would 
 rain all night ; and the public-houses were brimful : 
 in kitchea and parlour, and bed-room, and everywhere, 
 there was a smell of wet clothes and tobacco smoke, 
 and ale, and gin-and- water. What was to be done ? 
 What indeed was to be done ? For at that, very time, 
 there came, slowly and heavily advancing into the 
 town, one after another, hi long and weary line, seven 
 heavy baggage wagons belonging to a regiment which 
 had marched shortly before through the town, on its 
 way to Ireland. Wearily went onward the wagons 
 along the wet, grinding street, piled up, as high as 
 the houses, with baggage, and soldiers' wives and 
 children. . The drivers were wet; the horses were 
 wet ; the soldiers who attended the train were wet ; 
 and so were the wives and children, who, wrapped in 
 gray woollen cloaks and coats, sat up aloft among the 
 baggage : the rain lay in large pools in the hollows ot 
 the tarpauling, and rocked about, and spilled over, as 
 the wagons went along unsteadily up the ill-paved 
 street ; and altogether, the whole train presented a 
 most comfortless and weary appearance. On, however, 
 it went, wagon after wagon ; and cheerful families, 
 sitting at home by their warm firesides, were filled with 
 a kindly compassion for the poor strangers, who had 
 arrived thus disconsolately and thus inopportunely. 
 
 There was no room in the market-place for the 
 unloading of the luggage; so the wagons, having 
 made the circuit of the town, came at length to a 
 stand in the widest part of the v/idest street, and 
 began slowly to unload.
 
 THE GOOD BUSS KENDRICKS. 7 
 
 Just opposite to where they halted, stood, with its 
 large awkward porch in front, and its large, pleasant 
 garden behind, the little, low, old-fashioned house, 
 inhabited by the Miss Kendricks, Joanna and Dorothy. 
 Their parlour lay a step below the street, and its 
 window was almost on a level with it ; and, but that 
 the pavement was always kept so nicely clean before 
 it, must have been sadly splashed with the rain that 
 poured down from the clouds, and dripped from the 
 eaves above. The Miss Kendricks were, if not among 
 the richest, among the most respectable inhabitants 
 of the town. Their father, in their early youth, had 
 been the well-beloved curate of the parish a man 
 BO 'pure and good, and one who so nobly and beauti- 
 fully performed all his duties, great and small, that 
 God, to reward him best, took him home to himself. 
 His wife, heart-broken for his loss, followed him 
 within twelve months; and left four children, Rebecca, 
 Joanna, Leonard, and Dorothy, to the care of their 
 great-uncle, a small shopkeeper of the place. The 
 uncle was even then an old man perhaps God spared 
 his life for the sake of the orphans ; and why not, 
 when he cares even for the sparrows ? He himself 
 believed it was so ; and he lived on, not only to care 
 for the orphans, but to become of no little consequence 
 in the place, from being for so long a time " the oldest 
 inhabitant " a sort of living chronicle of events ; a 
 referee on all difficult or disputed questions of right 
 or usage. Alas ! poor old man, however, all did not 
 go on so well and smoothly as he hoped and prayed 
 for : Rebecca, the eldest of the orphans, grew up 
 somewhat wild and wilful, and married sorely against 
 his will. It was a marriage of unhappiness and 
 poverty : she and her husband removed to a remote
 
 O JIAY-FAIR DAY AND 
 
 part of England, and vanished, as it were, entirely 
 from the knowledge of the family. The others, on the 
 contrary, grew up into the most steady and promising 
 manhood and womanhood. The girls he had educated 
 simply, as, according to his notions, might best fit 
 them for tradesmen's wives ; but to the brother" he 
 gave the education of a gentleman and a scholar, and 
 lived carefully, and almost parsimoniously himself, to 
 maintain him respectably at Oxford. As regarded 
 him, his wishes were all fulfilled ; and on the evening 
 of the day on which the news came that Leonard had 
 received the degree of Bachelor of Arts, he died, as 
 he sat quietly in his chair. The business of his life 
 was done ; and at the advanced age of ninety-five he 
 was borne to his grave, honoured by the whole town. 
 He left his house, and property to the amount of a 
 hundred a-year, to his nieces and their brother ; the 
 house for them to live in as long as they needed such 
 a home, and the money to his nephew, subject to a 
 payment of thirty pounds a year to each sister. Miss 
 Joanna was seven-and-twenty at the death of her 
 uncle a plain, old-fashioned little woman, who 
 looked six or seven years older than she was ; whilst 
 Dorothy, on the contrary, looked younger, and though 
 four-and-twenty, had all the bloom and liveliness of 
 eighteen. Prepossessing, however, as was Dorothy, 
 she, at the time of her uncle's death, had no accepted 
 lover ; whilst Joanna had been engaged to a stationer 
 and printer of Lichfield, of the name of Allen, for a 
 couple of years, and had only deferred her marriage 
 from reluctance to leave her old relative in the then 
 declining state of his health. 
 
 In such a little town as Utceter, everybody knew 
 everybody's affairs ; and therefore, no sooner was th
 
 THE GOOD MISS KENDRICKS. 9 
 
 old gentleman dead, than all said, that for a certainty 
 Miss Kendrick would many, more especially as 
 Leonard, who was now ordained, had the offer of a 
 curacy in Derbyshire, and nothing seemed more 
 natural than that the lively Dorothy should keep his 
 house. Thus the world laid out things for them j 
 and thus also, in the quiet of their little back parlour, 
 they laid out things for themselves. The great-uncle, 
 as we said before, was a small shopkeeper. He sold 
 stamps and stationery, and small cutlery ware, and 
 tea in sealed -up packets, as it came from the India 
 House : he had, altogether, a nice little ready-money 
 business, which amply supplied every passing week 
 with cash for its current expenses, and some little 
 besides ; and it was no wonder, therefore, that after 
 his death, several tradesmen of the place wished to 
 purchase the business at a good premium. 
 
 It is an old and true saying, that " man proposes, 
 and God disposes;" and it was so in this case. 
 Leonard went to his curacy, whence he wrote the 
 most affectionate and charming letters, full of the 
 most fervent desires to do good in his parish, and to 
 promote the happiness of his sisters. Joanna thought 
 of, and made preparations for her marriage, which 
 was to take place as soon as the time of full mourning 
 for the old gentleman had expired ; and in the mean- 
 time she kept on the business, prudently anxious to 
 spare all, and save all, against the breaking up of the 
 family. The weeks and months went on, and Doro- 
 thy, in the summer, paid a visit to her brother a 
 golden time to her, and an earnest, as she believed it, 
 of the life which lay before her. It was a quiet, 
 out-of-the-world, Peak village, where her brother 
 lived ; beautiful in its locality, and inhabited by people
 
 10 HAY-FAIR DAT AND 
 
 as kind and simple-hearted as soul could wish, who 
 received her among them as if she had been an angel 
 from heaven ; whilst the few families there, of higher 
 rank and intelligence, seemed at once to open theit 1 
 hearts and homes to her. 
 
 " How well you look, Dorothy ! " said Joanna to 
 her, on her return : " the Peak air agrees with you. 
 Your eyes look brighter, and your colour clearer than 
 ever ! " 
 
 Dorothy looked at herself in the glass, and she 
 thought so too. Poor Dorothy ! that was the last time 
 she ever saw herself. The next day she felt unwell 
 with headache and fever ; she grew worse and worse ; 
 a medical man was called in, and in a day or two 
 pronounced her to be ill of small-pox. "VVe shall not 
 go through that long and severe illness. Dorothy lay 
 at the point of death ; and her brother and sister, 
 unable to resign her into the hands of her Maker, 
 prayed that, at any cost, her life might be spared. 
 Their prayers were heard. She lived ; but not alone 
 at the expense of her beauty ; she lost, what was far 
 more, her eyesight. Well, indeed, may we say, poor 
 Dorothy ! Life had now hard lessons for her patience 
 and submission. For herself, could she have chosen, 
 she would rather have died than lived. She had just, 
 as it were, become conscious of the worth of her 
 beauty and of herself; and now she was a poor, blind 
 ruin a spectacle to be shunned and pitied. 
 
 " Come again to me," wrote Leonard ; " the Peak 
 air will do you good : the people here all love you, 
 and will be kinder to you than ever." 
 
 " I will not go there, of all places in the world,** 
 said Dorothy, with bitterness ; " I will not go there 
 to bo a burden to him, and a spectacle to the whole
 
 THE GOOD MISS KKNDRICKS. 11 
 
 parish ! Life has become hateful to me would to 
 God that I had died, or might die ere long ! " 
 
 Joanna had the patience of an angel, and answered 
 her sister's repinings with loving and gentle words. 
 Winter came on ; and then spring; and again the idea 
 was revived of Dorothy's going to Leonard, for change 
 of air ; whilst Joanna, whose lover was impatient for 
 his marriage, made her preparations for this event. 
 But to this proposal the poor invalid would not listen. 
 She entertained the most fixed, and as it seemed ob- 
 stinate, determination not to visit her brother; nor 
 would she assign any reason for so doing. Everybody 
 but Joanna lost patience with her; but she, never. 
 " She will become accustomed in time to her mis'for- 
 tune," said she to her friends, and, above all, to the 
 mother and sister of her affianced lover ; " and in 
 the meantime, we must have patience with her, as 
 with a sick child. She is now," said she, " suffering 
 from a mind diseased, which is worse than sickness of 
 the body. Let us only have patience with her ; " and 
 from month to month Joanna delayed her marriage, 
 that she should not at least take so sad an invalid 
 into the house of her husband. Day after day came 
 his mother and sister, sometimes together, and some- 
 times alone, who lost no opportunity of dropping 
 hints to poor Dorothy on the Christian duty of sub- 
 mission to our afflictions, and renunciation of our own 
 wills. 
 
 " Go, and take a walk, and get a mouthful of fresh 
 air, for you look as pale as a ghost, with all this 
 watching and anxiety, night and day," said they con- 
 tinually to Joanna, in the hearing of her sister; "and 
 we will mind the shop, and talk to Dorothy, while 
 you are gone."
 
 32 MAY-FAIR DAT AND 
 
 For awhile Joanna obeyed, but presently she began 
 to perceive that the unhappy and distressful state of 
 her sister's mind was aggravated by these interviews. 
 Dorothy was no longer open towards her ; there was 
 a coldness and a reserve which she could not pene- 
 trate, which only increased her silence. Light, 
 however, broke in, when the mother and sister, 
 having, as they thought, discharged their duty to 
 Dorothy, began to speak plainly to Joanna she was 
 not doing her duty either to her sister or herself, thus 
 humouring her like a child ; a degree of firmness, and 
 even seventy, was requisite. Dorothy must learn to 
 submit ; and when it pleases God to afflict us, said 
 they, we must not stand in the way of other people's 
 happiness with our whims and fancies. Leonard was 
 willing to have Dorothy, and to him she ought to go ; 
 a quiet country place would furnish her with the best 
 home : Leonard had said that he would have a girl 
 to wait upon her; what did she want more? and 
 then Joanna must remember that she was not using 
 Allen well ; he had had his house ready these two 
 months, and how long did sho mean to keep him 
 waiting? If Allen had not told her himself, they 
 would do so, that he was tired of all this waiting and 
 waiting, and he had no notion of anything but 
 Dorothy's going at once to her brother's, and submit- 
 ting to her afflictions as any good Christian ought to 
 do ; and as Leonard, who was so good a man and 
 preacher, would soon teach her, &c., &c., &c. ! 
 
 Joanna said but little in reply, but sent over to 
 Lichfield, to request an interview with her lover. 
 He came ; and, as plain speaking had begun, it was 
 soon evident that he held the same opinions as his 
 family perhaps, indeed, that they had been employed
 
 THE GOOD MISS KENDRICKS. 13 
 
 to speak for him. Joanna said, considering the 
 reluctance which her sister had shown to visiting her 
 brother, she had entirely given up the thoughts of 
 her ever residing with him ; and that, in fact, wher- 
 ever her home was, there also would be Dorothy's, 
 Allen was silent. Joanna's spirit was roused ; did he 
 then not wish her sister to live with them ? He 
 hummed and hawed, as people do who are ashamed of 
 speaking out their real minds. She then said, that 
 he was free to choose another wife ; for without 
 she had his most full and free consent to Dorothy 
 living with them, and to her own share of whatever 
 the sale of the business might produce being settled 
 upon her, she would never become his wife. 
 
 Whether Allen looked for some such consumma- 
 tion as this ; or whether he wished it whether he 
 was tired of his old love, and wished to be on with a 
 new is not for us to say ; but on hearing these words, 
 lie quietly rose up from his chair, and in a tone rather 
 of ill-humour than grief, said, "Very well; then I 
 suppose there will be an end of the matter." 
 
 " I suppose there will," said Joanna, without the 
 least agitation. 
 
 "If you alter your mind before night,"said he, "you 
 can let me know; I will stay so long at my mother's." 
 
 " I shall not alter my mind," said Joanna ; " and 
 I thank God that I have found you out before it was 
 too late." 
 
 Nothing more was said ; Allen took his hat, and 
 left the house ; and Joanna did not alter her mind. 
 The next day the mother and sister came, and were 
 a deal more vehement on the subject than Allen had 
 been ; they upbraided her and scolded her no little, 
 and had no mercy on the poor blind Dorothy, who,
 
 14 MAY-FAIR DAY AND 
 
 however, did not hear what was said. It was a long, 
 sturmy day ; but, like all other days, it came to an end; 
 and Joanna, who in the course of it said that Allen 
 had not in truth shown much real love for her, and 
 could soon find another wife for his new house and 
 furniture, was right ; for, within a month of that Jay, 
 he married a young lady of Lichfield ; and this, his 
 mother and sister took care to say, was the best day's 
 work he ever did. 
 
 All this seemed easy enough for Allen ; he suffered, 
 apparently, nothing. Joanna, on the contrary, suf- 
 fered much ; she had loved sincerely and with her 
 whole soul, and she threw herself now on the kind 
 affections, and loving, though clouded heart of poor 
 Dorothy for consolation. Nor was she deceived. 
 Dorothy roused herself from her lethargy, and forgot 
 her own sorrows in alleviating those of her sister. 
 This was the really cementing bond between them. 
 Each bore the other's burden, and felt how good 
 sympathy was for a wounded heart. The reserve on 
 the part of Dorothy gradually gave place to confidence 
 and epenness, and, in proportion as she came to speak 
 of her morbid unhappiness, it left her. One of her 
 greatest trials was to allow herself to be seen ; and, 
 for this reason, she <;ould not be induced to go out. 
 It was quite natural, perhaps, for she had been 
 reckoned very pretty, and had been greatly admired 
 by all the young men of the neighbourhood ; and now, 
 though she could not see her face, she knew that she 
 had become very plain. Great, therefore, was the 
 good Joanna's delight, when one fine evening she 
 aid, suddenly, 
 
 " Tie that thick veil of which you have spoken on 
 mv bonnet, Joanna, and take me to Bramshall Wood.
 
 THE GOOD MISS KENDRICKS. 15 
 
 I long to hear the gurgling of the little brook there, 
 and to smell the cowslips : you will gather me some, 
 and I know how they look." 
 
 Joanna could have cried for joy to hear her sister 
 speak thus, and went with her to the wood. They 
 eat down by the side of the little stream, the brightest 
 and clearest of little woodland streams, and listened 
 to the songs of the birds; and Joanna gathered 
 flowers, which she placed in the hands of her poor 
 blind sister. 
 
 " You have often thought me selfish and unrea- 
 sonable," said Dorothy, at length ; " I know you have, 
 and so did Mr. Allen and Martha. I know I have 
 not been submissive," said she, preventing her sister's 
 interruption, " and let me speak, Joanna, now, for I 
 feel as if I could open my heart to you, and it will re- 
 lieve me of a great burden; for, though I have told you 
 many things, I have not told you all, and to-night I 
 feel as if I could." Joanna put her arm round her 
 sister's waist, and Dorothy continued : 
 
 " I was very happy, formerly, very happy indeed ; 
 I wanted nothing that I did not possess; I had no 
 wish beyond my own sphere, and in that sphere I 
 possessed all that I desired, my uncle's love and 
 yours. I was happy, too, in the consciousness of 
 being good-looking; I felt that I had the power of 
 pleasing ; looks of admiration met me and followed 
 me, and I was happy that it was so. Perhaps I 
 was vain. At that time, however, I should have 
 denied it, but now I think that perhaps I was so, 
 and God saw right to punish me ; and oh, Joanna, 
 what a heavy punishment for so light an offence ! " 
 
 " God is good," said Joanna, with emotion, " and 
 his chastenings are only in love ! "
 
 J6 MAY-FAIR DAY AND 
 
 u I believe it," returned Dorothy, " and I will not 
 repine ; nor is it for this that I came here to-night. I 
 came here to ask your forgiveness for many faults, for 
 much impatience, for much obstinacy, and perhaps in 
 part to explain what has not been clear in me, espe- 
 cially as regards my unwillingness to visit Leonard. 
 Ah, you will then see, Joanna, what reason I have 
 to sympathise with you, for I have suffered like you ! 
 1 was very happy whilst I was with Leonard : you 
 know it ; but neither he nor you know what it was 
 that really constituted my happiness, and then made 
 the bitterness of my misery. I loved loved deeply 
 and truly. Nay, do not start, Joanna the joy and 
 the misery are both past. I have resigned the dearest 
 hopes of my soul at God's requiring, and the time of 
 peace is now come ! " 
 
 Dorothy was silent a few moments, and Joanna 
 wiped away both her own tears and those which 
 flowed from the darkened eyes of her sister. 
 
 " You have heard of Henry Ashdown, the squire's 
 nephew. Leonard mentioned him in his letters in 
 the first letter, I remember, that ever he sent to us 
 from Winston. He was a gay, but good-hearted 
 young man, Leonard said. On the very day of my 
 arrival at Winston, Leonard told me that Mrs. Ash- 
 down, Henry's mother, who had been for many years 
 a sad invalid, was then at the Hall, for her health ; 
 that, for her piety and many remarkable virtues, he 
 had become much attached to her ; and that it was 
 his wish that I should contribute as much as possible 
 to her comfort and amusement. I went often to see 
 her, and thus Henry and I met. I loved the mother ; 
 but ah, I loved also the son. The mother made me 
 the minister of her mercies to the poor, for she wa
 
 THE GOOD MISS KENDRICKS. 1? 
 
 the most charitable of women ; and whilst Leonard 
 read to her in pious books, I went on her errands of 
 benevolence : but 1 never went alone. Leonard is 
 simple-hearted and unsuspecting as a child, and never 
 Bcemed to notice the intimacy between Henry and 
 me. I was happy oh, how happy ! in my love ; 
 and, though Henry never formally avowed his passion 
 for me, his looks and actions bespoke it as plainly as 
 words. His uncle wished him to marry the daughter 
 of a rich neighbouring squire : his mother also 
 acquiesced in it ; for, as he was his uncle's heir, she 
 consulted his wishes in all things. He himself, how- 
 ever, did not second their plans at least, lie told me 
 so ; adding, that he meant to marry to please only 
 himself, and would give his hand where he had 
 already given his heart. I left Winston, to return, 
 as I fondly hoped, in a fcw mouths ; and ah, how 
 impatiently did I look forward to that time ! Heaven 
 forgive me, if in it I forgot everything. All that 
 followed you know Henry Ashdown never in- 
 quired after me ; how was it likely that he would 
 marry me, disfigured and blind? Oh, Almighty 
 God, why was I spared to become the poor object 
 that I am ! " 
 
 Again Dorothy paused, and again the two sisters 
 mingled their tears. " Yes, I know what followed," 
 said Joanna, at length. 
 
 " Leonard's letters," continued Dorothy, " told of 
 Henry's marriage and residence at the Hall. How 
 could I then go to Winston ? how could I, blind 
 though I am, sit in the same church with Henry and 
 his bride? Oh, Joanna, what wonder then was it, 
 when your sorrows came, that I could enter into 
 your heart, and sympathise so deeply with you I
 
 18 MAY-FAIR DAY AND 
 
 Hence is it that sorrow is so universal, that we may 
 have mercy and compassion on one another ! " 
 
 Joanna drew her sister yet more closely to hei - , and 
 laid her head upon her bosom, and kissed her blind 
 eyes, and felt that she had never loved her so tenderly 
 as then. 
 
 The little shop was continued as in the time of the 
 old uncle, and thus furnished constant occupation for 
 Joanna ; but while yet there lay upon poor Dorothy 
 the languor of enfeebled health and of a cruelly dis- 
 appointed heart, the hand of God, which chastens 
 only in love, sent a new sorrow to bind her heart, as 
 it were, all the more to Him. Leonard wrote thus 
 to his sisters : 
 
 " I am at length compelled to deal frankly with 
 you. I am not well. I have felt very weak and 
 poorly since the winter, when I suffered much from 
 cold. I have latterly been much at the Hall. Mrs. 
 Ashdown has been very kind to me, and has nursed 
 me like a mother. I have had a physician from 
 Ashburn, and he recommends a warmer climate. 
 Here, even in summer, the air is keen; and as I feel 
 myself now unable to preach, I have consented to 
 give up the curacy for the present. I do this with 
 the greatest reluctance, for I love the people, and I 
 see among them a sphere of great usefulness ; and if 
 I am not able to return, I trust that God in his mercy 
 will send hither a shepherd, who will faithfully care 
 for his flock. At the present time, however, I yearn 
 to be with you. My heart's desire and prayer to 
 God is that he may make me submissive to His will. 
 Farewell ! The day after you receive this, I shall 
 be with you." 
 
 The anxieties and sorrows of his sisters were for-
 
 THE GOOD MISS KENDRICKS. 19 
 
 gotten in the distress caused by this letter. Leonard 
 had hitherto said nothing of illness, and now they 
 knew indeed that he must be ill to give up thus 
 his pastoral duties. Dorothy roused herself hi the 
 sad thought of her brother's illness, and with a pro- 
 phetic feeling, which she would not, however, avow 
 to herself, that he came home to die. Blind as she 
 was, she arranged the pillows for him on the sofa 
 which she had hitherto occupied, with a zeal and 
 activity of self-forgetfulness that made Joanna see 
 the truth of her own maxim, that with every mis- 
 fortune there came some compensating blessing. 
 
 Leonard returned, and even Dorothy perceived how 
 great was the change in him : he was far gone in 
 consumption, and the most inexperienced eye could 
 see that he had not long to live. But that short time 
 was as the tarriance of an angel, and left a blessing 
 behind it. The words of love and consolation which 
 fell from his lips were spoken in the spirit of his 
 divine Master : " Let not your hearts be troubled ; 
 ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my father's 
 house are many mansions ; if it were not so, I would 
 have told you. I go to prepare a place for you." 
 
 The influence of the dying brother was good upon 
 both sisters, but most especially on Dorothy; she 
 never left her brother night nor day ; she sat with 
 his hand in hers, like Mary at the feet of Christ, lis- 
 tening to his blessed words of salvation ; whilst 
 Joanna, like Martha, though without her dissatisfied 
 heart, waited upon them both. 
 
 Joanna feared greatly the effect which her brother's 
 death would have on Dorothy, but the effect was 
 different from what she expected. Whilst he lived, 
 her very breath seemed to hang upon his ; but when
 
 20 THE OSBOItNES AND 
 
 his blessed spirit had departed, like David of old, she 
 arose, and, as it were, girded herself to combat against 
 the weaknesses of her soul, and to practise all those 
 lessons of patience and submission, and trust in God, 
 which she learned from him. 
 
 From this time, in the true spirit of Christian 
 resignation, Dorothy, though blind and scarred by 
 the ravages of a fearful disease, was never heard to 
 complain. She discovered in herself the most re- 
 markable sources of activity and amusement. Her 
 hands were never idle, whilst the cheerfulness of her 
 mind made her company really attractive. Years 
 went on ; Dorothy's once rich black hair had become 
 white before its time ; and when her sister, without 
 explaining the cause for so doing, placed a quiet cap 
 on her head, she submitted without remark, in- 
 stinctively understanding the reason why it was done. 
 Joanna, when arrived at middle life, contrary to 
 what she had done in her youth, looked younger than 
 she really was ; and, small though her income was 
 (she had given up the shopkeeping several years 
 before), she was really a person of some consequence 
 in the town. In every benevolent scheme she was an 
 operator, managing or serving ; and a never-failing 
 counsellor and comforter to the poor in difficulty or 
 distress. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE OSBORNES AND THEIR FAMILY TROCBLES. 
 
 " IT is a terrible evening for these poor people to 
 arrive on," said Joanna to her sister, who sat knitting 
 on the sofa, upon that rainy evening of May-fair day, 
 as the baggage-wagons were unloaded before their
 
 THEIR FAMILY TROUBLES. 21 
 
 windows, and one weary wflman after another, stiff 
 with having sat so many hours up aloft among wet 
 boxes and tired children, was helped down froih her 
 elevation, and seemed only to put herself in motion 
 with difficulty. The good Joanna was full of com- 
 passion, and pitied their having to find quarters in 
 the noisy and crowded public-houses, where they 
 would be unwelcome guests both to landlord and 
 landlady. Greatly interested as she was by the. 
 whole arrival, her sympathies were presently enlisted 
 on behalf of a woman who, overcome by more than 
 fatigue, seemed unable to stand, and seated herself on 
 one of the chests; whilst a boy, of about twelve, 
 seemed to be the only one who took much thought 
 about her. She was wrapped in a large gray cloak ; 
 and the hood, which was drawn over her head, par- 
 tially revealed a face which was pale and dejected. 
 The boy ran hither and thither to the various groups 
 of women, who began to move off in various direc- 
 tions, and then back again, to the sick woman, for 
 whose comfort he seemed very solicitous, for he 
 lugged along a small chest, upon which he made her 
 place her feet, and then wrapped her cloak about 
 her with the most affectionate care. All this Joanna 
 described to her sister, and then called her servant, 
 bidding her take her pattens and umbrella, and go 
 across, and ask if the poor woman would come in and 
 shelter. Instead of returning with her as was ex- 
 pected, Joanna saw her servant give her her arm, and 
 sheltering her with her large umbrella, move off 
 along the street, whilst the boy trudged after, carrying 
 a large bundle. On the return of the servant, it 
 appeared that the woman, who was delicate, had been 
 taken ill on the road ; that she was billeted to the
 
 22 THE OSBORNES AND 
 
 Talbot ; and, as there were two public-houses in th 
 town of that name, it was supposed to be the one 
 lying at some distance, whereas it proved to be the 
 one just at hand, and thither the maid had escorted 
 her. The woman, she said, seemed to be subdued 
 and spiritless, as if she cared not what became of her; 
 while the boy, on the contrary, seemed as if he would 
 move heaven and earth to get her attended to, for he 
 ran into the iiouse, and demanded attention both from 
 host and hostess, and never rested till a comfortabls 
 bed, in an upper room, was allotted to her, and then 
 set about opening his bundle, and getting her into 
 bed, just as if he had been a regular sick-nurse. The 
 woman had fallen into a fainting fit, she said, just as 
 she had told her that her mistress, Miss Kendrick, 
 had sent her ; but she thought the boy understood, 
 as well as Mrs. Tunnicliffe, the landlady, that her 
 mistress, 'who was very good to the poor, would go 
 and see her if she was no better, and pray by her, or 
 she could have the clergyman, if she liked it better; 
 only he was such a young man, and many folks 
 would much rather have Miss Kendrick than he. 
 
 Miss Kendrick was very well satisfied with what 
 her maid had done ; and commissioning her, the first 
 thing in the morning, to run over, and inquire after 
 the invalid, she went to bed. Scarcely, however, 
 was the servant down-stairs the next morning, when 
 a message came from the sick woman, requesting a 
 little conversation with Miss Kendrick ; to which 
 was added, from the landlady, that' she was so ill, she 
 could not last long. In half an hour, Miss Kendrick 
 was with her, and her first impression was that the 
 hand of death was indeed upon her. She was prop- 
 ped up in bed, and seemed feeble in the last degree.
 
 THEIR FAMILY TROUBLES. 23 
 
 "Are we alone?" asked she, casting her mournful 
 eyes round the room. " We are, mother," said tho 
 boy, throwing himself on his knees at the bed's foot ; 
 " there is only the lady, and you and me. 5 * 
 
 She looked steadily at Miss Kendrick, and then 
 said, slowly and with difficulty, " I am Rebecca 
 your unhappy, outcast sister. God brought me here 
 to die. I knew it as I entered the town, when the 
 baggage-train could not enter the market-place, but 
 made halt before the very house where I had teen a 
 child from whence I set out when I took my fate 
 into my own hands ! " 
 
 Joanna, petrified with astonishment and compas- 
 sion, seized her hand and gazed into her face. 
 
 " Yes," said the woman, " I am Rebecca, your 
 sister, though you may not recognise me." 
 
 " My poor, unhappy sister ! " exclaimed Joanna, 
 embracing her with tears. " Thank God that you 
 are found at last ! You shall live with us with 
 Dorothy, and me you shall *yet be happy !" 
 
 " Never more in this world !" interrupted she. "I 
 know I have not long to live, and yet I have much to 
 say let me speak while I have the power. My 
 first husband died. 1 thought to mend my condition. 
 I married a second time ; but there was not a bless- 
 ing on anything I did. I married yet more unhap- 
 pily. I have had nine children by my two husbands. 
 The youngest child, a girl, is left behind with its 
 grandmother, a good woman. This is my youngest 
 boy, he is my Benjamin. The two older than he 
 died. It was good for them. Of the other six two 
 are married, two are beyond seas, and one oh my 
 God, have pity on the outcasts of society ; for all arc 
 thy children !" After a long pause, she again pro-
 
 24 THE OSBORNES AND 
 
 ceeded : " My husband is a soldier, a private in the 
 , now in Ireland, and which we follow. lie was 
 a very handsome man ; and that was my bane. He 
 was of an unbroken temper, and was not loved in the 
 regiment. 1 suffered much from him ; and yet I 
 would not leave him. I always went with the regi- 
 ment ; for the officers' ladies liked me. I was a good 
 laundress, and got up their fine linens to their mind; 
 and for this reason, spite of my poor health, was per- 
 mitted to accompany the regiment to Ireland. I was, 
 however, taken very ill on the journey. I began to 
 spit blood ; and at Wolverhampton, I felt it was all 
 over with me ; for a dreadful thing came to my 
 knowledge there." With these words she drew 
 from under her pillow a part of a newspaper, 
 which she put into Joanna's hand, and bade her 
 read, but not aloud. She read how one Peter 
 
 Reynolds, a private in the regiment of foot 
 
 soldiers, bound for Ireland, who had been guilty 
 of some misdemeanor on the march, had de- 
 serted immediately on their arrival in Dublin, 
 been retaken, and sentenced by court-martial to be 
 shot. 
 
 " He is my husband," said the poor dying woman 
 after a time. " I thought I should have died as 1 
 read the paper. 1 told nobody, however, but him," 
 said she, looking at the boy, " and he has the sense 
 of a grown man. I knew how little Reynolds was 
 liked in the regiment, and that there was no hope 
 for him ; and for that reason I wanted all the more 
 to see him before it happened. I thought I might com- 
 fort him ; for oh, it's a dreadful thing to die in that 
 way, when a man's in his full strength." She could 
 ay no more. Her distress of mind was excessive;
 
 'THEIR FAMILY TROUBLES. 2A 
 
 and one fainting fit succeeded another so rapidly that 
 she was unable to converse again through the day. 
 The boy in the meantime, who showed the strongest 
 affection towards her, and an intelligence and pru- 
 dence beyond his years, won the entire love of 
 Joanna. 
 
 In the evening, as the sick woman seemed some- 
 what better, she was removed on a bed to the house 
 of her sisters ; and in three days from that time she 
 died. It was an event of course which made a deal 
 of talk in the town. Many people remembered 
 Rebecca Kendrick and her unhappy marriage ; but 
 to the great joy of her sisters, the miserable and dis- 
 graceful end of her second husband was never or 
 scarcely known in the town. 
 
 " I wonder whether Mr. Osborne would take poor 
 William as an apprentice," said Dorothy to her sister a 
 day or two after the funeral; "a chemist and druggist's 
 is a good business, and they are such kind people." 
 
 " I have thought of that too," returned Joanna, 
 " for we will do all we can for him ; what a clever, 
 nice boy he is ! But it is odd that we have seen 
 nothing of the Osbornes for these three or four days ; 
 nor have they sent down to inquire after us. How- 
 ever, when it gets dusk, I will put on my things and 
 go and have some talk with them about William." 
 
 The Osbornes were Miss Kendrick's most intimate 
 friends. He, as it may be inferred, was a chemist 
 and druggist. He had one of those dingy, old- 
 fashioned shops, saturated with the smell of drugs 
 and physic, which are only to be found in old- 
 fashioned places. His wife and he, who had no 
 family, were patterns of coniugal felicity ; each 
 thinking the other as near perfection as poor human
 
 26 THE OSBOBNES AND 
 
 nature could be ; and they were not very far from 
 the mark, for better people than they, making allow- 
 ance for some little intermixture of human weakness, 
 could hardly be found. They had been fast, life- 
 long friends of the Kendricks ; and not a week 
 passed without their spending an evening together 
 It was no wonder, therefore, that Joanna was sur- 
 prised that for the last three or four days they 
 had heard nothing of them. Joanna resolved to go 
 to them when it was dusk; but as it is not yet 
 dusk, we shall find the interval very convenient for 
 making the reader acquainted with some farther 
 particulars regarding them, which it is very import- 
 ant for him to know. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Osborne were now somewhat past 
 middle life, and had been married nearly thirty years. 
 At the time of her marriage, there was a young 
 sister, the daughter of her father by a second mar- 
 riage, dependent upon her. The mother died in 
 giving birth to this child, who, however, never felt 
 her loss in the love and care of her elder sister. The 
 father died when she was about ten years old ; and 
 fioon afterwards the elder sister married ; and in her 
 husband the child found a second father. She grew 
 up gentle and beautiful ; and the love of this affec- 
 tionate pair was lavished upon her. Never was girl 
 more tenderly nurtured, more beloved, or more in- 
 dulged. She had all her heart could wish ; and she 
 appeared to deserve it. 
 
 The Osbornes, though tradespeople, were well to 
 do, and the young lady was admitted to the best 
 society of the place; and as she advanced towards 
 womanhood, had the chance of making several ad- 
 vantageous matches. For some time she appeared
 
 THEIR FAMILY TROUBLES. 27 
 
 difficult to please, till at length a gay young stranger, 
 whom she accidentally met with, fixed her fancy. 
 Her friends objected somewhat to the match. In 
 the first place, he was a stranger ; in the second 
 place, he lived far off, that is to say, in Liverpool ; 
 and to them, who wished to have their darling fixed 
 near to them for life, Liverpool seemed a long way 
 off; thirdly, and which was most important of all, 
 there was a something an indescribable something 
 about this Louis Edwards which was unsatisfactory 
 to the plain-dealing and straightforward sincerity of 
 Mr. Osborne. He was plausible, had a reason for 
 everything, and though he was an American by birth 
 and connections, he had lived so many years in Eng- 
 land as to be English in his feelings. Still for all that, 
 and though he was a broker by trade, and had a part- 
 ner, a man of reputation and substance, and had altoge- 
 ther a very imposing manner, Mr. Osborne never liked 
 him; and felt so strongty that there was a something, 
 though it was impossible to say what, which created 
 misgivings, that he and his wife refused their consent. 
 Edwards was dismissed; and the loving, gentle, 
 all-acquiescent Phebe promised to give him up. If 
 there be an occasion beyond all others which awakens 
 the affection of parents to their children and the 
 Osbornes were as parents to Phebe it is when they 
 see a child submissively giving up its beloved will 
 and wishes to their sterner reason and judgment. 
 The Osbornes felt thus, and thought that they could 
 not sufficiently show their affection to her ; and were 
 devising a thousand little schemes for her happiness 
 and indulgence, when one dreary day in November 
 she was gone ! They could not conceive whither, 
 till the second day's post brought a letter from her
 
 28 THE OSBORNES AND 
 
 beseeching their forgiveness, and saj ing that as she 
 knew they desired her happiness, they niu^t allow 
 her to become happy in her own way, which was by 
 uniting her fate to that of Edwards. This sh had 
 done, and must now throw herself on their mercy, 
 assuring them that her future life should prove how 
 grateful she was for all their former kindness. 
 
 A letter like this is at such a time a mockery. 
 Better by far is it to weep over a child borne to the 
 grave with all its young fair promise in the bud, than 
 to see one that we love as our own life running wil- 
 fully and headlong into ruin spite of all our warning 
 and our prayers ! The Osbornes thought so. Her de- 
 ceit and disobedience cut them to the heart, and their 
 prejudices were only the more strengthened against 
 a match which had begun so badjy. Grieved how- 
 ever as they were, from the bottom of their souls 
 they pitied her ; for they felt sure that a time would 
 come when she would bitterly repent. 
 
 " Alas, Phebe." said good Mr. Osborne in his reply 
 to her letter, " what is this which you have done ! 
 But we will not speak of the sorrow which we fore- 
 see. May God bless you, though you have grieved 
 us sorely ! You are young, and life lies all before 
 you ; be a good wife ; be true to your husband in 
 good and in evil ; atone for your want of duty to us 
 by your duty to him ; and so may God Almighty 
 bless you!" 
 
 The Osbornes did not turn their backs on Phebe ; 
 but remembered her in sorrow rather than in anger; 
 and this strong proof of their affection touched her 
 much more deeply than any evidences of their dis- 
 pleasure could have done. The match, however, 
 iu a worldly point of view, did not appear so bad.
 
 THEIR FAMILY TROUBLES. 29 
 
 Edwards lived handsomely ; and, though Phebe could 
 never persuade her brother and sister to visit her, 
 she failed not to tell them of her prosperity, of her 
 gay life and acquaintance, and of her happiness as a 
 wife and mother. Whether, however, she gave a 
 brighter colouring to things than they deserved ; 
 whether she wished to deceive others, or was herself 
 deceived, we cannot say ; but at the very time when 
 she was writing of her happiness and prosperity, her 
 husband's name appeared in the gazette, and they 
 were deeply insolvent bankrupts. 
 
 "The world is not surprised, my dear Phebe, at 
 what has happened, however you may be," wrote Mr. 
 Osborne to her, " nor are we. The time of trial is now 
 come; faint not now, nor lose courage; and above all 
 things do not forget God, who chastises us only in love." 
 
 Poor Phebe! the time of trial was indeed come; 
 and, for the first time in her life, she learnt what it 
 was to deny herself and take up her cross daily. 
 Every one finds this to be a hard lesson ; and Phebe 
 was one to feel it bitterly. Edwards removed from 
 Liverpool to London ; had one clerkship after an- 
 other, and lived as he could, now with money and 
 now without; yet never losing his unabashed plausi- 
 bility, and buoying himself up with the notion that 
 after all he should do somehow or other. 
 
 Few and far between were the letters which Phebe 
 wrote to her friends; and though she never com- 
 plained of narrow circumstances, she wrote mourn- 
 fully of the sickness and death of two of her chil- 
 dren. The Osbornes on their part were extremely 
 anxious about her ; and though she never solicited 
 aid from them, the five and ten-pound notes which 
 good Mr. Os borne occasionally inclosed were always
 
 30 THE OSBORNES AND 
 
 thankfully accepted. They invited her and her one 
 remaining ehild to come and visit them, to remain 
 through a long winter with them ; but this she de- 
 clined, without assigning any reason for so doing. 
 
 Not long afterwards, however, she wrote to them 
 a humble letter, and one which bore evidence of be- 
 ing written with difficulty ; it was on behalf of hdr 
 husband, to beg the loan of a few hundred pounds, 
 as he had the chance of entering into partnership 
 in a speculation which promised to return cent, per 
 cent. Mr. Osborne refused, on the plea of want 
 of confidence in Edwards and his schemes. The 
 next post brought a letter from Edwards himself, full 
 of the most plausible statements regarding his scheme, 
 and urging the loan of the money almost as a right 
 on behalf of his wife. This letter was immediately 
 followed by one from Phebe to her sister, begging her 
 in the most urgent and moving terms to use her in- 
 fluence with her husband, as not only Edwards' 
 worldly prosperity depended on this money being 
 raised, but her own happiness also. There was an 
 urgent tone of almost desperation in the letter, and 
 an instability in the handwriting, that showed the 
 most agitated state of mind. The Osbornes were 
 moved ; and, accompanying the money with a letter 
 of grave tradesman-like advice to Edwards, Mr. Os- 
 borne remitted it on no other security than his note. 
 
 Within a few months, Phebe wrote again ; the 
 cloud had evidently passed away; but from this time 
 the tone of her letters was much more serious than 
 formerly. She spoke little of her husband, but 
 much of her child, then six years old, of which she 
 seemed extremely fond. A year went on, and letters 
 came but seldom ; a second year, and then Edwards and
 
 TIIEIIl FAMILY TROUBLES. 31 
 
 his partner were again bankrupt. Edwards accused 
 his partner of roguery and mismanagement, and suine 
 person who accidentally had seen Phebe in London, 
 brought news of her wan and care-worn appearance. 
 
 The relations thought more of her distress than of 
 the loss of their money. For two more years nothing 
 was heard of them ; and how they lived never came 
 to their relations' knowledge. At length, one winter's 
 day, a woman wrapped in a large plaid cloak knocked 
 at the private door and begged to speak with Mrs. 
 Osborue alone. After some hesitation she was 
 brought in; and when they two were together, she 
 announced herself as Phebe Edwards. 
 
 " I know how shocked you are to see me," safd 
 she, "I am greatly changed; but that is of small 
 account. I am become regardless of my looks." 
 
 The good people wept over her ; and received her 
 as the father in the gospel received his prodigal son. 
 
 " You are come to stay with ug," said they, " you 
 will never leave us again." 
 
 " I am going again to-night," said Phebe, " my 
 business is urgent. I dared not write, nor would I 
 let Kdwards come himself." 
 
 She then explained that by the kind interference 
 of a gentleman who had known her husband in 
 Liverpool, he had the chance of a situation in a 
 banking-house in London, provided some responsible 
 man would be surety for him to the amount of five 
 hundred pounds. Phebe paused ; for the money 
 her brother-in-law had already lost by her husband 
 was in her mind, and she saw that it was in his also. 
 
 " I know your thoughts," said she, " and because 
 you have already suffered so much, I would not 
 write to you; but, brother, it is the privilege of the
 
 82 THE OSBORNES AND 
 
 good to forgive injuries to return good for evil. 
 Forgive us, therefore, what you have already suf- 
 fered from us; I have prayed God to forgive us, 
 even as I knew you had done, and you will not 
 close your heart against us. Oh ! " said she, 
 clasping together her hands, and fixing upon him 
 her large, sunken, and tearless eyes, " I have 
 made my child pray to God every night to bless 
 you ; because I thought that the prayers of a 
 child most surely ascended to heaven ! I know," 
 continued she more calmly, "that you have very 
 little reason to trust either Edwards or me ; but if 
 you cast us off, then are we lost for ever ! I do not 
 pretend or attempt to excuse Edwards ; but he is 
 heartily sorry for the past he has been unfortunate, 
 we have all suffered much, and we are all humble 
 now ; and from you we ask this one chance of re- 
 gaining our place in society !" 
 
 " Oh stay with us, Phebe," said Mrs. Osborne, 
 quite overcome by her sister's words, " stay with us, 
 and you and your child shall never want." 
 
 " The first letter," returned Phebe, " which I 
 received from Mr. Osborne after my marriage, con- 
 tained these words, 'atone for your want of duty to 
 us by your duty to your husband, and so may God 
 Almighty bless you!' these words I have never for- 
 gotten. They have been hitherto, and shall still be, 
 the law of my life ; let my husband's fortune be 
 what it may, I abide with him to the last." 
 
 " She is right, Sarah, she is right," said Mr. Os- 
 borne, wiping his eyes and rising from his scat ; "and 
 I will be surety for Edwards for her sake. I will 
 give him this one trial more." 
 
 Poor Phebe, who hitherto had not shed one tear,
 
 THEIR FAMILY TROUBLES. 33 
 
 how overcome by the generous kindness ot her 
 brothe.r, covered her face with both her hands and 
 wept like a child. How the rest of the day was 
 spent may easily be imagined ; the best which the 
 house could offer was set before her ; and her sister, 
 taking her into her own chamber, questioned her 
 1 closely of her wants and actual condition. But 
 whatever Phebe's sufferings had been, she kept 
 much to herself. To poverty she confessed, and to 
 all the hardships and anxieties which poverty brings 
 with it ; but not one word did she utter against her 
 husband, although her sister never lost the impres- 
 sion that she had suffered much unkindness from him. 
 
 True to her first intentions, she returned by coach 
 that night to London, taking with her good store of 
 many things which the bounty and overflowing 
 affection of her sister heaped upon her. 
 
 Phebe's visit had entirely reinstated her in the 
 hearts of her relations, and the next year Mr. Osborne 
 did such an unheard-of thing as go to London him- 
 self, o,n business he said, but in reality to see her and 
 her children : for a second child, a little girl, was 
 now born to her. On his return, he related that 
 they were living quietly, and with some appearance 
 of comfort ; but that there was still a look of depres- 
 sion and anxiety about her, while Edwards on the 
 contrary seemed scarcely changed, excepting that he 
 was grown slightly grey and much stouter than when 
 he married ; but he was as well dressed as then ; as 
 gay in spirits, as plausible ; and to the conscientious 
 and somewhat suspicious mind of Mr. Osborue, as 
 unsatisfactory as ever. For his own peace of mind 
 as regarded them, it was a pity that he had ever been 
 to visit them. The only thing that gave them real 
 
 3
 
 34 THE OSBORNES AND 
 
 satisfaction was that Edwards retained his situation ; 
 and at the end of the second year received an increase 
 of salary, which Phebe did not fail to communi- 
 cate to her relations. Three years had now gone on, 
 and we are arrived at the period when our story opens. 
 
 The Osbornes and the Kendricks were, as we 
 have said, fast friends; the somewhat similar mar-* 
 riages of Phebe and the unhappy Rebecca, had made, 
 for years, a great sympathy of feeling between them. 
 Mrs. Osborne was at their house, and sitting by the 
 side of Rebecca's bed when she died, and her husband 
 had attended her to the grave. 
 
 Much attached, however, as they were to their 
 friends, they said nothing of the disgrace which had 
 befallen Rebecca's husband and the father of the 
 nephew whom they had adopted, thinking, with a 
 natural and jealous feeling of family pride, that there 
 was no good in publishing the dishonour of one's own 
 connexions. 
 
 Some such feeling as this operated on the mind of 
 good Mrs. Osborne as she sat in the dusk of evening 
 in the little parlour beside the shop, with the candles 
 unlighted, and heard her friend Miss Kendrick in- 
 quire with astonishment about Mr. Osborne's sudden 
 journey to London, of which Mr. Isaacs the shop- 
 man had told her. 
 
 Yes, said Mrs. Osborne, but in an incommuni- 
 cative tone, her husband was suddenly called to Lon- 
 don by a letter from poor Phebe. She feared things 
 were going on but badly with them, how, she did 
 not say, merely adding, " but I wish nothing to be 
 said about it; the least said the better as we all 
 know." 
 
 Joanna was a reasonable woman, and she excused
 
 THEIR FAMILY TROUBLES. 86 
 
 her friend's reserve, sincerely sympathising with her 
 in having any new cause of anxiety and distress. 
 Leaving her, therefore, to open her business respect- 
 ing her nephew to Mrs. Osborne as a sort of prelimi- 
 nary step in the affair, we will communicate to the 
 reader that unhappy circumstance regarding the 
 Edwards's, which Joanna knew only later. 
 
 The letter which Phehe had written was rather 
 indefinite, but one which filled those to whom it was 
 addressed with horror. It spoke of temptation and 
 crime, of loss of character for ever, and of the severest 
 punishment of the law, and besought her brother-in- 
 law to hasten to them immediately. He did so, and 
 found his worst fears to be true. Edwards had been 
 again tempted to embark in some wild speculation ; 
 money was wanted which his own means did not 
 supply, and having gained the confidence of his em- 
 ployers, he had taken advantage of it, and had, at 
 two several times, drawn money from the bank by 
 forged orders in the names of merchants who had 
 large dealings with the house. In the first instance, 
 six months had elapsed without detection ; in the 
 second, to a larger amount, detection came speedily. 
 
 On the first moment of alarm, he had escaped on 
 board a vessel bound for Hamburgh ; but had been 
 pursued and taken while the vessel was under weigh. 
 There was not a word to be said in his extenuation ; 
 the fact was as it were proved upon him ; he was in 
 the fangs of the law, and was committed to take hia 
 trial. 
 
 Such were the facts respecting which Mrs. Osborne 
 might well be excused from saying much. In a 
 week's time her husband was again at home; and 
 Miss Kendrick made application on behalf of her
 
 > THE OSBORNES AND 
 
 nephew being apprenticed to his business. Mr. Os- 
 borne said that he had just engaged a young appren- 
 tice, whom he shortly expected ; that two at once 
 was rather too much; but considering the case oi 
 poor Reynolds, and that it was to oblige Miss Ken- 
 drick, he would talk with Mr. Isaacs and see if it 
 could not be arranged ; and that she should know in 
 a day or two. Within a day or two, Joanna and her 
 sister resolved upon going to Matlock for a few weeks, 
 and taking their nephew with them ; so that there 
 was full time to deliberate. The season was fine. 
 Miss Kendrick found company to their taste at 
 Matlock ; and to the great joy of the boy, who now 
 for the first time in his life knew what ease and 
 pleasure were, the stay was lengthened to the end of 
 July. 
 
 On their return, Miss Kendrick went to hear the 
 decision of her friend the druggist ; again he was not 
 in the shop, but there stood behind the counter a 
 slim, gentlemanly youth, who, under the direction of 
 Mr. Isaacs, was folding up, very successfully, penny- 
 worths of Epsom salts and flowers of brimstone. This 
 was evidently the new apprentice of whom Mr. Os- 
 borne had spoken. On inquiring for that gentleman, 
 Miss Kendrick learned, to her surprise, that both he 
 and his wife were in London. 
 
 "It must be about that miserable business of the 
 Edwards's," said she to Dorothy on her return. Of 
 course it was, and all the town knew it by this time ; 
 for the newspapers had detailed the affair from one 
 end of the kingdom to the other. 
 
 The trial was now over. Edwards had pleaded 
 his own cause most skilfully and eloquently, but in 
 vain ; he was found guilty, and condemned to four-
 
 THEIB FAM/LY TROUBLES. 3*? 
 
 teen years' transportation. On hearing his sentence, 
 Edwards seemed to feel, for the first time, the crush- 
 ing weight of his unhappy circumstances. A paleness 
 as of death overspread his countenance ; and, but for 
 the support of the turnkey, he would have fallen to 
 the ground. Mr. Osborne visited him the next day 
 in prison ; and, for the first time in his life, felt com- 
 passion for him. Edwards was in fact a man of real 
 talent and great power of mind, with some tendencies 
 to good ; but alas ! he was one of those Avho have not 
 the ability to resist temptation. He was of a sanguine 
 temperament, and was always confident of success. 
 When, therefore, humiliation and failure did come, 
 he was only the more cast down. His spirit was 
 now broken, and the better parts of his character 
 came forth. These, as it were, took the kind heart 
 of Mr. Osborne by surprise ; and now, with a reac- 
 tion of feeling which is very natural to a generous* 
 mind, he felt as if he must compensate for his hitherto 
 hard judgment; and this he did by more than free 
 forgiveness. 
 
 Phebe during the whole time had been calm and 
 collected. The worst had come that could come ; 
 and God and good men had not abandoned her. 
 That kind brother, who had been as a father to her 
 in her youth, stood by her in this hour of trial. H& 
 had already adopted her son as his own ; and thus 
 removed, as it were, from the knowledge and con- 
 tamination of evil, she trusted that his course through 
 life might be easier and happier than that of his 
 parents. Phebe's resolve from the first had been to- 
 remove with her youngest child, a little girl of two 
 years old, to the land where her husband was now a 
 banished man. Her bx-other made no objection; and
 
 38 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 he and his wife accordingly came up, two weeks be 
 fore the time of her departure, to provide for her 
 comforts on the voyage, and to take leave of her for 
 ever. She sailed at the beginning of August ; and 
 the convict ship in which was her husband at the end 
 of the same month. 
 
 Their careers seemed thus brought to an end in 
 this hemisphere ; and therefore leaving them, the one 
 with his weaknesses and his misdeeds, the other expi- 
 ating the errors of her youth by a life of patience and 
 duty, we will turn more particularly to the son, who 
 will henceforth be one of the principal heroes of our 
 little story. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 THE youth, like his father, was called Louis, with 
 the additional Christian name of William, which his 
 mother had given to him in love and grateful remem- 
 brance of her brother-in-law Mr. Osborne ; and now 
 his good uncle and taunt, anxious to remove from him 
 any infamy connected with his father's misconduct, 
 transposed and slightly altered his names, and called 
 him Edward Lewis Williams. Edward Williams 
 was therefore only an ordinary young apprentice it 
 was given out that he was an orphan with whose 
 history the world had nothing to do; and though 
 Mr. Isaacs and the whole household soon saw that he 
 was not treated like an ordinary apprentice, the world 
 did not readily conjecture that he was the son of the 
 convict Edwards. 
 
 " Let Williams come into the parlour," said Mr.
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 31 
 
 Osborne, as he was leaving the shop for the evening, 
 to his assistant Mr. Isaacs, " I would have a little 
 talk with him before his fellow-apprentice comes; 
 he seems a sharp, clever youth, I think," said Mr. 
 Osborne. 
 
 " A little too much of a gentleman at present," 
 returned Mr. Isaacs, who was a thorough tradesman, 
 and had no patience with any dandjism behind the 
 counter, "and sharp and clever he is with a witness; 
 he has broken half a gross of vials, two graduated 
 measures, and a Corbyn quart, within the last fort- 
 night; but he has taken prodigiously to practicai 
 chemistry, and so that he does not blow the houso 
 up, he may be of some use in time." 
 
 " We must teach him to be careful," said Mr. Os- 
 borne, advancing to the door, " send him in as soon 
 as he comes," repeated he, and disappeared through 
 the half-glass door with the green silk curtain, that 
 led to the parlour where his good wife always sat at 
 her work. 
 
 Mr. Osborne had a little code of morals it is a 
 thousand pities that it never was printed which he 
 delivered orally to his apprentices many times during 
 the earlier part of their apprenticeship ; and he now 
 wished particularly to insist on that part which re. 
 lated to "your duties towards your fellow-appren*- 
 tices." This warned of bad example, either set by 
 themselves or followed in others ; insisted on truth, 
 sobriety, kindness; on ad vising in love; on "doing as 
 they would be done by." Mrs. Osborne always cried 
 when her husband thus lectured his young appren- 
 tices. She felt as if the boys were her own children, 
 and she always said that no clergyman could preach 
 to them as her husband did. "And now remember,"
 
 40 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 concluded Mr. Osborne, "that the happiness and 
 well-being of your future life depend upon the dis- 
 positions you cultivate and the habits you acquire in 
 youth ; are you idle, wasteful, unpunctual, dilatory 
 in youth, it is vain to look for industry, frugality, 
 exactness, and promptitude in after-life. A religious, 
 active youth will ensure, as far as human means can 
 do it, a respectable and prosperous age!" These last 
 words Mr. Osborne never failed to speak with re- 
 markable emphasis, nor did he omit it on this occa- 
 sion. Thus far, the young apprentice had been fed 
 with what may be called, in the style of Jean Paul 
 or our Carlyle, the common apprentice-bread ; after- 
 wards came the cake-of-love which was broken for 
 his especial eating; and this was literally a love-feast, 
 at which the good aunt as well as uncle assisted. 
 
 Some little they said on his peculiar circumstances, 
 on the awful example which would ever remain be- 
 fore him in his father's career ; but oh, how tenderly 
 and lovingly was this warning enforced ! The youth 
 and he was a slender, handsome youth sat with 
 his graceful head supported on his well-formed hand, 
 and his intelligent brown eyes fixed on the counte- 
 nance of his affectionate monitors. He looked hand- 
 some; and they saw in him the fairest promises of 
 good, they saw in him the support, and comfort, 
 and pride of their old age. They besought him to be 
 steadfast in his duties both to God and man; they 
 besought him to deserve the love which they were 
 willing to give him ; and in them, they said, ho 
 should never want a friend. They spoke with tears, 
 and as the seal of the covenant between them, they 
 gave him a new Bible, which they prayed him to 
 study diligently. The youth began to say something
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 41 
 
 about gratitude ; but his voice trembled, and he was 
 so much affected that he could not go on. The old 
 people gave him their hands, and said that it was not 
 needful ; they understood his feelings, and were sure 
 he would try to deserve their love. 
 
 Mrs. Osborne ordered in a very good supper that 
 night ; the apple-pie that had been intended for the 
 morrow's dinner was sent in, and cold beef, and 
 pickle, and roast potatoes with plenty of butter i and 
 then the smart young apprentice went out to put up 
 the shop-shutters, secretly rejoicing to himself that it 
 was for the last time, inasmuch as the new apprentice 
 would come the next day, and then, as the junior, 
 this would henceforth be his duty. 
 
 We have spoken of the Osbornes' love-feast ; the 
 Miss Kendricks also made one for their nephew, 
 which they intended should last for a whole day. 
 They hired a post-chaise, and drove to the pleasant 
 village of Hanbury in Needwood Forest, where lived 
 some old friends of theirs, a good farmer and his 
 wife. Their nephew walked about the farmer'a 
 abundant garden, and ate fresh-gathered apples from 
 the trees, and strolled out by himself into the fields, 
 and came home just in time for dinner. And what 
 a dinner it was, with game, and hot apple-pie, and 
 cream, and syllabubs! and how merry the little fat 
 farmer was, and his wife too, and how they all ate, 
 and drank, and chatted, and laughed ! Even Aunt 
 Dorothy, she was as merry as anybody. 
 
 After dinner, William went out again by himself. 
 He had been rather low-spirited the day before about 
 leaving the aunts that he loved so well and going 
 'prentice ; but now all dull thoughts seemed driven 
 away. There was something inspiriting in the bii^ht,
 
 42 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 breezy autumn air, as he strolled along through the 
 old pasture fields, and saw the feathery seeds of the 
 thistle and the great groundsel lifted up and carried 
 over his head by the wind, and the yellow harvest- 
 fields lying amid the deep repose of the woodlands 
 around, and the harvesters piling up the golden 
 shocks of corn on the heavy wain, which moved on- 
 ward now and then, silently as in a dream. He sat 
 down on the dry slope of the field, with the little 
 shrubby tufts of the rosy-hued rest-harrow at his 
 feet ; and thought about his past, life and his future. 
 There was a deal of hardship, and sorrow, and trouble 
 in his past life, which was best known to himself and 
 to his Almighty Father ; and which he someway or 
 other shrunk from telling to his kind aunts. There 
 was no use in telling it to them, he thought, and he 
 was right ; for it would have done them no good, nor 
 him either. All this now passed in clear review be- 
 fore him ; it was like a procession of dark shadows ; 
 one after another they went by, and ended in that 
 wet night of May-fair day and his mother's death. 
 But yet that death was not as sad as many things in 
 her life had been ; and the boy thought of her grave 
 in the little churchyard of her native town as of her 
 truest resting-place. The only pleasant thought in 
 the past was of his little sister, the little rosy- 
 cheeked Susan, who was left with the old Methodist 
 grandmother at Truro in Cornwall. Susan was very 
 happy ; and above all things liked going with the old 
 woman to chapel, where the people all sang so loud. 
 It was a pleasant thought, that of Susan. Then came 
 his aunts, Dorothy, blind, and with her hair like 
 snow, yet as cheerful as a lark, and so active ! No- 
 body that saw her at home could ever think her
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 43 
 
 blind ! And Joanna, who never thought about her- 
 self, but was always working or scheming for the 
 good of somebody or other ; who was full of resources 
 for every difficulty, and who suggested good motives 
 for everybody's actions. Never in all this world, 
 poor William thought, were there better women 
 than his aunts; it would be impossible for him to 
 turn out badly, belonging, as he did, to such good 
 people. William thought of all the pleasure they 
 had given him, of the happy weeks at Matlock, of 
 the collection of minerals they had bought for him, 
 of the new clothes they had given him, how they 
 were about to put him apprentice to a respectable 
 business, how they had given him a new Bible and 
 euch a handsome prayer-book as would make it a 
 pleasure to go to church ; and to wind up all, how 
 they had hired a chaise and brought him out into the 
 country, which he enjoyed so much, just on purpose 
 to make his last day of freedom pleasant. All this he 
 thought of, and then made a little vow with himself 
 that he would be very obedient and good as an ap- 
 prentice, and be industrious in learning his business ; 
 and then, when he was a man and his aunts were 
 old, that he might be able to do something for them 
 in return. He grew quite in lave with his good 
 resolves, and then fell into a charming day-dream of 
 happily-accomplished wishes, from which he was 
 roused by the sound of voices and the creaking of 
 a loaded wagon, which, with its piled-up sheaves, 
 went brushing slowly past the tall hedge-row trees 
 behind him. It was the wagon which, two hours 
 before, he had been watching in the distant fields; 
 and then the thought first occurred to him that it 
 vras time for him to go back to the farm-house. He
 
 44 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 ran hastily back, buoyant-hearted with all his good 
 resolutions, and was a little alarmed to see the post- 
 chaise standing at the door. Aunt Dorothy and the 
 farmer's wife were seated on the horse-block, and 
 Joanna and the farmer were looking out from the 
 farm-yard gate ; they evidently were looking for 
 him, and then, all at once, for the first time since he 
 had been out, he remembered that his aunt Joanna 
 had warned him not to be long, not above an hour ; 
 for they wanted to be at home in good time how 
 could he have forgotten ? Aunt Joanna \ooked dis- 
 pleased as he came up ; he had never seen her look 
 displeased before. 
 
 " Well, youngster, we Ve had a pretty hunt for 
 you," said the farmer, when he reached the gate. 
 
 " You must have forgotten what I said," remarked 
 Aunt Joanna. 
 
 " Ah, Master William," began the farmer's wife, 
 " I've had a pretty time to pacify your Aunt 
 Dorothy; she thought you must have got drowned, 
 or some mischief." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said William ; and felt quite 
 humble and submissive, but there was no time or 
 opportunity to say more. He hurried into the par- 
 lour to have tea, or coffee, or wine. There was 
 plum-cake, seed-cake, and bread and butter : he 
 must have something he could eat nothing ; he 
 wanted so much to make his peace, with everybody. 
 But there was no chance for his getting in a word ; 
 his aunts, and the farmer and his wife, were at the 
 chaise-door, in the full energy and activity of leave- 
 taking. There was a basket full of eggs, a bottle 
 of cream, and some fresh butter to go into the 
 chaise ; there was a hamper of apples and a couple
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 45 
 
 of fowls to be stowed away, for all of which the 
 aunts had, first of all, to express astonishment, and 
 then thanks ; and, amid all this, they and their 
 nephew seated themselves in the chaise, and off they 
 drove. William sat silent, and felt unhappy ; his 
 heart trembled at the thought of anger ; he had seen 
 BO much of it formerly, and so little of it in the last 
 happy weeks of his life. He wished his aunts 
 would but begin to talk ; but for some time they 
 did not, nor did he. 
 
 At length began Aunt Joanna: " My dear boy," 
 said she, " nothing will be more necessary to you, 
 in life, than strict punctuality. Now, when I had 
 told you to be back soon, what could keep you out 
 so long when you might see that it was getting 
 late, and the dew was falling. What were you 
 doing ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said he. 
 
 " Nothing ! " she repeated. " That is hardly 
 likely an active boy like you must have been 
 doing something." 
 
 William might have said that he had been busy 
 with his thoughts, reviewing the past, and making 
 good resolves for the future. He thought of saying 
 so ; but then it occurred to him that perhaps his 
 aunts would not believe him : he had often been 
 disbelieved in former days, when he had spoken the 
 honest truth. A sullen cloud, like the spirit of 
 those dark former days, fell upon him, and he again 
 replied to his aunt's question, three times repeated, 
 that " he had been doing nothing." 
 
 His aunt said no more. Neither she nor Dorothy 
 said much during the rest of the drive homeward ; 
 they were sorry to see him, as they thought, per-
 
 46 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 verse an-d sullen, and not wishing to excite an 
 antagonist spirit, which they fancied they saw in 
 him, they sat silent, and mourned to themselves. 
 
 He, on his part, sat between them, dispirited and 
 out of humour. This was the end, then, of all his 
 good resolutions: nobody would give him credit for 
 meaning to do right that was always the way. 
 His aunts, after all, were as unjust as anybody else. 
 All his good resolutions seemed folly and nonsense ; 
 he despised himself for them, and said, in his own 
 heart, that it was no use trying to be good. The 
 dark phantoms which he had called up frcm the 
 past, and made to pass before him, seemed to have 
 possession of him, and he remembered mournfully 
 the chapter which, the evening before, he had read 
 in his new Bible to his Aunt Dorothy, of him who 
 took seven other spirits unto him worse than him- 
 self, and the last state of that man was worse than 
 the first. 
 
 So ended their Love Feast. But it was a real 
 Love Feast for all that. It was only as if the love- 
 cake had been a little burned in the baking human 
 endeavours are so seldom perfect. 
 
 But now, for six months after this time. Mr. 
 Isaacs went to church every Sunday evening; and, 
 as the Osbornes' pew adjoined that of the Miss 
 Kendricks, and they regularly attended church 
 twice in the day, which Mrs. Osborne did not, 
 because her husband only went in the morning, he 
 mostly walked home with them; and when there 
 was no moon, and the streets therefore as good as 
 dark for the scanty oil lamps were not worth 
 speaking of he offered an arm to each sister, which 
 had given rise, in the minds of the two most noto-
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 47 
 
 nous gossips of the place, Mrs. Morley and Mrs. 
 Proctor, that Mr. Isaacs had a liking for Miss 
 Joanna Kendrick. The report had even reached 
 the ears of the parties themselves ; but they seemed 
 so amazingly indifferent about it, that people left 
 them to do as they would, only just speaking of it 
 now and then to keep the idea alive, as a town 
 corporation walks its parish boundaries every seven 
 years or so, to keep their memory from dying out. 
 
 " And how does William get on," asked Miss. 
 Kendrick, therefore, one Sunday evening, from 
 Mr. Isaacs, on whose arm she leaned. 
 
 " Pretty well," said he, in a half-hesitating tone. 
 
 " Only pretty well, still ! " she returned. 
 
 " Why, you see," said Isaacs, " he has not the 
 natural facility of mind that Williams has. That 
 youth has something quite uncommon about him if 
 he had but stability he might do anything. They 
 now take regular Latin lessons, and that prevents his 
 attending to many other things. Latin is abso- 
 lutely necessary, and they neither of them under- 
 stood a word of it." 
 
 " What, then," began Joanna, somewhat cheered, 
 " had this clever youth been as much neglected as 
 our p6"or nephew ? " 
 
 " He has knowledge enough, and to spare," said 
 Isaacs, " but not exactly of the right kind ; he is 
 prodigiously smart and clever, and knows how to 
 make the most of what he has. If he have but 
 stability and good conduct, he may get on won- 
 derfully." 
 
 These words sunk deep into the hearts of both 
 aunts. How was it? Was Williams above the 
 average capacity of youths, or was their nephew
 
 48 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 belaw it? They were troubled and discontented. 
 They feared that he di'd not make all the efforts in 
 his power ; perhaps he was careless and inattentive : 
 they must talk with him, and try to rouse up a 
 spirit of emulation in him. Next moment, they 
 were half-disposed to be out of humour with his 
 companion's facility of mind it is so unpleasant to 
 be outstripped ourselves, or to see those one lovea 
 and cares for outstripped. 
 
 The next evening, the aunts sent their compli- 
 ments to Mr. Osborne, and begged that he would 
 let their nephew drink tea with them. He came, 
 and by the gentlest manoeuvres in the world, 
 the affectionate aunts began to test the young 
 apprentice's knowledge and skill. How did he 
 like his business? did he feel that he was getting 
 on at all ? did light begin to break in upon him in 
 any way ? did he feel that he could keep up with 
 Williams? To these questions he replied, that he 
 did like his business that he felt he was getting 
 on light was breaking in upon him, even in Latin ; 
 he had made up a prescription that very day but 
 as to keeping up with Williams, that was not an 
 easy thing. Williams could make out a prescription 
 above a month ago. Williams was so very clever, 
 he could do anything that he liked ; he learned 
 without the least trouble, and had such a memory 
 as never was ! 
 
 Such was his report of his fellow-apprentice. 
 The aunts listened in silence, and concluded that it 
 must be as Mr. Isaacs had said; Williams was a 
 youth of extraordinary abilities. They fcighed over 
 their nephew, who seemed to have but common 
 abilities, and were kinder to him than ever ; per-
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 49 
 
 haps to compensate, if they could, for Nature's 
 supposed unkindness. But long was the lecture 
 that they gave to him on patience and perseverance, 
 which, plodding on together, remove mountains of 
 all kinds, and make even ordinary abilities more 
 availing than the most meteor-like genius. 
 
 " Well, and how does Reynolds go on ? " again 
 inquired Joanna from Mr. Isaacs, some twelve or 
 eighteen months later. 
 
 *' Exceedingly well ! " was now the reply. " He 
 has stability and perseverance, he will make a good 
 tradesman. He is much more practical than Williams, 
 and thus much more useful." The aunts were well 
 pleased, and- now could very well endure to hear 
 their nephew speak well of his fellow-apprentice. 
 
 The Osbornes, who had their reasons for being 
 particularly interested in Williams, saw his quick 
 abilities, and his attractive exterior, with uncommon 
 pleasure. As to Mr. Isaacs, he had begun some 
 time ago to have his own thoughts about the smart 
 apprentice, and let him now take his own flights, 
 satisfied to have the more helpful services of Rey- 
 nolds. Isaacs soon saw, what Mr. Osborne seemed 
 never to find out, that Williams, unstable as water, 
 'spite of his natural brilliant gifts, would, in the end, 
 excel in nothing. Besides this, there were slight 
 peccadilloes now and then, a missing half-crown or 
 so, which, while he never shut his own eyes to, and 
 always reproved in his own way, he never spoke of to 
 Mr. or Mrs. Osborne, unwilling to distress them, as he 
 said to himself, about the son of poor Mrs. Edwards. 
 
 Mr. Isaacs had mentioned to Miss Kendricks his 
 suspicion of the youth's parentage ; and this suspi- 
 cion was confirmed to them by an accidental discovery
 
 60 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 which their nephew made of what seemed to him 
 the transposed name of his companion, written in 
 his Prayer-book, "William Louis Edwards;" and 
 which, on being shown to him, he immediately tore 
 from the book, saying gaily that it was only a joke. 
 But Williams's secret was safe, both with Misa 
 Kendricks and Mr. Isaacs ; and, while the youth 
 did not trouble himself one jot about either the one 
 or the other, he grew tall and good-looking, and, 
 though he wore a shop-apron, had not at all the 
 look of a tradesman about him. 
 
 Time went on : the fellow-apprentices agreed 
 remarkably well together. Reynolds plodded on 
 at the quiet drudgery of his business, and Williams 
 took discursive flights of all kinds. Now he was 
 deep among gases, and now he was up in the clouds 
 among the fascinations of the circulating library; 
 now he dipped here and there into the Materia 
 Medica and Dr. Thomas's Practice of Physic; and 
 now he laboured for three months in learning to 
 play the flute. He certainly had a variety of tastes, 
 if not of talents ; and the Osbornes, good people as 
 they were, saw this as something quite remarkable. 
 Mrs. Osborne was fascinated with his handsome 
 figure and gentlemanly bearing, with his amusing 
 conversation, and his variety of little social talents 
 and accomplishments. She contrasted him, in her 
 own rnind, with the more homely, unassuming 
 Reynolds. " Poor Miss Kendricks," thought she, 
 " how proud they would be to have a nephew like 
 ours ! " 
 
 She was the kindest-hearted woman that ever 
 lived; and she never thought thus without being 
 touched with compassion for the good, humbly-
 
 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 51 
 
 gifted youth, as she thought Reynolds ; and many 
 a little kindness and indulgence did he unwittingly 
 owe to this sentiment in her heart towards him. 
 
 Time went on, and yet on. The apprentices had 
 each gone on in their own way, and were both 
 nearly nineteen years of age. Williams was now 
 above the middle size, and seemed to have done 
 growing ; while Reynolds, on the contrary, seemed 
 as if he had only just begun to grow, and was, as 
 his Aunt Joanna said, " coining on famously." She 
 began to think, after all, that her nephew would, in 
 his way, be every bit as good-looking as Williams. 
 He was stouter built, to be sure, and would never 
 be so tallj but there was such a firm, manly air 
 about him, something so honest and good in his 
 countenance it was quite a pleasure to look at him ! 
 
 It was now the middle of winter a cold, sleety 
 day, when no customers, saving such as wanted 
 physic, turned out of doors. The shop- door was 
 shut, the stove was burning cheerily, and the two 
 apprentices were standing together, looking over a 
 play-bill, which had just beet? thrown in. 
 
 Players were come to the town ; a theatre was 
 opened, and that night the performances began. 
 " The Beaux' Stratagem :" it was a charming play, 
 said Williams ; and read over the list of characters 
 and performers like a school-boy running over a 
 well- practised lesson. There was nothing in this 
 world that he enjoyed like the theatre ; to see a 
 play well acted was the finest thing in the world- 
 the next best thing was to see one badly acted. 
 Oh, a tragedy acted by strolling players, there was 
 something quite racy about it ! He declared that 
 he should be a great patron of the theatre. He
 
 62 THE TWO APPRENTICES. 
 
 would take care, he said, and get Mr. Osboine's con- 
 sent to their going. 
 
 There was no difficulty about that. Mr. Osborna 
 was the most indulgent of masters ; and the two 
 young men set off arm-in-arm, in the highest spirits, 
 intending to be very critical, and yet very much 
 amused. 
 
 A great club-room at one of the inns had been 
 converted into a very pretty little theatre, which was 
 well lighted, and tolerably decorated. Neither boxes, 
 pit, nor gallery had one seat to spare ; the players 
 evidently had taken the little town at the right 
 moment. Williams, however, was at first amazingly 
 critical ; found unmeasured fault, and ridiculed 
 everything. He had seen, he said, in his time, the 
 finest theatres in London, and he knew what good 
 acting was, too. . The acting, however, pleased him ; 
 above all things, the acting of Miss Jessie Banner- 
 man, who performed the character of Dorinda. He 
 declared that she was a goddess, an angel ; so young, 
 not above sixteen ; so divinely beautiful ! she was 
 equal to any actress )h genteel comedy that he had 
 ever seen. He must know something about her ! 
 He was very fond of players, he said ; loved, of all 
 things, to have the entree of the green-room ; had 
 a vast fancy for acting himself ; and ended by pro- 
 testing that he was deeply in love with that girl, 
 and would make her acquaintance, or know the 
 reason why.
 
 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 63 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 
 
 WE must now pay a visit to the house of a clog 
 and patten-maker, and, without using any ceremony, 
 enter the little parlour, which is but very humbly 
 furnished, with its home-made listing carpet hardly 
 covering its brick floor, and its furniture of blue and 
 white check. In the middle of the room stands a 
 round table, covered with a coarse huckaback table- 
 cloth, on which plates, knives and forks, and an 
 earthenware salt-cellar, with bread and cheese, give 
 intimation that supper is at hand. The homely 
 furniture, however, did not cause a moment's 
 uneasiness to the persons who were there, and 
 whom we may as well introduce to the reader. 
 First of all, a little old woman, in a night-cap not 
 remarkably clean, and a pink bed-gown, who sat 
 bending over the little fire-place set in Dutch tile, 
 cooking on the fire a quantity of tripe, in a sauce- 
 pan rather too small for the -purpose, while within 
 the fender stood dishes and plates to warm. This 
 old woman, known in the theatrical corps as 
 Mrs. Bellamy, though she never acted, seemed so 
 absorbed by her occupation as to take no notice 
 whatever of a young couple who sat together, in 
 very amicable proximity, on the sofa. These were 
 Jessie Bannerman, the fair prima donna of the com- 
 pany, and our acquaintance, Williams, who was now 
 paying by no means his first visit to the inmates 
 of the patten-maker's parlour. Williams was very 
 handsomely dressed in his Sunday clothes, for it 
 was Sunday evening ; whilst the young lady, a
 
 64. JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 
 
 slight, delicate young creature, was decidedly en 
 deshabille, a costume which, although it bore uneqm- 
 rocal marks of having been supplied by a scanty 
 purse, was not unbecoming to her remarkably inte- 
 resting appearance. 
 
 The youth held both her hands in his, and gazed 
 with almost devotion into her face. She seemed to 
 have been weeping, but a faint smile, like April 
 sunshine, passed at that moment over her face, and 
 she replied, in answer to some remark of his, " Oh, 
 no, the dear old creature, she is very deaf; she 
 hears nothing we say, and if she did, she would not 
 interrupt us. Ah, sh v is a good creature ! " ex- 
 claimed she, snatching away her hands from their 
 confinement ; and starting up to the old woman's 
 side, she put them on her shoulder; and spoke in 
 her ear, but not loudly, " I have been telling him 
 how good you are to me, and how much I love 
 you," added she, and kissed the old woman's 
 wrinkled cheek. The old woman understood the 
 action, if not the words, and gave several little, 
 short nods, without turning her head, or apparently 
 lifting her eyes from the saucepan. 
 
 The young girl sat down again, and continued, 
 " If it were not for her, my life would be worse 
 than that of a galley-slave. She is not as poor as 
 she seems, and has managed to make herself of 
 consequence to the company ; and Mr. Maxwell, 
 the manager, consults her in everything. He hates 
 her, however, for all that, and they quarrel dread- 
 fully." 
 
 Whilst these few words passed, the old woman 
 had dished her tripe, which she covered up with a 
 basin, and set within the fender, while she went out
 
 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 63 
 
 for ale in a small jug. When she returned, and 
 showed what her errand had been, the youth started 
 up, exclaiming against his own forgetfulness, and 
 took from the pocket of his great-coat, which he 
 had laid upon the floor, two bottles of wine, which 
 he said he had brought for them, and which he 
 believed would prove good. The old and the young 
 lady both expressed surprise, and then they all 
 three sat down to supper with the most apparent 
 cordiality. The old woman's tripe was excellent, 
 and well cooked, and Williams's wine was as good 
 as need be drunk ; but here, before it could be 
 drunk, there occurred a little difficulty. The wine- 
 glasses of the patten-maker's wife were locked up 
 in a corner- cupboard of this room ; she would not 
 entrust her keys to her lodgers, nor would they 
 admit her into the room, lest she should recognise 
 Mr. Osborne's apprentice, whom she well knew, in 
 the young visitor who usually came in so muffled 
 up and disguised that he passed for one of the 
 players themselves. Two little china cups, there- 
 fore, that stood on the mantel-piece as ornaments, 
 were substituted instead ; the old woman having one 
 to herself, and Jessie and her lover for lover he was 
 the other between them. After supper, which 
 all three had seemed greatly to enjoy, the old 
 woman swept up the hearth, cleared away the 
 supper-things, and sticking the corks into tho 
 bottles, lest, as she said, such good wine should 
 spoil, seated herself in a low-armed chair, and, 
 throwing her apron over her face, lay back as if to 
 sleep; whilst Jessie and the young man resumed 
 their seats on the sofa, and shortly afterwards fell 
 into deep conversation.
 
 66 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE HADE. 
 
 " And must I tell you all ? " asked she. 
 
 " All, every incident from your earliest memory," 
 returned he, passionately. " Whatever concerns 
 you, interests me." 
 
 Jessie heaved a deep sigh, and was silent for a 
 few moments. 
 
 " I have heard her say," at length she began, 
 looking towards the old woman in the chair opposite, 
 " that my mother was the most beautiful of women, 
 and perhaps, also, the most unfortunate. She was 
 the daughter of a village schoolmaster, a man pos- 
 sessed of some little property ; and she," said she, 
 again indicating the old woman opposite, " \vas, 1 
 fancy, his wife, and consequently is my grand- 
 mother; but that she never will confess, although 
 I have besought her on my knees. My mother was 
 loved, or rather courted, by a rich gentleman. She 
 loved him oh, too well : he deserted her, and 
 her father, who was a very severe, although in 
 his way a very religious man, never would forgive 
 her error. He turned her, one wild autumn night, 
 out of doors. Jt thundered and lightened, and 
 was a night on which to lose one's senses, or else 
 to do some horrid deed. Her mother prayed the 
 father to relent, and to open the door; for she 
 stayed wandering about the house till long after 
 midnight, begging and praying that he would not 
 be so hard-hearted and so cruel but it was all in 
 vain ! He was one of those men who think 
 that it was the woman only who fell ; he thought 
 that the man was a superior being, whose place 
 in creation was to domineer over woman, and 
 punish her, and subject her as much as he could. 
 I* was a sort of virtue in his eyes, and so he
 
 ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 67 
 
 neither would listen to the prayers of his wife nor 
 daughter." 
 
 " What a monster he was ! " exclaimed Williams, 
 in a very audible voice. 
 
 The old woman put her apron from her head, and 
 said sharply to him, " It is fine talking, young man ! 
 but you are all tyrants by nature every one of you 
 -~-for all you look so mild and gentle ! Every one 
 of you ! " added she, again throwing her apron over 
 her head. 
 
 " I thought that she was deaf ! " exclaimed Wil- 
 liams, amazed, and almost terrified. 
 
 " And so she is," returned Jessie, " but you are 
 so violent." 
 
 " Well, go on," said he ; " your story affects me." 
 
 " My grandfather," continued she, " would not go 
 to bed till long nfter my mother's voice had ceased 
 outside, and then he took the key of the house- door 
 and put it under his pillow, to prevent his wife going 
 out. She was very much afraid of her husband, so 
 she waited till she heard him snoring in bed, and 
 then she got out at the kitchen- window ; but no- 
 where could she find her daughter. She wandered 
 about all day, and went into the neighbours' barns, 
 and up and down the river-side ; but she found 
 no traces, nor had anybody in the village seen 
 her. Towards evening, however, she met a wagoner 
 coming with his team towards the village, who had 
 been out with barley to a neighbouring town ; and 
 from' him she learnt that, about three o'clock in the 
 morning, he had overtaken a young woman, who waa 
 walking alone on the road, and who seemed very 
 much distressed. She begged him, he said, to give 
 her a lift in his wagon, which he did ; be had also 
 4
 
 58 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 
 
 given her part of the refreshment which lie had 
 with him for himself, and had spoken a good word 
 for her to the woman of the house where he put 
 up ; but that, after she left his wagon, which was 
 at the town's end, he had seen no more of her, nor 
 could he tell what it was her intention to do, or 
 where to go. My grandmother was so affected by 
 this mark of kindness, especially, as she said, in a 
 man, that she thought within herself, what could 
 she give him in return. She felt in her pocket, but 
 money she had none, excepting a crooked Queen 
 Anne's sixpence with a hole through it, which she 
 had kept many years. This she gave to him, and 
 begged of him to keep for her sake ; and for her 
 sake, also, to be kind to poor women whenever he 
 met with them, and to take her blessing for the 
 kindness he had shown her daughter. Instead of 
 going home, she at once turned herself round, and 
 walked through the night back to the town, where 
 she arrived at daybreak. The woman of the 
 public-house could give no information respecting 
 her daughter, so at night she set off home again." 
 
 " She spent that day, and the next, and the next 
 after that," said the old woman rapidly, interrupting 
 her, and throwing the apron from her face, and 
 sitting up in the chair; " three whole days she 
 spent in searching for her daughter ! It was a 
 large town, and a wicked town, and nothing but sin, 
 and misery, and sorrow, did she meet with every- 
 where, wherever she sought for her poor outcast! 
 But she did not find her ! Many a fair young 
 creature she saw, as desolate as her own child ; but 
 her own child she found not, and, with a bleeding, 
 downcast heart, and a weary body, she retraced her
 
 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 59 
 
 steps homeward. Her husband, as she came hack, 
 Bat among the little boys in the school just as if 
 nothing had happened, and heard them read about 
 Mary Magdalene, in the Bible, that our Lord and 
 Saviour Jesus Christ himself had mercy on, yet he 
 never had pity on his own flesh and blood ! If I 
 were to tell you," continued she, " of the tears, 
 and the heart-aches, and the prayers of that mother, 
 all in secret between her Maker and herself, you, 
 that are young, would maybe not believe me, so I 
 pass them all over. In a winter or two afterwards, 
 her husband got a rheumatic fever, and she then 
 had to wait on him night and day : he was as help- 
 less as a child, and was cross, and out of humour 
 with her, and with himself, too. She had a weary 
 life of it. The parson came to see him, and 
 preachers of all sorts, from far and near; for he 
 was reckoned a religious man ; and beinir parish 
 schoolmaster, and a man of property besides, folks 
 thought much of him, and his wife got them to talk 
 to him of his daughter, now that he was sick and 
 helpless, and turn his heart towards her. if they 
 could. But he was as hard as iron, and he would 
 not even have her mentioned in his prayers. Well, 
 it pleased God to afflict him in many ways, and he 
 had tits and spasms, end was speechless for months. 
 
 ' ' Stephen,' said his wife to him, one night, 
 ' God is punishing you for your hardness to poor 
 Alary. You deserve it ! and I hope he will never 
 take his hand off you till you 've forgiven her, and 
 acted as a Christian should do ! ' 
 
 '" He had not spoken for months and months, and 
 you may think what was her surprise when he lifts 
 himself slowly up in bed, and fixing his hollow
 
 60 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 
 
 eyes on her, says, ' He has punished me punished 
 me severely. I forgive her, and may God Almighty 
 forgive us both ! ' With these words he dropped 
 back on the pillow, and his poor wife was so over- 
 come by what she heard, all so unexpectedly, that 
 she sank down as if she had been smitten, and when 
 she had strength to rise again lie was a corpse ! A 
 bitter feeling now came over her towards herself: 
 she had been angry with him she had done her 
 duty to him only as duty, not as love. What would 
 she not have given then for one week, one hour, of 
 his past life ! Ah, children, children ! " said she, 
 addressing the two before her, " never grieve those 
 you love ; never lose an opportunity of doing a 
 kindness to those you love ; never give way to 
 bitterness and hardness, else you will lay up a 
 punishment for yourselves which will pursue you as 
 with a whip of scorpions !" . 
 
 A silence of a few minutes ensued. Jessie had 
 thrown herself back in a corner of the sofa, and 
 Williams sat staring at the old woman, who now, 
 as if with all her faculties awake, continued : 
 
 " Some indistinct rumonr reached the mother, 
 some time after her husband's death, that her 
 daughter was in London ; so she turned all the 
 little property that was left into money, and to 
 London she went. She went to London to find her 
 daughter. And how was her daughter to be found 
 among the thousands of other women's daughters, 
 that were outcasts in society women with beauty, 
 talents, affections, all trampled under foot, viler than 
 the very mud of the streets ! She went out on 
 the evenings of summer days, when the birds of 
 heaven were singing, and the dew lay as pure as
 
 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. Cl 
 
 angels' thoughts on the grassy fields ; and what did 
 she meet ? Women that the rich and pampered 
 daughters of untempted virtue loathed ; but she met 
 not with her daughter. She went out on cold, deso- 
 late, pinching nights of winter, when happy fami- 
 lies sat round happy hearths fathers, and mothers, 
 and little children, and blessed God that they lived 
 in a Christian land, where all misery was cared for ; 
 and what did she still meet? Poor, unfortunate 
 women again creatures that God had made a little 
 lower than the angels ; for what ? To be the prey 
 of the vilest passions of man; to be despised, 
 scorned, pointed at, trampled on ; to be miserable 
 and outcast ! These she saw, winter and summer, 
 alike ; these, beauty and misery, going hand-in-hand 
 down to the pit ! Yes, young man," said she, lifting 
 up an admonitory finger, " such as you it is that do 
 this work of death and the devil ! and think not 
 that you shall come here, paying your flattering, 
 false attentions to that old woman's grand -daughter 
 unwatched and unprevented ! " 
 
 " Upon my soul," said the young man, quite 
 taken by surprise, " I am sincere as the very sun 
 in heaven ! Only, you see, as yet, I am in tram- 
 mels ; I am not my own master." 
 
 " Enough ! enough ! " said the old woman. " But 
 I have not yet done. You asked for Jessie's history, 
 and we are not yet come to it. I had been out 
 one night to get a bit of butcher's-meat ; I had not 
 had a bit for months, and somehow or other the 
 fancy took me to have a bit ; so I went out that 
 Saturday night, and had not gone far, before I was 
 stopped by a crowd at the door of a house, where 
 they said that a man was ill-using a woman. ' It's
 
 62 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MAIE. 
 
 only his wife ! ' said somebody near me ; just as if 
 he had said, it 's only his dog. These were things 
 that I felt in my very soul ; so I rushed into the 
 house, just as the brutal husband, mad with liquor 
 and cruelty, and with blood upon his clothes, threw 
 himself out of the door into the middle of the crowd, 
 which, 'spite of the attempts to seize upon him, he 
 struck off right and left, and made his escape. A 
 crowd of people beside me had rushed into th& 
 house, and up-stairs where the woman was, whose 
 blood we met, trickling down-stairs, before we 
 reached th% top. She was bleeding from face, and 
 neck, and arms, where she had many great gashes. 
 She looked as if she were already dead, and a little 
 child, not six months old, lay crying on the miser- 
 able bed beside her. The sight of the woman 
 caused a cry of indignation and horror in the people, 
 and half of them turned back to overtake and secure 
 the man whom they now regarded as a murderer. 
 From a feeling of pity which wrung my very heart, 
 I took up the child in my arms ; it looked into my 
 face, and smiled ! It was she! " said the old woman, 
 pointing to Jessie, who now, pale and excited, was 
 weeping again. 
 
 " They took the woman to the hospital," con- 
 tinued she. " She was one of a travelling company 
 of comedians and horse-riders ; her husband and 
 she acted the principal parts: she had been, and 
 still was, very beautiful. She was the school- 
 master's daughter the daughter of that mother 
 who had sought her so long and so wearily ! She 
 did not die. There were two children : the infant, 
 and a girl of seven years old, a young creature that 
 played night after night, and was the great attrac-
 
 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 63 
 
 tion of the company. She was ill, and it had been 
 about her acting that the parents had quarrelled 
 that night. She was a wonderful child. Oh, why 
 are such gifts as hers given, when they can lead but 
 to misery and ruin ! The little Fanny danced on 
 the tight-rope night after night, and performed the 
 most wonderful feats of horsemanship as the Flying 
 Circassian; and acted and sung to the delight of 
 crowds of thoughtless, admiring people. She played", 
 and danced, and rode, and grew weaker and weaker 
 day by day ; but there was no pity either for her 
 or the infant, which, as soon as it coul^ walk, was 
 made to ride and dance, and which promised to be 
 as great a prodigy as her sister. When the mother 
 was dead, I joined myself to the company. The 
 father hated me, but he could not get rid of me. 
 I stayed, because there was no law to take them 
 forcibly from the father. After I had been with 
 the company some years, things mended. All were 
 not as bad as he ; poor they all were, but many of 
 them had kind hearts, and there were those with us 
 who would take our parts ; and besides, as Fanny's 
 health mended under my care, the father no longer 
 tried to make my life intolerable ; besides which, a 
 cold which I took made me deaf, so that I could not 
 hear him. He married again, and then I took the 
 children to myself; the travelling life was not un- 
 pleasant to me, and Fanny was a very angel." 
 
 "And where is Fanny?" asked Williams. The 
 old woman made no reply. 
 
 Jessie took the handkerchief from her face, and 
 laying her hand on his arm, said solemnly, " Fanny 
 is dead ! " 
 
 He looked shocked, and she continued, "Had
 
 64 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. 
 
 you known Fanny, you would never have loved 
 me. I am no more to be compared to her, than 
 the moon to the sun. She was nineteen when she 
 died ; I was then twelve. She" said she, pointing 
 to the old woman, " had much more reason to love 
 Fanny than me. She was much handsomer than 
 me, and was so witty and merry ! Ill as she was, 
 it never cast her down ; and her laugh ! Oh, I 
 remember it now ! I never heard a laugh like it 
 so sweet, so joyous, so musical ! My father used to 
 say that her laugh would make her fortune ; but 
 she took cold one night at the theatre, and in three 
 days she died ! They think of making another 
 Fanny of me," said she ; " but it will not do. My 
 father is disappointed in me. I am not as brilliant 
 as my sister. My life is not happy not at all 
 happy," said she, clasping her hands, and bursting 
 into a passion of tears. 
 
 " Adorable girl ! " said Williams, quite beside 
 himself with love and pity, and throwing himself 
 on one knee before her. " My whole life shall be 
 devoted to making your life happy ! " 
 
 The fair Jessie bowed her face, and wept upon 
 his shoulder. 
 
 " Hey-day ! " said the old woman, starting up from 
 her chair, " what nonsense is all this ! I know what 
 it means when men talk of life-long devotion. And 
 what are you, young man ? Can you rescue her 
 from the life of misery that lies before her ? " 
 
 " I am one who love her better than life," said 
 Williams, starting to his feet, and facing the old 
 woman with quite a theatrical air. " I love her, 
 and, were I but free, I would marry her to-morrow." 
 
 " Fine talking ! " said the old woman, with a
 
 JESSIE'S ACQUAINTANCE MADE. Cfi 
 
 sneer ; "if I were but free ! that is always the 
 way! If I were but free, indeed i Why, when 
 you are free, your mind will have changed. Then, 
 then i ah, I know you men ! You are a pack of 
 designing, selfish knaves, and I '11 have none of you ! 
 I '11 take care of Jessie Bannerman, if she cannot 
 take care of herself; and so you had better take 
 your leave, for the decent people at your house 
 must have been in bed these two or. three hours." 
 
 " By Jove, and so they will ! " exclaimed Wil- 
 liams, looking at his watch, and horrified to see that 
 it was past two o'clock. 
 
 '* I shall never get in to-night," said he, almost 
 dolefully. " For Heaven's sake let me sleep where 
 I am. I will lie on the sofa, or anywhere, and 
 early in the morning I will be gone." 
 
 The old woman was again deaf; and it was only 
 by his forcibly taking possession of the sofa, that she 
 seemed to understand him. Jessie laughed as merrily 
 and as musically, Williams thought, as Fanny could 
 have done, and applauded the idea. But the old 
 woman was inexorable, and turned him literally out 
 of doors. 
 
 Well was it for him that, in that quiet town, 
 every soul, excepting the watchman, was in bed. 
 The night was fine and starlight, and avoiding the 
 watchman, who made himself perceptible by his 
 cry, he walked through the town right into the 
 country, which was not inconvenient to him, as he 
 had excused his yesterday's absence on the plea of 
 spending the afternoon with some friends in the 
 country ; and the next morning he entered Mr. Os- 
 borne's parlour just as they were about to sit down to 
 breakfast, nobody suspecting one word of the real truth.
 
 66 A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL. 
 
 Mr readers may imagine how confusing must 
 have been all the inquiries which assailed the young 
 man from Mrs. Oshorne during breakfast. " Well, 
 and how were the Yates's? Js he better? and is 
 John come from Birmingham ? And what news 
 have they from Mrs. Benjamin ? Are the children 
 better ? And has Jenny had the measles ? " 
 
 Williams was not a young man to be easily dumb- 
 foundered ; his replies really were all so straight- 
 forward, that nobody could have had the slightest 
 suspicion of all not being quite straightforward re- 
 garding them. All this, however, was nothing to 
 the difficulty he found after breakfast, when he was 
 told to assist in the putting up of a large order for a 
 country-shop. What room had he in his mind for 
 6 Ibs. of yellow ochre, and 2 Ibs. of camomile flowers, 
 and glue, and lamp-black, and syrup of squills, and 
 opium ? 
 
 " What, are not those things put up yet ? " asked 
 Mr. Osborne, looking down into the lower ware- 
 house, as he saw Williams by lamplight, towards 
 dinner-time, weighing out whitening, which he knew 
 came fourth in a list of seven-and-twenty articles. 
 No, indeed '. they were not put up. Williams had 
 thought of nothing all the morning but the fair Jessie, 
 and her sad family history, and her deaf old grand- 
 mother, who, after all, was not deaf. He went over 
 the history, incident by incident, and asked himself 
 many questions. Who, then, was Jessie's father? 
 Was it that Mr. Maxwell, the manager, with whom.
 
 A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL. 67 
 
 she had said that the old woman often quarrelled ? 
 and if so, why was she called Bannennan ? Was 
 that her mother's name ? and if so, why, then, was 
 the old woman called Bellamy ? He could not 
 understand these things. One thing, however, he 
 could very well understand, and that was, that he 
 was desperately in love ; should never love anybody 
 else as long as he lived ; and if he were but out of 
 his time would marry her instantly, even if he had 
 to starve all the rest of his life for it. 
 
 What an awkward thing it is for a young man 
 violently in love, and a little headstrong into the 
 bargain, not to be out of his time not to be at 
 liberty to do just as he likes ! He grew c^uite 
 desperate there, down among the whitening casks 
 and the hogsheads of oil and vinegar. He remem- 
 bered her tears, and that she had declared herself to 
 be unhappy ; and that she had to display all her 
 charms and her powers of pleasing every night to 
 worthless crowds, whilst he was dying but for one 
 glance of hers. And then, how did he know but 
 that some young fellow who was " out of his time," 
 and his own master, might not fall in love with her, 
 and carry her off at once ! What so likely ? He 
 then laid a thousand impossible plans, which at the 
 moment he vowed to execute. He would jom the 
 company, and travel with her. He would run off 
 with her, and get married ; his uncle and aunt 
 would be angry, he knew, but in the end they 
 would forgive him. Jessie should throw herself at 
 their fret ; they could never withstand her beauty 
 and her tears. In the midst of this scene he was 
 woke to reality and a dinner of boiled beef and 
 turnips. Poor Williams ! he had no appetite, and
 
 68 A SPOKE IN THB WHEEL. 
 
 he looked as woe-begone as it was possible foi any 
 young apprentice to look who was over head and 
 ears in love. He was not well, he said ; he was, to 
 use the words of a country swain in love, " hot and 
 dry, like, with a pain in his side, like ;" and he pre- 
 scribed for himself a walk in the fresh air, which 
 Mr. Osborne freely permitted to him. deputing 
 Reynolds to finish his work below. 
 
 Williams dressed himself with great care, and putting 
 on his great-coat, made the best of his way to the 
 clog and patten-maker's, not failing to see, as he 
 passed along the streets, on every blank wall and 
 every projecting house-corner, the name of his fair 
 one in the play- bills for the night, " To be performed 
 this evening, the Fair Quaker of Deal, the part of 
 the Fair Quaker, by Miss Jessie Bannerman." Jessie 
 was the attraction of the company the whole town 
 acknowledged it. The sight of her name added to 
 his impatience ; he reached the house, and thinking 
 neither of the patten-maker nor his wife, rushed 
 through the kitchen, where they sat at tea, without 
 any precaution of concealment, and knocking hur- 
 riedly at the parlour-door, entered without waiting 
 for permission from within. 
 
 44 Why, that 's Osborne 's smart apprentice, for 
 suri',"^ exclaimed the patten-maker's wife ; " so, he 'a 
 smitten, is he, with that young player-wench ? " 
 
 44 Why, how many young chaps are there after 
 her ? " asked her husband. 
 
 " Half-a-score," said the wife, " at least ; " and 
 began counting them on her fingers. 
 
 Williams'* entrance produced quite a sensation 
 among the three persons in the room. The old 
 Woman, who sat with her spectacles on, sewing
 
 A SPOKE IN THE WIIEEI,. C9 
 
 white muslin cuffs into the slate-coloured stuff gown 
 which was evidently to be the dress of the Fair 
 Quaker of Deal, knocked down an old pasteboard 
 box which held her store of sewing materials. Jessie, 
 who stood en deshabille, as yesterday, with her little 
 Quaker's cap in her hand, turned first red and then 
 pale at the sight of him ; and a tall young man, of 
 perhaps two-and-twenty, who was at that moment 
 presenting her with a bouquet of splendid green- 
 house flowers, started back a step or two, as if a 
 snake had stung him, and then stood, with the flowers 
 in his hand, and a look of defiance in his eye, at the 
 unexpected rival, whom the lady might be supposed 
 to favour from her changing colour. A glance told 
 all this ; and Williams, on his part, looked as much 
 taken by surprise as any of them. Here had he 
 flown on the wings of love and impatience only to 
 find a rival a favoured rival his jealousy whispered, 
 and that in the handsome person of Tom Bassett, a 
 young man of family an articled clerk of the first 
 lawyer in the place ; he was in love with her too 
 it was death and destruction ! 
 
 " Shall you see me to-night as the Fair Quaker ? " 
 asked Jessie, with one of her sweetest smiles. 
 
 " Most certainly I shall," said Williams,- who, in 
 the face of his rival, felt that it must be so. 
 
 She showed him the cap, and pointed to the dress 
 which the old woman was engaged upon for the 
 character ; and while he turned to speak to th% old 
 woman, who seemed now deafer than ever, Tom 
 Bassett again presented his flowers, which were 
 graciously accepted. Williams did not wait for the 
 old woman's answer, but was, the same moment, 
 at Jessie's side again, looking daggers at the frce-and- 
 
 5
 
 <TO A SPOKE IN THE WHEEt. 
 
 easy young lawyer. With the air of a queen, Jessie 
 motioned the two to be seated. Bassett laughed 
 and talked with the most provoking ease and con- 
 fidence. In his eyes, evidently, Williams was a 
 rival not worth noticing. Jessie laughed at his jokes, 
 and seemed not to trouble herself about the other. 
 Jt was mortifying, it was provoking, it was enough 
 to make a saint swear, thought Williams. " Here I 
 sit," thought he to himself, " like a fool, without 
 a word to say for myself! " If he were to speak, he 
 knew that his voice would betray his feelings he 
 wished his rival at the devil. We beg our readers' 
 pardon, but it is truth; he did so, and he wished 
 more than that that he could challenge him, and 
 put a bullet through his body. It was a most 
 uncomfortable time to him. He called Bassett an 
 ass a stupid, conceited ass in his own mind ; and 
 perhaps he might have been excited to call him so to 
 his face, if the old woman, who had finished her 
 work, had not got up, and shaking out the gown, 
 said it was now ready, and as it was five o'clock, the 
 gentlemen had better both take their departure. 
 " Did they hear ? " she repeated, as if she thought 
 them as deaf as herself. 
 
 They both rose, and Jessie offering a hand to each 
 at the same moment, curtseyed them a graceful 
 adieu. 
 
 " I must say a word to you," whispered Williams, 
 as Bassett left the room. 
 
 " To-night, after the play. I do not act in the 
 after-piece," said she, hurriedly, and closed the door 
 upon him. But that was enough ; he wanted no 
 more ; he felt as if wings had at once sprung from his 
 shoulders.
 
 A SPOKE IW THE WHEEL. 71 
 
 The patten-maker sold tickets for the play, and 
 the words that he heard after the parlour-door had 
 ehut were, " tea box-tickets for to-night." 
 
 The patten-maker counted out the tickets, and 
 Bassett, who had drawn forth a handsome scarlet 
 purse with gold rings from his pocket, laid down 
 a guinea, and without waiting for the change, 
 drew on his gloves, and pocketed Tiis purse and the 
 tickets. 
 
 " Ten box-tickets," said Williams to the patten- 
 maker, who looked as if he had expected it ; and 
 thinking of a bootmaker's bill, for the payment of 
 which he had received money from his aunt, drew 
 forth a very modest little brown purse, which Miss 
 Dorothy Kendrick had netted for him, and paid for 
 his tickets with a half-guinea, a half-crown, five 
 shillings, and four sixpences ; the coin looked quite 
 beggarly, and the purse was left so empty that the 
 rings slid off as he put it again into his pocket. But 
 he was not going to trouble himself just then on that 
 subject. Tom Bassett also stood on the door-step aa 
 he went out, and drawing forth an eye-glass, con- 
 temptuously surveyed him from head to foot. Eye- 
 glasses, in those days, were not as common as now ; 
 and Williams, though he felt stung, as it were, from 
 head to heel, hummed, with a gallant, careless toss of 
 the head, one of Jessie's favourite airs; and recollect- 
 ing how inconvenient any public quarrel would be, 
 or, in fact, any quarrel at all, as it would bring more 
 than he liked to the knowledge of his uncle, turned 
 upon his heel and walked down the street. 
 
 Now came the consideration respecting the ten 
 tickets, and he almost thought himself a fool for 
 having bought more than one for himself. What
 
 72 A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL. 
 
 was he now to do with them ? He walked across 
 the fields towards the Dove-Bridge, and came to the 
 very wise conclusion, that two of them he would 
 keep, and the other eight, wrapping neatly in paper, 
 he would drop, on his return, in the market-place, 
 where they would be sure to be found. As to the 
 two that ne retained, he would boldly confess the 
 having purchased them, and ask permission for 
 Reynolds and himself to go to the theatre that night. 
 He did as he had resolved; and, after just aboui 
 as much reproof as he expected from Mr. and Mrs. 
 Osborne, tea was hastened, and, grateful to his com- 
 panion for having obtained for him this unexpected 
 pleasure, Reynolds ran up-stairs to prepare his 
 toilet. 
 
 The little theatre was crowded, and the fair Jessie 
 was received most enthusiastically. \Villiams thought 
 her lovelier than ever in her quiet Quaker costume. 
 " All the town is in love with her," said he to his 
 companion ; " and is she not an angel ? " 
 
 It was quite a brilliant night. The very gentry of 
 the town were there ; and there, seated between the 
 two daughters of the lawyer, sat Tom Bassett. 
 Williams was delighted, for with these two young 
 ladies he was quite secure for the night. 
 
 " And now, my dear, good fellow," whispered 
 Williams to his companion, just before the curtain 
 fell, " you must stand my friend. You will ; promise 
 me you will ! " said he, laying his hand on his arm, 
 and looking quite agitated. " I am in love with 
 Miss Bannermau ; she knows it ; she loves me, too, 
 and has promised me a little interview this evening. 
 She is a very angel : she is a good girl, I assure _j ou .' 
 I love her as my life, and I am sure you will be my
 
 A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL. 73 
 
 friend. She docs not act agaui to-night," continued 
 he, rapidly, and not allowing Reynolds time to speak, 
 "but you will stay the after-piece it is the most 
 amusing thing in the world ; and if I am not at homo 
 by the time you are, don't let anybody miss me 
 and I '11 do as much for you any time ! " 
 
 " But, Williams," began he. Williams, however, 
 did not wait to hear. The curtain fell, and he was 
 gone. 
 
 He knew perfectly the back-entrance by which 
 Jessie would leave the theatre ; and there, at tjie very 
 moment of time, stood she, wrapped in a cloak, and 
 attended by the old woman with a lighted lantern. 
 'Spite of the lawyer's daughters, there also was 
 Bassett, making a thousand protestations of regret 
 and chagrin at not being able to accompany her. 
 
 " She wants no escort," said Williams, rendered 
 bold by his good fortune ; " I shall have that hap- 
 piness," and taking Jessie's little hand, which he 
 drew within his arm, he walked off triumphantly. 
 
 " The jackanapes ! the conceited jackanapes ! " 
 exclaimed Bassett ; but not imagining for a moment 
 that Jessie would give a druggist's apprentice the pre- 
 ference over him, he went back to the theatre laughing 
 to himself at the youth's "ignorant conceit." 
 
 Williams walked off triumphantly with Jessie oa 
 his arm, and the little old woman trudged beside llieia 
 with her lantern ; but scarcely had they gone tea 
 yards when they were stopped by a man who put a 
 small paper into their hands. 
 
 What had they here ? They stopped ; and, by 
 the light of the lantern, read the words, printed 
 in great, black, awful-looking letters, " THE DOOR* 
 OP THE PLAY-HOUSE LEAD TO HELL ! "
 
 74 A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL. 
 
 " It 's the parson's doing ! " said Williams, shocked 
 at what he had read aloud, and crumpling it in his 
 hand, threw it from him. " He is a narrow- souled, 
 bigoted, methodistical fellow, who sets his face 
 against every kind of pleasure ! It is just like him !" 
 
 This little incident, however, seemed to throw no 
 gloom on him, after the first moment; so, leaving 
 them to their full enjoyment, we will return to Rey- 
 nolds, who was thrown, by his companion's sudden 
 desertion, into a state of the most complete perplexity. 
 Reynolds was a good-hearted fellow ; he always 
 looked upon Williams as much older in worldly 
 experience than he was ; he, himself, was a child in 
 comparison of him, a mere apprentice ; whilst the 
 other had been, as it were, " out of his time" this many 
 and many a day. He had long known that Williams 
 would never excel in his business ; he had neglected 
 the study of every branch of it ever since the first 
 glow of novelty was worn off. He was frank in his 
 confession about it ; he hated business, and would 
 never do any more than he was obliged ; yet the 
 impulses of his nature were often good and kind ; he 
 knew his own weaknesses and acknowledged them, 
 and was quite willing that Reynolds should stand 
 a long way before him in the good opinion of Mr. 
 Isaacs. Reynolds really liked him, and had so con- 
 stantly and for so long done his work, and hidden 
 all his misdemeanors, and made up for his short- 
 comings, that Williams had the fullest confidence 
 that he would befriend him also in this instance. 
 Betray him he never would ; and he 'would smuggle 
 him, safely and unseen, into the house, if he sate up 
 the whole night for it. Yes ; that was all true. But 
 for all that, Reynolds was not at all pleased with the
 
 A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL. fi 
 
 position he was now placed in. This, then, was 
 what he had heen brought for; he had been made 
 a cat's-paw of, and he felt vexed ; besides this, he 
 was very honourable and religious in his principles 
 and notions; and the hurried and candid confession 
 of his companion had utterly shocked and confounded 
 him. For his part, he would as soon have thought 
 of falling in love with his grandmother as with a 
 player for so he called her, not "actress," as 
 Williams did, let her be as beautiful as she might : 
 and then to make appointments with her at night ; 
 there was something quite frightful to him in it. 
 And all at once the whole scene before him lost its 
 attraction. It was a wicked place ! that which they 
 had just seen performed was low and disgusting a 
 burlesque, a coarse caricature ! He was offended 
 ashamed angry with himself for having been 
 amused ; and now this " after-piece" was worse 
 and ^YOlse there was not even the beauty of Jessie 
 Bannerman to set it off; the women were painted, 
 gaudy creatures ; the men fit associates for them. 
 
 It was in this spirit that Reynolds sat out the 
 " after-piece." 
 
 When the company dispersed from the theatre, 
 there was not one man but three who distributed their 
 little printed papers. Everybody had one, some two 
 or three ; and everybody, on reading them, exclaimed 
 " This is Mr. Goodman's doing;" or " This is the 
 parson's doing ;" or " We shall have a sermon against 
 the players on Sunday." 
 
 And all these exclamations were right. There 
 was a sermon against them on Sunday, and a severe 
 one, too; and not alone against players and play- 
 houses, but against all playgoers, also. But before
 
 76 A SPOKE IN THE WHEKL. 
 
 Sunday, the clergyman, who was one of the br-st of 
 men, although one of the most rigid, called on the 
 Osbornes, as he had been doing for some days on his 
 delinquent flock, to remonstrate with so respectable a 
 man, and so good a church-goor as Mr. Osborne, on 
 allowing his apprentices to frequent places of such 
 awful wickedness as theatres ! 
 
 Williams was faint with apprehension lest the 
 clergyman knew also of his passion and his acquaint- 
 ance with the fair Jessie ; the patten-maker and his 
 wife knew of it ; Tom Bassett knew of it ; oh, it 
 must come out ! He felt quite ill, and went into 
 the ugper warehouse, looking like anything but a 
 bold lover, where he sat down on a resin-tub, 
 waiting for the judgment which he feared might be 
 at hand. 
 
 Mr. Osborne was a very good, kind-hearted man, 
 good to the poor, and charitable in the gospel-sense 
 of the word to all mankind. He thought players 
 bad, low people ; but, for his part, he saw no use in 
 commencing a crusade against them. We should 
 never exterminate them, they would exist 'spite of 
 us ; and people, he said, would go to theatres to be 
 amused. People must be amused ; he saw no harm 
 in it at all. He had had some thoughts, he said, of 
 going himself; and as to his apprentices why, it' his 
 young men were good and steady, and attended to 
 their business, lie thought it only right now and then 
 to give them a bit of pleasure. He had always done 
 so ; he had been forty years in business ; had had 
 about seven-and-twenty apprentices, all of whom, 
 for what he knew, 1/ad turned out well. He thought 
 that was a proof that his system was not a very bad 
 one ; and with all respect for the clergyman, whom
 
 A SPOKE IN THE WHEEL. 7< 
 
 nobody respected more than he did, he must still bo 
 allowed to pursue his own course. 
 
 The clergyman used his strongest arguments ; ho 
 knew nothing as yet of Williams's affairs, or ho 
 would have had a famous argument in his hand; but 
 still Mr. Oshorne adhered to the very last to his own 
 opinions perhaps even went a little beyond them in 
 opposition to what seemed the ultra opinions of the 
 other. 
 
 All this went on in the parlour, and Mr. Isaacs 
 and a customer, who was of the clergyman's way of 
 thinking, discussed the subject in the shop, whilst 
 Reynolds went on with his weighing and labelling 
 and pill-making, and thinking that they were" right, 
 every word they said. He did believe all players, 
 men, women, and children, to be a wicked, low, 
 dissolute, unprincipled set of people, and it was not 
 his intention ever to go near them again. 
 
 Next morning, before church, came Miss Joanna 
 Kendrick to beg that her nephew might go to 
 church. She was warmer even than the clergyman 
 had been, and really censured Mr. Osborne for letting 
 his young men go to the play-house. If she had 
 been asked, she said, she should have prevented it, 
 at least as far as her nephew was concerned. Mr. 
 Osborne could do just as he liked with regard to the 
 other. 
 
 Mr. Osborne felt quite vexed for the first time in 
 his life vexed with Miss Kendrick. He repeated to 
 her what he had said to the clergyman about his 
 forty years' experience in business and the manage- 
 ment of apprentices ; but it was quite in another tone 
 of voice, and Miss Kendrick was hurt. She replied 
 warmly, and so did he ; and really these two excel-
 
 78 A. SPOKE IN THE WHEEL. 
 
 lent people might have quite come to a quarrel had 
 not a note at that moment, from a physician, required 
 Mr. Osborne's particular attention. 
 
 This note was an awkward affair, indeed ; such a 
 thing as this had never occurred before in the whole 
 forty years of Mr. Osborne's practice. He started 
 up, and, with the note in his hand, went into the 
 back-room, which was appropriated to Mr. Isaacs 
 and the young men. 
 
 " Who made up that prescription of Dr. Chawner's, 
 yesterday ? " asked he. 
 
 Mr. Isaacs considered for a moment, and then 
 replied that Williams had done it. 
 
 Williams was sitting there reading a volume of 
 Massinger's plays, which he had borrowed from 
 Anderson, one of the actors ; he started, and looked 
 frightened. " Why, what of the prescription ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Did you make that up yesterday ? " asked 
 Mr. Osborne, in an angry tone. 
 
 " I did, sir," he returned, submissively. 
 " And how came you, then, to put in 40 drops 
 tinctura opii and 6 tinctura scillae, instead of 6 drops 
 tinctura opii and 40 tinctura scillae ? " 
 
 Williams could not tell, unless he had mistaken it. 
 Mr. Osborne swore yes, actually on a Sunday 
 morning. Williams's answer had provoked him to 
 it. " Mistaken a physician's prescription ! What 
 the deuce did he mean by mistaking a physician's 
 prescription, or anything else ! He would be poison- 
 ing people some of these days ; what had he learnt 
 his business for," &c., &c. 
 
 Never had Mr. Osborne, in all his forty years' 
 practice, been so angry as then. It was the first
 
 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 79 
 
 time in his life that ever a mistake had been made at 
 his counter in a physician's prescription. 
 
 Williams knew well enough the cause of his 
 blunder he knew where his thoughts had been 
 when he made up the prescription. He had not a 
 word to say for himself. 
 
 Mr. Isaacs, almost as vexed as Mr. Osborne, made 
 up the prescription, vowing with himself that lie 
 never would put another into Williams's hands. 
 Mr. Osborne wrote the best apology he could to the 
 physician, and Williams sat all the morning reading 
 Massinger's plays. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 
 
 THE whole town talked of nothing but the players. 
 One half the inhabitants sided With the clergyman, 
 the other half with Mr. Maxwell's company. The 
 theatrical party was headed by the family of the 
 lawyer with whom was Tom Bassett ; and this same 
 1 iwyer not only bespoke a play, but talked of giving 
 a supper to the principal performers. 
 
 The lawyer's daughters thought of nothing but 
 private theatricals ; and Tom Bassett, who was hand 
 and glove with half the theatrical staff, as well as 
 desperately in love with the prima donna, borrowed 
 the actors' own copies of plays, and was au fait in 
 all that appertained to theatrical life. 
 
 On the other hand, among the persons most active 
 on the side of the clergyman, were the good Miss 
 Kendricks. It was as good as a sermon to hear 
 Miss Joanna talk ; she really was more effective than
 
 80 DEEPER AND DEEPER 
 
 the clergyman, because she was less violent. Ho 
 talked of the theatre as the " devil's house," called 
 theatricals the "work of hell," and denounced all 
 such as, after thus being warned, wilfully aided and 
 abetted them, "as heirs of damnation." It was quite 
 awful to hear him talk. Miss Joanna, on the 
 contrary, spoke in love and tenderness, pitied the 
 ' ' or, benighted creatures," the players ; who, she 
 said, were more to be lamented over than pagan. 
 Hottentots, and she besought people, for the love of 
 their own souls, not to give them encouragement ; nor 
 would she at all go the length that the clergyman 
 did, in saying that it would be a good thing if every 
 copy of Shakspeare had been burned publicly by the 
 hand of the hangman. No, Miss Joanna, in all her 
 zeal, talked like a tender-hearted Christian, and 
 people listened to her. But, spite of all that she said, 
 and spite of all the clergyman thundered forth, the 
 little theatre was crowded night after night. 
 
 Mr. Maxwell, the red-faced manager, said that he 
 liked nothing so well as the opposition of a parson ; 
 it always did the house good, and he did not know 
 whether he should not introduce Mr. Goodman some 
 night on the stage. 
 
 All this time the rivalry between Tom Bassett and 
 our apprentice \vent on as hotly as ever. Each 
 thought himself the favoured lover, yet still each 
 hated and feared the other. Between these two 
 young men, however, there was one great difference. 
 Bassett had plenty of money, Williams had none. 
 All that he had of his own had long been gone ; the 
 pound that had been given to him by his aunt to pay 
 the poor bootmaker had been spent in tickets, as we 
 know. He had borrowed since then every farthing
 
 BEEPER AND DEEPER. HI 
 
 of money from Reynolds, and which, being but a 
 scanty allowance, was always hoarded and husbanded 
 with the greatest economy. From Mr. Isaacs he 
 dared not borrow*; nor, just then, when the memory 
 of his blunder was fresh in his mind, durst he ask 
 money from his uncle. There was, however, the 
 cash in the shop-safe. His uncle placed the greatest 
 confidence in him as regarded money a great deal 
 more than Mr. Isaacs had done for a long time. 
 
 " ShaJM or shall I not ? " questioned he with him- 
 self. Oh^ow bad it is when we begin to parley with 
 principle ! 
 
 " No, I will not ! " said .he ; but he said it feebly, 
 as if he were not at all sure as if he wanted, if he 
 could, to deceive himself into a notion of his own 
 virtue. " No, I will not ! " said he, again and again 
 " at least, not to-day ! " he should have added, to 
 be quite honest to himself. 
 
 The next week was Christmas week, and it had 
 been long an understood thing that Williams was to 
 have a holiday on Christmas-day : he ventured to 
 mention it to Mr. Osborne, spite of the unpleasant 
 memory of the prescription. He had heard, he said, 
 how beautiful the gardens at Alton Towers looked in 
 the winter, with snow on the ground and hoar-frost 
 on the trees ; he hoped he might be permitted to go 
 there on Christmas-day. " He would be very indus- 
 trious," he said, " in future ;" and being once on the 
 subject, he launched out freely. " He was so sorry, 
 so ashamed," he said, " of the blunder he had made. 
 Mr. Osborne had touched him so by his patience 
 and forbearance." Mr. Osborne, himself, thought 
 that he had not shown much ; but so the young 
 man said " and would he only grant him thia
 
 62 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 
 
 favour now, he would show how grateful he was." 
 On Mr. Osborne plain, honest, straight-forward 
 man as he was, and with every tendency to the in- 
 dulgence of his nephew, all this* made the very 
 impression which was desired. " Poor fellow," 
 thought he, "he is so cut up about that blunder; 
 he has never looked like himself since seems all in 
 a tremble and a dream ; one must not be too severe 
 with him ! " 
 
 " Yes, surely, he might go ;" but Mr^Dsborne 
 could not imagine how there would be any pleasure 
 in going alone could not Reynolds, too, have a holi- 
 day ? Williams, who did not by any means think 
 of taking a companion like Reynolds, reminded 
 Mr. Osborne that Mr. Isaacs went out on Christmas- 
 day, too, and Reynolds was to have his holiday on 
 Christmas-eve with his aunts 
 
 Miss Kendricks had not been to the Osbornes' since 
 the little rencontre on Sunday morning ; both they 
 and the Osbornes still let the little affair rankle in 
 their minds. It was that sort of quarrel which 
 sometimes the merest trifle occasions between friends, 
 and whether it shall be healed, or whether it shall 
 become a wide and lasting breach, depends upon one 
 or other of them on the first occasion of anxiety or 
 sorrow. As yet, however, that occasion had not 
 presented itself, and Reynolds went to spend Christ- 
 mas-eve with his aunts without being the bearer of 
 any message from Mrs. Osborne. Such a thing had 
 never happened before. The Osbornes, also, were 
 spending Christmas-eve out, and nobody was left at 
 home but Mr. Isaacs and Williams. 
 
 With Williams it seemed as if the crisis of his fate 
 were coine ; he had formed his own plans both for
 
 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 83 
 
 that evening and the morrow ; as far as regarded that 
 evening, he had formed them in counsel with himself 
 and in desperation, and to the stifling of the voice 
 of conscience within him. " But what must he, 
 must," said he ; " go there with her I must and shall, 
 and to go 1 must have money." 
 
 His plans were, therefore, formed. Reynolds was 
 out of the way ; his uncle was so, too ; and he made 
 himself sedulously useful in the shop ; he made pills, 
 and mi^fl emulsions for coughs and sold boxes of 
 issue-plaisters, and moved here and there with such 
 alacrity as astonished and delighted poor Mr. Ibaacs, 
 who was racked that evening with toothache. 
 
 " Go and sit down by the parlour-fire," said 
 Williams, as the time for shutting up the shop 
 approached, " I '11 make up the books and see that 
 all is left straight, and you go and make yourself 
 comfortable." 
 
 Mr. Isaacs, well pleased to leave his post at the 
 desk, where a draught of cold air came in keenly 
 against his ailing tooth, went into the back-parlour, 
 and Williams had the shop all to himself. The 
 warehouse-boy put up the shutters, raked out the 
 fire, and was dismissed for the night. Williams 
 added up the day-book, counted the money in the 
 till, put three-and-sixpence in his pocket, and entered 
 the amount, minus this, in the day-ledger ; and then, 
 unlocking the shop-safe with a trembling hand, 
 looked this way and that, and thought if Isaacs should 
 come in, or if Mr. Osborne should be returning early 
 by some chance, and peep through a crack of tho 
 shutters. Oh, that miserable if ! But why was ha 
 so fearful ! Alas, because he intended to take money 
 as he had already done from the till.
 
 84 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 
 
 Once or twice before, Mr. Isaacs had found somo 
 deficiency ; Mr. Osborne had never even suspected it ; 
 he would as soon have thought of his wife robbing 
 him as Williams. 
 
 The money was taken and dropped into the waist- 
 coat pocket ; the safe was locked, and double-locked. 
 If he could have seen his own face at that moment 
 lie would have started. But he did not ; and, rallying 
 himself, he put out the shop-lights, and went into 
 the back-parlour, where the caudles werafcburning 
 dimly with long, unsnuffed wicks, for poor Mr. Isaacs 
 was gone to bed. 
 
 There was nobody in the room ; it was almost a 
 shock to be thus thrown, as it were, upon himself and 
 his own conscience. 
 
 " Suppose," thought he to himself, " that, after all, 
 I have only taken silver, two shillings and sixpence ; 
 should I then go back and change them, though I 
 know what a horror this stealing is ? 1 wish one had 
 no need to do it ! " 
 
 He put his hand into his pocket and drew the 
 money forth to the light. It was gold two guineas 
 and a half. He felt glad that it was so. The 
 next moment Reynolds returned the gay, laughing, 
 unanxious Reynolds Williams envied him his light- 
 ness of heart. 
 
 The next morning the church-bells rang ; the sun 
 ehone bright, and the slight covering of snow and 
 hoar-frost was like the festal garment of nature. The 
 houses were decked with holly and ivy, people were 
 moving briskly about the whole town was merry ; 
 even the paupers in the parish workhouse arose that 
 morning with cheerful expectation, for that day they 
 were to have roast-beef and plum-pudding for dinner.
 
 PEEPER AND DEEPER. 85 
 
 Many people hived horses and gigs that Jay and 
 drove out into the country, so that there was nothing 
 at all remarkable in the circumstance of old Evans 
 driving one of his miserable hacks, which, however, 
 was made to wear its best looks that day, in one of 
 his smartest gigs, along the high street and half-a- 
 mile beyond the end of the town. Of this nobody 
 took any notice, and it was so contrived, also, that 
 nobody saw Williams, whose great-coat collar stood 
 up above his ears, whilst his hat was slouched over 
 his eyes, assist into the said gig Miss Bannerman, 
 dressed in a dark blue cloak trimmed with fur, and 
 a black velvet bonnet, and then take ^is seat beside 
 her, and drive off briskly. On they drove, and pre- 
 sently overtook two other gigs, in which were seated 
 five members, male and female, of the theatrical 
 corps, who, like them, were going to spend the day 
 in the gardens of Alton Towers. But as with these 
 other five persons we have very little to do, we shall 
 drop them for the present, and confine ourselves to 
 our young couple,.just as if they were quite alone. 
 
 Williams was enraptured with his fair companion. 
 She looked lovelier than ever in that black velvet 
 bonnet ; the walk in the clear winter air had brought 
 a colour to her cheek like that of the June rose. She 
 was, indeed, very lovely but not with that vulgar 
 loveliness which alone consists of beauty of com- 
 plexion, hair as dark and glossy as "the raven's 
 wing," and " dark, blue eyes, as soft as those of the 
 dove." These she had, it is true ; but that which 
 constituted the real charm of her countenance was a 
 sentiment of tenderness, calm decision, and truth and 
 love. It was a face to fill with tears the eyes of any 
 beholder capable of appreciating qualities such as
 
 8G DEEPER AND DEEPER. 
 
 these, in a being exposed to every temptation which 
 can assail beauty and taint the delicacy of woman. 
 Jessie Bannerman, though a "player-wench," as half 
 the town called her, was an extraordinary girl. She 
 knew her own personal worth, and her own dignity 
 as a woman, and she made her lovers feel it, too. It 
 is impossible to say what was the peculiar charm 
 which attracted her towards Williams, but to him she 
 had really given her affections ; this she had never 
 denied, she was really in earnest in her love ; and 
 Williams was never with her without feeling, as it 
 were, under the influence of a superior nature. He 
 fancied that he adored her, that he would have laid 
 down his life for her : he bought the pleasure of 
 being in her company at the expense of his own 
 probity ; and yet he felt sure all the time that could 
 she have only known this she would have rejected 
 pleasure at such a cost. 
 
 Beautiful as were those magnificent gardens, which 
 are said to be laid out on the traditional plan of the 
 hanging gardens of Babylon, the lovers took but little 
 notice of them ; he was engrossed by her, and she by 
 her own thoughts. At length they reached a pavi- 
 lion, which, lying in the full sunshine, was warm 
 almost as in summer. Here they seated themselves, 
 and Jessie, turning to the young man, said 
 
 " Now, we have had enough of flattery and non- 
 sense we must talk seriously. You have talked 
 hitherto ; you must now listen to me. My unhappy 
 family history, which you have heard, can only give 
 you the idea of me as of a creature sprung of 
 wretchedness and crime, to whom God has given, for 
 some mysterious purpose, remarkable gifts gifts 
 worse than useless if I am to become only the poor
 
 PEEPER AND DEEPER. 8? 
 
 degraded being which my present life may seem to 
 foretell. But, Edward," said she, fixing her large, 
 calm eyes upon him, " it must . not be so ; out 
 destinies, after all, are, in great measure, in our own 
 hands; a spirit within tells me so, and that spirit 
 shall be my guide. 
 
 " I have many lovers, but how few there are who 
 would marry such a one as me. I speak plainly, 
 Edward, for one of us must do so ; and as I have so 
 much more experience in life than you, and under- 
 stand you better even than you understand yourself, I 
 speak to you openly. You talk of marriage : what 
 nonsense it is of you, who are as yet a boy, and do 
 not know even your own mind ! I believe that you 
 love me ; but as yet you do not understand me per- 
 fectly, for you have seen only that which is idle and 
 trifling in me; but indeed I am capable of much that 
 is good and ennobling and valuable in life." 
 
 " Oh, Jessie," said the young man impatiently, and 
 ready to throw himself at her feet, "let ns unite our 
 fates at once. 1 know what you are I \vi*h you 
 not other than you are let me rescue you from a 
 fate which is unworthy of you ! My aunt is good. 
 When she knows your excellence she will love you 
 as a daughter : they love me, but how much more 
 will they love you ! " 
 
 " All nonsense," returned Jessie ; " you talk like 
 a child, as you are ; you, that dare not even -let 
 them know of our acquaintance, to talk thus ! No, 
 no ; we must have patience, and wait for the true 
 time. You must wait for me for five years." 
 
 " I will go with you," interrupted Williams ; 
 " what is all the world to me without you ! 1 know 
 that I, too, have talents I would be prompter
 
 88 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 
 
 even, or candle-snuffer, or anything to be neai 
 you ! " 
 
 Jessie laughed and shook her head " That would 
 never do," said she; " that -would not satisfy me. 
 My father," she continued, " blames me for want of 
 ambition ; but he mistakes me : I am ainbitious 
 ambitious of the greatest good which life can give, 
 and that is real love and domestic happiness ! Not 
 such love as we act night after night, poor, unreal 
 love, all tinsel and glitter; no, no, the love that I 
 mean is self-denying, long-suffering, unobtrusive, as 
 free to the poor as to the rich. Oh, Edward, I was 
 ill not long ago ; the company went on without me, 
 and I and my good grandmother for such she is 
 remained in the house of a poor tailor. Would you 
 believe it, but it was truly in that house, and with 
 those humble people, that I first learned what true 
 Jove was, and what was the real meaning and worth 
 of life. Happiness there was a substantial thing, not 
 dependent on wealth or the world's favour, for of 
 these they had nothing ; not wavering or uncertain, 
 according to the whim of the moment, but as real 
 and steadfast as life itself. Love was never talked of, 
 but they dwelt in its spirit ; it was as if the atmo- 
 sphere of a better region filled the house ; the children 
 were born in it, and breathed it as their native air, 
 and they were good and kind like their parents. A 
 light then broke in upon my mind. My grandmother 
 saw and felt these things as 1 did ; she is not, 
 Edward, the deaf, stupid old woman which it is her 
 will to appear ; but that is her secret she and I 
 understand each other. The goal which I have set 
 before my ambition is a home of love, and my prayers, 
 Heaven knows, are, that I may be kept pure and
 
 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 89 
 
 tnade worthy of it. This is, perhaps, my religion : 
 in the eyes of thousands of good people I am but as a 
 poor outcast child of perdition worse than a pagan." 
 
 " You are a real divine angel," exclaimed the young 
 man ; " Mrs. Osborne would love you she must and 
 shall know you," cried he, for at that moment every- 
 thing seemed easy to him. " When they know you 
 they will not oppose our union. I will steadfastly 
 stick to business ; my uncle is not a poor man ; he 
 will, I am sure, give rce a share in his business. I 
 will work so hard for you, and we will be so happy. 
 I shall become good through you ; I shall owe my 
 salvation to you ! " 
 
 "Amen!" said Jessie, solemnly; "but I, that, am 
 wiser than you in some things, must guide you a 
 little. You are yet an apprentice I am yet under 
 my father's control : a time will come when we shall 
 both be free. If you love me truly, you must wait 
 till then. Five years from now shall be our time 
 of trial. This is Christmas-day. You shall hear 
 from me on the fifth anniversary of this day, but 
 to me you shall not write. Five years from thia 
 time our trial shall have ended. Can you be true 
 to me for so long ? I know that I shall be true to 
 you !" 
 
 Lovers' vows sound foolish ; therefore, we will not 
 write down the violent protestations with which 
 Williams responded to this singular proposal. He 
 swore that neither heaven nor earth could ever 
 clvingc him and at the time he thought so. 
 
 (For my part, I, that narrate this story, must here 
 put in, ]>y way of parenthesis, that had I been present, 
 cr had been in any way consulted, 1 should have
 
 90 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 
 
 said that such a connection was of that doubtful 
 character, that, spite of Jessie's really superior nature, 
 the best thing would have been to have put an end 
 to the whole affair as soon as possible. But, as 
 neither I nor anybody else of great discretion was 
 present, the lovers made this compact, and then, the 
 rest of the party joining them soon afterwards, they 
 all adjourned to the village inn to dinner.) 
 
 It was as merry a dinner as ever was eaten by a set 
 of poor players. They ate, and drank, and sung, and 
 told witty anecdotes, and were ten times freer and 
 easier than so many lords and ladies. The host and 
 the hostess came to the parlour door, and listened 
 and laughed too, and, spite of the really serious con- 
 versation which had passed between him and Jessie 
 in the garden, Williams caught the infection of the 
 company's mirth, and was as gay as any of them. 
 Something was said of Mr. Goodman, and Williams, 
 who had always maintained that he had some talent 
 for acting, began to mimic his grave and measured 
 way of speaking. His personation was called for 
 again and again, and he was declared quite a genius. 
 Bassett,they said, could not do it half as well. They 
 then revealed to him a secret. Anderson, who had 
 the talent for writing little comic pieces of one or two 
 acts, had written one called " The Parson in Love," 
 intended to ridicule Mr. Goodman : there was a 
 young actress in the piece, Lucinda, who was to 
 personate a puritan lady, Mrs. Tabitha Twiggem, who 
 was to inveigle the clergyman, and load him into 
 endless fooleries. Jessie was to take this character 
 and Bassett was to take that of Parson Perfect and 
 it was to be given out that he was a new actor from
 
 BEEPER AND DEEPER. & 
 
 London. Now Williams was so superior to Bassett 
 that if he would only consent to take the character 
 and act, they would manage it ; they would put off 
 Bassett with something else, or let him act in another 
 piece, but Williams must be their Parson Perfect ; 
 they would have no nay. Anderson, who was of 
 the party, had a scene in his pocket, Williams 
 roust look it over and try it he did so Bravo ! 
 bravissimo ! they exclaimed : it was inimitable ! 
 Parson Goodman would never show his face after 
 the public had seen that ; he would have had enough 
 of preaching against players ! Williams, delighted 
 to excel Bassett in anything, consented to act. Jessie 
 heard all that went on, and did not oppose his acting. 
 It was very clever, she said, and much better than 
 she expected. 
 
 And now the company rose and began to talk of their 
 departure. It was already dusk, and bitterly cold. 
 
 " Ah, my good fellow," said Anderson, who wag 
 deputed to be paymaster-general for the players, as 
 he saw Williams about to put his hand in his pocket 
 for his own share of the expc-nses " have you a few 
 spare shillings in your pocket, ivv the fellow has made 
 me a deuced great bill let me see, have you five-and- 
 twenty ? " 
 
 Williams, who was in high good humour, and 
 greatly flattered by the applause which his acting 
 had obtained, drew out from his pocket a handful of 
 loose change. 
 
 " Ah ! capital ! " said Anderson, and took some- 
 where about seven-and-twenty shillings, saying, 
 " we '11 have a reckoning when we get home." 
 
 Away drove the company. The snow, which had 
 ihawed in the morning, had frozen again ia the after-
 
 02 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 
 
 noon, and it was terribly slippery, as veil as cold. 
 The gigs drove off, agreeing, on account of the bad 
 state of the roads, to keep in company. Williams 
 and Jessie were last. Perhaps Williams might be the 
 worst driver in the company ; perhaps, and most 
 probably, his horse was the worst conditioned ; how- 
 ever that might be, within the first two miles their 
 companions got farahead of them, and with every mile 
 their horse seemed to become stiffer and clun.sier ; 
 at last, down he canie, but, fortunately not lower 
 than his knees. Williams pulled him up again, and 
 giving him a series of cuts with his whip, broke that 
 useful instrument, but fortunately sent on his steed, 
 for a short time, at least, at a much brisker and there- 
 fore safer pace. Everybody knows what a hopeless 
 thing it is to drive a dull worn-out horse with a 
 broken whip ; slower and slower went the creature, 
 and Williams pommelled with the stump of his whip, 
 and flapped with his reins till he made himself quite 
 hot. 
 
 " Ah ! if our path through life should be like this," 
 sighed poor Jessie ; and scarcely had she finished 
 the sentence when down came the horse flat to 
 his nose, with his legs doubled under him. Crash ! 
 went one shaft, and out flew Williams on one side 
 and poor Jessie on the other. It was a miracle that 
 they were not both killed or had some bones broken. 
 Williams sprang to his feet, hardly knowing that he 
 was down, and with very becoming lover-like anxiety 
 flew to look after his lady. Fortunately she was 
 not hurt, not the least in the world, said she eagerly, 
 in her turn inquiring after him. No, they were not 
 either of them hurt only Jessie then confessed to a 
 very little pain in her wrist ; she thought that she
 
 J)EKPER AND DEEPER. 93 
 
 must have sprained it. Williams was in the greatest 
 distress what was to be done ? For her, nothing, she 
 said. There was a village just at hand, and thither 
 she would hasten for help, whilst he stayed with the 
 horse ; and off she went, firm-footed as a young roe. 
 The village was just by, and the most ready help was 
 obtained at the first house. Men returned with her, 
 with rope and lanterns, and presently the horse was 
 on his legs again, not looking much worse than before, 
 excepting for his broken knees ; the shaft was tied 
 together, and they were assured that there would be 
 no difficulty about going forward, as the road was 
 well tracked beyond the village, besides which, a 
 peasant offered, for half-a-crown, to accompany them 
 to the town with a lantern. 
 
 Very little was said by the lovers during the 
 remainder of their journey. Jessie seemed sunk in 
 thought, and so was Williams, for he was really 
 frightened to think how he should get off with Evans, 
 regarding the broken shaft and the broken knees of 
 the horse. Money, he knew, would make all straight ; 
 but where in the world was the money to come from? 
 He did not believe that he had more than a guinea 
 left ; thirteen shillings he had to pay for the hire of 
 the horse and gig, and half-a-crown must go to the 
 man with the lantern. 
 
 How those anxieties about money thrust them- 
 selves like evil demons between us and our pleasures 
 nay, even between us and our comforts ! We 
 have known many a dinner spoiled by the thought 
 of the cost ; many a good night's rest broken because 
 some dire thought or other about want of cash has 
 been gnawing at our heart ! And thus it was with 
 Williams ; all the day's pleasure was spoiled to him 
 
 6
 
 94 DEEPER AND PEEPER. 
 
 now by the thought of the reckoning. At length th 
 unfortunate steed stopped at the gate which led to 
 his stable. It was not so late after all ; it was only 
 eight o'clock. Their companions had arrived long 
 before and were all dispersed ; but the first person 
 whom Williams saw on dismounting was no other 
 than Reynolds, who, on his side, stared in amaze- 
 ment, and then looked reproachfully. He had then 
 been with that young actress to Alton ! This was 
 what he wanted the holiday for 1 
 
 Without, however, waiting for a word from him, 
 Williams called him aside, and putting the guinea 
 into his hand, said, " Just run over, there 's a good 
 fellow, to Reeves' s" this was a small druggist and 
 grocer's shop opposite, which Mr. Osborne supplied < 
 " and get me change," for Williams knew that if he 
 offered the full sum to Evans he should get no change, 
 and change he must have to dismiss the peasant. 
 
 Reynolds, amazed as he was, yet thinking no 
 harm, for he had always seen Williams with plenty 
 of money, brought back the change. 
 
 " And novr stop one moment with Miss Banner- 
 man," said he, " whilst I get the fellow paid," for 
 Williams preferred doing this alone. Reynolds, 
 though full of prejudices against players, both male 
 and female, could not refuse, and Williams soon after 
 joined them, when both young men having accom- 
 panied Jessie to the patten-maker's door, went home 
 together, but not before Williams had prescribed 
 bandages and fomentations for the sprained wrist, and 
 had promised to bring her that very night an embro- 
 cation himself. 
 
 If Williams had before been unfit to attend to his 
 business, he was much more so now. Jessie was never
 
 DEEPER AND DEEPER. 95 
 
 out of his thoughts ; considering that his aunt and 
 uncle as it were espoused the cause of the players, he 
 was for ever scheming whether he could not bring 
 Jessie and his aunt acquainted ; he thought of her 
 being adopted as a daughter into the family he 
 thought of a thousand unlikely things in fact, in 
 the exciti d state of mind he then was, he could not 
 tell probable from improbable things ; not at all ! 
 He even thought of getting the two guineas which 
 Evans demanded for the damaged horse and gig from 
 poor Reynolds. Reynolds could borrow the money 
 from his aunts as if on his own account, he thought. 
 
 Thus pondered and thus schemed Williams, and 
 in the mean time his friends the players were pre- 
 paring to bring out the new comedy of " The Parson 
 in Love;" the character of Parson Perfect to be 
 performed by " a new actor from London," and the 
 double character of Lucinda and TabithaTwiggcin by 
 Miss Jessie Dftnnerman. 
 
 Williams duly received his part in MS., which he 
 private ly learned and rehearsed, not daring, for the 
 life of him, however, to take Reynolds into his con- 
 fidence on this subject, for ever since the night of 
 the Fair Quaker of Deal he had been as vehement 
 against players and playgoers as his aunts 91 Mr. 
 Goodman himself. 
 
 A rehearsal of the whole piece was proposed at 
 Mr. Maxwell's lodgings on Sunday afternoon, and 
 thither of course Williams was summoned. But 
 when he got there something very peculiar presented 
 itself. There was Tom Basset t, to whom also a 
 copy of the part of Parson Perfect had been sent 
 there he was, come to rehearse his part, and had 
 brought with him an order for five-and-tweuty
 
 96 PEEPER AND DEEPER. 
 
 tickets. How was this? both young men seemed 
 to inquire but there was nobody to answer them 
 the whole theatrical staff seemed to be in the next 
 room, which was Mr. Maxwell's bed-room. Voices 
 were heard in this said bed-room, loud voices and 
 angry voices, too, and now and then the two rival 
 amateur-actors had the pleasure of hearing their own 
 names mentioned. 
 
 To pass away the awkward time, and to seem &t his 
 ease, Williams threw himself into an arm-chair 
 and drew his manuscript from his pocket, and began 
 to turn it over. Bassett seeing this, and instantly 
 detecting that his rival's part actually was his own, 
 pulled out his also, and seating himself opposite, 
 glanced from the paper in his hand at his rival, with 
 no very amicable expression of countenance. Just 
 as Williams was about to return the expression the 
 door opened, and in walked Jessie. She bowed 
 courteously to both young men, and thus addressed 
 them : 
 
 " There has been a strange and almost ludicrous 
 mistake made with regard to the part of Parson 
 Perfect. Mr. Anderson, it seems, intended it for 
 Mr. Williams." 
 
 " He himself offered it to me, my dear Miss 
 Bannerman," interrupted Bassett. 
 
 Jessie waved her hand, and continued, " Mr. 
 Anderson says that it was his wish that Mr. Williams 
 should take the character. Mr. Maxwell on the 
 contrary very much prefers Mr. Bassett having it. 
 Very warm words," said she, smiling, " as no doubt 
 you have heard for the walls are thin have arisen 
 on the subject. This, however, is their decision, 
 that I, who take the part of Luciuda, shall make the
 
 THE BUBBLE BURST. 97 
 
 choice between you. Will you, gentlemen, give me 
 your hands to be satisfied with my decision, and not 
 let ill-will arise between you in consequence, for to 
 one I must show a preference ? " 
 
 " We will be quite satisfied," said they both, each 
 sure of the preference, and took the offered hand, 
 which was extended witli the sweetest of smiles. 
 
 *' Then, Mr. Bassett," said she, " you take the 
 part. You are Parson Perfect and I Luanda." 
 
 Williams dashed his manuscript to the flov,r and 
 looked daggers at them both. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BUBBLE BURST. 
 
 THE next day the walls were placarded ; the new 
 comedy of The Parson in Love was to be acted with 
 new scenery, new actors, and endless new attractions. 
 The sight was 'gall and wormwood to Williams. He 
 had nevertheless in the bottom of his soul the convic- 
 tion that Jessie's decision was influenced by some 
 feeling of advantage or propriety as regarded himself, 
 but still he was mortified. In the eyes of his rivai 
 he was rejected. 
 
 The whole town talked of the new piece ; a 
 rumour got abroad that Mr. Goodman was to be 
 quizzed. Some of the young actors' pranks in the 
 town had caused a little scandal ; the public mind 
 was inclining against them. Good, sober house- 
 keepers found their servants' heads turned about the 
 theatre ; housemaids read plays while they should 
 have made beds; cooks gossiped for whole hours 
 at the bakehouse about the handsome actors and 
 actresses. Everything wa^ evidently going wrong.
 
 68 THE BUBBLE BURST. 
 
 *' It is high time those people left the town/* 
 Said those who were just beginning to veer to the 
 clergyman's side. 
 
 " Those disreputable people ought to be packed 
 off by authority," said they who had thought with 
 the clergyman all the time ; " and if they venture 
 to ridicule him in their obscene plays, they shall 
 be packed off and that handily." 
 
 Williams had told Jessie that he would not go 
 to the theatre that night ; that he could not bear 
 to see her acting with Bassett. It would drive 
 him mad, he said. Jessie did not urge it, and he 
 was almost out of his mind with jealousy and cha- 
 grin. It is possible, however, that, after all, he 
 might have gone, had it not been for an awkward 
 affair which just then happened. 
 
 Mr. Osborue and Mr. Isaacs were together in the 
 shop, when Mr. Reeves came in, and scratching his 
 head, said, " Is young Reynolds anywhere about ?" 
 
 He was not, said Mr. Isaacs, he was gone into the 
 country on business. 
 
 " Why, you see," said Reeves, addressing Mr. 
 Isaacs, and leaning on the counter with both his 
 elbows, and taking a guinea from his pocket " that 
 young gentleman got me to give him change, maybe 
 a fortnight ago on the evening of Christmas-day. 
 Now it is an awkward thing to come with money so 
 long afterwards but I put the guinea aside at the 
 time I'll swear to it that it 's the same and 
 now you see it's light weight. But young Mr, 
 Reynolds will know all about it in a minute." 
 
 Long before this speech was ended, Mr. Osborne, 
 \vho had come round the counter, took the guinea 
 out of Reeves's hand and carefully examinM it.
 
 TUE BUBBLE BURST. 99 
 
 He then went to his money-safe, and looking among 
 his gold came back and asked Isaacs in an under- 
 tone from Avhom he had the guinea 1 
 
 " From Reynolds," returned Isaacs, and went on 
 industriously polishing a pair of scales. 
 
 Williams came in at that moment, but Reevei 
 was so often there on business that he took no 
 notice, and seating himself at the apprentices' desk 
 began to think of Jessie and the play. 
 
 " We will have it made right, Mr. Reeves," said 
 Mr. Osborne hurriedly, when Williams came in. 
 " Mr. Isaacs shall see you to-morrow." 
 
 When Reynolds returned in the evening he was 
 summoned to Mr. Osborne's presence, who, producing 
 the guinea, asked, " Do you know anything of this 
 guinea ? " 
 
 Reynolds took it into his hand, and examining it, 
 returned it, saying that he did not. 
 
 " Did you," inquired his master, " get change 
 some little time ago from Mr. Reeves for a guinea? " 
 
 Reynolds changed colour slightly, and after a 
 moment's pause, said, " I did." 
 
 " And whence had you the guinea ? " asked he. 
 
 Re)' nolds looked confused and was silent. 
 
 " There is something singular in this," said Mr. 
 Osborne, " I must have an answer. The money 
 was in my possession a little time ago. I knew 
 it to be light, and marked it with a penknife that 
 I might not pay it away. It has gone from my 
 cash-box. I may have paid it away by mistake 
 but then how came it into your hands, or why do you 
 refuse to account for it ? I would not willingly 
 suspect." 
 
 w Sir," interrupted Reynolds, " I am innocent of
 
 100 THE BCBBLE BUKST. 
 
 what you suspect I never took a sixpence which 
 was not my own but yet of that money I cannot 
 give an account." 
 
 " It looks suspicious," said Mr. Osborne. 
 
 "It does," said Reynolds, " but that I cannot 
 help all I can ask is four-and-twenty hours for 
 consideration." 
 
 " You shall have it," said Mr. Osborne. 
 
 It was Mr. Isaacs's custom after seven o'clock to 
 sit in the back parlour, where he read the newspaper, 
 or dozed a little, after that time the apprentices 
 were alone. 
 
 " Williams," said Reynolds, as soon as he was 
 gone, " you have got me into a pretty scrape about 
 changing that guinea for you." 
 
 Williams felt as if his very heart grew chill. 
 
 " It was light weight," said Reynolds, " and 
 Reeves has brought it back again. Mr. Osborne in- 
 sists on knowing how I came by it ; there was, it 
 seems, his private mark on it." 
 
 " How came he to know anything about it? ' 
 asked Williams angrily. Reynolds told. 
 
 " The dsuce take it !" muttered Williams. 
 
 " Well," said Reynolds, " it is your own affair, you 
 know. I have confessed nothing, because I would not 
 betray you but if blame there be about it you 
 must bear it. I am innocent and can clear myself in 
 a minute, and would have done so if it had not been 
 for getting you into trouble about that girl." 
 
 " The deuce take it," again muttered Williams. 
 
 " You must make up your mind about what 
 you '11 do," said Reynolds, " I shall clear myself to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Clear yourself, and be hanged to you," returned
 
 THE BUBBLE BURST. 101 
 
 Williams "clearing one's-self is easy enough what, 
 do you take me for a thief? It's easy enough to 
 clear myself about the money I don't look at every 
 guinea that is given me I received only the other 
 day some money from Mrs. Osborne ! What a fuss 
 is here about the money ! but the point is not to let 
 it come out about taking Miss Bannerman to Alton. 
 And then there is that wretched Evans dunning 
 about his old dog-tit of a horse and his tumble-down 
 gig I was a fool for ever going to him ! The fellow 
 is as importunate as death. Now, I say, Reynolds, 
 cannct you borrow the money for me ? Won't your 
 aunts or somebody lend it you? " 
 
 " You owe me already two pounds fifteen," said 
 Reynolds, " and as to borrowing from my aunts I do 
 uot believe that they will lend me any." 
 
 " Oh, for heaven's sake, go and try ! " said Wil- 
 liams, deeply excited " this shall be the last time 
 that I ever will borrow from you. I '11 turn over a 
 new leaf, I do assure you I will ! I '11 be as steady 
 as you are ! " 
 
 We need not go through all the conversation that 
 ensued, the flatteries, the entreaties, the confessions 
 of past folly and extravagance, and the humble, con- 
 trite promises of amendment, all of which so worked 
 upon Reynolds that he consented to make one more 
 attack on his aunts. 
 
 When he reached his aunts, he found them in a 
 state of vast excitement. Mrs. Proctor, the great 
 town gossip, had just been there, and had brought a 
 long exaggerated history of how the heads of all the 
 apprentices in the town were turned with the players, 
 and how, in particular, both of Mr. Osborne's young 
 men were in love with one of them ; they had ben
 
 102 THE BUBBLE BUKST. 
 
 seen walking late at night with that good-for-nothing 
 Bannerman ; they had hired gigs for her and driven 
 about the country with her, and spent money upon 
 her without end. There was a bunch of flowers 
 that somebody had given her no doubt one of them 
 which cost fifteen shillings, and which Mary 
 Parker, the butter-buyer, had brought by order from 
 a gardener's in Birmingham. It was a sin and a 
 shame that they were allowed to remain in the town, 
 for thus these young men might be led into practices 
 that might ruin them for life. 
 
 As he entered he found his aunt Joanna with her 
 bonnet and cloak on, and with her servant dressed 
 also, and with a lantern in her hand. Joanna, late 
 as it was, full of zeal for the good name of her nephew, 
 was setting out to Evans's, to make him recall his 
 words with regard to her nephew taking out the 
 players in gigs. She knew, she said, that Evans was 
 wrong, and those who were to blame should bear the 
 blame, and not the innocent. It was in vain that 
 Reynolds made light of the matter as regarded him- 
 self; she was bent upon vindicating him, and he, 
 half in anger and half with miserable apprehension 
 for his friend, whose cause he felt as if he must 
 espouse, sat down with his aunt Dorothy to wait 
 the other's return. 
 
 On her return she came fraught with new tidings. 
 It was Williams who had hired the gig ; he had 
 taken a tribe of players with him to Alton, had 
 treated them at the inn, where they had all got 
 drunk, and in driving home like so many mad 
 folks Williams had thrown down his horse, ruined 
 it for ever, and broken the gig into the bargain. 
 
 " This come " said Miss Kendrick, " of Mr.
 
 THE BUBBLE BURST. ]CO 
 
 Osborne's encouraging those abandoned people ; con- 
 sidering what might be the natural and inherited 
 impulses of Williams, Mr. Osborne ought to have 
 been doubly on his guard. But he has sown in 
 the whirlwind and he may reap in the storm," 
 said Joanna with emphasis. 
 
 Reynolds fired up at once. " It was not generous 
 to bt- ripping up poor Williams's family misfortunes 
 - what would she say if people did so by him ; he 
 never would stand by silently and hear his friend 
 thus spoken of." 
 
 It was a luckless rencontre. There was always a 
 something in what the one said to excite the other. 
 Poor Dorothy tried to make peace between them, 
 but did not succeed. However, the end of it was 
 that Reynolds must stay supper with them, and 
 then, grown quite bold and desperate, he asked his 
 aunts to lend him two guineas. 
 
 Joanna actually started ; " here was more of the 
 devil's work," she said, adopting for the first time 
 the clergyman's phrase "no, she would not lend 
 him a sixpence." 
 
 " I will," said Dorothy, " not that I am satisfied of 
 all being right. But if he have done wrong we will 
 hope that he may do so no more. We must endeavour 
 to rule by love and not by severity, Joanna." 
 
 Reynolds returned home with the money. 
 
 There was not a deal of sleeping at the Osbornes' 
 that night. Mr. and Mrs. Osborne talked over, 
 with the deepest sorrow, the sad discovery which 
 they believed was about to be made regarding 
 Reynolds ; he who had seemed so steady, so, almost 
 religious how they grieved for his poor aunts. 
 All the little pique was forgotten. Mrs. Osborne
 
 104 THE BUBBLE BURST. 
 
 felt as if, from this time forth, she should show 
 them nothing but kindness, for this was indeed a sore 
 grief that would cut them up sadly. " Poor Miss 
 Kendricks !" that was the beginning and the end of 
 their consultations. 
 
 Very little sleep, too, was there in the apprentices' 
 room ; none at all in Williams's bed. Now he 
 thought of throwing himself at his aunt and uncle's 
 feet, and confessing his love for Jessie and begging them 
 to see and to hear her if he could not move them, 
 he was sure she could ! Now he thought of confess- 
 ing to having taken the money, and leaving Jessie to 
 stand or fall, trusting to the future as regarded her ; 
 for their own credit's sake, he believed that they 
 would sbield him from public disgrace ; then he 
 tried how it would be if he steadfastly declared the 
 light guinea to have been given him by Mrs, Osborne 
 but then came the difficulty about its being 
 changed at Reeves's. It was a bad, entangled affair, 
 and he vowed with himself, that once clear of it, and 
 all his little debts paid, he never would get into any 
 such mess again ! 
 
 The next morning he was up early, and set out to 
 pay Evans and have done with him. Unfortunately, 
 however, he went a little out of his way that he 
 might pass the patten-maker's, and thus have the 
 pleasure of passing the house that held Jessie. A 
 slight tap at the parlour-window arrested his steps. 
 It was old Mrs. Bellamy, who in her old night-cap 
 stood there, and beckoned him in. Jessie was down 
 also, and, early as it was, they were going to breakfast. 
 
 " We shall not now remain many days here," said 
 Jessie on his entrance, " if, indeed, many hours. 
 You are wigry with me I know, but you will pre-
 
 THE BUBBLK BUIIST. 106 
 
 eently see that it was the truest regard for you which 
 influenced my decision. This wretched pasquinade 
 was not my doing ; and when you hear those who are 
 really good and excellent in the town among the 
 rest the Osborues censuring me for my part in it, 
 then, remember, I was but as the puppet ; others 
 Dulled the wires ; had I been a free agent it should 
 not have been so. But Edward," said she solemnly, 
 " if you hear the worst and the most unjust things said 
 against me, do not bring yourself into t;-ouble by 
 defending me. You know me better than they, and 
 that is enough." 
 
 " You shall not go with these people ! " said 
 Williams. " Oh, if Mrs. Osborne did but know you !" 
 
 " It is impossible," returned Jessie, " she, like 
 everybody else, will take against me. You will hear 
 how we shall be abused; it will be a disgrace to have 
 been acquainted with us. All I ask, then, is, that in 
 your own heart you will not disown me. Never 
 mention my name but oh, Edward ! " said she, with 
 tears in her eyes " if young men ever have serious 
 moments of prayer then remember me." 
 
 The young man made the most passionate vows of 
 fidelity. 
 
 " And now," said she, " we part you must not 
 attempt to see me again. We shall meet again but 
 not yet in five years and then, perhaps, not to 
 part again. Till then, farewell ! " 
 
 There was something so singular and solemn in 
 her manner, that Williams felt almost awed. He 
 eeemed to himself to stand like a block, and do 
 nothing what was vowing fidelity he must give 
 her some token of his truth. He had not a ring to 
 break between them, but he had a guinea he rushed 
 out to the patten-ruakerV shop and cut a guinea in 
 7
 
 106 THE BUBBLE BURST. 
 
 two. " Here is gold broken between us," said he, 
 " keep one half for my sake ! " 
 
 " It is cut, not broken," said the old woman, 
 " and that is unlucky.' 
 
 "Money," said Jessie, " was not needed between 
 us what nonsense it was to do so a lock of your 
 hair would have been better or, best of all, nothing 
 for true-love needs no token yet I will not refuse 
 your gift," said she, putting the gold into her bosom. 
 Now farewell and when I am evil spoken of do 
 not let your heart be ashamed of me ! " 
 
 " Never," said Williams; " the worse they say the 
 better shall I love you ! " 
 
 No sooner was Williams out of the house than he 
 tiiought how foolishly he had done in sacrificing the 
 guinea ! How much wiser she was than himself ! 
 He could not now pay Evans, and there was nothing 
 to do but go home to breakfast. 
 
 " It never rains but it pours," says one proverb ; and 
 another, which means the same thing, says that 
 " misfortunes never come alone." It was so now with 
 poor Williams. But before he reached home we must 
 mention what he saw as he left the patten-maker's 
 door. A group of men and boys were tearing down 
 from the walls the players' bills, and daubing those 
 which they could not reach, with mud. It was as 
 Jessie had said ; public abhorrence had set in against 
 the players. 
 
 When Williams arrived at home, who should be 
 standing in the shop but Evans ; fortunately Reynolds 
 alone was there. 
 
 " Oh/' said Williams, without allowing Evans 
 time to speak, " I have been in search of you there's 
 a guinea for you. What do you come after me for ?" 
 
 " After you,'' said Evans, looking at the guinea
 
 THE BUBBLE B*l>HST. 10? 
 
 with disdain, " why am I to be overhauled v> I waa 
 by Miss Kendrick last night, as an abettor of players 
 and the very scum of the earth ; why ? I say, and I'll 
 ask it of any man ! " 
 
 " Ask who you will," returned Williams in an 
 agitated voice, " but, for Heaven's sake, begone with 
 you. You know that I mean to pay you honestly. 
 I set out this morning to pay you. Now, for 
 Heaven's sake, I would not that Mr. Osborne knew 
 anything about it ! " 
 
 " Will you pay me or not ?" asked EA r ans doggedly, 
 holding out his hand with the one guinea in it. 
 
 "Are you indebted two guineas to this man for 
 mischief done to a horse and gig hired by you to take 
 a player to Alton on Christmas-day?" asked Mr. 
 Ooborne in an awful voice close behind him. 
 
 He saw that he was betrayed, and turning pale as 
 death he said not a word. 
 
 Evans, who really was not a bad-hearted man, waa 
 Borry in a moment for what lie had done, and began 
 to apologise he coujd wait he was sorry, only he 
 had been provoked, &c. 
 
 It was too late either to be sorry or to apologise. 
 Mr. Osborne again sternly demanded from his nephew 
 if the money were due if he had promised to pay it. 
 
 *' He makes that demand," said Williams, " but 
 the horse was broken-knee'd and broken- winded " 
 
 Mr. Osborne cut his explanation short by putting 
 another guinea into Evans's hand and bidding him go 
 about his business. 
 
 With a sad countenance Mr. and Mrs. Osborne sat 
 down to breakfast. Everybody were drinking their 
 coffee in silence, when a loud knock at the private 
 door startled them all. The next moment the Her. 
 Mr. Goodman entered; and Mr. Isaacs, who had not
 
 108 THE BUBBLE BURST. 
 
 made half a breakfast, rose from his chau and went 
 out. The two apprentices were about doing the same 
 thing, when Mr. Goodman begged that they might 
 stay. He seemed very much excited ; he came, he 
 said, to complain of the vile, obscene pasquinade, 
 which had been acted the night before, and in which 
 he heard with sorrow and the deepest astonishment 
 that a character intended to ridicule himself had been 
 performed by this young man, said he, pointing to 
 Williams, and with this he drew from his pocket a 
 play-bill, and pointed out, " Parson Perfect a young 
 amateur actor from London." 
 
 " You are under a mistake, my dear sir," said good 
 Mr. Osborne, really glad to be able to defend hisnephew. 
 
 " I think I may go," said Reynolds, anxious not to 
 witness the trouble which he feared hung over his 
 friend. 
 
 " You may not go," said the clergyman sternly. 
 " I have promised your excellent aunts to question 
 you. I thought well of you, Reynolds," said he 
 mournfully " it has cut me to the heart to be 
 deceived in you ! " 
 
 " And what have I done ? " asked he. 
 
 " This impatience is unbecoming," said the clergy- 
 man, " very unbecoming ! Can you deny that you 
 walked up and down the town, arm-in-arm, with that 
 young girl, Bannerman, on Christmas-day-night ? " 
 
 As Reynolds was about to reply, Miss Kendrick 
 walked in, and scarcely was she seated when in 
 rushed Mrs. Proctor, regardless of times and seasons. 
 She came with a budget of news; but nobody could 
 listen to her, and she went out again with something 
 more interesting than aH the rest to spread abroad, 
 and that was of the awful conclave that was sitting 
 in Mr. Osborne's parlour.
 
 PART II. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND NEW. 
 
 MRS. PROCTOR and her favourite friend and gossip, 
 Mrs. Morley, who now, after an absence of some 
 years, had returned to reside again in the town, were 
 sitting together at tea. The little white muslin blind 
 was taken down from the window, for they wanted 
 to have a good view of a funeral that was about to 
 take place. Mrs. Proctor fortunately lived just by 
 the church, so that she consequently saw all the 
 marriages and funerals, and mostly invited some of 
 her friends to see them with her. The funeral-bell 
 now tolled solemnly ; the sun shone calmly over the 
 beautiful church-yard, and on the open grave, and on 
 the slow procession that now advanced towards it. 
 The ladies at their window made their remarks ; " it 
 was a very handsome funeral ; the very first people- 
 of the town at it, and no wonder, for Mr. Osborne 
 was respected by everybody. And there was young 
 Williams, whom the Osbornes had adopted as their 
 son what a handsome young man he was, and how 
 well he looked in his mourning !"
 
 110 OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND NEW. 
 
 Thus they made their comments and then sat down 
 to talk. 
 
 " Well, I 've heard say," said Mrs. Proctor, " tha* 
 young Williams is as a relation of theirs some sup- 
 pose a son of that poor Phebe Phillips, Mra. 
 Osborne'e sister, that married so badly but I don't 
 know it may or it may not however, you see, they 
 were always very fond of him, and behaved to him as 
 if he were their own son. When there was all that 
 stir and scandal about the players ! Lord, what a stir 
 it made ! They took his part and cleared him through 
 thick and thin though folks said there was some- 
 thing very scandalous and shameful, if it could only 
 have come out. Nobody knew justly what it was, 
 but those Miss Kendrieks, who after that time were 
 ten times more intimate than ever, and Mr. Good- 
 man, who was vicar here at that time. Well, as I 
 was saying, after all that scandal, poor Mrs. Osborne 
 never rightly was herself again. She had no regular 
 complaint, but she got ailing ; now she went here and 
 now there now for change of air, now for mineral 
 waters, and now for sea-bathing. It was well for 
 Mr. Osborne that he had such a trustworthy person 
 in his shop as Mr. Isaacs young Reynolds was out 
 of his time and was gone was gone to some great 
 house in London his aunts thought of making 
 something out of the common way of him and it 
 was well I say that Mr. Osborne had that steady Mr. 
 Isaacs with him, for after his wife was so poorly he 
 never rightly cared about business there ain't many 
 such husbands ! " 
 
 " I 've heard say," remarked Mrs. Morley, " that 
 it was a love-match at first." 
 
 " Like enough," returned her friend, " and old
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND NEW. Ill 
 
 folks as they were, they were like lovers to the last. 
 Folks said," continued she, " that all the trouble he 
 had with his apprentices made him sick of business, 
 and so he made Isaacs a sort of partner, and turned all 
 management over to him. Young Williams was gone 
 too and then after three or four years they sent for 
 Reynolds again old Isaacs couldn't do without him 
 and when he came, Lord, what changes he brought 
 with him he *d got new notions in London must 
 have the old shop-front out puts up new windows. 
 Inside and outside all was changed begins some 
 sort of manufacturing gets head-man nt once 
 Williams then comes back too a fine young man 
 indeed is he ! puts on a shop-apron again and buckles 
 to but anybody could plainly see that it was only to 
 please the old folks. She died, however, and then 
 when she was gone the old man was a regular wreck 
 broker.-up in no time ! Why he was only sixty- 
 nine when he died ! " 
 
 *' I Ve heard Nurse Gee say," remarked Mrs. Mor- 
 ley, " that it was quite cutting to hear him in his 
 dreams talking to her and then when he woke and 
 found how it was it was up with him for days. He 
 got quite childish before he died. I wonder how he 
 has left his property ? " 
 
 Some weeks after this the ladies were again 
 together, and with them Miss Jenkins, who was 
 cousin to Lawyer Bishop's wife, and she it was who 
 had first brought the news to her friends that Mr. 
 Osborne's will had surprised everybody he had left 
 positively twenty thousand pounds, every penny cf 
 which went to Williams, without a farthing's legacy 
 to go out of it. His house and business lie left 
 jointly to old Isaacs, Reynolds, and young Williams,
 
 112 OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND NEiT. 
 
 only Williams's name was to stand first in the firm. 
 
 The ladies were again talking on this subject, 
 which was not easily exhausted, when another was 
 introduced in consequence of a small modest-looking 
 card being brought in by Mrs. Proctor's maid, and 
 which ran thus, "Marianne Jervis, Miniature-painter, 
 and Teacher of Fancy Work of all kinds, at Mrs. 
 Cope's, Milliner, Balance Street." 
 
 " Oh," said Miss Jenkins, recognising the card at 
 first sight, " that is really a wonderful girl, have you 
 seen none of her work ? She does all kinds of work 
 paints miniatures delightfully does poonah 
 painting, and makes rice-paper flowers and wax 
 flowers just like life and makes bags of bead- 
 work ; and paints screens ; and does everything ; and 
 so cheap it's wonderful ! You may find your own 
 materials if you like ; and she makes them up beau- 
 tiful ! Mrs. Tom Bevington has bought sonic wax 
 flowers from her, and my cousin Mrs. Bishop is going 
 to have her to paint the baby, and the black spaniel. 
 She has Mrs. Cope's parlour : there is her father with 
 her, a very old-looking man, who goes about with 
 little packets of stationery, boxes of steel-pens, wafers 
 and sealing-wax, wrapped up together, saying that, 
 * all these are for one shilling only :' he leaves them 
 one day and calls for them the next ; and looks like a 
 broken-down gentleman." 
 
 " He has been here," said Mrs. Proctor, " but I 
 make a principle of never encouraging beggars of 
 any kind." 
 
 " They are not exactly beggars," said Miss Jenkins, 
 who had established herself as a patroness of the 
 young artiste " and she is the loveliest little 
 creature you ever saw, so small and delicately
 
 OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND NEW. 113 
 
 made; with a complexion like marble; and yet 
 pretty as she is, she is so steady and so kind to her 
 father, and works so hard Mrs. Cope says she ia 
 always up till after midnight. Have you never seen 
 her ?" asked she neither of the ladies could recollect 
 having done so but how did she dress ? 
 
 " Always in black," returned Miss Jenkins, " in a 
 black stuff frock, little black cloak, and a close black 
 ch;p bonnet." 
 
 No, the ladies had never seen her, nor had they 
 much desire to see her. There was something mostly 
 not quite right about such people. Many thought 
 that Mrs. Cope, considering that she was now a 
 widow, and had just begun business, ought to mind 
 whom she took into her house. She got into a sad 
 scrape some years ago, when her husband was living, 
 with having some good-for-nothing players lodging 
 there. They wished, for her sake, that it might all 
 turn out right. 
 
 We will now, the friendly reader and myself, look 
 into that same little parlour, which formerly we 
 called the patten-maker's, but which for the last 
 twelve months served the patten-maker's widow as 
 her little show-room ; but which now she had let, 
 business not being very successful, to the young 
 miniature-painter and maker of fancy-work, and her 
 dejected-looking father. 
 
 " And, father dear, don't be cast down," said the 
 young girl, " I am sure that he would not have the 
 heart purposely to avoid you. There must be some 
 accident about the letter being returned ; depend 
 upon it, one so young, and brought up with such 
 good people, must be good like them. All will bo 
 right in time ; only, father dear, do not be tout
 
 114 OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND NEW. 
 
 down !" said she, throwing her arms round his neck, 
 and playfully twisting her small fingers in his thin 
 gray hair. "It has not been combed," said she, " all 
 the morning;" and, taking a small case-comb from her 
 father's waistcoat pocket, she began smoothing and 
 arranging his hair. It seemed to have a soothing influ- 
 ence on him ; he sat still, and his face grew calmer. 
 
 " Well, well, child," said he at length, putting her 
 genrly from him, " I must be going, and if I am not 
 back to-night, don't be alarmed. I shall go round 
 by Lichfield and Burton, and may be absent two or 
 three days." 
 
 " But I must know, first of all," said she, cheer- 
 fully, " that all is ready for your journey. Have 
 you got your night-cap ? Nay, I must see it before I 
 can believe. Ah, good, yes ! And your gloves ? and 
 let me see that there are no holes in them. Sit down 
 like a dear father, while I mend them ; you will have 
 walking enough before you come back ! " and, so 
 saying, the dear, cheerful, little creature took out 
 her little needle-book and thimble, and mended up 
 the old gloves as tidily as if they had been new, 
 though anybody but she would have said that they 
 were past mending months ago. How like the most 
 skilful of valets she brushed his old coat, which, like 
 his gloves, had seen its best days long ago, chatting 
 and singing all the while like a spirit of love and 
 gladness as she was. 
 
 When all these little offices were done for him, and 
 the neat little paper of sandwiches put into his pocket 
 before his eye, and he duly warned to remember that 
 he had them with him, and not to do as he did some- 
 times, go famishing all day, and then bring them 
 Lome dry in his pocket at night which she assureJ
 
 A CONTRE-TEMPS. 115 
 
 him was anything but economical. When all this 
 was done, and his blue camlet-bag, which looked very 
 Inuch like a lawyer's, and which contained his neat 
 little* packets of stationery, was set on the table 
 before him, she brushed his hat, and set his stick 
 ready for him ; and then kissing him, woke him 
 from a reverie into which he had fallen. 
 
 Poor man! he looked harassed and weary, and 
 not fit to begin a foot-journey, even of two days 
 and so his daughter thought, and at another time she 
 might have urged his staying at home, but now she 
 had reasons of her own for wishing him out of the 
 way, at least fora little while; so begging him always 
 to keep the shady side of the road, and not to be 
 afraid of spending sixpence or a shilling in getting an 
 occasional lift in a returned chaise or even a cart, 
 and never to walk too far without resting, she did 
 her best to speed him on his way, and the poor day- 
 dreaming, unfortunate man took up his bag and stick, 
 and, kissing her tenderly, went out. 
 
 CHAPTER ft. 
 
 A CONTBE-TEMPS. 
 
 As soon as her father was gone, she set herself 
 busily to work; first of all, she took all her little 
 store of fancy-work and painting out of the window, 
 dusted the inside of the window, blew every particle 
 of dust from the various articles, and thought to 
 herself how fortunate it was that this window lay to 
 the north, and thus had so little sun to fade the 
 things, though it was a pity that even here the flies 
 made such Avork over everything. But, however, 
 all was now neatly arranged in the window, and she
 
 116 A CONTRE-TEMPS. 
 
 thought that they had never looked so nice before 
 next she set out her little table with her drawing 
 materials, and reared up the miniature of Mrs. Bishop's 
 chubby baby, which was not at all amiss, and the large 
 drawing of the black spaniel, and made everything 
 look neat and business-like, that if Mrs. Cope had to 
 bring anybody in during her absence, things might 
 look to advantage. 
 
 All this ended, and nobody in this world could make 
 poverty wear a fairer face than Marianne, she went 
 into her little chamber to dress. She had her own 
 reasons for wishing to look very charming this morning. 
 She had often been to the smart new-fronted shop of 
 W illiams, Isaacs, and Co. ; she had been sent there by 
 her father for wafers and ingredients for his cheap 
 sealing-wax; and old Mr. Isaacs and young Mr. 
 Reynolds had taken great notice of her ; Williams 
 she had never seen. Some way or other young 
 Reynolds always served her ; she liked to be served 
 by him in preference to any one, and whenever she 
 had been to the shop, he could never think of any- 
 thing but her all day long, and many a night he had 
 dreamed of her. She had done the very same thing 
 by him. He talked of sitting for his miniature, and 
 she wished with all her heart that he would. 
 
 Marianne knew her father's history, knew the 
 reason for his coming to that town. It was the 
 parable of the prodigal son reversed it was the pro- 
 digal father seeking reconciliation with his fortunate 
 Bon. He had sought for that reconciliation, and had 
 been repulsed, disowned, treated as an impostor, and 
 now his humble, touching letter had been returned 
 unanswered. He was disheartened, wounded, crushed 
 to the earth. He understood that his son passed much
 
 A CONTRE-TKMPS. 11? 
 
 of his time at Burton ; to Burton therefore ha went, 
 but without explaining his intention to his daughter, 
 determined to have an interview, and to drag pity 
 and justice from him. Marianne, knowing her father's 
 unsuccess, doubted in her own mind if he had gone 
 wisely to work. She could not conceive her brother 
 to be the harsh, proud, cold-hearted being that her 
 father had found him. Her father had forbidden her 
 interfering, but now, however, she was resolved to 
 make the attempt upon her own responsibility, and 
 her good, hopeful heart said that she would succeed. 
 
 She was still dressed in the black stuff frock, little 
 black cloak, and chip bonnet, but when she went 
 tripping down stairs, and through Mrs. Cope's room, 
 that good woman thought she had never seen her look 
 so gay and lovely. " What in the world has the young 
 creature in hand," said she, as she looked down the 
 street after her, " she is a good angel, bless her little 
 heart ! that she is ! " 
 
 Down the street went Marianne, and across the 
 next, right up to the smart chemist's shop, where 
 stood Reynolds, looking very gay and smart too, while 
 two apprentices and old Mr. Isaacs were attending to 
 customers. Reynolds, like Mrs. Cope, thought that 
 he had never seen Marianne look so charming before, 
 there was a half- timid, half- trustful, and most 
 peculiar expression, so good, so kind, yet so modest, 
 in her face, as she looked at him, and asked for two- 
 pennyworth of Indian rubber. He flew behind the 
 counter, took out a drawer, picked out the very 
 nicest pieces, all square and smooth, and every one of 
 them sixpence a piece. 
 
 " Is this two-pence ? " asked she, taking up the 
 very largest and nicest.
 
 118 A CONTRE-TEMPS. 
 
 *' It is," said he. 
 
 She took two-pence from her little black silk bag, 
 and wrapping them up in a small piece of writing 
 paper, on which some words were written, gave them 
 to him. 
 
 She saw him read the words that was what she 
 intended and yet, for the life of her she could not 
 help feeling almost faint as she did so ; and without 
 venturing another glance at him, she put the Indian 
 rubher, which he had carefully wrapped up for her, 
 in her bag, and hurried out paler than ever; and with 
 such a trembling in her knees, that she thought 
 certainly she should drop.i 
 
 Reynolds, on his part, was no less agitated ; the 
 words on the paper were these : " I am deeply inte- 
 rested in the happiness of one dear to me as life; 
 this obliges me to ask a private interview with you. 
 Will you 'meet me this afternoon at four o'clock, in 
 the fields between the old cotton mill and Crake- 
 marsh." 
 
 Reynolds asked himself a thousand questions, not 
 one of which he could answer. His feelings were of 
 a very mixed kind. For one moment he was sorry 
 that she had done this; the next he was charmed and 
 flattered. What young man of five-and-twenty would 
 not have been so too ? 
 
 At half-past three, he was sitting, very carefully 
 dressed he had never taken such pains with his 
 person before on the stile just beyond the old cotton 
 mill, looking towards the town, that he might catch 
 the first glimpse of her ; and a little after he savr 
 the light, neat, black -apparelled form of Marianne 
 approaching. He leaped down from his seat, and 
 sprang forward to meet her. She looked paler than
 
 A CONTRE-TEMPS. 119 
 
 ever, and greatly agitated. He would have taken her 
 hand, but she withdrew it hastily, but not without 
 his feeling how it trembled ; and standing still, she 
 said gravely, "As yet all liberties with me are insults. 
 Listen to me before you touch my hand, for as yet 
 I appear to you but in a doubtful light. Fifteen 
 years ago you parted with a little sister do you 
 remember her ? " 
 
 " I do," said the young mroi, striking his hand 
 upon his forehead, " I remember her well." 
 
 " I, then, am that sister ! " 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed he, with a feeling of almost 
 disappointment. " You tliat little Susan whom I 
 loved so much ! " 
 
 " If I were then called Susan," said she, " I have 
 since then been called Marianne there was much in 
 that time to be forgotten." 
 
 " There was ! there was ! " said Reynolds, " but 
 we will not think of it now. We will forget all the 
 past just now ; some other time you shall tell me all, 
 we will rejoice now in the present," said he, taking 
 her now unresisting hand, and putting it within 
 his. 
 
 " And you will see our poor father, then," said she, 
 " and acknowledge him ? " 
 
 He started, stopped short, and looked at her almost 
 in horror. 
 
 " It is so, then ! " she said reproachfully, " you 
 refuse to acknowledge him ! " 
 
 "How can this be?" said he, "is our father living? 
 I thought that they had taken his life." 
 
 " No, thank God ! " she returned, " he was trans- 
 ported ; but," she said, imagining that now she saw 
 why her father had been treated as an impostor by
 
 120 ' A CONTRE-TEMPS. 
 
 his son, " they never told you how it was really. 1 
 daresay he was but seldom spoken of." 
 
 " Never ! " said Reynolds, " I never heard them 
 speak of him; my feelings have always been so much 
 considered. And he lives then, actually ? " 
 
 " Yes, lives," said she, " and is so changed that 
 even you that nobody need be ashamed of him 
 poor as he is. But he is so good, so gentle, his only 
 fault is that he loves me too well, has adventured too 
 much for me. Oh, how thankful I am that you will 
 own him ! I always thought you would. Often have 
 I come to the shop, just to see you you looked to 
 me so good and amiable," said she, blushing, and 
 looking affectionately in his face. 
 
 " I declare I never saw anybody's bonnet fit their 
 heads so prettily as yours," exclaimed he, stopping 
 suddenly, and letting go her arm. " Come, I must 
 see this bonnet off," said he, suddenly untying the 
 strings " No, I won't crush the dear little bonnet, 
 not I. I tell you what, you ought never to wear a 
 bonnet ; it 's a sin and a shame to hide your head." 
 
 " Oh, give me my bonnet," said she, " you make 
 me quite ashamed ! " 
 
 " I shall not give up the bonnet till I have had a 
 kiss," said he ; and without further ceremony caught 
 her in his arms, and kissed her forehead and lips. 
 
 " I tell you what, 1 ' said he, " I really am sorry, 
 after all, that you are my sister. I would a deal 
 rather have had you for my wife." 
 
 "I '11 come and keep your house for you," said she, 
 " that I will; you have no notion what a good house- 
 keeper I am." 
 
 " No, you shall not keep my house," said he, " else 
 1 know somebody that will be falling in love with
 
 A CONTRE-TEMPS. 121 
 
 you, and then you will never care a jot for me. No, 
 I shall put you under a glass case, and keep you all 
 to myself." 
 
 Thus talked he ; and Marianne, happier than ever 
 she had been before in her life, walked by his side, 
 addressing him as "William" and " brother" most 
 affectionately, and thinking that she could not have 
 patience to wait till her father's return. At length, 
 in the midst of her happiness, one thought of regret 
 came to her mind, and she said, " It was a great dis- 
 appointment to my poor father to find my aunt dead. 
 He hoped with her to find me a home." 
 
 Again Reynolds stopped. " Dead ! " repeated he. 
 " She ia not dead. She is alive and well, and will 
 love you dearly, that she will ; and so will poor Aunt 
 Dorothy. Come, we will go there at once how I 
 shall surprise them ! Aunt Dorothy shall lay her 
 hand on your head, and feel your face, and then she 
 will know how lovely you are." 
 
 "Aunt Dorothy?" asked Marianne, "of her I 
 never heard.' 5 
 
 " I daresay you never did," said he. " She is 
 blind, poor thing, and thus is not as active as her 
 sister ; but she is as good. You will love her dearly." 
 
 " Now I shall go right through the town,'' said 
 he, " with you leaning on my arm, and only be sorry 
 that I cannot tell everybody I meet that you are my 
 sister." And so he would have done, had he met 
 anybody whom he knew ; but it was one of those 
 days when one chances to meet nobody, when nobody 
 seems to be out : so he reached his aunts' door without 
 remark or interruption. 
 
 " N*>w I shall astonish the old ladies," said he, 
 rushing in. " Guess what I have brought you," said
 
 122 A CONTRE-TEMPS. 
 
 he, leaving Marianne in the outer room. The old 
 ladies were very indulgent to their nephew ; they 
 guessed all kinds of things, but could not come near 
 the truth. At length he went out, and returned with 
 Marianne, saying, " My dear aunts, I introduce to 
 you your niece." 
 
 It was a most complete shock they thought that 
 he was married, and that this was his wife. " Your 
 wife ? " asked they. 
 
 " No,'' returned he, " not my wife, I wish it were, 
 but my sister, that sweet little sister Susan of whom 
 I used to talk so much. Is she not sweet and charm- 
 ing, and does she not look good and loveable ? " 
 
 " Sit down, sit down, my dear," said Joanna, who, 
 though taken so by surprise, could not help seeing 
 how confused and agitated the poor girl seemed. 
 
 Reynolds, who was quite vehement in his delight, 
 would not, however, let her sit down till she had 
 taken off her cloak and bonnet, that they might see," 
 he said, " what a sweet little sister she was." 
 
 Poor Marianne, more confused now than ever, took 
 the seat which Joanna offered to her. She was more 
 confused and agitated every moment. That Reynolds 
 was her brother she had never doubted for a moment; 
 but this surely was not the aunt which she had heard 
 described by her mother. This aunt had never been 
 married surely ! she wore no wedding-ring. The most 
 fearful misgivings came over her mind ; she felt almost 
 faint with apprehension. " And where then is Mrs. 
 Osbornel " asked she with anxious fear. 
 
 " My dear," said Joanna, " Mrs. Osborne has been 
 dead these four years." 
 
 " She was my aunt ! I have made some strange, 
 some frightful mistake," said she, rising, and ahrosl
 
 A CONTRE-TEMPS. 123 
 
 bursting into tears. " Tell me," she said, addressing 
 Reynolds, " were you not bom with the name of 
 Edwards, whatever you may now be called ? " 
 
 " This is the daughter of poor Mrs. Edwards," 
 whispered Joanna to her sister, who, though blind, 
 took the most lively interest in what went forward. 
 
 Reynolds made no reply a strange light burst in 
 upon his mind also, and a reality of happiness tilled 
 his heart but at that moment he could not have 
 expressed it. 
 
 " Oh, I have made some great, some frightful mis- 
 take ! " again exclaimed the poor girl, looking round 
 her. 
 
 Joanna ran, and taking her hand, said with a look 
 of infinite kindness, " No, my dear, you have made 
 no great mistake after all; you are right in one 
 respect you are among kind friends; we were friends 
 of your mother's friends of your aunt's we will be 
 friends also to you." 
 
 These words were meant to be consolatory. Mari- 
 anne felt that they were spoken in the very spirit of 
 kindness, but the presence of the young man troubled 
 her beyond words ; she feared to ask who he was, 
 and how it was possible that this mistake could have 
 been made between them ; she dared not lift up her 
 eyes to him. He too was bewildered in his turn 
 this, then, was not his sister, but Williams's ; she had 
 mistaken him for Williams. The truth filled him 
 with rapture ; his heart from the first had told him 
 that he wished in her something dearer than a sister. 
 He almost shrunk back at the thought of the fami- 
 liarity which he had used towards her. He saw how 
 she felt too ; they stood Jn a very painful and embar- 
 rassing relationship to each other. He rose, and not
 
 124 A CONTHE-TEMFS. 
 
 venturing even a glance at her, said thut he would 
 leave the young lady with his aunts. A cup of their 
 excellent tea would do her good. In the evening he 
 would return. 
 
 The quiet kindness of those amiable sisters, on 
 whose every action sincerity was stamped, reassured 
 the poor girl. They asked her no questions regarding 
 herself, but talked of the bright young days of her 
 mother, when they three had been happy, thoughtless 
 girls together. They spoke of her aunt and uncle 
 Osborne, as her mother had done; and when she 
 asked of her brother, they told her nothing but what 
 was good of him. He had been the companion and 
 friend of William Reynolds, their nephew, for these 
 ten years or more. Their nephew was the best young 
 man in the world on this subject they never were 
 tired of speaking they did not know what an agony 
 it was to the poor girl. At length, in the fulness of 
 her heart, she told all that had passed between them 
 her frequent visits to the shop, her hope of surpri- 
 sing her father in making themselves known to him, 
 and being acknowledged by him, (of his unsuccessful 
 attempts she said nothing,) and, now, what had she 
 done ? claimed a wrong relation made herself appear 
 forward and ridiculous, and all the time he must have 
 known how inapplicable every word she uttered was 
 to him. Oh ! why had he allowed her thus to commit 
 herself thus to betray her father's secret ? 
 
 The sisters could enter into her feelings and to 
 show their confidence in her, as well as to excuse 
 their nephew, they told her what hitherto they had 
 told to none that their nephew's early history and 
 family connexions bore sufficient resemblance to those 
 of her brother, to make the mistake which had occur-
 
 A CON IRE -TEMPS. 128 
 
 red so easy at first. Thus they proved to her that 
 they thought her worthy of their confidence. In 
 return she gave them hers ; she told of their life in 
 Australia; of her mother's goodness and industry, 
 and her father's hardships and sufferings; how his 
 spirit was broken by his disgrace, and how home-sick 
 he was for England. Her mother lived in a school, 
 and by her services paid for the education of her 
 daughter. She did more than that she gave daily 
 lessons in Sydney, where they lived, and saved money. 
 Anxiety and excessive labour, however, at length 
 preyed upon her health ; she had some kind friends, 
 and by them her death was made as easy as possible. 
 She had no anxiety about her daughter, for many 
 desired to befriend her : her wish, however, was that 
 she should return to England ; she left written instruc- 
 tions to her husband, with three hundred pounds for 
 this purpose ; she left her daughter as a legacy to her 
 beloved Aunt Osborne. Four years after her death, 
 the father's term of transportation expired. He 
 yearned to be back in his native land, and, taking 
 his daughter and the money, embarked in one of the 
 first ships sailing for London. 
 
 " In England," said his daughter, " he flattered 
 himself, that, broken-down though he was in spirit 
 and constitution, he could begin a new career. On 
 the voyage he spoke with the utmost impatience of 
 re-union with his son, of whom he was very fond. 
 His nature was softened, rather than hardened, by 
 calamity ; he often wept like a child. He loved her," 
 she said, " dearly, and was the most indulgent of 
 fathers, and had formed, she could not tell what 
 extravagant notions of her prosperity in England. II 
 talked of London almost as the nursery song docs, &3
 
 126 A CONTRE-TE3IPS. 
 
 if the streets were paved with gold, Scarcely, how- 
 ever, had they landed in England, when he returned 
 home to his lodgings almost on the verge of despair. 
 
 He was again a ruined man, almost pcnnyless. 
 How it happened she could not tell ; she suspected 
 that he had fallen into the hands of designing gam- 
 blers who had robbed him of all. He was in despair ; 
 his health gave way, and, at the suggestion of the 
 Kind woman with whom they lodged, she began to 
 paint miniatures and make fancy-work. She worked 
 incessantly, and made a large stock of things, which 
 she sold at good prices to the bazaars and shops. A 
 fellow-lodger, who took a great fancy to her father, 
 and who supported himself by dealing in common 
 stationery, was then ill, and shortly after died, leaving 
 to her father his little stock in trade, and his recipes 
 for ink and sealing-wax. This and her fancy-work 
 and painting had since then supported them. As 
 soon as he was better in health, and had somewhat 
 recovered his spirits, they came down here, intending 
 to make themselves known to her mother's sister; she, 
 however, was dead. And, then, as to her brother " 
 poor Marianne blushed deeply " yes, indeed, what 
 a strange blunder she had made ! " 
 
 Such was her narrative ; and the two sisters, even 
 the blind one, were as much charmed with her as 
 their nephew had been. Pretty she was, beyond 
 words ; and she was wise, and clever, and cheerful- 
 hearted, had had sorrow enough to have bowed her 
 down to the earth, and yet she was as gay as a bird : 
 the truth was, there was a well-spring of gladness in 
 her heart, and that was the spirit of love that never 
 wearied in well-doing. She was a very jewel of a 
 human being, and BO neat and fairy-like vrithaj, and
 
 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 127 
 
 had such pretty turns and ways with her that were 
 quite natural to her, and looked so arch and good- 
 tempered, that it put one in humor with life and 
 one's-self, only to look at her. She was a perfect 
 mistress of the art of pleasing it was born to her, 
 and therefore it was so easy. 
 
 She stopped all night at the Miss Kendricks. Their 
 little maid went to Mrs. Cope's to say so, and to bring 
 her night-things ; and Reynolds never got home that 
 night till the clock was on the stroke of one. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 We have not now seen anything of Williams for 
 some time ; not, in fact, for seven years. Time goes on 
 with such strange rapidity now-a-days ! Seven years 
 it is since we saw*either him or Jessie Bannerman. 
 We will, first of all, inquire after him, and know 
 something of the workings of his mind, for, if we are 
 not mistaken, he must in some things be changed, 
 since we saw him last. We have long known his 
 growing aversion to trade there is nothing at all re- 
 markuble in that. But as concerns Jessie, we must 
 make some inquiries. This, then, is what regards her. 
 
 When all that great affair of the players occurred, 
 his acquaintance with Jessie came to the knowledge 
 of the Osbornes, and the painful circumstances re- 
 garding their nephew that came to their knowledge 
 with it, caused them to imagine the worst things of 
 Jessie. It was in vain, when he had confessed his 
 love-engagement, that he tried to place her character 
 in its true light. They could not, and did not, 
 believe what he said. They regarded her as the most
 
 128 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 designing and artful of intriguantes, only the mote 
 detestable because she had worn the mask of innocence 
 and virtue. Williams yielded to the storm against 
 her. The storm blew over ; the sunshine of his good 
 relation's favour again fell upon him. The time of 
 his apprenticeship expired ; he was sent into the 
 world to look about him, not to labour. Poor Mrs. 
 Osborne's health began to give way, however, and 
 then he was recalled; her husband had not a thought 
 for anything but her ; they took their adopted son 
 with them, and went from place, to place to regain, 
 if possible, her health. She grew only worse and 
 worse, and died, blessing her nephew for haying given 
 up his inclinations to please her. In reality, however, 
 he had not given up his inclinations from any sense 
 of duty; he had only become indifferent about them 
 He had begun to look back to the days of his ac- 
 quaintance with Jessie, and his jealousy of Tom 
 Bassett, as of days which it was as well to forget; 
 not but that certain uneasy qualfhs came over his 
 heart when he thought of the fair Jessie, and his 
 plighted faith to her. But sufficient for the day is 
 the evil thereof, thought he, and left it to care for 
 itself. The appointed day at length came the fifth 
 anniversary of that strange Christinas day at Alton, 
 and he had curiosity enough to inquire at the Post- 
 office if there were a letter for him. There was a 
 letter from Jessie, and it ran thus : 
 
 " Punctually at the time fixed I now write. A 
 few words are enough. I will deal candidly with 
 you. Life has gone variously with me since we 
 parted. I have now nothing more valuable to oft'er 
 you than love and gratitude. Wealth, however, in 
 comparison of these treasures of life, is mere dust,
 
 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 129 
 
 Are you ready and willing to fulfil your engagement? 
 I have been true to you. If there be a moment's 
 doubt oil your mind, you are free. J. B." 
 
 Such was her letter, Williams sat and pondered. 
 It troubled him ; but then could he really marry, 
 and bring home as his wife, that girl against whom 
 so much had been said? No, he never could ! besides, 
 what would his uncle say? what would Mrs. Proctor, 
 what would everybody say ? It was a very silly affair 
 altogether a boyish folly. People could not live on 
 love and gratitude ; if there were plenty of motley, 
 it would be a different affair. No, no, he must put 
 an end to it at once. 
 
 He wrote. His letter might have served as a 
 model for the Complete Letter- Writer. He spoke 
 most feelingly of the death of his aunt, of his sense of 
 duty to her, of the force of circumstances, of his own 
 future and present dependence on his uncle, of the 
 sacrifice lie had been compelled to make of his feel- 
 ings, of his umvorthiness of her, of tho certainty 
 that she would meet with one much more deserving; 
 in short, the letter said, as plainly as letter could say, 
 that, to use a common phrase, he desired to wash his 
 hands of the whole thing. 
 
 He heard no more from her. She sent no letter 
 of reproach or remonstrance ; and he began to 
 congratulate himself on having so well got rid of the 
 connection. 
 
 Not long after this, his uncle's death left him very 
 unexpectedly possessed of so handsome a legacy as 
 gave him quite another position in life. He began to 
 take ambitions views, but still he was man of the 
 world enough to bear his greatness with a very philo-
 
 ISO AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCB. 
 
 sophical calmness, and had it been twenty time"? the 
 sum, he would have done the same. What infinite 
 folly seemed now all his connection with players and 
 all such low people ! It seemed to him a merciful 
 deliverance to have done with Jessie Bannerman. 
 
 He renewed his acquaintance with Tom Basseit, 
 who was now a prosperous lawyer, living on the 
 sunny side of life, in the pleasant little town oi 
 Burton-on-Trent. Tom was a very prosperous man, 
 and had just married the daughter of a rich country 
 gentleman. A prosperous country banker too was 
 the elder brother, with a fine country-seat as well as 
 his house, in the county-town. The Bassets were 
 people with whom it was creditable to associate, and 
 with them Williams talked of investments and pur- 
 chases. He began to turn his mind to the buying of 
 a country-house. Though his name was the first in 
 the firm, and stood in great gold letters over the 
 shop- door, he was very rarely now at the shop came 
 now and then as a convenience dined there and 
 slept there occasionally, but passed most of his 
 time in a lovely cottage ornee, which he had taken 
 furnished, by the month, near Burton. 
 
 Williams cultivated the Bassetts' acquaintance with 
 more zeal than they his. All at once, however, the 
 lawyer became very zealous ; it had occurred to him 
 that the family might make use of him on a particu- 
 lar occasion. Williams talked often of buying a small 
 estate, with a good house upon it. The Bassetta 
 had one to sell. It had belonged to the late Mrs. 
 Bassett : it was the property of the daughter, who 
 now occupied it, but, finding it lonely during the 
 winter, she wished to leave it. Her brothers advised 
 her to sell it, and invest the money in railroad shares,
 
 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 131 
 
 which would pay much better interest. Williams 
 \VM just the purchaser they wanted, one who had 
 plenty of money, and wanted to lay some of it out. 
 They were charmed with the thought, and nothing 
 could exceed the lawyer's friendliness. Tire next 
 time Williams talked of investing some of his money 
 in the purchase of a small estate, Bassett suddenly 
 recollected that his sister might be induced to sell. 
 Nothing in the world could be more desirable than 
 her place, it was just what he wanted in excellent 
 condition, neither too large nor too small, with just 
 the right quantity of land a thorough gentleman's 
 place. Williams's wishes were excited ; and then he 
 was informed that the sister was willing to sell ; he 
 might see the place; he should take a note to her the 
 next day. 
 
 " He '11 bite ! " said Tom Bassett, chuckling to 
 himself, and thinking that he had managed it famous- 
 ly. A word, now, respecting the lady herself. She 
 was older than her brother, was in fact two-and- 
 thirty, a really good, excellent creature, who, if she 
 looked as old as she was, made you forget everything 
 but how good she was. She was spoken of in her 
 own neighbourhood as something quite uncommon. 
 She had a school for the poor children, which she 
 superintended herself every day; she visited the poor, 
 lent them good books, and befriended them in a 
 hundred ways ; she was just the person calculated 
 for a country clergyman's wife. Her brother had a 
 husband in view for her, and desired nothing more 
 than to get her away from her cottage in Needwood 
 Forest, where, he said, she buried herself ali^e. He 
 wanted her to marry a man who was willing to marry 
 her, and who would have the means of putting busi-
 
 132 AGAIN, OID AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 ness in his brother-in-law's hands. She was a very 
 strictly religious lady, too, and, some people said, had 
 but little charity with the shortcomings of others 
 but they might be wrong, and we think they were. 
 The note of introduction which Williams brought 
 from her brother, insured him quite a friendly recep- 
 tion ; she ordered luncheon in for hun, and then led 
 him over her grounds, showed him her shrubbery- 
 walks, and her rockery, and her grotto, and hei 
 BU miner-house, and her little pond with water-lilies, 
 and her little greenhouse, and all her geraniums and 
 her fuchsias and cape-heaths, and heaven knows what, 
 growing in little heart-shaped beds, and standing on 
 elegant green stages and rustic flower-stands ; they 
 sat down together on garden-seats side by side, and 
 she pointed out views to him which he admired; they 
 looked into the kitchen-garden, and talked about 
 marrowfat peas, and the best mode of growing toma- 
 toes ; they peeped together into the melon-frame, 
 and she gathered a melon which he carried into the 
 house. It is astonishing how friendly they became 
 in that short time. Then they came into the house, 
 and he was taken into the nice little breakfast-room, 
 where were her books ; and the dining-room, and the 
 little boudoir it was too small for a drawing-room 
 where stood her harp, and her piano, and again her 
 flowers ; and there were pictures of herself smiling 
 on the walls, here with her hair cut short, and in a 
 prim white frock and pink sash, a demure little 
 school-girl ; and there at eighteen, fresh as a rosebud. 
 Williams thought to himself what a wonder it was 
 that she was not married at eighteen. After he had 
 gone through the house, he went to take his leave of 
 her, but he did not take his leave; they sat and
 
 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 133 
 
 talked ; then he had forgotten some little particular 
 about the garden-fence ; he begged again to sec it ; 
 the afternoon was ciarming it was a long way to 
 the end of the garden he feared he might lose his 
 way; it was very polite of her indeed she put on her 
 bonnet and shawl, and walked with him again. All 
 along those winding walks they went, on grass as 
 smooth as velvet, and passed first one flower-stand and 
 then another, up by the rockery and pool of water-lilies, 
 till they reached the very end of the garden and there 
 they sat down in the summer-house. Miss Bassett 
 was older than her visitor; he was her brother's 
 friend, so they felt quite at ease one with another, 
 and the end of all this walking and talking was, that 
 Williams, instead of negotiating about the purchase ot 
 the place, made her an offer of marriage she had 
 fifteen thousand pounds beside the place he made 
 her an offer of marriage, and was accepted. 
 
 He felt that he had done a good day's work 
 he never was so well satisfied with himself before. 
 He mounted his horse, and rode home, not to his 
 cottage at Burton, but to the shop. The side parlour, 
 where in former days his uncle and aunt, good, quiet 
 people, had passed their time, and received their 
 friends, was now his own particular room. Nobody 
 entered it without his permission, and there he trans- 
 acted his private business : and there, as he sat that 
 evening, in a large easy- chair, in the pride of his 
 successful wooing, never dreaming of his father, came 
 that father, for the first time, to claim his love and 
 his compassion. Had Mr. Osborne risen from the 
 dead to snatch from him his twenty thousand pounds 
 of legacy, the shock could hardly have, been greater 
 than it was, when that man, who seemed to belong to
 
 134 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE 
 
 the class of genteel beggars, or broken-down trades* 
 men, stepped forward, and in words almost inarticulate 
 from emotion, said in a hollow voice, " William { 
 my son ! I am your father ! " 
 
 It might, or it might not, be so the stranger bore 
 no resemblance to his father, as he remembered him; 
 but, at all events, the rencontre was unpleasant. He 
 assumed his coldest air ; he seemed to disbelieve ; he 
 refused to look at any documents which the stranger 
 produced ; he said he had an engagement, looked at 
 his watch, and rose from his chair. The father, who 
 was much cut down, wept ; and the son, disturbed 
 and displeased, and yet troubled with the apprehen- 
 sion that it might be true, gave him two guineas, and 
 begged that he might not hear of him again; he 
 really could not thus be molested it was extremely 
 unpleasant. 
 
 The poor man walked submissively away ; he felt 
 in the depths of his soul how hard it is for the poor 
 to take hold on the souls of the rich. Again and 
 again they met, and Williams, who, of all things, 
 saw how undesirable was such a claimant and such a 
 connection, shut his heart against conviction, and 
 doled out relief as if to a common importunate beggar. 
 The father grew angry, rose in his demands, talked 
 of an appeal to the magistrates to have his claim 
 on his son enforced : and the son, on his part, who, 
 however, would have made any sacrifice rather than 
 that the thing should become public at all, threatened 
 to have the father prosecuted as an impostor. 
 
 During these hard contests between father and son, 
 the Bassett brothers heard, with the utmost amaze- 
 ment and vexation, of the engagement between their 
 eieter and Williams. They were fairly taken in their
 
 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 135 
 
 own net, and were only the more angry from that 
 fact. Every argument now that could be advanced 
 against Williams was brought forward his being, 
 as it were, nobody his early connection with the 
 players his shop. But those arguments had no 
 weight with the lady ; she was not a child, she said, 
 to be turned about by the first adverse opinion ; she 
 had chosen him in the maturity of her judgment ; 
 she had no fear but that he was of honest descent ; 
 and, in spite of old scandals, in spite of the shop, it 
 was her firm intention to unite herself to him. For 
 a short time the brothers were silent; but again they 
 came forward triumphantly against Williams, full of 
 the most fearful anxiety for their sister. They had 
 been making inquiries a rumour had reached them, 
 they were themselves convinced of the truth of it 
 Williams was the son of a convict swindler ! the son 
 of that Edwards who was transported sixteen years 
 ago for forgery. He had been adopted by the 
 Osbornes, and did not bear even his own name ! Their 
 sister never should marry the son of a convict they 
 would oppose it in every way she might turn 
 Catholic, and enter a convent, but marry him she 
 never should. 
 
 Thus the brothers wrote to her, and at the very 
 same time poor Edwards wrote to his son a letter 
 of humility and prayer. He was ill, he said : his 
 daughter was wearing herself away over her work, 
 which brought her no profit. If he, the son, would 
 only allow them a hundred pounds a year, to be paid 
 by a respectable banker, they would quit the town for 
 ever, to live in some quiet, secluded place, where he 
 should never hear of them more. Oh ! for the lova 
 of mercy, would he but do this ?
 
 136 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 This letter was returned unopened and unanswered, 
 and it was at this crisis that poor Edwards, as we have 
 Been, disheartened and disappointed, left home with 
 his camlet bag for an absence of two or three days. 
 Williams was by no means in an easy state of mind, 
 when a letter came to him from Miss Bassett, which, 
 as we may believe, considerably agitated him. It 
 was short, but still it said much. " Mere rank," she 
 said, " was of no value in her mind, nor was great 
 wealth; and, therefore, as he knew, she had made 
 light of her brothers' objections against him on the 
 score of his being.of ordinary birth, and connected with 
 trade : but an unsullied name and a fearlessly upright 
 character were another thing ; she now, therefore, put 
 it to him solemnly, as he would answer before heaven 
 No ; she would not put it thus," she said, " she 
 would merely put it to his honour, to his regard for 
 her, was he, or was he not, the son of that unhappy 
 convict, Edwards, who was married to Miss Phillips, 
 the sister of Mrs. Osborne?" 
 
 Terror now fell upon him strong as an armed man. 
 His first thought was to get his father out of the way 
 at any cost. He actually went to Mrs. Cope's, and 
 asked to see him. He was out his daughter was out ; 
 there was nothing to be done then, and, therefore, 
 he sat down and wrote his answer to the lady, whom 
 he was resolved not to lose. He talked of malice, 
 and false friendship, and base attempts which were 
 made to ruin him in her eyes, all which he said he 
 defied. He deplored himselfas the most unfortunate 
 of men, because having been early left an 01 phan , 
 he himself had not known his parents. He pvizod 
 an unsullied name as much as she did, and would 
 make one for himself. With her love, and for her
 
 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 137 
 
 love, he could do anything ; without it he should be 
 the veriest outcast in the world ! He was not tht son 
 of that unfortunate man, Edwards ! and he earnestly 
 besought her to close her ears against that malice 
 which was bent upon ruining him. " He felt," he said, 
 " that, once united, they should be happy ; till then, 
 endless plans would be formed to separate them. Might 
 he beseech of her at once to set this malice at defiance 
 by allowing their marriage to take place immediately."* 
 
 It was a bold letter. He trembled as he despatched 
 it. The next post brought him an answer. " Thank 
 you ; you have taken a load from my heart. I knew 
 that you had not willingly deceived me, and I believe 
 you. But, Edward, shall I now confess my weakness 
 had you, fearing to speak a falsehood, even for a 
 great reward, said, ' Yes, I am the son of that unhappy 
 convict, and in reality I bear his name,' I could not 
 have abandoned you. Oh, my friend, you have gained 
 great power over me you are very dear to me, and 
 I would have stood by your side to the last ; and if the 
 world had upbraided you, it should have upbraided 
 me also. But, thank God, it need not be so. I will 
 be candid with you. My brothers are extremely 
 inveterate against you. Their consent to our marriage 
 will not be obtained, I fear. I Avish to see you soon. 
 Come over for an hour to-morrow." 
 
 There are no reproofs to a heart not naturally bad, 
 so severe as those of kindness. Williams sat silent 
 and self-accused. All his life long it seemed to him 
 that he had lived in the midst of kindness, which ho 
 had ill requited. He thought of Jessie Bannerman 
 oh how often had Miss Bassett reminded him of Jessie 
 in her calm truthfulness ! he thought of his good 
 auut and uncle, how he had cheated and deceived
 
 138 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 them. He was a moral coward ; he had not tha 
 courage to do right and he sat now humbled and 
 chastised by his conscience. Oh that I had dared to 
 speak the truth ! Oh that I had but had the courage 
 to speak the truth that I had but had faith in the 
 real greatness and goodness of her soul ! I am a liar 
 and a cheat, let me bear as fair a face to the world aa 
 J may, and a day will come when all my falsehood 
 will come to light ! 
 
 The next day he set off to the Forest for the inter- 
 view which she desired, but not before lie again made 
 inquiries after the lodger at Mrs. Cope's, but the 
 lodger was not returned, and, racked with the appre- 
 hension of something terrible hanging over him, lie 
 set out. He was prepared for some dreadful catas- 
 trophe, and felt more like a criminal going to judg- 
 ment, than a lover on his way to arrange with a 
 loving mistress for an early marriage. But what whips 
 and stings has an evil conscience how it torments 
 with everlasting suggestions ; suppose Miss Bassett 
 should meet him with the full knowledge of all hi8 
 baseness suppose his father had actually been with 
 her brothers, or herself suppose he should be there 
 with her, and she should confront them face to face ! 
 What should he do ? Had he not now better go and 
 throw himself at her feet, and confess all? Could 
 she indeed love him after such a proof of his weak- 
 ness ? Or should he boldly adhere to his lie, and 
 dare all consequences ? He could not tell he knew 
 not what to do he was like a weed on the tempested 
 water, tossed here and there. A bitter curse is a mind 
 ever wavering between right and wrong! and thus- 
 miserable, vacillating, apprehensive, repentant, and yet 
 ready to commit fresh sin to save himself, he went on.
 
 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 139 
 
 As he rode slowly up through the plantations to 
 the front of the cottage, a tall, but bending figure, 
 was slowly passing down a side walk from the hack 
 premises. The rusty, but well-preserved black suit, 
 the old hat, the blue camlet bag, he recognised them 
 instantly. It was as if a dagger had pierced through 
 his heart. He stopped his horse instantly he had 
 better at once fly than face her his father had really 
 been there had revealed all, no doubt he had not 
 yet been seen from the house there was time to fly 
 shame and terror overwhelmed him. 
 
 " Good morning, sir," said the cheerful voice of the 
 gardener. " Shall 1 lead your horse up to the stable ? 
 Missis is in the little flower-garden." 
 
 The gardener's voice reassured him, so did his 
 words ; Miss Bassett was in the garden she had not, 
 then, seen his father. " What a coward apprehension 
 has made of me !" thought he, and rode up to the 
 house, bidding the gardener say nothing of his being 
 come, and he would join Miss Bassett presently. 
 
 He was glad of this respite to recover himself; 
 the servants received him like a welcome guest at the 
 house ; servants by instinct learn the tone of their 
 employers' feelings he knew that at present all was 
 right. 
 
 " What did the old man want, with the blue bag, 
 who was here just now ? " asked he. 
 
 " He has left a packet for the lady," the servant 
 replied. 
 
 " The packet is for me let me have it instantly," 
 eaid he in a spasm of fear. " Fly, quick ! " 
 
 The servant, interpreting his impatience to be that 
 of a lover, flew quickly, as he desired, to put into his 
 hand one of those small packets of stationery which
 
 140 AGAIN, OLD AND NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 poor Edwards carried about. " To the inhabitant of 
 this house," he read on the outside. Again there 
 seemed something pitiful in his fear. There was 
 nothing but innocent pens, sealing-wax, and wafers, 
 inclosed in a wrapper, on which was printed, " All 
 these for one shilling. The maker, who humbly 
 solicits the benevolent to purchase, will call again to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " The man is poor, very poor," said Williams, 
 wrapping up the box again. " When he calls, give 
 him this," said he, giving the servant & guinea kl lie 
 is very poor, though importunately troublesome ; bid 
 him not to come here again, however ! " 
 
 Miss Bassett, so far from having any quarrel with 
 her lover, or any suspicion of wrong against him, 
 received him with the most marked, yet delicate kind- 
 ness. Not one word did she say of the painful subject 
 of their letters, but she spoke with tears of the harsh- 
 ness and unkindness of her brothers. They had quar- 
 relled with her she had no hope of reconciliation with 
 them she wished to leave the neighbourhood. 
 Williams proposed their immediate marriage she 
 made no opposition she felt as if she had no friend 
 but himself. They arranged their plans rapidly. 
 Williams, amazed at his own good fortune, was 
 quite at his ease. The marriage, it was agreed, should 
 take place, secretly, early in the next week they 
 would go at once to London, and from thence her 
 brothers should know that their opposition was 
 useless, and from London they would go to the Con- 
 tinent, where they would remain till the family dis- 
 plrasure had cooled. 
 
 Whilst thus arranging so agreeably his affairs with 
 his affianced bride, his mind was busy about his
 
 THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED. 141 
 
 father, and he formed a plan, which, under the better 
 feeling inspired by the secret influence of this excel- 
 lent woman, was not without kindness. He gave a 
 sealed paper to the servant, which he ordered her 
 to give to the man, and then, after waiting to ascer- 
 tain that it was delivered into his hand, he took 
 .leave of his bride, to meet her again only for the 
 marriage. 
 
 From the Forest Lodge he went to the Three 
 Queens, in Burton, where, as lie expected, the poor 
 man with the camlet bag was not long in making his 
 appearance also. They had a long interview, wliu-li 
 ended apparently most amicably. They both left 
 Burton that night Edwards by one coach, and his 
 son by another. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED. 
 
 IT was two days after this before he reached home. 
 He came by the Birmingham coach, but he was so 
 entirely his own master, that nobody ever thought 
 of asking wherefore he had been there. Reynolds, 
 however, who had been looking for him every hour 
 since the discovery he had made regarding his sister, 
 met him at the shop-door with that sort of impatient 
 good-news countenance, which seems to say, " Here I 
 am ! ask me what I have got to tell ! " But Williams 
 did not ask, and at last Reynolds, who could contain 
 no longer, invited him to a private conference, and 
 then began in a low voice of the most heartfelt joy 
 " I say, my good fellow, do you know that your sister 
 is hi this town ? The most beautiful little angel that 
 ever was seen, and as good as she is beautiful ! And 
 
 9
 
 142 THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED. 
 
 do you know," added he in a more measured tone, 
 " that your father is here too 1 " 
 
 Williams turned pale as death, and Reynolds attri- 
 buting this to shame regarding his father's disgrace, 
 wished he only knew how to show his good and kind 
 intentions. " I am sure, my dear fellow," he began, 
 " if I were in your place, 1 would not let it trouble 
 me a bit ; the world need not know anything about 
 it ; and to make you quite at ease with me on the 
 subject, I will confess something to you. I too have 
 had sorrow in my family, and deeper sorrow than 
 yours, for here is your father come back, with time, 
 and opportunity, and willingness to retrieve his 
 character in life. My poor father, alas, had not time 
 hardly to repent. You and I are old friends ; there 
 need be no secrets between us, though nobody else 
 need know about your poor father nobody, indeed, 
 ever dreams that this is your father nohody but Miss 
 Kend ricks and myself." 
 
 " What, in the fiend's name, does all this mean ? " 
 demanded Williams, again assaulted on this fearful 
 subject from a quarter where he least expected it. 
 
 " What does it mean ? " repeated Reynolds, quite 
 taken aback. " Why, that your father is come back, 
 and that your sister is here, and that my aunt 
 Kendricks can see in her a strong likeness to your 
 mother." 
 
 Reynolds had never in his life before mentioned to 
 Williams suspicions of his parentage, and he now said, 
 " I *ve known it long, Williams, that Edwards was 
 your father, and it 's no use trying to impose upon 
 me ; nor really, if you knew me, would you think it 
 needful to try; so let, us deal openly with one 
 another here are your father and sister."
 
 "THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED. 143 
 
 "They arc impostors," interrupted Williams, in a 
 low, but firm voice. "Arch impostors; and don't 
 you go and let your good-nature believe every artful 
 lie that is told you. They are impostors, I tell you; 
 I have seen him, and I am mistaken if he be not off 
 pretty handily." 
 
 " And .do you actually pretend not to believe it ? " 
 cried Reynolds, growing quite warm. " I appeal to 
 your conscience, Williams, whether, in the face of 
 heaven, you dare to disown them. They are not 
 impostors, and that you know ! How dare you, with 
 your plenty, or even if you had to slave for your 
 daily bread it would be the same thing, how dare you 
 cast your father into poverty, perhaps into crime, and 
 what is ten thousand times worse, cast that lovely 
 creature, your own sister, who is pure as the very 
 stars of heaven, friendless upon the world ? I will 
 stand between you and your pride, Williams, if pride 
 it be, or your false shame, or want of moral courage, 
 or whatever it is, and force you to do them right ! 
 They are your own flesk and blood, and as you hope 
 for the blessing of God on your own life and under- 
 takings, be just to them." 
 
 Williams heard all in gloomy silence, and .then 
 inquired where he had seen " these people." 
 
 Reynolds related what had occurred between 
 Marianne and himself, and showed how the peculiar 
 circumstances of his own early life had rendered him, 
 as it were, innocently a party in the misunderstand- 
 ing; he told how pleased his aunt Kendricks had 
 been with her, and how they had kept her at their 
 house for one, if not two, nights. 
 
 A peculiar smile passed over Williarms's counte- 
 nance, which Reynolds could not understand. " What
 
 144 THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED. 
 
 a fool the girl must be, if this be not a double- dyed 
 piece of artifice," said he. " And how famously you 
 have been imposed upon ! " 
 
 With these words he left him, and Reynolds, 
 burning with indignation at what he felt to be his 
 cold-blooded pride, felt, nevertheless, an uncom- 
 fortable query in his own heart " And can 1, after 
 all, have been duped ? " 
 
 "No! no! no !" said every sense of honesty and 
 sincerity in his own breast. " As soon would I 
 disbelieve the sun in heaven as that girl." He was 
 sure he was right, and, within half an hour, set off to 
 Mrs. Cope's, to see both father and daughter. He was 
 bent upon obtaining from them such evidences as 
 Williams should not gainsay. He knew enough 
 of Williams to believe him capable of prevarication 
 and falsehood, but he had great faith also in the good 
 that was in him, and on that he resolved to work in 
 the meantime he must see these two he wanted to 
 see father and daughter together, to question and 
 cross-question, to know how they were in health, to 
 cheer up their spirits, in short, he was for the first 
 time in his life in love he wanted to see his mistress. 
 
 Williams on his part did not trouble himself about 
 them. He had plenty of business of other kinds on 
 his hands. He was busy about his marriage. He 
 wrote to his banker, to his lawyer, and to his tailor ; 
 there was a world of business to be done in the next 
 few days. 
 
 Great was Reynolds's astonishment, and almost 
 horror, when, on passing the little parlour window 
 at Mrs. Cope's, he saw, instead of the miniatures, and 
 profiles, and pretty bags and rugs, which were usually 
 arranged there two caps on wooden stands, and two
 
 THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE HARRIED. 145 
 
 pieces of printed cotton, and one of shot -silk, which 
 were in progress of gown-making. Mrs. Cope was in 
 possession of her little parlour again ; her lodgera 
 were gone ! 
 
 " What : was he in your debt for sealing-wax and 
 ouch things? " asked Mrs. Cope, in reply to Rcynolds's 
 sudden exclamation at hearing that they left the day 
 before. 
 
 " Where are they gone ? " he inquired. 
 
 Mrs. Cope could not tell ; it seemed all a sudden 
 thing ; the old gentleman had come home after being 
 away for three days. He seemed very poorly and 
 out of spirits when he went, but when he came back 
 he was quite another person ; he sent out for half 
 a pound of cheese, a beefsteak, and a pot of porter, 
 and had a good supper. He seemed to have plenty 
 of money ; he was up all night packing up his things. 
 The daughter was not half as cheerful ; she sat 
 painting at those things for Mrs. Bishop, and sweet 
 pretty things they were. Mrs. Cope's girl took them 
 home. Mrs. Bishop, she said, wanted something else 
 painted, and she wished her to go there, and then she 
 would pay her for them all together. The father, how- 
 ever, would not let her go, nor somewhere else, where 
 she wanted to go, end she cried even but the old 
 gentleman was angry, and would not let her. He 
 said there was not time. He said that he had met 
 with a friend, and that they must meet him that day 
 so they went by coach to Lichfield, he outside, and 
 she in. She seemed quite down-hearted at going, and 
 said that Mrs. Cope must take, for her own trouble, the 
 guinea and a half which Mrs. Bishop owed, and she 
 had left a bag worked with beads, and a very pretty 
 bunch of wax roses for Miss Kendricks, with hef
 
 14(> THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED. 
 
 love, and she should never forget their kindness. 
 Mrs. Cope said that she took shame to herself for not 
 having been down with them, but one of her young 
 women was ill, and she was so full of work but sho 
 meant, if she could get a bit of time, to take them 
 that night. 
 
 Reynolds said that he would save her the trouble, 
 that he was going to his aunt's, and would carry them 
 with him. 
 
 Mrs. Cope's tidings quite upset him he thought of 
 Williams'* words " They are impostors. I have 
 seen him, and I am mistaken if they are not speedily 
 off." Off they certainly were, and he had no doubt 
 but that Williams had a hand in it ; but that they 
 were impostors he could not believe. His aunts 
 were of his opinion, and without knowing their 
 nephew's private reasons for anxiety, seconded all 
 that he said in behalf of their truth. It was impos- 
 sible that they could be impostors, the young lady 
 was too much like her own mother for that. Oh no ; 
 Williams knew very well where they were ; he had 
 sent them out of the way, and, no doubt, would 
 provide for them ; there seemed to them nothing so 
 strange in his wishing them not to appear just now. 
 Did not people say that he was paying his addresses 
 to Lawyer Bassett's sister ? They could understand 
 exactly how it was, only they must confess that he 
 need not have told lies to an old friend, like their 
 nephew, that he might have known would never 
 make mischief or betray him in any way. But it was 
 like Williams, they said, and they had no right to be 
 surprised at it. 
 
 Reynolds became again easy in his mind, and 
 returned home to prepare for the morrow, which wat
 
 THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED. 14? 
 
 May- fair day, when they would all be busy with 
 country customers. He did not see Williams again 
 that night, but he resolved on the very first opportu- 
 nity to place the utmost confidence in him as regarded 
 himself; to confess his love for his sister, which he 
 could not doubt being agreeable to him, and obtaining 
 from him a knowledge of their residence, to lose no 
 time in making her an offer of his heart and hand. 
 He would by this means prove to Williams how little 
 he thought of the painful past as regard* d his father 
 nay, on his marriage, he would enter into a bond 
 on behalf of his wife, to make some provision for the 
 old man. He would in every way do that which was 
 generous and honourable, and this he would tell Wil- 
 liams. Nothing puts one in such good humour witli 
 one's-self and all the world as the intention of doing 
 something remarkably generous, especially when one 
 can serve one's-self at the same time. Jt was this 
 feeling which made Reynolds alert and cheerful all 
 the day. The country people said, " What a nice 
 gentleman he was ! " He listened to all kinds of 
 weariful histories about diseases in cattle and children, 
 and old folks ; he prescribed for dry-rot in houses, 
 and the fly in turnips ; ho did not sell even a penny- 
 worth of turmeric without a pleasant word. IS very- 
 customer was charmed with him; he "quite cut 
 out" their old favourite, Mr. Isaacs, who happened to 
 be rather out of humour that day, it must be con- 
 fessed. At the end of the day, Mr. Reynolds informed 
 his partner that there never had been such a day 
 since he had known the shop ; it had been quito 
 crowded all day : and on adding up the day's receipts, 
 besides booking, it was half as much again as that 
 day last year.
 
 148 THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED. 
 
 Mr. Isaacs said it need, for that Williams had sud- 
 denly called for two hundred pounds out of the busi- 
 ness, which he said had worried him no little. Wil- 
 liams was gone off with a good deal of luggage, and had 
 said that he should not be back at present, but that 
 he would write. Here was news of astonishment for 
 Reynolds ! He was gone, no doubt, after his father 
 and sister , the two hundred pounds was for their 
 use ; he was gone to settle them comfortably some- 
 where ; he rose at once fifty per cent, in his 
 young partner's estimation ; he was welcome to draw 
 two hundred pounds from the business ; Reynolds 
 would almost have given it to him. These were his 
 thoughts, and he replied cheerfully to his senior, 
 "Well, I don't see that we need trouble ourselves 
 about that ; he takes no part in the business now, and 
 we are just as well without 4im as with him." 
 
 " But," said Mr. Isaacs angrily, " it 's an unpleasant 
 thing to have money drawn out at a minute's warning 
 to be sure the firm has money in the bank but 
 with his twenty thousand pounds and he a bachelor 
 he should not do it ! " 
 
 " Here is news !" exclaimed Reynolds within a very 
 few days, looking up from the London paper which 
 he was reading. " Now listen, Mr. Isaacs, and I 
 shall amaze you, and he read ' On Saturday, the 
 7th inst., at St. George's, Hanover Square, Edward 
 Lewis Williams, Esquire, of Utceter, to Emmeline, 
 sole daughter of the late George Vernon Bassett, 
 Esquire, 'of Henshall Hall, Staffordshire.' " 
 
 " And he really is married, is he ? " exclaimed the 
 old man. "At St. George's, Hanover Square! 
 Bless me ! " 
 
 " Well, here's a bit of news !" exclaimed all the
 
 THEY ARE OFF. THEY ARE MARRIED. 149 
 
 Mrs. Proctors and Mrs. Morleys of Utceter and of 
 Burton-on-Trent. " Here 'a a bit of news that will 
 take a deal of talking over. Married are they after 
 a six weeks' courtship, and she gone off to London, 
 pious as she was reckoned, all on the sly, with only 
 her maid ; why, it is not much better than being 
 married at Gretna Green ;" and everybody's tongue 
 was set in motion. 
 
 " And she really has married Mm after all ! " 
 exclaimed the two brothers Bassett. "After a#,Jias 
 married the son of a convict ! Well, we hope they '11 
 go abroad, and live abroad too, and never come back 
 again !" 
 
 " And yet," said they a week after the first angwr, 
 " we must net say anything about his father for 
 the credit of the family we must not ! And, seeing 
 she was determined to marry him, it was almost 
 a pity that we said so much but after all it was only 
 among ourselves, so there is no great harm done but 
 we wish to heaven that they may live abroad alto- 
 gether !" 
 
 The new Mrs. Williams wrote from London to her 
 brother at Burton, and informed him that it was the 
 joint wish of herself and her husband that the Lodge 
 should be now let for a term of years; that the furni- 
 ture should be sold by auction, and her books, 
 pictures, musical instruments, &c., should be depo- 
 sited in the hands of certain persons whom she 
 named. It was their intention, she said, to be 
 absent for some years, and she felt sure that her 
 dear brother, in accordance with his usual kindness 
 to her, would transact this business for them, and 
 it was the wish of her husband that he (the lawyer) 
 should remunerate himself for all his trouMe out
 
 160 ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 
 
 of the rent, which might lie in his hands till 
 called for. 
 
 It was evidently the intention of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Williams to keep up a good understanding with her 
 family ; the family were satisfied that it should be so, 
 but, as a means of keeping them abroad, they soon 
 found a good tenant, for a term of years, for the very 
 pretty Forest Lodge. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 WE hope our readers are disposed to like Mrs. 
 Williams ; she was a good woman ; she had some of 
 those sterling qualities which he had not, but which 
 always in others had a great influence on him ; it is 
 strange to say it, but it is, nevertheless, true, her first 
 charm to his feelings was that singular transparency 
 and evident truthfulness of mind and character which 
 he had always felt so strongly in Jessie Bannerman. 
 They both had the power of awakening the better part 
 of his nature, of producing in him, as it were, an 
 acquiescence to good. He had deceived his wife, it 
 is true ; he had fallen into the gulf of falsehood, that 
 fatal gulf which, it seemed to him, ever lay before 
 him. And oh, what a bitter weight of self-condemn- 
 ation lay upon his soul for it ; how did it come 
 between him and his happiness, between her love and 
 his peace of mind. " Would that I had wist ! " is the 
 most painful expression of a saddened spirit for it 
 implies that we have been the fashioners of our own 
 anguish. 
 
 We must now see them in London. All the world 
 was then talking of Mademoiselle Angela. She was
 
 ANOTHKR OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 151 
 
 a young actress ; the most beautiful of women, accoixl- 
 ing to report, and the%nost accomplished of actresses 
 She had been abroad, in Petersburg!! and Paris, and 
 had created an extraordinary sensation there. Her 
 fame had come before her : people who had seen her 
 abroad raved about her in London, and now she was 
 come, in the month of May, in the full blaze of the 
 London season, and had at once taken the heart of 
 the whole town. Her portraits were in the windows ; 
 she set the fashion ia caps and gowns ; her voice, her 
 attitudes, her smiles were the theme of every one's 
 admiration ; but, more than all, was talked of her 
 beautiful character. Her life, it was said, had been 
 as strange as a fairy tale ; she had gone through 
 poverty, hardship, and temptation of every kind, but 
 all had been unable to tarnish the pure gold of her 
 nature. She was, fame said, the most gifted and best 
 of human beings; people told endless anecdotes about 
 her; her life was so pure, yet brilliant, and people 
 were so enthusiastic about her, that one might have 
 thought her sent down from heaven to make goodness 
 fashionable. 
 
 Mrs. Williams, who had from principle a terror of 
 the stage, refused, spite of the entreaties of their 
 London acquaintance, to attend the theatre. Chance 
 had led them among a circle of people who were 
 most theatrically inclined, and who were going to one 
 theatre or another every night. Williams, who had 
 a strong desire to join them, declined, for some time, 
 from regard to his wife. She became aware, however, 
 at length, of the self-denial he had pi-actised for her 
 eake, and insisted upon it that he should go to see this 
 wonderful phoenix, of which the world talked so 
 much. He was to accompany a party, which was lo
 
 152 ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 occupy one of the stage-boxes. The gentlemen took 
 with them bouquets and wreatlifc of flowers, to fling as 
 offerings at the feet of the queen of the night : rings, it 
 was said, and ornaments of great value, had frequently 
 been conveyed to her rect in this way, and Mrs. Wil- 
 liams gave to her husband a sniall wreath of myrtle 
 and jasmine, which, she said, if he found her to be as 
 beautiful as she was said to be good, he was to fling to 
 her also. 
 
 A strange, bewildering, dieam-like feeling came 
 over Williams as he stood behind the row of ladies of 
 their party, waiting for the drawing up of the curtain. 
 The orchestra played Mozart's overture to Don Juan. 
 His mind went back to those strange, far-off days when 
 he stood in the little tneatre at Utceter, waiting 
 for the drawing up of the curtain, to see her whom 
 he then reckoned the angel of his life. Fancy is 
 a very powerful and a very deceptive thing ; the great 
 house seemed to dwarf itself down to the dimensions of 
 the little one the gay audience were the dowdy gentry 
 of a country-town. The huge curtain drew up, and 
 there, like the glorified image of the heroine of former 
 days, stood the splendidly attired, and serenely beau- 
 tiful Mademoiselle Angela. The whole house rose, 
 and the gentlemen shouted for very enthusiasm ; the 
 ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the newspapers 
 of the next morning said that nothing could exceed 
 the rapture with which the young actress was received. 
 
 " I protest ! ' exclaimed one of the gentlemen in 
 their box, " that Williams has been standing like a 
 mummy all this time." 
 
 Poor Williams ! and there was good reason why he 
 had done so. A dizziness had come over him ; he 
 fancied that he must have fainted, but nobody then
 
 AXOTHER OLD ACQl'AlNTANCTfi. 153 
 
 observed it. They said now that he looked pale ; he 
 said that the theatre was so hot. 
 
 Everybody was engrossed by the piece, and he too 
 looked on. It was Jessie Bannerman; he saw it 
 plainly ; the same being, who, sitting with him in 
 the patten-maker's parlour, had told him her sad 
 history ; the same who had gone with him on that 
 Christmas-day to Alton Towers ; who had made that 
 strange compact with him of trial and fidelity for five 
 years ; the same who had been true to him for five 
 years, and then offered him, herself, her love and her 
 gratitude, and had been rejected by him ; and who, 
 with her love and gratitude, had he but been worthy 
 of them, would have conferred upon him wealth, 
 splendour, honour, the world's renown, only to have 
 been allied to her. 
 
 The piece was Othello. And now she came to the 
 second scene of the fourth act, where Desdemona, on 
 her knees before Othello, asserts her innocence. 
 
 She seemed to surpass even herself; the public 
 enthusiasm rose to the highest pitch ; flowers were 
 rained down from every box near the stage, and came 
 flying from pit and gallery. 
 
 " Now, Williams, fling down your garland to her," 
 resounded distinctly on the stage from the box above. 
 She cast her eye in the direction of the voice instantly ; 
 their eyes met, it was but for a moment, but to Wil- 
 liams it seemed as if he had shrunk into nothing- 
 ness before the clear, keen gaze of those beautiful 
 eyes. He groaned inwardly ; he felt how little, how 
 mean he was ; how wretched, how despicable had 
 been all his aims in life. She rose higher and higher ; 
 there was a majesty in her action, a thrilling tone in 
 her voice that crushed him. He felt at once humbled
 
 354 ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 before her ; he felt again, as he had felt before, that 
 high moral tone in her, which, combined with great 
 intellectual power, is the very essence of the divine 
 nature. 
 
 " How omnipotent is goodness ! how godlike . " 
 he exclaimed inwardly. " How could I ever have 
 been worthy of her ! " 
 
 He stood, and gazed upon her, and wept like a 
 child. People seemed to take no notice of him, they 
 were so occupied by her and by themselves. 
 
 The theatre-going world said that she had never 
 acted so well as on that night. 
 
 This discovery of Jessie Bannerman in the renowned 
 Mademoiselle Angela was not a circumstance calcu- 
 lated to add to Williams's matrimonial happiness. He 
 drew invidious comparisons between the favourite 
 actress and his wife, between himself now and that 
 which he might have been had he married her. He 
 was enraged with himself; called himself fool and 
 blockhead, and made himself very unhappy. 
 
 At the end of the month, as had been at first pro- 
 posed, Mrs. Williams insisted on their going to Paris ; 
 she was tired of hearing of Mademoiselle Angela ; she 
 did not like her husband going so continually to the 
 theatre, where she never accompanied him ; according 
 to her notions of things, it was not right. 
 
 To Paris, therefore, they went. 
 
 " Edward, my love," said his wife to him one day, 
 not long after their arrival there, " will you be my 
 father confessor ? " 
 
 " Can you, who are so good, have anything to con- 
 fess ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Listen," she said, " and you shall hear. I was 
 jealous of Mademoiselle Angela." He started. "Nay,
 
 ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 155 
 
 upon my word," she said, " you will make me think 
 that I had cause. Mrs. Moorwood told me of your 
 agitation when you saw her first. You know not, 
 Edward," she. said, " the anguish I have felt ; I 
 fancied that you were cold to me ; I fancied that your 
 heart seemed turned from me there is something so 
 entire, so true in a woman's love, Edward, and I 
 was jealous of that fair Angela, who seemed to have 
 deprived me of yours in return. Now I have been 
 candid with yon. I have told you my weakness ; let 
 there never be suspicion between us, and, as a proof 
 that your love is not diminished, tell me, was Made- 
 moiselle Angela known to you before ? " 
 
 Without replying, he looked into his wife's face. 
 His first impulse was to deny altogether the truth of 
 her suspicion was to deny any knowledge of the 
 actress. 
 
 " Edward," continued she, solemnly, " answer me 
 truly love and falsehood cannot exist in the same 
 bosom. The happiness of our whole life may depend 
 on this moment do not deceive me ! You have 
 loved Mademoiselle Angela ! " 
 
 Again he felt that singular resemblance between 
 his wife and Angela that spirit of truth which, had 
 made him submissive before the spirit of a girl 
 in former years. He felt that, sustained by this 
 spirit, he dared to speak the truth, even to his own 
 condemnation. 
 
 " Yes," he said, " you are right ; I have loved her 
 and, perhaps, love her still ; but oh ! Emmeline, 
 since we have thus spoken, you need not fear her. 
 Truth is, indeed, a broad shield against sin. You 
 need not fear her. I love her less dangerously, and 
 you more truly. But you shall hear all." He then
 
 156 ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 related that which the reader already knows, ; perhaps 
 not in its fullest details perhaps disguising a little 
 of his own weakness but still with that sufficient 
 adherence to truth as left him guilty. Emmeline 
 sat with her calm eyes fixed upon him she did not 
 speak one word to interrupt him. 
 
 " Thank you, my beloved," said she, when he had 
 finished, and when, overcome by emotion, he sank 
 his face upon his hands, and wept. " Thank you, 
 from this day forth a now covenant is made between 
 us. We shall neither of us err greatly while we 
 have courage to face the truth. You have given me 
 the greatest proof of your love by placing confidence 
 in me. May God Almighty enable me to make you 
 happy ! " She sank her head on the shoulder of her 
 husband, and wept with him. 
 
 A new era in the life of our married pair rnight be 
 dated from this time. Mademoiselle Angela was 
 never mentioned between them, but she was the bond 
 of their better understanding. One thing only embit- 
 tered Williams's life; that was his falsehood regarding 
 his father. Often and often he was on the point of 
 confessing the whole terrible truth, and his own cul- 
 pable weakness, but then he dared not ; she seemed 
 so happy, she had such faith in him, the knowledge 
 of this must blast all. It lay like a festering sore on 
 his soul, and led him only into new difficulties and 
 deceptions. He dreaded the arrival of letters ; his 
 wife showed him all hers, and seemed to expect the 
 same from him. She was one of those clear-headed, 
 straightforward women who have a capacity for 
 business; she took the management of all their pre- 
 sent affairs into her hands, and her husband, who 
 had a decided distaste for business of every kind,
 
 ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE. Ifl'/ 
 
 waa quite willing that she should do so. But 
 now and then came letters which she must not 
 see. Reynolds wrote to him, begging most urgently 
 for the address of that person who called him- 
 self Jervis ; why he wanted it, he did not say, 
 but stated merely that it was on a matter of vital 
 importance to himself. This letter put Williams in 
 a state of the greatest uneasiness ; for what purpose 
 could Reynolds want the address ? Were the Basse tts 
 reviving the old subject? Was Reynolds himself going 
 to meddle in it? He wrote back a short reply. He 
 knew nothing of the person calling himself Jervis, 
 farther than that, to prevent the circulation of 
 reports unpleasant to himself, he had caused -him 
 to remove to Birmingham. Reynolds must re- 
 member that he, Williams, had always considered 
 him an impostor. 
 
 Next came a letter from Williams's father. He 
 had obtained the address from the banker in London, 
 who was empowered to pay his allowance. He wrote 
 from Bath, whither he had removed from Birming- 
 ham, in consequence of the illness of his daughter. 
 He had been obliged to consult physicians for her ; 
 her illness was expensive to him. He must trouble 
 his son for a further advance of money to meet this 
 exigency. 
 
 This letter, even more than the former, discom- 
 posed him, and, to silence this most fearful of corre- 
 spondents, he sent him an order on his banker, not, 
 however, without forbidding any further application 
 to himself; and to his banker he also wrote, forbid- 
 ding his address in future being furnished to tliis hit 
 annuitant.
 
 IBS ANOTHEK OLD ACQUAINTANCE; 
 
 After this, Williams changed his lodgings, and did 
 not in future allow his letters to come to his resi- 
 dence. Early in the next year he removed from 
 Paris to Vienna. 
 
 On the second day of their being in this city, and 
 whilst yet at the inn, one of those singular coinci- 
 dences occurred which are by no means as unfrequent 
 as some persons imagine. They dined, as is custom- 
 ary, in a public room, where many persons were 
 dining at separate tables. A party of gentlemen sat 
 at a table beside them ; they were English, and were 
 ta king loudly. One of them was a Mr. Burndale, of 
 London, a banker, and the conversation was about 
 forgeries, when Mr. Burnaaie .ras appealed to 
 
 " By the bye, Burndale," said one of the gentlemen, 
 " is it true that that fellow, Edwards, whom you 
 transported some sixteen or eighteen years ago, for a 
 forgery on your bank, is come back, and has opened 
 some sort of eating-house or tavern at the West End ? M 
 
 Long before thus much had been said, Williams 
 felt as if the soup which he was eating would choke 
 him. His wife, too, had heard what \vas said, and 
 was almost as much agitated as himself; for she knew 
 that, this was the man with whom her brothers had 
 connected her husband. 
 
 " Are you not well, love," said she, tenderly ; 
 " shall we leave the room ? " 
 
 He was not unwell, he said hastily, and called for 
 wine, and the gentlemen went on : " Yes, it was 
 quite true ; he was come back ; somebody had 
 advanced him money, and he had actually opened a 
 tavern or gaming-house, or something of the kind ; it 
 was astonishing," they said, " how some people got 
 on through life."
 
 ANOTHER OLD ACQUA:NT>NCE. 15k 
 
 Williams drank wine and made the most violent 
 efforts to look composed, and to a great degree he 
 succeeded. His wife remembered what had passed 
 between them on the subject before their marriage, 
 and his agitation appeared natural ; she began a most 
 cheerful conversation with him, and used every effon 
 in her power to drive away all unpleasant thoughts. 
 
 The next day they left the inn. Mrs. Williams 
 was expecting to become a mother in a few months j 
 they, therefore, took a suite of rooms for the sumnfer, 
 intending before winter to remove to Florence, where 
 they proposed taking up their abode. 
 
 One thought for ever haunted Williams, and thai 
 was his father, and the discovery which, sooner or 
 later, his wife would make. He loved her extremely ; 
 Mademoiselle Angela was no longer her rival ; he 
 would have given thousands, that he only had never 
 deceived her ; but every day made it more difficult 
 now to confess the truth. His letters never came t< 
 the house ; he dreaded going into public lest he should 
 be recognised in some way ; he was become the slave 
 of perpetual apprehension. He bought a horse and 
 rode violently ; it was the only thing that seemed to 
 remove him from himself; yet he never returned 
 home without fearing that the frightful secret was 
 out. All this preyed upon his health ; he looked ill 
 and haggard ; his wife grew anxious about him ; he 
 assumed spirits which he did not feel, and was all the 
 time miserable. To add to his anxiety, Reynolds 
 still pursued him with letters, and at length came in 
 person. He came with the most resolute purpose of 
 dragging from Williams the secret of his father's 
 residence. He came with tidings for which Williams
 
 1GO ANOTHER OtD ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 was not prepared the happiness of his life depended 
 upon his marriage with Williams's sister he would 
 not speak of her in any other character than as his 
 sister ; he defied him, before Heaven, to deny that 
 she was so, or that her father was other than his. He 
 was so firm, so much in earnest, that Williams 
 quailed before him. Life and death, he said, was in 
 his errand, and he would not be trifled with. He 
 only wanted to be enabled to find them, and then 
 Williams might cast them off for ever might dis- 
 own them might lie before God and man ; they 
 should from that day want neither friend nor support, 
 for he himself would maintain them. Williams told 
 him honestly that which he knew ; he had established 
 them as he hoped permanently in Birmingham, and 
 had secured to them a hundred a year by quarterly 
 payments. They had left Birmingham, however, and 
 gone to Bath, and after that he had incidentally 
 learned they were in London, where the father had 
 opened some kind of tavern at the West End a mad, 
 foolish scheme, said William?, and that was honestly 
 all he knew. Reynolds, on his part, knew as much, 
 which he related : he had traced them from town to 
 town, and at length to London, where, as was stated. 
 the father had been unwise enough to enter into some 
 sort of scheme, but not in a tavern or gaming-house, 
 in what was designed for a small respectable coffee - 
 house and news-room. He had had a stroke, however, 
 which incapacitated him from business. The whole 
 place was broken up all was complete ruin and 
 after that, he and his daughter seemed lost amid the 
 vastnessof sorrow and disappointed hopes in London. 
 Reynolds was a man, physically and morally, with
 
 ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 1(T| 
 
 nerves fa of iron ; he was not to be daunted by diffi- 
 culties, or impeded by obstacles of one kind or another, 
 and now he stood before Williams like the personifi- 
 cation of determined will, and demanded from him 
 where was his sister ? 
 
 " Would to Heaven I could tell you ! " said 
 Williams, with sincerity. 
 
 Reynolds did not believe him. Williams tried every 
 means in his power to convince him ; offered him an 
 unlimited order on his banker for their use ; but 
 Reynolds rejected it. " It is a mockery," said he, 
 indignantly, " to offer money now, when you have 
 compelled them into unknown misery and perhaps 
 ruin ! " 
 
 A violent quarrel ensued, and Reynolds returned 
 to England, cursing what he considered the heartless, 
 selfish, unnatural pride and unkindness of his partner, 
 and resolved to spend his life, if needful, in rescuing 
 the girl he loved so tenderly from the misery which 
 seemed to encompass her. 
 
 It was impossible to keep from Mrs. Williams's 
 knowledge the fact that something unpleasant had 
 caused this unexpected journey of her husband's 
 partner to such a distance, and no doubt Williams 
 would have found the concealment of the truth much 
 more difficult than he did, had not fortune favoured 
 him ; his child was born, and the mother forgot every 
 unpleasant thing in the joy of her first-born. 
 
 Months went on. . A house was taken for them at 
 Florence ; the day fixed for their journey was come. 
 At the moment of departure a letter from England 
 was put into Williams's hand ; it was in a woman's 
 hand-writing, and had been sent merely directed to
 
 162 ANOTHER OLD .ACQUAINTANCE. 
 
 his name through the English ambassador. It was 
 from his sister, and was a most touching appeal to 
 his humanity, if not to his affection. Her father, 
 ehe saiil, had lost the use of one side; had lost his 
 memory completely, and in part his speech he was a 
 pitiahlo and infirm object. She was making the most 
 gigantic efforts in her power for their support ; hut 
 she had no friends. She knew not the banking-house 
 whence her father drew their quarterly payments, and 
 her father's efforts to recall it were hopeless. Her 
 own health was giving way, and she besought him, 
 without loss of time, in the name of that Great 
 Father before whom they must all one day answer 
 for their deeds, to inform her of the name of his 
 banker, and thus rescue them from the horrible 
 misery which already stared them in the face. His 
 heart was wrung as he hastily perused it. His wife 
 came in at that moment ; the carriage was at the 
 door ; the servants and the courier came bustling 
 about ; his wife said all was ready, and she was 
 impatient to be off; he crumpled the letter hastily in 
 his hand, gave his arm to his wife, and placed her in 
 the carriage ; the nurse and the child followed quickly, 
 all was bustle and confusion ; he took his seat; there 
 were yet cloaks, and shawls, and travelling baskets, 
 and little bags, and endless things to be looked after, 
 for Mrs. Williams was one of those provident persona 
 who cared for every want beforehand. Scarcely were 
 they off, when Williams recalled the letter ; it was 
 not in his hand it had not been in his hand for some 
 time where had he put it 1 He was alarmed ; he 
 quietly felt his own pockets, looked behind his wife, 
 looked behind the nurse, but it was not to be seen.
 
 ANOTHER OLD ACQUAINTANCE. 163 
 
 He dared not ask about it, but sat troubled and 
 uneasy in the corner of his carriage, trying to recal 
 to his recollection what had occurred but a few 
 moments before. That he had it crumpled up in hia 
 hand as he assisted his wife into the carriage he could 
 recollect ; but his mind was so agitated and bewildered 
 at the moment that he knew not what he did ; he 
 could remember nothing more about it till he had 
 missed it ; he feared that he had dropped it in getting 
 into the carriage, and in that case it would be found 
 and might be made public might be sent after him 
 - -nay, he could not tell what might be the c< nse- 
 quence ; but that which seemed even worse than 
 this, Avas the chance of his never finding it, for thus 
 he had not the slightest idea of what the address 
 was, to which his reply should be sent. It was a 
 most agonising thought. He hoped, however, that it 
 might still be in the carriage among its various con- 
 tents. At the first place they stopped he had every- 
 thing taken out but no letter was there ! 
 
 They came to their journey's end ; took possession 
 of their new house a beautiful prince-like villa on 
 the banks of the Arno ; his wife was happy ; the 
 child was lovely, and throve like a flower in May; 
 she was the fondest of mothers. Could she but have 
 seen her husband happy, she would have been the 
 happiest of wives. As at Vienna so here, he spent 
 most of his time on horseback ; he was as little as 
 possible at home. Had his wife's mind been less occu- 
 pied by the child than it was, she never would have 
 rested without penetrating the secret of his sadness. 
 But when she saw him at home, she saw him with 
 assumed spirits, and she had no idea of liis hours of
 
 164 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 
 
 secret, untold agony of mind ; she saw that there was 
 something wrong, and with all the power of her love 
 she tried to set it right ; she carefully kept from htm 
 every painful subject, met him ever with smiles, and 
 tried all in her power to make him happy. 
 
 He in the meantime had written to Vienna about 
 the lost letter ; instituted all kind of search, and 
 offered reward, but to no purpose. The letter did 
 not appear, and the thought of the paralytic, speech- 
 less man, and the young girl thrown friendless on the 
 heartless world of London, haunted him day and 
 night. Oh, how bitterly was he punished. He was 
 willing now to help them nay, to make any sacri- 
 fice for them, and he had lost the power of doing so. 
 He thought of old Mrs. Bellamy's words, " children, 
 children, never let pass an opportunity of doing a 
 kindness to those you ought to love, or the time may 
 come when the thought of not having done so will 
 pursue you as with a whip of scorpions ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 
 
 THE newspapers announced one morning that, in 
 consequence of the severe illness of the grandmother 
 of Mademoiselle Angela, that favourite actress would 
 not perform that evening as usual. The public, who 
 lost a night's pleasure in consequence of the old lady's 
 illness, sincerely wished her better but the wish 
 availed nothing ; the old lady died. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Angela desires to have some one
 
 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 165 
 
 sent to her to alter her mourning, to-day," said Mr. 
 Jones, of one of the great mourning warehouses in 
 London, to his head man ; " see that some one is sent 
 to her immediately." The head man communicated 
 the order to the principal work- woman, adding, " that 
 she had better send one of the cleverest hands." The 
 principal work-woman glanced into the large room, 
 where there sat thirty young women at their gloomy 
 trade, and without waiting to make any selection, 
 called out that " Miss Jervis must take her working 
 materials and go instantly to Mademoiselle Angela 
 and make such alterations in her mourning as she 
 required." It was an every-day occurrence, and the 
 young lady to whom the commission was given having 
 prepared all that was needful to take with her, which 
 were contained in a little black box, found a cab wait- 
 ing for her at the shop-door, and drove off to the 
 handsome house of the renowned actress. 
 
 A man-servant conducted her up -stairs, and there a 
 grave, middle-aged waiting-woman received her, who 
 led her into Mademoiselle Angela's own bed -room. 
 The chamber was the handsomest that the young 
 work-woman had ever seen, and she was rather 
 excited, for she knew how renowned was the lady to 
 whom it belonged ; her very heart beat at the thought 
 of seeing her. The rich mourning lay on the bed, 
 and while she took off her bonnet and cloak, Made- 
 moiselle Angela entered. 
 
 " How beautiful she is, and how good she looks," 
 thought poor Marianne. 
 
 The great lady smiled kindly at the young, modeat 
 dressmaker she too was struck by her appearance ; 
 a sentiment of great kindness filled her heart 
 
 10
 
 166 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 
 
 she made up her mind instantly as to what she 
 would do. 
 
 The young girl sat down to the work which was 
 pointed out to her, and Mademoiselle Angela, order- 
 ing a book to be brought to her, and dismissing the 
 woman, with the desire that no one should interrupt 
 her that morning, seated herself on the sofa, and 
 began to read. The room was so still that the quick 
 movement of Marianne's needle and the turning of 
 the pages of the book were audible. At length 
 Mademoiselle Angela, closing the book, said, " Youra 
 i*a melancholy occupation ; all day long, the whole 
 year through, working for sorrow, or what is worse, 
 the mockery of sorrow.'' 
 
 The young girl sighed. 
 
 "It must be," continued the actress, " a weary 
 trade to you." 
 
 " I am," said Marianne, " so thankful to be 
 employed, that to me it is not so.'' 
 
 " Have you then known distress? " asked the other, 
 but in so kind a tone that Marianne continued 
 
 " I have a father dependent upon me we have 
 been very unfortunate," she said, hardly keeping back 
 the tears ; " very unfortunate in many ways. 1 have 
 feared starvation almost lor us both, I have feared 
 Oh, I cannot tell what I have feared London is an 
 awful place for any one who is friendless for a young 
 girl especially." 
 
 The actress laid down her book, and taking a chair 
 sat down by the table where the girl was working. 
 
 " I am a stranger to you," she said, very kindly; 
 " you know nothing of me ; can feel no reason why 
 you bhould make a confidant of me yet I wish you 
 would do so."
 
 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 167 
 
 The girl sighed again, and wiped away the tears 
 which this kindness had called forth. " I have 
 heard a great deal of you, Mademoiselle Angela," 
 she said ; u everybody talks of you, and I have heard 
 that you arc very good, but I have nothing to tell you 
 that can interest you much, there are alas, so many 
 unfortunate people in London." 
 
 " The unfortunate are always interesting to me," 
 said the actress, with that air of simple, emphatic 
 truth which was her distinguishing characteristic. 
 
 Marianne felt its influence, and replied, " There are 
 circumstances connected with my family which are 
 of a painful and altogether private nature my 
 father, who is old in experience and sorrow, rather 
 than iu years, and who is now helpless as a child in 
 mind and body, has been wholly dependent upon me 
 for the last twelve months. He was extremely fond 
 of me ; he expected that I should make my fortune 
 by marriage ; what little money we have had he has 
 risked to make more for my sake and all has been 
 lost ! \Vc have now been in London a year and a 
 half, and in that time I have tried endless means of 
 obtaining our livelihood. I have been well educated, 
 and as I know myself as well qualified for teaching 
 as nine out of ten who do teach, I offered myself ad 
 daily governess, as teacher in a school, as instructor 
 in various ways, but there always were for such 
 situations twenty or more applicants besides myself, 
 all of whom came supported by friends or interest of 
 some kind or other. I had none. I tried to take 
 pupils, but none came. I made fancy-work of all 
 kinds, and taught it, but by this I lost money. I 
 painted miniatures children, dogs, cats, parrots, any- 
 thing and if dogs, cats, and parrots had alone been
 
 168 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 
 
 my subjects and sitters, I might have done ; but a 
 young lady, at least a poor one, cannot in London 
 attempt this mode of gaining her living without being 
 subjected to the most annoying insults. People," said 
 she, blushing deeply, " thought me pretty, and in 
 every way, in every situation, this was against me. 
 Oh," said the poor girl, with tears in her eyes, " how 
 often have I thought it would have been a blessing if 
 I had the small-pox ! " 
 
 " And have you no friends at all ? " asked Made- 
 moiselle Angela. 
 
 " Friends ! " repeated she, blushing deeply and 
 sighing ; " friends ! yes, perhaps so. We ought to 
 receive an annuity, which would make us inde- 
 pendent, but he who should pay it is abroad. Oh, it 
 is a sad thing," said she, bursting into tears. 
 
 The actress was deeply interested, " And why does 
 he not pay it ? " she asked. 
 
 "I have written tojiim," replied she, "since my 
 father's memory has failed him, and have told him all 
 our distress ; but he takes no notice. 5 ' 
 
 " But have you not other friends ? " she asked, 
 " no connections, nobody that knows your family ? " 
 
 Again the girl blushed : " Yes," she said, " there 
 are two ladies, very good and kind, who showed me 
 great kindness, who knew my mother but circum- 
 stances forbid my applying to them yet I do believe 
 that if they only knew what I have suffered they 
 would befriend me." 
 
 " Do they live in London?" asked the actress. 
 
 " No," she returned, "they live in the country, in 
 Staffordshire." 
 
 " Could no one interfere for you write to them 
 for you ? "
 
 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 109 
 
 Marianne looked up from her work for a iiiom<.'iit> 
 and fixed her eyes on the lovely face of the actress 
 and said, " perhaps they might, but " 
 
 " I am curious about you," interrupted Made- 
 moiselle Angela ; " I have been in Staffordshire 
 perhaps I know your friends where do they live 
 tell me 1" she said in a manner so unlike her usual 
 calmness, that Marianne again looked in her face. 
 *' I once knew some parts of Staffordshire ; tell me 
 who are your friends, and where they live." 
 
 " They live at a small town called U teeter," said 
 Marianne ; " their name is Kendrick." 
 
 The actress rose instantly from her seat, and walked 
 across the room she seemed agitated put her 
 handkerchief to her face, and then sat down again. 
 
 " J told you," said she, hurriedly, " that I knew 
 something of Staffordshire. " Utceter I know, but 
 not your friends. No," said she, in her usual calm 
 and simple manner, ' your fri^ids, the Kendricks, J 
 never knew." 
 
 Marianne ventured a remark which made her 
 heart tremble. " There was a Mr. Osborne there," 
 she said, "and a young Mr. Williams, his nephew 
 but I daresay you never knew them." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the actress, with an emotion which 
 made her cheeks as pale as marble ; " what of them 
 what of young MY. Williams? Has he been a 
 false lover of yours ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, no ? " said Marianne, looking at her in 
 amazement; "but oh, Mademoiselle Angela, if you 
 know anything of him for lie is a rich man no\v 
 for the love of God, do tell him that the old man- 
 be knows who is almost iu want wuuld be in want
 
 170 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 
 
 but for me and I, what can I do ? with all my 
 utmost exertion I can earn but fifteen shillings a 
 week. Oh, Mademoiselle Angela," said she, dropping 
 on her knees before her, " if you know him, do this 
 for the sake of Christian love ; oh, do it ! for if you 
 ask, who can resist you ? " 
 
 " Rise ! " said the actress, deeply affected ; " rise, 
 my good girl. With the man you name I can do 
 nothing but remember that I am your friend ! " 
 
 With these words she went out, leaving poor 
 Marianne to her tears and her astonishment. 
 
 Two days after this a letter came to Miss Kendrick, 
 which excited the greatest astonishment and delight, 
 and well might it do so. It was from that celebrated 
 Mademoiselle Angela, whose fame had spread all over 
 England, and it told, as the incomparable Angela only 
 could tell it, the story of her acquaintance with 
 Marianne Jervis. Miss Kendrick, the letter said, 
 would know how they could best befriend her ; for 
 the present, however, this young girl was her inmate, 
 and her father, who was feeble and infirm in the last 
 degree, was about to be removed to one of those 
 blessed institutions the Sanatorium where for 
 invalids of the middle-class every comfort orf home is 
 combined with the most skilful medical treatment. 
 
 What did Miss Kendvick do when she read this 
 letter ? First of all she had a good fit of crying, and 
 then she put on her bonnet and shawl and trotted off 
 to her nephew, to whom she knew its contents would 
 be like a message from Heaven. 
 
 The next day, though it was a market-day., Rey- 
 nolds set off for London. " I shall bo at home again
 
 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. l7l 
 
 with all my faculties to attend to business for the 
 future," said he. " I will not take a holiday again 
 on market-day." 
 
 " Oh, go, go ! and God bless you ! " said good 
 Mr. Isaacs, twinkling his eyes. 
 
 Reynolds had forgotten that he had never actually 
 declared his love to Marianne ; he fancied that she 
 knew it as well as he did ; and, perhaps, after all, she 
 was not very much astonished when he rushed into 
 the room and clasped her in his arms. What a joy- 
 ful meeting it was! There was nevertheless a great 
 deal which Avas both painful and sad to be talked 
 over. 
 
 Reynolds, like all the rest of the world, was pre- 
 pared to see an almost divine creature in Mademoiselle 
 Angela, and she equalled his expectations. 
 
 " I do not know how it is," said Reynolds, " but 
 she reminds me of a young actress that Williams 
 knew in former days." 
 
 " I think it is she," said Marianne. Of their 
 conjectures, however, they wisely said not a word. 
 
 Marianne was two ir.onths with Mademoiselle 
 Angela, and then Reynolds, having put his house in 
 order to receive a wife, they were married. Made- 
 moiselle Angela gave the breakfast, and even accom- 
 panied the bride to church. It made quite a stir in 
 Utcetor, that Mr. Reynolds had married a protegee of 
 the celebrated actress. 
 
 t; But," said Miss Kendricks zealously to all their 
 friends, " she is no actress herself, and never had 
 anything to do with players. There can only be on 
 Mademoiselle Angela in the world." 
 
 WitHin three months after the marriage, the poor
 
 172 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 
 
 father died. Reynolds, who had never communicated 
 his own and his sister's marriage to Williams, wrote 
 to him now with the news of his father's death ; the 
 letter, however, reached Florence exactly two daya 
 after the Williams's had left there for England why 
 we shall see. 
 
 The Williams's had now been twelve months in 
 Florence. He continued as melancholy as ever ; at 
 times he spoke of returning to England alone, but 
 of that his wife would not hear. She urged him to 
 consult physicians, but he, who knew too well what 
 was his malady, would take no physician's advice. 
 His wife now began to suspect some concealed grief 
 or other, some sorrow of which he spared her the 
 knowledge from affection and tenderness. " Oh, how 
 you mistake me, Edward," she said, " if you think 
 I cannot share in your grief! " Her affection pained 
 him deeply he believed that there was a grief which 
 she could not bear the grief of his falsehood and 
 deceit. He avoided his wife as much as possible, 
 and spent his time alone. All his passion for Made- 
 moiselle Angela was gone ; his wife was in his eyes a 
 superior being, and he coveted only her love, and 
 could he have felt that he deserved her love, he would 
 have been the happiest of men ; but he had deceived 
 her, and in deceiving her, had compelled himself to 
 the cruellest neglect of his father and sister. These 
 thoughts never left him. 
 
 One day his wife drove out with the nurse and 
 child ; they went out for the day, and according to 
 Mrs. Williams's custom, took with them provision* 
 for every possible want. One of the pockets of the 
 carriage was stuffed with biscuits for the child ; th
 
 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 173 
 
 nurse fed him from them, and the child finding how 
 pood they were was never satisfied with them ; when 
 she thought that he had had enough, she took the 
 cakes out and said, " Now he might have everything 
 he could find there." Down went the little fat hand, 
 but there was not much to find, and still the little 
 fellow kept groping down, in the hope that there 
 might yet he something; at last, up he brought a 
 crumpled piece of paper a closely crumpled letter, 
 which seemed to have lain there a long time. His 
 mother saw it a letter in a female hand it txcited 
 her curiosity ; she took it and read it. She read it, 
 looked hurriedly at the address, grew pale, and care- 
 fully folding it up put it in her reticule. She called 
 to the coachman, and hade him turn back ; she had 
 altered her mind, and would go no farther that day. 
 
 The boy laughed and prattled on the homeward 
 drive, but his mother neither heard nor saw him. 
 A terrible secret had been revealed to her, and she 
 could think of nothing but that. 
 
 On her return home she shut herself in her 
 chamber ; her husband was out on one of his hasty 
 rides, and she re-read the letter. It was that letter 
 which had been lost, that heart-breaking letter from 
 Marianne to her brother. All was now clear to his 
 wife. Her husband was then in reality the son of 
 that unfortunate convict, Edwards he did not bear 
 his proper name her child was descended from such 
 a parentage. That might be gajling to a proud spirit, 
 but it was nothing to the cruel sense that she had 
 been deceived, wilfully and deliberately deceived by 
 her husband; and then that he had suffered these 
 unfortunate relatives to suffer want to die, perhaps
 
 174 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 
 
 perhaps had driven them to crime through his 
 falsehood. 
 
 " Edward," said she sternly to him, on his return, 
 " why have you dealt treacherously by me ? " 
 
 He turned deadly pale, and sank in a chair. She 
 spread the letter before him. 
 
 " Why have you deceived me ? " she asked. " Oh, 
 Edward, that we should have lived thus long together 
 and you not have the candour to tell me the truth ! " 
 
 He raised his eyes from the paper to her face, but 
 said not a word. 
 
 " You have done very unkindly by me," said she, 
 " a'i.d it is time now that we understood one another. 
 This is no light thing, Edward, it is a grave sin before 
 both God and man. To-morrow I leave you ! " 
 
 He started up, and clasping both his hands toge- 
 ther pressed them tightly on his forehead, " Leave 
 me ! " repeated he, in a voice of heart-rending agony. 
 
 " Yes, Edward," she said, with stern calmness, 
 ' leave you, and seek out these unhappy relatives 
 whom you have cast off ! " 
 
 " Angel of God ! " exclaimed he, falling at her 
 feet ; " oh, that you could only look into my heart 
 -could have looked into it long ago could have 
 known only the anguish I have endured the punish- 
 ment which I have suffered." 
 
 "But," said she, " you have let your father and 
 sister want your own flesh and blood and you, 
 yourself, have lived in ease and plenty ! God 
 Almighty grant that the sorrow you have brought 
 upon your own parent may not be visited upon 
 you ! " 
 
 She sank upon her knees beside her husband, and
 
 MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. I7t 
 
 bowing down her face, prayed earnestly, though 
 without words. 
 
 They hoth rose from their knees. His wife laid 
 her hand in his, and looking in his face with an 
 expression of the most undying love, said, in a low 
 voice, " In joy and in sorrow, in good and in evil, I 
 am ever thine ! Let us go together, and retrieve the 
 wrong that has been done and so may the Almighty 
 bless us ! " 
 
 He bowed his face to her hand, and wetted it with 
 tears. 
 
 THB
 
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